The Temple Mount Code

by Charles Brokaw

  For the first time, Liora noticed the news cameramen gathered around the cemetery. Basij shoved through the crowd in an attempt to get to the cameras, but the crowd slowed the paramilitary people down just enough to allow the cameramen to get away through the crowd that opened before them.

  A Basij officer’s voice echoed over loudspeakers. ‘You will leave this area at once. You have no right to assemble. This gathering is illegal and will not be permitted.’

  An older man, flecks of gray showing in his beard, stood and raised a bullhorn. ‘We’re permitting it!’

  The crowd roared its approval of the bold declaration.

  ‘You could not silence Neda Agha-Soltan even after you murdered her!’

  Another roar of approval followed, the crowd’s unified voice growing even stronger.

  ‘The Ayatollah called for three days of mourning after you butchers silenced Neda, but you tortured her fiancé. Caspian Makan had to escape and flee to Canada to avoid the same fate! You’re all killers, and the Ayatollah is the biggest killer of all!’

  ‘Stand down!’ The officer’s voice blasted over the crowd, but the protestors just grew louder and angrier.

  ‘Let Iran decide its own fate! Let our voices be heard!’

  The commanding officer turned to his men and waved decisively. The Basij pulled on gas masks as the crowd of protestors tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. Their backs were against the line of Basij barring entrance to the cemetery.

  The Basij threw tear-gas grenades into the crowd. A moment later, virulent yellow and green gas pooled on the ground and quickly lifted into the air.

  Liora pulled her green hijab up over her lower face to block the noxious fumes. It didn’t help much. The gas filled her eyes with tears and burned her nose and mouth.

  Filled with terror and pain, the crowd became an animal in a trap, striking out at the source of fear and agony. Men pushed at the Basij in an attempt to break through their ranks. That was all the paramilitary men had been waiting for. As soon as contact was made, the batons came out. Blood flew into the air and coated their Plexiglas shields.

  Coughing and nauseous, dizzy and barely able to stand, Liora swayed and tried to stay upright. She searched for Reza, but the crowd’s fearful surging had separated them. Someone jostled her and knocked her into the line of Basij. The man she’d yelled at clutched his assault rifle in his fists. He raised the weapon and brought it down across her head and shoulder.

  The impact drove Liora to her knees. Pain cascaded through her skull so badly that even her teeth hurt. Instinctively, she reached for the man ahead of her, caught his jacket, and started trying to pull herself back to her feet.

  Wild with fear, the man turned and tried to push her away. A baton smashed into his face and turned it to bloody mush. Broken teeth rained down on Liora, and she screamed. Blindly, the man staggered into the Basij, who thrust the barrel of his assault rifle into the protestor’s stomach and squeezed the trigger.

  The weapon’s familiar staccato booms exploded and deafened Liora, but she heard the sudden mirroring of the sound all around her as the protest turned into a massacre. She shoved the dead man from her. His blood covered her clothing and her hands. Unable to stop herself, she screamed and cried out for Reza. She thought she might have heard his voice crying out for her, but she wasn’t certain.

  ‘Do you still want to pay your respects to Neda Agha-Soltan, girl?’ The Basij grinned and pointed his AK-47 at her. ‘Maybe they’ll put you in the grave next to her.’

  His finger tightened on the trigger. Liora never saw the gunfire. Pain screamed through her mind, then a black pit opened up under her. Her body felt like it was on fire, and she remembered Neda Agha-Soltan’s final words:

  ‘I’m burning! I’m burning!’

  6

  Ruling Palace of the Supreme Leader

  Tehran

  The Islamic Republic of Iran

  July 24, 2011

  As he watched the bloody mess the Neda Agha-Soltan protest had turned into on his plasma television, Grand Ayatollah Mohammad Khamenei’s flushed with rage.

  At least there was satisfaction in watching his Basij kill and maim the protestors. They were obstacles to all of the Muslim world reuniting and become one faith strong enough to stand against the West and bringing the cleansing faith of the jihad against all nonbelievers.

  ‘Supreme Leader.’ Allameh Rajai stood at the door. A tall man with a black beard and round-lensed glasses, he carried himself with military erectness. Most of the scars on his face were hidden by his beard, but others showed where he’d been hit by shrapnel and knife blades. A bullet had caromed through his left jaw and required reconstructive surgery. He’d been twelve at the time, already fighting for his faith.

  The Ayatollah had been so engrossed in the television program that he hadn’t heard his aide enter. He muted the news broadcast and waved the man over. ‘What is it, Allameh?’

  ‘Your son Vali awaits your audience.’

  Khamenei smiled and stroked his graying beard. Vali had been an unexpected prize, and he enjoyed the boy’s company immensely. So curious and so dutiful. ‘Please show him in.’

  ‘I also have news of Colonel Davari.’

  ‘Give me the report first. My son will wait a few minutes. Patience is a strength.’

  ‘I have had contact with Colonel Davari. He is on the ground in the Gaza Strip and expects shortly to be meeting with Commander Meshal.’

  ‘Good, good. Everything is proceeding according to plan.’ The Ayatollah clasped his hands behind him and took a deep breath as he centered himself. The images on the television continued to play.

  Despite the violence and stupidity displayed there, he didn’t like the idea of people dying because they were not well enough informed. If they only knew everything he did, if he had Mohammad’s Koran, the violence between the different Muslim factions would end. God willing, he would have the Book soon.

  He turned back to Allameh. ‘What about the infidel?’

  Allameh picked up the reference smoothly. ‘Klaus Von Volker will meet with Colonel Davari in Lebanon. His people have brought another shipment in to Commander Meshal’s people.’

  ‘Instruct Colonel Davari to enlist Von Volker’s aid in the apprehension of that Jewish dog, Lev Strauss. He has gone to ground in Jerusalem, and our agents attract too much attention from the Mossad. They will never find Strauss in time.’

  ‘Of course.’ Allameh bowed.

  ‘Send in my son. His smile is given to me by God, and he will brighten my day.’

  A few minutes later, young Vali stood just inside the room. Seven years old, he stood straight and tall, and his father proudly took note of the warrior already blossoming in his son. His hair was thick and black, his eyes deep brown pools in his handsome face.

  The Ayatollah motioned. ‘Come to your father, boy. I would tell you a story.’

  ‘Of course, Father.’ Obediently, the boy walked to the Ayatollah’s side. ‘I have heard there were protests today.’

  ‘It is nothing. My people are taking care of it even as we visit.’ The Ayatollah smiled at his young son.

  ‘I wish I were old enough to fight our enemies.’

  ‘One day, my son, you will be. Until then, you will be your father’s joy, and I will thank God for every day we have.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Join me in the garden.’ The Ayatollah dropped a hand to the boy’s shoulder and guided him into the private garden that abutted the rooms.

  The rectangular garden contained an abundance of flowers, shrubs, and trees. It was surrounded by a high wall, and closed-circuit television as well as human guards watched over every inch.

  The Ayatollah loved the garden because it reminded him of the old stories in the Koran. The modern world, especially all Western things, were kept at bay. He sat at the edge of a fountain built on an artesian well. The flowing water burbled and sparkled on the leaves of the acacia shrubs that lined the f
ountain except in the sitting areas.

  ‘I have told you the miraculous story of Mohammad before, my son.’

  The child grinned. ‘Many times, Father. But it is all right. I never tire of hearing you tell it.’

  Leaning forward, the Ayatollah ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘It is one of my favorite stories, too. My father told it to me all my life. I wish that he had lived to tell it to you.’

  ‘When we get to heaven, he will tell it to me then.’

  The Ayatollah smiled. ‘Yes, that will be so. However, you are in for a treat today, for I am going to tell you a part of the story I have never told you before.’

  The child’s eyes shone in expectation.

  One of the Ayatollah’s eldest wives – not the boy’s mother – brought out a plate of fruits, honey, and bread, and a carafe of fresh water. She placed the plate between them without a word, then left.

  The Ayatollah waved to the plate, and the boy chose a date and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘And so it came to pass that God laid a heavy burden on the soul of Mohammad.’ The Ayatollah gave himself over to the story, picturing the events in his mind. ‘During the night at Mount Hira, the angel Gabriel visited Mohammad, who was an old man living in Medina at this time.’

  ‘Older even than you, Father?’

  The Ayatollah chuckled. ‘Yes, older than me, but not for much longer, I’m afraid. I’m swiftly catching up.’ He paused. ‘So Gabriel talked to Mohammad and told him it was God’s command that he acknowledge God by telling everyone to read in the name of the Lord and Cherisher. He was to tell them that God created Man from a blood clot, that God was bountiful, and that God taught Man the use of a pen that he might teach Man other things that were not known. When these things were written down, they became the Koran.’

  The boy plucked another date from the serving tray. ‘That was only the first time Gabriel visited Mohammad.’

  ‘That’s correct, my son. After Mohammad set about the work God had tasked him to do, many obstacles were placed in his path.’

  ‘Like the obstacles you have in your path, Father.’

  ‘Yes. Exactly. I do not view my obstacles as tests of faith. I am strong in my faith. These obstacles only make my faith stronger. I am better for them.’

  ‘And Gabriel visited Mohammad again.’

  ‘Indeed, he did. This time Mohammad was near the Ka’ba in Mecca.’ The Ayatollah listened to the birds chirping in the trees and the water burbling. The sun felt good on his skin. And he enjoyed his son’s company. ‘Gabriel returned and guided Mohammad through the Isra and Mi’raj.’

  ‘On the winged horse, Buraq, who was named so because he is fast as lightning.’ The boy’s eyes shone brightly as newly minted coins.

  ‘That’s right. On Buraq, who was tall and white, bigger than a donkey but smaller than a mule. Off they flew into the Long Night.’

  The boy stared into the fountain, and the Ayatollah knew Vali was imagining what that flight must have been like. The Ayatollah had done the same thing when his father had told him the story.

  ‘The journey was only just begun. Gabriel took Mohammad to the “farthest” mosque.’

  ‘To Al-Aqsa Mosque, right, Father?’

  The location and the name of the mosque wasn’t definitely listed in the Koran. The Ayatollah nodded. ‘It was Temple Mount.’ It could be no other. ‘That is where God made the first man, though it was from blood, not dust as the Jews and the Christians tell their stories.’

  ‘They do not know, Father. They are very stupid people.’

  ‘Yes, and those that will not take the wisdom of enlightenment when it is offered to them will perish.’ I will kill them myself if I must. ‘While Mohammad was at Al-Aqsa Mosque, he visited with the other Prophets of God. With Moses, Joseph, and Christ – who was not the son of God but merely a man, though he was a Prophet. He talked of God’s Will and the messages that must be carried throughout the world.’

  ‘Such as how many times a day a man must acknowledge and give thanks to God.’

  ‘Exactly. He also saw God in all his glory, surrounded by angels. Mohammad saw paradise, and he saw hell.’ The Ayatollah took a deep breath. ‘Now I will tell you a story that you must not repeat to anyone until the day I tell you that you may. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Father. I understand.’ The boy’s eyes rounded in fear and curiosity, and the Ayatollah knew his own must have matched his son’s when his own father had told him the rest of the story.

  ‘Do you swear before God?’

  ‘I swear.’ Vali nodded solemnly.

  ‘While he was on the journey of the Long Night, which only took one night in our world, Mohammad had time to write his own Koran. The true Koran. From God’s own sacred lips.’

  The boy gasped.

  ‘For all of these years, the Muslim faith has been split over what is Mohammad’s teaching and what is not. But that Book, writ in Mohammad’s own hand, tells the one truth.’ The Ayatollah paused. ‘Even better, Mohammad was given a Scroll that foretold the future of our faith, of the plans God has for us in this world before we go into the next.’

  ‘The future, Father?’

  ‘Everything, my son. God gave Mohammad all he would need to lead this world to its salvation. Unfortunately, on his way back to this world, Mohammad –overcome by all that he had seen and God’s beauty – dropped his Koran and the precious Scroll.’

  ‘How could he do such a thing?’

  ‘Despite God’s mission for him, Mohammad was only flesh and blood. He was stronger than men but weak in that moment, as men sometimes are.’

  ‘Where did he drop his Koran and the Scroll?’

  The Ayatollah took a breath and tried to decide how much to tell the boy. He knew his family was sequestered away from the rest of the world, that nothing he told them would make it outside the palace walls, but the knowledge was a burden. Finally, he made his decision.

  ‘At first, my son, the few who knew of the loss – and even Mohammad himself – believed he had lost his Koran and the Scroll in the other worlds. If that had been so, we could never have gotten them back. However, as time has gone on, this has proven not to be the case. The Book and the Koran are here, in this world.’ The Ayatollah ran a hand through his son’s black hair. ‘In fact, I nearly have them within my possession.’

  ‘That is so wonderful.’ The boy smiled.

  The Ayatollah’s heart softened at the sight of his son’s excitement. ‘When I get the Book and the Scroll, Vali, I will place them in your hands and let you know the truth.’

  All his agents had to do was find the man who had the book that revealed the whereabouts of Mohammad’s Koran and the Scroll. They would. Of that, the Ayatollah was confident. They almost had him now.

  The infidel Klaus Von Volker knew no master except profit, and the Ayatollah had taken advantage of that. The man’s greed and ambition shackled him more completely than any chain.

  Then the resulting jihad would unleash a rain of holy fire that would cleanse the world. The early Muslims had spread God’s word with their swords. The Ayatollah had new weapons at his disposal, a nuclear arsenal that was being planned and built at that very moment.

  And in time, by my hand shall the unbelievers perish, he thought as he gazed fondly at his son.

  7

  Deir al-Balah

  Gaza Strip

  Palestinian Territories

  July 24, 2011

  ‘Mr. Youssef.’

  Colonel Imad Davari of the Guardians of the Islamic Revolution of Iran sat at a small table at an open-air café. Darkness filled the city just beyond its lights.

  He felt naked without a sidearm, but getting one into the country with false papers was almost impossible and certainly lethal if he got caught. Thank God he was also trained to be deadly with only his hands. And he was a big, burly man used to fighting.

  The speaker was a slim man with dark, intense features. He wore a thin cotton shirt and gray cotton pants. Th
e only hidden weapon he could possibly have was a knife.

  ‘I am Youssef.’ Davari sat calmly at the table and sipped his coffee.

  The man came forward. ‘I am Lutfi. I was sent to get you.’

  Davari pointed to the chair across from him. ‘Sit. Have a cup of coffee.’ He motioned to the waitress.

  With obvious reluctance, Lutfi obeyed. ‘I was told not to delay.’

  ‘You need to relax.’ Davari stared at the man. ‘If not, you’ll give us away to the two men following me.’

  The man started to look around, then caught himself. ‘You were followed?’

  ‘They were at the airport waiting for me.’ Even after twenty years of military experience, nine of those on the Quds Force, the extraterritorial operations arm of the Revolutionary Guard, sitting there with the men watching him had been hard for Davari. He preferred to do the watching, and he didn’t like having to trust outsiders. He worked with a team of men he’d trained, whom he knew like the back of his hand. None of them were with him now. The Ayatollah had entrusted him alone with this vital mission.

  Lutfi shook his head. ‘This meeting is over.’

  ‘If you leave so quickly, those men will follow you. Do you think there are only two of them?’

  Frustration tightened the man’s mouth. ‘You should have warned me.’

  Davari laughed. ‘Your boss is the one that wanted no radio contact on the ground.’

  ‘You could have waved me off.’

  ‘Do you seriously think they wouldn’t have noticed that?’

  The man cursed.

  ‘If I had warned you off, I would be facing them alone.’ Davari sipped his coffee. ‘I don’t think they would have let me sit here much longer without taking me into custody.’

  ‘Or killing you if they are Israeli.’

  Davari shrugged. That, of course, was a possibility. He was confident that the men didn’t know him or his work personally. Somehow they had intercepted Commander Meshal’s communications.