“The man of lawlessness shall be revealed. Before the very end, before the final coming of the Kingdom of God, he shall take his seat in the Temple of God, displaying himself as if he were God. In what temple? It is in that Temple—” he shouted, gesturing. “The Temple yet to be rebuilt from the ruins of the one that now lies within the ground of the Temple Mount. But it will be resurrected…the stones will come to life. It will be rebuilt. So all of the stones you see—and the buildings you now see atop the Mount—what will become of them? Can there be any question that God Himself must remove them first?”
Yossin whirled to face the Frenchman and grabbed the lapels of his shirt with both hands.
“The sign! The sign!” he shouted.
The Frenchman, half-dazed, blinked, nodded his head, and smiled.
And then the realization hit both of them. It would now begin. Yossin looked at his watch, grabbed the Frenchman and whispered something in his ear, and then sprinted from the group to a white van a block away and climbed in.
Meanwhile, the Frenchman ran in the opposite direction to an old rusted VW bus parked about two hundred feet away. He unlocked the door and got in.
Each man retrieved, from under the front seat, a black control box with a small keyboard, wireless antenna, and control switch.
It took them only thirty seconds to boot up the minicomputers. Then they set the coordinates. Each man looked at his watch. When the second hands slowly moved to bring the minute hands to exactly noon, then they would act simultaneously.
Each of them in their separate vehicles rested an index finger on the ENTER button on his keyboard.
By now the American had scrambled out of the crowd and waved down a taxicab driver—also a member of the Knights of the Temple Mount—and had given him the signal to exit when his human cargo arrived.
But neither the American nor the Frenchman nor Yossin, the Arab leader of the Knights of the Temple Mount, were able to hear their prophet’s final admonitions.
“But be warned!” Gilead shouted. “Jesus the Lord has said, ‘Many will come in My name, saying “I am the Christ,” and will deceive many’—and He warned that many false prophets would arise and mislead many.”
“But you are the Promised One!” one of the supporters of the Knights yelled out.
Gilead parted his lips to answer. He smiled, raising his hands high so all of the onlookers could see. By now the two police officers were breaking through the final ring of humanity and were almost to Gilead’s position.
But before Gilead could speak, Yossin in the white van, and the Frenchman in the rusted VW bus, checked their watches—and then each simultaneously pushed down hard on the ENTER button of his keyboard.
A bright, blinding light exploded from the top of the Temple Mount. There was an awful rumble that shook the city of Jerusalem at the epicenter and then all the way to the suburbs from the two simultaneous, bone-jarring blasts. Windows of shops and office buildings throughout Jerusalem shattered.
The white stones of the al-Aqsa Mosque, and glass and trees, and the bodies of the Muslim worshipers and visitors atop the Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock were blown up into the air and scattered across the Old City of Jerusalem.
Great blocks of stone were hurled down onto the Jews at the Western Wall, as they stared up in shock and then ran in panic across the great plaza, trying to avoid the hurtling rock and stone that was raining down. The Knights of the Temple Mount and the onlookers screamed and ran in all directions.
The American grabbed Gilead, frantically pushing and pulling him to the waiting taxi. He stuffed him in and the driver sped off, through and around the traffic that was now bottlenecked by the debris that had rained down on the street in the Kidron Valley, which separates the Old Wall of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives on the opposite side. Lurching the car off the street, over the curb, and onto the sloping hill that led around the Old Wall of the city, he drove wildly until he slammed to a stop in front of the dual walled-up arches of the Golden Gate—arches that had been closed for a thousand years.
Sirens could be heard all over the city as Israeli defense forces, ambulances, and police rushed into the Old City. The Palestinian police began shooting randomly at any suspicious person near the entrances of the Mughrabi Gate, which led to the steps ascending to the Temple Mount.
The taxi driver looked at his watch. It was exactly three minutes after twelve. He leaned down to a keyboard on the floor of his taxi and pushed the ENTER button.
The two walled-up stone arches of the ancient Golden Gate into Old Jerusalem exploded in a shower of stone.
One large rock hurtled through the left front window of the taxi, killing the driver instantly and rolling the vehicle over with the force of the blow.
Dazed, Gilead climbed out through the broken window of the passenger door of the taxi, which was now teetering on its side.
Suddenly he was aware of shots. Down the avenue, Israeli defense forces were firing on his position. Gilead wiped his face—there was something liquid there—and realized he was bleeding from his nose.
With bullets whizzing by him, he scrambled over the rubble in the now wide-open Golden Gate of the Old Wall of the city of Jerusalem.
As Gilead stumbled through the opening, he saw screaming, running people crowding the streets, and others fleeing from what remained of the plateau of the Temple Mount above.
Gilead staggered and realized he could hear very little, except the once-distant sound of sirens—now getting very close. When the sirens seemed almost upon him, he looked up into the sky.
It was bright blue and serene. That was the last thing he saw before his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground unconscious.
28
Three Months Later
IN HIS LAW CHAMBERS IN LONDON, ENGLAND, Barrister Nigel Newhouse was holding a press conference. The room was packed with foreign press and television cameras.
The prominent human rights lawyer, a man in his mid-fifties with neatly trimmed gray hair and wire-rimmed reading glasses, strode to a podium with a sheet of notes for his public statement.
The barrister glanced down, adjusted his reading glasses, and then addressed the small army of reporters.
“The day before yesterday I met in Ramallah with my client, Hassan Gilead Amahn. As you know, Mr. Amahn is in detention pursuant to a multinational arrest resulting from the investigation into the bombing of the Temple Mount.”
Newhouse paused for a moment, and then continued with what he knew would probably be the top news story of the day.
“Regrettably, I then advised Mr. Amahn that I must withdraw as his legal counsel.”
Amid the noises of cameras, several dozen pens, as if in an orchestrated ballet, began scratching wildly on notepads.
“Mr. Amahn consents to my withdrawal under the unique circumstances in which I find myself. As some of you may know, I have been, for some time, legal counsel to Mr. Corin Mambassa, a newspaper editor. Mr. Mambassa was recently indicted by the International War Crimes Tribunal of the United Nations, which is investigating war crimes committed in Sierra Leone. I have been, and continue to be, convinced of Mr. Mambassa’s innocence of any human rights violations or war crimes.”
Newhouse glanced again at the paper in front of him, then removed a newspaper clipping from his suit coat pocket and placed it in front of him.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Mambassa also wrote an editorial in his newspaper revealing the fact that his nephew was an active member of the Knights of the Temple Mount—the religious organization that is the target of the investigation into the Temple Mount catastrophe. Mr. Mambassa, in his editorial, lamented the death of his nephew, who was apparently caught in the cross fire between Palestinian police and Israeli defense forces following the explosion. He went on to say some rather nasty things about the Knights of the Temple Mount, and Gilead Amahn in particular.
“Now I was unaware,” Newhouse continued, “when I accepted the case of Hassan Gilead Amahn, that
my other client, Mr. Mambassa, had written these remarks. And while I do not believe this involves a direct conflict of interest, I am satisfied that I cannot, in good conscience, continue to represent Mr. Amahn at the same time I represent Corin Mambassa. Accordingly, with consent of Mr. Amahn, I am withdrawing from his representation so I can zealously, and with singleness of purpose, continue my representation and defense of Mr. Mambassa.”
Newhouse looked up from his notes and scanned the room.
“I will continue as Mr. Amahn’s counsel for only such period of time as is necessary for him to secure a new trial attorney. I will be glad to entertain any questions…”
Newhouse recognized a reporter from CNN.
“Do you have any idea who will be taking over the defense of Mr. Amahn’s case? We’ve heard rumors that a number of high-profile American defense lawyers have offered their services…in fact, there was an article on the Internet earlier today indicating that a member of last decade’s O.J. Simpson dream team has come to the forefront.”
Newhouse chuckled.
“No, I don’t know anything about that. I can say this—and my client has authorized me to make this clear. Mr. Amahn is very selective about who is going to represent him in this case. He originally wanted representation by an American lawyer but was unable to secure his representation—”
“Who is the lawyer? And why didn’t he take the case originally?” another reporter bulleted out.
“The lawyer’s name is Will Chambers—”
“Do you know why Mr. Chambers didn’t take the case?”
“First off,” Newhouse said, “I know Mr. Chambers only through a casual professional acquaintance. He has a reputation as a fine trial lawyer who has had experience in international human-rights cases. He successfully represented a former American military officer before the International Criminal Court in The Hague a few years ago. But as to Mr. Chambers’ reason for declining representation of Mr. Amahn…”
Newhouse considered his words carefully.
“All I know is that Mr. Chambers said he had personal and family responsibilities that conflicted with his taking up the defense of Mr. Amahn.”
“One of the wire services reported today,” a Fox News reporter said, “that a court-appointed counsel has been provided to Mr. Amahn by the Palestinian Criminal Tribunal. Is that true?”
“Yes, I believe it is,” Newhouse answered. “When the UN and the European Union, aided by the United States and Great Britain, helped to create the Palestinian International Criminal Tribunal specifically for the purpose of trying those responsible for the attack on the Temple Mount, that was one of the agreed-to items in the protocols for the tribunal. That is, the provision of a court-appointed defense amicus curiae for each person charged with criminal complicity in the Temple Mount bombings if they lacked the funds for their own counsel or if, for some other reason, they declined legal representation.”
“Do you know anything about the attorney who is going to be provided for Mr. Amahn?”
“I heard today, just within an hour of my speaking to you, that the Palestinian Criminal Tribunal has appointed a Ms. Mira Ashwan to act as amicus curiae counsel for Mr. Amahn.”
“Why was this Ms. Ashwan selected for representation?” a Newsweek reporter followed up.
“As I understand it,” Newhouse explained, “the tribunal considered Ms. Ashwan as someone who has several points of commonality with Mr. Amahn. First of all, Ms. Ashwan is Egyptian-born. As you know, Mr. Amahn himself was born and raised in Cairo. Also, Ms. Ashwan is a Coptic Christian Arab. And Mr. Amahn is of Arab descent and professes to be an evangelical Christian. So those, among other reasons, I suppose, provide the background for the selection of Ms. Ashwan. Though I suspect Mr. Amahn is still desirous of obtaining his own personal defense counsel.”
“What are the charges that are going to be brought against Mr. Amahn by the tribunal?”
“You have to understand, no charges have yet been filed. But I have also been informed by the prosecutor for the Palestinian International Criminal Tribunal that they are going to be utilizing a specific substantive criminal offense, formulated somewhat on American antiterrorism laws. I understand Mr. Amahn will be charged with multiple counts of causing the murder of others through the providing of material support for a terrorist organization.”
“The Knights of the Temple Mount? That’s the terrorist organization?” another reporter yelled out.
“Presumably, yes. I suppose that the tribunal will, as they have promised, name the Knights of the Temple Mount as the terrorist organization and will charge Mr. Amahn as being its spiritual and tactical leader.”
“Can you tell us anything about Mr. Amahn’s condition in detention?”
“I can say this,” Newhouse replied. “Mr. Amahn is in remarkably good spirits. As far as I can see, he is being treated humanely in the Palestinian detention facility at Ramallah, where he is presently imprisoned.”
Newhouse surveyed the flurry of hands and identified one final reporter.
“One last question,” he noted, glancing at his watch.
“Is there any chance this American lawyer—this Will Chambers—will change his mind regarding representation of Amahn?”
Newhouse paused.
“I can’t speak for Mr. Chambers. You’ll have to ask him.”
29
THAT DAY WILL CHAMBERS HAD a morning hearing in federal court in Washington, DC. So when Jack Hornby, Senior Bureau Chief for American Press International, made good on his comment to Will that he wanted a meeting, the two decided on lunch not far from the Federal Court Building on Constitution Avenue.
Hornby suggested Old Ebbets Grill. It was one of those Washington eateries full of etched glass, mahogany, and brass—an institution among the Capitol Hill crowd. For Will, it held a lot of memories—most of them not good—from back when he was an out-of-control drinker. On more than one occasion the proprietor had had to politely ask him to leave.
When Will got there at twelve-thirty, Hornby was already seated in a booth, checking his voice mail from his cell phone.
“Counselor,” the newspaperman said with a grin, extending his hand to shake Will’s. “Thanks for meeting with me. And, just so you know, lunch is on me…”
“Of course,” Will said with a smile, “that’s why I came.”
“Now you can’t take that for granted,” Hornby replied. “Back when I was a reporter for the Washington Herald, they gave us almost no expense account for that kind of thing.”
“Even for Pulitzer Prize–winning reporters like you?” Will replied nonchalantly, nodding his thanks to the waitress who was filling his water glass.
“Yes, I did win one of those, didn’t I?” Hornby said sardonically. “I’m glad somebody around this town remembers that. But that was a long time ago. A lot of water has gone under the bridge since then…”
After Will had ordered a Caesar salad and Hornby had asked for the mahi mahi special, he opened the door to what was really on the bureau chief’s mind.
“I appreciate you coming to my father-in-law’s funeral. That was very thoughtful of you. I know Fiona was touched.”
“Don’t mention it. And don’t think I attended just because I wanted an opportunity to get a story out of you…”
“I appreciate that,” Will said with a smile.
“Which is interesting, because it leads me to the reason you and I are sitting here having this friendly little chat. Of course, before your Resurrection Fragment case—if I can call it that—I knew you a little bit from some of your civil-liberties cases. But when I dove into the Reichstad v. MacCameron lawsuit and your defense of Angus MacCameron, it was my first up-close and personal with you. And also it was my first introduction to a guy who, at first, I considered a bit player in your legal drama.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. He was there, sort of lurking in the background. He was the odd man out. A celebrity oddity, admittedly, but an oddity nevertheless. And
then the more I dug into the background, the more I realized this guy was cut from a whole different piece of cloth. In other words, I decided that—continuing with my fabric metaphor—he was a whole bizarre tapestry himself…”
“Who are you talking about?” Will suspected where Hornby was heading.
“The world’s filthiest-rich man,” Hornby said with a sardonic smile. “I never really got a chance to do a feature piece on Warren Mullburn back then. But I kept my notes. Every good newspaperman does. And so I’ve followed him. I’ve watched him. Not just the stuff on the news—I’ve continued to do my own spadework on the guy over the years.”
Hornby finished the martini he’d ordered and put the glass down on the table with a flourish.
“You see, some people collect things. Stamps. Antiques. My mother had this little ceramic bunny rabbit collection. I don’t know what they were called. Little rabbits in those cute little poses with coats and hats on—that kind of thing.”
“And you?”
“I collect information on Warren Mullburn. In addition to the work I do at API, they let me do freelance writing on the side. I’ve been hired to do a cover piece on Mullburn for Vanity Fair. And I’m not talking about just a puff piece—I want to blow the roof off. Literally. I think you know what I mean…”
“So where do I fit in?” Will asked, as the waitress set down their plates on the starched white-linen tablecloth.
Hornby smiled at the waitress but waited until she had left before he resumed.
“So here’s the skinny on all this,” Hornby said in a hushed but intense voice.
Then he paused, took his notepad out, and pulled out a blank piece of paper. In the middle he drew a circle. Then he drew an arrow from the edge of the paper, pointing toward the circle.
“This arrow,” he continued, “this is point number one. It takes us back…way back to your handling of the lawsuit of Dr. Albert Reichstad against Angus MacCameron and his archaeological magazine, Digging for Truth. Warren Mullburn was funding Reichstad’s research center and was therefore—at least indirectly—behind the so-called discovery of the Resurrection Papyrus. Obviously, if that two-thousand-year-old fragment had actually disproved the resurrection of Christ, it would have been of immense value to the Muslims. But what I later found out was that Mullburn’s ultimate goal was to make inroads into OPEC and bolster his own oil interests.
The Last Judgment Page 13