by Adam Hiatt
“With pleasure,” the minion responded.
“The rest of you, let’s move. We have only completed one part of the journey. There is one more step that we must make before we can rejoice.”
***
After approximately twenty yards Reddic tugged on Jaxon’s sweatshirt. “Give me your phone,” he said.
“What for?” Jaxon asked, pulling the phone out of his pocket.
“It’s got a tracking device on it. That’s how Faulkner found us.” Reddic grabbed the phone with his hand and tossed it into the darkness.
He turned back to Jaxon and spoke. “You said there was a second tunnel dug in the pyramid. Please tell me it doesn’t run the same course.”
“No, it runs from east to west,” Jaxon said.
“Does it intersect this one?”
“Yes, back towards the entrance. Didn’t you see it?”
“If I had I wouldn’t be asking. Come on, show me.”
They backtracked ten yards to where the east tunnel crossed the north. Reddic understood why he had overlooked the intersection. It would have been almost impossible to notice if one didn’t have a prior familiarity with the tunnel system. Two slabs of particleboard walled both sides of the east-west passageway, indicating that no current research was being conducted in that area.
Reddic prodded around the edges of one of the slabs and found that only two nails held it in place near the upper frame. He lifted the bottom half and pressed it over his head high enough for them to pass under. They scuttled through in a hurry, assuming that Faulkner’s stooges would soon follow. The tunnel broke off to another gated entry after only fifteen yards. Breaking the lock and quietly stepping through, they found themselves on the opposite side of the Adosada.
They ran to their right behind the nearest stone block platform and listened. Satisfied that nobody discovered their presence, they moved behind another platform farther away from the pyramid. Edging around the corner, Reddic brought the night vision monocular to his eye and scanned the Avenue where Faulkner and his men stood only minutes ago. The area was deserted. The only movement came from the north-south tunnel access. Reddic sidestepped to his right to improve his view. As he did he stumbled and almost toppled over. He looked down at the obstacle at his feet.
It was a body.
Squatting low, Reddic felt for a pulse. He saw that it was the same security guard that had been patrolling the Pyramid of the Moon plaza. Gelatinous blood was caked around a deep crimson laceration in his neck.
The man was already dead.
It was clearly the handy work of Amjad Muhktaar, and it was a safe bet that the other sentries probably shared a similar fate.
Reddic found a gun in the fallen guard’s belt. He ejected the magazine, checked it for ammunition, and stuffed it away near the small of his back. Through the monocular he surveyed the plaza again. On the east side of the Moon Pyramid staircase he caught sight of the terrorist with the shorts studying the tunnel entry point. Strangely, he refused to enter.
Could there be others inside trying to flush them out? If not and he were alone, why leave only one gun? Faulkner of all people would know that Reddic could eventually take out just one man. A thought suddenly occurred to him. Perhaps the man was left behind to slow them up, keep them pinned down in the pyramid. It was plausible, and if it were accurate, Faulkner sorely underestimated Reddic’s abilities.
He retraced his steps to the west side of the Adosada, making sure Jaxon stayed where he was. He rapidly climbed the steep side and crawled on his stomach to the far ledge. He was about ten feet off the Avenue floor directly above the terrorist. He reached behind his back and pulled out the gun. He took aim and fired.
The man in shorts screamed madly and fell to the ground. He squirmed and clenched his leg just above the kneecap where he was shot. Reddic leaped off the staircase and landed squarely on both feet.
“Where are your friends going?” he demanded. There was no response. “Tell me or I swear I’ll blow you away.”
In the blink of an eye the terrorist brought a weapon into view. Reddic didn’t see where it came from, but he didn’t care either. He squeezed two more rounds into the man, ending his wretched life of terrorizing innocent victims.
“Is he dead?” Jaxon asked, tentatively rounding the corner.
“Yes,” Reddic said quietly, letting the weapon drop to the ground. His hands trembled as he spoke. “I had no choice, Jax. I had to shoot.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“He didn’t give me time to get anything out of him.”
“You did everything you could. At least we’re still alive.”
“Who cares about that? Faulkner got away with our best chance of luring Hasaan out into the open. We may never have this chance again.”
“I don’t know, Reddic,” Jaxon said, calmly. “There’s definitely something strange going on.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you hear what Faulkner said to Muhktaar?”
“Of course I didn’t. I don’t speak Arabic. What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Ana hw. Ana al-amam.’ Which is to say: I am he. I am the Imam. Why would he say that? Do you think he was trying to deceive Muhktaar?”
Reddic’s eyes were suddenly wide and alert. “He said that?” he asked.
“Verbatim.”
Mind spinning, Reddic tried to make sense of Jaxon’s words. Could he have heard wrong, he wondered? Did Faulkner actually announce that he was the Imam? The suggestion was utterly chilling. Yet at the same time it seemed so logical. Faulkner was a wealthy oil mogul who made billions in a region where American businessmen were constantly terrorized by the mysterious Khalid Hasaan, the faceless man. Common sense would say that there had to have been a connection between the two. Why else would Faulkner profit where many others failed? But strangely, no financial analyst ever suspected it. Faulkner’s success was deemed serendipitous; a man in the right place at the right time.
The analysis was understandable too. The man had earned a PhD in Egyptology and purportedly had made numerous contacts in the area. Maybe it was a simple case of knowing the right people. After all, that was the key to financial success in business. Yet the manner in which Muhktaar reacted when Faulkner spoke to him proved something completely different. The terrorist was visibly shaken, bewildered by what he had heard. He stared at Faulkner in sore amazement. Why? There could only be one answer.
Joseph Faulkner was Khalid Hasaan.
Reddic looked up and grabbed his brother by the shoulders. “Jax, where I think they’re going next will be dangerous. I don’t think it would be wise for you to come.”
“Forget it,” Jaxon exclaimed, shaking free. “I know where you’re going. I’ve come this far, I want to finish it. That man killed my professor and may have been responsible for mom and dad’s death too for all I’m concerned. I want him to pay for his actions.”
Reddic stepped back and scrutinized his brother. To say that he was surprised by his newfound resolution would be an understatement. “Fine,” he said, “but we have to hurry. If we’re lucky we might just pull this off.”
Chapter Forty-Three
A standard white Renault taxi swerved to the side of SULTAN-SULEIMAN STREET just outside of an arched gate. Jaxon slipped out of the backseat while Reddic, with his phone pressed against his ear, paid the driver with shekels. The car skidded away in search of its next fare as Reddic pocketed the phone.
“My contact just confirmed that a private jet registered to JPF Oil & Gas landed at Ben Gurion at 5:25 local time,” Reddic said. “Six men passed through customs.” He glanced at his watch, noting that it was 5:40 pm. “We’re ahead of schedule, which is better than I anticipated. We need to change our clothes. We can’t be seen in these,” he said, waving his hands over the dark wool trousers and black sweatshirt.
They hopped down a few steps and headed for the Damascus Gate leading to the Old City of Jerusalem. As they descended Redd
ic thought of Faulkner, or was it Hasaan? It was both, he reminded himself. He and Jaxon still struggled to come to grips that they were the same man. How could Faulkner have duped the world for so long without suspicion? The suggestion was unthinkable. It was insanity!
Yet without knowing the true identity of Khalid Hasaan, Reddic would have never been able to accurately predict the imposter’s next step. He had presumed correctly that Faulkner would come directly to Jerusalem. There was no way around it. It was the denouement of the legend, the culmination. The cautious course of action would be to lay low for a few weeks before coming out into the open; maybe even months. But Faulkner, Reddic knew, wouldn’t do that. His ego was too big. He was a ruthless billionaire, and a man whose ruse had deceived the brightest minds in the intelligence community for years. He surely perceived himself as untouchable, maybe even invincible.
However, this time his arrogance would betray him. Reddic and Jaxon planned to be waiting when he arrived, and one way or another, Faulkner’s deception would end.
Reddic would make sure of it.
Damascus Gate, one of seven open gates cut into the wall surrounding the city, was considered the most beautiful of them all. Built in the sixteenth century by the Ottoman ruler Suleiman the Magnificent, the gate boasted two imposing grey stone towers on each side. Passing through the arched entryway, they entered the Islamic Quarter of the Old City.
Encompassed about by the economically developed and commercial modern city, the older section was the complete antithesis. It was a cultural hotspot, composed of four religious quarters, each possessing its own distinctive characteristics. An array of ornate reconstructed synagogues, cathedrals, churches, and mosques stood atop ancient stone foundations amidst densely packed archaic apartment buildings, street vendors, relic stores, and Mediterranean restaurants.
The Islamic Quarter was the largest and most populated, located in the northeast corner. Similar to the other three quarters its streets were incredibly narrow and tortuous, made of limestone blocks. There were no cars, only scores of pedestrians meandering in and out of side stores and around street vendors, bartering for the lowest prices.
Reddic turned into the first clothing store he saw and purchased two ankle-length robes with ghutras and desert footwear. They removed their sweatshirts, pulled the robes over their shoulders, and wrapped the head cloth. As they left the store Reddic caught sight of their appearance and was pleased with the new look. He rubbed his hand over his face, tickled by the soft bristles escaping his pores. Neither he nor Jaxon had shaved in two days. The short layer of stubble darkened their complexions, enhancing the guise and helping to obscure to the casual observer their faces.
They followed the small lane passed the Via Dolorosa and stalactite stone carvings of Lady Tunshuq’s Palace until it opened up into a vast concrete courtyard of the Jewish Quarter. Throngs of people, both tourists and local denizens alike, gazed at an unadorned Herodian block wall. A group of men wearing dark suits and black hats, long curly payoth sideburns, and white fringed tzitzit threads around their wastes stood before the wall with small books in hand bobbing back and forth to rhythmic intonations.
Jaxon had told him about this place. It was the famed Western or Wailing Wall. A historic retaining wall, it was regarded as the most holy place in Judaism because of its proximity to the once sacred Temple Mount that was destroyed by the Romans circa AD 70. Jewish men and women frequented the wall daily, at all hours, to pray and deposit tiny slips of paper containing a variety of wishes into the smallest of crevices.
Crossing the congested plaza they came upon a serpentine ramp that ascended to the summit of the wall in the southwest corner. At the top of the ramp, under a pair of stone arches, two Arabic men, with Uzis slung around their necks, stopped them from advancing. One of the men brought a metal detecting wand into view and stroked it over the robes that Reddic and Jaxon wore. Having no metal on their bodies, they were permitted to enter the Noble Sanctuary, the third most sacred site in Islam.
They entered the complex walking by a large rectangular building with a Crusader façade. It was known as the al-Aqsa mosque, characterized by a charcoal dome on the rooftop and a towering minaret in the southwest corner. With seven arched bays at the entrance, it looked more like a medieval stronghold than a holy sanctuary.
Turning north, they passed through a small grove of cypress trees where a few veiled women tended their children near a fountain. Between branches, on a slightly elevated plaza, the spectacular gold-capped Dome of the Rock, rising over thirty-five yards in height, sparkled brilliantly against the afternoon rays like an ornamental beacon. Blue, green, gold and beige tiles covered every square inch of the octagonal building below the Dome. The sumptuous shrine was one of the most recognizable sites in the entire world; a political and religious statement that the Muslims were Abraham’s rightful heirs.
Ascending a short set of stairs beneath an arcade lead, Reddic checked his watch again. Time was of the essence. It had taken them all of twenty minutes to get through the labyrinth that was Old City and climb to the top of the infamous temple mount. So far so good, he thought. They were almost there.
The final step onto the upper raked platform all but negated Reddic’s optimism. A multiethnic sea of people seemed to envelop the golden shrine on all sides. Some snapped photographs of the Mount of Olives and Mount Scopus on the east and the Old City to the west, while others sat beneath four miniature domed monuments in the courtyard. Yet not one person moved to enter the Dome of the Rock. Why? Thousands of people saved their money for years on end to make this pilgrimage. To get here and not go inside was inconceivable. Something was definitely wrong.
Reddic pushed through the hordes of people along the perimeter of the plaza where the crowds were thinnest. He circled around the Dome counterclockwise trying to catch a glimpse of the entrances. There were four, one at each point of the compass; three were sealed shut. In between the colossal double doors of the western entry, shaded by an arched portico, an Arabic man stood with his arms crossed. He appeared to be scanning the masses, making sure nobody entered the shrine.
Reddic weaved through the crowd toward the door. There was something familiar about the man standing there. He wanted to get a better look. When he got to within ten paces the Arab’s gaze fell in his direction. Reddic kept his chin low and studied the man’s face. The recognition jolted him.
He was one of Faulkner’s men!
Coolly, Reddic twisted around and pulled Jaxon close. “Faulkner beat us here,” he said.
“How do you know?” asked Jaxon, trying to sound composed.
“That guy at the door was with Faulkner last night. I have no doubt.”
“Do you see anybody else?”
“No, too many people. But they’re close; they have to be,” Reddic said, looking over the assembly. They were out there, but where? They had to be lurking somewhere near the entrance. There would be no point in roaming the square with all these people. If their task was to watch and protect the only entry then they would need to be in a position to swiftly neutralize any threat. Still, with the size of the crowd they could blend in anywhere.
Another problem that concerned Reddic was the number of terrorists stationed outside the Dome. It was an unknown variable, one that made him feel uneasy. His mind turned as he engineered a plan.
“There’s only one way we can get inside,” Reddic said.
“I know,” Jaxon interrupted. “What do you need me to do?” A smirk broke out on Reddic’s face. For some reason he found Jaxon’s tenacity humorous.
“Okay, I guess I don’t have to give you a pep talk,” he said dryly.
“No, you don’t. Whatever it takes, I’m in,” Jaxon responded.
Suppressing his surprise, Reddic said, “All you need to do is kneel in front of that column supporting the portico and shout as loud as you can in Arabic.”
“What should I say?”
“A prayer, a song, a verse from the Koran—it
doesn’t matter.” Jaxon thought for a moment and nodded, walking away toward the western entrance.
“Wait!” Reddic shouted, chasing after Jaxon. “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’m going?”
“I know where you’re going,” Jaxon said solemnly. “Remember, whatever it takes.” He turned and plunged into the crowd.
Chapter Forty-Four
Reddic speedily looped around to the north side of the Dome to where he could see both the west doors and the throngs of onlookers. The majority of the people appeared resigned, patiently accepting of the fact that they were not allowed to enter the holy shrine at that time. Many had their backs turned to the beautiful golden dome immersed in colloquial conversation with one another.
Out of the corner of his eye Reddic saw Jaxon pop out of the closest group of spectators and kneel before the stone pillar. Keeping his head down, he cried out vociferously in Arabic. Even from where Reddic observed he could hear the clamor. As Jaxon’s pitch augmented his bodily movement became more demonstrative, rhythmically swaying back and forth.
At the same time Reddic furiously searched the crowds for an anomaly; anybody who was overly interested in Jaxon’s erratic behavior. Several people mechanically glanced in his direction. Some looked stunned by the cacophony, manifesting disgust and displeasure on their faces. Others simply dismissed Jaxon as a radical worshiper expressing his devotion.
Not until most everybody turned away from the noise did Reddic spot them. Two men, both similar in dress to the man guarding the door, watched Jaxon carefully. They waded in the crowds only seven yards apart. They tried to act ordinary, unobtrusive by peering in different directions, but they were poor actors. They persisted in returning their stern gazes to Jaxon, each time more probing.