The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies)

by Terry Brennan

  “Robert, I believe you know Finance Minister Lin.”

  “Yes, thank you, Abraham. The minister and I were undergrads at Stanford together. Minister Lin, I am blessed to see you again, and grateful for your support.”

  Lin Hu Na was CEO of the Industrial and Commercial Bank of China. With three trillion dollars of assets, ICBC was the largest bank in the world. He was also the most powerful financial official in the government of the People’s Republic of China.

  His host, Abraham Rothschild, was chairman and owner of the Rothschild Group and Rothschild AG Bank in Switzerland, but more importantly was also the controlling force behind what was called the Bern Consortium, the shadow cabinet of the Swiss private banking system. These two men controlled more of the world’s wealth than even the Arab conspiracy trying to conquer Europe. Lin stepped toward Gephart, his hand outstretched. “No need to thank me, Mr. Secretary. We’re all here with one purpose, to save the world we know from the world we fear. Let us get to work.”

  Gephart’s heart warmed. After all these years, the most important thing in finance was still true. Life was all about relationships. Sure, nations and agendas were important. But when push came to shove, who you knew was so much more important than where you lived or who you served.

  Rothschild put a snifter of brandy on the table next to Gephart and returned to his chair on the far side of the empty fireplace. “As the euro continues to devalue, Abbudin has ordered Saudi banks to demand immediate repayment of loans they made to eurozone countries. The European Union is facing bankruptcy. Economically speaking, Spain, Greece, and Italy have ceased to exist.”

  Gephart picked up the snifter and swirled the golden liquid around its crystal sides as he calculated why these men were here … and what the next few moments might cost.

  “Mr. Secretary,” said Rothschild, “the Saudi banks, the Arab world, have eaten us for dinner. They own everything … everything that matters. If something dramatic doesn’t happen in the next twelve hours, the Western world will cease to exist and the Second Caliphate will extend from Germany to India and beyond for as long as any of us will live. Minister Han and I don’t intend to allow that to happen. You need to know what we intend to do.”

  27

  MONDAY, AUGUST 31

  8:15 a.m., Jerusalem

  “Do you have the water bottles, Sammy?”

  “Sure. Same as the last time you—”

  “How many?” Annie didn’t stop as she crossed the living room of the apartment, just turned her head in Rizzo’s direction.

  “Six, just as many—”

  “Good. Fold them tight.”

  Annie heard Rizzo’s grumbles as she looked out the window. But she had more on her mind than Sammy’s gripes. She looked across the parking lot, down the Bar Lev Road. Is there enough time?

  She turned away from the window and passed close to Rizzo, who was still wrestling the five-gallon, collapsible plastic water jugs into the bottom of a knapsack. “Cushion them so they don’t squeak,” said Annie, her voice low and soothing as she laid her hand on Rizzo’s shoulder. “We’ll need every one of them where we’re going.”

  Annie walked down the hall and past the bathroom, headed for the kitchen. The bathroom door was open. “Got the first-aid kit?”

  Joe looked up, a brush in his hand and his mouth full of toothpaste. “Yessh,” he spluttered.

  “Make sure there’s extra antibiotic and extra bandages.” She left a gurgle in her wake.

  Tom was in the kitchen, carefully packing boxes of dried food, cushioned by his surrounding clothes, into a large duffel bag.

  “Is the satellite phone turned off?”

  “I’ve got the battery in my pocket. Reynolds won’t be able to track our position.”

  “Sugar and salt?”

  “Yes, I told—”

  “Spoons, knives, forks … cups?”

  “Yes,” said Tom, turning to his wife. Annie could see objection in his face, then it changed. “Oh … forgot the cups. But you’re marching through here every ten minutes like a general getting his army ready for a long march. You’re giving everybody the willies.”

  Annie opened her mouth, but took a deep breath instead of snapping at Tom. “I know. I’m sorry. There’s just so much to remember. The NG crew has enough supplies for themselves, but not for the four of us. And we have so little time. Sam Reynolds could be here any minute, and I don’t think we’re ready.”

  “I’ll be ready,” said Tom. Annie could feel the comfort of his hand on her cheek. “We’ll be as ready as we can be. I just hope this plan works.”

  Annie placed her hand on his. “It has to. It’s the only one we have.” She swept her gaze across the kitchen once more. “Bring some bleach—we’ll need to keep things clean, or we’ll all end up with—well, we don’t want it. Let’s huddle in five minutes.”

  Without a glance back, Annie turned on her heel, exited the kitchen, and entered the small dining alcove. Deirdre and McDonough leaned over, looking down at a map spread across the table.

  “Aye … it’s a trip I wouldn’t wish on me uncle Seamus, and I wasn’t too fond of him to begin with,” said McDonough, shaking his head. “That’s a long way. Too much for me, even if I wasn’t required back at Trinity. ’Tis a marvel the old gent, Jeremiah, could make it to Babylon and back.”

  “Over six hundred miles,” said Annie as she came up behind them. “Desert all the way, very little water, and too many bandits just waiting for people foolish enough to wander off the main highway.”

  Deirdre looked up from the map and caught Annie’s gaze. “Are you sure you need to go … not get home to your kids? Are you sure this is the best way back?”

  “Sure? I’m not sure of anything,” said Annie. “It’s my idea. I’m the cover. But first we need to get there, and then we can hopefully maneuver around Iraq with some level of freedom. I don’t know if it’s going to work, but it’s the best I could think of. At least we have a legitimate reason for being in Iraq. After that—well, who knows what we’ll find.”

  “Or how you’ll get home,” said McDonough.

  Annie put her hands on her hips and let out a sigh. “Fly out, I hope. Krupp’s going to leave his plane there for us. And if we can’t fly out, we rely on Fischoff. If absolutely necessary, we come back across the desert.”

  “Where do you meet the National Geographic crew?” asked Deirdre.

  “They’ll meet us at the airport in Baghdad. So once we hook up with them, our cover should be pretty solid.” Annie had pulled in some pretty heavy favors, and she would be in their debt a long time. She, Tom, Joe, and Rizzo now carried official National Geographic IDs and work documents connecting them to the photo team already in Iraq.

  Annie looked down at the faint line crossing the al-Anbar Desert, and her hopes felt almost as faint. If it came to a race across the desert wastes, her final phone call last night, after Tom had fallen asleep, might be the one that saved their lives. Tom wouldn’t be happy about this one, but it was Annie’s ace. And she was pretty sure they would need to play it at some point.

  “What about Reynolds?” asked Deirdre. “He’s the first big hurdle. He’s smart, he’s cagey, and he’s experienced. I think it’s going to be pretty difficult to pull off the sleight of hand you’ve got planned.”

  Annie turned to fully face her sister-in-law. Deirdre had recently turned forty-five, but time failed to diminish any of her stunning beauty—flawless skin, flaming red curls, and blue eyes bristling with mischief. “Honey, that’s where you come in. We need you to flash those big blue eyes so that Sam Reynolds will forget what country’s he’s in. You’ve got to keep his attention, and his mind off us. You just get between Reynolds and the van, and lead him on. Make sure he’s not looking at anything but you.”

  Annie glanced once more at the map. She was about to call across the room to Rizzo when the front door buzzer cut short her thoughts.

  “Showtime,” whispered McDonough.

 
; 6:24 a.m., London

  “A long, sad day, Mr. President. I am so sorry to hear about your son.” The United Kingdom’s prime minister, Michael J. O’Neill, stood in front of a bank of computer screens in a fortified room under 10 Downing Street, the Admiralty’s three senior officers in an arc around him, all studying the deployment of ships in the Persian Gulf.

  “Thank you, Michael. What will Parliament decide?”

  Whitestone was to the point. This was no time for personal sentiments.

  “I think both Houses are more incensed than I am,” said O’Neill. “I’ve never seen Lords and Commons so single-minded. It may be foolhardy to stand against the Saudis—they seem to have all the cards—but we’re a determined bunch when someone attacks this country. The rest of the EU may crumble, Jon, but Britain stands with you. Our ships are not turning back.”

  Admiral Slater pointed to a screen on the right and the prime minister nodded acknowledgment.

  “HMS Valiant and HMS Nelson,” said O’Neill, “are turning away from the flotilla now, Jon, but they are not returning to port. Our boys have put on a little visit to Bandar-e Abbas. Your lot can leave that naval base to us. Valiant’s crew specifically asked for this assignment—they have a history, you know.”

  Forty-seven sailors from HMS Valiant were killed in a 1998 explosion when an Iranian mine detonated against the ship during war games in the gulf. The mines had been laid by Iranian ships from the Bandar-e Abbas naval yard, in anticipation of the war games. Sailors had a long memory.

  “I only wish we could bomb Riyadh back to the dust of the desert.” But O’Neill knew his government would never survive military action against an “ally” because of a banking decision. And Saudi Arabia was so overrun with foreign nationals that collateral damage would be catastrophic.

  “What else do you hear, Michael?”

  The prime minister shook his head in disgust. “Our chaps at the Exchequer never saw this coming … don’t believe any of us could. The Saudis control the national banks of Italy, Portugal, Greece, and Spain, and have ordered the military of all four nations to stand down until further orders. We are keeping the Bank of Ireland afloat, and we will not allow this contagion to go any further in the United Kingdom. I can’t be sure of France. The French banks have taken a massive hit. But, Jon, the worst of it is Germany. I think the Germans may cave. Turns out their hard cash reserves were not as extensive as they led the rest of the world to believe.”

  “We’re on our own?”

  “That’s what it looks like, Jon.”

  Michael O’Neill cursed his luck. Three months in office and now this.

  “Well, Mr. Prime Minister, if we can’t bomb the Saudis, we can sure as blazes bomb the Iranians. And we can open the strait again. The Truman is close enough to launch air strikes against southern Iran; the Fifth Fleet has been given orders to sink every Iranian vessel afloat in the gulf; and … well … as soon as the strait is open, let’s just say we have joined with an old friend, newly appointed Prime Minister Orhlon, and have a special gift we’re going to deliver to King Abbudin.”

  “But what about the banks, Jon? Abbudin is strangling the banking system of the entire EU. We can hit Iran, but the EU is in economic freefall. Abbudin is going to own the entire continent if something isn’t done to stop him. I can keep Britain afloat, but the rest of the EU is sinking fast.”

  7:12 a.m., London

  Lord Alderson walked into the boardroom in the HSBC Tower in a panic—panic for his nation, his fortune, and his family—perhaps not in that order. These next ten minutes, he believed, would lead to the extinction of all three.

  The boardroom could have been lifted out of any number of castles in Europe. In fact, this one had been dismantled and shipped from Bavaria, reconstructed to its former glory, including the paintings of the Bavarian family that once owned such opulence. Its richly ornamented and superbly polished mahogany walls reflected off a shimmering, golden oak floor. At its inlaid teak conference table, large enough to accommodate two dozen, only two men occupied the room—both of them flanking the chair at the head of the table.

  Alderson ignored the head chair and stood next to his old friend, Abraham Rothschild. Across the table was Lin Hu Na. They were two of the most powerful financiers in the world.

  Why these two men should arrive unannounced—today—was a mystery that only added to Lord Alderson’s growing certainty of disaster. Vultures, ready to strip the bones of the once-powerful EU? Alderson was unsure … even of Rothschild.

  Bowing deeply from his waist, Lord Alderson paid homage to the man across the table. “Minister Lin, it is an honor. Your presence is most welcome.” He straightened and turned to Rothschild. “Abraham, you have selected an interesting day for a visit.”

  As Lord Alderson eased into the chair next to Rothschild, the old man reached out his left hand and placed it on Alderson’s arm.

  “We’re not here for a visit,” said Rothschild. “Last night we met with Secretary of the Treasury Gephart in New York City to whom we suggested a course of action. We told Secretary Gephart, and we are here to commit to you, to the banking industry of the European Union, all the resources of the banking industry of China and the banking industry of Switzerland. You have available all the resources that we have at our disposal.”

  Lord Alderson waited for the next sentence. It didn’t come.

  “Forgive me, Abraham, but I must ask. For what purpose?”

  Rothschild looked stunned. “We are not here for plunder, Albert. We are here to help. No strings. Abbudin has overplayed his hand if he thinks he can bring Europe to its knees under the dominion of the crescent moon. Minister Lin and I had a conversation. It is not in the best interests of the Republic of China to see Islam rise up a new Caliphate. It is certainly not in the best interests of the House of Rothschild. At this moment, Minister Lin and his government have joined with Bern Consortium to make one billion euros available for immediate deposit into the European Central Bank. We wanted to meet with you face-to-face to assure you—so that you may assure your colleagues—that this loan carries no interest, no demands, no time limit. Settle your debts with the Arabs. Let us know if you will need more. Then, together, we will see what needs to be done to permanently secure the future stability of the European Union and to defeat this economic jihad.”

  9:22 a.m., Jerusalem

  Placing a firm clamp on Joe’s left arm, Deirdre looked up into her husband’s eyes. They only had a moment—Tom and Annie were talking to Reynolds by the door.

  “Be careful, Joe … please. I don’t want to have to tell the kids that …”

  His fingers brushed her red curls away and settled on her cheek.

  “I’ll be back,” he said softly. “I don’t know how, but I just feel … confident. God’s been with Tom through this whole thing. We’ll be okay.”

  “Just with Tom?”

  Deirdre saw a flash of understanding cross Joe’s face. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been different. Ever since I got here for Kallie’s service, I could see it, feel it, hear it in your voice. You’ve experienced a lot, but something has changed you on the inside.” She waited for his response.

  Rodriguez took a deep breath, expanding his chest and throwing back his shoulders. He looked at Deirdre as if he would tell her the secrets of the universe. “I—”

  “Let’s go,” said Reynolds. “C’mon. We gotta go if we’re going to catch that plane.”

  Rodriguez moved his fingers under Deirdre’s chin. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. Maybe then it will make more sense to me. I love you and tell the kids—”

  “Let’s go!”

  Oskar Tell had one foot on the running board of the weather-beaten nine-passenger van, its factory-applied paint scoured clean from too many excursions through the desert, and the other foot planted firmly on the ground, his left arm held stiff and straight, his hand leaning on the roofline. To any observer, it would appear Tell was the on
ly thing keeping the van upright.

  The visual was intentional, drawing stark contrast to the gleaming new Dodge Caravan that rested a few feet away in the hands of his cousin Tobias.

  Oskar had chosen well from the fleet of vehicles parked outside the commercial hangar where the planes of Krupp Industries emptied their crews and cargo. As the entourage left the apartment house on the Bar Lev Road, the old man had turned left, making a beeline for the spotless new Dodge. Behind him, the beautiful, red-haired woman had stumbled over the threshold coming out of the apartment building, and was leaning heavily on the man in the suit to get her balance, both her weight and her momentum moving them toward the new van on the left.

  Tell’s cousin moved quickly to the building doorway, grabbing the two bags the man dropped as he tried to keep the woman upright.

  “Those two … that’s right,” she said, looking over her shoulder, her lips close to his ear. When she turned back, the man’s eyes were as bright as a July afternoon in the kibbutz. “Thanks, Sam,” she said. “Without you I would have ended up in the dust.”

  They came to the side of the van, and it was clear the man in the suit wanted to help, but wasn’t sure how to … where to …

  “Why don’t you get inside,” she said, “and just give me your hand so I can climb in?”

  Oskar Tell enjoyed working for Mr. Krupp. The ongoing repairs to Temple Mount—now suspended because of the pillars of fire and smoke that still alternated over the blackened hole that once held the Dome of the Rock—were more interesting than growing bananas on the kibbutz. And now this. A secret mission to outwit the American. Oskar had no idea why he was being asked to help with this subterfuge. But the money in his pocket was more than he made in two months on the kibbutz. Perhaps he could buy that ring for Josephina.

  Annie stood in the doorway of the apartment building and watched with growing appreciation as Deirdre skillfully guided Reynolds’s every move. Joe, you’re lucky the girl loves you so much.