Al-Sadr inclined his head and, out of the shadows emerged a bull in a man’s shape. Arms as big as thighs, an angry, sweeping crescent scar connecting the corner of his mouth to the lobe of his right ear. Al-Sadr could not miss the amulet—a Coptic cross with a lightning bolt slashing through on the diagonal—hanging from his neck as the bull-man poured the tea, then disappeared once more into the shadows.
“My brother, I beg your forgiveness for being so rude,” said al-Sadr, “but I come today not for your blessing, but for your help.”
“How can I help the heart of Hezbollah?”
“Holy One, I believe we can help each other.”
Al-Sadr’s spirit began to swim in the beckoning of the old man’s eyes. His mind fought against a sudden riptide of malice.
“You seek a scroll, I believe,” said al-Sadr. “And the scroll holder that protected it.”
The old man moved not a muscle, but power shimmered around him in waves. “You are correct . . . in part. And you seek the blood of the Jew and the infidel.”
“Yes, Effendi . . . and we both seek that which has been stolen from us and destroyed by the Zionist pigs—the most holy Dome and the mosque of the Haram. Help me, Holy One, and I promise you . . . not only will al-Haram al-Sharif be restored to Islam, but the mezuzah and scroll will be restored to you.”
Silence hung in the air and mixed with the stale smell of powerful, old smoke.
“The scroll was deciphered.” The old man spread his hands, palms up. “It is no longer of any use to us.”
“Then I will bring you the blood of those who have defiled your scroll and murdered your followers.”
“Why would I need you for that task, my brother? There are many who wear the slash of lightning, many who would be blessed to give their lives to restore what has been stolen.”
Moussa al-Sadr leaned forward, resting his right elbow on his knee, turning his right hand palm up. “Holy One, I am offering you the power and reach of the Muslim Brotherhood.”
“Is it yours to offer?”
“Soon, Effendi . . . Soon the resources at your disposal will be unlimited.”
Al-Sadr could feel the power of the man’s presence pressing into him, searching for weakness, for duplicity.
“What is it you seek from me, Lion of Lebanon?”
“I seek nothing, except your wisdom, your support, and your counsel as I fulfill my promise.” From beneath the black folds of his kaftan, al-Sadr withdrew two pieces of paper. He raised his hands in front of his body, holding his prize in front of him. “And I bring you gifts.”
“Allah, be praised,” said the old man.
“The first is a list of student dissidents in Cairo. We have infiltrated their groups, their meetings, and have helped to awaken their anger and frustration at Kamali and his insatiable government. They have raised their voices in protest, but they remain dry grass . . . waiting for a spark. Waiting for your spark.”
Al-Sadr showed the old man the second sheet.
“A numbered account in a Swiss bank. There are two million dollars there. Use what you need. There is more if necessary.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. He took measure of al-Sadr once more.
“Where does this abundant gift come from? And what is required?”
Al-Sadr laughed. There was no mirth in his laughter, only mayhem. He raised his arms to heaven. “Praise to God . . . the money was raised by the Holy Land Foundation in America and now is being raised by its new offspring. How sweet to use America’s dollars against their own self-interests.”
“Allahu Akbar,” whispered the old man.
With the reverence of ritual, al-Sadr passed the documents to the old man. “Begin the revolution, Holy One. Use these gifts to raise the voice of jihad from the sands—raise it so that it will be heard throughout the world!”
“Allahu Akbar!” the old man shouted. And his cry rang death.
Washington, DC
Flashing lights from the four escort choppers barely pierced the polarized, bulletproof windows of Marine One. Surprisingly, all of the bullet-proofing and strengthening of the VH-3D Sea King failed in one key regard—sound. The presidential helicopter boasted leather seats and other comforts, but the thirty-year-old Sea King still rattled the eardrums.
President Jonathan Whitestone sat very close to CIA director Bill Cartwright on the short jump to Camp David. And not only because of the noise.
“Khalil is scared to death that the Iranians and the Israelis are about to start throwing nukes at each other,” Whitestone said of the Jordanian king who waited for him at the secure Maryland retreat. “He’s convinced it was Mossad that assassinated the two nuclear scientists in Tehran last month.”
“He’s right on that,” Cartwright said above the clatter. “Iran doesn’t have the weapons-grade plutonium for a warhead. But they’re getting close.”
Whitestone leaned back in his seat. He knew Cartwright was right. Intelligence briefings continually measured Iran’s march toward nuclear weaponry. President Mehdi Essaghir’s determination was inexorable. And it had to be stopped.
“Am I doing the right thing, Bill?”
“I don’t think you have any choice, Mr. President. The Arab Spring has created an incredible power vacuum in the Middle East and the Iranians are certainly going to try to take advantage of the opportunity. Egypt is the glue that holds together a fragile Mideast peace. Now we don’t know what we have in Egypt, the Saudis are scared to death they’ll lose control, and we took Iraq out of the game. For all his faults, at least Saddam kept the Iranians bottled up. Right now, the door is wide open for the Iranians to step in and dominate the region.”
“And if Essaghir had nukes? God help us all,” said the president.
“Israel will not tolerate a nuclear Iran,” Cartwright responded. “If we don’t work with them on this, we will likely see mushroom clouds in the desert. And once the Israelis unleash their nuclear weapons, who knows who will follow suit. No, I think we have to convince King Khalil to keep pushing for peace, for a moderate agenda, and keep that as our public policy position. But, pragmatically, there is really no other choice for us but to help Baruk pull off this scheme.”
“We have to keep Stanley out of this,” Whitestone said of the secretary of state. “It’s just you and me, Bill. And it’s got to stay that way. Compartmentalize everything. Clandestine is not to get a whiff of what we’re doing in the financial sector.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I’ll talk to Baruk tomorrow. Make sure his part is ready to go.”
Whitestone looked out the side window as the five identical Marine helicopters orchestrated another high-speed shift in formation, what the Marine pilots called “the presidential shell game,” mixing up the four decoys with the presidential craft. “I’m worried about this, Bill,” he said, his eyes still on the chopper ballet outside. “The stakes are so high, and the margin of error is so slim. This could cost us the presidency.”
“Yes, sir. But,” Cartwright leaned close again, “doing nothing nearly assures a nuclear war in the Mideast. Your presidency might survive, but I don’t think Israel would. And neither would the U.S. economy. There would be no oil. The country would be devastated. We just can’t allow that kind of chaos.”
Whitestone closed his eyes and said a short, silent prayer.
“I’m surprised,” said Cartwright, “that the Israelis didn’t accuse the Iranians of causing the earthquake.”
The president opened his eyes and looked at his CIA chief. “What kind of shape is Jerusalem in?”
“Could have been worse,” said Cartwright. “The damage was localized to Jerusalem—a very limited area of Jerusalem—even though the quake was very strong.”
“Troubling, that, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. Still, one-tenth of the city has been opened up, as if chopped with a meat cleaver. More than five thousand people died and up to twenty thousand refugees are living in a tent city in the Hinnom Vall
ey. Jerusalem hasn’t erupted into civil war—yet.”
“As if we needed another flashpoint for potential trouble in that city.”
“So far, they’re treating each other with respect. Neither the Israeli government nor the Waqf have been able to figure out what to do with the Temple Mount. But the Israelis have been able to make their quarantine of the Temple area stick—too dangerous to let anyone near it—so that’s probably kept tempers quiet. And it appears as if our far-right Fundamentalists have worn themselves out with dire predictions about the end of the world. It’s relatively quiet and . . . that scares me more than anything,” Cartwright concluded.
“Me too,” said Whitestone.
The president looked out the window once more, to the west, where the sun was setting. “Seems like we’re moving much faster toward Armageddon than we are toward Camp David.”
Six men disembarked from the transatlantic container cargo ship Adelaide, just as four of their brethren did a few months prior. Sea bags slung over their shoulders, dressed in the nondescript clothing of merchant seamen, these six dark-haired, dark-hearted men descended the gangplank in full daylight, undistinguished from the score of shipmates who preceded and followed them to shore at the Staten Island Cargo Ship Terminal.
Merchant ships were still the simplest and safest way to gain unnoticed entry into the United States. Airports were far from impenetrable, but increased levels of security and screening left too much risk of unwanted questioning. Getting on a ship leaving Egypt was no problem. Making it through connections in Europe was becoming more difficult. And America . . . who knew what the Americans would do next?
Tarik Ben Ali raised a hand to bid farewell to his brothers . . . brothers in the faith; brothers in the hunt. Each one knew his assignment. Each was sworn to secrecy, sworn to success, or sworn not to return.
3
FRIDAY, JULY 24
New York City
Something hit Tom Bohannon in the chest as he walked out the front door of the Bowery Mission, something as angry as the drivers trying to navigate the snarled traffic and double-parked delivery trucks on the Bowery. Still jumpy, he jerked back and looked down for the blood on his shirt, but saw only the meaty finger of a protester, who stepped forward and began thumping his chest again.
“You destroyed the Temple, you brought destruction on the Temple Mount and the Western Wall,” railed the thick-set, muscular man, his face contorted with hate as a New York City policeman stepped in and dragged him back behind the police barrier in front of the Bowery Mission. “Fool . . . you have placed Jerusalem at risk!”
Feeling the eyes of the world on his back, Bohannon looked down at his shoes and willed his feet to move forward. But they remained frozen to the concrete sidewalk. In spite of the tumult behind the barrier and the horns of impatient taxi drivers, he could hear the shouts from across the street of the people bussed in from the Lower East Side mosque: “Free Temple Mount. Free Temple Mount. Free Temple Mount.”
Stew Manthey took Bohannon’s arm and steered him around the shouting throng and through the narrow passage being held open by the police. “It’s been like this every day,” Manthey said. “When is it ever going to stop?”
Bohannon’s despair bent his neck—its intensity matched only by the depth of his confusion. His body moved in response to Manthey’s urging, but it had no direction or destination of its own.
Manthey, CFO of the Bowery Mission, pulled Bohannon to a halt at the corner of Bowery and Stanton. “You don’t need lunch, you need some peace. And you need to talk. C’mon,” he said, steering Bohannon down Stanton Street, “we’re going to the park.”
Officially it was called Sara D. Roosevelt Park. But the long, thin strip of paved basketball courts, fenced in soccer fields, and community gardens that stretched from Houston to Canal between Chrystie and Forsyth streets had always been known as Chrystie Park to Bohannon. The gate to the community gardens was open. Manthey and Bohannon entered and found a park bench shaded by an overhanging red maple.
They sat in silence for a moment, breathing in the heavy perfume of peach-colored roses and the honeysuckle that covered the chain-link fence to their backs.
“You know, Tom, I thought you were distracted before the four of you took off for Jerusalem,” said Manthey. “But since you’ve gotten back . . . well . . . it’s like you’ve hidden yourself in some deep place . . . locked yourself in a room and refused to open the door.”
Bohannon felt Manthey turn toward him.
“Tom, you’ve got to talk about this,” Manthey said. “What happened over there? What’s changed you so much?”
Stew Manthey looked a bit like Grizzly Adams. In the final year before his retirement, the Bowery Mission’s CFO defied the perception of his colleagues by growing a thick beard that was speckled with gray and nearly covered the lower half of his face.
The change in appearance didn’t change the CFO’s effectiveness. For more than twenty years, Manthey astutely guided the Mission through seasons of financial change, challenge, and growth. Outside of his job description, for the last twelve years Manthey served as Bohannon’s mentor, the CFO’s integrity and character providing wise counsel for the mission’s VP of operations.
It was counsel Bohannon desperately needed. And a listening ear he could trust.
“I don’t know, Stew,” Bohannon said, running his hand through the curly, copper-colored hair that grew long on his neck. He stared out over the beds of geraniums and remembered planting the same kind of flowers with Alexander Krupp at his Bavarian estate after he, Joe, and Doc escaped from Jerusalem. That seemed so long ago, so far in the past. Yet only weeks had passed.
“This whole experience has been so confusing. When we first found the mezuzah in Louis Klopsch’s safe and discovered the scroll inside, it felt like I was on such an adventure. That Charles Spurgeon had warned Klopsch about the importance of the scroll gave the quest a sense of gravity. Trying to understand the scroll, figure out its message, figure out the code it was written in was thrilling—like the adrenaline rush I used to get when I was in the middle of an investigative piece for the Bulletin. Even though we knew there was this group trying to prevent us from deciphering the scroll . . . well, you know . . . it felt like we were destined to be part of this. Remember? I felt like this was something God was instructing me to do. We were on a mission. It was so exciting . . .”
Bohannon fell silent as he looked out over the garden. He loved gardens. Whenever he had dirt, he planted flowers and vegetables—anything to get him outdoors and in the soil that was his therapy. Normally, sitting among this living green landscape, the heady dankness of composted loam filling his nose, Bohannon would have felt a restorative peace. Not today. His face, imperfect but handsome, looked as if he had lost his best friend. His eyes, normally a glimmering blue, were lifeless and distant.
“We felt we had to go to Jerusalem to see if the message on the scroll was true. I know I had to go. It was like a calling.” He paused, trying to sort and organize his memories with his feelings. “Then Winthrop was killed . . . murdered . . . when the car bomb blew apart his van outside the Collector’s Club.
“How could we go on after that?” Bohannon asked the trees. “How come we didn’t just give it up . . . turn all the information we had over to the government and let them deal with it? Right now—I wish we had. Yet . . .” He bowed his head. “Yet, I still thought I had to go to Jerusalem. We all did.”
A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, caressing Bohannon’s cheek.
“You were called,” Manthey said with a reverence often reserved for church buildings. “I have no doubt that God chose you to be part of this. I don’t know why. But I know it’s true just as much as we’re sitting here right now.”
Bohannon rubbed his palms against the knees of his pants. “C’mon, let’s walk.”
They strolled along the paths of the garden, past the seldom-used bocce court.
“You know what I’m asha
med of?” Bohannon asked. “I’m ashamed that I felt like I was living a movie in Jerusalem . . . and I was loving it. I was Indiana Jones and James Bond and Jason Bourne all rolled into one. The hero beating off the bad guys in the name of world peace. And all the time I was playing with our lives. Now, today, it seems so irresponsible. Then . . . well . . . I guess I was caught up in the thrill of the chase.”
Bohannon stopped and looked at Manthey. “You know, Stew, I never thought we would get under the Temple Mount. I mean, that was impossible, right? But there we were, wandering around in the tunnels, crossing underground lakes, pursued by Israeli soldiers and Islamic terrorists.” Bohannon shook his head. “And we found it . . . we found the Third Temple, hidden there for a thousand years. Then, it was one miracle after another. Krupp’s crew was there, repairing the collapsed Eastern wall; they got us on their plane, and, within hours, we’re in Krupp’s Bavarian estate trying to figure out what to do with the evidence of the Temple’s existence.”
Bohannon started walking again, shaking his head, oblivious to the colors and aromas all around him. “Everybody thought it would mean war—the president, the Israelis thought news of the Temple would drive the Arab states to war. But peace? Peace, Stew. They signed it . . . they all signed the treaty and decades of war and death were over.”
Bohannon found himself at the gate leading out of the garden. He stopped, and turned around to see where he had been.
“For a month. They had the hope of peace for one month, and a signed peace treaty for a couple of hours,” said Bohannon. “Then the earthquake hit and everything above and below the Temple Mount was destroyed—along with the peace. Now”—he turned back to face Manthey—“the Middle East is worse than ever. Winthrop is dead. Thousands have died in Jerusalem . . . for what? Why? What was the point? And, you know what? It’s my fault. I’m the one who was ‘called,’ who felt I was on a mission from God. I’m the one who didn’t want to give up, to quit, because I was having so much fun. I was the hero . . . Now what am I?”
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 3