The Brotherhood Conspiracy

by Brennan, Terry

  Bohannon grimaced. “Sounds like we need a miracle.”

  ”It’s coming down to survival—whether our way of life will survive. In ten years, what will our world look like? Shoot—right now, we don’t know what our world is going to look like ten days from now. Everything changed with Osama bin Laden’s death. Tomorrow, everything could change again.”

  Reynolds held out the large manila envelope one more time. “This is no time for soul-searching, Tom. There is a new leader in the East and he is calling for a Holy War that could destroy the world as we know it. We don’t even know who he is. But we’ve got to stop him.”

  1937

  Kazimain, Iraq

  Thick, red-black blood pulsed from his neck and mixed with the ocher grit of dust and sand.

  Beyond the surprise that his disciple could be treacherous and murderous, and the embarrassment that his nephews would see him lying dead in the street, Ayatollah Haydar al-Sadr was frightened. Not of death. Death comes to all. And, even though he was only forty-six, death came for him now.

  No, the ayatollah was frightened for his two nephews. True, they were sons of Shi’a imams, descendants who could trace their lineage directly back to Muhammad. But they were not ready. Their young minds were still grasping to understand truth. Sayeed seemed to understand. But Moussa . . . ah, Moussa was another matter.

  So sad to die before Moussa had understanding.

  Haydar al-Sadr turned his face to the merciless, burning Iraqi sun—and felt no heat. Only sticky goo as it spread around his face.

  Moussa al-Sadr looked down at the pool of blood surrounding his uncle’s kaffiyeh, fouling his beard, staining his black kaftan. Then he looked once more in the direction of the fleeing assassin.

  Moussa fixed his eyes on the murderer’s back, now slipping into the shadows of their Islamist school building. With the recklessness of a ten-year-old—his skirts raised—he ran to the far side of the school. He pulled a small dagger from his waistband, extended his turban-covered head around the corner, and scanned the area.

  There was no one in sight.

  Nine-year-old Sayeed sank to his knees, soaking his kaftan in his uncle’s blood. His thin, short arms reached out and cradled his uncle’s head.

  Haydar’s eyes searched for the sun, then turned to Sayeed. “God is good, my nephew. His word is true. God loves all men. Remember that. Will you . . . will you, Sayeed? Will you remember?”

  Moussa al-Sadr edged along the back wall of the school, the dagger hanging at his side. At the next corner he heard deep, rasping breaths. He looked around the edge.

  The assassin stood with his back flat against the mud wall of the school. His eyes were wide in surprise. His neck was opened wide in a false grin, springs of blood pouring from the deep slice that curved from ear to ear. Only the muscular left arm of Jafar, the ayatollah’s faithful servant, held the assassin fast against the wall.

  Sayeed took his hand and brushed the coarse sand from the side of his uncle’s face. Blood smeared from his fingers, the smear blotched and spotted where Sayeed’s tears found his uncle’s face. “Yes, my uncle. I will never forget. I will never forget you. I will never forget God’s goodness.”

  Haydar’s eyelids fluttered, then opened wide. A halting gasp, a shiver in his shoulders. And his spirit left a now limp, lifeless body.

  Sayeed pulled his uncle closer, hugging the man to his chest. His weeping was silent.

  The assassin’s eyes still blinked with life, but that life was pumping quickly out through his neck. Moussa stepped forward, focused on the man’s eyes. He edged around Jafar and stood in front of the assassin until the man looked down into his young face. Then he reached up and plunged his dagger into the man’s heart. The dying man’s final gasp faded into a soft gurgle. Moussa slowly drew the dagger out halfway, then pulled the two-edged blade sharply to his left, slicing open the man’s chest. “Now you die, infidel pig.”

  Moussa’s robe was glued to his back, the perspiration dripping from his armpits. But not from the heat. He had killed his first man. His body felt as icy as snow in the Zagros Mountains. The sweet smell of fresh blood, mingled with the escaping gas of death, made his head swim. The man’s eyes rolled to the back of his head.

  “God is good, uncle,” Moussa whispered, as a prayer. “God is very good.”

  THE PRESENT

  New York City

  As Reynolds pushed the envelope into his hands, Bohannon realized protests were futile. He was going.

  “You’re flying into Lebanon as tourists with a purpose. Pretty close to the truth . . . two librarians researching the history of the Dar al-Ilm,” said Reynolds. “Fly into Beirut, then take a train to Tripoli. The tickets and directions are all inside. There’s also an academic journal in there with an article about the Dar al-Ilm, authored by Joseph Rodriguez of the New York Library System. And employee badges and business cards for both of you from the Bryant Park library. You’ve got visitor’s visas, which are good for the next thirty days, and a pair of well-worn passports—in your own names—that reflect stopovers in cities with great libraries.”

  Standing on his front porch, Bohannon felt as if he were having an out-of-body experience. “Is all this necessary?”

  “Precautions,” said Reynolds, “but necessary precautions now that Hezbollah has taken control of the Lebanese government. You’ll be fine. The current political situation throws a note of uncertainty into our planning, but you’ll be fine. Nobody is expecting you to show up in Tripoli.”

  “The others?”

  “No problem,” said Reynolds. “McDonough is simply going home. Dr. Johnson and Mr. Rizzo are simply themselves—an archaeologist returning to Egypt once again and his collaborator. Even with Rizzo’s penchant for drawing attention to himself, they won’t cause even a blip on the Egyptian radar. We got them a flight directly to Suez, so they won’t be going anywhere near Cairo. And the Israelis have greased the doors for Annie and Kallie. I think they want to see Kallie come and go as quickly as possible, so there will be no glitches on their end.

  “Don’t worry.” Reynolds reached out and tapped the envelope still hanging at the edge of Bohannon’s fingers. “Everything’s in there you’ll need. They sent you your watch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, good. And the instructions?”

  “Yes!”

  Reynolds sank into a rocking chair.

  “All right. There’s one other thing I’ve got to tell you.”

  An alarm went off in Bohannon’s spirit and he focused closely, anxious about Reynolds’s next words.

  “If . . . and I say ‘if’ confident you’re not going to need an ‘if’ . . . if something goes wrong, if you feel in any way that you are compromised, or in danger, then I want the two of you to leave Tripoli immediately. On the spot—got me? Don’t go back to your hotel. Leave everything behind if necessary. Take a taxi to a bus stop, get on a bus heading south, and get in touch with me.

  “Take the bus to the border crossing town of Adaisseh. It’s a pretty small town. Come to the crossing gate at 9:11 a.m.—you can remember that. Go into the travel shop that sits across the road from the border gate—it sells everything, exchanges money for travelers. Lay two one-hundred-dollar bills on the counter and ask the clerk if he can exchange them into euros. He will take you out the back of the building and through an empty warehouse. He’ll show you a door. Go out the door, cross an open square and through the portal on the other side—and you are in Israel.

  “He will keep the hundreds,” said Reynolds. “If he asks for your name, leave and come back in an hour. If he asks for your address, come back in two hours. If he asks for your name and address, leave and don’t go back. Get ahold of me. If you can’t reach me . . . well, keep trying. Or then you’ll be on your own.”

  The envelope hit the porch with a thud.

  Somewhere nearby, a fire engine responded to an alarm, its claxon resonating into the night.

  Midnight was approaching and
Bohannon sat on the loveseat, looking sightlessly out the window, searching for wisdom, waiting for a breeze.

  “Are you coming to bed?”

  He turned his head. Annie had her light summer robe pulled around her. Bohannon was sweating in the heat and humidity coming through the open windows. But Annie liked it cold in their bedroom and she was still shivering from the air-conditioned iciness. She sat next to him and inched closer, seeking his warmth. He put his arm around her shoulders. Her skin was always so soft, so smooth, like cashmere.

  They were leaving tomorrow—all of them—going their different ways.

  “I know this sounds hypocritical,” Tom whispered, “but I don’t want you to go.”

  “You’re darn right it’s hypocritical,” Annie bristled. “You and Joe are going to Lebanon, right? Doc and Sammy are leaving for Egypt, right? Even McDonough has a task to fulfill when he gets back to Ireland, right? Right?”

  Bohannon’s emotions were on overload. “But it’s such a risk.”

  “Of course it’s a risk . . . everything is a risk.” Annie squirmed in his arms, but her words softened. “Unless we went and lived on the moon, I don’t know if this . . . this . . . danger . . . is ever going to pass us by.”

  Pulling away, Annie turned to face Tom. She took his hands in hers. As she spoke, her thumbs caressed the tops of his hands.

  “Tom, I’m proud of you for going to see Pastor Harvison today. It gave me a lot of comfort and confidence when you told me about your conversation and we prayed for guidance.” She lifted her hand and stroked his cheek. “I think Pastor’s right. We’re involved in this because God intends for us to be involved. But I also understand that, after all of that, you can still worry.”

  A mountain of long-past regret settled on Bohannon’s chest and he felt as if his ribs would be crushed, his heart smothered. He struggled to draw a breath. “But, last time, so much went wrong. So many died. If this is God’s sovereign will, how could so much bad come from it?”

  Her hand stopped on his cheek and she stalled his worries by the look in her eyes.

  “Just because it’s ordained, I know, doesn’t guarantee that we’ll be safe,” said Annie. “Any of us could be hurt. Staying at home, tomorrow we could be dead or alive. We don’t have any control over that. But obedience is a choice we can make.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what . . . if you can trust God?” There was a trace of unbelief in Annie’s question.

  “Honestly . . . I don’t know,” Bohannon admitted. “I want to trust God. I mean . . . I do trust him. But . . . well . . . maybe I just don’t trust myself.”

  Once again he felt “not good enough.” Once again he felt defeated. Once again he felt alone.

  She stroked the hair at his temple, the headstrong locks falling over his ear.

  “Remember God’s words: I will never leave you nor forsake you. Remember Joshua: Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid. Remember our prayers and God’s answers—that’s what I’m trying to do,” said Annie. “I believe God is at work here, that he’s ordained this time for our lives. It’s not about me doing a photo shoot—not anymore. And I know Kallie doesn’t need me there. She’s a strong woman, a warrior when you get away from the outside and look on the inside. I wish I could be more like her.

  “But it’ll be okay. We’ll be waiting for you at Kallie’s apartment when you get back from Lebanon and we’ll all be back here before you know it.”

  Her voice was a whisper, her lips brushing the side of his face. “And, Tom . . . God will never leave you, the kids will never leave you. And I’ll never leave you.”

  Tom Bohannon sat in the dark long after Annie returned to bed, trying, once again, to believe those words.

  PART TWO

  SANCTUARY OF GOD

  22

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 18

  Tripoli, Lebanon

  He had barely lifted the phone to his ear before the caller started talking.

  “They are on their way. Are you prepared?”

  “Everything is in place.”

  “Do not fail me.”

  He knew that failure was not an option that he would live to tell about. “They will come, but they will not leave.”

  “See that they don’t.”

  The caller hung up.

  Jerusalem

  The cell phone was in his hand, waiting, when it rang.

  “They are on their way. Are you prepared?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand your instructions?”

  “Yes. We will succeed. You will have what you need.”

  “What I need is them . . . alive. Do not fail.”

  A smile of anticipation creased his face. “We do not fail.”

  “See that you don’t.”

  The cell phone went silent in his hand.

  Suez, Egypt

  One of the large men who guarded his safety handed him the ringing cell phone.

  “They are on their way. Are you prepared?”

  “I will be waiting for them, personally.”

  “That is a risk. Is it necessary?”

  “My friend, I have been waiting for this moment a long time.” His left hand toyed with the amulet beneath his robe. “We cannot miss this opportunity. My days are numbered. I must make sure all goes as planned. I dare not leave it to anyone else.”

  “Go with care. And may Allah go with you.”

  “And with you, my brother.”

  He closed his eyes and held the amulet tighter.

  London, England

  “He is on his way. Are you prepared?”

  “When will he arrive?”

  “Are you prepared?”

  For a moment, offense rose in his heart. But the voice on the cell phone was his master. He bent his head. “Yes . . . yes, do not concern yourself. I leave in an hour. I will be there, waiting.”

  “You understand what I seek?”

  “Not the man, certainly. If it is there, I will get what you seek.”

  “Call me . . . immediately.”

  His jaw clenched, he squeezed the phone. And vowed not to fail.

  Jerusalem

  Levi Sharp leaned against the black stretch limo and waited for the older men to catch up. Surrounded by a diamond-shaped cordon of security officers, Baruk and Orhlon walked slowly along the path through the shading pine trees of the Hertzel Memorial Garden following the short, very private memorial for Lukas Painter. To Sharp’s assessment, both men had aged, and carried more of a burden, after the last three days. He waved off the driver and held the door for the two most powerful men in Israel.

  Baruk and Orhlon disappeared into the dark confines of the limo and Sharp was right behind. He sat on the jump seat, facing his two bosses. Baruk had his eyes closed, his breathing heavy hearted. Orhlon faced out the window, but there was no evidence of recognition in his eyes.

  “What’s next,” asked Sharp.

  “I’m sorry?” Baruk’s eyes didn’t open. “What do you mean?”

  Orhlon didn’t stir.

  “What’s next,” Sharp repeated. “Mount Nebo didn’t work . . . We’re probably not gettting back there. Where do we take our search now?”

  Sharp was encouraged as Baruk straightened and returned his gaze. Orhlon’s attention shifted to the conversation in the car. But neither spoke.

  “I have some ideas,” Sharp offered. He didn’t want to lose the initiative, or waste any time. “First, let’s have the Israel Museum call together a group of Talmudic scholars, under some kind of pretense, and have them scour the historic documents for evidence of the Tent’s fate—who had it last, where it was, perhaps other clues.

  “Second, Mr. Prime Minister, do we have any private funds we can tap?”

  Baruk nodded. “Yes, more than enough.”

  “Good. Let’s get Alexander Krupp to hire some private helicopters and equip them with ground-penetrating radar equipment. I can arrange for some pe
rmits from the Jordanian government, say they’re doing an emergency survey for the Jordanian Geo-Thermal Institute. We’ll have the helicopters survey all of the area of Jordan around Mount Nebo, but concentrating on the mountain itself. Let’s see what we find.”

  His mind flashed back six days.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sharp, feeling once again the gnawing regret that haunted him, “I should have thought of that before—”

  “Have Krupp buy the helicopters and paint them with his colors and logo,” Orhlon interjected.

  Sharp nodded, then continued. “Third, I’ve got some men, retired Shin Bet, who are private contractors. They’re ready to move at my word. Allow me to send a group of them to Lebanon, to Tripoli, to see what they can find out about that priest’s trip there in exile.

  “And last, for now, we’ve been informed that the Americans—Bohannon and his team—all left the United States earlier today, with the State Department’s assistance. They weren’t all headed to the same destination, but you can bet some of them are coming in our direction along with the two women. The Americans must have discovered something else about that scroll. Mossad has agents in the U.S. trying to find out more about the destinations and what got Bohannon moving again. I want to call in a dozen of my best agents—more if necessary—pay them off the books and have them blanket the unconventional routes into Israel and also keep an eye on the women. Whatever Bohannon and his team are looking for, we want to be there when they find it.”

  Baruk moved forward on the seat, closing the distance between himself and Sharp. “Thank you, Levi. This is no time for regrets. Put all those things into action.