The patrol leader approached Joe, eased him to the side of the tunnel, approached the hole in the door and shone his light into the opening. After a few, quiet moments, he turned around to face his men.
“Take him back to the surface and hold him there. No . . . wait . . . restrain him. He’s not getting away from us. Then get on the radio to General Orhlon. Tell him we have the American. And—well—just tell him we found it. Then send in the engineers.”
4:23 a.m., Tel Aviv
“Remind me never to play poker with you,” said Orhlon.
Baruk’s long, thin body was buried in the corner of a lush, chocolate-brown leather sofa tucked between the bookcases in his home library, a top secret Mossad report by his side. His shoes were off, his jacket draped over the back of a chair, his silk tie neatly folded on his desk. Baruk pulled his eyeglasses down the length of his nose and transferred the phone to his right hand. “You have money to lose?”
“Not on my salary,” said Orhlon.
“They found the Tent?”
“Actually, the American . . . the tall one, Rodriguez, found it. Using some NASA-developed gizmo. It was sealed up behind a wall, deep in a cave along the Ascent of Akkrabim.”
“The what?”
“Scorpion Pass, down in the Negev. Elie . . . he actually found it. And it appears as if it’s still intact.”
Baruk finally stirred. He swung his legs off the sofa, resting his right arm along the top of the sofa’s back. “Three thousand years old, and it was just sitting there? I never really believed it was possible. Now . . . well . . .” The prime minister took a long, deep breath. “Now is the difficult part, eh? How long before we can get it to the Temple Mount?”
The silence from the phone confirmed the difficulty of Orhlon’s task.
“Yes, sir . . . the difficult part,” he said. “It’ll probably take most of a day just to get the pieces here. We have to get a whole fleet of Krupp’s heavy haulers from Shimona down into a very rough area that is off the main road through Scorpion Pass. That will take hours in itself. We’re airlifting in a corps of rabbis, scientists, and archaeologists along with some engineers. They’ve got to figure out what we’ve got, figure out a way to get it loaded onto the trucks without destroying it—if that’s possible—and then get it back here to Jerusalem. Twelve . . . eighteen hours at a minimum. Could be more like twenty-four, who knows?”
Baruk calculated the angles and the options, weighing the possibilities in his head.
“Make it happen,” said the prime minister. “And lock down the Mount.”
4:29 a.m., Jerusalem
Major Levin walked across the flat expanse of the new Temple Mount platform and even the concrete smelled fresh. The platform, what had been completed so far by the crews from Krupp Industries, was flat and empty, except for the few trees on the northeast corner that survived the quake. That end of the platform rested on bedrock and some of it survived the destruction. The greatest damage was the gaping maw on the western side that swallowed the Dome of the Rock and the entire southern half of the thirty-five-acre Temple Mount platform, taking with it the Al-Aqsa Mosque. Miraculously, the Western Wall itself remained standing.
Walking to the south, Levin once again checked the hand-cranked pulleys and coils of rope that stood on the precipice. Krupp’s engineers were concerned about the amount of weight the platform could support until it was completely finished, fastened to and supported by the massive Herodian walls that mostly evaded the ravages of the earthquake. So they eschewed modern steel scaffolds or any heavy machinery and reverted to more historical means of lifting material into place to repair the cracks that did exist in the walls. But it wasn’t the platform’s sturdiness that concerned Levin this night. It was the two sets of reports he was receiving on his radio.
One series of messages kept him updated on the progress of getting the Tent of Meeting prepared for transport. The second series were updated intelligence reports which hinted—strongly—of a pending attack by a disparate group of Islamic militants. Both scenarios were difficult to believe.
On the one hand, his men in the field had tracked the tall American into the desert, trapped him in a cave along the Ascent of Akkrabim, and now had in their possession what they believed were the actual pieces of the Tabernacle of Jehovah that the Israelites carried through the desert for forty years before entering the Promised Land. Levin didn’t know if what his men had under guard was, in fact, the Tent of Meeting. It would take a team of rabbis, scientists, and archaeologists to ultimately determine what had been found. Some had been airlifted to Scorpion Pass to oversee the transfer. Others were on their way to him. It didn’t really matter to Levin what was in the trucks. His job was to work with the army, secure the Mount, and have it available for the convoy when it arrived.
“Worried about the Tent?” asked Major Abner Katz of the Israeli Defense Force, Israel’s standing army of two-hundred-fifty thousand soldiers. “I’m not. It’s going to be at least twelve hours before they get here, probably more. That gives us plenty of time to prepare and be ready. And whatever they have in the trucks is what it is. What rocks me is what just came over my radio.”
Major Katz looked as if his head had been bleached. A man of normal dimensions was topped by a swept-back thicket of white-blond hair, reprised from his eyebrows to the pointed beard on his chin. His skin was pale, as though he never saw the sun. High cheekbones gave him a craggy edge.
Katz joined Levin, who was looking out over the lights of the Old City.
“What is it now?” asked Levin.
“I have a good man—IDF—who was embedded with the Northern Islamic Front for years. He just transmitted a blast . . . which means he’s on the run . . . that the Front’s entire apparatus has gone dark. No communications, no meetings. And he doesn’t know why. He’s been on the inside for a long time, trusted, part of the inner circle. But nobody in the Front told him what was going on.”
“Not a good sign,” said Levin.
“Especially for him. He’s trying to get back, but . . .”
“But it confirms everything else we’ve been hearing. Rumors and conjectures, sure, but those rumors are adding up.” Levin turned away from the view and started walking south where members of Katz’s outfit were stringing razor wire along the platform’s perimeter. “Shin Bet got information this morning from a normally reliable source that the Martyrs’ Brigade has been activating its members for days and that many of them were on the move. Now we hear that Hezbollah infiltrated the border with some of its most fierce and experienced soldiers—and has been doing so for weeks.
“I just didn’t believe it, Abe. Our border with Lebanon is solid, well guarded, heavily policed. The border crossings are some of the toughest we have, outside of Gaza. Hezbollah getting a large number of soldiers into Israel without us knowing about it? I wouldn’t have thought it possible. But, now, with all these reports? This is no coincidence. The Tent of Meeting is coming here. And, I’ll bet, so is a strong force of Islamic fighters.”
“The Temple Mount is always a target, Avram.”
“Perhaps you’re right . . . but now I feel the crosshairs on our backs.”
Katz was regular army, a man accustomed to being in command. Here, on the Mount, it was Levin who was in charge, even though the IDF troops outnumbered those of Shin Bet. But the Hawk was neither foolish nor proud. There was no operation manual for this situation—securing the Temple Mount for the arrival of the Tabernacle.
Levin stopped near a series of openings, entry points for the stairs coming up from the Huldah Gates and the Western Wall. Beyond the stair shafts the platform was a ragged tangle of iron rebar and unfinished concrete—bare and open, both above and below. Tough to defend.
“I want you to take tactical command. I’ve already told my men and run it up the chain of command. I don’t have any battlefield experience. And we’re going to need that experience.” Levin had known Abner Katz since cadet school. This was a man he coul
d trust and depend on. “I don’t know how they found out; this secret was pretty tightly held. But the Muslims are coming and they’re coming after the Tent. General Orhlon has reinforcements on the way. But, for now, it’s up to you and me.”
4:35 a.m.
Leonidas had several cell phones lined up in front of him. Each one had only one purpose. Each one had only one phone number programmed in its memory.
He looked at the clock on the wall opposite his desk. In less than an hour he would be independently wealthy. In less than an hour it would be over. He would be gone. The legacy he would leave behind would be chaos.
“Hello, my friend.”
“Friend? I doubt that,” said Moussa al-Sadr, surprised that Leonidas would be calling at this hour, and fearful that his fighters had been discovered. “A friend remains in contact. A friend returns calls. You have been quite obvious by your absence, Leonidas. Perhaps you have discovered other friends?”
“I have no feelings. Your sarcasm is wasted on me, my friend.”
Al-Sadr stepped away from the map on top of the table—the map outlining the maze of tunnels under the Temple Mount, a map drawn from the memory of those who chased the Americans prior to the earthquake. He was in no mood to joust with this heathen informer.
“Why have you called?”
The raspy breathing in the receiver transformed into a gurgling chuckle. “Why? Why do I ever call you? I have information. Valuable information.”
Al-Sadr waited to hear more, but only rasps came through the earpiece. “What is it?”
“Ah . . . first, the price,” said Leonidas. “Information has become much more valuable—so many seeking reliable intelligence about the Mount, the Israelis, . . . their search. Supply and demand, yes?”
“What do you want?” al-Sadr snapped. “Tell me. I have little time for negotiations.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are busy in that little house in the Balata camp,” said Leonidas. “Particularly tonight, eh, my friend? Yes, well, since you have not the time to negotiate, the price has doubled.”
Al-Sadr squeezed the phone as if it were Leonidas’s neck. Someday . . . when I have you under my knife. “Tell me what you know.”
“The Israelis have the Tent of Meeting. Shin Bet followed the tall American. Somehow, he was led to one of the many caves dotting the cliffs over Scorpion Pass. That the Tent was hidden in that cave is . . . well . . . miraculous. So, Shin Bet has the Tent. They are debating how to handle it, how to move it. But once it’s loaded on trucks the convoy will be on its way to Jerusalem disguised as building materials for the reconstruction of the Temple Mount. I leave it to your imagination what they intend to do with the Tent once they reach the Temple Mount.”
Al-Sadr circled the walls of the small room while he listened. As he passed the table, he looked at the Hezbollah brigade commanders who were now huddled over the map. Their objective was now more important, and more difficult.
“Thank you . . . my friend.” Al-Sadr nearly choked on the words. “Again, you have done us a service.”
“My pleasure, since you’re the one paying.”
Major Avram Levin’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket and the Hawk immediately tensed. Only his wife had this number and she never called him during an operation. Something was wrong.
Levin looked at the vibrating phone in his hand. There was no incoming phone number. “Yes?”
“Good evening, Major. Congratulations on your promotion.”
The voice on the phone sounded as if coarse sandpaper had shredded its vocal cords. “Who are you?”
“Don’t bother asking questions,” the disembodied voice gurgled. “There’s no time for that. I have something you need to act on immediately. There is a new leader of the Muslim Brotherhood who has come out of Hezbollah. He is very powerful and he is planning to launch an attack on the Temple Mount as soon as—”
“Give me some proof or I hang up now,” Levin snapped.
“Your men call you the Hawk. Your wife, who is partial to pink sweaters, is the only person with this number. Israeli soldiers are, at this moment, preparing the biblical Tent of Meeting for transport to Jerusalem. And you had better listen to me or many Israeli soldiers will die.”
Levin shuddered. “Tell me.”
“First, Hezbollah has been infiltrating fighters into Jerusalem for days. There is a large force massed and ready to attack. They are only awaiting the order.”
“I know that. Our intelligence is far better than yours.”
“Is it? . . . I know where the American women are.”
Out in the harbor of Tel Aviv, swinging at anchor, the Liberian freighter Les Bon Amis rolled heavily in the growing wind.
“The launch . . . it waits for you at the far end of the wharf, n’est pa?” Captain Longines said into the cellular phone. The man’s skin was as black as his heart. A Somali pirate who, over the years, parlayed abduction and ransom into a mostly legitimate coastal freighter, Captain Longines maintained order on his ship through his powerful stature and ruthless vengeance. A man of many motives, he was neither to be trusted nor trifled with.
Leonidas had little choice. He needed an escape route. One that could not be traced. What better way to disappear than on a ship that also needed to disappear. It was Leonidas who—without Captain Longines’s knowledge—arranged for the illegal cargo of munitions and missiles to be loaded onto Les Bon Amis. And it was Leonidas who could be sure the Captain had no hidden connection to Mossad or the police.
“Has my luggage arrived . . . my computer?” Leonidas wiped the palm of one hand on his wilted pants, but it didn’t stop the sweat. Much of his plan now hung in the balance. He needed the dollars, the gold, and the diamonds, hidden inside his computer console, to guarantee the many stages of his long, circuitous escape route. If Captain Longines hesitated, it probably meant his hidden treasure was no longer hidden.
“Ah, oui, all is at the ready,” said the Captain, no hitch in his voice. “You come, we go. But . . . any delay, it may endanger your plans, eh? This weather, she has changed her mind. And it will, soon, become tres nasty. Come soon. Or, maybe, we no go.”
“Just be ready.”
Sixty seconds later, Leonidas threw the third phone into a small, ceramic stove that kept him warm on winter nights, but now turned all his records and personal files to ash.
Leonidas swung his chair around to face the computer screen. The Swiss bank’s Web site was already loaded. He typed in his user name, his password, and the three additional identification requirements that were necessary to access the bank’s most secure server. Leonidas then keyed in an untraceable number on the satellite phone that rested on his desk.
“Guten abend.”
“Good evening,” said Leonidas. “Six-four-roger-kilo-nine-three-three-zed.”
“Was ist Ihr schlechtester Albtraum?”
“My worst nightmare? Not getting revenge.”
“Geben Sie bitte Ihren Ermächtigungscode, jetzt ein.”
Leonidas keyed in the long, multilayered authorization code.
“How may we be of assistance?”
“Is the transfer prepared?”
“Of course.”
“Implement the transfer.”
Leonidas tapped his foot against the leg of the table.
“It is complete.”
He opened the other windows on his browser. Kigali. Johannesburg. Penang Island. Auckland. Adelaide. And, finally, the bulk of it, Papeete. All the banks had wired coded messages of delivery. His path was prepared. Now, his final transaction.
The one that counted. He made his fourth call.
“Good evening, Leonidas. I’ve been awaiting your call.” A voice as slippery as an oil slick came across the phone. “Are our plans in motion?”
“Is my money in the bank?”
“Yes, of course. Check your account online if you insist. I’ll wait.”
Leonidas punched in the last few keystrokes and his numbered account in the Cayman
Islands came up on the screen—the one that received all of the “deposits” and then was immediately swept clean. It was all there. So many zeros!
He took no time with pleasantries.
“Al-Sadr is poised to launch his attack on the Temple Mount, but now he will wait until the Israeli soldiers and priests get the Tent erected. Shin Bet knows of the attack and where the women are being held.”
“Good. What else?”
“Baruk is home. He will soon receive information about al-Sadr’s planned attack. When he does, he and his bodyguards will consider leaving his home and trying to get to Central Command. The cars will be prepared, but they will delay. That is your opportunity. Al-Sadr and his bodyguards are in a house near Nablus, in the Balata refugee camp. I sent the GPS coordinates to you attached to an email. He will be there for the duration of the attack on the Temple Mount. It is his command post. You have time.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Leonidas stole a quick look at his watch.
“Well done,” said the voice. “You have fulfilled all of your promises. And I will fulfill mine. You will be fully compensated for all of your service to us. Goodbye, Leonidas. Go with Allah.”
Leonidas closed the cell phone, looked at it for a moment, then threw it into the stove. He got up from his desk, reached out, and picked up a framed picture that he meditated on every night. The photo was of a relatively young man, standing, posed, with his arm around a woman, two young boys by their sides. The man wore the uniform of the IDF—Israeli Defense Forces. On the lapels of his shirt, the bars of a lieutenant. On the breast pocket of his shirt, the winged sword with crossed lightning bolts—the insignia of Israel’s Special Forces. On his face, the smile of the innocent—a face that looked so much like his own, so many years ago, long before he learned to satiate his pain with food. His twin brother—twin in birth, in soul, mind, and spirit.
The Brotherhood Conspiracy Page 34