The Brotherhood Conspiracy (19 page)

“For example, in Jordan, the Brotherhood formed its own political party, the Islamic Action Front, and now holds the largest number of seats of any party in the Jordanian parliament. The Brotherhood also operates in Israel, as the Islamic Movement. The northern, more radical branch boycotts Israeli elections but the southern branch holds two seats in the Knesset.”

Bohannon got his hot tea with lemon. “That’s nuts,” he said.

The smile was gone from Reynolds’s face, his lips pressed tightly together.

“The Muslim Brotherhood in Palestine is the controlling organization behind Hamas, which is correctly called the Islamic Resistance Movement. And the Holy Land Foundation here in the U.S. is the primary fund-raising organization for Hamas.

“Until a few years ago, the Holy Land Foundation was the largest Islamic charity in the U.S. Read their literature . . . the HLF presents itself as one of the foremost advocates of moderate Islam, an Islam that seeks to peacefully coexist with the rest of the world, including Israel and the United States.

“From 1988 to 2001,” said Reynolds, “the Holy Land Foundation funneled more than fifty-seven million dollars from U.S. donors to Hamas. It raised thirteen million in the U.S. in 2000 alone. The Department of the Treasury began to investigate the group and believed it was using the funds it raised to support schools that served Hamas’s ends by encouraging children to become suicide bombers and to recruit suicide bombers by offering support to their families.

“The Foundation’s assets were frozen in 2001 and seven leaders were indicted on forty-two counts of providing material support to a foreign terrorist organization. The government also named over three hundred U.S. organizations and individuals as unindicted coconspirators. The case went to trial in 2004, resulted in a hung jury and mistrial in 2007 . . . a terrible blow to counterterrorism efforts here. But we learned a lesson about how to present a complicated, terrorism financing case. There was a retrial at the end of 2007 and late in 2009 all defendants were convicted on all counts.”

Reynolds reached for his coffee cup, but it was empty.

“So, what’s the point?” Bohannon asked. “We all know that Hamas are bad guys. What does this history lesson have to do with me?”

Reynolds was trying to make eye contact with the waitress. “There’s been a fundamental fracture in the Arab world for decades, a fracture that runs along both religious and political fault lines.

“On one plane is the ongoing religious conflict between Sunni Muslims and Shi’ite Muslims, essentially a difference of opinion about who was the legitimate heir after Muhammad’s death and therefore the legitimate leader of Islam.

“On another plane is the battle between Arab nationalists like the Palestinians, who would accept a political solution to their conflict with the Israelis, and the Islamic activists like the Muslim Brotherhood, who are committed to overthrowing all of Western civilization and replacing it with the reestablishment of the Islamic Caliphate—an empire stretching from Spain to Indonesia.”

Bohannon could smell the coffee before the waitress appeared over his left shoulder. “That’s a little far-fetched, isn’t it?”

“Thanks,” Reynolds said to the waitress. “I’ll likely need it filled again.” He raised the cup and appeared to relish both the heat and the aroma. His eyes closed for a moment as he sipped and savored the dark, black liquid.

“Remarkably good, for a sports bar, I must say.” Reynolds set the coffee cup on the table and turned his attention back to Bohannon.

“Since the earthquake, there has been a fundamental shift in the Muslim leadership in the Middle East. Suddenly, we see signs of unity . . . between Shi’a and Sunni; between Hamas and Hezbollah; between the Muslim Brotherhood and the Palestinian Authority . . . unity under a new leader. We don’t know who he is. Our intelligence is stumped. But we know what he wants.”

Reynolds leaned in toward Bohannon. “We believe the Muslim Brotherhood, or this new leader—or both—are behind all of the political unrest in the Middle East today—the overthrow of the governments in Egypt, Libya, and Tunisia, the riots in Yemen and Bahrain, and the civil war in Syria. Even the peaceful—so far—overthrow of the Lebanese government by Hezbollah, something that could never happen without the support and approval of Syria and Iran. Old enemies are working together. That’s the seed of Islamic revolution being planted all over the Middle East.”

This was more than an intellectual treatise for Reynolds. It was a reality he confronted every day.

“Recently, a very unusual thing happened. Hamas and Fatah—the Palestinian militant groups that slugged it out over control of the Gaza Strip—signed a reconciliation agreement ending years of bloody conflict . . . on the very same day that the northern and southern factions of the Islamic Movement declared their reunification. The very same day. Hamas and Fatah signed their agreement in Cairo, under the mediation of the Muslim Brotherhood.

“And this new leader, this phantom who appears to be guiding an Islamic unification, one of his targets is control of the Temple Mount—as a symbol of Muslim power—and the reconstruction of the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque. And if the Israelis don’t give up control of the Mount, then this new leader wants holy war . . . jihad.

“Thing is, the Israelis are not about to budge. In fact, the Israelis are searching for the one thing that could give them legitimacy over a rebuilt Mount.”

Bohannon felt a flush of confusion. “Another temple?”

Reynolds shook his head. “No . . . not a temple,” he said. “A tent.”

The space around the table seemed to close in, as if the eyes of the world were telescoping in on him. Bohannon’s breathing came in short, shallow gulps.

“Tom, I have a proposition . . . a proposition from the president.”

“No . . . no . . . no. Come on, Sam. There are so many reasons why I can’t do this.” He could barely hear his own voice. “I’d be risking my life, my family’s safety, again. I can’t do that. I’m a civilian . . . I run a rescue mission. Get some of your spies or commandos and do it yourself.”

Tom heard the chair squeak as Reynolds leaned back into its leather depths.

“Kallie Nolan can go back to Israel,” Reynolds said. The words set off warning bells in Bohannon’s head. “She can have the time she needs to stand for her dissertation, finish her PhD. Not have all that time and money she invested in her degree just get wiped out. And she can gather her belongings, close up her apartment, and resolve any issues with her job.”

Bohannon looked across at Reynolds who was seated comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, his fingertips tapping together in a recycling rhythm.

“Better yet, one of my colleagues at State has convinced his counterpart in Jerusalem to review Nolan’s case. To reconsider her expulsion.”

Pressure increased in Bohannon’s temples as his options evaporated.

“All you need to do is agree to help us . . . look at the scroll. See if you can find anything. And, if you do, help us to follow the clues.”

Reynolds’s cell phone rattled to life. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Tom.

“And you should answer this call.”

New York City

“They’re going to let Kallie back into Israel? Why would they do that?” asked Annie as she paced across their living room. “Sam Reynolds asked you to meet him in Philadelphia just so . . .”

She turned to face him. Bohannon was sitting in the antique Morris chair that occupied the bay window in their Victorian home. He was physically tired and mentally exhausted from his trip to Philly, his discussion with Reynolds, the message from Rory O’Neill that somebody, probably the Guard, had failed to break into the evidence warehouse the night before . . . and now he had to
confront his wife with the one thing she didn’t want to hear. Annie’s fierce gaze pierced his heart.

“What else?” Her voice barely rose above the background sounds of their neighborhood, but it dripped with cold fury. “What else, Tom? What does Reynolds—what do those bloodsuckers down in Washington—want in return, eh?” She took an offensive step toward him, her fists squeezed into tight weapons. “Tell me!”

Tom Bohannon hadn’t shirked a righteous fight at any time in his life. Not when he was threatened by one of the most powerful politicians in Philadelphia to back off an explosive story when he was an investigative reporter for the
Philadelphia Bulletin
. That crooked politician was still in jail.

But Bohannon became very cautious when Annie’s anger erupted to the surface. It was a well-learned lesson. Good judgment comes from experience—and experience comes from bad judgment. Tom tried to pick his words carefully.

“There is a problem,” he said. “A problem that has to do with Jerusalem.”

“Oh . . . God,” Annie breathed.

“You know Krupp has been rebuilding and strengthening the walls of the Temple Mount since the earthquake . . . and they’re just about done. But, now, the Israelis are planning to rebuild the Temple platform, but they are not going to allow the Muslims to come back. No Dome of the Rock . . . no Al-Aqsa Mosque. Reynolds told me the Israelis are trying to find the Tent of Meeting. They plan to erect the Tent of Meeting on the Temple Mount and claim it for themselves.”

Annie remained stock-still in the middle of their living room, her fists now turning white. “That may be the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard. Regardless, what does that have to do with you? Aren’t there enough people in the State Department and the CIA to worry about Israel and the Arabs? What did Reynolds want with you, Tom?”

A stab of anger overwhelmed his weariness. Before he knew it, Bohannon was on his feet.

“Do you think I
want
to be part of this again?” Regret and remorse punctuated every sentence. “Don’t you understand that I’m sick of being frightened to death that something is going to happen to you or the kids? Looking over my shoulder every time I go out the door. I’m not made for this kind of life. I’ve seen enough death. Enough! I don’t need any more. I don’t want any more. Don’t you get it?”

Annie set her jaw, withered Tom with a menacing gaze, then walked to the oak secretary desk in the corner. She opened the glass doors that fronted the top half of the desk and ran her fingers across the spines of the bright yellow magazines stacked like soldiers on the bottom shelf. Her fingers stopped and she pried loose one of the yellow spines.

She looked at the cover of the
National Geographic
magazine for a moment, turned, and walked b`ack to her husband, the magazine held out in front of her.

“I do get it, Tom. You’ve made a decision. You’re going back. Well, I’ve made a decision too,” said Annie. “I’m also going back.”

Only desperation rattled around in Tom’s empty stomach. In front of him, Annie held the magazine—its cover one of the most iconic images in photojournalism:
The Kurdish Rebel.

The young girl stared boldly into the camera, an epic written into her gaze. She stood outside a mud-brick, one-room house, its whitewashed walls a stark backdrop. She was dressed in the traditional garb of Kurdish women, a heavily embroidered, purple, flowered dress, covered by a black robe, a wide, golden sash around her waist. A white headscarf, draped over her burnished brown hair, along the side of her head and around her neck, created a stunning frame to world-weary, piercing emerald eyes that stared boldly back at the camera. While her eyes were riveting, what made the photo such an iconic image was what the young girl was holding. Twin cartridge belts crisscrossed her chest. In her right hand she held a Kalashnikov automatic weapon, its butt resting against her right thigh. In her left arm she cradled a child—a young boy of about two or three years, who also gazed at the camera with sparkling emerald eyes. One of the boy’s hands clutched the shoulder of the woman’s robe. The fingers of his left hand were curled around the tapered end of a .39-caliber cartridge in one of the belts.

“You gave this up a long time ago.”

“I called Larry yesterday,” she said. “I told him I was willing to give him one more shoot. A photo story of the thousands of Muslims and Jews now living together in a refugee tent camp outside Jerusalem—a city where for a thousand years they hadn’t figured out how to live together. Another refugee camp. Another kind of war. And I would do everything I could to give him another cover—another image that would capture the attention of the world.”

Bohannon looked up from the face on the cover of the magazine to the determined face of his wife. “The last time you did this . . . it broke your heart.
It almost broke your spirit. I don’t think you’ve picked up one of your cameras since.”

He took the magazine from Annie’s hands. The world-famous image was taken in a Kurdish refugee camp high in the mountains between Turkey and Iraq, during the Kurdish rebellion of 1988. Annie was covering the desperate plight of these Kurdish rebels, under attack from the government forces of both Turkey and Iraq. The Kurds were pleading for help from the outside world. But these Kurds were
peshmerga
, guerrillas of the PKK—a radical, nationalist movement tagged as a terrorist group by the United States—and no one was coming to their aid. They were dying by the thousands.

“I didn’t kill her. I know that now.”

After the cover photo of
The Kurdish Rebel
was published, Annie’s professional career took off. She was riding the rocket of success, named one of
National Geographic
’s chief photographers, when she got the news.