The Brotherhood Conspiracy (29 page)

M
ONDAY
, A
UGUST
17

Greenwich, CT

Conflicted and confused, Bohannon pulled into the parking lot at Harvest Time Church looking for counsel . . . guidance . . . answers. Looking for help.

Harvest Time Assembly of God Church straddled the border between New York and Connecticut, more on the Greenwich side. It was a thirty-minute drive from Riverdale in the Bronx, but a drive the Bohannons gladly made each Sunday and twice a month on Friday for a soaking in praise and worship. Googled by Annie when they were searching for a church, the first day they walked into Harvest Time both Tom and Annie knew they were home.

Pastor Glenn Harvison waved Tom into his office, shook his hand, and hugged him at the same time. “Hi, Tom. It’s good to see you. C’mon, sit down.”

Harvison was ten years younger than Bohannon, about the same height, but carrying a couple dozen extra pounds around his midsection. His face full, but welcoming. Only his eyes were concerned.

“You know I love to see you,” said Pastor Glenn, settling behind his desk, “but you usually don’t show up here on a Monday afternoon. What’s up?”

It wasn’t only the soft, wingback chair that gave Tom comfort. He felt safe . . . confident that he was in the right place. “I don’t know what to do.”

Pastor Harvison smiled. “You would be surprised at how many conversations in this office start off with that same statement. But, first . . . let’s pray.”

Bohannon closed his eyes, bowed his head, and allowed Pastor Harvison’s prayer to wash through him, settle his heart, and bring peace to his mind.

“Now, tell me, how can I help?”

“You know what I’ve been involved in.”

“Yes . . . a miracle.”

“Well, the whole thing is cooking up again. There’s a situation that is developing in Israel, in Jerusalem, that appears to be connected to our search for the Temple. President Whitestone asked me—well, me and the other guys—to look for more clues on the scroll and mezuzah. We found some, and now it looks like we may be pulled back into this—maybe it’s never stopped. It looks like the Prophet’s Guard is still after the scroll and mezuzah. Like they’re still after us.”

Bohannon took a breath. Pastor Glenn didn’t try to fill the silence.

“I don’t want this, Pastor. I’m scared. My family is scared. Annie is frustrated, angry, worn out with worry. I don’t know what to do.” He shook his head and looked out the window at the woods behind the church. “The first time, I felt called. Like God selected us. Now, I don’t know. Part of me wants to help. Part of me feels like I’m being selfish and arrogant. Why do I need to be involved? Why do they need me? Why can’t somebody else take care of this?”

He turned his face and looked at his pastor. “And part of me . . . I have to confess . . . part of me is excited. I’ve never been so afraid, or felt so alive, as I did breaking the code, searching for that Temple.” Bohannon felt the catch in his throat, the moisture in his eyes. “God help me, Pastor, part of me wants to go back.”

Glenn Harvison moved forward, placed his elbows on the top of his desk, rested his chin on his thumbs, and leaned his face into his steepled fingers.

“Tom . . . what do you have to be thankful for?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What do you have to be thankful for?”

Bohannon’s confusion grew to a new level. “My wife . . . our marriage . . . our children,” he said. “I’m thankful for my job, this church, my salvation. A lot.”

Pastor Harvison tipped his head to the right. “And how many of those blessings came from God?”

“All of them.”

“And how many of those things that you’re grateful for belong to God? How many of them are in his hands?”

“All of them.”

“And how many of those blessings are you worried about?”

Bohannon’s gaze focused on his pastor. “All of them.”

“Does that make any sense?” asked Harvison.

Bohannon shook his head, clarity entering his heart. “No, none of it.”

Pastor Harvison leaned back in his chair. “Tom, you know that God has a sovereign will and a permissive will. He gave man the capacity to choose. We all have the ability to make choices that impact and influence our lives. That is God’s permissive will. But there is also God’s sovereign will. The almighty creator of all things . . . he has a plan. A plan that he ordained before the beginning of time. A plan that can never change. All things . . .
all
things . . . are under God’s control. And that includes each of our lives.

“A believing Christian, who earnestly and honestly seeks to know and understand the fullness of God’s will for his life—and do that will—is under the ruling power of God’s sovereign will. Tom, God’s sovereign will for your life will never be compromised by his permissive will for others. His sovereign will for your life cannot and will not ever change. Nothing . . .
nothing
. . . can ever change God’s sovereign will for you, for me, or for this world. It is sealed.

“So, circumstances may influence your life, but they can never change your destiny.”

Now it was Bohannon’s turn to sit and wait in the silence.

“I don’t have any doubt that God’s hands are at work in what he clearly has called you into,” Pastor Harvison said. “Only God knows why.
Why
isn’t a question God often answers. Maybe adventure originally captured you, but prayer—God’s answered prayer—led you to that Temple. And prayer will lead you to the right decisions now. But . . . Tom . . . this is your destiny. It’s clear. God’s power is at work here, at work in your life, at work in this quest you’ve been handed. If this is God’s sovereign will for your life, you need to be prepared, because God’s sovereign will for your life cannot ever be changed.”

Bohannon didn’t feel any better. But he now knew better.

“Tom, I suggest you go home and pray with your wife. Pray for God’s direction. So that you will both have peace. Because I’m pretty certain what answer you will receive. And, Tom”—Pastor Harvison stood behind his desk and extended his hand toward Tom—“may God go with you.”

New York City

“I’ve been to Tripoli,” Johnson said, dodging the late afternoon bicycle traffic and hordes of tourists as he and Joe Rodriguez navigated Fifth Avenue on the east flank of Central Park, headed to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “The
British Museum sent a team of us there to review the Crusader castle, Krak de Chevaliers, when it was first being considered as a UNESCO world heritage site. The castle was the base of operations for the military order of the Knights Hospitaller.”

“So, why would Abiathar escape to Tripoli?” Joe asked. “The first time his family and the Jews were forced to abandon Jerusalem they went to Tyre. Why go a lot farther this time, all the way to Tripoli, if the Crusaders were already there?”

Johnson was having a tough time keeping up with Rodriguez’s long, loping stride. He seized on a fortuitous red light at 86th Street to liberate a nearby park bench.

“Doc?” Rodriguez turned around at the street corner, a puzzled look on his face.

“Joseph, please. A moment of respite for an old man?” Johnson patted the empty bench beside him. The late afternoon sun escaped the clutches of Manhattan’s skyscrapers, those long fingers that snatched the light from so many New Yorkers, and its heady warmth bored through the gaps in the leafy limbs of the Central Park forest. Johnson’s aging bones sucked in the warmth.

Rodriguez retreated and sat on the abused green slats.

Doc’s heart was warmed whenever he spent time alone with this surprising librarian. It was more than the young man’s quick mind, a fine asset. There was a . . . what . . . a gentleness . . . a sweetness about Joe Rodriguez that even Washington Heights couldn’t dilute. In many ways, Joe reminded Doc of Winthrop Larsen. Perhaps there was some transference of affection, some self-preservation in shifting his allegiance from the painful memory of Winthrop’s violent death. But Doc often found himself smiling when he saw Rodriguez, the smile ignited by what Johnson could only imagine was akin to a father’s pride. He would have been grateful for a son like Joe.

“I think,” he said, turning slightly to look at Rodriguez instead of the teeming throngs sluicing along the sidewalks of Fifth Avenue, “there were two reasons Abiathar traveled the extra distance to Tripoli. First, Tripoli was still free. The Crusaders laid siege to most of the coastal cities of Palestine, and captured most of them, including Tyre, on their march to Jerusalem. But they bypassed Tripoli. It would have been too difficult to subdue, so they skipped it and continued on toward Jerusalem, the ultimate prize.

“It was only after Jerusalem fell into their hands that the Crusaders turned
their attention to the unfinished business of Tripoli.” Johnson closed his eyes and allowed the intense afternoon sun to wash through his eyelids. He stretched his neck back and forth and flexed his shoulders. It was like a cosmic massage. He kept his eyes closed, luxuriating. “The Europeans dispatched their most accomplished warrior, Raymond of Saint-Gilles, Count of Toulouse, to crush the Muslim defenders of Tripoli. He surrounded the city and laid siege, but it took ten years, and Saint-Gilles was long dead, before Tripoli finally fell in 1109. True to their reputation, the Crusaders totally destroyed the old city, massacred the inhabitants, and built a new city over the Muslim town.”

Doc lifted his head, turning his face to perfectly capture a shard of sunlight slashing through the leaves. It was decadent.

“So . . . Doc . . . what was the second reason?” There was a thin edge of exasperation in Joe’s voice.

“Oh, yes. Forgive me, Joseph. I feel like I’m being hugged by the universe.” Doc’s body gave a little shiver, and he turned his attention back to Rodriguez.

“At the time Abiathar escaped Jerusalem, Tripoli lacked Crusaders,” said Johnson, now fully engaged. “But it possessed one of the greatest libraries of the ancient world—the
Dar al-Ilm
the Muslims called it, the house of knowledge—and, in Abiathar’s time, the Dar al-Ilm held three million manuscripts in its halls. But the Crusaders brought the same savage butchery to Tripoli that they unleashed against Jerusalem, destroying the city and burning its significant Muslim buildings, including the Dar al-Ilm.”

Johnson’s train of thought was broken by the image of three million ancient documents going up in smoke, victims of ignorance and bloodlust.

“Doc . . . are you okay?”

“Yes . . . yes, Joe.” Johnson ran his fingers through his hair.

“Okay, so why did Abiathar need a library?”

“To be honest, I’m not positive. When you consider Tripoli as a destination, there are few reasons why Abiathar would take on such a long journey from Jerusalem. Tripoli was the major silk producer outside of China. It had flourishing citrus groves spread across the broad plain from the Abu Samra escarpment on the east to the seacoast. And it was an important port city for landlocked Damascus. Its fortress dominated the traffic on the coastal road.”

“Okay, Doc, but we know Abiathar was probably not interested in silk, lemons, or fish.”

“Correct, Joseph. Which essentially leaves us the library.” Johnson clasped
his hands behind his head and leaned back against the park bench. “And, if my friend Dr. McDonough is correct about Abiathar putting in place a Plan B, perhaps the Dar al-Ilm held the information he needed to implement that plan. Or”—he cast a glance in Joe’s direction—“perhaps there was something that Abiathar wanted to deposit in the Dar al-Ilm for safekeeping, eh? And where better to hide a document than in a library with three million other documents?”

Feeling as if his energy tank had been refilled, Johnson sprang to his feet.

“I’m not sure, Joseph. From Kallie’s earlier research we know Abiathar traveled to Tripoli for his second exile. And he must have had a pressing reason to do so. Well, let’s get a move on. We’re not going to get anything accomplished sitting around the park all day. We’ve got work to do, my boy.” Johnson turned on his heel and quick-stepped across 86th Street in defiance of the red, blinking hand that suggested time was short. He would need a lead, just to keep up with the long-legged Mr. Rodriguez.

Amman, Jordan

Abu Gherazim, foreign minister of the Palestinian Authority, looked down from the podium in the Jordanian parliament hall. King Khalil was a man of his word. He must have asked, threatened, and cajoled . . . and pulled in a number of favors. The hall was nearly full, the diplomatic corps had turned out en masse, but also the Jordanian senior officials. Staff from every Islamic embassy along with a goodly number of Jordanian political, economic, and religious leaders. The press gallery was overflowing with reporters from around the world.

But would they listen? The ones who most needed to hear the truth . . . would they listen? Those faces turned toward him were delivering a mixed response. Gherazim stepped to the microphone. After the required greetings, Gherazim eschewed a preamble and got right to the point.

“Across the face of the world, Muslims of goodwill proclaim Islam as a way of peace, a religion of acceptance, an extension or completion of other prophets revered by Jew and Christian, including Abraham, Moses, and Jesus. Muslims are devout citizens—Americans, French, English, Indian. Men and women who are loyal to their country while still being faithful to their religion.