The Brotherhood Conspiracy (4 page)

Clothed in the simple black linen robes of the Shi’ite clergy, al-Sadr’s once
pampered body was now lean and hard, carrying the stamp of thirty years on the run, in hiding. He was smaller and thinner than the image which hung in mosques and homes throughout Lebanon, revered as the heart and soul of Hezbollah. The once jet-black beard was now streaked with gray and his long fingers were misshapen. But his dark intentions blazed hotter than Daniel’s furnace.

Al-Sadr was led into a small, dark room in the middle of the green tent. Patterned carpets hung on the walls and covered the ground. Two small lamps hung from the ceiling, their light muted by red glass panes. A small, low table separated two cushioned wooden chairs. A silver tea set sat atop the table, a hookah positioned at the table’s flank. Goats bleated in the distance, and somewhere meat sizzled over an open fire.

Al-Sadr was led to one of the chairs by the silent attendant. He sat, and waited.

Moments later, the old man arrived. His kaftan was the color of sandstorm, his sandals as wrinkled and aged as his skin. Only his face was visible. That was enough. His skin was dark, heavily creased by sun and wind. And his eyes were mismatched—one yellow and one brown. The mark of Allah.

Al-Sadr assessed this man, the one spoken of in whispers, never named. He was older, more frail, than al-Sadr himself. Yet there was life in this spirit that belied the age of the flesh. Al-Sadr could not escape the magnetism of the old man’s eyes. Fierce, feral, consuming, they sang a song of jihad, a song echoed in his own heart. They called him to great sacrifice. They embraced him with ancient hate.

The old man bowed from the waist. “Welcome, my brother.” His voice sounded like silk in a breeze. “Allah be praised for your safe arrival.”

Al-Sadr rose, and returned the bow. “I am honored, Holy One, to be in your presence. Thank you for your kindness in granting me audience.”

The older man sat, waving al-Sadr back into his chair. “It is I who am honored to have you here in my tent. I beg you to forgive the poverty of my humble home. Would you honor me by sharing some tea?”

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 Valley. 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

F
RIDAY
, J
ULY
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.