The Brotherhood Conspiracy (42 page)

The border crossing was empty. But not the entrance.

In addition to the Lebanese soldiers, three men loitered in the shade of the sandbag wall. All three were looking directly at Bohannon, with no attempt at subterfuge, and now started to move in his direction.

Hoping not to look suspicious to the Lebanese border guards, Bohannon picked up his pace, ducked into the cooler shade of the travel shop and let his eyes adjust. At the back of the shop was a glass case on top of which sat an ancient cash register. Beside the cash register stood an ebony-colored man, about six-two, well muscled, wearing a loose, white cotton shirt and a look of animosity that matched the threatening aura of the crossing itself. Bohannon glanced at his watch. Nine thirty-five. He was late.

With a look over his shoulder, he crossed the weathered tile floor, pulled out his wallet, peeled away the two hundred-dollar bills from behind the wallet flap, and, looking into the ebony man’s eyes, laid the two bills on top of the glass cabinet.

Suddenly unsure of himself, realizing the risk he was about to take, afraid to say the wrong thing and blow the password, Bohannon stood mute, staring at the man. “Aaahh . . . can I get . . . I mean . . . aaahh . . . I want to get—I mean convert—these dollars into euros.” The man behind the counter had thick, red lips, a wide nose, and dark eyes that seemed to drill through Bohannon’s skull.

The man’s eyes broke away from Bohannon’s face, looked over his shoulder toward the door of the shop.

“You’re late,” he said, his eyes never leaving the door.

“Yes, I know,” Bohannon stammered, “but I fell asleep at the café while I was waiting and I—”

A black hand grabbed Bohannon’s wrist. A vision of years in a Lebanese prison flashed through his mind.

“Settle down.” The voice was melodic, tinted with the traces of many accents. “I’ve been keeping watch for you. So have those guys across the street. Your buddy came through yesterday. He’s fine. And don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here and across the border.”

Relief swept through Bohannon, washing away the strength of his legs. His knees buckled. The hand held him steady.

“Easy.” The eyes once more swept toward the door. “Go over there and look at those tee shirts at the back of the shop.” The black man gave a flick of his head to the left. “Look at every shirt. When you’re done, make an about-face and walk through the door at the back of the shop. I’ll meet you there.”

Before Bohannon could move, the black man’s hand squeezed his wrist and picked his hand up from the counter. The man’s other hand swept up the two hundreds. “Overhead.”

Thirty-one . . . thirty-two . . . thirty-three . . .
Bohannon found himself counting the brightly colored shirts hanging from the round, metal rack. . . .
thirty-four . . . thirty-five . . . did I see that one before?
He shook his head, forced himself not to look at the front door, and self-consciously marched through the back door and into a narrow, darkened alley. Bohannon pressed against the back wall of the building, trying to remain in what little shadow there was.
What if he doesn’t come? What do I do next?
He looked down the darkened alley to his right, the second floor of the buildings on either side extending over the street.
Should I run?

“Quickly . . . they think you’re in the outhouse on the other side of the building.”

Without pause, the black man crossed the narrow alley and entered a large building, Bohannon on his heels—until he was blinded by the dark inside the warehouse.

“This way.”

Bohannon followed the voice as his eyes adjusted. Ten steps and the man stopped at a closed door.

“On the other side is an open square, but it’s not visible from the street. On the opposite side of the square is a portal with a door. Go through the door. Don’t stop for anything until you’re through that door. If someone calls out while you’re crossing the square, just keep going. Keep your eyes on the door and your head down. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“But . . . who are you . . . those men?”

The big, black man smiled. “I’ve been here a long time. They think I’m one of them. So, no sweat. And you can just think of me as Uncle Sam.”

Bohannon returned the smile. “Thanks, uncle. Take care of yourself.”

“Go. Don’t stop.”

And Bohannon was out the door.

Jerusalem

Flashing blue lights reflected off the leaves of the trees surrounding the parking lot, turning them a deathly pale gray, as the taxi turned off the Bar-Lev Road into the lot surrounding the six-story apartment building. Half asleep in the back seat—drained by the heat, the emotional turmoil of his near-death experience in Syria, and the clandestine route required to return to Jerusalem—Tom Bohannon took little notice of the police presence at the far corner of the building.

When the taxi drew to a halt, Bohannon threw his backpack over one shoulder and was happy to find he had enough Israeli shekels in his wallet to pay the driver. Feeling the weight of the last few days, he shuffled to the apartment entrance, punched in the code for Kallie Nolan’s apartment, pushed through the solid glass security door, and waited for the elevator.
I wonder if Joe’s here. If he’s heard anything from Doc or McDonough.

Thoughts sludged through Bohannon’s brain, slowed to a crawl by his numbing fatigue. He stepped out of the elevator into a darkened hallway, but stopped short. Policemen were gathered at the far end of the hall and one was kneeling at the doorway of an apartment, brushing powder against a splintered door frame.

Kallie’s?

The backpack fell to the carpet and Bohannon reached out for the wall to steady his legs. The same dread that triggered his instinct to run down the hallway clamped his feet to the floor. He took a staggering step forward and stumbled down the hall as a soldier stepped out of the shattered doorway and advanced toward him. A shout strangled in his throat.

“Mr. Bohannon?” asked the soldier.

Tom tore his eyes away from the door, hanging drunkenly from one hinge, and forced his gaze to the face of the soldier standing in front of him. The man raised his right hand and grasped Bohannon’s bicep. The muscles in Tom’s legs threatened to stop working.

“There’s no one here . . . but there’s no blood,” said the soldier, his grip growing firmer on Bohannon’s arm. “There was a forced entry last night . . . early this morning, perhaps. But we think your wife and Ms. Nolan got out of the apartment.”

A hundred thoughts, a thousand emotions clamored to be recognized. But Bohannon simply shook his head, trying to focus. The soldier turned Bohannon around and began moving him back toward the elevator.

“I’m Major Levin, of Shin Bet,” said the soldier. “I have many questions for you, but they’ll wait. Here.” The soldier pointed a flashlight to a light fixture on the wall of the hallway. “You see the bulb is broken?”

Bohannon looked at the fixture, the shattered bulb still screwed into its base, and failed to comprehend. His mind wanted to stand in the doorway to Kallie’s apartment, as if by looking he could find Annie sitting there, or coming out of the kitchen. Why was he looking at this fixture?

“The other fixture on the other side of the elevator is the same as this one . . . the light bulbs shattered in place,” said Major Levin. The soldier looked expectantly at Bohannon. “Somebody did this purposely. Possibly the same people who broke into the apartment, but we don’t think so. We believe the attackers, whoever they were, came in through the far stairwell.” He pointed over his shoulder. “It’s closer to Miss Nolan’s apartment. We believe this was done by someone who was trying to escape . . . your wife and Miss Nolan.”

“They got away?”

Major Levin turned Bohannon around again and steered him toward Kallie’s apartment. “We don’t know,” he said. “We know your wife and Miss Nolan aren’t here. Our men are checking each apartment in the building, but we don’t expect to find them here. And we haven’t heard anything from them or . . . well . . . we haven’t received any demands, either.”

The police in the hallway parted and Bohannon stood in the doorway with Major Levin at his shoulder. The apartment looked pristine. Everything was in its place. Nothing was destroyed, except for the door. Bohannon felt fury rising from that primal place bequeathed to man by ancient hunters. He turned on Major Levin.

“What
do
you know, Major?” The implied threat in Bohannon’s voice would have cowed a lesser man.

Levin took a short, menacing step in Bohannon’s direction. “I know that you and your friends were involved in at least five homicides the last time you were in Jerusalem and broke enough laws that I could throw you in jail for ten years. And I know enough that would make it very difficult for your friends in Washington to get you free.”

The beating of a war drum echoed between Bohannon’s temples and his temper rose like the River Liffey at high tide when Levin reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulled out an object, and allowed it to dangle in front of Bohannon’s eyes.

“Do
you
know what this is?”

Hanging at the end of a leather thong, gently swinging in front of Bohannon’s face, was a Coptic cross, a lightning bolt slashing through it on the diagonal.

The Negev, Israel

Rodriguez pulled to the side of Highway 25, east of the town of Dimona, just short of Rotem Junction. His back hurt, his knees ached, and there were still miles to go—perhaps the most risky part of his journey. But he needed to stretch his body, unwind from the tight confines of the Land Rover.

Even when he stopped in Dimona for gas, Joe didn’t get out of the vehicle. He asked the attendant to check the water level in the radiator, his hat pulled down, sunglasses snug against his face. Compared to the desert road from Jerusalem to Be’er Sheva, there was too much traffic in Dimona. Shopping malls flanked the highway. He wasn’t about to take a chance.

But here, in the tawny desolation of the Negev, not a tree in sight, the highway an empty asphalt ribbon stretching away into the shimmering distance, Joe felt a little more secure. He pulled a bottle of water from the cooler on the floor of the passenger side, lifted his map from the seat, and spread it across the Rover’s hood.

Somewhere out there, Ronald Fineman warned him, were two large military installations. One was the Negev Nuclear Research Center, with its nuclear waste dump, which was flanked by Highway 25 and Route 206. But the other was a super-secret military airfield, hidden in the vastness of the pale brown desert, tucked behind one of the massive, barren hills of rock and sand. Roving military patrols traversed this Judean wasteland, both on-road and off, in unpredictable, random cycles. His American passport and amateur archaeologist equipment should get him through any on-road inspection. The real danger was later, when he pulled off the road and began searching through the desert.

Rodriguez traced the route with his forefinger . . . south on 206, deeper into the unforgiving desert, then east on 227, around the big horseshoe loop that skirted the geological park, then to the top of the Akkrabim.

Rodriguez turned to the west, looking over his left shoulder. Summer blessed him with long days in the Israeli desert, but the sun was well past its apex. His destination was the steepest road in Israel, a wild, coiled, switchbacking, often single-lane, heart-thumper that dropped into the Desert of Zin. He needed
daylight, not just for navigating the Ascent of Akkrabim, but also for finding . . . what? A cave? What cave? And where was it?

Daylight. Joe needed daylight.

He quickly folded the map, threw it on the front seat, and climbed into the Land Rover. This was going to take a miracle.

Ten thousand feet overhead, a drone flew long, slow loops above the Rotem Junction. Not only had the drone’s cameras captured a clear picture of Rodriguez’s face, but it also followed the tracing of his finger along 206 and 227, captured the word
Akkrabim
from the map—and even recorded what brand of water he was drinking.

Jerusalem

“Oh . . . we checked the answering machine on the telephone,” Major Levin said, pointing to a small table in the corner of Kallie’s living room. “There’s a message for you, from a Dr. McDonough in Ireland. He left a call-back number.”

Bohannon glanced at the small machine under the telephone.
Thank God Joe hasn’t called.

“Mr. Bohannon . . .” Tom looked up as Major Levin stood. “If your wife is half as resourceful as you were under the Temple Mount, she’ll be fine. Regardless, the full force of the Jerusalem police and the Shin Bet are searching for her and Miss Nolan. We’ll find them. Believe me. And we’ll find the men who are responsible. But . . .”

Tom knew what was coming.

“. . . no more heroics, all right? Leave this work to us. We will contact you here as soon as we have any information. Just stay out of it, Mr. Bohannon. Don’t get in our way. You could put your wife, and Miss Nolan, in even greater danger.”

Standing in the middle of Kallie’s living room, Major Avram Levin looked like a bird of prey—long arms straight to his sides, intense eyes flanking a beak of a nose.
He’s only trying to help.

“Major, I don’t need your lecture.” Bohannon was surprised at the steely resolve that reverberated from his voice and filled every cell in his body. “I need you to find my wife. The Prophet’s Guard has tried to kill me twice, killed one of my friends, tried to abduct my daughter in New York City. These men are relentless and determined. They don’t want my wife. They want the mezuzah
and the scroll that was inside it. But they will do anything—absolutely anything—to regain control of that scroll. You need to find them and you need to find them soon. I’m not the guy you have to worry about.” Bohannon’s underhand flip threw the amulet across the room to Levin. “Those are the guys you have to worry about.”