The Brotherhood Conspiracy (43 page)

“My God, that’s awful.”

Brandon McDonough’s brogue rumbled along the phone lines from Ireland. But Bohannon was only half listening. His mind and heart were already searching the streets of Jerusalem.

“The Israelis are very resourceful, Thomas. And ruthless when they want something badly enough. We must have faith.”

Faith? Are you kidding?

“I don’t know what faith is going to do, Brandon, but I know what I’m going to do,” said Bohannon as he absently wrapped the phone cord around his hand. “As soon as Joe shows up, the two of us are going to start our own search. I’m not going to sit around here rubbing my hands together, I’ll tell you that.”

“Mr. Rodriguez is not with you?”

“No . . . and I don’t know where he is.” Bohannon’s mind suddenly shifted gears. “He came back to Jerusalem before I did, to check out Jeremiah’s Grotto. We were supposed to come here, stay put until the others showed up. Wait for your call and a call from Doc. See if we could put together enough pieces to know where to look for the Tent. I don’t know where he is.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“What is it, Brandon?”

“Well . . . two things.” McDonough’s voice became low, conspiratorial. “Thomas, first . . . I found it. Jeremiah’s Tomb—it’s really there. And I found something else. I think I know why the Guard is still pursuing you. It’s not because they want something back; it’s not about the scroll and mezuzah. It’s because of something else—something they won’t allow you to find, can’t allow you to find.”

“That’s great, Brandon,” Bohannon broke in. “Exciting. But we can talk about your discoveries later.” He started looking around the room for his backpack. “I’ve got to get moving.”

“Wait, please wait, Thomas. There’s the other thing . . . it’s important.”

Bohannon stopped and turned his attention to McDonough’s voice. “What?”

“Well, if I must confess, I scared the bejesus out of meself at Cairn T,” said McDonough. “I was in the tomb—Jeremiah’s crypt after all—when I heard the gate slam shut, footsteps coming down the passage. I would surely have expired at that very moment if Mrs. Pekenham hadn’t called out my name. Seems I had lost track of the day and it was well past closing time at the Gardens’ coffee shop. And she charged me a ten euro fine to get my driver’s license back.”

Tom ran his hand through his hair. “Look, that is all very interesting—”

“That it ’tis, but you misunderstand me,” said McDonough. “I was ashamed of meself, thought I was spooked, fearful of the fairies. Are you with me there, love? I felt like a fool. So, when Dr. Johnson didn’t call, I gave it no mind.”

Oh, God!
“What . . . what are you saying?”

“Richard intended to communicate with me this morning,” said McDonough. “He was to call on his satellite phone from the monastery and we would compare notes if we had discovered anything.”

Bohannon felt a stab as his fear multiplied. This was no coincidence. There were no coincidences where the Prophet’s Guard was involved. He was attacked at Krak de Chevaliers . . . Annie and Kallie probably abducted . . . Joe missing . . . Doc and Sammy out of touch.

“I was nearly killed when I went to the Krak de Chevaliers,” said Bohannon. His voice came out flat. “They were waiting for me . . . one of them, anyway . . . tried to throw me off the top of the castle’s wall. It was only grace that sav—Brandon, where are you?”

“I’m at the university. I have a class to teach at half-three.”

“Stay there. Stay near other people, security officers if you have them.” Bohannon’s voice accelerated. “The Prophet’s Guard is way ahead of us. They were here—I know they’ve abducted Kallie and Annie. They tried to kill me in Syria. And I’m scared, Brandon . . . I’m scared for Joe, for the rest of you. Listen, keep trying to reach Doc and Sammy. Let me know if you hear from them . . . leave a message here.”

Bohannon took a breath and was surprised by a searing pain in his left hand. He looked down and saw the telephone cord, wrapped like a tourniquet around his blue-tinged fingers.

“Thomas, lad . . . what are you going to do?”

Fear and fury wrestled for control of Bohannon’s soul. Suddenly his thoughts cleared. And he began to plan revenge.

“I’m going to get a weapon. Somewhere, somehow, I’m going to get some kind of weapon . . .”

“Lad . . . lad . . . you pick up a gun, sooner or later someone gets a bullet. So is that it, then?”

“Brandon, I don’t have time to debate moral dilemmas,” said Bohannon. “I’ve got to find Joe. But then I’m going to find these animals and I’m going to wipe them from the face of the earth.”

Normally, Tom Bohannon would have begun praying for God’s help. But not today. If God was in Jerusalem, he was a long way off.

Tel Aviv, Israel

Prime Minister Eliazar Baruk sat in the basement of his Tel Aviv residence. It was Shabbat and the prime minister was home. Not to rest. Not to worship. But to conspire.

Only his wife knew about the true purpose of the bunker-like room hidden behind the metal shelves filled with canned goods. The room was small, packed primarily with the latest in secure, satellite communication gear—transmissions encrypted and hidden, embedded, within the daily communication traffic between America’s Federal Aviation Administration and Israel’s Civil Aviation Authority. Baruk sat in a padded black office chair, mindlessly swinging back and forth on the chair’s swivel, as he communicated with Jonathan Whitestone.

“How good is your security, Eliazar?”

Baruk bristled at the question.

“Tighter than yours, most likely. On this end, you are talking to one of only three people who have full knowledge of what we plan and what we intend to accomplish. None of the troops on the ground are active military. They are part of an elite paramilitary force that doesn’t exist. It has no records, no office, no business. To ensure the safety of their homes and families, some for the joy of personal revenge, they will go anywhere and do anything and never be heard from. The four team leaders know only the details of their part of the mission.”

“Can four teams inflict that much damage in such a short time,” asked Whitestone, “to their oil wells, their storage, their pipeline?”

“The destruction will be devastating,” Baruk affirmed. “The teams will use
magnesium-charged, replicating explosives. The charges are set for different times, a sequential series of explosions. The magnesium ignites white-hot, is dispersed through the flaming oil, and each explosion is an extension of . . . builds on . . . the one that went before. Their beloved oil industry will burn with the heat of a thousand suns.”

“Your military is very good at black ops; you’ve proven that in the past. Are you as confident about your plan for Fordow and the Iranian treasury?”

“You and I both know there’s no way we can get to the enrichment labs at Fordow, or to the vault in the treasury, from the outside,” said Baruk. “This plan is our only real option. It’s taken years to prepare, but now we have the assets to strike Fordow and their gold reserve from the inside. There’s a risk, but it’s a risk we must take. You know that, Jonathan.”

“And you’re certain the radiation will be contained within the treasury vault? This action will enrage most of the world’s leaders enough without civilians becoming contaminated with radiation sickness.”

Baruk shook his head. Whitestone was a good man. He could trust him. But, on some things, he wasn’t very knowledgeable.

“Jon, you think of a nuclear device and you see mushroom clouds and massive fallout,” said Baruk. “There will be no explosion—at least not a detonation anyone outside the vault would register. This device is small, compact . . . think of an insect fogger. You set it, leave the house, and the fog permeates everything and kills all the bugs. This is pretty much the same idea. Within minutes, the entire gold reserve of Iran will be radioactive, useless, worthless. And it will stay that way for a thousand years.”

And both of these things will make me rich beyond counting.

26

S
ATURDAY
, A
UGUST
22

Balata Camp, Nablus, West Bank

“The two women are secure, Holy One. They will be taken to the tower at the proper time. Their leader is at the apartment, but Shin Bet just left and there may be surveillance.”

“And the tall one?”

“We don’t know. We lost him when he came back to Jerusalem. He was in the Old City and then he vanished.”

Moussa al-Sadr sat behind the rough-hewn table, his prayer beads spread before him. Three nonstop days had taken their toll. The old wounds in his body throbbed. But it was his heart that troubled him. How long would this weakened vessel beat?

“He must be found.” Al-Sadr’s voice barely stirred the dust in the sunbeam spilling through the open window. “We can’t afford to lose two of them.”

“Two?”

“The old one is dead, but the little one escaped from under our hands in Egypt. Our enemies, we believe. Vanished into the night. The old man was in a rage. They did not possess any knowledge of the secret—it has eluded them. And the treasure we seek continues to evade us.”

Youssef, commander of the Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigade, stepped from the shadows, the shard of sun dancing on his muscled bicep. “But, we have the women.”

Al-Sadr picked up his prayer beads, rubbing them lovingly between thumb and forefinger. “Yes . . . and it is their time to be of some use. Send the message.
And get the cameras ready. We will achieve both of our goals—force the Jew to relinquish the holy Haram and finally recover the vessel of our hope—or we will insult the Great Satan once more and grind its pride in the dust . . . with the blood of these infidel whores. Go.”

Jerusalem

The tennis courts flanking University Boulevard were empty at midday, the soaking heat and relentless sun driving everyone indoors except mad dogs and Englishmen, and Tom Bohannon. On foot, Bohannon passed the courts, crossed Aharon Katsir Road and entered the grounds of Jerusalem’s Regency Hotel.

A line of taxicabs was staged to the north of the hotel. Whether he had learned it from Sherlock Holmes or James Bond, Bohannon couldn’t remember, but he went to the third taxi in line and got in. If you were being followed, the third taxi would never be manned by surveillance. Bohannon gave the driver an address, asked him to turn up the AC, and, despite the flurry of honking from taxi one and taxi two, started his rescue mission.

The driver maneuvered onto Katsir, through the roundabout, past St. Joseph’s Hospital, and turned left on Route 60, Bar-Lev Road, heading south, farther into Jerusalem. Bohannon knew it would take some time to reach his final destination, but neither the sweltering summer heat nor the feverish imaginings of his mind would allow him to rest. Fifteen minutes later the taxi turned onto Yafo Road, heading northwest, and turned left, pulling up in front of the Jerusalem Regional Police Headquarters. Bohannon asked the driver to wait. His plan had only begun.

A pale blue sedan pulled into the parking area, drove past the police building, and parked at the very end of the lot.

Inside the police station, the duty sergeant recorded Bohannon’s version of the break-in but refused to disturb any of the detectives. “This is a Shin Bet matter,” the sergeant said one more time. “Any cooperation between Shin Bet and the police will take place at a much higher level than mine or the detectives. You have done what you can do, Mr. Bohannon. Go home . . . back to this apartment, if that’s where you’re staying. Don’t worry. We’ll find your wife and her friend. Don’t worry about that. I’m sure you will be hearing something from Major Levin before we do.”

As Bohannon left the police headquarters, he looked to his right. The pale blue sedan was still parked in the far corner. He could walk to Jeremiah’s Grotto from here, but it was too early. He got in the taxi, only once looking over his shoulder.

“Back to the Regency Hotel.”