The Brotherhood Conspiracy (53 page)

Now, at last, he was avenged. Painter had already paid. Now Israel would pay. And Shomsky was free.

There was a knock on the door. The captain with another warning?

Shomsky opened the door to his small room. He saw nothing. He peered out into the hallway. A hand clamped closed over his mouth and a forearm pressed into the back of his neck, cutting off his breath. He was lifted off his feet, pushed back into the room as a second figure, covered in black head-to-foot, entered and closed the door. Shomsky was quickly trussed and gagged, only his eyes able to move. The two looked about the room. One pointed to the computer console.

One of the black-clad men picked up the computer, the other picked up Shomsky’s considerable body and tilted it over his shoulder. They moved, without sound or hurry, into the short hallway, then aft. Shomsky couldn’t speak, or move, but his mind was screaming for help.

The crew was busy getting the freighter under way. They came to a halt. Shomsky was lowered, turned around, and pushed through an open door.

The men turned right and slipped through the shadows of the overhang. Near the end they stopped and lowered Shomsky to the deck. Without a wasted motion, they pulled him to a seated position. One pressed the computer console into his chest while another secured it to his body with the same immovable rope that bound his hands and feet.

Chaim Shomsky looked at the computer in his lap. Fitting. He thought of all the money that would rot and go unclaimed in those banks, of the diamonds that would now be lost in the silt of Tel Aviv harbor. Then he thought of Painter, executed on the slopes of Mount Nebo. He thought of what must be, or would be, occurring on the Temple Mount at any moment. He thought of his brother. Fitting. It was all fitting. Even this.

The two men picked him up, shoulders and ankles, and carried him to the side of the freighter. The ship was in a long, rolling arc, this side just past its apex and now falling back toward the blackness of the Mediterranean. Just as the gunwales kissed the top of the waves, the two men slipped Shomsky noiselessly into the churning sea. He began to sink immediately, the money, gold, and diamonds adding to the speed of his descent.

I’m coming.

7:17 a.m., The Negev

Belching diesel engines and the heavy grinding of low-geared trucks snapped Rodriguez out of an uncomfortable, fitful sleep. He was strapped into the front
seat of an Israeli Defense Force off-road vehicle, an X-harness holding his body in place while his hands and feet were bound with metal shackles. He couldn’t locate an inch of his body that didn’t hurt.

Down through the cleft of the wadi, kicking up choking plumes of gritty sand, weaved an endless line of heavy transport trucks, some filled with soldiers, some filled with tools, some empty, awaiting their precious cargo. And the precious cargo was not Joe Rodriguez. He might get to ride along—to jail—but these trucks were reserved for the Tabernacle . . . the Tent That Moves. And it would be moving once again.

Rodriguez tried to find a comfortable position, but it was impossible. This was going to be a long day.

7:53 a.m., Jerusalem

Rizzo looked at the impossible-to-identify mound of steaming stuff on the flimsy paper plate, and then looked up at the jailer. “Hey, Abraham . . . where’s my blueberry pancakes, eh?”

The Israeli soldier on the other side of the bars reminded Rizzo of the ferret he once owned as a kid, a hand-me-down pet from his cousin Shaun who had a dozen of the furry rats running around his home. Long of nose, weak of eyes, jerky in his movements, all the soldier was missing was the brown fur. Rizzo was already planning how he was going to staple a fur coat to the soldier’s back if he ever got the chance.

“Eat it or don’t eat it,” said the ferret. “It makes no difference to me.” He put down on the floor, near the bars, two paper cups filled with water. “But you might be here a long time.”

Shut up, you jerk.

Rizzo turned to the cell on his right. After exhausting himself with screaming for a phone call, for the American ambassador, for his freedom—and pounding on the bars until his fists began to bleed—Bohannon had dropped into a fitful, moaning half-sleep that kept Rizzo up all night with concern. For the last few hours, Tom hadn’t moved a muscle.

Now, at the words of the ferret jailer, Bohannon was up again, poised on the edge of his bunk for another assault on the thick steel bars. Rizzo acted to circumvent Bohannon’s attack.

“Hey, Tom. Glad to see you’re awake. You’re just in time for this great
breakfast. It’s some kind of hybrid—something between oatmeal and goat meal, I think. But it’s hot and there’s a lot of it. You should eat. We’re going to need our strength when we get out of here.”

It worked. Bohannon took his eyes off the bars and turned his head to look at Rizzo.

“I was just talking to Ferret Face. He said we’ll probably get sprung in a little while. So just sit—”

“I was awake,” said Bohannon. His voice had all the life of a mortuary. “I heard what he said. We’re not going anywhere.”

Bohannon lifted himself off the bunk and walked over to his steaming mound of mystery cereal. He picked up the plate in both hands and walked to the bars beside the cell door. Turning up the sides, he passed the plate through the bars and held it on the far side, his arms extending through the openings between the bars. Rizzo watched as Tom shifted the plate to his right hand, crooked his arm back against the bars and catapulted the plate and its contents into a splatter on the far, cinder-block wall.

“Let me out!” Bohannon screamed, his voice raspy from overuse. “I want my rights! I want to talk to the American embassy! Let me out of here!”

Without thinking, Rizzo took the plate in his hands and lifted it to throw at the wall. The mound of mystery cereal slipped off the paper plate; wilted his billowy, blue pants with a splosh; slid down his leg; and gathered into a pool on, in, and around his borrowed, child-sized leather boots. Rizzo looked down at the slop all over his leg and launched himself at the iron bars.

“Let me out!” Rizzo screamed in harmony with Bohannon. “Let me out of here you furry—”

“Let us out!” screamed Bohannon.

Both men beat their balled fists against the unforgiving iron bars.

5:30 p.m., The Negev

The first truck sounded like it was trying to give birth. Its engine roared and its gears ground and screeched, its massive tires spinning divots into the soft, gritty pumice of the Negev.

Maybe we’re not going anywhere after all.

Rodriguez watched as the truck’s tires gained traction, and the heavily laden hauler began the long journey to Jerusalem.

9:34 p.m., Jerusalem

Major Avram Levin approached Rodriguez as he and his babysitters were the last to emerge from the troop-carrier.

“Good evening, Mr. Rodriguez . . . Major Levin.” He saluted as he spoke. “I’ve seen you many times, mostly through the lens of a surveillance camera. I’ve looked forward to this meeting, but I’ve got more pressing matters at the moment.”

Levin’s eyes were pulled toward the unloading trucks.

“What . . . did we inconvenience you the last time we were here?”

Levin turned back to Rodriguez. Another American with an attitude. “Do you know how many laws you’ve broken on this trip to Israel alone? Not to mention the mayhem that accompanied your previous visit. Our city is still trying to recover. So don’t give me any trouble, Mr. Rodriguez, or I’ll throw you into the same jail with Bohannon and Rizzo.”

“You arrested them? What are they in jail for?”

“For interfering with a police investigation . . . for immigration violations . . . for just getting in the way, as you are doing now. I don’t have time for a debate, Mr. Rodriguez.”

Levin looked across the Temple Mount at the caravan that continued to arrive atop the restored platform—a line of more than two dozen, heavy-duty, canvas-covered construction trucks with the orange “K” on a field of pale blue that symbolized Krupp Industries. It was not unlike many other deliveries of construction materials made to the Mount over the past months, though few deliveries had demanded six armored personnel carriers and two troop-carrier trucks as escort. The soldiers in the trucks and APCs jumped from their vehicles and joined those already on the ground, some forming a human wall around the flatbeds, others stepping up to help unload.

Levin glanced up at the truck behind Rodriguez and turned to the soldiers at Rodriguez’s side.

“Put him up on the hood,” he said, nodding toward the truck. “He’s the one who found it . . . he’s earned the right to see it erected.”

Levin returned his gaze to Rodriguez. “I have many questions for you, Mr. Rodriguez. I hope you will afford me the time to ask them in a more relaxed environment later. For the time being, enjoy the view. Thanks to your own efforts, you’ll be watching history as it’s made—and the future as it’s changed.”

Levin nodded his head and turned to the guards. “Keep him shackled. He’s disappeared too many times already.”

30

T
UESDAY
, A
UGUST
25

12:06 a.m., Jerusalem

The engineers and soldiers moved with cautious precision. Beside them, several at each truck, stood the priests, guiding, directing each of their movements. The deliberations and instructions started hours earlier. Major Levin had been part of the initial discussions, but the teaching sessions continued nonstop from the moment Shin Bet first secured the Tent. Now Levin watched in awe as Krupp’s engineers and ranks of Israeli soldiers unloaded the trucks.

First came some very heavy bundles, still wrapped in coarse, bulky coverings that looked like hairy animal skins. Dozens of soldiers, struggling under the weight of the bundles, moved past Levin.

“This is incredible, isn’t it?”

Major Katz came up to Levin’s side. “Look at the poles,” he said. “They may be weathered, but they look as solid as the timbers holding up my porch.”

“Look at the time,” responded Levin. “This is taking too long. We’re totally exposed out here. This was a crazy idea and we’re just sitting here waiting to get hit.”

Katz gave Levin a little poke in his ribs. “Avram . . . nothing is moving within a kilometer of the Temple Mount. This part of the city is totally locked down. We’re going to get this done. We’re going to be part of history.”

More bundles kept emerging from the trucks, all under the watchful eyes of the priests.

“When the priests started measuring out the dimensions and marking the concrete,” said Katz, “I thought they were mistaken. I thought,
This was a tent, you know? A tent!
This thing will be massive.”

Levin turned to watch as a group of twenty soldiers unwrapped their packages—golden stands, tarnished by time, but gleaming nonetheless—and placed them on the markings left by the priests.

“Yes, it’s large. And yes, it will change history,” said Levin. “Now . . . tell me one more time, how well are we defended?”

Levin and Katz began yet another circuit of the Temple Mount platform.

“We have five hundred men on station at this point; another five hundred on standby at the Mevaseret Tsiyon base. The majority of our force is distributed below us, restricting all access. All streets and roads in the area are closed, blocked by barriers manned with armed soldiers. There are no pedestrians. The Western Wall and the Western Wall tunnel are closed and guarded. We are just about to raise the security screen, blocking visual observation of the platform from most of Jerusalem. No one is going to get near the Temple Mount tonight, Avram.”

Levin was grateful for, but not convinced by, the major’s confidence.

“In addition, we have four, fully manned machine gun batteries up here, one on each corner. Each battery contains a dozen riflemen.”

“Grenades?”

Katz threw back his head and barked a laugh. “Are you kidding? Not unless you want to get me fired. I was instructed, in no uncertain terms, there were to be no explosives . . . nothing incendiary of any kind. That’s all I need, to go down in history as the commander who erected, and burned down, the Tent of Meeting, all in one night. No . . . no, Avram . . . no explosives. Honestly, I’m even concerned about the sparks coming off my guns, if we have to use them. That’s one reason why all the batteries’ muzzles are turned away from where the Tent will be erected. I don’t want any mistakes.”

“All right,” said Levin. He looked to the black void at the southern end. That was the point where the Kidron and Hinnom valleys fell away from Mount Zion. Where the Temple Mount was at its highest point off the ground. It was also the only section of the platform that Krupp’s engineers had yet to finish. It was a gaping maw and its open presence kept gnawing away at Levin’s peace. He felt as if burglaries were occurring in the neighborhood around his home and he couldn’t remember if he locked his door.

“Look, Abe . . . I know I gave you command. But can you do me a favor?” said Levin. “Send a squad to secure the southern edge, okay? That big, empty space down there just bothers me.”