The Brotherhood Conspiracy (57 page)

“Move man! Jump!”

Only a heartbeat had passed. Fischoff hesitated for only a moment on the other side, then thrust himself through an opening on the porch and into the minaret’s interior.

Annie!
The renewed thought of his wife suffering and bleeding somewhere restored the steel in Bohannon’s spine. He pushed two steps back, accelerated with all the strength he had gained in his high-intensity bike rides with Connor, and launched himself from the very edge of the balcony, arms flailing, legs racing into that place that had no bottom. Except way down there, ninety feet below.

A split second? An hour? A day? Time stood still for Tom Bohannon as he fought against distance and gravity.

Falling.

His eyes and heart and hope were fixed on the far balcony, coming no nearer. He wished away fear, but fear was flying with him. And neither of them were getting any closer.

He felt the falling, and it was real. His body on a downward arc, not a
crossward flight. Panic grasped for mastery, but Bohannon grasped for life, he grasped for Annie, he grasped for that far, stone spiral . . .

He crashed hard onto the stone floor of the balcony with a shoulder-shuddering, knee-ripping thud as the front of his forehead came down and violently kissed the stone. The world blackened, then brightened, then the pain poured through him. Something was probably broken, but he was up before the thought could penetrate his resolve. Stumbling through the doorway into the minaret, he was surprised to find that Fischoff was not that far in front of him. It hadn’t been that long. The sergeant was bounding down the circular stairs, but not that far in front.

3:15 a.m.

Colonel Levin took the radio receiver out of his ear as Major Abner Katz ran up to his side.

“We may have a problem.”

Levin focused his full attention on the major. “Only one?”

“I sent out two squads of men—one to roam around underneath us and sweep the caverns, and the other into the archaeological digs of the Ophel . . . places where men could hide. The squad that went through the Ophel digs just got back. That’s all clear and the troops on that side of the valley are keeping a close watch. But we’ve lost contact with the squad that went under the Mount. They could just be out of radio contact down there. But . . . I don’t like it. I sent twenty men down to look for them.”

Now robed priests were carrying golden lampstands past Levin and Katz, who stood just to the side of the Tent’s open portal.

I truly can’t believe what I’m seeing.

“The reinforcements?”

Major Katz shook his head. “The streets in this part of the city are a mess. With the Jerusalem and Jericho highways shut down completely and most of the roads around the Old City closed to civilian traffic, the streets that are left open are a parking lot, clogged with people trying to get a look at what we’re doing here. Those reinforcements have just abandoned their trucks and are on their way to us, on foot, double-time. Shouldn’t be long.”

The singsong prayers of massed priests and rabbis rose from inside the Tent enclosure. Levin watched as a second tent, smaller, covered with animal skins,
rose inside the outer walls. Four priests—led by four singers and followed by four singers—carried a long, golden table down the length of the platform and into the enclosed area. “No . . . it shouldn’t be long,” Levin agreed. “They’ll have to wait for sunrise, but it sounds like they’re ready.”

Fischoff cradled the Uzi in the crook of his left arm, his right hand skidding along a thin, metal railing mounted on the outside wall of the descending spiral stairs. Bohannon, on the other hand, discovered that his right shoulder was not responding to the neuron signals of his brain, his right knee throbbed, and something seeped into the corner of his right eye; likely blood, but he had no way to test that theory. The gun held aloft in his left hand, Bohannon lurched down the stairs, out of control, his muscles desperately trying to exert some influence on his runaway body, and failing miserably. And he was gaining on Fischoff.

Fischoff slowed near the bottom of the stairs and stopped at the last step. His face was turned to the doorway leading out of the tower. He didn’t see Bohannon glance off the stone wall to his right, or carom against the inside railing to his left . . . didn’t see him until Bohannon’s rampaging body catapulted past him and hurtled toward the open doorway.

The flat ground at the bottom of the spire accomplished what the circular stairs failed to do. Bohannon’s knees buckled and he crashed, sprawling through the door and onto the stone walkway outside.

Fischoff was instantly at his side, kneeling, his back to Bohannon and his attention on the open square around them.

Pushing against his elbows and knees, Bohannon elevated his head and shoulders and looked across the open expanse of the Citadel. It was empty except for shadowy forms that materialized into the corporal, the other two men in his squad, and Rizzo, running toward them from the direction of the front gate.

There was no sign of Annie or Kallie. Bohannon sagged.

“A brown Mazda sedan pulled out of here just moments after we split into two groups. We found a porter outside who saw it go by.”

The sergeant spit out a Hebrew word that had the sound of how Bohannon felt. It must have been profane.

“Great . . . there are probably a thousand brown Mazdas in Israel tonight. The shots?”

The corporal looked over at Rizzo, who was bent at the waist, gasping for air.

“C’mon, tell me while we get to the Humvees,” said Fischoff, who took off at a gallop, his men in close stride. “Get up, Bohannon,” he shouted over his shoulder, “or we’ll leave you behind.”

As Sergeant Fischoff and his men ran back toward the vehicles, he was already on the radio.

“We missed them. They’ve taken the women. We think they’re still alive.”

On the other end of the radio, Major Levin cursed.

“Your assignment is to find those women, and find them alive.” The edge in Levin’s voice could cut a rock. “What do you know?”

“A witness told us a brown Mazda sedan pulled out of the Citadel. They waited until we split up and entered the fortress. Sir, we think they’re headed west. My guess is that they’re running for Gaza. Can we get something in the air to track them?”

“Negative, sergeant,” Levin’s voice crackled. “Everything I have at my disposal is tied up in and around the Temple Mount. You’re the closest. If they’re headed for the Strip, they’ll stay off the major highways. They’ve got to take either the Thirty-Eight or the Forty-One. Even a brown Mazda, moving fast, shouldn’t be hard to spot. I’m sorry, Sergeant, but you’re on your own.”

Fischoff grabbed the corporal by the shoulder as they ran around the corner of the Citadel and came to the Humvees. “Take the Ashdod Road. I’ll be on the Thirty-Eight to Ashkelon. Traffic should be light, but I don’t know, with much of the city being locked down. And I don’t care. Move, fast. Our only hope is that they are running to Gaza. If so, they’re still on the road. If they’ve gone to ground somewhere else, we’re screwed. So get moving. Don’t let anything stop you. Run every brown Mazda you see off the road, I don’t care. Just find those women.”

They piled into the Humvees, but Fischoff stood on the running board and hollered over the roof. “And stay on your radio. I want to know everything that’s going on.”

Ten minutes later, the corporal toggled his radio switch. “Nothing yet. Too much traffic.”

“What happened at the Citadel?” The sergeant’s voice showed the strain of the long night and their empty quest.

“The basement corridor forked about fifty meters in,” said the corporal. “Rizzo and I went left. There were four of them in the last room we swept. They were wiring up bricks of C-4. Some well-placed explosives down there could have destroyed half the Citadel.”

“But I heard single shots,” said the sergeant.

The corporal nodded his head and smiled into the back seat. Rizzo gave him a thumbs-up, but it brought no smile to his face. “We cracked the door and somebody inside started shooting. I shoved it open and there were two, just inside the door, against the wall. I couldn’t see them. Mr. Rizzo did. Three shots before anyone could react. Took them both. The others I got.”

3:48 a.m.

More Israeli soldiers were coming through the tunnels below the Temple Mount. The Hezbollah commander stepped around the dead bodies of the first squad and addressed his second-in-command. “I don’t care what he said. We’ve got to move now. Send ten men. Ambush them at the crossroads. Then lead the Martyrs’ Brigade up the steps.” He looked at his watch. “Even if we don’t hear from him, ten minutes, then over the edge of the platform.”

Without waiting for a response, the Hezbollah commander turned quickly and waved his men forward. The beams of the high-density flashlights, carried by the men behind him, bounced off the walls of the low-ceilinged tunnel as the men ran crouched at the waist up the steep incline. Nearly seven hundred years old, the tunnel had been dug from the foundation of the Al-Aqsa Mosque as a precaution—a way to escape if the infidel Crusaders ever returned. Now it led to a section of the concrete rigged with explosives . . . explosives that would blow the concrete out, onto the platform, and into the eyes of Israeli soldiers. At the back end of this long string of Muslim soldiers were ten who struggled under the weight on an immense burlap bag.

3:55 a.m., Tel Aviv

“What about the women? There hasn’t been any word.”

Baruk paused before responding. He wanted better news for the American president.

“We received a tip that they were being held in David’s Tower . . . to be executed, on live television, if we didn’t withdraw from the Temple Mount. Our men got there quickly. Can you believe they have Rizzo and Bohannon with them? But the kidnappers fled before we could capture them. We think the women are still alive, with the captors. We think they are making a run for the safety of the Gaza Strip. Our men are in pursuit. But . . .”

“But you’re not sure where they are?” said the president. “Well, maybe this is something I can help you with.”

4:26 a.m., Jerusalem

Levin and Katz were at the south end of the platform, near the place where the Al-Aqsa Mosque once stood. They were moving fast, a small squad of men in their wake, when the singing stopped. Levin pulled up and looked back at the tent.

“Now what?”

4:29 a.m., Balata Camp, Nablus, West Bank

The telephone on the table rang. Al-Sadr reached it before the second ring.

“Speak.”

He listened, then slapped the handset into the cradle and looked up at Youssef.

“The singing has stopped. Send them.”

Moussa al-Sadr opened his own cell phone again and pressed a speed dial number. When it was answered, there was no greeting.

“You know where he is,” said al-Sadr. “He won’t be there long. This is your mission. Strike at the heart of the Zionists. Go with Allah.”

4:44 a.m., Jerusalem

The blast slammed Levin’s body backward and drove him to the concrete, but not before he felt a crushing blow to his right side. Gunfire erupted around him, not the heavy thumping of the perimeter fifty-caliber machine guns, but the staccato bursts of automatic weapons. His ears were ringing. His right side failed to respond, so Levin pushed himself up with his left arm. He nearly
vomited from the pain in his right side . . . and the sight of Abner Katz, his head half severed from his body by a shard of concrete almost as long as his arm.