The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (22 page)

“God wants the staff found,” he said. “That I know. The staff is a symbol to this world, a reminder of God’s power and his justice. Perhaps Aaron’s staff will turn the people of this world away from those things that glorify man and insult the God who created man.”

Bohannon felt the chill run down his spine once more, and a sepulchral silence entered the
gniza.
“I tell you the truth. If that staff still has life, I would fear greatly for this world.” The young man’s words had lost their melody, but developed a razor’s edge. He seemed to have grown in stature. “Pharaoh hardened his heart toward God so many times that God finally hardened Pharaoh’s heart permanently, and look what happened to Egypt: the plagues. What would happen to this world if God turned his patience to wrath? Would he use the same instrument to unleash that wrath? Would he release the same plagues?”

A shadow crossed Bohannon’s eyes. A dusky haze filled the room as it darkened even more.

“Why does God want the staff found?” The young man’s voice was a whisper, retreating from Bohannon’s ears. “Is Aaron’s staff to tap into the rock once more and bring forth the spiritual water of revival so that nations will be saved? Or is it to open God’s justice and bring cleansing on the world? Regardless of God’s plan,” he whispered, “this is your task. This is what God has created you to do. And you should allow nothing to stop you.”

Bohannon fought for clarity of mind and vision.

“How do you know all this? Who are you?”

As he removed his hands from Tom’s shoulders, a broad smile crossed the young man’s face and warmed Tom’s soul. “My father calls me Gabriel. My brothers also.”

“I don’t—”

Steps fell heavy on the stone stairway leading from the upper floor. Annie and Tom turned for a heartbeat to see Rabbi Asher at the bottom of the steps. “Mr. Bohannon, I promised you—”

“Rabbi, your nephew Gabriel here …” Tom turned, his left arm swinging in an arc toward the young man.

But no one was there.

Bohannon looked down the empty length of the stacked shelves and then at his wife, whose face glowed like the sky before a rising sun. They turned to the rabbi.

“No, Mr. Bohannon, this is my nephew Gabriel here,” said Rabbi Asher, his hand on the shoulder of a teenager in an ill-fitting black suit. “I told you that I would bring him to you. Now I must get upstairs before the service begins. Gabriel,” he said to the teenager, “please help Mr. and Mrs. Bohannon read the notations in the codex.”

11:15 p.m., Tehran, Iran

His private jet landed at Tehran’s Mehrabad Airport, well out of the fallout zone, in the middle of the night and was unobstructed as it taxied to the far end of the tarmac, turning into a huge, darkened hangar in the corner farthest from the main terminal. The hangar doors moved with quiet dispatch, closing off all visual access in less than a minute. A phalanx of black, stretch limos with darkened windows were parked in a chevron formation to the left of the now-stationary jet.

When King Abbudin of Saudi Arabia descended the stairs, the Iranian security agents had no idea which vehicle the king would select. There were seven limos and, before the front door of the airplane swung open, dozens of Saudi guards poured out the back door and surrounded—and searched—each of the vehicles.

Abbudin was dressed plainly this night, the king wearing a simple white kaftan under an open, dark green robe, a black-checked keffiyeh on his head. His heavy face was dominated by the many-layered, sagging bags under his eyes, the small, pointed beard isolated to the apex of his chin.

Without hesitation, King Abbudin stepped into the third limo on the right wing of the chevron. Bodyguards and aides scrambled into the other three vehicles on the same wing. Two Cadillac Escalade SUVs stood sentinel at the point of the chevron and began to pull away, gaining speed as they burst from the hangar and crossed the tarmac to a heavily guarded, open gate. As the chevron of limos exited the gate, it split in two, and the wings drove off in opposite directions.

Tehran’s congested and logic-defying traffic problems were avoided because of the late hour. The convoy raced down the Lashkari Expressway and, instead of turning north to the president’s official residence in the Sa’dabad Palace in Shemiran, turned south toward Shahr Park. Following the Cadillac SUV, the motorcade whizzed past the British and German embassies and turned right onto a small street that backed the Iran National Museum. Turning into a thin driveway flanked by the Islamic Era Museum, the vehicles skirted the fountain in the midst of the formal gardens and pulled up—hidden by trees—at the back of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Abbudin’s bodyguards formed a human shield around their king as he stepped from the limo. This tight knot of security moved silently to the rear entrance of the ministry building, but turned left, down a short flight of steps to an underground level. Once through a heavy, vault-like door, most of the security squad pulled away to man surveillance locations while two of his most trusted guardians accompanied the king down a long, sloping hallway, deeper into the bowels of the building. At the far end, two French doors opened. Standing in the doorway was the supreme leader.

“As-salaam alaikum,” said Abbudin, a nod of his head acknowledging his host, “and Allah’s mercy and blessings.”

“Wa-alaikum salaam, my brother, the same to you. It is an honor to have you under our roof.” Imam Ayatollah Ali Ghorbani, the second supreme leader of the Islamic Republic of Iran since the Islamic Revolution overthrew the shah in 1979, looked much like his predecessor—old, bespectacled, a full, long white beard covering a third of his face, a large black sarband on his head. Like his mentor Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini before him, Ali Ghorbani was one of the Shi’a clerics who helped design the Iranian theocracy, a fundamentalist Islamic state effectively ruled by the self-appointed Assembly of Experts, which selected the supreme leader. “I apologize for the clandestine nature of your arrival, but even here in Tehran, we have become victims of traitors and Zionist aggression. Let me assure you, we are safe here. We are upwind of the radiation, and this bunker is secure. Come, let us rest.”

His right arm nearly destroyed by an assassination attempt in 1981, when a bomb concealed in a tape recorder at a press conference exploded beside him, Ghorbani extended his left hand and escorted King Abbudin farther into the depths of the foreign ministry building.

“It is good of you to come to Tehran,” Ghorbani said as they walked along the corridor and turned into a comfortable sitting room. “I must admit I was a bit surprised when I received your request.”

Ghorbani led Abbudin toward two facing, upholstered chairs flanking a small, round table. Above them hung a life-size portrait of the late supreme leader, Ruhollah Khomeini. The portrait was their only companion as their aides and bodyguards wasted no time leaving the room.

Abbudin, understanding the risk he took by asking for this meeting, didn’t waste any time, either.

“Your Excellency, I come to you tonight as a tangible assertion of my solidarity with you and your countrymen at this time and to offer you the support of the Saudi people. I only ask that you and I put aside for the moment the many things that divide us and allow me to speak of the more important things that unite us.”

Ghorbani sat back into the softness of the chair, his eyes never leaving Abbudin’s face. The Saudi king knew this was the pivotal moment.

The supreme leader’s voice was welcoming, his Arabic—in place of his native Farsi—was perfect, but his words carried the sting of truth. “By those things that divide us, do you mean the funds and arms you are currently supplying to the Sunni terrorists who are trying to overthrow the legitimate government of my Shi’a brother Baqir Al-Musawi in Syria? Or do you mean the American warplanes you permit to be based on the Saudi peninsula? Or do you mean the recent assassination of the Imam Moussa al-Sadr, father of Hezbollah, at the hands of one of your sons?”

King Abbudin was fully aware of the extensive intelligence apparatus the Iranians maintained throughout the world, but even he was surprised by Ghorbani’s last comment. “Yes, those things and many others I’m sure you and I could articulate,” said Abbudin, wrapping his robe more tightly around him in the subterranean chill. “And those are the things I am asking us to put aside for the moment—to put aside in pursuit of a higher goal than the Sunni-Shi’a enmity that saps our strength and blinds our intentions.”

Ali Ghorbani’s face was expressionless. “Tell me, then, why are you here?”

“I’m here,” said King Abbudin, moving up to the edge of his chair, “because you and I seek the same thing, what is sought by all true followers of Islam: annihilation of Israel, destruction of Western civilization, and reestablishment of the Caliphate.”

“And you have the means to make these things a reality?”

Abbudin could feel the hook setting.

“With your help.”

“Tell me how.”

“I once again control the Muslim Brotherhood. Al-Sadr lost control in Egypt, and Hosani’s foolish ego and inept leadership was a setback for the movement. The Brotherhood has returned to the shadows, where it flourished for eighty years, building schools and bakeries, making disciples, and baking bread for the poor and leaderless. The generals think that cutting off the head will kill the body. The body grows stronger and will sprout new heads. But the Brotherhood remains committed to its ultimate goal—jihad and the overthrow of Western culture—and will continue to undermine pro-Western governments. Jordan will soon feel the hot breath of the Arab Spring.

“During the economic crisis in the West, particularly in the midst of this credit crisis in the European Union, a consortium of Saudi banks has worked through a series of fronts and dummy companies to purchase euro debt in staggering amounts. When the time is right, these Saudi banks—which I control—will call in this debt for immediate payment, bankrupting the governments of Europe.

“The time will be right,” Abbudin continued, “when several things happen at once: when Saudi oil will stop flowing so freely because, we will claim, Brotherhood terrorists have sabotaged our pumping capacity; when the Islamic Republic of Iran shuts down the Strait of Hormuz to protect itself from additional aggression by the Zionists; when Western military bases are closed across the Islamic world; and when both you and I come to the aid of our brother Baqir, sending him tanks and troops, putting an end to this civil war in Syria so that Hezbollah is free to concentrate once more on Israel. Then these tanks and troops will be available, and in place, to roll up to the gates of Jerusalem.”

Pushing up with his left hand, Ghorbani rose from his chair and walked to a sideboard against the wall. He poured a glass of water and brought it back, handing it to Abbudin. “A fine plan. But what will you do when America launches her cruise missiles, when her B-2 bombers begin targeting our tanks and our troops?” Ghorbani returned to the sideboard and came back with water for himself.

Abbudin raised his glass to the supreme leader, as if offering a toast. “America will be isolated, impotent,” he claimed. “All of her allies will be silenced, economically emasculated as they have tried to do to Iran. We will bankrupt their economies. And crush them if they try to intervene. The financially desperate governments of Europe will confound the Americans for us, by calling for restraint while we push forward with our objectives—a political and economic coup to secretly exercise almost total control over German, French, Italian, Greek, and Spanish banks and governments.”

Ghorbani nodded his head, his beard bobbing across the top of his water glass. “And what of us, my brother? Our nation sits on the edge of a much more imminent economic collapse: our gold reserve unapproachable, our oil production cut by more than half, American warships clogging our lifeline at Hormuz. How do I pay my soldiers? How do we keep food in the markets?”

The king of the Saud rested his glass on the small table by his side. Gathering up his kaftan and robe, he rose from the chair and bowed low from the waist. “Your Excellency,” he said as he straightened, “the days of Sunni-Shi’a enmity are over. We are Muslim brothers; we are united in the call of the Prophet to jihad against the West. You have the promise of the House of Saud, the promise of the Muslim Brotherhood. Our banks are as open to you as our hearts. Come, we will supply all you need, a gift from one brother to another.”

Ghorbani studied King Abbudin with the calculated assessment of a jewelry vendor in the market square. “And in return?”

Abbudin smiled. “Airlift your army and your tanks into the plain of Marj al-Saffar in Syria to support Al-Musawi, but ready to turn west into Israel. I will supply the cargo planes. The Brotherhood and my banks will withdraw support from the rebels. Send your warships into the Persian Gulf and attack the Americans. We are with you, esteemed brother. The might of Islam stands behind our brothers in Persia. Our time is here. Our destiny is now.”

“Very well. But do not allow the arrogance of advantage to cloud discretion,” said Ghorbani. “Once again I ask you about the long arm of the American military. Their weapons are not to be underestimated.”

Not for the first time, Abbudin held his anger in check.
Your day will also come—you and all who malign the House of Saud.

“You knew of the old man of the desert?”

“Ah, yes,” said Ghorbani, “another brother who fell beneath the sharp blade of Saudi revenge. What of him and his assassins?”

Abbudin refused to rise to the bait. “For centuries the Prophet’s Guard has sought the most powerful weapon in the history of the world—the staff of Aaron which imparted power to the Jews’ Ark of the Covenant. Today, the Brotherhood has breathed new life into the Prophet’s Guard and joined in that search. I believe the successful completion of that search is closer than ever. No military force will be able to stand against us.”

Laughter burst from Ayatollah Ali Ghorbani like a backhanded slap. “Hah! You put your faith, and your hope for world domination in a fanciful story told by old women to infants? And where will you find this magic stick?”