The Brotherhood Conspiracy (11 page)

Baqir waved the back of his hand. “Moussa, we all know you have a vendetta against Qaddafi. It was thirty years ago, if it even happened. With you, it’s personal with Qaddafi, it’s not political.”

Imam Moussa al-Sadr leaned across the table. An old, frail man, yes, but also a physical force of threat and revenge. Baqir moved back in his seat.

“You may unleash your disrespectful tongue and your well-equipped army against your people,” al-Sadr said. “You may insult your servants, even your wives, Baqir, but do not believe you can insult me without consequences. You are only president by the will of others—and not the poor, oppressed people of Syria whom you rape every day.”

The imam looked long and hard at the president of Syria, then backed away. “My personal interest in our esteemed colonel is a poor cousin to the wrath of Islam. Yes, many years ago Qaddafi’s ego was unequaled. He was my enemy
then, he is my enemy now. But his attempt to assassinate me is not the reason Libya must fall into our hands. We must control Northern Africa and the Suez Canal to cut off the supply of energy to the West, the oil and gas, even the hope of energy. We must be prepared to defend against an attack from the West, but we will also have the bases from which to launch our attacks against Israel. Libya must fall into the hands of the Brotherhood. Qaddafi is a prancing fool . . . an embarrassment.”

“Qaddafi may be a prancing shadow of the man who once defied the West,” said Kashmiri, the power behind the Syrian president, “but he will not run. He has nowhere to go. More importantly, he truly believes he has been anointed by Allah as king of Africa. Blood will run deep in the streets of Tripoli—in all the streets of Libya—before Colonel Qaddafi will leave his bunker.”

“That bunker will be his grave,” snarled al-Sadr. “The Brotherhood will control the Red Sea, the Suez Canal, the Mediterranean from Gibraltar to the Bosporus. The Jew will be surrounded with no help from outside. All will fall under the blade of jihad. All of our enemies, Baqir.” Al-Sadr pointed a crooked finger across the table. “All of them. And the world will tremble at the rise of Islam. A friend of our enemies is our enemy, Baqir. It would be wise of you to remember that. Qaddafi has not.”

Smiles greeted him from around the table, but they were the smiles of predators waiting to pounce. The smiles warmed what little heart remained in Moussa al-Sadr’s chest. One last strike against the Jew. Many paid the price for his hate. But his blood lust remained. More would pay.

9

S
UNDAY
, A
UGUST
2

New York City

Tom loved An Beal Bocht, the revered Irish pub nestled up against the Manhattan College campus in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. It spoke to him of his ancestors . . . of his grandmother, Mary McStravick, who, at the age of nineteen, left behind her family and her life on the farm in Derryclone, County Armagh and sailed to a new life in Philadelphia. Mary was married, had five children, and was widowed within fourteen years of stepping foot in America. And she lived into her nineties. He was from hearty Irish stock.

“I’m glad you gave up,” said Connor Bohannon as they left their bikes locked in the sidewalk rack and walked into the pub.

Tom sat down heavily in the corner booth against the front window. “And who was gasping for breath coming up the hill? I was just taking pity on you.”

“Sure, Dad. I could tell. Your face was brighter red than the traffic light.”

“You have no respect . . . oh, hi, Bronagh,” Tom said to the sometime bartender, sometime actress, full-time mom and wife who came to their table. “How about two glasses of cold water, two pints of Guinness, and . . .” He turned to Connor. “Beef stew? Okay, thanks, Bronagh.”

The Bocht was quiet. There were still a few hours before musicians showed up for the traditional ceili and Tom soaked in the silence and the joy of just sitting with his son. Connor was twenty-two, two years younger than his sister, Caitlin, and followed his father’s legacy by graduating from Penn State a few months earlier. But there were few similarities between Tom and his son, except for how much they looked alike. Connor was long and lean, five inches taller
than his father, and wore both his hair and his beard significantly longer than Tom. But his hair was the same coppery red with golden glints, his eyes the same pristine blue, and his smile held the same welcoming warmth.

“Are you going to give this thing up?”

Connor’s unannounced question caught Tom by surprise. “What thing? The Guinness?”

“Dad, I’m serious.”

Connor swiveled on the bench that sat up against the front window and turned his body to face Tom head-on.

“This whole treasure hunting adventure thing . . . are you going to give that up?”

Tom turned his back into the corner of the booth so he could face his son. Connor’s face had the look of someone trying to talk a daredevil out of jumping his motorcycle over the Grand Canyon.

“I think we already have, Connor. I wouldn’t be surprised if Doc doesn’t send the mezuzah and scroll off to the British Museum with Brandon McDonough.”

As if chiseled in granite, Connor’s expression didn’t change. “You’re kidding yourself, Dad. I think all of you are kidding yourselves.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t see each other’s faces when you talk about the message, when you talk about Jerusalem and the scroll,” said Connor, his voice betraying an uncharacteristic urgency. “Maybe you don’t hear the excitement in your voices or the palpable burst of adrenaline that rushes through each one of you when you talk about what happened over there. Yeah—you’re discouraged by the outcome. You’re upset that your discovery brought so much destruction and death when you thought it would bring peace. But it’s not over. Not for you, not for the others. You’re not ready to give it up yet. You still think you’re on some great adventure.”

Tom was taken aback, both by the words and by Connor’s passion. “Where is this coming from?”

Connor’s eyes turned to forged steel, hard and cold.

“Mom’s been begging you to quit, to get out of it, to give it up, and you treat her as if she’s some child, patting her head and telling her not to worry. Mom’s worried, Dad. We’re all worried. And we have reason to be worried. There are people out there who will kill you, kill us, to get their hands on that mezuzah and scroll. But I don’t think that registers with you.”

“Connor, that’s all over.”

“No! Not really. You talk about our safety, like it matters, but you don’t do anything about it. You tell us you want to keep us safe, but you don’t throw away the one thing that keeps us all in danger. You’re just lying to yourself and to us.”

Tom’s heart was pierced and his stomach knotted both by his son’s accusations and the realization that they were true.

“I . . . I don’t . . .”

“You’re not willing to give up this so-called adventure. I can tell. Mom can tell. And it makes us feel as if we’re not important. As if the only thing that’s important is that stupid mezuzah and a message nobody cares about.”

Bohannon felt a shiver go up his spine. How could Connor . . .

“But, Connor . . . it is important.”

“Important!” Connor slammed his fist against the table. “You still don’t get it. What’s important is that Caitlin refuses to go back to Fordham at night because she’s still afraid of being abducted and that she can’t sleep because of the nightmares. What’s important is that Mom stares at her coffee cup each morning as if she’s a million miles away. What’s important is what you are doing to your family and you don’t give a . . . awww, what’s the use?”

Connor pushed the table away, got to his feet, and was out the door before Tom could think of something to say. He was about to get up and run after him when he saw Bronagh standing at the other side of the table, two steaming dishes in her hands and a look of disbelief on her face.

“Beef stew?”

10

T
HURSDAY
, A
UGUST
6

Jerusalem

“Do you have any idea what you’re requesting?”

“Certainly.” Chaim Shomsky tried to appear relaxed, confident. But his confidence was as rumpled as his suit. “We’re asking for funds to mount an operation that must never come to the attention of the government, the press, or the Arabs. Even though we believe we know where to look, finding the Tent will be a challenge. But once we get it here and get it set up, any Arab hope will be blocked. We’ll be in control of the Mount, and all Jerusalem, once again.”

When Shomsky first met him, Meyer Feldberg’s eyes were a glittering, glacial blue—the color of the diamonds Feldberg’s slaves pulled from the earth of South Africa. That was when the money Feldberg poured into Baruk’s political ambitions was fairly clean. But Feldberg’s heart later became as black as his tactics and his shadowy associates, and the money became more tainted, with more strings. Polluted by years of cigar smoke and infected with the poison of greed, Feldberg’s eyes were now clouded deeply gray, surrounded by bloodshot fractures, tongues of damnation fire flickering in their midst. Feldberg—clearly comfortable in his position, his advantage, and his five-thousand-dollar suit—easily pierced Shomsky’s well-honed outer coating of disdain. Once again Shomsky felt the menace of wealth and power in the hands of the ruthless.

“Where did this brainless idea come from?”

“I was talking to a rabbi after the Temple’s discovery,” said Shomsky, his anger restrained by the bonds of prudence. “He said, ‘Next thing you know, someone will find the Tent of Meeting.’ And I thought,
why not?
”

“You make it sound so simple,” said Feldberg, fit and muscular in his fifties, his bald head as smooth as a baby’s cheeks. “Clearly, ignorance is bliss. Sadly, your ignorance of Scripture is legion.”

The insult penetrated the folds and rolls of Shomsky’s flesh, mixing with the tide of perspiration that flowed beneath his shirt. Shomsky hated meeting in Feldberg’s study. It was safer than either man’s office, but Feldberg kept his home like a hothouse and Shomsky left each meeting feeling like, and looking like, a well-used dish towel.

Shomsky absently attempted to restore the crease to his pants leg. “You, Meyer . . . you read the Scriptures?” he said, raising his eyes.

Meyer Feldberg picked a cigar from the humidor on the desk, rolled it between his thumb and index finger, lifted it to his nose, and inhaled deeply. His eyes were closed, drinking in the deep aroma of Cuban tobacco. “Choose your words wisely, Chaim. Push the wrong button and”—he picked up the large, gold cigar scissors next to the humidor and neatly sliced the tip off the Cuban—“you might lose something you find precious.”

A shiver of ice ran up Shomsky’s spine. He’d witnessed the outcome of Feldberg’s displeasure firsthand. This man, whose wealth held Eliazar Baruk in bondage, was not one to trifle with. Diverting his gaze to the window, he straightened his tie and squared his shoulders.

“No offense, Meyer. Your knowledge of the Talmud just surprises me.”

“There is much about me that would surprise you. If Baruk were more a scholar than a lawyer, he might understand that what he is asking would take a miracle.”

Feldberg sat down behind his desk, now a bulwark between him and Shomsky.

“Look,” said Feldberg, “there are two monumental problems, at least, facing anyone who hopes to find the Tent of Meeting. First, it’s fallen off the face of history without a trace. Second, even if it existed, even if it were found, getting it secretly into Jerusalem—let alone on top of the Temple Mount—would be next to impossible.”

Shomsky cursed Baruk, silently, for putting him in this office in the first place. Feldberg’s power and arrogance were palpable, and Shomsky always felt like a child in the principal’s office, waiting to hear the litany of his sins, each time he was forced to sit across from Feldberg.

Feldberg placed the unlit cigar on the desk and spread his hands apart.

“The Tabernacle was the portable structure the Israelites constructed in the
desert, to the specific instructions and dimensions that God gave to Moses on Mount Sinai, and it housed the Ark of the Covenant and the great bronze altar,” said Feldberg, as if instructing a child. “It was a huge structure built of wood and hides and it protected two rooms that were built inside the Tent: the Holy place, which was the site of the altar and ritual sacrifice, and the Holy of Holies, where the Ark of the Covenant was kept. The entire Tent was often referred to as the Tabernacle. It was led by the pillar of fire by night and the pillar of smoke by day. This is the structure that Baruk is talking about when he refers to the Tent of Meeting.

“Our number one problem, then, is that no one has seen the Tent for thousands of years. Which makes me doubt whether you or Eliazar could possess any real idea of where the Tent may rest.”

“That’s it?” With effort, Shomsky managed to sound affronted. “I tell the prime minister, sorry, we’ve decided that it doesn’t exist?”

Feldberg fingered the brass letter opener lying on top of his desk. It brought a smile to his face. Shomsky could visualize its point pressing hard against his throat.

“Look, Chaim, do you want the truth, or do you want some fairy tale? The Tent disappeared from history; it’s as simple as that. After the Israelites entered the Promised Land, they eventually set up the Tent of Meeting and the Tabernacle in Shiloh, where the Ark of the Covenant was kept, presided over by the priesthood. In the time of Eli the priest, the Philistines routed the army of the Jews. So the elders decided to bring the Ark from Shiloh and send it into battle with them, expecting God to destroy their enemy. He didn’t, the Israelites were defeated, and the Philistines captured the Ark. They didn’t keep it long. Supposedly, God sent a plague and the Philistines begged the Israelites to take the Ark back.”