The Brotherhood Conspiracy (51 page)

“The Temple Mount is always a target, Avram.”

“Perhaps you’re right . . . but now I feel the crosshairs on our backs.”

Katz was regular army, a man accustomed to being in command. Here, on the Mount, it was Levin who was in charge, even though the IDF troops outnumbered those of Shin Bet. But the Hawk was neither foolish nor proud. There was no operation manual for this situation—securing the Temple Mount for the arrival of the Tabernacle.

Levin stopped near a series of openings, entry points for the stairs coming up from the Huldah Gates and the Western Wall. Beyond the stair shafts the platform was a ragged tangle of iron rebar and unfinished concrete—bare and open, both above and below. Tough to defend.

“I want you to take tactical command. I’ve already told my men and run it up the chain of command. I don’t have any battlefield experience. And we’re going to need that experience.” Levin had known Abner Katz since cadet school. This
was a man he could trust and depend on. “I don’t know how they found out; this secret was pretty tightly held. But the Muslims are coming and they’re coming after the Tent. General Orhlon has reinforcements on the way. But, for now, it’s up to you and me.”

4:35 a.m.

Leonidas had several cell phones lined up in front of him. Each one had only one purpose. Each one had only one phone number programmed in its memory.

He looked at the clock on the wall opposite his desk. In less than an hour he would be independently wealthy. In less than an hour it would be over. He would be gone. The legacy he would leave behind would be chaos.

“Hello, my friend.”

“Friend? I doubt that,” said Moussa al-Sadr, surprised that Leonidas would be calling at this hour, and fearful that his fighters had been discovered. “A friend remains in contact. A friend returns calls. You have been quite obvious by your absence, Leonidas. Perhaps you have discovered other friends?”

“I have no feelings. Your sarcasm is wasted on me, my friend.”

Al-Sadr stepped away from the map on top of the table—the map outlining the maze of tunnels under the Temple Mount, a map drawn from the memory of those who chased the Americans prior to the earthquake. He was in no mood to joust with this heathen informer.

“Why have you called?”

The raspy breathing in the receiver transformed into a gurgling chuckle. “Why? Why do I ever call you? I have information. Valuable information.”

Al-Sadr waited to hear more, but only rasps came through the earpiece. “What is it?”

“Ah . . . first, the price,” said Leonidas. “Information has become much more valuable—so many seeking reliable intelligence about the Mount, the Israelis, . . . their search. Supply and demand, yes?”

“What do you want?” al-Sadr snapped. “Tell me. I have little time for negotiations.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are busy in that little house in the Balata camp,” said
Leonidas. “Particularly tonight, eh, my friend? Yes, well, since you have not the time to negotiate, the price has doubled.”

Al-Sadr squeezed the phone as if it were Leonidas’s neck.
Someday . . . when I have you under my knife.
“Tell me what you know.”

“The Israelis have the Tent of Meeting. Shin Bet followed the tall American. Somehow, he was led to one of the many caves dotting the cliffs over Scorpion Pass. That the Tent was hidden in that cave is . . . well . . . miraculous. So, Shin Bet has the Tent. They are debating how to handle it, how to move it. But once it’s loaded on trucks the convoy will be on its way to Jerusalem disguised as building materials for the reconstruction of the Temple Mount. I leave it to your imagination what they intend to do with the Tent once they reach the Temple Mount.”

Al-Sadr circled the walls of the small room while he listened. As he passed the table, he looked at the Hezbollah brigade commanders who were now huddled over the map. Their objective was now more important, and more difficult.

“Thank you . . . my friend.” Al-Sadr nearly choked on the words. “Again, you have done us a service.”

“My pleasure, since you’re the one paying.”

Major Avram Levin’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket and the Hawk immediately tensed. Only his wife had this number and she never called him during an operation. Something was wrong.

Levin looked at the vibrating phone in his hand. There was no incoming phone number. “Yes?”

“Good evening, Major. Congratulations on your promotion.”

The voice on the phone sounded as if coarse sandpaper had shredded its vocal cords. “Who are you?”

“Don’t bother asking questions,” the disembodied voice gurgled. “There’s no time for that. I have something you need to act on immediately. There is a new leader of the Muslim Brotherhood who has come out of Hezbollah. He is very powerful and he is planning to launch an attack on the Temple Mount as soon as—”

“Give me some proof or I hang up now,” Levin snapped.

“Your men call you
the Hawk
. Your wife, who is partial to pink sweaters, is the only person with this number. Israeli soldiers are, at this moment, preparing
the biblical Tent of Meeting for transport to Jerusalem. And you had better listen to me or many Israeli soldiers will die.”

Levin shuddered. “Tell me.”

“First, Hezbollah has been infiltrating fighters into Jerusalem for days. There is a large force massed and ready to attack. They are only awaiting the order.”

“I know that. Our intelligence is far better than yours.”

“Is it? . . . I know where the American women are.”

Out in the harbor of Tel Aviv, swinging at anchor, the Liberian freighter
Les Bon Amis
rolled heavily in the growing wind.

“The launch . . . it waits for you at the far end of the wharf,
n’est pa
?” Captain Longines said into the cellular phone. The man’s skin was as black as his heart. A Somali pirate who, over the years, parlayed abduction and ransom into a mostly legitimate coastal freighter, Captain Longines maintained order on his ship through his powerful stature and ruthless vengeance. A man of many motives, he was neither to be trusted nor trifled with.

Leonidas had little choice. He needed an escape route. One that could not be traced. What better way to disappear than on a ship that also needed to disappear. It was Leonidas who—without Captain Longines’s knowledge—arranged for the illegal cargo of munitions and missiles to be loaded onto
Les Bon Amis
. And it was Leonidas who could be sure the Captain had no hidden connection to Mossad or the police.

“Has my luggage arrived . . . my computer?” Leonidas wiped the palm of one hand on his wilted pants, but it didn’t stop the sweat. Much of his plan now hung in the balance. He needed the dollars, the gold, and the diamonds, hidden inside his computer console, to guarantee the many stages of his long, circuitous escape route. If Captain Longines hesitated, it probably meant his hidden treasure was no longer hidden.

“Ah,
oui
, all is at the ready,” said the Captain, no hitch in his voice. “You come, we go. But . . . any delay, it may endanger your plans, eh? This weather, she has changed her mind. And it will, soon, become
tres
nasty. Come soon. Or, maybe, we no go.”

“Just be ready.”

Sixty seconds later, Leonidas threw the third phone into a small, ceramic
stove that kept him warm on winter nights, but now turned all his records and personal files to ash.

Leonidas swung his chair around to face the computer screen. The Swiss bank’s Web site was already loaded. He typed in his user name, his password, and the three additional identification requirements that were necessary to access the bank’s most secure server. Leonidas then keyed in an untraceable number on the satellite phone that rested on his desk.

“Guten abend.”

“Good evening,” said Leonidas. “Six-four-roger-kilo-nine-three-three-zed.”

“Was ist Ihr schlechtester Albtraum?”

“My worst nightmare? Not getting revenge.”

“Geben Sie bitte Ihren Ermächtigungscode, jetzt ein.”

Leonidas keyed in the long, multilayered authorization code.

“How may we be of assistance?”

“Is the transfer prepared?”

“Of course.”

“Implement the transfer.”

Leonidas tapped his foot against the leg of the table.

“It is complete.”

He opened the other windows on his browser. Kigali. Johannesburg. Penang Island. Auckland. Adelaide. And, finally, the bulk of it, Papeete. All the banks had wired coded messages of delivery. His path was prepared. Now, his final transaction.

The one that counted. He made his fourth call.

“Good evening, Leonidas. I’ve been awaiting your call.” A voice as slippery as an oil slick came across the phone. “Are our plans in motion?”

“Is my money in the bank?”

“Yes, of course. Check your account online if you insist. I’ll wait.”

Leonidas punched in the last few keystrokes and his numbered account in the Cayman Islands came up on the screen—the one that received all of the “deposits” and then was immediately swept clean. It was all there. So many zeros!

He took no time with pleasantries.

“Al-Sadr is poised to launch his attack on the Temple Mount, but now he will
wait until the Israeli soldiers and priests get the Tent erected. Shin Bet knows of the attack and where the women are being held.”

“Good. What else?”