The Brotherhood Conspiracy (52 page)

“Baruk is home. He will soon receive information about al-Sadr’s planned attack. When he does, he and his bodyguards will consider leaving his home and trying to get to Central Command. The cars will be prepared, but they will delay. That is your opportunity. Al-Sadr and his bodyguards are in a house near Nablus, in the Balata refugee camp. I sent the GPS coordinates to you attached to an email. He will be there for the duration of the attack on the Temple Mount. It is his command post. You have time.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Leonidas stole a quick look at his watch.

“Well done,” said the voice. “You have fulfilled all of your promises. And I will fulfill mine. You will be fully compensated for all of your service to us. Goodbye, Leonidas. Go with Allah.”

Leonidas closed the cell phone, looked at it for a moment, then threw it into the stove. He got up from his desk, reached out, and picked up a framed picture that he meditated on every night. The photo was of a relatively young man, standing, posed, with his arm around a woman, two young boys by their sides. The man wore the uniform of the IDF—Israeli Defense Forces. On the lapels of his shirt, the bars of a lieutenant. On the breast pocket of his shirt, the winged sword with crossed lightning bolts—the insignia of Israel’s Special Forces. On his face, the smile of the innocent—a face that looked so much like his own, so many years ago, long before he learned to satiate his pain with food. His twin brother—twin in birth, in soul, mind, and spirit.

“Tonight, we have won, my brother. Tonight, we have repaid everything. Life for life. In an abundance. Your sons will never want for anything. Your wife will not be left destitute. And your life, squandered in such a useless manner, has been avenged. Rest, my brother. Rest in peace.”

Leonidas straightened his shoulders, started to turn, and then stopped. Perhaps he could make just one more call. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his personal BlackBerry. It wouldn’t matter now. Everything was in motion just as he planned. Except this call . . . the one he hadn’t planned. But the thought was so sweet.

He dialed the number.

“Good evening, my friend.”

“I have no more need of your services,” the voice said in reply.

“Yes, that is correct,” Leonidas said through the voice distorter. “You are out of business. Shin Bet knows of your plans. All of your plans. The Tent will be in place before you can act. And they will be coming for the women.”

Leonidas relished the slight intake of breath on the receiving end, and the final words he so long desired to say to Imam Moussa al-Sadr. “Burn in hell, you madman.”

Leonidas carried the framed picture to a small bag by the door, inserted it into a padded pocket inside the bag, pulled closed the zipper, and left his office, his home, his legacy.

“Can I help you, sir?” said the guard by the gate.

“No, sergeant, thank you. I’m just going for a short walk. It’s a bit windy, but a beautiful night.”

“Yes sir . . . good night, Mr. Shomsky.”

29

M
ONDAY
, A
UGUST
24 (C
ONTINUED
)

5:08 a.m., Balata Camp, Nablus, West Bank

“How many are in place?”

“Three hundred . . . one hundred under the Haram, the rest in the two houses at the other end of the tunnel,” said Youssef. “They will be through the tunnel within minutes of the assault. There are another five hundred within a kilometer of the Haram. They will have to fight their way through.”

“Is that enough? Will we succeed?”

“Yes, Holy One, it is enough for what we hope to accomplish. But why don’t we strike now? Before the Israelis bring more troops . . . before the Tent arrives?”

Al-Sadr placed his hand on the commander’s massive arm, a gesture of endearment that was lost neither on Youssef nor on his master. Only al-Sadr knew the gesture was simply for effect. “Be patient. We want the Zionists to erect their sacrilege—it gives us just cause in the eyes of the world, and it rallies our brothers. It will stir the heart of Islam to outrage. The great mosque, the beautiful Dome, lying in ruins and these usurper Jews bury them beneath concrete and then try to steal the Haram from Islam? They have no right! This is insult . . . sacrilege. So, let them commit their abomination. Then we will attack with the ferocity of the wronged. We will destroy this sham of a temple and reclaim the Haram.”

“But, can we hold it?”

The old man walked over to a small window that looked out over the Balata camp. In the distance the barking of dogs mixed with the smell of charcoal cooking fires to fill the early morning air. “There is no need to hold it,” he
whispered. “We only need to gain possession of the Haram, destroy the infidel’s tent, and claim it as the rightful domain of the Jordanian Waqf. When the Israelis counterattack, which they will—and they will succeed—we have legitimacy in the eyes of the world. And they look like the brutal oppressors they are. The future of Jerusalem, of al-Haram al-Sharif, will soon be out of Israel’s hands. The world court, world opinion will decide, will force Israel to make concessions for peace. The holy mountain will be restored to Islam. The Dome, the Al-Aqsa Mosque, will rise once more . . . and the Brotherhood will be united under one banner.”

Al-Sadr turned from the window to look at Youssef. The ambient light from the Balata camp filled the window, creating a shimmering, almost angelic glow behind the old man.

“The Brotherhood continues to sow seeds of revolution. Jordan will be next—that puppet king will lose both his throne and his head,” said al-Sadr, his voice rising like the tidal wave of chaos that was spreading over the Middle East. His right arm rose, punctuating every pledge. “And our Syrian president should not feel comfortable tonight. He, too, will soon feel the wrath of the unleashed unwashed. Syria, too, will drop into the waiting hands of the Brotherhood. And then the Jew will be surrounded with enemies once again—no more of this blasphemous peace with the Jews.”

He took a step forward. “But my eyes, Youssef, are on the Saud . . . the fat, the arrogant Saud . . . how great will be their fall.”

9:35 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time, Washington, DC

Jonathan Whitestone sat in the quiet and the dark of the Rose Garden, the velvety soft aroma soothing his nerves. Too much was happening, too quickly. The risk of taking a misstep was high, and a misstep could be cataclysmic.

Bill Cartwright entered the garden and walked down the path toward the president. The look on his face telegraphed his message.

“More bad news, Bill?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said the CIA director. “The Israelis are in possession of the Tent of Meeting. It appears that Joe Rodriguez uncovered some clues to its location. He found it in some place called Scorpion Pass, down by the southern end of the Dead Sea. Rodriguez didn’t have it long. Shin Bet had him covered like a blanket, and they closed in immediately. The Tent will soon be on its way
to Jerusalem and the Israelis have locked down the city. My contact said Baruk has given the order that the Tent be assembled immediately . . . tonight . . . so the Jews can reestablish ritual sacrifice on the Mount and declare sovereignty over the entire Mount platform.”

Whitestone felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. “That would be a disaster. How good is your contact?”

“High up . . . on the inside of the Israeli government.”

The president rose and started back toward the White House, then turned to face Cartwright. “Bill, do we still have a black ops team in place in Israel?”

“Yes, Mr. President. They can be on the move with a phone call. I’ve had them on standby since yesterday.”

“Good.” Whitestone took a step toward the CIA director. “Put them in play.” Whitestone took a deep breath to try to calm his thumping heart. This was the biggest gamble of his presidency. “Bill, we have to do everything in our power to ensure that Tent does not remain in Israeli hands . . . or fall into the hands of the Muslims. Tell the team to take whatever steps they can to secure it or destroy it, before it can be assembled. Make it look like an accident.”

Cartwright’s eyes searched the president’s face. “Jon, I don’t know if we can get it done. And, if we do, Baruk . . . the Israelis . . . will go ballistic if they find out we were behind the destruction of the Tent.”

Whitestone put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Don’t I know it. This could be a political and diplomatic nightmare.” He sighed, and shook his head, trying to escape the weight that pressed down on his neck. “But anything is better than World War Three. Get the team moving. And let’s pray we’re making the right decision.”

5:22 a.m., Tel Aviv

Black against black, the
Zodiac
was invisible even though it was being thrown around by three-foot waves. The wind continued to build. The bursts were so violent, so low, the wind sucked water from the surface of the sea and drove the spray before it like a sandstorm in the desert. The waves rolled higher, but the
Zodiac
’s powerful, silent, electric engine pushed the bouncing inflatable intractably onward toward the freighter. Three black-clad, black-masked men watched the harbor launch pull away from the ship, its passenger climbing the gangway like a drunken sailor, and guided the
Zodiac
to the far side of the ship.

While attention was fixed on the ship’s sole, arriving passenger, the men in the
Zodiac
used magnetic moorings connected to long ropes to attach the inflatable to the freighter amidships, where the gunwale was low to the water. They hooked an assembled ladder to the side of the ship, then scrambled up, over, and into the shadows before the next big wave could roll the top rail out of reach.

No one was on this side of the ship. One stayed in the shadows beneath an overhang to guard the boat. The other two moved forward, opened a door, and disappeared from sight.

Captain Longines was not entirely pleased with the half-now, half-later nature of the transaction, but Shomsky knew that the half Longines had already banked would keep this tug running for a year—without any supplemental income. Now secure in his cabin, Shomsky was certain the fortune that awaited Captain Longines would keep him safe throughout their voyage.

“You may desire to secure your belongings . . . that computer,” said the captain, pointing to Shomsky’s bags. “The sea, she is very angry tonight. We shall all be punished for our sins, monsieur. I think, none of us will escape her fury, eh?”

A chill gripped Shomsky’s heart at the captain’s choice of words but, as the door closed behind him, Shomsky dismissed Longines’s prophetic warning as the fanciful fears of an ignorant and superstitious thug. He was safe on this ship, finally safe after so many years of planning and executing his revenge. Lukas Painter was the commander who sentenced his twin, his only brother, to death in the sands of Libya. His country never acknowledged the loss or the sacrifice. Israel never admitted its complicity in his death—that one of his own soldiers, friendly fire, ripped apart Lieutenant Shomsky’s chest with a burst of automatic fire and then left him to die. It was as if Hillel Shomsky, 33rd Brigade, Red Raiders, never existed. He was never mourned. Never honored. Never buried. It had taken Chaim ten years to track down the members of the patrol, to finally extract the truth.