The Brotherhood Conspiracy (54 page)

Deep in the caverns beneath Levin’s feet, Muslim fighters began to edge their way closer to the surface. They moved beyond the tunnel that the Martyrs’ Brigade dug into the Mount during the tumultuous weeks since the earthquake and through some of the caverns that were untouched by the selective destruction that moved the earth under Jerusalem.

Hassan, commander of these fighters, thanked Allah there was a way through the damage. Had all the karstic caverns collapsed, the Temple Mount would simply be a mound of rubble, never to be rebuilt. But many of the Herodian arches remained intact. His teams had conducted scouting missions before this night, probing and marking a route to the surface.

Now, hundreds of trained fighters twisted through the tunnels in a long, serpentine, single-file line, their singular destination a confrontation—a battle—for control of al-Haram al-Sharif.

12:58 a.m., Balata Camp, Nablus, West Bank

Moussa al-Sadr looked at the small clock. “We must make sure the Tent is completed before we take action. Call the house where the second group is waiting. Send a messenger—wait, absolutely wait, until I tell them to attack. Not before.”

Al-Sadr pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his robe and hit the speed dial.

“Mr. Prime Minister”—he relished the words—“your time is up. You have no intention of vacating the Haram, so there is no reason for us to wait. Watch your television. It will be an unforgettable broadcast.”

1:17 a.m., Jerusalem

Levin orbited the edges of the Temple Mount platform, checking on positions, talking to soldiers, looking into the night. Trying to make himself feel a level of comfort that was alien to him. But, if he kept moving, at least he was covering ground. At least he was doing something.

His orbit swung past the parked convoy. Joe Rodriguez was seated on the hood of the truck where Levin left him, his back resting against the windshield, a wide-brimmed hat pulled down over his eyes.

“Comfortable, Mr. Rodriguez?”

With shackled hands, Rodriguez pushed the hat away from his eyes.

“I hope this show is worth the price of admission,” said the American. “It’s been an awfully long wait, you know? And there are other things I’d like to be doing.”

Levin swiveled slightly to his right. “Don’t you appreciate history, Mr. Rodriguez?” he said, looking up at the American. “This is a momentous occasion.”

“Right. It’s been four hours and they still haven’t gotten peg A into slot B. Wake me up when something interesting happens.” Rodriguez started to pull the hat back down over his eyes, but stopped and returned his gaze to Major Levin. “Since this is such a historic moment, why don’t you bring my two pals out here to watch it with me? Tom is more responsible for this moment than any of us. Besides, I’m bored and I could use Sammy around to help pass the time. We could swap prisoner stories.”

Despite the American’s appalling manners, Levin found something likeable about him. As he walked away from the trucks, toward the growing frenzy of activity around the pile of material slowly taking shape atop the Temple Mount, Levin clicked the field radio attached to the epaulet on his left shoulder. “Is Fischoff’s squad still at the detention center? Good. Tell him to grab the two Americans and bring them along on his way back. No, we’re not letting them loose. Not on your life. I think Mr. Rodriguez would enjoy the company.”

“Major?” Levin’s radio came to life with the voice of Mossad’s deputy director.

“Yes?”

“Mordechai here. We just caught a break. One of our informants relayed information about the two kidnapped American women. They’re being held at the Citadel. Could be in a sub-basement cell off the Alley of Secrets or at the pinnacle of David’s Tower.”

“They’re still alive? That’s good news,” said Levin. “What are we going to do?”

“Something fast,” said Mordechai. “The informant warned that their captors—not sure who they are—just canceled a deadline and they are planning to execute both of them. And the execution will be televised. What do you have available?”

“Not much,” said Levin.

“I know . . . you’ve got to keep your men on-site. God only knows what’s in store for you tonight. And I don’t want to engage your reserve. Do we have any mobile units who aren’t at the Mount?”

Levin dropped his head to his chest. This was insane. But he didn’t have much choice.

“I’ve got a heavy squad in two armored Humvees on their way here.”

“Send them!”

“They’ve got Bohannon and Rizzo . . . I told them to bring them from the detention center so the Americans could watch the Tent being erected . . . figured they deserved that before we kicked them out of the country. I can’t—”

“Send them,” said Mordechai. “My authority and responsibility. We need to get there an hour ago. Send them, Avram.”

The Humvee rounded a curve going up an incline—some kind of entry ramp. Buildings were swimming past in the shroud of night. A small, black box, sitting on the floor between the driver and the sergeant, came to life. Lights flashed on and off at its corners and an insistent buzzing split the silence. The sergeant pushed a red button on the top of the box.

“Tiger One. We’ve made the pickup and we’re bringing them to you as planned. Twenty minutes out.”

“Plans have changed. Which one is with you?”

“Bohannon.”

The silence produced a noticeable firming of the sergeant’s shoulders. He pushed himself even straighter in his seat.

“Mr. Bohannon . . . I know you can hear our conversation. This is Major Levin—we met at Miss Nolan’s apartment. We have received information concerning your wife and Miss Nolan.”

Bohannon’s world stopped.

“From what we’ve been told, they are alive.”

Hope!

“We have a source who gave us information that, if true, may lead us to where the women are being held.”

They’re alive! Thank God—they’re alive.

“Sergeant Fischoff, I have no one else to send. We have also been informed that elements of the Martyrs’ Brigade, Hezbollah, and other groups are planning an attack on the Temple Mount. I don’t have anybody else . . . I can’t spare any of our men here. You and your team are to divert from plan. You are to reroute and head for the Citadel at all possible speed. The women are being held in the Citadel—at the top of David’s Tower or in an underground cell, we’re not sure.”

“And the prisoners?”

“You don’t have the time to bring them here. You will have to take them with you. Just get to the Citadel as quickly as possible.”

The Humvee made a hard left.

“Major Levin,” Bohannon called from the back seat. “You said my wife was alive. You know that for a fact, right? So why are we—” He stopped as the probable answer flooded his mind.

“There has been a threat . . . a deadline.” Levin’s voice was as flat and lifeless as the black box it emerged from. “But the kidnappers just threw the deadline out the window. Sergeant, you must get there quickly. And you and your team, you are on your own.

“Keep the prisoners safe, as best you can. But the women are your assignment. Get there. Find them. There’s not much time.”

There were now nearly as many priests and rabbis on the platform as there were soldiers. They moved in what appeared to be random cycles, measuring heights and distances between poles, widths of openings. A score were inspecting the huge bundles of hides and curtains piled carefully on canvas sheets that covered the concrete. Levin walked over to the mounds of coverings that would soon be draped over the poles.

“We were most careful in loading them,” said one rabbi to a robed priest. “That is why it took us so long to get here.”

“The hides are so brittle, I am fearful they will break apart when we try to open them and fasten them to the poles.”

“Yes, they are brittle to the touch,” said the rabbi, “but they won’t break. Two of the soldiers dropped one as we were loading—one tripped over a stone. There was no crack in it. Nothing broke. We lifted up a corner to look for damage and the hide opened easily.”

The priest looked over at the rabbi with a mix of disbelief and wonder. “A miracle?”

“No,” said the rabbi, “
another
miracle.”

Levin turned his mind back to his defenses.
Another miracle will be if we get away with this.

2:11 a.m.

Sergeant Fischoff swiveled left into the space between the two front seats and crouched, face-to-face with Bohannon. He placed a hand on the back of each seat to keep himself balanced while the Humvee—now with its lights flashing and a low siren preceding it—rocked through a series of high-speed turns and evasion maneuvers. Bohannon, his hands manacled, a seat belt tight across his hips, was still tossed back and forth on the back seat. Fischoff studied Bohannon with the intensity of an inquisitor and the compassion of a man who probably had his own wife and family.

“If it was me,” said the sergeant, “I would go absolutely insane sitting in this truck while other people attempted to rescue my wife from danger. From what I know of you, I have to believe you would make my life very difficult if I tried to leave you in this wagon.”

Bohannon began to hope once more.

“Here’s what I’ll do,” said the sergeant. “My orders were to bring you to the Temple Mount. Now my orders are to keep you safe. I’m going to follow my orders. And you are going to make sure that I do.”

The driver stomped on the brakes and jerked the vehicle to the right, its back tires in a skid before it straightened out and resumed its headlong flight through the streets leading to the Old City.

“Sorry, sergeant.”

Fischoff picked himself off the floor and helped Bohannon back into a sitting position. The sergeant reached into the breast pocket of his fatigue shirt, pulled out a key, and unlocked the manacles on Bohannon’s wrists.

“Thanks.”

“Okay . . . you need to follow my orders—immediately, completely, and without hesitation or reservation. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“You will remain behind me at all times. I repeat . . . you will remain behind
me at all times, no matter what happens, no matter what we see or hear. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“Do you know how to use a gun?”

Bohannon felt a queer surge of apprehension and power. “No.”