The Brotherhood Conspiracy (56 page)

Rizzo expended every ounce of energy as he struggled to keep pace with the Israeli soldiers darting ahead of him, one running past the other, taking point, while his partner mimicked his moves. A few dirty window panes, set high in the walls, filtered the orange, mercury-vapor lights washing the Old City walls, creating a heavy twilight into the corridor under the Citadel. The considerable layer of dust on the cobblestone floor muffled their steps but clogged their throats. Tourists weren’t permitted in these winding catacombs—storage rooms and stables for a thousand years—and it smelled like the stalls hadn’t been cleaned in that long. Even though there were no other footprints in the dust—at least from this direction—the soldiers paused at every opening, swept each room with their eyes and their Uzis, before swiftly moving on. Rizzo’s legs were cramping.

They came to a fork in the corridor. The corporal peeked down both shafts of retreating stone walls, looked at his partner, tapped two fingers under his eyes, and then pointed to the right. Before Rizzo could blink, the soldier was gone and the corporal spun around to face Rizzo, only inches away. Rizzo’s eyes bulged as the corporal grabbed his shirt and yanked him nearer. “Close,” he whispered.

Fischoff selected the Crusader tower. Bohannon didn’t care. He figured they would be easy targets no matter which stairway they chose. Now much more deliberate, Fischoff placed his back against the stone wall just inside the tower’s entrance, then side-stepped his way along the wall, never taking his eyes off the
highest point of the circular stairs as they rose out of his view. Bohannon followed suit, two feet behind the sergeant. Before the first step, Fischoff stopped and tipped the barrel of his machine gun down toward the stairs. Bohannon could easily detect the marks of boot prints on the steps—going up. He tensed, set his body, and was ready to run up the steps, but Fischoff’s burly right arm barred the way. The sergeant caught Bohannon’s eyes, his arm pressing harder into Tom’s chest. Bohannon got the message.

The sergeant removed his arm, then reached down to his holster, pulled out the automatic, turned the butt end around to Bohannon, and handed him the gun. Tom felt the cold metal in his hand, but he was now sweating so hard that the gun nearly slipped to the floor. He felt its weight—heavier than he expected. He felt its power, and blood began to beat through his temples. He looked up from his fascination with the weapon. Fischoff had his palm up, toward Bohannon. He tapped his chest and walked his fingers up the stairs. He held up his palm again, then pointed at Bohannon, pointed at Bohannon’s eyes, and reached around and touched his own back.

Watch his back.

Spit was impossible, breathing almost as difficult. Bohannon squeezed the nine millimeter in his palm and nodded his head. He was going to get up those stairs one way or another. If it had to be protecting the sergeant’s back, fine. But he was going up.

The sergeant swung his head, shoulders, and machine gun around, fixed the uppermost segment in his sight, and started up the stairs.

Rizzo and the corporal came to the last door in the corridor. The corporal pushed his back against the wall alongside the closed door and looked down at Rizzo, who had done the same. At the first four rooms they encountered, the doors were open, the corporal swept the room quickly, and Rizzo could swallow again. Now Rizzo’s heart was racing faster than when he’d been running to keep pace with the soldiers. He placed his hands against the wall for support, bit his lip, and waited for the corporal to try the door. Instead, the corporal held the Uzi against his chest with his right hand. With his left, he reached behind his back, unsnapped the cover on a small holster clipped to his utility belt, and pulled out a small, black automatic pistol. He handed it to Rizzo.

About time, kibbutznik!
Rizzo hefted the gun in his hand.
Now we’re talking. Let’s go.

The corporal reached down to his left and snapped the safety on the automatic forward. He pointed with his left hand, index finger straight out, thumb in the air.

Armed . . . got it!
Rizzo nodded. He was surprised. His hands were steady. He felt calm . . . purposeful.

The corporal returned both hands to his Uzi and turned his attention to the door. He inched to his right, away from Rizzo, closer to the frame. Taking his palm, he placed it tenderly against the wood and pressed. It didn’t budge. The latch was on the far side of the door panel. The corporal glanced momentarily to his left, toward Rizzo.

Don’t worry about me, buster.

Tapping the wall with his knuckle, the corporal pointed down to the floor. Rizzo stayed put. The corporal moved to the other side of the door. It was a gamble. Rizzo knew the door opened in. He would get the first look into the room. He would be vulnerable. But the corporal would have the full room in view from his vantage point once he threw the door open. Rizzo raised the small automatic and held it with both hands.

Don’t kill the kibbutznik.

Bohannon followed the sergeant, his back against the wall, his head swinging back and forth, trying to look ahead and behind at the same time. The boot tracks on the steps kept rising above them. They were up four flights of the square tower, about halfway, when they heard the first gunshots.

Bohannon ducked and looked up the stairs.

The sergeant was looking down. The shots came from below . . . then more of them. Tap-tap-tap . . . three more in succession. Then a burst of automatic fire. And the sergeant was racing up the stairs.

Fischoff was running like a man possessed, Bohannon right on his heels, running as fast as his legs could possibly pump. Fischoff was younger, in much
better shape, and had the training, and soon he was half a flight ahead of Bohannon, taking the stairs two at a time like a hurdler reaching for the finish line. Without pausing for a moment, Fischoff burst onto the upper platform. Bohannon stumbled, looked up, and the sergeant was gone. Left or right? The muscles in his legs ready to ripsaw through his skin, Bohannon reached the platform to the sound of splitting wood.

There was one room at the top of the stairs, occupying half of the upper platform, its door to the left. Bohannon wrapped both hands around the gun’s grip and took two long strides toward the door as something crashed against a wall inside the room.

Bohannon leveled the gun, his finger off the trigger, and turned into the room. Fischoff was standing over a shattered table, a terrible look of despair on his face. Tom quickly scanned the room. There was a black backdrop against the far wall, with a design at its center—the Coptic cross with the lightning bolt slashing through on the diagonal. The sign of the Prophet’s Guard. In front of the backdrop were two chairs and two video cameras. A small satellite dish pointed out the only window.

Draped over the back of one of the chairs was a piece of cloth—blue cotton with a floral print. Bohannon knew what it was. A piece of Annie’s nightshirt. He had seen it too many times. It probably still had her smell. He stumbled toward the two chairs, reached down, and picked up the cloth. It was one of the sleeves and the bottom half of the torn fabric was stained, wet, sticky. A reddish-brown stain ran down the back of the chair.

Bohannon’s eyes went wide and a primordial scream boiled up from the depths.

“Oh . . . my God . . . oh, my . . .”

Blood from the cloth now stained his fingers as Bohannon squeezed the fabric.

“How could you! God . . . how could you!”

Bohannon wiped his hand on his pants, leveled the gun toward the black backdrop, and emptied half the clip into the sign of the amulet hanging on the wall.

As echoes of gunshots reverberated off the stone walls and through Tom’s head, Fischoff grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door.

“C’mon . . . they can’t be far ahead.”

The sergeant raced from the room, turned right, and was out the small door that led onto the tower’s rampart. Bohannon stumbled after him, only half aware of what he was doing.

When Fischoff reached the edge of the platform, he stopped and looked across the gap of open air, and then down toward the ground. “Look!” he shouted.

Bohannon closed his eyes. He couldn’t look down.

“They must have crossed to the other tower on those boards!”

With that declaration, and a slight pause, Fischoff hurled himself off the top of the square Crusader tower and onto the muezzin’s porch—the balcony from which Islam’s faithful were called to prayer—on the Muslim spire. Fischoff landed on the far platform with both boots, his body leaning forward, and stumbled two steps to the wall of the minaret.

Bohannon stood frozen in place, his eyes riveted on the open sky between this tower and the other—probably ten feet, but it looked like a hundred. Annie . . . Kallie . . . could they have gotten across? Impulsively, Bohannon looked over the edge and saw the planks, a long way down. His head started swimming, a current like cold electricity shivered through his muscles, his stomach felt like an airplane in turbulence. He gripped the balustrade. There were no bodies on the ground—yet.