The Illumination (32 page)

Scrabbling to her knees, she shuffled on them in the acrid blackness until she reached what she was looking for—the tunnel wall. Leaning against it for support, she maneuvered herself to a standing position.

The table.
She tried to envision how far away it sat. Hugging the wall with her right shoulder, she hobbled along in search of it, gasping when she finally bumped into it with her hip.

She used her chin to drag the ice pick to the front edge of the table, then turned, bending her knees until she could grab it between her bound hands.

Hurry, hurry.

But it took several precious moments before she managed to wedge the pick between her palms without stabbing herself with its point. Her breath coming in ragged gulps, she scraped the pick repeatedly into the tape, pricking blindly at the woven threads, ignoring the pain whenever she overshot and scraped the sharp pick into her flesh.

It worked.
As soon as her hands were free, she fumbled for the small flashlight Sayyed had left behind, and a pale stream of light pierced the blackness. Now it was easier to strip the adhesive from her wrists and ankles. She nearly sobbed with joy when she was finally free. Grabbing a water bottle from under the table, she gulped it until she choked.

How much time is left?
She peered through the gloom at her watch. It was 2:30—the summit was set for 4:00. Ninety minutes to go. Unless the bombs went off before then . . .

She seized the damaged pendant and wedged it into her pocket. Then she grabbed up the flashlight and the large hammer Hasan had used on the orb. Drawing a deep breath, she
allowed herself to flex her aching shoulders for a quick moment; next, her cramped legs.

Then she hobbled down the tunnel, trying to ignore the pins and needles tingling through her feet. She held the hammer ready, but met no one. Not even when the tunnel curved and dipped, widening as she climbed upward, her thighs aching. She saw no living soul, no trace of life, nor anything that might be a bomb.

The pins and needles faded away. She started to run.

She didn't know how long she raced through the winding tunnel. At some point, the bare bulbs strung along the timbers began to flicker again—on and then off. She swung the beam of the flashlight upward. Was what she'd told Hasan true?

The flickering had started the minute he'd smashed open the pendant. Could it be a coincidence that the lights became erratic then? She didn't think so. The energy of the
tzohar,
which had been contained for thousands of years within its gold shell, was now loosed in a modern world, a world far different from the days of ancient Babylon.

If solar flares could disrupt GPS and power grids, what might the
tzohar
do when its God-given energy encountered a manmade counterpart?

But even as the question surged through her mind, her attention was diverted by a huge hole gaping in the ceiling.
That's one of them—one of the holes they drilled for the bombs.

She froze where she stood, shining the flashlight up into the hole. But all she saw was dirt.

How many other holes like this one had she passed farther back, when the beam was aimed at the floor?

She had to get out of here fast—had to warn somebody. Somebody who knew a lot more than she did about finding and disabling bombs.

Tumbling down the tunnel, she was oblivious to her cramped muscles. Adrenaline propelled her feet. Chest heaving, she finally reached the rough-hewn staircase she remembered descending—how many hours ago? Half sobbing, she tore up the steps. She was almost at the entrance.

Almost free.

 

 

 

The lights in the elevator flickered. On and off. On again. The car jerked into motion, then the light went out, and the elevator stalled with a shudder.

A groan went up as the eight occupants jostled against one another in the small space, their hope dying.

It was stifling, and someone had eaten garlic for lunch. Warrick had never been claustrophobic in his life, but as the minutes ticked past he felt the anxiety building, tightening in his neck like an invisible noose slowly choking off his air.

Suddenly the lights blazed back on again, and the car lurched upward. The doors slid open on the twentieth floor and everyone spilled out into the corridor in a rush, desperate to escape before the power died again.

An instant later it did, and darkness clamped down on the corridor. Not even the exit signs glowed. But a man hurrying out of one of the guest rooms held a miniflashlight, and Warrick reached him in three strides.

“I need this. National security.” He snatched the penlight, ignoring the man's protest, and swung it upward until it showed him the exit sign. He charged up the stairs.

The presidential suite was empty. The door ajar.

Secret Service had hustled him down the stairs the moment the lights went out. Where the hell did they go?

Warrick was startled at the shrill ring of his cell phone. He was more startled by the stream of words that rushed into his ear.

He listened without saying a word. Then closed his phone.

The plan had failed. Firefly was still out there, still in play.

 

“I'm going out for a few minutes. Perhaps there is some information I can gather for you. It's best if you stay here.”

Ahmad rose from the striped couch and headed for the door. He pocketed his house key from the table in the hall and closed the door behind him.

D'Amato bit back the questions screaming in his head. He was familiar with the various ways by which his old friend chose to gather and share information. Taking a deep breath, he leaned back in the dimness of the living room to wait.

An agonizing fifteen minutes passed, then another five. Impatience drove D'Amato out of the chair to pace the floor. He couldn't erase the image of Natalie's abandoned shoulder bag from his mind.

He wheeled at the sound of the doorknob turning. From the entry Ahmad beckoned silently for D'Amato to follow him into the teeming street. Traffic was still in gridlock, worsened by those who'd abandoned their cars.

In silence, quickly, they walked southeast on El-Wad. Away now, from the Damascus Gate. They were heading deeper into the Old City.

 

 

 

Warrick fought the crowd surging across the plaza flanking the Western Wall. Beneath a cloudless blue sky, this open area below the Temple Mount was in chaos. People were shouting, running, shoving, pressing their way back toward the narrow entrance. Panic rippled through the distraught, well-dressed crowd that a short time before had been ensconced within view of the platform where the peace accord would be signed.

Their fright was as tangible as the varied accents and languages competing in the cacophony of voices.

“There must be a bomb!”

“Has the president been shot?”

“It's Iran—they're attacking!”

“No—bin Khoury's been assassinated. The summit has been canceled!”

“Why don't the cell phones work? Everything's down.”

“They've attacked the communications networks. It's only the beginning!”

With each rumor that swirled as fact, the voices rose in escalating fear. Israeli soldiers were shouting, steering, directing the invited guests and dignitaries out, away from the security checkpoints and the steps leading up to the sacred site. There would be no summit on the Temple Mount this afternoon.

Warrick scanned the frantic faces while he pressed on against
the madness. As everyone else streamed toward him, he resisted the flow of bumping and shoving bodies and struggled through to the front. The afternoon was warm. Beneath his suit coat, his white shirt stuck to his back. But he had to get through. Without any means of communication, he had to know firsthand.

Were Garrett, Rachmiel, bin Khoury, and the secretary-general up there somewhere? Were the soldiers evacuating everyone else while a private, abbreviated version of the summit took place in defiance of the terrorists? If there was a bomb, it could go off at any moment. But he was still too far away to see anything, to recognize anyone in this teeming crush of bodies. There was no sign of the Secret Service, of anyone else in the official U.S. delegation.

“You must leave the area. Everyone. Now.” The Israeli Defense Forces soldiers patrolling the plaza were adamant, employing the sides of their Uzis to funnel people toward the stairs. Warrick managed to avoid them, burrowing himself toward the center of the throng. He kept plunging ahead, bucking the flow of disappointed, panicked, and confused humanity.

“No farther. Go back!” A stern Israeli soldier blocked his path. She was tall, blond, sunburned, and determined.

“I'm with President Garrett. I need to get through.” He flashed his Department of Defense credentials, but she was unimpressed.

“Your president is not here. The summit is canceled. Our orders are to clear the area. That means everyone.”

“If they're not here, where are they? Do you know why the communications are down?”

“The only thing I know is that
everyone
has to leave this area. And that includes you.”

A second soldier joined her, his thin face dark with impatience. “What's the problem here?”

“That's what I want to know.” Warrick directed his attention now to the man. “What's going on? Where's the American delegation?”

“We have no authority to disclose that information, even if we knew.” The second soldier glared at him. “For your own safety, leave. Now.”

It was useless. Warrick turned away. He'd done his best. But he wasn't about to fight the Israeli army when chances were slim that he'd find Garrett or the others here anyway.

That left Firefly.

Time to shift his energies. He had one last chance.

 

Natalie staggered up the last step and cautiously shoved open the door at the top of the stairs. She found herself in a windowless storage shed stacked high with rolled lengths of carpets. Otherwise it was empty. She swung the flashlight until it gleamed across a thin metal door. It was just wide enough to permit a small car to enter.

She swiveled the light, looking for another, less conspicuous way out. But there was no other door. No windows. Only a light switch beside the door and a push button above it.
Has to be the garage door opener,
she thought. She took a deep breath as she punched it.

Nothing happened.

She tried the light switch. Nothing. The power was out.

There has to be a manual release,
she thought wildly, sweeping the flashlight across the ceiling.

Bingo
.

With a solid yank she disengaged the mechanism. Setting the flashlight and the hammer down, she grasped the crossbar and heaved the door upward. It moved slowly, reluctantly, creaking so loudly she thought everyone outside would hear.

But at last she heaved it high enough to slip beneath. She snatched up the hammer and shoved it into her waistband, then rolled under the metal door and out into sunlight.

The sudden daylight was blinding. She sprang up, shielded her eyes, and peered left, then right, trying to orient herself, trying to decide which way to run.

One look at the narrow street and the stone buildings, at the flowing robes and head scarves on most of the men and women hurrying along the street, and she knew she'd been right. She was somewhere in East Jerusalem.

She started up the street at a run, taking deep gulps of air
and praying she was heading toward the Old City. She needed to warn the soldiers at the Western Wall. At the Temple Mount.

Her chest was tight with fear—how would they evacuate in time, locate the bombs . . . ?

She needed to tell them how to find the tunnel.

At last she saw the signs. She was on El Hariri Street, crossing El Akhtal.

People turned and stared as she tore past them. And no wonder, Natalie thought, her sides aching, her face throbbing. Not only was she an American, and running down the street as if fleeing for her life, she was a woman, a woman with bruises purpling her swollen face.

But no one stopped her, questioned her, and she ran on in desperation. Harun E Rashid Street. Thank God. She turned onto it, knowing it led south, toward Herod's Gate.

It seemed to take forever until she finally crossed Sultan Suleiman. But as she neared the gate, she was forced to slow. A throng of jabbering people surged toward her from the direction of the Temple Mount.

“Ari, wait for me! Don't get separated,” a woman called frantically.

“We'll never have peace,” a man muttered to another in despair, amid the hubbub. “The summit's off. It's over.”

The summit's off?
Natalie's mind spun. This crush of people, they're all leaving the area of the Wall? Of the Temple Mount?

Was it being evacuated?

At least lives will be saved,
she thought, with a sudden flash of hope. But the bombs will still go off. The Temple Mount will be destroyed.

She caught snatches of Hebrew, Arabic, English, and half a dozen other languages. Amid the panic and dismay, she finally spotted a soldier at the end of the street.

She elbowed her way through the crush of bodies and began speaking to him in halting Hebrew.

“I know where the bombs are—they're planted beneath the Temple Mount. There's a shed on El Hariri—east of El Akhtal. On the left side of the street. It's stacked . . . with rolls of carpets.
The door inside leads to a tunnel—I saw the holes in the tunnel where they packed the bombs, they're in the ceiling—”

“What do you mean, you saw them?” The IDF soldier stared at her as people jostled all around. He took in her bruised face, her wild dark hair, trying, she knew, to determine if she was deranged or telling the truth.

“I was down there, I'm telling you—I saw the holes. There were two men, Hasan, Sayyed. They left me to die—”