The Brotherhood Conspiracy (13 page)

Kallie picked at the grapes as if they were petals on a daisy. “Sammy,” said Kallie as she plucked a plump, green orb, “tell me about us.”

Sammy nearly fell off the wall, frantically grabbing for the edge of the stone cap.

“What?” he croaked.

Kallie twiddled another grape. “Us. Tell me about us.” She tilted her head over her shoulder to bring Sammy within sight.

Sammy didn’t know whether to speak or to breathe. He didn’t think he could do both. Kallie shimmered in the dancing shadows of the tree’s shade, her bright yellow, sleeveless sundress rivaling its namesake. Her presence, her beauty, always overwhelmed him, dulling the barb in his tongue and bringing to rest a mind that moved with the frenetic pace of an Italian tarantella. He sat, stalled . . . unable to process his next thought. A burst of laughter floated across the broad, central lawn.

“Us? . . . Well, I thought we were friends,” said Sammy, trying to evade the question.

But Kallie threw a grape and hit him square in the chest of his new shirt, a proper blue, broadcloth, button-down topping a pair of clean, neatly pressed khakis. “Talk to me, Rizzo,” she demanded.

Truth . . . could he tell her the truth? What would happen then? Ooohh . . .

There was no escape.

Sammy ducked his head to avoid Kallie’s gaze. “I like you, I like you a lot. You’re very important to me, Kallie. But I’m not a fool. I’m not blind. I see how men look at you, then look at me, then look back at you with an unanswered question on their faces.
What is she doing with him?
How long? How long could you live like that—companion to a man who some people think belongs in a circus?”

“Look at me.”

He processed a long sigh, then forced his eyes to hers.

“You’re precious to me, Sammy Rizzo.” Her eyes searched his face. “You saved my life . . . yes, I knew it was you who threw your body on top of mine when the bullets were flying as we escaped from the kibbutz . . . and you rescued me from jail. You have comforted me, quietly, without demands, as I grieved the loss of my profession and my adopted country. You’ve treated me with respect and honor . . . rare among some of the other men I’ve known.”

“Then? . . .”

“I don’t know
then
,” said Kallie. “I only know
now
. Now, it’s a privilege for me to walk beside you. It’s a pleasure to spend time with you. And I’m grateful
that you trust me enough to allow me to see inside the jokester. But, Sammy . . . I don’t know if this, us, is going anywhere. Not because you’re short. But because I don’t know where I am. Or where I’m going.”

Kallie put her right hand on his.

“I don’t want to disappoint you or hurt you,” she said. “I don’t want you to expect something, hope for something, from me that I just can’t give right now. Please understand. My life came to a crashing halt. I was thrown out of my home without a moment to think about it. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now or what I’m going to do.”

Sammy could hear the pleading in her voice, the sincerity of her emotion.

“I want us to be friends a long time. Something else? I don’t know. But . . . but, this I do know. You are one of the finest men I’ve ever met, Sammy Rizzo—no matter what charade you play on the outside. I respect you, your courage, your heart. I don’t care about how tall you are, Sammy. I care about the size of your heart. I don’t want to wound that heart.”

Kallie stood up. “Friends. Can you accept that?”

Sammy looked at Kallie. “Sure,” he said, and his voice didn’t crack.

12

S
UNDAY
, A
UGUST
9

Washington, DC

“You’re back . . . don’t you spend any time over at Langley?”

The bright afternoon sun flooded the Oval Office windows, washing Jonathan Whitestone’s back with warmth and causing Bill Cartwright to squint and turn his head to the side. “I don’t have any good news for you.”

“Why am I not surprised?” the president said absently. “When was the last time we had any good news, Bill?” Whitestone signed the last of the stack of documents and passed them to the aide waiting beside his desk, gesturing the young woman out of the Oval Office. Whitestone rose from behind the
Resolute
desk, walked across the carpet woven with the presidential seal, and fell into one of the facing sofas. “C’mon, Bill, sit down. This sounds like it may take awhile.”

The CIA director sat in the sofa facing the president and rested three manila folders on the table between them.

Whitestone liked Cartwright because he was a no-nonsense, pragmatic veteran of both business and government. Whitestone trusted Cartwright because the two had been prayer and accountability partners for two decades. Right now, Whitestone needed both Cartwright’s counsel and his integrity. The president could see dark days ahead and believed Cartwright was not going to dispel any of that darkness with his report.

“Baruk has decided to rebuild the Temple Mount,” Cartwright said.

Whitestone felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Even in the August heat and humidity, Whitestone kept his office air-conditioning to the minimum. He liked it warm . . . it kept his muscles from tightening any more than necessary
in the pressure cooker of the Oval Office. Still, he felt a chill ripple across his shoulders and a half-breathed sigh escape his lips.

“Whose bright idea is this folly? Don’t tell me . . . Shomsky, right?”

“Seems like he’s convinced Baruk that this is the prime minister’s moment in history . . . his chance to make history,” Cartwright replied.

“His chance to stop history.”

“There’s more . . . they’re—”

“Wait—Shomsky doesn’t know about the raid, does he?”

“As far as we know, only Baruk, Orhlon, Painter, and Sharp know of the plans.”

Whitestone’s hands came up in front of him as if his fingers were asking a question. “Then what is Baruk doing? How can he pull a stunt like this when we’re already—”

“Mr. President . . . that’s not all,” said Cartwright. “They’re not going to let the Arabs come back to the Mount. In fact, they’re not going to allow anything to come back to the Mount. They plan to rebuild the platform in the name of safety and then allow it to remain empty.”

Whitestone felt confused. “What?” He pushed himself to the edge of the sofa. “What’s the point? Why rebuild the Mount and then enrage the Arabs by not allowing them to rebuild the Dome or the Al-Aqsa Mosque? That doesn’t make sense, Bill, not even for Shomsky. What are they planning? Baruk’s not stupid. He must know what he’s doing.”

“Yes, sir. The Israelis have a plan for the Mount. They’re just not making it public.”

The president held his breath and held his tongue.
Oh, Lord . . . what?

“The Israelis are searching for the Tent of Meeting. They’re already planning an incursion into western Jordan to search Mount Nebo . . . the place where the book of Maccabees says Jeremiah buried the Ark and the Tent. If they can secure the Tent of Meeting, Baruk intends to erect the Tent on Temple Mount . . . I guess he figures he can get it up before any protests hit. With the Tent on the Mount, the Israelis, Baruk believes, will have a legitimate claim to sovereignty over Temple Mount.”

Whitestone settled back into the corner of the sofa. His silver hair was perfectly cut, his navy blue suit impeccable. But he felt panic fighting to emerge from his calm exterior.

“But, the
Tent
? Come on, Bill, how can we—how can anyone—believe
that the Tent of Meeting still exists? There’s not been a mention of the Tent of Meeting in, what, two thousand years?”

“Three . . . three thousand,” said Cartwright.

“Right, three thousand years without a word. The existence of the Tent of Meeting is about as close to impossible as you can get. Even if Baruk and Shomsky have thrown themselves into this fool’s search, this is not something we seriously need to concern ourselves with. Right?”

Cartwright held the president’s gaze. “The existence of the Tent is as close to impossible as keeping a secret Temple hidden under the mountain for over a thousand years. It’s about as close to impossible as a handwritten copy of the book of Jeremiah surviving for fifteen hundred years in a clay jar near the Dead Sea. Mr. President, who is to say what’s impossible if we are truly in the final season of God’s plan for mankind?”

A subtle twitch. It was deep inside his chest, to the left. Barely discernible. The president felt it, and knew he had felt it before. Too much stress.
God, what am I doing?
Whitestone felt tired, worn down to the marrow of his bones. But anger pulsed life into his body. Baruk had betrayed his trust.

“This is insane,” said Whitestone. “Forget the Tent. If Israel rebuilds the Temple Mount and forbids the Arabs from coming back, the Muslim nations will go berserk. Baruk is just asking for a war.”

“Yes, sir. And it couldn’t come at a worse time. Abu Gherazim has, indeed, been appointed foreign minister of the Palestinian Authority. He’s planning a major speech for next week, from Amman, with the Jordanian king at his side.”

“Great . . . we finally get a Muslim moderate leader who’s willing to speak out for peace, for compromise, for benevolent coexistence between Palestinian and Jew, and Baruk is ready to blow up any possibility for peace in the Middle East.” President Whitestone raised his piano-player fingers and rubbed above his top lip. “How did Gherazim manage to get himself appointed? That’s a bit of a shock, too.”

Bill Cartwright opened the top manila folder, extracted a photograph, and passed it to the president. “Seems like somebody found out about the family heritage Gherazim has worked so hard to hide.”

Whitestone had seen the photo before . . . two young men in black kaftans and turbans, gazing seriously into the lens, standing in front of an unidentified mosque. “I guess having a brother who was the founder of Hezbollah finally paid a dividend. Is Gherazim thinking of turning his name back to al-Sadr?”

“Not anytime soon,” said Cartwright. “I’m sure he’s going to be Abu Gherazim for the foreseeable future. He hates the memory and the legacy of his brother. Realistically, he remembers al-Sadr as a terrorist and murderer. I don’t see how he’s been able to walk that tightrope over there . . . he’s really a target for both sides . . . but, for now, he’s the only voice calling for the reformation of Islam from the inside out. We need Abu Gherazim, Jon. We need him for any possibility of peace in the Middle East.”

Once again, the president felt the weight of the world settle on his shoulders. His shoulders, literally, were beginning to ache from the load.

The president looked up. “What do we do now?”

Cartwright opened the second manila folder, extracted another photograph, and passed it to the president. Whitestone looked at the picture of an etched, bronze mezuzah. “You think there’s something here?”

“It’s possible,” said Cartwright. “If the mezuzah and scroll led to the Third Temple, who’s to say they might not also lead to something else . . . something like the Tent of Meeting? The priest, Abiathar, was a resourceful man. Perhaps there are some clues here we could use. And we need something to get us out in front of the Israelis . . . either to convince them to abandon this reckless plan or to intervene in some other way. Like find the Tent first. That’s why we need all the help we can find.”

The president shook his head at the implied suggestion.

Whitestone turned the photo over, as if there might be a surprise clue on its reverse side. “Bring Bohannon and his team back into this? Why? Why do we need them, and why would they come? They’re civilians, Bill. Good grief, they almost got killed the last time. Why don’t we just leave them alone and see what we can find out on our own?”

Cartwright was shaking his head as he opened the third manila folder. This one contained several pages of paper containing what looked like a series of images, accompanied by a single sheet of paper. The CIA director passed the sheets with the images to the president.

“When I started thinking about Bohannon, there was something nagging at the back of my mind,” said Cartwright. “So I asked our boys in the satellite room to make a few passes over the New York City area. Without a direct threat, we don’t usually shoot visuals over the States, but we do get residual infrared. Our guys dialed in on the area around Bohannon’s home in Riverdale.”

On the sheets were three thermal images—like photo negatives—taken
around a house. The image was only in tones of gray, but it was remarkably clear. The president could easily identify the shapes of bodies in each image.

“They come and go at different times,” said Cartwright, handing over the last sheet of paper. “It’s random, sporadic, not always the same number.”

The president scanned down the page. So many dates and times.

“We went back over the last few days and pulled up what we could. This has been going on for a while. Somebody has been watching Bohannon’s house. And I’ll bet they’re wearing lightning-bolt amulets.

“We’ve alerted NYPD,” said Cartwright, “and they’re stepping up patrols . . . will try to keep an unmarked car in the vicinity. But, even though it’s still the Bronx, that part of Riverdale is very suburban—heavily wooded, houses spread out, long, deep, wild areas along the Hudson. Nearly impossible to control.”