The Brotherhood Conspiracy (46 page)

The three shadows raced effortlessly up the stairwell at the corner of the building, paused for a heartbeat to ensure the hallway was unoccupied, and moved on padded feet to a closed door just off the stairwell.

I should sleep . . . perhaps a few moments of rest before prayer.

Abu Gherazim rose from his chair, glanced at the cold coffee, and carried the burden of his thoughts to the sleeping pallet in the corner. He felt a movement in the air behind him. He lifted his head as if listening to the air. The dagger pierced his carotid before pain could awaken, then sliced open his throat.

I thought, hoped, I would have a little more time.

The man who was once Sayeed al-Sadr felt the life flowing out of his neck and thought of his uncle, laying in the dusty street of Kaisiman so many years ago, his blood soaking the sand. He remembered his brother, Moussa, architect of hatred and father of Hezbollah—so long gone from his life. Memory faded as each pulse pumped life from his body.

I’m coming, Uncle. Allah have mercy on us.

Jerusalem

“I was wondering when you would get to me,” Major Avram Levin said bluntly, “so I wasn’t surprised by your summons.”

“Why is that?” asked Colonel David Posner.

It was mid-morning and the two men sat in a nondescript office in a forgettable
concrete block building on the Kiryat HaYovel, overlooking the southeastern sprawl of Jerusalem. The sign on the exterior of the building identified it as the headquarters of the Council on Israeli Agriculture. Within its windowless walls, Mossad ran one of the most sophisticated and effective intelligence-gathering organizations in the world.

On the left was the obligatory wall mirror, a fixture of interrogation rooms, behind which—no surprise—was the listening and observation post that no doubt held other Mossad agents and the equipment to record this conversation, as well as to read all of Levin’s vital signs transferred from the specially built chair containing dozens of biometric sensors. Levin was a pro. He knew there was no hiding in this room.

“Because of my mother . . . because she was a Palestinian . . . because she died in a terrorist bus explosion.” Levin had rehearsed those words many times before, to others who had questioned his background, his loyalty. But never in such a precarious situation.

“Yes, we know about your mother,” said Posner. “It’s in your file. You were very forthcoming in dealing with a sensitive issue like that. But my question today is not about your mother.”

Levin measured Posner. Their paths had crossed a few times, momentarily. All Levin could recall was reputation and hearsay, all of which said Posner, despite his movie-star looks, was ruthless in his pursuit of any who threatened Israel’s peace and security. Which was fine for those who bore the same patriot’s DNA and devotion to country. Levin knew that was what Posner intended to find out.

“Only a few of us knew the details of the incursion into Jordan,” said Levin. “A highly skilled unit was waiting for Lukas Painter and his men. Someone, in a very small circle, is a traitor and sent those men to their execution.” Levin looked directly into Posner’s eyes with a challenge. “And you are investigating whether that traitor is me.”

More than silence, what hung in the air above the table, between the two men, was an unseen but easily felt contest—a collision of wills, watching and looking for advantage, probing for weakness, searching for truth. Posner moved a file folder in front of him, his eyes never leaving Levin’s.

“We believe those who killed Painter and his team were Syrian-trained, an elite Hezbollah unit that operates out of Dar’a, on the Jordanian border. You know Dar’a, don’t you?”

Levin’s throat constricted. He had not expected this.

“Your wife was born and raised in Dar’a, was she not? Before becoming an Israeli citizen? And that . . .”

Posner pointed to a photograph in the file, a young man with a full, black mustache, dark eyes, smiling. He was wearing military camouflage. On his head was a red beret, cocked to the side with the insouciance of youth, a green scimitar moon crossed with a dagger stitched to the left side. In his hands, an AK-47, Hezbollah’s preferred assault weapon. Levin’s mind was spinning furiously.

“. . . that soldier is her brother? Yes?”

Levin lifted his gaze from the picture to face the accusation in Posner’s words and attitude. Levin waited for what he feared was coming.

“This is Captain Hamid. We have good reason to believe he was the leader of the unit that ambushed Painter’s patrol.”

Levin groaned inside. He waited for more.

“Dar’a is thirty kilometers from Mount Nebo. A thirty-minute drive for a military vehicle. I’m told that your Mossad counterpart informed you of the incursion ninety minutes before Painter and his men gathered at the base of the mountain.”

Perspiration was dripping from Levin’s underarms. The palms of his hands were wet.

“So . . . Captain . . . please tell me where you were for those ninety minutes. And, also”—Posner took a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his uniform, unfolded it, and pushed it toward Levin—“please explain the telephone call you made to Dar’a about twenty minutes later.”

The Negev, Israel

Rodriguez spent the morning moving quickly along cliffs and through ravines, checking caves for any sign or evidence. But hope for a quick discovery dimmed as the sun, and the temperature, rose higher. Returning to the Land Rover, Joe put the map aside and hefted the large, metal box that rested on the seat beside him. It wasn’t that heavy, but Joe knew he would need the shoulder straps and harness to carry it. With this thing strapped to his chest, climbing up and down the pass in the heat of the desert, scrambling over sandstone ridges and exploring caves, would beat up his aching body even more.

But it was too valuable, too essential, to leave behind.

The box was about twenty-inches in height and width and a foot thick. On its top surface was an LCD screen, elevated toward the carrier and hooded to protect the screen from glare. On the right and left flanks, near the front, were two large black knobs, almost half the depth of the box, with serrated edges on the circumference of the knobs. Developed by NASA, the device was a high-powered version of ground-penetrating radar. Whereas normal GPR used radar pulses in the microwave band of radio frequencies to locate things underground, NASA added new technology that allowed this machine to also discern subtle changes in carbon emissions. It was designed to be used by astronauts on the moon. Sam Reynolds got the obligatory red tape cut away to free the device from the clutches of NASA. Then he shipped it to a FedEx office in Jerusalem, where it was waiting when Joe arrived.

Some techie had convinced Sam Reynolds that this little device could differentiate between the carbon footprints of two mismatched items—such as the difference between a two-thousand-year-old assortment of animal hides and acacia wood poles and nearly anything else that might be near it. Before leaving the States, the box had been calibrated to respond to carbon footprints that were two thousand to twenty-five hundred years old.

Joe wasn’t convinced. But he was told to point the box at the opening of a cave, twist and turn the knobs, and see if the sensor images from the radar antennae converged on each other and started to blink. If they did, he was back in the cave exploring business. Which was not too cool, considering the events of his last venture in spelunking.

Heat ricocheted off the canyon’s western walls as he returned to his search. Wind from the desert below carried the scent of passing camels and blooming hawthorn. It was time to get moving. One hundred yards south of the current road were the ruins of a Roman fortress, which those invaders erected to protect the crest of the Ascent which had been in use for one thousand years before they conquered Judea. The current road had been cut by the Israeli Corps of Engineers in 1957. But Rodriguez would not be searching that road. It was the faint remnant of the track the Romans paved in the first century that would occupy the rest of his day. He gathered up his provisions and water, slung the backpack high on his shoulders, and secured the magic box to his chest. He felt weird. Probably looked weird. But he was on a mission. And, because of Rabbi Fineman, Joe felt a lot closer to discerning the truth.

Jerusalem

A scratching noise from the door woke Tom Bohannon from a fitful sleep. The clock on the wall read one-twenty. Night or day? The last thing he remembered was returning to Kallie’s apartment. After leaving Jeremiah’s Grotto, Tom knew he couldn’t follow Joe. Joe was on his own. Tom would never leave Jerusalem . . . not until Annie was found. He wandered the streets of Jerusalem and the Old City until well after midnight, when nearly every business was shuttered, carrying Annie’s picture with him, stopping at outdoor cafes or small, out-of-the-way hotels, anywhere someone may have seen something. He thought about getting a room in the city, but he had told McDonough to call the apartment with any news.

Shin Bet probably put the apartment under surveillance. He was walking straight back into their hands. But he needed a break. He needed to think.

When he got back to the apartment he sat his weary body on the sofa, trying to determine his next step. That was the last thing he remembered until now, stretched out on the sofa, his back aching, his mouth dry, and his sleep-deprived mind swimming.

Before he could respond, or even move from where he lay on the sofa, the front door swung open and there stood Sammy Rizzo, keys in hand, balancing on top of an overturned trash can. And he looked as beaten down as Bohannon felt.

“Why do they always put these locks so high?” Rizzo steadied himself with a hand on the doorjamb, hopped off the trash can, and walked across the room toward Bohannon. His eyes, magnified under the thick lenses of his glasses, were red-rimmed and bloodshot; he needed a shave; and his clothes—a light, white shirt and baggy blue pants, with a red sash and thigh-high leather boots—were unusual, even for Rizzo. Sammy reached the sofa and leaned heavily on one arm as if he had no other source of support. His eyes were on the floor.

“Doc’s dead.”

Oooohhhh, God!
The weight on Bohannon’s chest got heavier.

“Annie and Kallie are gone.”

Rizzo’s face twisted in agony.

“I think they’ve got them.”

Twenty minutes later, Bohannon and Rizzo still sat side by side, each in their own cocoon of silence. Memories haunted the room like broken promises.

Bohannon broached the silence.

“What about Doc’s body?”
What about Doc’s soul?

Rizzo leaned over at the waist and covered his head with his hands. “I don’t know. Those guys from the Temple Guard were not going back. They threw me into the back of a Jeep and drove into the desert with no lights. I didn’t care. Something told me they were helping me out but I didn’t care. I kept thinking of Doc, what he must have—”

“We can’t go there, Sam.” Bohannon reached out with his right arm and wrapped it around Rizzo’s shoulders, pulling the little man closer. “We can’t afford it. We can’t afford to get paralyzed by our emotions. There are too many of them, too many to deal with. We go down that road, our emotions will suck every drop of life out of our bodies. We’ve got to focus on what we can do . . . whatever we need to do to find Annie and Kallie. I know they’re still alive. And they’re counting on us. The dead will wait for us to grieve.”

Rizzo ran his thick fingers through his thicker hair, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked up at Bohannon.

“We can’t leave him there.”

“No . . . we can’t. It’s not too early . . . I’ll call Sam Reynolds, tell him what happened. He’ll help. The State Department will get somebody down to that monastery to get Doc’s body back. Don’t worry”—he gave Rizzo a hug—“we’ll take care of Doc.”

Bohannon went to his backpack and pulled out the wristwatch satellite phone that was to keep him in contact with Reynolds. He pushed the default key. After two beeps and it was picked up at the other end.

“Tom?”

“We’ve got trouble. Doc Johnson is dead. We need your help to get his body, and get it back to the States.” Bohannon pulled in a deep breath. “But that’s not the worst part . . .”