The Last Judgment (18 page)

The Knights had been careful to plan each sermon so it would begin with a seemingly random question and answer.

And so Gilead began to preach.

He said there would be both wars and rumors of wars.

Nations would rise up against other nations, and kingdoms against kingdoms.

He spoke of famines and earthquakes.

“Don't be afraid,” he said to the crowd in a powerful voice, his words echoing off the ancient stone walls around him. “All of these things are simply the beginning of birth pangs—”

“What will happen to us? What can we expect? Will we be persecuted?” one of the secret followers of the Knights yelled out.

“Yes, of course,” Gilead responded. “They will come and deliver you up to tribulation. And some of you they will kill. And you will be hated by all nations. And you must be on your watch because many will fall away and will turn one another into the authorities. And hate one another. Because lawlessness is going to increase. The love of human beings toward one another will grow dim…slowly…turned down like the heat on a stove—until finally, the love in the hearts of many will grow cold and dead.”

As Gilead addressed the crowd below, up on top of the Temple Mount platform—that one-million-square-foot plateau of peaceful columns and trees and walkways and mosques—hundreds of Muslim faithful were gathering in the al-Aqsa Mosque for worship. They entered, removed their shoes, and then knelt in unison, bowing and worshiping.

Down at street level, Gilead's preaching had caught the attention of several Israeli police. A male and female police officer, glancing at each other and gesturing, both hurried over to the gathering crowd to disperse them. There were now nearly a hundred onlookers. Several had now appeared in opposition and had worked their way to the front and were arguing with Gilead.

But the preacher seemed unperturbed. He responded to the volley of questions with poise and confidence.

In the very back of the outer ring of humanity, Yossin and the Frenchman stood shoulder to shoulder, listening and watching intently.

One of the Knights shouted out a question, louder than the others.

“What about the Temple Mount? What are the signs? How can the Temple be built when the Muslims control the area? Doesn't Holy Scripture say that the Temple must be rebuilt?”

“Listen to the words of Scripture,” Gilead shouted. “ ‘Therefore when you see the “abomination of desolation,” spoken of by Daniel the prophet, standing in the holy place'—”

He now stepped away from the crowd and pointed directly at the Temple Mount and the shining golden dome atop the plateau.

“That is where the holy place should be,” he said in a voice that boomed and echoed.

The Israeli police were working their way through the crowd, trying to disperse them and get to Gilead, who was in the very center.

“The man of lawlessness shall be revealed. Before the very end, before the final coming of the Kingdom of God, he shall take his seat in the Temple of God, displaying himself as if he were God. In what temple? It is in that Temple—” he shouted, gesturing. “The Temple yet to be rebuilt from the ruins of the one that now lies within the ground of the Temple Mount. But it will be resurrected…the stones will come to life. It will be rebuilt. So all of the stones you see—and the buildings you now see atop the Mount—what will become of them? Can there be any question that God Himself must remove them first?”

Yossin whirled to face the Frenchman and grabbed the lapels of his shirt with both hands.

“The sign! The sign!” he shouted.

The Frenchman, half-dazed, blinked, nodded his head, and smiled.

And then the realization hit both of them. It would now begin. Yossin looked at his watch, grabbed the Frenchman and whispered something in his ear, and then sprinted from the group to a white van a block away and climbed in.

Meanwhile, the Frenchman ran in the opposite direction to an old rusted VW bus parked about two hundred feet away. He unlocked the door and got in.

Each man retrieved, from under the front seat, a black control box with a small keyboard, wireless antenna, and control switch.

It took them only thirty seconds to boot up the minicomputers. Then they set the coordinates. Each man looked at his watch. When the second hands slowly moved to bring the minute hands to exactly noon, then they would act simultaneously.

Each of them in their separate vehicles rested an index finger on the ENTER button on his keyboard.

By now the American had scrambled out of the crowd and waved down a taxicab driver—also a member of the Knights of the Temple Mount—and had given him the signal to exit when his human cargo arrived.

But neither the American nor the Frenchman nor Yossin, the Arab leader of the Knights of the Temple Mount, were able to hear their prophet's final admonitions.

“But be warned!” Gilead shouted. “Jesus the Lord has said, ‘Many will come in My name, saying “I am the Christ,” and will deceive many'—and He warned that many false prophets would arise and mislead many.”

“But you are the Promised One!” one of the supporters of the Knights yelled out.

Gilead parted his lips to answer. He smiled, raising his hands high so all of the onlookers could see. By now the two police officers were breaking through the final ring of humanity and were almost to Gilead's position.

But before Gilead could speak, Yossin in the white van, and the Frenchman in the rusted VW bus, checked their watches—and then each simultaneously pushed down hard on the ENTER button of his keyboard.

A bright, blinding light exploded from the top of the Temple Mount. There was an awful rumble that shook the city of Jerusalem at the epicenter and then all the way to the suburbs from the two simultaneous, bone-jarring blasts. Windows of shops and office buildings throughout Jerusalem shattered.

The white stones of the al-Aqsa Mosque, and glass and trees, and the bodies of the Muslim worshipers and visitors atop the
Temple Mount and the Dome of the Rock were blown up into the air and scattered across the Old City of Jerusalem.

Great blocks of stone were hurled down onto the Jews at the Western Wall, as they stared up in shock and then ran in panic across the great plaza, trying to avoid the hurtling rock and stone that was raining down. The Knights of the Temple Mount and the onlookers screamed and ran in all directions.

The American grabbed Gilead, frantically pushing and pulling him to the waiting taxi. He stuffed him in and the driver sped off, through and around the traffic that was now bottlenecked by the debris that had rained down on the street in the Kidron Valley, which separates the Old Wall of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives on the opposite side. Lurching the car off the street, over the curb, and onto the sloping hill that led around the Old Wall of the city, he drove wildly until he slammed to a stop in front of the dual walled-up arches of the Golden Gate—arches that had been closed for a thousand years.

Sirens could be heard all over the city as Israeli defense forces, ambulances, and police rushed into the Old City. The Palestinian police began shooting randomly at any suspicious person near the entrances of the Mughrabi Gate, which led to the steps ascending to the Temple Mount.

The taxi driver looked at his watch. It was exactly three minutes after twelve. He leaned down to a keyboard on the floor of his taxi and pushed the ENTER button.

The two walled-up stone arches of the ancient Golden Gate into Old Jerusalem exploded in a shower of stone.

One large rock hurtled through the left front window of the taxi, killing the driver instantly and rolling the vehicle over with the force of the blow.

Dazed, Gilead climbed out through the broken window of the passenger door of the taxi, which was now teetering on its side.

Suddenly he was aware of shots. Down the avenue, Israeli defense forces were firing on his position. Gilead wiped his face—
there was something liquid there—and realized he was bleeding from his nose.

With bullets whizzing by him, he scrambled over the rubble in the now wide-open Golden Gate of the Old Wall of the city of Jerusalem.

As Gilead stumbled through the opening, he saw screaming, running people crowding the streets, and others fleeing from what remained of the plateau of the Temple Mount above.

Gilead staggered and realized he could hear very little, except the once-distant sound of sirens—now getting very close. When the sirens seemed almost upon him, he looked up into the sky.

It was bright blue and serene. That was the last thing he saw before his knees buckled and he dropped to the ground unconscious.

28

Three Months Later

I
N HIS LAW CHAMBERS IN
L
ONDON
, E
NGLAND
, Barrister Nigel Newhouse was holding a press conference. The room was packed with foreign press and television cameras.

The prominent human rights lawyer, a man in his mid-fifties with neatly trimmed gray hair and wire-rimmed reading glasses, strode to a podium with a sheet of notes for his public statement.

The barrister glanced down, adjusted his reading glasses, and then addressed the small army of reporters.

“The day before yesterday I met in Ramallah with my client, Hassan Gilead Amahn. As you know, Mr. Amahn is in detention pursuant to a multinational arrest resulting from the investigation into the bombing of the Temple Mount.”

Newhouse paused for a moment, and then continued with what he knew would probably be the top news story of the day.

“Regrettably, I then advised Mr. Amahn that I must withdraw as his legal counsel.”

Amid the noises of cameras, several dozen pens, as if in an orchestrated ballet, began scratching wildly on notepads.

“Mr. Amahn consents to my withdrawal under the unique circumstances in which I find myself. As some of you may know, I have been, for some time, legal counsel to Mr. Corin Mambassa, a newspaper editor. Mr. Mambassa was recently indicted by the
International War Crimes Tribunal of the United Nations, which is investigating war crimes committed in Sierra Leone. I have been, and continue to be, convinced of Mr. Mambassa's innocence of any human rights violations or war crimes.”

Newhouse glanced again at the paper in front of him, then removed a newspaper clipping from his suit coat pocket and placed it in front of him.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Mambassa also wrote an editorial in his newspaper revealing the fact that his nephew was an active member of the Knights of the Temple Mount—the religious organization that is the target of the investigation into the Temple Mount catastrophe. Mr. Mambassa, in his editorial, lamented the death of his nephew, who was apparently caught in the cross fire between Palestinian police and Israeli defense forces following the explosion. He went on to say some rather nasty things about the Knights of the Temple Mount, and Gilead Amahn in particular.

“Now I was unaware,” Newhouse continued, “when I accepted the case of Hassan Gilead Amahn, that my other client, Mr. Mambassa, had written these remarks. And while I do not believe this involves a direct conflict of interest, I am satisfied that I cannot, in good conscience, continue to represent Mr. Amahn at the same time I represent Corin Mambassa. Accordingly, with consent of Mr. Amahn, I am withdrawing from his representation so I can zealously, and with singleness of purpose, continue my representation and defense of Mr. Mambassa.”

Newhouse looked up from his notes and scanned the room.

“I will continue as Mr. Amahn's counsel for only such period of time as is necessary for him to secure a new trial attorney. I will be glad to entertain any questions…”

Newhouse recognized a reporter from CNN.

“Do you have any idea who will be taking over the defense of Mr. Amahn's case? We've heard rumors that a number of high-profile American defense lawyers have offered their services…in fact, there was an article on the Internet earlier today indicating
that a member of last decade's O.J. Simpson dream team has come to the forefront.”

Newhouse chuckled.

“No, I don't know anything about that. I can say this—and my client has authorized me to make this clear. Mr. Amahn is very selective about who is going to represent him in this case. He originally wanted representation by an American lawyer but was unable to secure his representation—”

“Who is the lawyer? And why didn't he take the case originally?” another reporter bulleted out.

“The lawyer's name is Will Chambers—”

“Do you know why Mr. Chambers didn't take the case?”

“First off,” Newhouse said, “I know Mr. Chambers only through a casual professional acquaintance. He has a reputation as a fine trial lawyer who has had experience in international human-rights cases. He successfully represented a former American military officer before the International Criminal Court in The Hague a few years ago. But as to Mr. Chambers' reason for declining representation of Mr. Amahn…”

Newhouse considered his words carefully.

“All I know is that Mr. Chambers said he had personal and family responsibilities that conflicted with his taking up the defense of Mr. Amahn.”