The Last Secret Of The Temple (49 page)

His voice was speeding up again. He fought to control himself, raising a hand and clasping it around the menorah at his neck.

'I've investigated her. Ever since that article. A whole year. Every bomber, Khalifa. Every fucking al-Mulatham bomber – she's interviewed them all. Every single one. That's how he recruits them. Through her. She interviews them, makes sure they're suitable, then passes their names along. That's how the whole thing works. That's the system. She's in it up to her neck!'

'He's crazy!'

'Explain it, then!' he yelled, glaring at Layla, his eyes so wide and wild it looked as if they were going to burst right out of his head. 'Explain how it is that every al-Mulatham bomber happens to be someone you've interviewed!'

'I can't explain it!' she cried, shaking her head helplessly, her own voice now beginning to rise. 'Coincidence, I'm being set up . . . I don't know! I went through all this with Shin Bet after I wrote the article.'

'She had a tracker on her, for fuck's sake!' Ben-Roi fumbled in his pocket, withdrew a small metal object about the size of a cigarette packet, brandished it triumphantly in the air. 'It was in her bag, Khalifa! He's following us. Al-Mulatham. He's fucking following us!'

'They went through my bag at the airport,' she cried. 'There's no way I could have got something like that through.'

'Then how? How?'

'I don't know!' she yelled, raising a hand to her forehead, confused suddenly, disorientated. 'Someone must have planted it on me. I don't know!'

'You filthy lying bitch!' bellowed the Israeli, no longer making any attempt to sound calm or rational. 'Don't believe a word she says, Khalifa. She's playacting. She works for al-Mulatham. She's always worked for al-Mulatham. She's a murderer! She murdered my Galia!'

'We're all murderers as far as he's concerned!' she screamed. 'Every Palestinian, every Arab. Al-Mulatham killed his fiancée and we're all to blame. That's why he sold out to Har-Zion.'

'Bullshit, you fucking bitch!'

'They're following us!'

'Don't believe her, Khalifa! She's a filthy fucking—'

A third shot rang out, silencing them, the bullet disappearing harmlessly into a heap of tarpaulins, the cavern echoing to the sharp retort of the rifle. Layla sank back against a crate, Ben-Roi stood with his arms at his side, both staring upwards at the stone platform, motionless, like defendants awaiting a verdict in a courtroom. Khalifa bit his lip, blinked away a pearl of sweat that had dropped onto his eyelid, tried to get his thoughts clear. That Layla was right about Ben-Roi he had no doubt. Yet there was something in the Israeli's eyes, the way he had pleaded his case . . .

Mohammed Gemal, that's who it reminded him of, during the Schlegel interrogation all those years ago – the same desperate fury, the same frantic, wide-eyed protestations of innocence. Gemal had turned out to be telling the truth. But Ben-Roi . . . The words of his father echoed at the back of his mind:
Be careful of them, Yusuf. Always be careful of the Jews.

He blinked away another sweat droplet, gazed from Layla to Ben-Roi and back to Layla again, then snapped back the rifle bolt.

'Drop the gun, Ben-Roi.'

'No!'

'Drop it and get on your knees!'

'You don't know what you're doing! You don't know what you're doing, you stupid Arab—'

A fourth shot rang out, the bullet grazing the floor less than an inch from Ben-Roi's right foot. The Israeli looked down, up, to the side, eyes flaring like sparks of molten steel, his mouth so contorted with fury it looked as if the whole lower part of his face was going to shear away; then, with a high animal howl of despair and impotence, he cast the Schmeisser aside and sank to his knees. Layla hurried across, snatched up the weapon and, backing away, motioned him down onto his belly.

'These Warriors of David people,' called Khalifa. 'How long before they—'

He broke off, silenced by the cold nudge of a gun barrel in the nape of his neck.

'I think that answers your question. Now, put the rifle on the floor and raise your hands.'

For a fraction of a second Khalifa thought about trying to shout a warning to Layla. It was a suicidal notion, and he dismissed it before it had even fully formed, laying the Mauser on the ground and locking his fingers on top of his head. The gun barrel was withdrawn and a rough hand yanked his arm up behind his back, hoisting him to his feet and turning him.

There were six of them, including the one holding his arm – tough, stern, expressionless, all wearing ski-jackets and, somewhat incongruously, black skullcaps. Five were armed with Uzis. The sixth, the eldest and, it seemed, the one who had just spoken – a squat, thickset man with gloved hands and a pale, heavily bearded face – was clutching a Heckler and Koch pistol. With the pristine clarity of thought that fear confers, Khalifa instantly recognized him from the picture on the front of the
Time
magazine in Piet Jansen's living room: Baruch Har-Zion.

'You bastard, Ben-Roi,' he thought. 'You lying Jew bastard.'

Words were exchanged in a language he didn't understand, Hebrew presumably, and as one the group moved to the front of the ledge, the man holding Khalifa's arm yanking him around so that he was again looking out over the sea of boxes. By this point Layla had clocked there was something going on above and had shrunk back against one of the crates, her face white, her Schmeisser still covering Ben-Roi, who was lying face down on the floor. For a moment Khalifa was worried the Israelis were going to start shooting, but they merely stood staring down at her, stony-faced, their Uzis held ready at their sides, while one of their number – a tall, crew-cut man who seemed to be Har-Zion's second-in-command – stepped right up to the edge of the stone balcony and leant out, gazing at the elevator below.

There was another muttered exchange, then, slinging his Uzi over his shoulder, the crew-cut man turned, dropped to his knees and, shuffling backwards, eased himself over the ledge's lip and started to climb down, using one of the vertical elevator tracks as a ladder. Thirty seconds passed, and then there was a whirr of machinery as the elevator started to ascend, the man slowly rising before them as though levitating. When he was level with the ledge he cut the power and, at a nod from Har-Zion, they all moved onto the platform, Khalifa's arm still jammed up behind his back, the barrel of an Uzi pressed into his ear. Another nod and they began to descend, the stage sliding downwards with a rattle and a judder before jerking to a halt at the bottom.

On the floor, Ben-Roi was trying to crane his head around to see what was going on; Layla had moved out into the centre of the aisle and half-raised her Schmeisser as if to block their path. As they came up to her Khalifa tried to catch her attention, convey that she should stay calm, not do anything stupid, but her focus was locked on Har-Zion. For a moment the two of them just stood staring at each other, eyes glued, his grey and hard as granite, hers emerald green and fierce, a faintly defiant twist to her mouth. Then, with a nod, she handed her gun to one of Har-Zion's men, swiped a cuff across her bloodied nose and stepped aside.

'You took your bloody time.'

* * *

It was so unexpected it was a moment before Khalifa actually realized what she'd said. When he did, his mouth fell open in shock. On the floor, head twisted round at an unnatural angle as he struggled to peer at them over his shoulder, Ben-Roi likewise didn't seem immediately to register what was going on, his eyes jinking this way and that, his features spooling through a whole slew of expressions before finally settling themselves into a grimace of horrified disbelief.

'Oh God,' he whispered, turning away and pressing his forehead into the cold stone floor. 'Oh please God no.'

For a moment everyone remained motionless, the scene freeze-framed; then, slowly, Ben-Roi heaved himself up onto his knees and then his feet, dazed, like a boxer rising drunkenly from the canvas. Layla backed away so that she was standing with the Israelis, her eyes flicking momentarily towards Khalifa, a faint rash of red staining her cheeks – whether from shame or some wholly different emotion the Egyptian couldn't tell. Ben-Roi no longer seemed to notice her, his gaze now focused exclusively on Har-Zion.

'The Palestinians simply aren't that good,' he murmured, voice tight with suppressed fury. 'The way the brotherhood operates is way too sophisticated for a renegade Palestinian cell. The impetus has to be external.'

Khalifa was still trying to marshall his thoughts, work out what was going on.

'I don't understand,' he mumbled, looking from Ben-Roi to Layla to Har-Zion and back to Ben-Roi again. The latter's face had completely drained of colour, the skin a dirty translucent white, like stained alabaster.

'It's like I told you, Khalifa. She works for al-Mulatham. Recruits his bombers, writes bullshit articles about him, just like I said. Only one thing I missed.' Ben-Roi's fists clenched, eyes never leaving Har-Zion. 'It turns out al-Mulatham's been murdering his own people.'

Again it took the Egyptian a moment to process this, to get his thoughts arranged.

'You mean . . . ?'

Ben-Roi's entire body had started trembling.

'He's al-Mulatham,' he snarled. 'He's the one who's controlling it. Arab bombers, Israeli master. Butchering his own people. His own fucking people!'

Khalifa stared aghast, the entire cavern seeming to contract around them. There was a momentary silence, then, with a shocking animal howl of loathing and fury, Ben-Roi launched himself forward. He was a powerful man, but he was also overweight, exhausted and up against professionals. Before he had even got close to his target two of Har-Zion's men stepped up and, with cool, choreographed precision, halted him in his tracks, one smashing an Uzi butt into his stomach, doubling him over, the other coming round behind him and taking him in an arm-lock, yanking him upright again. Khalifa tensed, fists clenching, but with a gun pressed into the side of his head there was nothing he could do. Layla stared down at the floor, the red on her cheeks deepening and spreading.

'Why?' choked Ben-Roi, gasping for air, struggling against the arm-lock. 'In God's name, why?'

Har-Zion rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the constricting clasp of his burnt skin, which was becoming increasingly tight and itchy beneath his jacket.

'To save our people,' he replied, his voice, in contrast to Ben-Roi's, cold, measured and toneless.

'By butchering them?'

'By proving to them once and for all that there can never be peace with the Arabs. That their purpose is and always has been to destroy us, and that to survive we have no choice but to do the same to them.'

Ben-Roi bucked, struggled, spat.

'You killed her!' he choked. 'You killed her, you filthy animal!'

Again Har-Zion rolled his shoulders. His face was empty.

'If there was any other road I would gladly take it. But there is no other road. Our people have to see the Arabs for what they truly are.'

'Hamas aren't doing a good enough job of it?' screamed Ben-Roi. 'Islamic Jihad?'

'Unfortunately not.'

'Unfortunately?'

'Yes, unfortunately,' said Har-Zion, his tone hardening slightly, his eyes betraying the first vague flicker of emotion. 'Unfortunately because however many of us they kill, still we try to convince ourselves that if only we negotiate, concede a little, then everything will be all right, everything will be OK, they will leave us alone to bring up our children in peace and security.'

'You're fucking mad!'

'No,' snapped Har-Zion, the annoyance in his eyes now unmistakable, 'it is those who speak of compromise and retreat who are mad! It was compromise that fired the ovens of Auschwitz, retreat that dug the death pits at Babi Yar. And now we're intent on making the same mistake again, the mistake we have always made, year after year, century after century, the cardinal error of the Jewish people: to believe for a single moment that the
goyim
can ever be trusted, can ever be our friends, desire anything other than to herd us into the gas chambers and wipe us from the face of the earth!'

His voice was starting to rise, the words barking from his mouth like bullets from the muzzle of a gun.

'We don't need peace processes,' he spat. 'Treaties, accords, road maps, conferences – none of it. If we wish to survive we need one thing and one thing alone, and that is fury. The same fury that has been directed at us through all the long, dark night of our history. It is this alone that will protect us, give us the strength to survive. And it is this that al-Mulatham has provided. This is why we have made him. That is why he exists.'

He broke off, his high, pale forehead beaded with sweat, little shivers running through his body from the itching of his skin, which was starting to become unbearable, as it always did when he failed to apply his balm at the appointed time. Ben-Roi stared at him, no longer bothering to struggle against the arm-lock, his eyes dull and glazed, his mouth opening and shutting as though unable to find any words appropriate to convey the depth of his loathing.

'Moser,'
he whispered eventually.
'Rodef.'

Har-Zion's lips tightened. He held the detective's gaze, then raised a gloved hand and motioned to the man with crew-cut hair, who stepped forward and, without actually seeming to draw back his arm, slammed his fist into the base of Ben-Roi's pelvis, just a few centimetres above his groin.

'
Allah-u-akhbar'
mumbled Khalifa, wincing, fists clenched impotently at his side.

Ben-Roi let out a deep, choking gargle and slumped, his legs giving way beneath him. He was hauled up again, punched again, this time at the very top of his chest, just beneath his throat, then left to sink down onto his knees, and then his elbows, a narrow string of vomit dribbling from his mouth onto the stone floor.

'There is only one traitor here and that is you,' said Har-Zion, standing over him, his voice back to its former cold, measured monotone. 'You and, from what I have heard of her, your fiancée too. There are deaths I regret, but hers is not one of them.'