Fuse of Armageddon (32 page)

Kate drank some more of her cola. Quinn noticed her habit of closing her eyes as she tilted the bottle back. He found it attractive. But then, he found nearly everything about her attractive.

She opened her eyes and caught him staring. She raised an eyebrow but said only, “So you’re testing this guy. If he sends someone out with the cell phone, you’ll know that he probably intends to negotiate his way out of this.”

“I’ll know that he’s in there, and I’ll know that Jonathan Silver is alive. I’ll have also established who is running the show here. Rule one: take control.”

She tapped the bottle absently with a fingernail. “Hard to tell whether you’re smug or confident or just bluffing the confidence.”

“That’s part of my job too,” he answered.

“Let me guess. Rule one?”

“Nope. But close to the top.”

“So what if no one comes out with a cell-phone photo?” Kate asked.

“I die,” Quinn said. “You live.”

“Care to make sense of that for me?”

“If he’s not interested in negotiating,” Quinn said, “he doesn’t need me. And since I am a sitting duck, it won’t be hard for him to kill me. You, on the other hand, will be leaving the van in the next thirty seconds and should be fine.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“It’s important for his soldier to find me alone in here,” Quinn said.

“What about alone and handcuffed?”

“That would probably raise a few questions.” He shook his head. “You really think I’m going to run at this point?”

“No,” she said. “It just seems that you are good at orchestrating things. I don’t like being orchestrated.”

“Probably don’t like the submissive female thing either, do you?”

Kate’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll go. But if you think it’s submissive, you’re in more danger from me than the terrorist.”

“As long as all the other men around here believe you’re submissive.”

“What?”

Quinn drained his bottle and grinned. “Keep your veil on. Be sure to keep your head down when you walk along the street. No one will bother you; I promise.”

He opened the van door for her on the side away from the orphanage.

She put on her veil and stepped down. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she said. “I really can’t believe it.”

Quinn shrugged.

“One thing,” she said, pausing with the door still open. She held out her hand. “Keys.”

“We’ve already established I’m not going to run.”

“No, you won’t abandon the hostages. But I can see you moving the van to a place where I can’t find you.”

“Kate—”

“Keys. You’re playing this like a chess game. You got rid of the military. You got rid of Hamer. And you’ll want to get rid of me until this is over because you think that’s going to move me out of danger.”

“Kate—”

“Am I wrong?” she asked.

Quinn handed her the keys.

15:45 GMT


All the hostages were outside in a small courtyard, and Jonathan Silver stood apart from the others.

He was outdoors for the first time in what seemed like years. His gratitude for the simple joy of fresh air told him that if he somehow survived this, his life would not be the same. After living this poverty, brief as it had been, he’d view his luxuries with a degree of guilt. He knew he should learn to help in a way that seemed to matter—Esther’s way. He wondered if he would have the strength to deliver on this good intention.

Thinking of Esther, he looked around and saw her kneeling beside Alyiah.

Silver walked to her and touched her shoulder lightly.

Esther looked up, then stood.

“Thank you,” Silver said. “I’ve learned from you. If I ever have the chance, I’m going to do my best to make sure that you receive enough money to keep helping these children.”

“I won’t refuse money,” she said. “If Americans can help this lost generation of Palestinian children, they will be reducing the amount of recruits for terrorism in the next generation. But we need more than that from you.”

“More.” Silver thought he understood. He saw himself in front of cameras and thought of the PR those cameras would generate, following him as he worked with Esther’s orphans. “I would donate some time, too. I’ll work it into my schedule.” He smiled grimly. “If we’re delivered from this.”

“If you want to make a difference here,” she said, “stop predicting the end of the world.”

He began to bristle.

“Please,” Ester pleaded, “just listen to me.”

“Sure.”

“With your arms crossed like that?”

He hadn’t even realized it. He caught enough of a smile in her question to relax slightly. It took effort, however, to finally uncross his arms. “The events in the Middle East clearly follow Revelation’s timeline. I can’t lie to the world about it.”

“Haven’t you ever even considered a different viewpoint?”

“Like what?”

“Like if the Great Tribulation prophesied in Revelation to happen ‘soon’ was actually fulfilled in the first-century persecution of Christians under Nero Caesar,” she said. “Like if some of the cosmic apocalyptic phrases you interpret literally are actually Old Testament judgment metaphors meant not to describe historical events in literal detail but to highlight the eternal truths revealed through God’s judgment of the nations?”

“Metaphors,” Silver said. “Trying to twist the words of the Bible. Taking what is literal and—”

”In the Old Testament, Joel uses apocalyptic language of the sun being darkened and the moon being turned to blood to describe God’s then soon-coming judgment on the enemies of ancient Israel. Are you suggesting the moon will actually turn to blood?”

“It will look red.”

“Metaphor then.”

Silver had no reply.

She continued. “Joel’s apocalyptic symbolism of the sun being darkened and the moon being turned to blood is also used by Jesus and subsequently by John in Revelation to describe the great and terrible judgment on Jerusalem and vindication of the righteous that took place in AD 70. You can’t understand Jesus and John here unless you are literate in the Old Testament too and realize how they use Old Testament metaphors in the New Testament!”

“But to say it meant the judgment in AD 70—”

“You do realize that many intelligent and devout Christians have held this view of Revelation throughout church history? That the holocaust of the fall of the temple to the Romans in AD 70 was the judgment that Jesus prophesied would happen within his generation.”

“Well . . .”

“But you don’t acknowledge this to your followers. At least let them understand that Christian orthodoxy allows for other views of Revelation.”

“God promised Israel to the Jews. That miracle happened in 1948.”

“And the Temple must be rebuilt?”

“Yes.” But Silver was thinking of how Safady had challenged him.

“We are all Jews under Christ,” she said. “Palestinian believers included. It’s not about ethnicity but relationship. Israel as a nation-state now, a geopolitical entity, is not the kingdom Christ came to establish. And the Temple? Christ told the Samaritan woman at the well that the day was coming soon when she wouldn’t have to worship at a physical temple. Christ is the Temple. We don’t need stone walls and sacrifices on altars to worship God anymore.”

“But people need to understand that their souls are in peril,” Silver said. “They turn to God when they learn to fear the Great Tribulation and Armageddon.”

“And turn away when the prediction of the month fails. Do you have any idea how many times since 1948 prominent leaders like yourself have predicted the Christ’s return? Dozens of times. And they’ve been proven wrong every time.”

“Events continue to unfold,” Silver said. “Believers understand that. They don’t lose faith.”

“How many evangelicals believe what you teach?” Esther asked quietly.

“Seventy million,” he answered. “Some estimate a hundred million.”

“All believing Armageddon is almost upon us.”

“The signs of the times—”

She didn’t let him finish. “You have a huge following. When they believe the world is about to end, they believe there is little sense in trying to improve it. On the other hand, if you went on television and pleaded for your millions of listeners to support a two-state solution for Israel and Palestine, pleaded for the peace that would come with it for families here, poured the next three years of your ministry into Palestine and sent workers here among the poor who need it, can you imagine how your example of love would begin to erase Arab hatred and suspicion for America? And how that could help in the war against terrorism?”

It was a passionate outpouring, and she had to stop for breath. She looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

“You won’t let this go, will you?” he said.

Esther held Alyiah’s hand. “Not until these children can grow up with hope, not despair.”

Before Silver could answer, Safady marched toward them.

“You,” Safady said to Esther. “I have a task for you.”

15:45 GMT


Patterson and Burge made it back to the safe house with twenty seconds to spare. They stepped inside to be greeted by machine guns trained on the door. Visual identification was made, and the machine guns lowered.

At first glance, the interior looked no different from that of the house they’d entered to drop the gas cylinders. But the door and walls had been reinforced to withstand even armor-piercing missiles. And this house held the crates that the remaining soldiers had unloaded from the trucks while the six teams had been roaming the nearby streets and alleys.

Saxon was leaning against the wall. The other soldiers were sitting on crates in the empty interior. Saxon pointed Patterson and Burge to the far wall, where Orphan Annie was munching on hay that had been spread on the dirt.

Nothing was said.

The silence was broken only by the sound of horns outside and the clatter of bartering voices from the market down the street.

Within seconds, there was another knock on the door. The men with machine guns went on alert, then relaxed again when the final team entered.

Saxon wordlessly pointed at the door; two of the soldiers stepped forward and slid a bar of heavy iron into place to bolt the door shut.

Two others hurried to the back of the room and grabbed spades. They began digging into the dirt floor, and within seconds, Patterson heard a clunk of spades against wood.

Patterson had expected this. Before sending the teams out, Saxon had briefed them on what they would be doing upon their return. Still, Patterson was impressed by the thoroughness of logistics here. How much planning had it taken to prepare the house like this? And it brought the question to his mind again: who had known that the hostage taking would be here, and how could they have known far enough in advance to get all of this ready?

But there was no time to think about it now.

With the dirt removed, a trapdoor was revealed. The soldiers with spades opened it, uncovering a wide set of stairs dropping into darkness.

“Okay, men,” Saxon said. “Now’s the time for your gas masks.”

Patterson and the others removed the masks from where they had been concealed beneath their clothing. When Patterson slipped his mask across his face, his breathing immediately became an eerie Darth Vader sound, except shallower and higher-pitched, a conscious reminder that fear was putting his body into high alert. Along with the faster breathing, he felt the tingle of adrenaline. Patterson knew his part in this next phase of the operation was to go with the first half of the unit to clear the tunnels of hostiles.

Once they secured the tunnel, all but three men of the second half would be in charge of moving the crates below.

The final three men would then close the trapdoor and cover it with dirt. Their instructions were to remain in the house and guard it against entry. Saxon had not said for how long they needed to remain or if they would be rejoining the unit again. Nor had they asked.

Hostiles.

Men already in the tunnel. Men, like them, highly trained and highly armed.

If everything went as planned, not a shot would be fired.

If not, Patterson was in for his first real firefight of the mission.

30

Khan Yunis, Gaza Strip • 15:54 GMT


When he slid open the side door of the panel van, Quinn was surprised to find a woman instead of a soldier. An American woman in her midforties with a calm face and a plain dress.

“I’m required to ask you for a Coke—” the woman held up a cell phone—“in exchange for this.”

Quinn invited her in and pointed to a crate as a seat. He slid the door shut and turned to her. “You’re one of the hostages,” he said, relieved at the thought. This was his first real indication that Safady truly wanted negotiations.

“In a sense, yes. I run the orphanage.”

“Esther Weber,” Quinn said.

She blinked.

“I learned as much as I could from the Mossad about the orphanage. I’m Mulvaney Quinn.” He offered her a cold bottle.

Esther accepted it but did not open it. She shifted on the crate and looked around the interior. “It’s true, isn’t it? You have no military backup here. Not even weapons.”

“I’ve got my laptop to keep me connected. Mainly, though, I rely on my charm and wit.”

“So you’re suicidal,” she said. Then she smiled.

“I’m working on a simple premise here. Intel says your official fund-raising status in the United States is that of a Christian relief organization. You’ve made it your lifework to help Palestinian orphans. You’ve been here for more than a decade, and the locals respect you and your efforts a great deal. This despite your Christian status.”

“I don’t advertise that,” Esther said. “Francis of Assisi said to preach the gospel at all times, using words if necessary. These children don’t need words. They need love and help. I give them what I can.”

“In a Muslim nation extremely hostile to the West. Yet you are protected.”

“Who would want to hurt the children?”

“Exactly,” Quinn said. “I’m sure Safady knew that when he picked your orphanage as the place to hold the Americans.”