The Aleppo Code (The Jerusalem Prophecies) (30 page)

Whitestone went rigid, like a hunting dog on the scent. His prey was coming into clearer focus.

“Times change?” he repeated. “Is it possible, perhaps, that because times have changed that two pumping stations are destroyed on the same day, sending global oil prices to crippling levels … our military air base in Qatar is closed on the same day … and the Fifth Fleet is attacked in the Strait of Hormuz—all on the same day? Is that coincidence, or is more than the time changing?”

No sound came through the speaker.

Whitestone attempted to keep the power of this room from changing his nature. Really, he did. But at times …

A man who ruled a nation of sand with the lowest literacy rate in the world was trying to
play
the president of the most powerful nation on earth. This president didn’t like being played. And the stock market would fall off the edge of a cliff tomorrow.

An aide came silently into the room and handed an envelope to Cartwright as the president weighed his next words. He was about to speak when Cartwright raised a hand.

“A moment, Your Excellency,” said Cartwright, handing a sheet of paper to Whitestone.

The president scanned the sheet, glanced across the table at Cartwright, who was visibly agitated, and read once more, letting the implications sink in.

“Your Excellency, in the last few hours the euro has become a worthless currency. Europe is essentially bankrupt. And the finance ministers of Spain, Greece, and Italy all agreed to the financial takeover of their economies by Saudi banks.”

“I do not know, Mr. President. My cousin is in charge of the bank.”

“Well, it might be wise to ask your cousin what he’s up to,” said Whitestone, trying to keep his anger in check. “Your cousin’s bank just called in over five hundred million dollars of sovereign debt. You are igniting a financial Armageddon that could destroy the economies of Europe. Abbudin, you can’t allow this to happen.”

Whitestone immediately regretted using the king’s given name. It was an affront to the House of Saud to use a ruler’s given name without being given permission.

“Mr. President.” The king’s voice had a new edge to it, sharper, dripping sarcasm. “Your nation and the nations of Europe have long relied on the largesse of other people’s money to support a lifestyle you could not afford. You are correct. Much is happening at the same time, including the aggression of your Fifth Fleet in the Strait of Hormuz, an Israeli invasion of Lebanon, and the massing of its warplanes to strike—again—our Iranian brothers. Apparently, this time, without your help.”

Whitestone winced. He had hoped his complicity in the attacks on Iran’s oil, gold, and nuclear facilities would remain a secret, at least longer than this.

“So do not lecture me about what
I
must do for
you.
Do not imagine you can demand me into obedience. I am not a puppet who dances at the end of your strings. In fact, I have that position reserved for someone else.”

The atmosphere in the Oval Office crackled with tension, like heat lightning on a summer night. The king’s voice—softer, calmer—failed to break tension’s grip.

“In such an uncertain world,” said King Abbudin, “it is the prudent and the wise who prepare for the unknown. My cousin, our nation, are simply preparing for the unknown. We have pumping stations to repair. More alarming is the fate of the Saudi economy if war closes the strait, if our pipelines are attacked, if our products cannot get to market. Laying aside a significant reserve of cash is the prudent thing to do to ensure the continued well-being of the Saudi people. And I answer to the Saudi people, Mr. President, not to you.”

It was a coup. Whitestone knew that now—a worldwide economic and fiscal coup. And Whitestone finally knew his ultimate enemy. Without firing a gun, dropping a bomb, or invading a nation, the Arab world was about to crush Western civilization.

A chill ran through the marrow of Whitestone’s bones, so deeply rooted only a walk on the sun would have warmed his soul.

“You will find that we do not surrender,” said the president, taking off the gloves of protocol and pretense. “We drove you back into the desert once, and we will do it again.”

A laugh from the pit rattled out of the phone.

“When you have no heat in the winter, when your lights no longer work, when your silos lie barren and empty, when you have no fuel for your vehicles, what will you drive us with then? When your world reverts to the Dark Ages, you will come crawling, begging for bread. And we will watch you die, infidel.
Allahu Akbar
… Allah is greatest.”

Noon, Jerusalem

The hospital was … well … not what Tom Bohannon expected, especially for the military. No drab, concrete slab exterior or mustard brown walls on the inside. The Augusta Victoria Hospital, on the southern side of Mount Scopus near the Mount of Olives, looked like a hotel from the outside because that had been its original purpose. The ubiquitous Jerusalem stone walls glittered in the late afternoon sun, set off by large windows looking out over the Kidron Valley to the Old City, but the hospital also benefitted from beautiful landscaping with hibiscus trees, running wisteria, and rosemary hedges flanking every walkway.

Once inside, Bohannon wondered if he should be looking for a concierge desk. Tall, Herodian columns flanked the front door. Black granite floors and smoked-glass walls angling in toward the rear of the lobby framed the huge entryway. And off to the right, a massive atrium looked like a tropical forest with songbirds fluttering among the trees. Bohannon was startled when he heard a soft voice to his left.

“Can I help you?”

Turning to the sound, Bohannon was again surprised to find a young female Israeli soldier standing by his side, an iPad resting on her left forearm. Her standard fatigues fit like a designer suit; her hair was jet black and pulled into a bun at the back of her head. Though Bohannon wouldn’t describe her as beautiful, she had an arresting look—small and thin, high cheekbones, and mesmerizing brown eyes. He was still staring when she spoke again.

“Are you here to visit someone? I’m Corporal Heim. Perhaps I can help you.”

“Oh, yes … well,” Bohannon stammered, “I’m here to see a friend … Sergeant Fischoff. I’m sorry; I don’t know his first name.”

The soldier gave Bohannon an appraising once over, turned to the iPad, and tapped the screen a few times. She turned back to Bohannon. “Your friend, but you don’t know his first name?”

Regaining his composure, Bohannon could sense the wariness of the corporal.

“We met under very unusual circumstances,” he said. “The sergeant and his squad were dispatched to find my wife and her friend. They were kidnapped. I happened to be in the Hummer when the orders came through. I know—it’s a strange story. But I was there when the sergeant was injured in the wreck. I helped pull him out. I just wanted to see how he was doing.”

The corporal weighed Bohannon’s story. “Come with me, please.” She walked deeper into the lobby and around a reflective glass wall. As he followed to the other side, Bohannon was stunned to see a military outpost—a dozen fully armed Israeli soldiers in flak jackets, on their feet and constantly moving along the length of the wall. Others monitoring a bank of closed-circuit television monitors with an array of electronic equipment outside of Bohannon’s experience.

“This hospital is a ripe target for attack at any time,” said Corporal Heim, answering Bohannon’s unspoken question. “Even more so today. Nearly one thousand Israeli soldiers are in this hospital, a significant number of them field officers, most of them unable to defend themselves. So there are two first-line goals for this hospital: one, protect it against any kind of terrorist attack and, two, give our wounded soldiers a special place that tells them how much we honor their service to the nation. One way we do that is to give them the best medical care possible. Another way is to have the most effective security possible. We want our patients to relax and recover. So we’re always on alert but seldom in sight.

“For instance,” she pointed over her shoulder, “you underwent a full body scan as you walked between those columns, and what’s under the black granite floor will react if the weight on it exceeds 275 kilos within ten meters—the running weight of three men with weapons.

“Please, wait in here.”

“But how do—”

Corporal Heim opened the door to a well-appointed but sterile office. Behind the desk sat an Israeli captain. “Please, sit down.” He motioned to a chair in front of the desk. Bohannon’s anxiety meter clicked up a notch as he sat before the captain.

“Do you have your passport?”

Bohannon pulled the small blue booklet from his back pocket and handed it to the officer.

“Thomas Bohannon.” The captain looked up from the passport. “And you would like to see Sergeant Fischoff. But you don’t know his name. Is that correct?”

Bohannon was about to answer when Corporal Heim entered the office and handed some papers to the officer. The captain scanned the pages, stopped, and read one section a second time. He looked up at Bohannon with a different expression on his face.

“You appear to be quite a unique tourist.” The captain rose from behind the desk and came around to stand before Bohannon. “Thank you,” he said, extending his left hand to Bohannon. “Sergeant Fischoff would probably not be alive if not for you and his corporal.”

Bohannon’s hand was crushed, but his anxiety had tanked.

“Come. Let me take you to see the sergeant.”

The interior of the hospital rivaled the entryway in richness of detail, and the number of nurses and doctors testified to Israel’s commitment to its military. The captain stopped at a large wooden door. “I’ll leave you to your reunion,” said the captain. “Please, stay as long as you like.”

Bohannon pushed open the heavy door with his left shoulder and entered a bright room, muted by a curtain over a large window. There was only one bed—more comfortable looking than any hospital bed Bohannon had ever seen. He stood, uncertain, in the doorway until Fischoff turned in his direction. The effort that took was etched across his brow and reflected in his eyes, a slow, stuttering process that demanded all his concentration. But Fischoff offered a smile of welcome that warmed Tom’s heart.

“Mr. Bohannon.” Fischoff’s voice was raspy and low, sounding as if it came from the bottom of a pool. But his eyes were bright as Bohannon came to his side. “Good to see you’re still in one piece.” Fischoff’s face clouded. “I was very sorry to hear about the young woman’s death. I wish we had been on time.”

Bohannon felt the stab of guilt and regret. Annie lived. But Kallie … “I know you and your men all risked your lives to save theirs,” he said. He looked at the thick square of bandages taped to Fischoff’s neck. “How are
you
doing?”

Fischoff’s left hand went up to the bandage, a snow cone of cotton gauze stuck to the side of his neck. “I’m a lot better than I have a right to be,” said Fischoff. The sergeant grimaced as he shifted his body weight to the left to get a better look at Bohannon. “If it wasn’t for you—”

“And the corporal,” Bohannon interjected.

“Yes, and Corporal Feldstein. The two of you saved my life that night.” A flicker of fight crossed Fischoff’s face. It was the same look Bohannon had seen on top of the crusader tower in Jerusalem’s Citadel, just before Fischoff flung himself off the tower’s platform and crashed onto the deck of the muezzin’s minaret. “And we got the bad guys. I’m happy, for you, that it’s over. Go home and have a life, Mr. Bohannon.”

“Please, call me Tom.” He rested his sling against the railing alongside the hospital bed and leaned closer to the sergeant. “I once asked your first name, remember? And you told me
Sergeant.
Sergeant Fischoff.”

Fischoff nodded. “Yeah, I was just acting tough.”

“Well, I need to know your first name, now,” said Bohannon. “We should be on a first-name basis for me to have the courage to ask what I want to ask.”

The sergeant leaned back against his pillows, rays of the late afternoon sun coming through a crack in the curtain and falling across his bed. Half his face was lit by the sun, half in deep shadow. Bohannon searched for clues. He waited, his heartbeat counting the seconds.

“Perhaps …” Fischoff shifted in the bed. “My alert system is telling me I should hear your request first, before we get too friendly.” Dust floated in the sunbeams. Bohannon prepared himself for a disappointment. Fischoff pushed himself up, full into the light.

“Jeremiah,” he said. “My parents were religious.”

“Of course … it would be Jeremiah.”

Again Bohannon shook Fischoff’s hand, and this time the grip was firmer, tighter, an exchange of promise, of bonds, of trust.

“What can I do for you?” asked Fischoff.

Bohannon pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat with his legs straddling the chair and his good arm resting on the top rail of the chair’s back.

“I don’t know how much you’ve learned about how this all started,” said Bohannon.

“All I know is that you have been a thorn in Shin Bet’s side for quite some time and that you were in some way involved with the events that led up to the earthquake and the first destruction of the Temple Mount.”

Running his hand over his mouth and chin, smoothing down his reddish-gold beard, Bohannon tried to stifle a grimace. “Well, it’s a bit more than that, I’m afraid.” Bohannon described how he and his librarian and academic friends found the scroll and mezuzah, broke the codes, and found the hidden Temple and the Tent of Meeting—all while under attack from the Prophet’s Guard.

Before Tom could finish, Fischoff raised his hand, palm out.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “You make that sound as easy as reading the newspaper. You’re telling me you and a librarian figured all that out and then survived the aftermath?”

Bohannon shook his head. “Let’s just say there was a lot of divine intervention involved, some dumb luck, and a team of people who came together who are a lot smarter than me and who helped figure it all out.”

Fischoff’s eyes examined Bohannon with a new level of interest. And respect. “The divine, huh? I’m a Sabra,” he said, “born here in Israel on a secular Jewish kibbutz. I’ve seen a lot done in the name of religion, and not all of it was good. I understand, to an extent. I’ve spent my life caught in a dichotomy of what I want to believe, because it justifies my life and my decisions, and what I saw in the way my father’s faith guided his life and his decisions. When I compare the two, my father’s life was more peaceful … no, more confident than mine. There was something there. Do you understand? He knew what he believed, why he believed it, and it guided him in all he did. Me … I’m not so sure. But I think I’ve seen what belief in God can do, and I believe God is with you. So tell me why you’re here. I’m not promising anything, but I am listening.”