The Brotherhood Conspiracy (32 page)

“Second, Mr. Prime Minister, do we have any private funds we can tap?”

Baruk nodded. “Yes, more than enough.”

“Good. Let’s get Alexander Krupp to hire some private helicopters and equip them with ground-penetrating radar equipment. I can arrange for some permits from the Jordanian government, say they’re doing an emergency survey for the Jordanian Geo-Thermal Institute. We’ll have the helicopters survey all of the area of Jordan around Mount Nebo, but concentrating on the mountain itself. Let’s see what we find.”

His mind flashed back six days.

“I’m sorry,” said Sharp, feeling once again the gnawing regret that haunted him, “I should have thought of that before—”

“Have Krupp buy the helicopters and paint them with his colors and logo,” Orhlon interjected.

Sharp nodded, then continued. “Third, I’ve got some men, retired Shin Bet, who are private contractors. They’re ready to move at my word. Allow me to send a group of them to Lebanon, to Tripoli, to see what they can find out about that priest’s trip there in exile.

“And last, for now, we’ve been informed that the Americans—Bohannon and his team—all left the United States earlier today, with the State Department’s assistance. They weren’t all headed to the same destination, but you can bet some of them are coming in our direction along with the two women. The
Americans must have discovered something else about that scroll. Mossad has agents in the U.S. trying to find out more about the destinations and what got Bohannon moving again. I want to call in a dozen of my best agents—more if necessary—pay them off the books and have them blanket the unconventional routes into Israel and also keep an eye on the women. Whatever Bohannon and his team are looking for, we want to be there when they find it.”

Baruk moved forward on the seat, closing the distance between himself and Sharp. “Thank you, Levi. This is no time for regrets. Put all those things into action.

“And find those Americans.

“Maybe it’s a good thing we let the women come back after all.”

23

W
EDNESDAY
, A
UGUST
19

Tripoli, Lebanon

“The streets of Tripoli were purposely designed like this,” Rodriguez shouted as his shoulder once again was thrown against Bohannon’s side. “Narrow and winding to inhibit the progress of any invader.”

Their taxi driver executed a sudden, darting left turn, throwing Rodriguez against the car’s door. The taxi narrowly missed a vegetable cart and frightened two elderly women who were picking their way through the traffic hurtling in all directions through the intersection.

“The plan seems to be working,” Bohannon shouted back.

“It worked for the Mamelukes, too,” said Joe. “A lot of these streets and alleys are dead ends. The bazaars were all laid out in different directions, each ending at a crossroads. Passageways were tight and twisting. Anything to confuse an invader. Then they built homes and shops, raised above the streets and alleys, which allowed the citizens to defend themselves by throwing stones or hot oil from the windows and roofs. These people were tough to beat. Kind of like folks from Brooklyn.”

The windstorm created by the taxi’s headlong dash through the streets carried the scent of grilling meat, replaced almost immediately by the nauseating, sickly sweetness of rotting produce. From all sides their ears were assaulted by the incessant cacophony of car horns, street hawkers, bleating goats, and the normal morning tumult of Tripoli’s Old Town market.

Dark brown masonry walls rushed by on both sides, tight to the street. There were few windows in the walls—except for narrow firing slits that dominated
the walls at each intersection—the preferred Lebanese home opening to a central courtyard.

The taxi burst out of Old Town onto al-Masaref Street, bore right onto relatively modern El Mina Road, raced past the shopping district, and rocketed around the El Mina circle.

Rodriguez was thrown forward by a sudden stop, thudding into the back of the front seat. “I hope you have insurance,” he shouted to Bohannon.

“Oh, yes, good sir,” replied the cab driver, smiling broadly as he looked over his shoulder at Rodriguez. “Much insurance. Enough to pay all funeral expenses.”

Rodriguez opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it as the driver accelerated again and swung his head and the taxi to the left. The shouts of a startled truck driver were jumbled in the turbulence of their wake.

“Will you please pay attention to—”

The taxi screeched to a halt in front of the Nada Center on Rahbat Street in the Nejmeh District, jumbling Rodriguez, Bohannon, exhaust fumes, and relief into a ball in the center of the cab’s rear seat.

“Delivery achieved, good sir,” chimed the driver, reaching his right hand over the back of the seat. “Fifteen thousand pounds.” He smiled angelically. “Or, ten dollars, American.”

Cheap
. Rodriguez handed over the American greenback.
I’d pay him ten times that amount just to be out of this cab in one piece.

The Nada Center tower, south of the Port of Tripoli and the Old Train Station, commanded a breathtaking view over the rooftops of the Old City, but Rodriguez didn’t bring Bohannon to Tripoli to sightsee. They came to meet Tariq Barkawi.

“If there is anyone in Tripoli who can give us information on the Dar al-Ilm it’s Barkawi,” said Rodriguez, leading the way through the main door. “He’s president of the Tripoli city council’s Historical Committee and a member of every important architectural, historic, and renovation group in the city. In Tripoli, he’s the king of historical preservation.”

And I hope he has some direction for us.

They got off the elevator on the seventh floor. Rodriguez rechecked the directions he’d been given at the hotel, turned to his left, and knocked on the door of a nondescript office, with no identifying markers, at the southeast corner of the building.

“Come in, Mr. Rodriguez,” an inflected English answered the knock. “It’s open.”

Barkawi had changed little since Rodriguez saw him last. An Omar Sharif look-alike, Barkawi was blessed with thick, jet-black hair, and a mustache to match, and the lean, but short, body of a long-distance runner. Barkawi’s eyes were also black, and they were shrouded within deeply set, cave-like openings that were kept in shadow by the jutting overhang of his heavy eyebrows. He dressed like a Wall Street banker and spoke with the whisper of a librarian.

They were fifteen minutes into the required pleasantries, the wariness Rodriguez remembered from their first meeting at a convention replaced by an unexpected eagerness and warmth, when Barkawi finally asked how he could help.

“We have a simple request,” said Rodriguez, glancing at Bohannon. “We would like you to tell us what you know of the Dar al-Ilm, the great library that was destroyed by the Crusader invaders.”

Barkawi’s desk was strategically situated at an angle, spanning the corner of his office, with vast windows filling the walls on both sides, giving Rodriguez and Bohannon a dazzling panorama of Tripoli’s old quarter—dozens of minarets reaching to the sky, some thin and elegant, others square and sturdy, along with the solid, squat brown walls of the city’s ancient citadel in the distant haze.

Leaning back into his chair, seeming to meld into the skyscape, Barkawi turned his shadowed eyes to Rodriguez. A thin smile pushed at the corners of his mouth.

“Tell you what I know of the Dar al-Ilm?” Barkawi’s whispered question carried the slightest edge. “Well, Mr. Rodriguez, that could take a minute . . . or it could consume the entire day. May I ask, please, why you seek information about the Dar al-Ilm? Your answer may help me formulate a more informed answer. When you contacted me you said you were researching the history of Jewish refugees in Tripoli during the Crusaders’ siege and needed help in uncovering historical records from that time. Is that your purpose?”

Joe and his brother-in-law had discussed, and argued about, this moment during most of their trip from New York City. Tom urged caution, arguing they should limit to a minimum any information they shared, with anybody. Rodriguez believed that being circumspect would only lead to dead ends and wasted time.

“My brother-in-law and I believe that a book, or a document, of some interest
to us, may have been deposited in the Dar al-Ilm after the fall of Jerusalem. We know some writers at the time claimed the Dar al-Ilm contained nearly three million books, scrolls, and parchments. And we know it was completely destroyed, along with nearly all of Tripoli, when the Crusaders finally breached the city’s walls in 1109. So we also know that our search has a limited chance of success. But we believe if anyone might have information or insight into the great library, it would be you.”

The shadowed caves under Barkawi’s brows continued to point at Rodriguez, unsettling his calm veneer. “And, for this, you came all the way from New York to Tripoli? Not a phone call? Not an email? You both flew nearly halfway around the world to ask me that question? This book,” Barkawi said, leaning into his desk, “must be quite important.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it important,” Joe hedged. “It—”

“—must have something to do with the recent unpleasantness in Jerusalem,” Barkawi interrupted. “Something about a temple, hidden from the Crusaders, I think.”

“Look, Mr. Barkawi,” Bohannon butted in. “We don’t need—”

Joe reached out with his right arm and put a hand on his brother-in-law’s elbow.

“Yes, we do, Tom.” He tightened his grip on Bohannon’s elbow as he turned his attention back to Barkawi’s smiling face. “There was a man, a Jewish priest, named Abiathar. He, and his father before him, were the men behind the construction of the hidden Temple in Jerusalem, the one we discovered.”

“Now destroyed,” Barkawi whispered.

“Yes, now destroyed,” Rodriguez replied, “along with everything else that was in, or on, the Temple Mount. There is nothing left.”

“Still, you are here.”

“Yes . . . and we need your help.” This was the moment of truth. “Just prior to the fall of Jerusalem to the Crusaders, Abiathar left the city and traveled north. Once before, when the Seljuk Turks invaded Jerusalem, Abiathar and his community of Jews fled to Tyre. But, this time, Abiathar traveled to Tripoli . . . a long distance . . . to escape the Crusaders. Why would he travel twice as far, add another two hundred kilometers to what was already dangerous travel, to come to Tripoli? What did Tripoli have that Tyre did not?”

Barkawi inclined his head toward Rodriguez and nodded in agreement. “The famous Dar al-Ilm . . . the House of Knowledge?”

“Yes . . . a library,” said Rodriguez. “One of the greatest libraries of the ancient world. And what would Abiathar bring to a library but a book. Or, he came here to look at a book, to do some research, to follow a trail.”

The light was behind Barkawi. Joe wished he could see the man’s eyes, judge Barkawi’s level of interest.

“So . . .” Barkawi spread his hands wide, “what is this book that is so important?”

Immediately Rodriguez felt a weight dragging down his spirits as well as his shoulders.

“We don’t know,” he admitted, feeling foolish and vulnerable, “but we believe Abiathar had some information that was very important: information that he wanted to preserve, to protect. Perhaps information about the hidden Temple that he wanted to ensure was not lost. Perhaps other messages.”

“Other messages?”

Across the desk, Barkawi rubbed the mustache on his upper lip with the index finger of his right hand, a large gold and ruby ring glinting in the sunlight. Interest and suspicion flashed across his face. Rodriguez felt like a smuggler at customs, guilty but not yet discovered. He shot a quick glance at Bohannon, wondering if their smoke-screen story would have the plausibility they desired. He leaned in toward Barkawi’s desk, closing the distance between himself and the Lebanese academic.

“Remember, I told you that Abiathar’s father was the one who began the construction of the hidden Temple? There were certain articles the Jews would need ready, prepared in advance, in order to complete a ritual sacrifice. We believe Abiathar’s father may have assembled some of those articles and intended to keep them hidden until the secret Temple was completed. We believe a clue to the location of those articles may be in the book Abiathar brought to the Dar al-Ilm.” He paused . . . waiting.

“Hah!” Barkawi exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “You are treasure hunters. Why didn’t you say so from the beginning?” He got out of his chair and came around the desk, stopping before Rodriguez and punching him playfully in the shoulder. “You had me worried for a moment. I thought your real purpose may have been to actually find an old book. So,” he smiled, lowering his voice, “I’m in for a third.”

Bohannon jumped out of his chair. “What?” His face turned red and he took a measured step toward Barkawi. “Who do you think you—”

“Fifteen percent,” Rodriguez interjected. “We have other partners. This is not a negotiation. That’s as far as we can go.”

“Done.”

“Okay,” said Rodriguez. “Tell us what you know.”

Barkawi eased himself up from the edge of the desk he was leaning against. “You are correct, the Dar al-Ilm was one of the greatest libraries of the ancient world,” he said. “It contained the accumulated wisdom of the Levant—scientists, philosophers, astronomers, doctors—yes, over three million manuscripts. Outside of Alexandria, perhaps the greatest collection of wisdom in the ancient world.