The Brotherhood Conspiracy (47 page)

After completing his call with Reynolds, Bohannon went to the kitchen for a glass of water. When he returned, Rizzo was sitting on the edge of the sofa, staring at the floor. Tom pulled up a straight-backed chair and sat in front of Rizzo.

“I’ve got an incredible story to tell you,” Sammy said, raising his head. “But first, what do you believe happened to Doc? I mean . . . well, where do you think
he is?” Rizzo looked into Bohannon’s face with a pleading cry in his eyes. “You know what I mean? Where is he?”

Now it was Bohannon’s turn to rub his head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs and arrange all the discordant thoughts.

“I . . . I’m not . . . I believe God created us, created everything,” he said. “He made us, and he wants us . . . wants to have a relationship with each of us. And I believe God doesn’t give up on any of his creation. I’m hanging onto that belief for Annie and Kallie, But I believe it’s possible for some of God’s creation to give up on him. I want to believe that God didn’t give up on Doc. What I don’t know is whether Doc gave up on God. Doc was asking all the right questions . . . Is God real? Can man really know God? . . . I just don’t know if he got any answers.” Tom turned away from Sammy and fixed his gaze on the floor. “Or, if he did, what he did about them.

“I prayed for Doc. Prayed for him to make a wise choice. I don’t know. Never will in this life. And that is what I’ll grieve, Sam. I’ll miss Doc . . . I—” Tom’s voice was snared in the net of his loss. “But it doesn’t do any good for me to pray for Doc now. Doc’s life, his chance to choose, is gone.

“And, to be honest, it hasn’t done a whole lot of good for me to pray for anything. My hope is running pretty dry. But I have to . . . I have to hope for Annie. For Kallie. We can’t give up. We can’t get buried in our grief or our fear. We can’t. We’ve got to—”

There was a sharp knock on the door—unlatched, it swept open on its own—and four Israeli soldiers, Uzis at the ready, entered the room. A sergeant stepped to the front.

“You two are in military custody. You are to come with us. Now. If you don’t, we’ll put hand and leg irons on you and carry you out. You have made some people very angry. Let’s go.”

Tel Aviv, Israel

“So, Jon . . . have you decided how you will justify freezing all of Iran’s assets in the United States? Your part is less dangerous, but much more public, than mine.”

Baruk searched the televised image of Whitestone for any indication of weakness or wavering. President Whitestone appeared to relax comfortably in his seat. This night, Whitestone was the calm one.

“Mr. Prime Minister!” the president exclaimed with mock astonishment, “I
am sure you will be as alarmed and appalled as I to discover that the Iranian government has been financially supporting domestic terrorists right here on our own soil.” Whitestone edged toward the camera. He was good. “We had our concerns and fears before. But, now . . . the FBI and the National Security Administration just completed a massive investigation that uncovered forged bank records, dummy corporations, and direct payments from Iranian government accounts to known terrorist cells here in the United States. So . . . we have no other choice but to quarantine—I love that word, much more ominous than ‘freeze’—quarantine all Iranian assets in the U.S. until we have a full and accurate picture of how pervasive this terror funding has been.”

“And I’m sure you have the proof.”

Whitestone’s smile could have stripped the paint off a wall.

“Enough to keep Iran’s assets locked up for a decade.” The president pointed his finger at the camera. “They will never recover from this. Kiss your nuclear program goodbye, Essaghir. It’s back to the desert for you.”

“Seven days, then,” said Baruk. He looked into the screen. “I will call you the night before . . . same time. Sleep well, Jonathan.”

Jerusalem

When he walked into the High Altitude Reconnaissance Control Center just before the late afternoon shift change, Major Levin could actually taste the fear and frustration of the men in the high-tech security post. The acrid bite of high-anxiety sweat filled not only his nose, but also coated the edges of his tongue. It tasted like salt. His presence would not lessen the tension.

Their drone lost contact with Rodriguez in the growing twilight the night before, the most difficult time for high altitude cameras, which get distracted by shifting shadows and shapes of nightfall. The military controller was slow in switching to infrared. And Rodriguez disappeared.

Still smarting from his interrogation, Levin, the veteran surveillance officer—the legendary Hawk, who missed nothing and caught every prey—walked up to the duty officer, who was slaving over two screens—one visual and one radar. Levin put his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder.

“Hello, Daniel. How is your family?” Levin placed another hand on the officer’s other shoulder and, like a close relative—a brother—massaged the knot of muscles at the base of the lieutenant’s neck. “Your eldest, is he still in university?”

The lieutenant tried to turn, but Levin’s strong hands held him in place. “We haven’t seen the American for hours. I’m sorry, Major. We know he’s down there somewhere, but we lost him. We’ve got patrols on the ground, driving up and down the pass, and we’ve got two in the sky. But I can’t tell you where he is or what he’s doing. I’m sorry.”

Levin continued to work the stress out of the lieutenant’s shoulders.

“I know, from personal experience, how elusive these men are. Sometimes I think they’re under some divine guidance,” said Levin. “I’ve lost them myself . . . more than once.” The lieutenant stopped working the screens and looked over his shoulder at the Hawk. “Yes, it’s true. But, don’t worry, Daniel. You will find him. I’m confident you and your men will find him. He will emerge eventually. Our men are in place, prepared to move.”

Levin patted the lieutenant firmly on the shoulder, then spoke to the other members of the reconnaissance team. “You will find him, men. He’s not a ghost. He can’t remain hidden forever. Just stay vigilant.”

As Levin turned to leave, he patted the lieutenant on the shoulder once more. “Give your wife my regards. And tell her I think her matzoh soup is the best I’ve ever tasted.”

The Hawk left the HARC Center. He couldn’t see the faces of his men. But he could taste resolve and determination clearing the air.

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

“This war is not against our brothers,” said King Abbudin. “It never has been, except for those Shi’a heretics who have blackened the name of Allah all these years.”

Even here in the palace, the desert night brought a chill. He waved his hand and one of his servants—deaf to keep conversations secret—came forward, picked up a small silver pot, and filled the two, tiny cups with the syrupy-sweet black coffee that looked so much like the oil that kept them all in power. The servant bowed over the cups, handed one to King Abbudin and the second to Baqir al-Musawi, president of Syria, who sat across from the king in a small, carved wooden chair.

“The West rejoices when we fight ourselves,” said al-Musawi. “We blow ourselves up in the streets of Baghdad, or Homs, or Aleppo and the West sleeps in peace.”

King Abbudin raised the cup to his lips, but stopped. “This is no time for fratricide. Not now. This is the time for jihad.”

The king placed his cup on the ornately carved table that separated the chairs and leaned closer to the Syrian president.

“And this Shi’a dog expects to build his own empire on the ruins of Syria, on the other Islamic governments he’s destroyed? This al-Sadr will be sent back to the dead where he’s been hiding for the last thirty years.”

“Al-Sadr has many allies,” al-Musawi said over his coffee cup.

“The friend of my enemies is my enemy,” said Abbudin. “Al-Sadr believes the Brotherhood is overthrowing these traitors so that he may usurp power for himself. He will soon regret his misguided arrogance. You, Baqir, will regain control of Hezbollah once you finally crush those rebellious puppets of al-Sadr; you will eliminate Nazrullah, and Hezbollah will answer to Syria once again. Our brother Qaddafi did not have your will—nor your array of weapons. You will survive and resume our punishment of Israel. The Brotherhood has solidified its power in the new Egyptian government and manipulated the election to control the new parliament.

“We are ready, Baqir. Not words of jihad, not threats, but power. World dominance—the Caliphate once again. Not by invasion and bloodshed.” Abbudin toyed with the small cup sitting on the ceramic tile top of the table, then poured some of its syrupy contents onto the tiles, running his finger through the thick, black liquid. “Not by force, Baqir. By oil, through the greed and excess of the West. The world is already in our hands. Now we close our fist around it.”

King Abbudin felt a rush through his eighty-four-year-old bones. It gave him the hope of life, of victory over the cancer that was rotting his body. He lifted his hand and pointed toward the far door. It was immediately pulled open and Crown Prince Faisal entered the room, his glorious robes flowing behind him, his royal presence outmatched only by the fervor of his stride. Abbudin knew he had little hope for his own life. His days were numbered.

But Faisal. Faisal was his hope . . . the hope of the family Saud. The future of his family, his dynasty, rested in this young man’s passion and loyalty.

Abbudin had reason for his feud with Imam al-Sadr—more than the Sunni hatred for the apostate Shi’a. More even than his desire to avenge himself for all of al-Sadr’s insults, particularly for the scorn and derision al-Sadr felt so comfortable spewing in front of the Brotherhood. Yes . . . this was personal. But there was an even more powerful spring to Abbudin’s hatred.

The kingdom of the family Saud was one of the poorest on the face of the earth. Unemployment ranged between twelve and twenty-five percent, depending on whose figures you believed, and of the six million people employed in the country of thirty million, nearly five million were foreigners. Fewer than one percent of Saudi men had a job of any kind. School was for the rich, and the rich were only members of the royal family and those critical to maintaining their power and control. Abbudin knew, without a doubt, that if al-Sadr’s plans bore fruit, that harvest of rebellion would mean the destruction of his family, the overthrow of his government, and the loss of the two hundred sixty billion barrels of liquid gold that rested beneath Saudi sand. Al-Sadr would ensure that the Arab Spring of revolution would come to his peninsula. His family would be exiled, or worse, unless al-Sadr’s plans could be thwarted and the rising tide of revolution turned to his advantage.

And Faisal would do the turning.

The crown prince stood in front of his father, powerful, proud, determined.

“Give me your hands.”

Faisal stepped closer and held out his hands, palms up, lowering them to his seated father. Abbudin placed his hands on top of those of his eldest son. He looked into the eyes of his hope.

“Save your family, Faisal,” he said, his words carrying the solemnity of a coronation. “Save your heritage, your inheritance, the future of your children. Save us.”

Jerusalem

“Where are you taking us?”

Bohannon shifted uncomfortably in the back seat of the Humvee. It was black, instead of the mandatory army olive drab, with heavily smoked black windows on all sides. Perhaps the two soldiers in front could see clearly. Tom knew they were moving, but that was all.

“Where are you taking us?”

No response.

Rizzo was in the second Humvee with two other soldiers. Tom figured they would be split up, even if Rizzo hadn’t tried to escape as they exited the elevator to leave Kallie’s building. Rizzo kicked one of the soldiers in the soft tissue behind his knee and, as the soldier’s body buckled, pushed him into a second
soldier in the back of the elevator car. Sammy barely had time to yell “Run for it!” before the sergeant whipped his burly arm around Sammy’s neck and lifted him—gurgling and swinging—off the floor. So Tom had Sammy to thank for the manacles around his wrists and ankles. But the little guy had guts.

“Has there been any word about my wife?”

“I told you to keep quiet.”

“Yeah, you did. Has there been any word about my wife?”

The sergeant turned slightly in the passenger’s seat and looked at Bohannon with both warning and compassion. “I told you to be quiet. We’re not going to answer any of your questions.” The sergeant’s voice lowered. “And, no, there has been no word.”

Tom wasn’t sure if he was relieved, or more fearful, or both. He tried to keep his mind from traveling to those images that haunted his sleep. But they were there, lurking in the shadows of his dread, waiting for an opportunity to rock his world once again.

Balata Camp, Nablus, West Bank

“Yes?”

Moussa al-Sadr glowed with the knowledge of how fully the Israeli leader had been betrayed. “You have a choice, dog of Zion.”

“Who is . . . how did you get this number?” asked Eliazar Baruk.

“How is not your concern. Your concern is what the American president will do when the American women are executed.”

“We don’t negotiate with scum like you.” Baruk’s voice was defiant. Al-Sadr smiled. This moment was a glimpse of Paradise.

“You have forty-eight hours to withdraw from al-Haram al-Sharif. Remove all of your soldiers, all of your police. Return the Haram to the Waqf.”