The Lance (The PROJECT: Book Two) (10 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

M
orning in Jerusalem, and the sky was a luminous blue that went on forever. It reminded Nick of New Mexico, the only other place he'd ever seen that kind of unearthly color.

The President rode with Prime Minister Ascher in the third of five identical armored, black limousines. Flags of Israel and America flew from the front fenders. Nick rode in the car behind the President. It was cool and insulated
inside and smelled of new leather and stress. Nick felt trapped. The car was an easy target, armored or not. He looked out through tinted windows at the hostile faces passing by.

The motorcade rolled between a solid line of Israeli soldiers, through checkpoints manned with
armored vehicles and troops carrying the latest Tavor Tar-21 assault rifles. It was a security nightmare, a scene of barely controlled chaos.

Thousands of protesters pushed against crowd control barriers
keeping them from the Mount and from each other. Muslims, Jews, and Christians shouted and waved signs in Hebrew, Arabic and English. The noise was deafening. The crowd moved in a constant, seething motion, a coiled, restless serpent.

The
Waqf
had refused to let Rice drop in by helicopter. He would have to walk to the Mount like everyone else. Once out of the vehicles, the President's party was surrounded three deep by a phalanx of Secret Service and Shin Bet. They entered a covered walkway over a wooden bridge that stretched above the Western Wall. The large plaza in front of the Wall was packed with people praying.

The walkway
was lined with more Israeli troops. It led to the Moors Gate, the only entrance for non-Muslims onto the Temple Mount. Carter walked a few steps behind Rice and Prime Minister Ascher. He couldn't help thinking it was heady company for a beat up former Marine. What the hell was he doing here?

Rice wanted
to staunch wounds bleeding since the time of the Crusades. He was going to appeal for reason and new peace negotiations between the Palestinians and Israel. He'd chosen the Temple Mount to make his speech as an acknowledgement of  Islam. Many saw it as a political gimmick at best and defilement at the worst. Nick thought it would have to be a damn good speech, if the uproar around the Mount was any indication of things.

They
entered the Mount and were met by a delegation from the
Waqf
. A contingent of uniformed Muslim guards assigned to the Muslim Authority stood at attention along the sides of the broad square in front of the Mosque. They wore dark khaki colored uniforms with green flashes and green berets and were unarmed except for batons. The Israeli soldiers kept to the perimeter and were armed to the teeth. Overhead, Israeli military helicopters circled in the distance.

Thousands of square feet of carpets had been laid everywhere people would sit and walk, to keep their shoes from touching the sacred surface of the Mount. Guns and cell phones were never allowed on
the Mount, but there were plenty here today.

The air was
electric with tension. Nick's ear itched like hell. It felt like anything could set off a confrontation. If it went bad there was no telling what would happen.

T
he golden Dome of the Rock dominated the Mount. It was reached through a set of steps and an arched colonnade. The building was octagon shaped, the huge dome sheltering the Rock of Abraham rising from the center. Arabic inscriptions in green and gold ran along the eight sides of the shrine below the dome, over arched openings protected by carved grillwork. On the peak of the dome, the crescent and star of Islam gleamed in the bright morning sun.

The a
l-Aqsa Mosque was across from the Dome at the southern end of the Mount. Seven tall, strong arches lined the front of the Mosque, forming a sheltered porch and colonnade. In front of the Mosque was a large, square fountain for ablutions.

Unlike the golden Dome
of the Rock, the smaller dome of al-Aqsa was sheathed in grayish lead. Four ancient minarets graced the building, the newest seven hundred years old.

It was here that Muhammad had arrived on the Night Journey.
Muslims believed that from al-Aqsa the Prophet had gone to the rock of Abraham across the way and ascended on a winged horse to paradise, to talk with God. To the Muslim world, al-Aqsa was only a shade less important than Mecca itself.

I
n Islam the Temple Mount was called Haram-al-Sharif, the Noble Sanctuary. In the West the nearest equivalent was perhaps St. Peter's Basilica, but the religious fervor and sacred devotion directed at the Noble Sanctuary by Muslims had no real counterpart in the Christian world.

T
he news networks had set up cameras and satellite links for the event. Nick saw logos for CNN, Al-Jazeera, Israeli television, BBC. There were others he couldn't identify. The entire world was watching.

A speaking stage
had been erected. Two rows of chairs for dignitaries lined the back of the stage. Secret Service and Shin Bet agents were stationed on the stage and around it. A raised podium bristled with microphones. It was armored and big enough for Rice to get behind if someone was stupid enough to start shooting. Bullet-proof deflectors were attached front and sides. It seemed an odd way to bring a message of peace and reconciliation to the world.

Calloway
positioned Nick on the square in front of the stage, to the right of the podium. He gave him one of the earpieces and mikes used by the Secret Service. With his wrap around shades and cord curling away from his ear, Nick felt like he fit right in, even if his suit was gray instead of black.

In front of the stage, seats for the invited guests were arranged in a semicircular pattern
. It was meant to create a friendly atmosphere. Nick couldn't help thinking it was going to take more than seating arrangements to get these people to agree on anything. The seats were filled, buzzing with speculation about what the President was going to say.

At five minutes
before ten, Rice positioned himself at the podium.

Someone made last minute adjustments to his makeup. Someone else moved a mi
crophone. The cameras fired up.

It was s
howtime.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The
cell in the basement of Shin Bet Headquarters was damp and cool. It had a bare cement floor and a drain in the middle of the room. It smelled of something unpleasant, old and dark. A single bright light glared down on the prisoner.

The prisoner sat in a battered wooden chair, his arms and feet bound with stained leather straps. He had been sitting there for more than three hours, waiting. A black, coiled hose was hooked to a rusty water faucet on one wall.
The walls were unpainted gray cement, stained with dark streaks and splatters that might have been anything, but might have been dried tissue and blood.

The room was
far underground. No sound could penetrate the building above. The door was of steel. It was not the kind of room anyone would want to be in. It was a room heavy with anticipation.

Ari Herzog observed the man
Carter had seen at the mall bombing, two days and what seemed a lifetime ago. He'd been beaten when he was captured. His face was bruised and one eye was blackened and puffed shut, but he'd suffered no real damage. Two silent interrogators stood to the side of the room, dressed in black jeans and tee shirts. They waited for Ari to begin.

In the
hard and secretive world of Shin Bet, Ari was legendary for getting results in interrogations. The old school methods were not his style. Ari detested violence and torture. He believed it debased prisoner and jailer alike. He was sure there was a better way.

Over the years Ari had perfected the art of d
eception. The cell in which the prisoner sat was part of that deception, a prop created to prepare the subject's mind. No one who found himself in a room like that could doubt that he was about to enter a world defined by agony.

Ari stood outside the room. Like an actor about to go on stage, he
took time to find the part of himself that would convince the bomber he was at the mercy of a serious and ruthless man. It wasn't far from the truth. If Ari believed it, so would the man in the chair.

He was ready. He entered the room. He
stood in front of the prisoner and addressed him in Arabic.

"You are Achmed al-Khalid.
We know who you are. We know where you live." Ari's voice was flat, almost bored.

Khalid watched him.

"This man," Ari pointed to one of the interrogators, "wishes to hurt you. His sister was killed at the mall the night you set off your bomb."

It wasn
't true, but Khalid didn't know that.

"
I set off no bomb." Khalid looked defiant, but Ari could see the fear. Khalid gave off a faint sour odor, an almost visible mist that surrounded him like primal fog. He licked his lips.

Once Khalid's identity was known, Shin Bet had discovered the rest. He lived with his wife and sons and his extended family
in the West Bank area controlled by Hamas. Khalid was also Hamas. He was dedicated to the eradication of Israel.

Khalid was more than a suicide bomber. He was one of the few with operational control over the bombers as they went about their murderous work. That made him important. He could be difficult to break, but Ari
knew that family, above all else, was one of the keys that might unlock a terrorist's psyche. To gain anything of value, Ari would have to trick him.

Khalid was Palestinian. In the culture of Palestine nothing was more important than family. Along with Islam, family was the center around which life revolved.

"I set off no bomb," Khalid said again.

"
Oh, but you did." Ari spat on the floor. "Your denials mean nothing to me. Let me tell you what will happen if you don't cooperate."

Ari bent low and whispered
for a long time in Khalid's ear. He knew how to think like a terrorist. He knew what they were capable of doing. Color drained from Khalid's face.

"
My family is innocent!"

"It doesn't matter to me if they are innocent or not. If you do not tell me what I want to know before I leave this room, t
hey will pay for your crime."

Ari spat again. "
You are not innocent. An insult in blood must be atoned for in blood. Honor must be upheld."

Honor. The ancient tribal concepts of honor had fueled thousands of years of murder and war in the Middle East. They were little different today than in the time of Abraham. Both Ari and Khalid understood them well.

"Allah will throw you into hell!"

"Perhaps, but not
before your family pays the price. You will be kept alive to think about what you have done." Ari paused. "Although you will not be as—healthy—as you are at this moment."

Tears ran down Khalid
's cheeks. "You cannot do this."

"
I can," Ari said. He smiled a terrible smile at Khalid. "I will. This is your only chance. I will not ask again."

He waited. Khalid said nothing. Ari nodded at the men dressed in black. "Begin," he said. He
turned as if to leave the room. Would Khalid break? He had his hand on the door when Khalid called out.

"
Wait! Wait! I will tell you what I know."

Ari turned back
, his face dark. "If you lie, your family will suffer."

"
No lies, no lies, I swear by Allah!"

"
Did you plant the bomb?"

"
Yes! It was Jibril, who now resides in Paradise, who set it off."

"
Who else is involved?"

"
There are others, I don't know all of them. There is another bomb." Khalid stopped. He had said too much. Now, he was trapped.

"
Another bomb?"

Khalid nodded, shame-faced at his cowardice.

Ari looked at the other men in the room, then Khalid. "Where?"

"
I don't know, I swear by Allah, I don't know. I was told it would be used against the American President."

Ari
's heart skipped a beat. "When?"

"
My family, you must protect them."

"
I will, if you tell me the truth. When?"

"
Today. While he speaks. I don't know."

Ari was out of the room and on the phone.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

Elizabeth and Stephanie
were looking at an exchange of encrypted emails between Dysart and an unidentified person earlier that day.

Unidentified Sender:
The key to Parsifal has been found.

Dysart:
Antarctica?

Unidentified Sender:
Yes.

"What's Parsifal? What does it have to do with Antarctica?" Stephanie asked.

"I've got no idea, Steph. Must be a code name."

Unidentified Sender:
Status Valkyrie?

Dysart:
On schedule. Minor problems.

Unidentified Sender:
Resolve them.

Dysart:
As you command.

"That's interesting," Elizabeth said. "Who commands Dysart?"

"
Valkyrie," Stephanie said. "Parsifal. These guys are into Wagner, or some kind of operatic fantasy."

"
I don't think it's a fantasy. It looks like Dysart's part of one op and running another."

Unidentified Sender:
Council 9 tonite. Sec protocol 7.

Dysart:
Yes.

Unidentified Sender:
Prepare for transition.

Dysart:
As you command.

The exchange terminated there.

"
Transition? Transition to what? Director, I don't like this."

Elizabeth shook in a brief, involuntary movement that traveled from her head and shoulders to her feet
. Her intuition had woken up.

"I think
it's an assassination attempt. We have to find out who was on the other end of that email. It looks like there was a meeting last night. If it was a conference call we might be able to back trace."

"There's always a way," Stephanie said. "If it was a call and I can isolate it, we can find out who else was on the line. Do you think we're the 'minor problems' Dysart is talking about?"

Elizabeth
was tight lipped. "Maybe."

Nick had called again, to tell her she was now under
Rice's direct orders. So far there hadn't been any orders to follow. This was something outside of her experience. She'd have to let things play out while she pursued the slippery threads of conspiracy and hope they led somewhere.

"Time for Rice's speech," Stephanie said.

Elizabeth was tired. The seven and a half hour time difference from Jerusalem made for early viewing and it was after two in the morning. The team sat in front of the television and waited for Rice to begin. Ronnie and Selena had caught a couple of hours sleep, but Elizabeth and Stephanie hadn't been that lucky.

The camera
panned across the Temple Mount, then switched to shots of the angry mobs below and the troops and police holding them at bay. It moved back to the stage and podium. President Rice was visible behind his shield of bodyguards, getting ready to speak.

"
There's Nick!" Selena pointed at a tense figure in sunglasses and a gray suit standing in front of the stage, almost in front of the podium. The stage came up shoulder high behind him. The al-Aqsa Mosque loomed in the background of the shot, behind and to the right of the stage.

Ronnie
said, "Son of a gun looks ready for trouble and he's tugging on his ear. I've seen that look before. He thinks things are about to go south."

"
I hope you're wrong about that." Elizabeth pulled at her skirt. "I'm beginning to wonder if Rice knew what he was doing when he set this up."

"
Sometimes things look different when it gets real. Anyway, it's set to go. Rice is ready to start."

Rice stepped up and the cameras zeroed in. He placed his hands on the sides of the podium. Behind him, the Prime Minister of Israel, the Secretary of State and the National Security Advisor sat stage center
, bordered by their security guards.

Rice
began with thanks to the Israeli Government and the Muslim Authority for the honor of speaking from a place sacred to three of the world's great religions. He spoke of the history and the conflict that had always surrounded the Mount and the city of Jerusalem.

A
few minutes into the speech Selena said, "What's Nick doing?"

On screen, Nick took his phone from his pocket and placed it against his ear.
His body tensed. He stepped over to a tall agent standing a few feet away and said something to him.

Later, when people went over the many tapes of
the explosion, no one could quite agree on the exact sequence of events. It depended on the viewer's perspective and religion. But all agreed that things began when the man in the gray suit answered his cell phone in front of an estimated two hundred and fifty million viewers watching around the globe.