He slapped the wall next to the gate and said, “Nobody wants to trigger the next Intifada. They don’t want a fight, and because of it, we’re going to get a much bigger one.” He looked at Jennifer and said, “We’re about to lose.”
She said, “Those people in uniform can get in. We cannot. We’re not Muslim, but they can get in. Go talk to them. Get them to help.”
He heard the words and said nothing, his eyes unfocused, thinking. He returned to her, now all business. He said, “Yes. Yes, they can. Are you ready to commit? I mean really commit?”
Jennifer saw the zeal in his eyes and hesitantly said, “Yes? What’s that mean?”
He flicked his eyes to the left and said, “Those two riot police looked at you when we entered the gate area. They’re like every other soldier. They want you to want them. Go get them to follow you.”
“Follow me how?”
“I don’t really care, but get them into that alley behind us. The small one.”
She narrowed her eyes and said, “Why?”
“Because you’re right. They can get in, and we need their uniforms.”
Michelangelo surveyed the area, knowing the entire compound had religious significance for all the great faiths, but he knew this had to be big. An explosion of rage.
And that was the Dome of the Rock. Feeling the sweat on his back, the fear flooding through him, he knew what he needed to do, because it was the original plan: attack the Rock of Ascension. If he blew that apart, the third most holy site in all of Islam, it would cause a war, the Muslim world not caring who had done it. They would release their rage against the West on all fronts. Israel would be buried in fire, and the United States would come to their defense. And it would be the End of Days. Islam would lose. When the smoke cleared, Israel would control the Temple Mount, and would build the third temple, leading to the second coming of Christ.
He saw the entrance to the Dome, surrounded by Israeli security in riot gear, wearing helmets, elbow shields, and holding batons. They were antsy, but not looking for a fight. He went toward it, unsure if he was supposed to prove he was a Muslim.
He reached the entrance, tucked his head, and showed his certificate. The man at the gate waved him on, and he entered, finding a circular space full of people praying and taking pictures. But no rock.
He saw a stairwell to the left, strands of people vanishing down it, and went that way.
He descended the stairwell, entering a small, cavelike structure, people praying at an altar, others taking selfies inside. He tapped a man on the shoulder and said, “Where is the Rock of Ascension?”
“Above us. It’s above us. We pray here, right underneath it.”
He nodded and dropped his pack, going to his knees. He knew enough about the Muslim faith to fake a prayer, having seen the actions happen in a multitude of countries, starting with Bosnia. Bowing forward with the three next to him, he thought about what he should do. There was no rock he could use his shape charges against, nothing to destroy. But that might not matter. The attack all along had been psychological, and this place appeared to be sacrosanct, underneath the oldest Islamic prayer structure on earth. He could do it here and accomplish the mission.
He glanced about the room, saw nobody paying any particular attention to him, and unzipped his small rucksack. He went through the camouflage of bread and cheese, finding his six-pack of shaped charges. He daisy-chained them together, snapping wires into the blasting caps, and then tied them to a disposable flip phone, just like had been done against him in Syria. He set the built-in timer for three minutes, wanting to be far away when it went off.
He knew Garrett wanted a fail-safe Wile E. Coyote explosion, but he had no way to do that. This would work. He’d checked the cell signal throughout his walk in the Old City. It was strong. It wasn’t Wile E. Coyote strong, but he’d be damned if he was going to blow himself up. When he called the phone, it would start the timer, and he intended to be off the compound when that happened.
He surreptitiously surveyed the room, saw nobody focused on him, and slid the bag over the edge of the prayer area, setting it underneath a nook. He pressed a button on the phone, then stood to go.
Jennifer walked to the two Israeli police officers who Aaron had identified and said, “Can you guys help me? There’s a guy following me and he’s starting to scare me.”
The two twenty-something cops took one look at her and stood up, saying, “Yes. Was he Palestinian?”
“He might have been. I honestly don’t know about that. I’m from the United States. But I know where he is. Can you do something about him? He keeps following me, and I’m scared.”
They nodded, and Jennifer felt guilty about how easy this was going to be. She smiled and said, “This is my one chance to see the promised land, and I get followed by a weirdo. I really appreciate it.”
One of them pulled out his baton and said, “Just show us where he is.”
She said, “Follow me, he went this way.”
She led them to the small tunnel that Aaron had identified, past trash bins and back doors to shops, both of them anxious to please her. She heard a shout behind her and turned, seeing one man on the ground, Aaron circling him in a rear-naked choke. The other man jumped back, holding his arms up, his baton out, yelling at her to stand back, thinking this was the bad man.
They didn’t realize she was also the bad man.
The police officer on his feet smashed his baton into Aaron’s shoulder, and she ran toward him as if she was escaping the tunnel. He turned and shouted, “Get back! Get back!”
She darted behind him as he raised the baton again. She grabbed his helmet and used it to lever him onto the ground, like she was twisting a steer by the horns. He forgot about Aaron and started to fight her. She torqued his head, using the chin strap of his helmet to cut off the blood flow to his brain, saying, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
His flailing grew feeble, and he passed out. She lowered him to the ground, feeling dirty. Aaron stood up from his own victim, saying, “Strip them of the riot gear. Put it on. We’re running out of time.”
Chapter 79
Racing back to Tel Aviv, I looked at Shoshana and said, “Are you okay?”
She grimaced, holding her hand against her shoulder, and said, “Yes, Nephilim. I’m good. I’m with family.”
I glanced at her to see if she was making a joke, and saw she was not. I smiled and said, “That’s why you’re the bridesmaid.”
She grinned at the accolade and said, “What now? They’re going to find his body soon, and then the police will start hunting us. I’m sure we’re on security cameras and they have our license plate.”
I said, “Can’t you get the Mossad to stifle that?”
“They’re not going to overtly shut down a murder investigation. They might help us once we’re in jail.”
I said, “I’m not going to jail.” I looked at my cell phone and saw I was out of coverage again. I said, “Get the Inmarsat and dial it for me.”
She picked it up, saying, “I don’t know the number you want.”
I said, “Hit redial.”
She did, then passed it to me. The phone signal went through its travel to the satellite, back to earth, then through the cell network in the United States. I heard the receptionist say, “Blaisdell Consulting. How can I help you?”