they would take up arms against Christians and Jews. To become the fierce and blood-thirsty army of Gog. As foretold by the prophet Ezekiel.
A battle between good and evil would ensue.
With the destruction of the gaudy and heathenish Dome of the Rock, the children of God would finally be delivered from Islamic tyranny, the gold-plated shrine built on the exact site where Solomon’s Temple once stood. For the first time in eight hundred years the Temple Mount would again be a place of holy worship.
Obliterating the Dome of the Rock from the Jerusalem skyline had been planned to the last detail, the Muslims having actually simplified the task. For years now the Islamic caretakers of the Temple Mount had turned a blind eye to a two-hundred-yard-long bulge in its southern wall. With the help of a few carefully placed IEDs, the ancient wall would come tumblin’ down, bringing with it the newly built al-Marawani Mosque constructed on the southern end of the Temple Mount. In the ensuing chaos his demolition experts would be able to set a ring of high- explosive charges around the exterior perimeter of the usually closely guarded Dome of the Rock.
With the second explosion, the path would literally be cleared for the construction of the third temple.
Only then could the Ark of the Covenant be returned to its appointed place within the Holy of Holies. Only then could the Ark become the vehicle through which heaven and earth become one. And only then could a new covenant be made between man and God, paving the way for a holy kingdom that would prosper for a thousand years. A true theocracy where non-believers would be judged swiftly and harshly. One Christian nation under God.
‘Sir, the sentries just made their rounds and have given the all-clear.’
Stan glanced at Gunnery Sergeant Boyd Braxton, who stood in the doorway. The sitrep did little to allay his fears. So far the lanky Englishman had proved a worthy adversary, somehow managing to kill two of his best men. While certain that Aisquith had no way of knowing the Ark had been brought to Malta, he couldn’t forget that the man had done what many before him had tried and failed to do — he had found the Ark of the Covenant.
‘Keep me posted.’
Snatching the night vision goggles, Stan walked over to the window. Elbows braced on the limestone sill, he returned his gaze to the sea.
He chuckled, amused by the thought. Like Paul Revere, he was about to launch a revolution. One of biblical proportions.
83
C?dmon made his way up the treacherous path cut into the side of the limestone cliff, grateful for the faint light shed by the stars overhead. He couldn’t risk using the torch, at least not until he had reached the summit and surveyed the area. MacFarlane would undoubtedly have sentries posted. Men who would not hesitate to shoot at a suspicious light.
His forty-year-old knees aching from the ascent, he was very much aware of the fact that he did not have the resources or influence of the British government behind him. He was on his own.
He snorted, amused by the thought.
Puffing slightly, he reached the top; the top being a treeless, rocky plateau. About two hundred yards to the north-west he could make out the outline of St Paul’s Tower, the only visible landmark on the barren escarpment. Wishing he had a pair of night vision goggles, he thought he spied what looked like a large military truck parked beside the tower.
MacFarlane might have the Ark stored inside the tower. Out of sight of prying eyes. Or it could be in the truck, ready for transport.
Motionless, he scanned the terrain, searching for the slightest sound or a suggestion of motion. Something to indicate that he was not alone. That others lurked in the shadows.
A good two minutes passed before he saw a faint flicker, little more than a pinprick of light.
The target sighted, he set off.
As he navigated his way across the bramble-strewn plateau, his thoughts turned to the Knights of St John, who for nearly three centuries had patrolled those same craggy heights, safeguarding their domain from Turkish corsairs. During the great siege of 1565, sixty stalwart knights had defended the fort at St Elmo against a Turkish force numbering eight thousand. Perhaps this night history would repeat itself.
The thought that he might never again set his gaze upon Edie Miller’s face left him bereft.
Shoving this thought aside, he turned his attention to the man negligently leaning against a large slab of limestone, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. And a MP5 sub-machine gun cradled against his chest. Though it was impossible to see in the darkness, C?dmon assumed the man’s finger was on the trigger and the safety catch was off.
Keeping to the shadow cast by the limestone outcrop, he slid the five-inch diving knife from its sheath. The hilt securely grasped in his right hand, he inched forward, hoping the sentry didn’t suddenly turn, praying he didn’t inadvertently kick a loose stone. To his dismay, he saw that the man had a communication device protruding from the side of his head.
If the sentry as much as whimpered, the game would be over before it even began.
C?dmon slowed his breathing. An age-old trick to calm one’s nerves.
Then, coming within two feet of the sentry, he lunged forward.
In one smooth, sure-footed motion, the movement ingrained from his distant training, he grasped the other man from the rear, clasping a hand over his mouth as he yanked his head back, exposing the jugular vein and carotid artery. First he slashed. Then he ripped.
Warm blood gushed from the opened artery.
A silent kill.
As the sentry dropped to the ground, C?dmon shoved his finger into the weapon’s trigger guard, yanking the MP5 out of the dying man’s grasp, knowing that a shot would be his undoing. Sliding his arm through the gun’s shoulder strap, he crouched beside the now-dead sentry, relieving him of the radio equipment, the device both a blessing and a beast. While he’d be able to monitor sentry movement in and around the tower, when the man failed to report in, MacFarlane and his henchmen would know they had an enemy in their midst.
84
Edie sat up and hacked, the frigid sea air scouring her lungs.
Her head ached. Her body ached. And, not unexpectedly, her heart ached, C?dmon not having trusted her to pull her weight.
Rolling onto all fours, she awkwardly pushed herself to her feet. She glanced at her left wrist.
She wondered how long she’d been out. Hopefully not too long.
With a groan, she bent down and picked up the torch.
‘How considerate,’ she muttered, wishing her AWOL partner had instead left her a bottle of aspirin.
Knowing her anger wouldn’t get her off the strip of beach, Edie tilted her head back and peered up, the cliff
