08.00 hrs.
Luke’s OP was far from perfect, but it was his only real option.
He’d been here since just after midnight, staking out the Dung Gate from the top of a three-storey concrete building on the other side of the perimeter road and approximately 100 metres from the gate itself. The building was a detached office block. On approaching it he’d peered into the main entrance — a pair of wide, smoked-glass doors that looked into a bland reception area with a shiny tiled floor and pot plants. A security guy sat at a desk in front of a bank of CCTVs, but he was listening to an iPod and his nose was in a book. Luke hadn’t entered the building, but skirted round the back to where there was a parking lot and a line of empty metal bins. More doors, too, all locked. But Luke saw that a metal ladder was fixed to the back of the building and ran all the way up to the roof. It echoed as he climbed up it.
The rooftop, was about twenty metres square, and it suited his purposes well enough. The perimeter of the roof was surrounded by walls a couple of metres high. The roof itself, sealed with pitch, was covered with bird shit, and in the centre there was a glass skylight measuring about two metres each way. On the western side of the roof was a small corrugated-iron hut, similar in size to the one he’d taken cover behind in Gaza City. A quick examination told him that it contained the guts of the building’s power supply.
He’d taken up position on the northern edge of the roof. His first move was to wolf down the two MREs in his stolen Bergen — kosher meals of beef and pasta that tasted like shit but at least replaced some calories. The energy and warmth were sapping from his body and he needed all the help he could get to stay alert.
Once he’d eaten he removed the scope and the Sig from his bag and staked out the view in front of him, lying on his front with the handgun by his side. From here he could see right across the rooftops of the Old Town and, beyond, the lights of the rest of Jerusalem. His angle of view allowed him to see over the top of the perimeter wall and further to the entrance gates of the Western Wall plaza; and of course the golden cupola of the Dome of the Rock, glowing in the darkness.
To the left of the gate itself he could see the olive tree; to the right, the three palms and a souvenir stall that had closed down for the night. Even though it was late, there were still people walking in and out of the gate and the perimeter road was reasonably busy.
Also busy was the airspace. He counted four helicopters hovering over Jerusalem with searchlights angled down at the ground. Training his scope on one of them, he could make out the outline of a Minigun. If ever there was a city on high alert, this was it. He knew that if any of these choppers flew over his position and spotted him, he’d be fucked. But they didn’t come closer than about 200 metres.
It grew light just after 06.00 hrs. By 07.00 the traffic on the perimeter road was heavy — civilian vehicles, police cars, the occasional tourist bus — and there were more pedestrians. Luke trained his scope on individual faces, committing every minute detail of the scene below to memory. He clocked a military Jeep driving past the gate. Exactly eighteen minutes later it passed again. And eighteen minutes after that. It was clearly doing a circuit and Luke would have bet his bollocks it wasn’t the only one. With the troop mobilisation occurring in the north- western part of Israel and the eyes of the world on this troubled city, Luke didn’t doubt that every soldier and every policeman was on standby.
As was Luke. He didn’t take his eyes off the area between himself and the Old Town. And even though he didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, he knew he had to trust his judgement.
Trust his surveillance skills.
Trust that he’d made the right call, and that whatever was about to happen, he’d know it when he saw it.
08.59 hrs.
The queue to pass through security into the Western Wall plaza had been growing steadily since first light. Reuben Sharon, a nineteen-year-old IDF recruit, had been here since 06.00 hrs and if he looked pissed off, it was because he was. Not only was he working on Hanukkah, but he had the shittiest job imaginable: watching the crowds flock through security into the plaza for a full eight-hour shift. Like this was what he joined the army to do…
So far, most of the visitors had been old-timer Hassidim. Fucking weirdos as far as he was concerned, with their strange clothes and their constant worshipping and lamenting. Some of these guys turned up at the Western Wall twice a day to mutter at the stones. Reuben didn’t get it. Any free time he had was spent chasing tail in the bars of downtown Jerusalem. Then again, he wondered how much pussy worth having was one of these misugena likely to get, dressed like that?
As that thought went through his mind, there was a sudden beeping of the metal detector. The young Hassid stopped and his eyes flickered towards Reuben’s M16 as the soldier immediately stepped in his way. He jerked a finger to indicate that the visitor should step to one side.
‘Arms outstretched,’ he ordered. He didn’t really feel much pressure to be polite.
The visitor did as he was told. He looked straight ahead as Reuben brushed a hand-held detector up and down his arms, legs, torso and back. And he stood as still as the stones that made up the Western Wall as the soldier put down the detector and started frisking him with his hands. Fuck, Reuben thought as he padded down the guy’s body. He was bonier than a Gazan orphan. Hung like a horse, though, he realised as his hands strayed too far up the inside trouser leg. Shame he wasn’t likely to get a shag.
‘All right,’ he said once he was satisfied the visitor was clear. ‘On you go.’
It was another five minutes before the alarm went off again. The guy who triggered it couldn’t have been more different to the last. He was also young, younger maybe than Reuben. His features were Arabic, but unlike most of the Muslims normally to be seen around the Temple Mount, this guy didn’t look the type to hang around the mosque. His hair was cut short and he had a good couple of days’ worth of stubble. He wore baggy jeans and a hooded top with earphones resting round his neck. As he chewed on a piece of gum, he looked arrogantly at Reuben, who was now barring his way.
Reuben didn’t let his feelings show, but they were strong. The Western Wall plaza was open to anyone, regardless of their religion — Jewish, Christian, Muslim. And though Reuben was hardly devout, he certainly had his opinions.
He pointed at the long table where he kept the detector.
‘Hands on the table,’ he instructed.
The youngster gave him a lazy look filled with contempt. For a few seconds he didn’t do anything, but then he shrugged, moved over to the table and bent over slightly so that his hands were flat down on it.
‘Legs apart,’ Reuben told him.
Another pause. Then, making an obvious meal of it, the kid moved each leg in turn a few inches outwards.
Reuben was meticulous with the detector, scanning every square centimetre of the kid’s body. It didn’t take long for the device to start beeping.
‘What have you got in your pocket?’ he demanded.
Very slowly, the kid stood up straight and turned round. He didn’t take his eyes off Reuben and as he slowly put his fist underneath his hooded jumper, the soldier moved his own hands to his assault rifle, ready to use it.
‘What’s going on?’ the next person in the queue called. ‘There’s people waiting here…’
Reuben ignored the complaint and watched carefully as the kid removed his hand. He didn’t quite know what he expected to see; in the event, the object was a relief. A mobile phone, connected to the kid’s earphones.
‘Give it here,’ Reuben said. He was being awkward and the kid knew it; he rolled his eyes as he pulled out the jack and handed over the phone.
Reuben made a great show of examining the device. It looked brand new, with no scuffs on the shiny black back or the screen. There was, however, something that caught Reuben’s sharp eye. Along the left-hand edge of the phone, there was a tiny indentation, as if the device had been forced open with a small screwdriver or tampered with in some other way.
Reuben looked more carefully at the phone, then back at the kid, whose arrogant expression hadn’t changed.
‘Get a move on!’ A few other muttered voices echoed the next visitor’s impatience.
With a sigh, Reuben handed the phone back. ‘No mobile phone usage on feast days,’ he grunted before turning back to the queue and waving the next visitor through. He did see, from the corner of his eye, the kid’s
