their upgraded inflight refueling capability and safely return with their precious cargo. It would take some coordination to have flying tankers standing by to support one of these choppers, and only Levine could clandestinely order all the necessary equipment.
Even through the churning ideas that flooded his brain, Yosef still found a few seconds to consider what he would find at the mine. The idea was staggering. Not only would it ensure Levine’s election, there was something even larger at stake than a political victory. Out in the desert lay hidden a tangible link to the founding of Judaism, a talisman unlike any other religious artifact ever unearthed. If they could bring it to light, it would make the great Dead Sea Scrolls pale in comparison. A piece of living history was within his reach now, something stolen from Israel hundreds of generations ago that had become his destiny to bring home.
He shook himself of these feelings and refocused on his job. Things were coming into place. First was the location of the mine. And now he finally had an idea who was behind the Sudanese attacks in Rome and at Mercer’s hotel. Yosef had learned from Archive, their secret tap into the Mossad computer system, that Italian industrialist Giancarlo Gianelli was under investigation by the FBI and Interopol in conjunction with documents stolen from the United States. Yosef harbored the suspicion that they were talking about the Medusa pictures. Taking into consideration Italy’s colonial presence in Eritrea, it seemed likely that Gianelli was after the pictures and the mine. He guessed that the Italian was behind the Sudanese, perhaps using them as a mercenary army to thwart Mercer’s and indirectly Yosef’s own efforts.
What he didn’t know was how close the Italian was and if he knew about what really lay hidden out in the northern wastelands.
Jerusalem
Security all over Israel was still on a heightened alert even after two incident-free months had passed since the deadly bombing at the Western Wall. Nowhere was this more apparent than within the towering ramparts surrounding Jerusalem’s Old City. Armed patrols walked the narrow, twisting streets in even greater numbers than during the
The streets and meandering alleys were eerily quiet this night except for the low mutterings of the patrols and the occasional rustle of feral cats picking through garbage. The shops were boarded up for the night, and little light escaped from the shuttered windows of the houses. The gibbous moon shone on the cobbled roads, its milky, otherworldly light only adding to the haunted feeling of the city.
Beyond the crusader walls, the new city of Jerusalem, too, was quiet. The presence of so many armed soldiers patrolling the streets and neighborhoods, harassing both Jew and Arab alike in their search for terrorists, had strained the patience of the inhabitants to the point where they no longer ventured out unless absolutely necessary.
In the safe house within the old city, the strain of maintaining vigilance was also telling on the remainder of Yosef’s team, those charged with guarding Harry White. These soldiers were the group’s lowest ranks, those with minimal combat experience. The best of the organization had gone to Eritrea with Yosef, leaving the younger, less- trained zealots to hold their prisoner. Without Yosef’s direct control, discipline had started falling and was now at its lowest ebb. While their belief in their cause and in Defense Minister Levine had not wavered, they’d lost interest in baby-sitting a cantankerous old man.
The younger members chafed at the forced inactivity. Arguments had become a problem. Rachel Goldstein, the nurse who was the ranking member in Yosef’s absence and now team leader, found herself treating cuts and abrasions from the fights that broke out with increased regularity. Her authority was all but gone, and she realized that if they didn’t receive new orders soon, they would murder the old man and leave for their homes.
Fervency, like flame, needs fuel to burn brightly. Un-tended, it can quickly die.
Then, finally, direction had come. Minister Levine had called earlier in the evening with word that he wanted them out of the city. He promised them a new safe house at a secure military base in the Negev desert, adjacent to the Demona nuclear research facility. This was welcome news, but Levine had not specified how they were to get past the security patrols in Jerusalem. Rachel had asked him about safe passage out of the city and Levine had responded that he could not issue such orders without rousing suspicion. He explained that the curfew in effect all over Jerusalem could not be broken for any reason without direct orders from Prime Minister Litvinoff, no exception. She had argued with him fiercely, but the Defense Minister didn’t budge.
Because vehicles were not allowed in most parts of the Old City, Rachel realized they would have to walk Harry White to a van they had waiting in the new city, making their task that much more difficult.
Rachel had already sent one man to get the van and wait for them outside the Zion Gate on Eziyyoni Street. He had a cellular phone and would call when he was in position. She sat at the kitchen table with the rest of her people, discussing ideas that would make their evacuation easier, but so far they had come up with nothing inspired. Their lack of training and experience showed.
“I guess we will have to go with the idea of a diversion,” Rachel surmised after thirty minutes of wasted conversation. “Jacob and Lev will leave here when David calls from the van.” The two agents nodded. “I want you at least a half kilometer from the safe house before starting anything. What you do for a diversion is at your discretion — a burst of automatic fire into the side of a building should be sufficient. I needn’t remind you that you can not be apprehended.”
She noted the excitement in the young men’s faces. They didn’t understand her completely, so she spelled it out for them. “If it appears that you’ll be captured by a security patrol, your only option is suicide. We can’t take the risk of your capture exposing us. There is no way you would ever be able to stand up under a physical and pharmacological interrogation.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Moshe?” She looked at the youngest member of the team, the man most responsible for watching Harry White. “Get our prisoner ready. We should be leaving within ten minutes.”
“Okay,” the boy said smartly.
Harry knew something was up as soon as Moshe entered his cell. As the days of his captivity ran into each other, their interest in him, and thus their attention, had slackened. It was unusual for his guards to check on him unless it was meal time. Not being harassed gave him some comfort, but it didn’t offer any better chance of escape. They had guns and he did not.
Always a thin man, Harry had lost weight during his captivity. His cheeks hung like empty pouches off his face, and his bright blue eyes had sunk behind wrinkled folds of skin so they almost disappeared in his head. Despite his ragged appearance, he felt better than he had in years. He’d drunk sparingly of the bottle of gin Moshe had given him and still had nearly half left. At first it had been difficult not to polish off the bottle in one drunken sitting, but after getting over the physical craving, Harry’s discipline surprised even him. Back home, he drank more out of routine than any deep-seated emotional problem, and with the tension he’d experienced in the past weeks, boredom was no longer a problem.
Once this ordeal was over, however, he promised himself a week-long bender. But until then, he had to keep sharp. Knowing his life depended on his actions, he allowed himself only a few small sips before falling asleep after his dinner. Three weeks of near sobriety had done wonders to clear his mind of fifty years of accumulated hangovers. He was a bit more liberal with the cigarettes but he still smoked less than half a pack a day. A few more weeks of this, he joked to himself, would leave him feeling like he wasn’t a day over seventy-five.
“What’s going on?” Harry greeted the young Israeli when the boy nudged him gently awake.
“We are leaving, Harry. Get dressed.”
Harry sat up, swinging his foot to the floor. His prosthetic leg leaned against the wall like a little-used umbrella. “Time for another bogus call to Mercer?” Harry could only hope that his friend had understood the reference to Boodles during their last communication. Of course, the brand Moshe had given him wasn’t Boodles, but he was sure the men holding him wouldn’t recognize the brand while Mercer should. Even Harry knew that if Moshe drank, he couldn’t be a Muslim as he had first guessed.
