al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade named Abdullah Ramadan. Imam Darwish called him on his mobile and told him to come to the cistern beneath the Dome of the Rock. He didn’t have to explain the meaning of the tapping sound.
“Warren’s Gate?”
“It could be,” Darwish answered. “Or it could be one of the new ones they’ve found during their illegal excavations.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“Take three of your best men down there and find out if they’re trying to gain access to the Haram.”
“And if they are?”
“Punish them,” said the imam.
The prime minister stared at the clock on the wall of the cabinet room. It was ten minutes past two. He looked at Navot and asked, “How big is that damn hole?”
Navot posed the question to Gabriel and then relayed his answer to the prime minister and the rest of the room.
“Not big enough.”
“How much longer is it going to take?”
Again Navot relayed the question.
“They’re not sure.”
“Tell them they have to work faster.”
“They’re working as fast as they can, Prime Minister.”
Navot passed along the prime ministerial order to pick up the pace. Then, after hearing Gabriel’s response, he smiled.
“What did he say?” the prime minister asked.
“He said he’s working as fast as he can, Prime Minister.”
“Are you telling me the truth, Uzi?”
“No, Prime Minister.”
The prime minister smiled in spite of himself and looked at the clock.
It was 2:12.
By 2:15, the hole was about a foot in diameter, and by 2:20 it was large enough to accommodate the shoulders and hips of a slender man. Gabriel shimmied through first, scraping the skin from his arms in the process, followed a few seconds later by Lavon. After returning the
“There’s only one reason for this cistern to be here,” Lavon said, dipping his hand in the water of the long, rectangular pool. “It was a
“This is all very interesting, Professor, but we need to keep moving.”
“At least let me take a few pictures.”
“We’ll stop on the way out.”
Lavon skirted the edge of the pool and raced up the first flight of ancient steps, the beam of his light bouncing over the walls and ceiling of the arched passage. At the top, he froze again. “Look at this!” he said, pointing to a few lines of ancient Hebrew chiseled into the wall. “It says that gentiles are forbidden to enter the courts of the Temple. Why would there be a sign like this if there wasn’t a Temple to begin with?”
It was a logical question, but at that instant, Gabriel’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was wondering why four large Arab men with flashlights were coming toward them down the next flight of steps. Then the first bullet came scorching past his ear, and he had his answer. It seemed the neighbors had heard the pounding. It was hardly surprising, thought Gabriel. Blood never sleeps.
45
JERUSALEM
IT LASTED JUST FORTY-FOUR SECONDS, but later, Uzi Navot would swear it seemed like an hour or more. From his limited vantage point, it sounded as though Gabriel and Eli Lavon were under attack from an Arab legion. What struck Navot most, however, was the sound of Gabriel’s breathing. Not once did it break its normal rhythm. Nor did he speak except to twice tell Lavon to keep his head down.
The recordings would indicate that Gabriel did not begin to return fire until almost twenty seconds into the engagement. After his first shot, there was an agonized wail that seemed to rise from the very depths of the Well of Souls. Five seconds later, Gabriel fired a second shot, after which the intensity of the opposing gunfire decreased sharply. His third and fourth shots were fired with double-tap quickness, and once again there was a scream of pain from somewhere in the passage. Two more shots followed in rapid succession. Then the gunfire ended, and there was only the sound of an Arab man pleading for mercy.
“Who sent you down here?” Navot heard Gabriel ask calmly.
“Go to hell!” a voice shouted back in Arabic.
Navot heard another shot, followed by a scream.
“Who sent you?” Gabriel repeated.
“The imam,” the Arab replied through gritted teeth.
“Which imam?”
“Darwish.”
“Hassan Darwish?”
“Yes . . . it was . . . Hassan.”
“Where’s the bomb?”
“What bomb?”
“Where is it, damn it?”
“I don’t know anything . . . about a bomb!”
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Yes!”
“Are you?”
“Yes! I swear.”
Navot heard one more shot. Then there was nothing but the sound of Gabriel’s steady breathing.
“Are we still in business?” asked the prime minister.
“For the moment,” replied Navot.
“I suppose that answers the question about whether there’s really a bomb somewhere up there.”
“Yes, Prime Minister, I suppose it does. But we now have another problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Gabriel Allon is inside the Temple Mount with only Eli Lavon for protection.”
“Do you know what’s going to happen if they get their hands on them?”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Navot said, staring at the CCTV images of the crowds pouring out of the al-Aqsa Mosque. “They’re going to tear them both to pieces.”
“Should we order them out?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late.”
They had just entered the first aqueduct. It was 2:23.
It was no wider than a phone booth and scarcely tall enough for them to walk fully upright. Here and there, rivulets of water wept from tiny seams in the walls, but otherwise the bedrock was as dry as the bones of Rivka. Lavon navigated by compass. Softly, he counted their steps.
The channel wound its way through the limestone in a serpentine pattern, which meant they had only a vague idea of what lay ahead. Despite the fact they were now only a few feet beneath the surface of the Mount, they could hear no sound other than their own footfalls and Lavon’s steady counting. At two hundred paces exactly,
