The map showed the exact location of what they’d been charged to procure—he didn’t favor references to “stealing”—the term demeaned his professionalism. He aimed the penlight along the wall.
“Should be just ahead.” Conte’s English was surprisingly good. To keep communications consistent and less suspicious to local Israelis, he had insisted that the team converse only in English.
Securing the penlight between his teeth, he used a free hand to unclip the Stanley Tru-Laser electronic measuring device from his belt and punched a button on its keypad. A small LCD came to life, activating a thin red laser that cut deep into the darkness. Conte began to move forward, his team trailing closely behind.
He continued diagonally through the chamber, weaving between the thick columns. Deep into the space Conte abruptly stopped, verified the measurements on the LCD and swung the laser till it found the mosque’s southern wall. Then he turned to face the northern wall, the gut of the Temple Mount.
“What we’re looking for should be just behind there.”
2
******
Salvatore Conte rapped a gloved hand on the wall’s limestone brickwork. “What do you think?”
Setting down the canvas bags, Klaus Gretner unclipped a portable ultrasound device from his belt and held it over the wall to gauge density. Seconds later the result appeared on the unit’s display. “About half a meter.”
From the first bag, Conte pulled a sizeable handheld coring drill—the Flex BHI 822 VR model he’d specified— the chuck already fitted with an eighty-two millimeter diamond drum-bit. Glinting beneath his penlight, it looked like it had just come out of its box. He passed it to Gretner. “You should have no problem dry-cutting it with that. Plenty of outlets along the wall there,” he said, pointing. “The extension cord and adapter are in the bag. How many cores you going with?”
“The stone’s soft. Six should do it.”
From the second bag, Conte took out the first brick of C-4 and began molding the gray putty-like explosive into cylinders while the Austrian drilled into the wall’s mortar seams.
Ten minutes later, six neat cores were packed and plugged with remote detonating caps.
Wiping down the drill, Gretner discarded the Flex by the wall. Then he and Conte took cover with the others behind the columns, covering their faces with respirators. Using a handheld transmitter, Gretner triggered a coordinated detonation.
The ear-numbing blast was immediately followed by a rush of debris and billowing dust.
After pulling away some more loose bricks to widen the blast hole, Conte climbed through the gaping opening, followed by the others.
They found themselves inside another chamber, its details obscured by the clouds of dust. Stout earthen pillars could be made out supporting the low ceiling. Even with respirators, the air was thin and difficult to inhale, tinged with the lingering fumes of cyclotrimethylene, which smelled like motor oil.
This place had obviously been sealed for a long, long time, Conte thought and for a brief moment he wondered how his client could have possibly known it even existed. He turned sharply to the man next to him. “Give me some light.”
Moving forward into the gloom, the lights played across a row of ten rectangular forms resting on the floor against the chamber’s side wall. Each was about two-thirds of a meter in length, cream-colored, and slightly tapered from top to bottom.
Perusing the inventory Conte paused over one at the end of the row, kneeling down to get a better look. Choosing the correct one was much easier than he’d have thought. Unlike all the others, this was covered in ornate, etched designs. Tipping his head to view the left side of the box, he compared the distinctive carved symbol to the image on a photocopy he pulled from his pocket. A perfect match.
“This is it,” he announced to the others, pocketing the papers. “Let’s keep moving.” Though they were deep beneath the Temple Mount, Conte knew that the sound of the explosions would have been heard beyond the outer walls.
Gretner stepped forward. “Looks heavy.”
“Should be about thirty-three kilos.” Somehow, his client knew that as well. Rising up, he stepped aside.
Slinging his XM8, Gretner laid a web of nylon strapping on the floor. He and another man lifted the box onto the webbing, hoisting it off the floor.
“Let’s get out of here.” Conte waved the team forward.
They worked their way through the blast hole and back into the mosque. Before ascending the staircase Conte collected their respirators, stuffing them into his bag.
Emerging onto the esplanade, Conte scanned the area intently and verified that his two sentries remained posted securely in the shadows. He signaled to them and both men sprinted ahead.
The rest of the team assembled on the esplanade.
Moments later, when the sentries’ silhouettes swept across the opening of Moors’ Gate, they were instantly forced back by automatic gunfire emanating from the plaza below.
A pocket of quiet.
Distant screams, then more shots.
Motioning for the others to remain, Conte ran over to the gate, dropping onto his elbows as he neared the opening. Peering out he saw Israeli soldiers and police swarming into the vicinity, blocking the walkways down by the Western Wall Plaza. Someone must have either found the two dead IDF soldiers or heard the detonation.
The Israelis were hunkered down, waiting for them to make a move. Other entrances provided access to Temple Mount and Conte rapidly considered a revised exit strategy, but he was certain the IDF would be sending reinforcements to those gates as well. It wouldn’t be long before they scaled the platform.
He knew that using the rented van parked in the Kidron Valley was no longer an option. Turning back from the gateway, he signaled for the sentries to follow him back to the group.
As he ran by the El-Aqsa Mosque, Conte grabbed the encrypted radio transmitter from his belt. “Come in
