The Sacred Blood

of fabric against her lips and nostrils, the pungent smell of chemicals.

The broad-shouldered man came into her sights as he jumped onto the bed, straddling her stomach. The one who’d broken through her office door! The gunman who’d murdered Evan! Recoiling, she tried to kick, to flail, to bite. But any resistance was ineffectual.

Through blurring vision, she spotted the second intruder only an instant later, turning the door lock, racing over.

...Can’t breathe...

Her starving lungs struggled for air, only to pull in more chemicals, their smell much sharper this time.

Within seconds, a numb pressure settled over her limbs and torso, as if concrete was being poured over her body. Her head felt impossibly heavy—woozy.

The hand fell away from her face.

As they lifted her from the bed, her head fell limply back. The last thing she saw was the crucifix nailed above the headboard.

Then her field of vision telescoped backward. Total blackness.

39

******

The Temple Mount

Ghalib’s searing caramel irises glared out the window at the Dome of the Rock, his wiry fingers steepled beneath his chin. The lights circling the shrine’s cupola made King Hussein’s gold leaf blaze against the darkening sky—a magnificent juxtaposition. It pleased him immensely to know that Israelis from all over Jerusalem and its surrounding hills could see this most potent symbol of Islam’s occupation of the world’s most sacred ground—this fiery torch lighting the darkness.

Oh, the fury the Jews must endure as they weep in the valley below. But never could this victory be taken for granted. And that was exactly what the Waqf had done: shirked their duties. Oversight of the Temple Mount was not limited to mere religious functions. This place was a fortress that needed to be closely guarded. The preeminent post within the Waqf was that of Keeper. Just as the name implied, by accepting this assignment, Ghalib had sworn to preserve Islam’s foothold not only in Jerusalem, but throughout God’s world.

He was a sentinel for Allah.

“ ‘Glory to Allah for taking His most righteous servant from the sacred mosque to the most distant mosque,’ ” he muttered, his unblinking eyes still trained on the gold dome.

Oh, how the kalifah had taken the divine words of the Great Prophet to weave the grand tale that made this place the third-most-sacred shrine in Islam. The cryptic Qur’anic reference at the onset of the sura entitled Bani Isra’il gave very little detail about what place had truly been designated the Distant Mosque. But the oral traditions in the hadith told a great story that it was this very place—the site where the grand Jewish Temple presumably once stood. How clever the caliphs had been when they’d conquered Jerusalem in the seventh century and re-created Jerusalem’s identity—al-Quds. Just as the Jewish king David had once laid claim to this site, so too had the kalifah. And the Jews’ most sacred place was hence transformed into the Islamic Haram esh-Sharif—the Noble Sanctuary.

“As-salaam alaikum,” a soft voice said from over his shoulder.

Swiveling round in his chair, Ghalib studied the young man who stood in the doorway—average height, slight of stature, Palestinian by blood. But his pale complexion, green eyes, and soft features had often been confused for Israeli—one might even guess that he was a Sephardic Jew. Precisely the reason Ghalib had summoned him here. He knew him by first name alone: Ali—Arabic for “protected by God.” And as requested, Ali had shaved away his beard. The added effect was quite dramatic.

“Wa alaikum al salaam,” Ghalib said, waving him forward. “Come, let us talk.”

Ali sat tall in the guest chair, eyes cast down at his hands in a show of respect.

“You can look at me, Ali,” Ghalib insisted. The green eyes shifted up, blazing with a familiar fire. He got right to the point: “I’ve been told that you have offered to give your life for Allah . . . for your people. You wish to be a martyr?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, without emotion.

“Tell me. Why do you believe that you are worthy to make such a sacrifice?”

Ghalib already knew the answer. He’d heard it many times before from countless young Muslims—mostly male but occasionally female—who flooded the rightist Islamic madrassas throughout the Middle East and Europe to be consumed by the radical interpretations of Islam’s oral tradition. A common thread bound them all: their lives had been stripped of hope, opportunity, and dignity.

Like many others, Ali and his family had lost their home and land to Israeli settlements funded by American Christian evangelists and zealous Jews. His older brother had been gunned down for throwing stones during the second intifada. Ali had grown up witnessing frequent Israeli raids and the destructive aftermath of rocket attacks. His family was locked behind concrete and barbed wire eight meters high—Israel’s ever-growing security barrier. They lived in a camp and relied on handouts, or zakah, from Hamas for their survival. And the Israelis forbade them to enter Jerusalem to pray at the great mosques.

No home. No freedom. No land. No future. The perfect martyr.

The worst thing any man could take from another man is his dignity, Ghalib thought.

“I give myself to Allah—body, soul,” Ali replied with utmost certainty. “I am His now. And to honor Him, I must fight against what is happening to our people. I fight for Palestine. For what is rightfully ours.”

Ghalib smiled. It wasn’t the promise of countless virgins in a garden paradise that fueled this one. Just as the Merciful One had created Adam from clay, so too Ali’s spirit had been molded by the teachings. But as much as Ghalib would have loved to strap shrapnel bombs to the shaheed ’s torso and send him into a nightclub on Ben Yehuda Street, there was a more pressing matter at hand.