The tourist group moved on, leaving Luke to continue his examination of the area. From his vantage point he tried to spot any plainclothes operators. These would be men or women pretending to be visitors, but who stuck around for a suspicious amount of time. He saw no one, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there — any decent security arrangement would involve some kind of rotation; and the guys — or girls — guarding this place would be pros. He counted six armed IDF soldiers, in their olive-green uniforms, circulating around the plaza itself and even approaching the wall. Clearly the security restrictions didn’t extend to their assault rifles and he immediately identified that as a security weak spot. Might an Israeli soldier be involved in an atrocity here? Men could be bought, of course, and a couple of guys with M16s could kill a lot of people. But what had Stratton said? When the wall falls… It would take more than an assault rifle to cause the sort of damage he’d implied.
Luke needed a closer look at the wall itself. With his head down, he started walking across the plaza, losing himself in a little crowd of tourists who were doing the same thing. They passed a post, about a metre high, bearing a tourist sign written in Hebrew and English: ‘on the sabbath and holy days, smoking, photography and cellphone use are strictly forbidden.’
A voice. Behind him. ‘Excuse me. Excuse me! ’ It was urgent. Luke felt his fist clenching as he turned to look. A thin man with a wispy beard and square spectacles was running towards him, suspicion on his face. ‘You, sir. Stop.’
Thirty metres to the exit. If he wanted to get out of here, he needed to do it now.
‘You cannot approach the wall bare-headed,’ the man said.
‘What?’
The guy held out a thin cardboard skullcap. Luke felt his muscles relaxing.
‘Right,’ he muttered. ‘Thanks.’ He put on the cap and continued his approach. On his left, he passed a low, sand-coloured building with a series of arches built into the foundations. Most of his attention, however, was on the wall itself.
The lowest seven courses of the wall were made from blocks about a metre wide and half a metre high; above that, they were a quarter the size. The blocks were sturdy, certainly, but also crumbling away in places and with weeds and plants growing out of the mortar here and there. It struck him that a Regiment demolitions expert could bring the wall down in minutes. He observed a couple of tourists squeezing hand-written notes into the cracks. It occurred to him that the cracks in the wall could easily be filled with explosives, but he discarded that idea as soon as it came to him. The wall was surely guarded 24/7 — stick anything except a prayer note in it and you’d be flat on your face with an M16 in the back of your head.
Think like the enemy, he told himself. Anticipate their movements.
Prepping for a combat situation, he would learn in advance what he could about the enemy’s SOPs. In Iraq they’d been alert to the dangers of roadside bombs. In the Stan, IEDs. He understood the psychology of war. He understood that if a method of combat worked well once, chances were it would work well again. The Micks had never stopped using car bombs or letter bombs just because Special Branch were cute to it. Even the Yanks and the British were addicted to their drones and guided missiles. In battle, you do whatever gets the job done best.
What were Stratton’s SOPs? How was he going to strike?
To his left, as he faced the wall, there was a low arch leading into the building adjoining the plaza, about two metres at its highest point, and a single glance told him that the wall itself continued just as the tour guide had said, forming a kind of tunnel. Luke approached it. If the wall was not just the exposed section at the plaza, he needed to examine the rest of it. To put himself in the mindset of a terrorist and work out where the weak points of this target were.
He was in a dimly lit room with a vaulted ceiling. Beyond it the tunnel continued. There were thirteen people in here, all dressed in traditional black garb, sitting on seats. The atmosphere was quiet, prayer-like. One of the men looked over his shoulder and, seeing Luke — casually dressed and dirty — gave a look of disapproval. But then he went back to his praying and Luke passed through the room and along the tunnel.
He moved quickly, but as he went he took in the geography. The tunnel followed the wall, along which there were more men seated and praying. After another hundred metres or so, he arrived in a second, wider room that was more populated than the first one — thirty people, maybe more. Against the wall there was a Perspex plaque with white writing — in Hebrew at the top, and underneath in English: ‘opposite the foundation stone and the site of the holy of holies’. Luke edged through the little crowd, and continued his recce.
As he continued north, the tunnel became less well lit, the walls more roughly hewn. He passed a metal grille on his left, and anterooms off the main tunnel. Further on, the tunnel was held up by a series of wooden joists and columns. There were fewer people here, and he passed what looked like ancient water pits. A sign told him they were cisterns from long ago. Checking to see he was unobserved, he worked a small piece of loose mortar away from the opposite wall and dropped it into the cistern. It took a second or so before he heard the mortar hit the ground. Three or four metres deep, he reckoned. Possible to cache something there? Unlikely — to remove it would risk drawing attention to yourself. He continued down the tunnel. When he had walked about 400 metres in all, the tunnel ended abruptly. Perhaps there had once been an exit, but now it was blocked.
Luke hurried back along the tunnel. Past the cisterns. Past the joists and columns. Past the grille.
He suddenly halted and looked back.
The grille was ten metres behind him. Retracing his steps, he bent down to look at it. Where did this thing lead? Could it be removed? Could you stow anything behind it?
Then something caught his eye.
It was difficult to see in the dim light of the tunnel, but Luke’s eyes were sharp. Tied round the lowermost metal bars of the grille were lengths of fishing line. Worming his fingers in through the grate, he pulled at one of the lines. Weight at the end. He pulled the line up, and what he found puzzled him. A clear plastic bag, filled with coins. Tugging on each of the other lines, he found the same thing. What the fuck was this? Some weird ritual, like chucking loose change into a fountain? Or was it something more suspicious?
A few bags of shekels weren’t going to bring down the Western Wall. But something nagged at him as he returned to the plaza and checked his watch.
23.30 hrs. Fuck, the clock was ticking.
Think, Luke told himself. Think SOPs. Think.
How had Stratton and Maya Bloom struck last?
He remembered the images he’d seen of the train bombings. The pictures of the Palestinian men who’d blown themselves up. He remembered the kid in Gaza, his body strapped with fuck knows what kind of explosive.
The Palestinians used suicide bombs. They were well known for it.
And Stratton? Stratton used the Palestinians.
Luke narrowed his eyes as a scenario formed in his mind. To bring down the Western Wall you had to get close. To get close, you had to remain unobserved. Suicide bombers would do that. And even if one was discovered, there’d be others to back him up. There were no countermeasures — you either spotted the bomber or you didn’t. And even if you did, you had to take him out before he knew you had eyes on.
But what about the security? How could you get past security — the metal detectors? Luke ran through the make-up of a suicide vest. Explosives — they’d get through the gates easily enough. It was the rest of it that would be problematic. A detonator — anything that could send a surge of voltage into the explosives. And most vests were packed with shrapnel to cause maximum collateral damage…