The remark took him off guard. “Just seeing the sights,” he replied, looking away.
“Well, I’ve got to get going. Nice seeing you,” she lied. Turning to go, Charlotte felt his hand touch her shoulder. She went rigid and turned back to him with icy eyes.
Realizing his miscalculation, Conte threw his hands up. “Sorry. I know American women are sensitive about their personal space.”
“What do you want?” She pronounced each word clearly.
“I was going to see if you wanted company for dinner tonight. I figured, you’re here alone....I don’t see a wedding ring,” he added, eyeing her hands. “Maybe you’d like some conversation. That’s all.”
For a long moment, she just stared at him, unable to process the idea that he was actually hitting on her in St. Peter’s Basilica. Suddenly she felt bad for any woman that had been charmed by this character. Handsome— yes—but everything else was severely lacking. “I’ve got a boyfriend and I’ve already made plans, but thank you.” Uncertain as to how much she would need to interact with Conte during the coming days, she tried her best to be polite.
“Some other time, then,” he confidently replied.
“Good night.” She turned and made her way for the exit.
“Enjoy your evening, Dr. Hennesey. Buonasera.”
15
TUESDAY
******
Temple Mount
The rising sun cast a faint glow of deep blue and purple over the Mount of Olives as Razak made his way across the Temple Mount esplanade toward the Dome of the Rock Mosque’s golden cupola, its crescent-shaped finial delicately pointing toward Mecca.
No matter how many times he visited this place, it always affected him deeply. Here, history and emotion seemed to drip like dew.
In the seventh century, Temple Mount had virtually been forgotten and its bare esplanade was devoid of any great monument. All of its previous architecture had been destroyed many times over. But in 687 AD—only a few decades after a Muslim army led by Caliph Omar had conquered Jerusalem in 638—the ninth Caliph, Abd al-Malik, began construction of the Dome of the Rock Mosque as a testament to the site’s rebirth—and Islam’s physical claim over the Holy Land.
Throughout the centuries that followed, Islam had periodically lost its hold over the Temple Mount, most notably to Christian Crusaders whose occupation spanned the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. But it was once again under Islamic control and the Waqf had been entrusted to enforce and legitimize that role. It wasn’t easy, especially in the wake of mounting political instability that threatened Islamic exclusivity to the place—a privilege that had almost been lost after the Six Day War in 1967.
Razak tried to imagine how it would feel if the political situation had been reversed: Muslims reduced to worshipping a retaining wall with the Jews possessing a shrine on its holiest spot; Jews in occupied territories and the Palestinians in full control.
He scaled a flight of steps to the mosque’s raised platform. Outside the entrance, he removed his Sutor Mantellassi loafers, then made his way into the shrine. Hands crossed behind his back, he worked his way around the bloodred carpet of the octagonal ambulatory glancing up at the elaborate inner dome that sat high atop glassy marble columns. Directly beneath the cupola, cordoned by railings, lay a bare stone expanse of Mount Moriah’s summit known as “the Rock.”
The Rock marked the sacred site where in Biblical times Abraham made to sacrifice his son to God, and where Jacob had dreamed of a ladder to heaven. The Jews proclaimed that a grand Jewish temple built by King Solomon and improved by King Herod once stood here. And the Christians claimed Jesus had visited that same temple many times to preach.
But the site was most significant to Razak and his people for another reason.
In 621, the angel Gabriel had appeared to the great prophet Muhammad in Mecca, presenting him with a winged horse bearing a human face, named Buraq. Embarking on his Isra, or “Night Journey,” Muhammad was carried by Buraq to the Temple Mount where he was ascended through the heavens in a glorious light to behold Allah and consult with Moses and the great prophets. There, Muhammad was also given the five daily prayers by Allah—a core event in his ministry known as the Miraj.
The Miraj rendered the Dome of the Rock the third most important religious site in Islam, preceded only by Mecca—Muhammad’s birthplace—and Medina where, through great struggle and personal sacrifice, he established the Islamic movement.
Razak gazed up at the cupola’s exquisite tile work, taking in the Arabic inscriptions flowing round its base.
Outside, the muezzin’s call echoed from loudspeakers, summoning Muslims to prayer. In front of the mosque’s mihrab—the small, arched golden alcove that indicated the direction of Mecca—Razak eased onto his knees, hands splayed over his thighs and bowed in prayer.
After a few minutes, he stood and circled back round the Rock’s enclosure, stopping in front of a stairway entrance to a chamber called the “Well of Souls,” where it was said the spirits of the dead convened in prayer. There he envisioned his mother and father shining in the divine light of Allah, awaiting the final Day of Judgment so as to be delivered to Jannah— Allah’s eternal garden paradise.
On September 23, 1996, Razak’s parents had been killed by two masked gunmen while vacationing on the Jordanian side of the Sea of Galilee. Many had suspected that Israeli intelligence agents—the Shin Bet—had wrongly targeted his father for purported ties to militant Palestinian groups, but those rumors were later disproven. Although that turned
out not to be the case, the killers were never found. Their tragic deaths
were a profound loss that had driven—and still drove—Razak deeper into
his faith for answers. Fortunately, his education at home and abroad had
helped him to avoid political and religious fanaticism—an easy trapping
for someone so intimately affected by Israel’s lethal politics.
Turning away, his thoughts shifted to the crypt hidden deep beneath
his feet, and the mysterious theft that had once again brought bloodshed to
this place. When he’d arrived here yesterday afternoon, he had never anticipated that a situation of such gravity would have allied him with a man
like Graham Barton.
At the mosque entrance Razak put on his shoes and made his way
outside.
He still had a couple more hours until his meeting with Barton. So he
strolled down into the Muslim Quarter and had coffee and breakfast at a
small café on Via Dolorosa. There, he met some old acquaintances and
caught up on all that had happened since his last visit. Naturally, the conversation gravitated to the theft, but Razak was quick to point out that he
couldn’t comment on the investigation.
By nine a.m., there wasn’t the slightest breeze as he crossed the Temple
Mount esplanade beneath a scorching sun and descended into the Marwani Mosque. Climbing through the blast hole into the crypt, Akbar—the