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 Alpha One. Over.”
Nothing but static.
He moved away from the interfering mosque wall.
“Alpha One?”
Through the haze a choppy voice was just audible.
Conte cut in with the transmitter button. “If you can hear me, we’ve got a change of plan. We’re under fire.” Raising his voice, he carefully articulated his next command. “Pick us up on the southeast corner of the Temple Mount esplanade, beside the El-Aqsa Mosque. Over.”
A pause.
More static.
“Roger. On my way,” a faint voice crackled back. “Over.”
Conte concealed his relief. Just over the jagged mountain range to the south he detected a dark shadow against the night sky.
The chopper was approaching rapidly.
He clicked his XM8 to fully automatic, activating the grenade launcher and the others did the same. Fearing they might inflict damage on this sacred place, he knew that the Israelis would be reluctant to fire heavily on them. But his team wouldn’t be nearly as accommodating.
“We’ll need to take those guys down to clear the area,” Conte commanded. On his signal, the mercenaries rushed toward the gate in neat formation, carbines drawn.
The chopping sound of rotor blades now had the Israelis’ attention, many gazing skywards at the black shadow gliding low and fast toward Temple Mount.
From their shadowed position high up on the retaining wall, Conte and his men sprayed the soldiers with a curtain of firepower. Within seconds, eight had fallen. Others were scurrying for cover in the open plaza below, while reinforcements spilled into the area from the network of narrow streets feeding in from the Jewish and Muslim Quarters.
The Israeli Air Force Black Hawk suddenly rose over the embankment’s southeast corner, its profile decked out in desert camouflage temporarily confusing the IDF soldiers with its familiar markings. But Conte could also see a group of men maneuvering to better positions along the embankment’s southwest corner. Immediately to his right, Doug Wilkinson, the assassin from Manchester, England, suddenly recoiled, clutching his upper arm, dropping his XM8.
Sliding his finger to the carbine’s second trigger, Conte centered his sights on the cluster of soldiers below and fired. The grenade rocketed off its rifle mount streaming an arc of smoke and orange sparks until it exploded, hurling fragments of stone into the air. Other grenades followed with a fiery barrage of exploding stone and shrapnel that forced the Israelis back in chaos.
The rotor blades were close behind the team now, throwing up a dust storm. The Black Hawk bounced down on the platform, coming to rest beside the El-Aqsa Mosque.
“Go now!” he yelled, waving the team toward the chopper. “Get the cargo on board!”
Retreating from the gate, Conte spotted yet more IDF soldiers between the cypress trees on the opposite side of the Temple Mount, quickly closing in on the vicinity surrounding the Dome of the Rock platform.
It was going to be close, he thought.
The box was rapidly stowed in the chopper and then his men clambered aboard. He ducked under the rotor blades, jumping inside.
Under heavy gunfire, the Black Hawk lifted off the platform and tore away from Temple Mount. Hugging the Ha-Ela Valley floor, it swept across the barren expanse of the Negev Desert, heading southwest. The chopper’s low flight path was well beneath radar range, but even at higher altitudes its state-of-the-art cloaking technology would render it virtually untraceable.
Within minutes the lights of the Palestinian settlements along the Gaza Strip came into view. Then Gaza’s beaches rapidly gave way to the dark expanse of the Mediterranean.
Eighty kilometers off Israel’s coast, a custom-built twenty-meter Hinckley motor yacht had been anchored at precise coordinates programmed into the flight console. The pilot maneuvered the Black Hawk over the yacht’s aft deck, easing down to hover in the hold position.
The box was carefully lowered to the Hinckley’s crew, then one by one the team rappelled down the line. Wilkinson tucked his wounded arm tightly to his side as Conte clipped him to the line. All things considered, the wound was relatively minor. When Wilkinson had made it on deck, Conte went next.
Setting the autopilot controls to hover, Conte’s pilot evacuated the cockpit, stepping over the two dead Israeli pilots who earlier that evening had set out from Sde Dov airbase on a routine surveillance mission along the Egyptian border, blissfully unaware of their heavily armed replacement hidden in the rear.