With cargo and passengers secured, the Hinckley’s engines fired up and the craft moved off, slowly gathering speed. Conte loaded another grenade and found the chopper fifty meters away. A split second later the latest state-of-the-art in American military technology ripped apart, lighting up the night sky in a flaming ball.
The yacht accelerated to its cruising speed of twenty-two knots and headed northwest across the Mediterranean’s choppy waters.
There would be no more fighting that night. As Conte had anticipated, the Israelis had been totally unprepared for an orchestrated stealth attack. But the messy confrontation and high death toll meant his fee just went up.
3
MONDAY
Three Days Later
******
Tel Aviv
As the El Al captain announced the flight’s final descent into Ben Gurion International, Razak bin Ahmed bin al-Tahini gazed out of his window to watch the Mediterranean yielding to a desert landscape set against an azure sky.
Yesterday, he had received a disturbing phone call. No details had been provided, merely an urgent request from the Waqf—the Muslim council that acted as the Temple Mount overseers—summoning him to Jerusalem for assistance in a sensitive matter.
“Sir,” a soft voice called to him.
He turned from the window to find a young flight attendant dressed in a navy suit and white blouse. Razak’s eyes were drawn to the El Al insignia pin on her lapel—a winged Star of David. “El Al” was Hebrew for “skyward.” Yet another reminder that here, Israel controlled more than just the land.
“Please bring your seat to the upright position,” she politely requested. “We’ll be landing in a few minutes.”
Raised in the Syrian capital of Damascus, Razak was the oldest of eight siblings. Growing up in a close-knit family, he frequently helped his mother shoulder household responsibilities since his father was an ambassador for the Syrian embassy and traveled endlessly. With his father’s help, he had begun his political career as a liaison between rival Sunni and Shiite factions in Syria, then throughout the Arab region. After studying politics in London, he’d returned to the Middle East, where the scope of his duties had broadened to include diplomatic missions to the UN, and liaising between Arab and European business partners.
For almost a decade now, Razak had been intimately involved in Islam’s most problematic issues, becoming a reluctant—yet increasingly influential—political figure. Faced with its maligned association to radical fanaticism and terrorist acts, and the neck-breaking onslaught of globalization, the sanctity of Islam in the modern world was increasingly difficult to preserve. And though Razak’s aspiration in accepting his role was to focus on the religious aspects of Islam, he had quickly learned that its political components were inseparable.
And at forty-five, his responsibilities were showing. Premature gray streaks had sprouted from his temples, spreading through thick black hair, and a permanent heaviness showed under his dark, solemn eyes. Of medium height and build, Razak wasn’t one to turn heads, though in many circles, his knack for diplomacy was sure to leave a lasting impression.
Substantial personal sacrifice had quickly transformed his youthful idealism into tempered cynicism. He constantly reminded himself of the wise words his father once told him when he was just a young boy: “The world is a very complicated thing, Razak, something which is not easily understood. But surviving out there”—he had pointed somewhere far out into the distance— “means never compromising your spirit, because no man or place can take that from you. It is Allah’s most precious gift to you,...and what you do with it is your gift to Him.”
As the Boeing 767 touched down, Razak’s thoughts shifted to the mysterious altercation in Jerusalem’s Old City three days earlier. The worldwide media was circulating reports about a violent exchange that had taken place at Temple Mount on Friday. Though the nature of the altercation was still highly speculative, all accounts confirmed that thirteen Israeli Defense Force soldiers had been killed by an as-yet unknown enemy.
Razak knew it was no coincidence that his services were now required here.
As he retrieved his suitcase from the baggage claim carousel inside the terminal, his watch alarm beeped. He had programmed it to ring five times a day, and in five differing tones.
Two thirty.
After stopping in the men’s room to ritually wash his face, hands, and neck, he found a clean spot along the concourse and set his bag down. Reexamining his watch, he referenced a miniature digital readout data-fed by a global positioning microchip. A small arrow shifted on the face pointing him in the direction of Mecca.
Raising his hands up, he declared “Allah Akbar” twice, then crossed his hands over his chest and began one of the quintet of daily prayers compulsory in Islamic faith.
“I bear witness that there is no God but Allah,” he softly muttered, easing down on his knees then bowing in submission. In prayer he found a solitude that silenced the noise around him, reconciling the compromises he was asked to make in the name of Islam.
Deep in meditation, he blocked out the group of Western tourists scrutinizing him. To many in the modern world, devout adherence to prayer was a foreign concept. It didn’t surprise him that the sight of an Arab man in a business suit kneeling in submission to an invisible presence so easily captured the curiosity of most non-Muslims. But Razak had long ago accepted the fact that piety was not always convenient or comfortable.
When he had finished, he stood and buttoned the top button of his tan suit jacket.
Two Israeli soldiers watched scornfully as he made his way through the exit, staring at his rolling suitcase as if it contained plutonium. To Razak, it was indicative of a much broader tension that defined this place and he ignored them.
Outside the international terminal he was greeted by a Waqf representative—a tall young man with dark features who led him to a white Mercedes 500.
“Assalaamu ‘alaykum.”
“Wa ‘alaykum assalaam,” Razak replied. “Is your family well, Akil?”
“Thank you, yes. An honor to have you back, sir.”
Akil took his bag and opened the rear door. Razak dipped into the airconditioned interior, and the young Arab took his place behind the wheel.
“We should be in Jerusalem in under an hour.”
Approaching the towering ancient limestone block wall that wrapped around Old Jerusalem, the driver turned into a parking lot and reclaimed his reserved spot. They would have to make it the rest of the way on foot since the Old City, with its prohibitively narrow streets, was off-limits to most vehicular traffic.
Outside the Jaffa Gate, Razak and the driver were queued into a long line by heavily armed IDF guards. Nearer the opening, they were subjected to a thorough body pat down while Razak’s bag was inspected and passed through a portable scanner. Then came an exhaustive verification of their credentials. Finally, they took turns being funneled through a metal detector, all the while being monitored by a set of surveillance cameras mounted high up on a nearby pole.