“Worse than ever,” Akil remarked to Razak, relieving him of his luggage. “Pretty soon we’ll be locked out all together.”
They went through a narrow, L-shaped tunnel—a design from centuries earlier meant to slow marauding attackers—and emerged into the busy Christian Quarter. Climbing the sloped cobblestone walkways into the Muslim Quarter, Razak breathed in the complex aromas of the nearby Souk—fresh bread, spicy meat, tamarind, charcoal, and mint. It took them fifteen minutes to reach the high staircase on Via Dolorosa that climbed up to the Temple Mount’s elevated northern gate. There, a second security check was required by the IDF, though not nearly as intrusive as the first.
As Akil led him across Temple Mount’s expansive esplanade, Razak could hear the raucous cries of protestors down near the Western Wall Plaza. He didn’t need to see them to know that Jerusalem’s district police and reinforcements from the IDF would be there in large numbers, holding the crowds at bay. Focusing on the spectacular mountainous panorama afforded by the Temple Mount’s high vantage point, he tried to block out the distressing sounds.
“Where will we be meeting?” Razak asked.
“Second floor of the Dome of Learning building.”
Taking his bag, Razak thanked Akil, leaving him at a freestanding archway and headed toward a squat, two-story building situated between the sacred Dome of the Rock and El-Aqsa Mosques.
Entering the northern door, he ascended a flight of stairs and strode down a narrow corridor to a private room where he could already hear the voices of the Waqf officials awaiting him.
Inside, nine Arab men—middle-aged and older—were convened around a heavy teak table. Some wore traditional kaffiyeh head wraps and business suits; others had opted for turbans and colorful tunics. When Razak entered, the room fell into a hush.
At the head of the table, a tall bearded Arab wearing a white headdress stood and raised a hand in greeting.
Making his way over to him, Razak raised his own. “Assalaamu ‘alaykum.”
“Wa ‘alaykum assalaam,” the man responded with a smile. Farouq bin Alim Abd al-Rahmaan al-Jamir had presence. Though his real age was unknown, most would correctly place him in his mid-sixties. Lucid gray eyes revealed the burden of many secrets, but showed little of the man within. A thick scar ran across his left cheek and he wore it proudly as a reminder of his days on the battlefield. His teeth were unnaturally symmetrical and white, obviously replacements.
Ever since Muslims regained control of the Temple Mount in the thirteenth century, the Waqf had managed this sacred shrine and a “Keeper” had been appointed as its supreme overseer. That responsibility, entrusting all matters concerning the sanctity of the site, now lay with Farouq.
As they took their seats Farouq reacquainted Razak with the men around the table then quickly got to the matter at hand.
“I make no apology for summoning you here on such short notice.” Farouq stared round the table, while tapping a ballpoint pen against the polished teak surface. “You all know about the incident last Friday.”
A male servant bent to pour Razak a cup of spicy Arabian coffee—qahwa.
“Enormously troubling.” Farouq continued. “Sometime in the late evening, a group of men broke into the Marwani Mosque. They used explosives to access a hidden room behind the rear wall.”
The fact that the crime had occurred on a Friday, when Muslims from all over Jerusalem would gather on Temple Mount for prayer, was particularly troublesome to Razak. Perhaps the perpetrators meant to strike fear into the Muslim community. He settled into his chair, trying to compute the audacity it would take to desecrate such a sacred site. “For what purpose?” He sipped his coffee slowly, letting the smell of cardamom fill his nostrils.
“It seems they have stolen an artifact.”
“What kind of artifact?” Razak preferred forthright answers.
“We’ll get to that later,” Farouq said dismissively.
Not for the first time Razak wished the Keeper didn’t play his cards so close to his chest. “Professional job then?”
“It appears so.”
“Did the explosions damage the mosque?”
“Luckily, no. We immediately contacted a structural engineer. So far it seems the damage is contained to the wall.”
Razak frowned. “Any idea who could have done this?”
Farouq shook his head.
“It was the Israelis I tell you!” one of the elders burst out, quivering with rage, his lower lip dramatically curled.
All heads turned to the old man. His eyes shifted away and he eased himself back into his seat.
“That is not certain,” Farouq firmly cut in. “Though it’s true that eyewitnesses reported an Israeli Black Hawk was used to transport the thieves.”
“What?” Razak was stupefied.
Farouq nodded. “It landed in the esplanade outside the El-Aqsa Mosque and took them away.”
“But isn’t that restricted airspace?”
“Absolutely.”
Though he wouldn’t admit it, Razak was impressed that anyone could pull off such an operation, especially in Jerusalem. “How?”
“We don’t have details.” Farouq’s pen resumed its tapping. “All we know is that the helicopter was spotted over Gaza minutes after the theft. We’re awaiting a full report from the IDF. But let’s not forget that thirteen Israelis were killed during the attack and many more injured,” Farouq reminded the assemblage. “Policemen and IDF soldiers. To assume Israelis were responsible...for now that wouldn’t seem to make sense.”
Another elder spoke up. “This situation’s very complicated. Clearly this theft has occurred within our jurisdiction. However, that so many IDF soldiers were killed does matter greatly.” He spread his hands and paused. “The Israelis have agreed to keep this quiet, but ask that we cooperate in sharing all information uncovered through our internal investigations.”
Razak fingered his cup and looked up. “I’m assuming the police have already begun preliminary investigations?”
“Of course,” Farouq interjected. “They arrived minutes after the episode occurred. Problem is they’ve yet to present any definitive evidence. We suspect important facts are being withheld. That’s why we’ve summoned you. Confrontation seems inevitable.”
“If only—” Razak began.
“Time’s limited,” another Waqf member with a thick head of silver hair overrode him. “Both sides are concerned it won’t be long before the media starts drawing its own conclusions. And we all know what that will lead to.” His grave eyes circled the table to draw support. “Razak, you know how fragile our role is here in Jerusalem. You see what’s happening outside on the streets. Our people rely on us to protect this place.” He stuck out an index finger and tapped it on the table twice. “There’s no knowing how they’ll react. Unlike most of us,” he eyed the first outspoken elder, still purple from rage, “they will assume the Israelis are responsible.”
Farouq came in again. “You can well imagine that Hamas and Hezbollah are both anxious to lambaste the Jews for this.” His face darkened.
“They’re asking for our support implicating the Israelis to further Palestinian liberation.”