The two brothers had entered the United States through Canada, using passports that identified them as citizens of the UK. The passports were real enough, although the names and addresses on them were not. Those identities were gone. New ones had taken their place.
The apartment had been waiting for them when they arrived in New York. It was adequate, if not especially clean. It was small and sparsely furnished, with a kitchen table and two chairs, a secondhand couch and chair in the living room, and mattresses laid on the floor in the bedroom. Amin left the light on at night, to discourage the cockroaches that resisted all his attempts to exterminate them. He thought of them the way he thought about Jews: vermin, befouling whatever they touched.
The tea was ready. He put the pot and two cups on a metal tray and carried it into the living room, where Hamid sat in the chair reading the Pars Times, the biggest Persian newspaper in America.
Amin sat down and put the tray on a scarred coffee table in front of the couch. He poured a cup and handed it to Hamid.
"Mam'noon," Hamid said.
"Why are you reading that garbage?"
"It is good to know the enemy. Besides, I like the pictures."
Amin sipped his tea. "It would've been better if you had not killed the guard," he said.
"Let's not go through this again. I had no choice. The police were coming, the guard had a gun. What was I supposed to do?"
"I'm not blaming you. I would probably have done the same thing. I'm only saying it would've been better."
"It was just bad luck. Bad luck for him."
"I wonder why Dayoud wanted the document?"
"Better not to ask," Hamid said. "He was pleased, that is all that matters."
The two men sat for a moment, drinking tea.
"I grow tired of waiting," Amin said.
Hamid set his cup down. "It will be a great day, a day the Great Satan will never forget."
"God willing."
"It will take time for their new President to gather all the strings of control together. Now is when they are most vulnerable. He will need to appoint new members to his cabinet. There will be vacuums in leadership. It's a perfect time for this operation."
Amin said, "I long to see my family again. My daughter's second birthday is coming."
"Perhaps we will be home by then."
"Perhaps martyrdom will not be necessary."
"As God wills," Hamid said.
CHAPTER 12
Alan Friedman and his assistant stood with Selena on the tarmac outside the private terminal at Kennedy Airport, admiring the Gulfstream 550 that would take them to Israel.
"Where did you get this plane?"
"I'll explain when we're on board," Selena said. "There are some things you need to know."
"Selena, you haven't been formally introduced to my assistant, Miriam Golding."
"Hi, Miriam. It will be nice to have another woman along."
Miriam smiled at her. "Yes, it will. It's nice to meet you."
They shook hands.
"Who else is coming?" Miriam asked.
"Three others, all good friends of mine. They are already on the plane. Let's board and I'll introduce you."
They climbed the steps into the plane.
The Gulfstream 550 was a luxury plane designed for the long distance business traveler who could afford the ultimate in comfort and speed. The interior of the cabin was fitted with burnished rosewood and soft, tan leather. The plane could sleep eight people and cruise at 51,000 feet, all at six hundred miles an hour. It's range was a little over sixty-seven hundred nautical miles, long enough to cross the Atlantic and reach Israel without stopping.
The plane had been fitted with a long counter/bar on one side of the main cabin. A couch and large, comfortable seats had been placed across from the bar. Video displays were strategically situated throughout the cabins.
It was the sort of plane only the rich could afford. The Gulfstream had once belonged to a powerful drug lord. It was now the property of the U.S. government and was on semi-permanent assignment to the Project.
Nick, Ronnie and Lamont were seated across from the bar. Nick had a whiskey in his hand. Ronnie was drinking orange juice. Lamont was reading a magazine. They all stood when Selena and the others entered the cabin.
Selena made the introductions.
"Alan, Miriam, this is my husband, Nick Carter. These two are Ronnie Peete and Lamont Cameron, both old friends. The four of us have spent a lot of time together, some of it in pretty rough country. With these three along, no one is going to bother us. Guys, this is Alan Friedman and his assistant, Miriam Golding."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Friedman," Nick said. "Ms. Golding."
If Friedman was surprised by the hard appearance of Selena's friends, he didn't show it.
"Please call me Alan," he said.
The pilot came out of the cockpit. "Folks, we're ready to go. If you'll get ready for takeoff, we'll be on our way."
Twenty minutes later they were in the air. Selena and Friedman sat next to each other, across from Nick and Ronnie. Lamont had already gone back to the sleeping area for a nap on one of the comfortable beds. Miriam was on the couch, reading a magazine.
"So, explain," Friedman said. "What are these things I need to know?"
Selena took a secrecy agreement from the shoulder bag she carried and gave it to him.
"Before I tell you, I need you to take a look at this and sign it."
Friedman adjusted his glasses and began reading. Part way through he stopped.
"A secrecy agreement?"
"I work for a government agency," Selena said. "This says that you will not talk about what happens on this mission without express permission. Miriam will need to sign one as well."
"Mission? What agency?" Friedman was annoyed. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
"It wasn't necessary, before."
"What does your organization do?"
"We do a lot of things, Alan. Our main function is counterintelligence and counterterrorism."
"You're a spy?"
"Not at all. Mostly, I'm a consultant."
Selena mentally crossed her fingers as she spoke.
"So the government provided this plane?"
"Yes."
"You should have told me," Friedman said. "Whenever the government gets involved with academic freedom, the results are usually not good."
"You don't need to worry about that," Selena said. "Whatever we find, or even if we don't, there isn't any reason why you can't write about it from an archaeological and professional standpoint. What you can't write about is the fact that my unit is involved."
"And your husband, the others, they are all part of your… unit?"
"They are. You couldn't ask for better protection, if we should need it."
"You make this sound like something out of an Indiana Jones movie," Friedman said.
"I don't want to upset you," Selena said, "but I also don't want you to think this is just another expedition. The stakes are too high. If it weren't for the fact that the guard was killed and the scroll stolen, I wouldn't have needed to tell you all this. His murder means that some very bad people will be looking for the same thing we are."
"What kind of bad people?"
"Take your pick. Hamas, Hezbollah, ISIS, any one of a number of organizations that hate Israel. Once we knew the scroll was written by King Solomon and referred to part of the treasure used to build the First Temple, my organization had to become involved. I'm sure I don't need to explain to you how anything to do with the Temple is an explosive subject in the Middle East. There are a lot of people who would not want Israel to find this tomb. It has the potential to trigger major conflict. There's a real possibility we'll run into trouble. If we do, you're going to be glad Nick and the others are here."