Mordechai’s heart had stopped, and at last he was home.
15
The blood in Bennett’s face began to drain away.
The colors in the room faded. The room spun. His mouth was dry. A shiver shot through his body. An aching, throbbing pain coursed through his veins and through his soul. He felt the warmth of Erin’s hand, and for a moment, at least, it seemed to anchor him back to reality.
He blinked hard and turned to her as she began to sob, her body heaving, gasping for air amid her cries. He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her, and she buried her face in his chest and refused to let go. Soon his shirt was soaked through. But for some reason he couldn’t join her. He couldn’t cry. Not yet. It was all too sudden. He still didn’t believe it was true.
In the hallway, Jon could hear muffled voices. Someone was telling the prime minister and then Ken Costello the news. He couldn’t hear the words, but he could feel their effect. The shock of Mordechai’s death was spreading through the ICU, as it would soon spread through the country and the world.
A nurse pulled a sheet up over Mordechai’s head while another filled out a clipboard of paperwork. They said nothing. They were professionals, and they were respectful of the dead. But Jon couldn’t help wondering what they thought of Eliezer Mordechai. Could they ever believe what he’d believed?
A moment later, Costello stepped into the room to pay his last respects. Then he gave both Jon and Erin a quiet hug and stepped back into the hallway, making way for Prime Minister Doron, who came in next, without his security detail.
“He was a good man,” Doron said after a long, awkward pause.
“The best,” said Bennett.
“He had such certainty about life and such a peace about dying,” Doron observed as he stared at the shrouded body of his friend of nearly forty years. “I have to admit, I envied him.”
Bennett was surprised to hear Doron say it. But in his grief, at least for now, he couldn’t find the words to respond.
A Shin Bet agent popped her head into the room. “Mr. Prime Minister,” she said quietly.
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid we need to clear this room for a few minutes.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Doron said, noticing two orderlies waiting in the hallway, no doubt ready to take Mordechai’s body to the morgue.
With his arms still around her, Bennett led his grieving bride out of the room and followed Doron, Costello, and several aides and bodyguards down the hallway and out of the orderlies’ way.
“Jon, I know this is a very difficult time, but I wonder if I could speak with you for a moment,” the prime minister whispered. “It’s about Eli. I think it might shed some light on what happened.”
Bennett hesitated, not wanting to leave Erin alone. But she wiped away her tears with the handkerchief he’d given her and motioned for him to go. “I’ll be okay for a few minutes,” she sniffled.
“You sure?” he whispered back.
“Don’t be long.”
“I won’t.”
Bennett caught Costello’s eye, and Costello immediately came over and guided Erin to a lounge chair, sat her down, and offered to get her some hot tea, which she gratefully accepted.
Doron, meanwhile, motioned to his chief of staff and press secretary. “Would you both excuse us for a moment?”
The men took their leave, and with several security men in tow, the prime minister led Bennett to the stairwell and up to the roof.
Mustafa Al-Hassani needed some fresh air.
He stepped out onto the balcony of his presidential palace, built by Saddam and now his very own, and felt the cool evening breezes coming off the desert as he listened to the steady drilling of construction crews and saw the great cranes in motion as far as the eye could see. A moment later, his consigliere, Khalid Tariq, joined him.
“You were right, Your Excellency,” said Tariq. “They were more pliable than I had expected.”
“You expected more resistance?” asked Al-Hassani.
“I expected some resistance.”
“Never underestimate the power of desperation, Khalid. Remember, these are men without homes, without hope, without the families and treasures they have always loved. They are adrift. They have no leaders, no direction, no sense of destiny. Like their great-great-grandfathers, they are, once again, nomads, wandering in the desert, and we are the shelter amid the storms.”
“You were right about the Temple as well,” Tariq noted.
“Always remember,” Al-Hassani said, lighting his pipe, his white robes rippling in the desert breezes, “these men’s faith in Islam may have shattered, but not their passion for Jerusalem. Jerusalem predates Islam. Indeed, it transcends Islam. Jerusalem has always been the temptress that draws men’s souls. She is the jewel for which every ruler lusts. Men spilled their blood to possess her long before Mohammed was born, my friend. And with the right leadership, they will do so again. Our new alliance depends upon it.”
“What if Operation Black Box fails?” asked Tariq.
“It cannot be allowed to fail, Khalid,” Al-Hassani said emphatically. “You must make sure of that. If we are to rebuild the empire of our fathers, we must stop the Jews — whatever it takes and whatever the cost. And we must do so carefully, without any of our actions ever being traced back to us. Did you tell me that pressure on Doron to build the Temple is growing?”
“I’m afraid so, Your Excellency,” Tariq replied. “The Jerusalem Post has a new poll out just this morning—78 percent of Israelis want to see construction begin on the Temple within the next six months. That’s up nine points since the first of the year. What’s more, Israel’s chief rabbi is quoted as saying he wants the government to put up all the funds.”
“What more proof do you need?” asked Al-Hassani. “It no longer matters how much pressure the White House puts on the Israelis. Or whether the bureaucrats in Brussels stamp their feet. Or whether the U.N. decides to pass a resolution warning Israel not to move forward. All of that is irrelevant. The simple fact is, if Doron refuses to build the Temple, his government could very well collapse. Which means we are running out of time, Khalid. We must stop the Jews from moving forward before it’s too late.”
16
The night air was damp and chilly.
Bennett stepped onto the roof of the hospital and stared into the distance at the scorched surface of the Temple Mount. No matter how many times he’d seen the now-barren sacred site — wiped clean, as it were, by the great firestorm — it was still surreal.
The Dome of the Rock had been standing there day and night, rain or shine, since the seventh century AD. The Al-Aksa Mosque had been there in one form or another since early in the eighth century. Both had been modified, redesigned, and reconstructed several times over the years, to be sure. But they had been landmarks of history, emblems of culture, centers of learning and worship for Muslims nearly since the founding of Islam. Now they were no more. It was a fact the implications of which Bennett had not yet fully processed, given all else that had happened in the world and in his life.