Ismael walked beside his father, the Syrian general, on the Haram al-Sharif—Noble Sanctuary to most Muslims and Temple Mount to most Jews. Ahead of them the moon’s reflection glinted off the Dome of the Rock. Behind them the Al-Aqsa Mosque swept across the southern end of the Mount, high above the Jews’ Western Wall.
It was from here, on this flat rock roughly two hundred meters square, that Mohammed had been taken to heaven and given his vision of God. It was here that the Jews erroneously claimed their ancient king, Solomon, had built his Temple to God. It was here that Jesus, the great prophet whom the Christians mistakenly called God’s Son, had cried his message of change.
It was here that mankind’s destiny would one day be decided.
“The boy should have come by now,” Ismael said.
“You hold his mother. He will come,” Abu Ismael said.
Father and son walked in slow tandem stride, with hands behind their backs. “You may not appreciate his threat, Father, but I believe David Ben Solomon is the greatest enemy we face. He talks openly about rebuilding the Jewish Temple, and they can’t build their Temple without destroying ours first.”
Abu Ismael nodded at a Waqf guard who loitered against the wall to their right. “Perhaps, but you must choose your battles, Ismael. There is a time to kill and there is a time to live. I believe it was their King Solomon who said that first, wasn’t it?”
“Easy to say when you live in Syria, removed from our struggle, surrounded by all the comforts given to Syria’s most respected general. Perhaps you should remember that you’re a Palestinian by blood. Palestinians live in the ghettos the world forces us to call home. Here there’s no time to live. We’re dying all the time.”
Abu Ismael chuckled. “Of course, you are dying. And sometimes I think you choose to die. Blowing up a few children does not always lead to life.”
“Terror’s the only legitimate weapon we have. And you think that when the Jews assassinated Hamil, we did not feel terror?”
It was a low blow, referring to his older brother’s assassination—Father had loved him dearly. For a few long steps Abu did not respond. He was dressed in civilian clothes, but under the common attire walked a man with as much power as any other in the Arab League. He not only commanded several hundred thousand troops in the Syrian army, he had the ear of the kings. His evenhanded approach to the challenge that Israel presented the Arab nations earned him that much. And his undying allegiance to Palestinian’s right to all of Israel earned him the respect of the PLO.
“We are walking on Islam’s third most holy site, Ismael, behind only Mecca and Medina,” his father said.
Ismael did not respond.
“How is that possible when this same piece of ground is the Jew’s Temple Mount? Their most holy place.”
“Their claim’s illegitimate,” Ismael said. “They’ve manufactured a lie by saying that their Temple was built here. It’s always been holy ground for Islam.”
“Yes, of course. But it’s still their most holy site. And yet whose guards do you see patrolling the Mount? The Waqf. Muslim guards patrol Jewish land. The Jews cannot even come up here to pray. Instead, they are confined below, at the Western Wall where they wail. We control their Temple Mount. You don’t see our victory in that? The irony? It is like the Jews taking Mecca from us.”
“And they have Jerusalem—the legitimate capital of Palestine!”
“Yes, they have Jerusalem. And encircling Jerusalem, we have the West Bank, which is encircled by Israel, which is in turn encircled by the Arab states. Concentric circles of opposing forces, but we rule the heart. This piece of ground we are walking on now. The holy place.”
“And the West stands around us all, biding its time,” Ismael said.
“The West is more friendly every day. One step at a time, Ismael. Today we make the Jews bow at the foot of our mosque”—he dipped his head at the Western Wall on their right—“and tomorrow we will push them into the sea.”
“And what if today we have their Temple Mount but tomorrow the Jews take it? It’s here, on this plot of land, that our fate rests. All your other concentric circles will stand or fall with this one. They may not be admitting it, but Jews already have a plan for retaking the Temple Mount, and one day they will overwhelm us with it. We must strike first.”
His father stopped and stared westward to the Jewish Quarter. The breeze carried a Muslim prayer call from the north.
“I agree with you, Ismael—we can never allow Israeli control of the Noble Sanctuary. But unlike you I don’t think they have a plan for retaking it. In fact, we have their government shaking in its boots. We surround them on all sides, we march our Waqf on their Temple site, and we refuse them entrance. If they sincerely believed that the Mount should be theirs, they would have taken it many years ago. If they tried it now, the world of Islam would descend on Jerusalem with a vengeance they could never survive— they know that as well as we do.”
Ismael spit to the side. “We should descend on Jerusalem now. We pick away at their skirts but refuse to go for their heart.”
His father ignored his disgraceful act. “You think Israel’s allies would stand by for an unprovoked attack? Don’t be naive.”
Ismael walked on and his father followed. They had always disagreed in degrees. Ismael lived his days soaking in the rhetoric of the PLO in Ramallah, and, frankly, hearing his father talk like this sounded odd. As if the mighty Syrian general had turned his back on the intifada and sided with the politicians who talked too much and did too little. A Palestinian state was not enough. The Jews had to be crushed. Both the ’73 war and the ’67 war could have been different if it weren’t for the old guard. They did a fine enough job fighting with words, but when it came to tanks and machine guns they were like women.
His father was not like the old guard, of course. He knew how to use the tanks under his command and his hatred for Israel was as properly motivated as Ismael’s. The Jews had forcefully occupied Palestinian territory for many years, forcing millions of women and children from their homes; that was reason enough to hate. But there was more—the Jews’ religion was an open affront to Islam and in fact the dispute over the Temple Mount crowned the struggle. And of course they had murdered Hamil. Ismael’s older brother, Abu’s elder son. Hamil had been the second in command of Arafat’s Fatah when he took a sniper’s bullet.
Ismael looked at his father. “A leader will come to the Jews and will conquer Islam—”
“I know the prophecies of the al-Massih,” Abu interrupted. “It’s also prophesied that the prophet Jesus will then come back to defeat the Jews and establish Islam as the world’s only religion. Let us allow prophecy to run its own course. For now we must be careful to play the cards given us by the world. Any unjustified attack on Israel would only erode sympathies, which are now in the Palestinians’ favor.”
A small wedge of bitterness rose through Ismael’s throat. He despised this kind of talk. His father had the power to deliver all of Palestine in one fell swoop with his armies, but instead he talked about world sympathies.
“And if the cards show a plan by the Israelis to retake the Temple Mount? Will you let your tanks sit rusting then?”
Abu shot him a stern glare. They were both soldiers now, but the general was the elder. Ismael held his eyes.
“Don’t be a fool! Your patriotism pales next to mine.” Abu turned away, and for a brief moment Ismael fought an urge to strike him. He shuddered in the dark.
The impulse surprised him. Maybe the killing had thinned his blood. The little green pin on his collar identified him as a sharpshooter who had killed more Jews than any other since Ramadan—a badge he wore with pride. But his father was not a Jew.
“Believe me, I will never allow the Jews to take the Mount,” Abu Ismael said softly. “The Haram al-Sharif is to Islam what blood is to the body.”
Feet pattered on the stone behind them. It was the boy, Bennie, finally come from his assignment. Ismael took a calming breath.
The boy slowed to a walk. He looked as Jewish as he did Palestinian, a product of a mixed marriage. The plan had been simple. A week earlier, one of their operatives had learned from the boy’s mother—a secular Falasha Jew—that Bennie was assisting an old blind rabbi who was meeting with David Ben Solomon. They had taken the mother yesterday and told the boy she would die if he did not report. The Mossad did not corner the market on information.
The boy stopped before them, winded.
“Well?” Ismael demanded.
Bennie glanced nervously at the general.
“You’re safe here, boy. I suggest you begin speaking. Did the old bat meet with Solomon?”
“Where is my mother?”
“Waiting to see you. Speak.”
“Yes. They talked for a long time.”
A ball of hope turned in Ismael’s gut. He had wanted to impress his father with this show of intelligence gathering. Who knew, the boy might actually have something.
“And what did they talk about?”
“About the Ark.”
“The Ark?”
“The Ark of the Covenant. Rabbi Hadane told them where it is.”
At first the boy’s words didn’t register. They knew that Solomon had taken up an interest in ancient artifacts, working with Zakkai from the Antiquities Society this past year or so. Solomon obviously wanted to construct evidence about the Temple that would help persuade his people to rebuild it. But the Ark?
His father cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”
“The rabbi is from Ethiopia. He says that the Ark from King Solomon’s Temple is there. He told them how to find it.”
Ismael blinked. His breathing stopped. A stun grenade could have been dropped thirty meters away at that moment and he might not have noticed. He turned slowly to his father who was glaring at the boy.
“You are saying that Solomon actually believed the man?” Abu asked. “They think they know where the Ark is?”
“Yes. They had a letter that showed it. The woman is going tomorrow to get it.”
Even in the dim light Ismael could see his father’s face go white. “Tomorrow?” He grabbed the boy’s shirt. “This is not a time to play with words! The Ark is a myth!”
“Please . . . please, sir! I’m only telling you what I heard.” Tears filled the boy’s eyes.
“Is this possible?” Ismael asked. “Could they actually find the Ark?”
Abu Ismael released the boy.
The initial shock began to give way to heat, which spread down Ismael’s neck. “If they were to find the Ark and bring it to Jerusalem, it would mean—”
“I know what it would mean!” Abu said.
Ismael finished anyway. “They would demand the Temple Mount to rebuild their Temple!” It was something they all knew. According to legend, Solomon’s Temple had been built to house the Ark. If the Ark were found, the people of the book would not rest until the Temple was rebuilt.
Abu Ismael studied the boy. “Do you think the Ark is really where the man said it was?”
The boy shifted nervously. “When they read the letter—”
“Father, we have to stop them!” Ismael interrupted.
“We don’t even know it exists,” Abu said. “We are hearing a boy who’s telling of a story told by an old blind rabbi.”
“You heard him. Solomon believes it!” Ismael turned to the boy. “Who is the woman?”
“Solomon’s daughter. Rebecca.”
“Rebecca Solomon!” Ismael felt a tremble take to his fingers. “Hamil’s killer.”
A long unearthly silence seemed to suffocate them. Surely his father would forget his political nonsense now. The Hamas didn’t need the general, of course—the Syrian army had no immediate authority here. But one day the Palestinians would need the Syrian army.
“If this is true—”
“Please, leave us until we call you,” Abu said to the boy.
The boy ran off towards the steps.
“I am with you,” Abu said. A familiar tension filled his father’s voice. He hadn’t become a general by kissing babies. “But it must be done quietly. If even a rumor surfaces that they have found the Ark, true or not, it will become a problem. And not just for the Palestinians. The entire Arab world will be affected.”
The words came like honey, and Ismael felt a sudden surge of adrenaline sweep through his bones. The Hamas had failed to kill Rebecca Solomon on three separate occasions. This time he would not fail. Could not fail.
“You must find out what she knows before you kill her,” Abu said.
“Yes. Of course.” Ismael’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat.
“I assume you have the people you need for this?”
“I prefer to work alone,” Ismael said. “It’s something I do well.”
Abu looked at him, but Ismael could not judge his expression. Ismael’s mind was already gone—after the girl. You will soon die, Rebecca. They could never prove her involvement in Hamil’s death, but now it didn’t matter. She would die either way.
“Take at least two others. The best you have,” Abu said. “You can’t afford a mistake on this. If I thought it would help, I would send you a couple of my men, but we don’t have time for that.”
“Yes.” And your men don’t know how to kill, Father. Not like I do. They may have big guns and bombs but they carry their knives like women.
“ . . . cannot allow this to spread,” his father was saying. “We can’t make the same mistake Solomon did with the boy. Find out everything the boy knows and then kill him.”
“Of course.”
Ismael smiled. He had decided to kill the boy a week ago. Now his father was not only agreeing with the decision, but ordering it.
The sound of music drifted on the breeze. It was going to be a good night, he thought. A glorious night.