The Prophet Conspiracy (9 page)

Ibrahim’s apartment wasn’t exactly close, but it was within walking distance. Even if it was a bit of a hike, Cameron wouldn’t let them take any kind of public transportation or his motorcycle. After a long dash that had Siobhan’s lungs feeling raw, Cam finally let them slow down to a walking pace.

“If we weren’t on the top of the wanted list before, we will be as soon as Eli gets a report in,” he said. “I’d be shocked if they’re not waiting for us at my bike and getting on a bus increases our risk of being recognized. The walk to Ibrahim’s place isn’t any worse than what I made you walk on your first day in Jerusalem.”

Siobhan smiled at the memory. That had been a fun, if exhausting, day. Then she remembered the scene in the coffee shop parking lot. Her smile faded at once.

“Who was that man?” she asked.

“Eli Segal was my partner when I was an agent. He helped me run down the evidence about Hamas starting a tunneling program in Jerusalem. He’s a good guy and a friend. I hated doing that to him.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “You didn’t have to do it for me.”

“Yes I did. Siobhan, I’ve been in the Shin Bet’s interrogation facility. I won’t let them do that to you.”

“It can’t be that bad,” she said.

Cam replied, “Look, the Hamas propaganda operation tries to convince the world Israel is some kind of semi-tyrannical state. They make a bunch of wild claims about people being tortured by the Shin Bet. It’s not like that. It might have been in the past, but today there’s an independent prosecutor working out of the Justice Ministry whose job is to prevent that kind of excess. The worst stories are just a bunch of lies from people who want to see Israel destroyed.

“But it is a hard situation. We endure almost constant violence from terrorists. Every day, there’s a chance getting information out of a Hamas operative might save someone in Sederot from a rocket blast. There are schools there with chips in their walls from rocket attacks, Siobhan. Schools. We have to protect our children.

“Under those circumstances, the division for interrogation doesn’t use torture. But they do use moderate physical pressure. Things like sleep deprivation and isolation. It’s not fun. I’m not letting you go through that.”

“But I don’t like being the cause of you having to hurt your friend.”

“Let’s not talk about Eli any more. Someday we’ll get things even between the two of us, but today’s not someday. Today it still feels rotten.”

After that, they walked in silence.

Jerusalem at night was a completely different experience from what she’d seen while touring with Cam. The character placing it unmistakably in the Middle East faded into the background. The low buildings of tan stone or white walls no longer looked so distinctive. Instead, it became more like most other cities — a constellation of winking lights made up of families in their homes.

Admiring the beauty, Siobhan had trouble imagining the violence lurking just beneath the surface. Despite everything that had happened to her, at night, it seemed less real. Jerusalem at night looked peaceful.

********

Haaris Toma cruised in a black sedan, watching a cell phone mounted on his dash. Around him, pedestrians laughed and walked on the sidewalk, enjoying a Saturday night.

He watched as a young man and woman walked by hand in hand, too busy staring at each other to notice the passing motorist. Her head was barely covered by a scarf that was probably blue or turquoise in the light.

He angrily whipped his head away from them and back to the road in front of him. He accelerated to leave them behind. They were like his father — perfectly content under Israeli control, not interested in the struggle.

The memories from his school days bubbled up uninvited: the other boys mocking him and hitting him because his father was on television saying the Jewish government wasn’t so bad. The names they had called him and his family burned like touching a hot stove.

His adult life traced a serpentine pathway of payback for all those old hurts: the others who had teased him, his father, and most of all the Jews for creating the whole situation. His work in Hamas was perfected his vengeance.

Alone, he had been merely one more angry young man in a community full of them. Now, he was a warrior fighting for a people and a religion.

Toma pulled his attention away from the past and returned it to the tiny glowing screen. He waited for information about his target.

********

At last, they stood at the foot of a ten-story building. They waited as inconspicuously as they could for other tenants to enter and leave until at last there was a moment when the doorway was free of observers. Cam led the way forward and pushed the call button. After a second push, he finally got a reply.

“Who is it?” asked a voice from the speaker.

Cam replied, “It’s me, Ibrahim.”

There followed a chuckle, and then the words, “I thought I might be seeing you tonight. The television tells me you probably don’t have many friends left. Come on up.”

Siobhan followed Cam through the door and to the elevator. As they rode up, she asked,

“You’re absolutely certain you trust this person?”

Cameron smiled at her and nodded. “Relax. He’s almost like an uncle to me. I met him when I was just getting started in Shin Bet.”

They exited the elevator when it reached the tenth floor and walked down the hall to an open door. A gray-haired and gray-bearded man in sweat pants and a t-shirt greeted them with a smile. He embraced Cameron warmly.

When Cam introduced her, the old man said, “Ah, the radical American I’ve been hearing so much about. Welcome. My home is yours.”

He led them inside, went to the kitchen, and brought out a glass of apple juice for each of them. They took seats around his living room. Siobhan tried to be patient through the small talk. Ibrahim and Cam seemed to be making a great show of avoiding the actual reason for their visit. Eventually she gave up on paying attention to the conversation.

She let her mind wander, taking in the art on Ibrahim’s walls. There was a picture of the Dome of the Rock and other landscapes. His wicker furniture with cushions seemed to fit the place well. Through his window, the night skyline drew her eye for a while.

She snapped back to attention when she heard Cameron say, “So we wanted to show you the picture she took and see if you can read it.”

Just as she was reaching for her smartphone, Siobhan heard the Muezzin calling people to prayer. It was a haunting melody in a language she didn’t understand. The sound was emblematic of her time in Jerusalem. She had never before heard it anywhere else except in movies. There, it was a constant device used to invoke the atmosphere of the Middle East.

Ibrahim stood up.

“Will you excuse me?” he asked, but he was on his way down the hall before either of them could answer. He had obviously left to heed the call to prayer.

She turned to Cameron with her eyes wide. She asked, “This friend you trust so much is a Muslim?”

Cam shrugged. “Sure. What’s the big deal?”

Siobhan replied, “Well, nothing I guess. I mean, not to me. It’s just you’re so pro-Israel about everything, I never expected you to have any Muslim friends.”

He nodded. “I can see why you’d think that, but I keep trying to tell you, there are a lot of Arabs who live here and like living under the Israeli government.”

“I just kind of assumed most of them were Christians or something.”

Once again, Cam nodded his head. “A lot are. But not all. Ibrahim is actually one of the rarest of the rare. He’s a Muslim, he’s an Israeli citizen, and he even enlisted in the IDF. It’s not compulsory for Muslims the way it is for other Israeli citizens, but he signed up anyway. He was a soldier for years until he got old enough to appreciate not having to get up at dawn and work out. Rock solid man. This is what I mean. He’s willing to take the flack from every other Muslim he meets about being a traitor, from half of the IDF about being untrustworthy, and still keep on doing what he’s doing.”

The man in question came back from his praying with a smile on his face.

“Cameron, you must stop making me out to be a hero. People will develop unrealistic expectations.”

Cam smiled at him. “Like helping your friend out when the entire country believes he should be locked up or killed? That kind of hero?”

Ibrahim turned to Siobhan.

“He does this to me. Cameron is a great kidder. But yes, to answer your question, I follow Islam. Which is why I feel a certain sense of discomfort about this favor you are asking.”

Siobhan angled her head to the side. “Why?”

“Tourists to Israel come for many reasons. Religion is a big one, but seeing archaeological things is another. The two go hand in hand, yes? My point is in Israel, a tour guide of necessity becomes somewhat well-educated about the field of archaeology. Thus, I am aware of the discussion which has been so hot in archaeological circles lately about Professor Kendrick’s theory claiming evidence of the Prophet’s night journey might be found.”

Hearing it again described as “professor Kendrick’s theory” was like a cold cramp in her gut, but she didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t know Ibrahim, she didn’t know when she’d ever feel safe again, and getting into the pain of how her studies ended just didn’t seem attractive.

All she did was nod.

“And Cameron tells me the dig site where you took this picture was in the City of David. Which, as I recall from Kendrick’s book, is one of the possible locations where Kendrick hoped to find his evidence.”

She nodded again.

“Is there not at least some chance the thing you unearthed at this dig is, in fact, the very evidence Kendrick believes might be out there?”

Finally she offered an answer with words: “I want it to be. That’s what I was dreaming of finding.”

“You do not follow Islam,” he said. The barest rise in his voice came at the end of the sentence, for politeness’ sake, allowing it to be taken as a question. But there was very little need to ask. It was obvious she did not.

Siobhan shook her head.

“Young lady, I have great respect for your curiosity about things having to do with the Prophet. But you cannot prove by physical evidence what is already written in the Quran. Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, took his night journey. It is written.”

Siobhan said, “He may have, for all I know. But it seems like some physical evidence would be interesting.”

Ibrahim shrugged. “I think what you dreamt of finding is sacrilege. I will not commit it myself, but I will not stop you from committing it. If I can help you without doing anything sacrilegious, I will. But my help will stop if I come anywhere near an offense before Allah.”

********

The text message on Toma’s phone was better news than he could possibly have imagined. Hamas had extensive files on all known agents of the Shin Bet and their known associates. He had put researches on the task of predicting where Dorn might go next. And the answer was simply delightful.

He had a bit of a drive in front of him, but tonight was going to be a most excellent night.

Not only was he on his way to kill Cameron Dorn after all these years. Not only would he get credit with his people for ending the red-haired woman’s blasphemy. All that, and he could do something he very much enjoyed.

His quarries were, so the researchers believed, at the home of a man Hamas had good reason to hate.

Toma’s father called himself a Muslim. He called himself a man. And then he let the Israeli government and media use him as a propaganda tool to prove some Arabs liked their rule.

It had been humiliating. It had been painful. It led Haaris Toma to hate his father.

And according to the text message he had just received, Dorn’s closest associate in Tel Aviv was another one of those Muslims who liked Israel. Worse even than Toma’s own father, this one actually served in the IDF.

Killing such men was especially pleasurable for Toma. It echoed with justice for his painful youth.

Siobhan asked, “Why would it be an offense against God?”

Ibrahim replied with a question of his own. “How much do you know about what you were hoping to find.”

She said, “I’m sure not very much compared to you, since you’re a Muslim. I’m not and I really don’t know much about your faith as a faith. I just know about it as history so please forgive me if I say anything offensive.”

She waited for an affirmative nod from Ibrahim, and then went on.

“Anyway, Muslims believe Muhammad went on a miraculous night journey in the early 7th century. Somehow, he was transported thousands of miles to ‘the farthest mosque.’ Well, in context, mosque need not mean a literal building for Islamic worship. It might just mean any place of worship. So what’s called today ‘The Farthest Mosque’ – the Al Aqsa mosque here in Jerusalem - is not that building to which Muhammad took his night journey. It wasn’t even built at the time.

“However, a Jewish Rabbi who had converted to Islam helped spread the idea ‘the farthest place of worship’ might mean the ancient Jewish temple or at least the place it had been. And so it became accepted in Islam that the physical location at which the Temple had been before the Romans destroyed it was actually the place where Muhammad was transported and from which he ascended to heaven.

“But that location isn’t mentioned in the Koran, either. What is mentioned is, challenged about the reality of his night vision, Muhammad defended it by describing Jerusalem in detail.”

Siobhan finished, and Ibrahim rewarded her with a smile and raised eyebrows.

“Miss McLane, you know a great deal more about this subject than the average dig for a day volunteer.”

At last, a little of her pain grew evident in her words.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Ibrahim glossed over the slightly angry sound. He looked over at Cam.

“Is this your doing, my friend? Did you teach her all this?”

Cam smiled at Siobhan and said, “She and I have been a bit too busy to talk about how she knows all this, but I do know this much. She’s an historian of our region. She knew this and more before she came to me.”

Turning back to Siobhan Ibrahim said, “Then, if I just wait long enough, you will see why I do not like this possibility you discovered evidence of the prophet’s night journey where you think you did.”

Siobhan angled her head quizzically. “The City of David?”

“Surely you will soon begin to see why I have concerns,” Ibrahim said. “You were looking for physical evidence of the night journey. You uncovered an ancient inscription in ruins from the 700’s — which could easily be the very thing you were seeking. And let’s make this crystal clear: The place you found this evidence was definitely — definitely, definitely, — not the Dome of the Rock?”

Siobhan waved that away. “I’m sure you know better than I do, no one gets permission to dig there.”

Ibrahim stared at her. He took nearly a minute before he spoke. He seemed to be waiting for her to think of something on her own.

“Have you given any thought for what it would mean to Islam if you hit upon evidence of the night journey at some place other than the Dome of the Rock?”

Siobhan shrugged. “I always figured Muslims would be happy if I found evidence the night journey actually happened.”

Cam sat there with his jaw hanging open.

“The opposite, Siobhan! The complete opposite! If — and we don’t know this yet — if you have evidence Muhammad’s ascent to heaven took place somewhere other than the Dome of the Rock, than the third holiest site in Islam is built on a lie.”

“I do not like to hear you say it that way, my friend,” Ibrahim said, turning from Siobhan to Cameron and back again. “But you come to the heart of the matter. This is why, to me, it seems sacrilegious. If Miss McLane’s picture might prove Muhammad, peace and blessings be upon him, ascended to paradise from some place other than the Dome of the Rock, then we Muslims would have no special claim on the Dome and the Al Aqsa mosque. Only the Jews do. And if someone tried to suggest abandoning the Dome of the Rock because it’s supposedly
not
the place from which the final messenger ascended to paradise — if they tried to suggest giving the noble sanctuary back to the Jews — that’s war, my young American friend. Every Muslim in the world would come here for Jihad. I, myself, might join them, and I once fought in the IDF.”

Noble sanctuary was the way Muslims referred to the Temple Mount. She knew it, but it still took her a second to connect the two, since she’d been hearing “Temple Mount” from Cameron ever since she came to Israel.

Aloud she said, “I never thought it might affect people today. I just wanted to know the historical facts. I only wanted to study what really happened; I never thought of proving who really owns the Temple Mount.”

“No, but others will. If what you have located really is what you hope it is, there are people in Israel who already dream of forcing us off the Noble Sanctuary. You may have discovered more than you wanted to, Miss McLane. I am not an extremist. I believe in finding a way for my religion to integrate into the modern world. But I know very well what the extremists teach and how they think.”

Ibrahim added, “If there is any chance you’ve found evidence we have no special claim on the Dome of the Rock, they would happily kill you.”

Cameron said, “The Dome of the Rock is built in exactly the same place as the Jewish temple once stood. You don’t understand what the Temple means to the Jews. It’s the soul of our people.

“But while they controlled Jerusalem, the Muslims built the Dome of the Rock right over the place where our temple used to be. They claim it as sacred ground because Muhammad ascended to heaven from there.

“I’m trying my best to reduce fifteen hundred years of conflict to a simple explanation, but it’s hard. The Temple Mount is sacred to both people. The Jewish Temple used to be there, and the Dome of the Rock is there now. What little peace we have in the Middle East, we have because most of the world accepts the Islamic claim the Temple Mount is their third holiest site. Even if many Jews don’t accept it, we want peace so we just keep silent about it.

“That’s a very fragile balance. It’s built entirely on people having faith in the claim Islam has a right to that site. If you prove they don’t — if you prove the Dome of the Rock is built on a lie — a lot of Jews are going to say, ‘it’s ours, then.’ And if they do, every Muslim kid who can get ahold of an AK-47 will come charging here from around the world to drive the Jews into the sea.”

Ibrahim interjected, “Please my old friend. Don’t be so callous about those Muslim kids. Some of them are my grandchildren.”

Cameron said, “Ibrahim, you know you’re like a father to me. We’ve always just set the Muslim-Jewish business aside. You’re my friend, and nothing can change that, but this is a big deal for Israel.”

“And also for Islam,” Ibrahim replied. “But you, too, are my friend, and I won’t give that up.”

Cam said, “If all this is true, we may be the only ones who remember Jews and Muslims can be friends.”

“It is not true, Cameron,” said Ibrahim. “Even if you were right — which I don’t admit — you can’t take away the sacredness that comes from a thousand years of pilgrims coming to a spot. You can’t take away the value of people worshiping there for uncounted generations. It’s not geography that makes a place holy. It’s people.

“Even if this young lady has the evidence she was seeking, the Dome of the Rock is still holy. The hearts of the believers make it holy, not the location.”

Cameron embraced his friend. “What you love is important to me, Ibrahim. You have my word: whatever the evidence shows us, I’ll treat your religion with respect.”

Ibrahim nodded and returned the grip, then stepped back.

“Very well,” he said. “Let me see the picture.”

As Siobhan pulled out her phone, Cameron said, “Smart phone GPS systems take about a minute to acquire a signal from the satellites. You can’t leave it on for long, Siobhan.”

She replied, “It takes almost that long just to boot up.”

“So show him the picture fast.”

She hit the power button, and then watched the phone like a hawk as it displayed its startup graphics. The moment she had icons to tap on, she placed her thumb on the pictures and swiped. She passed it to Ibrahim.

He stared at the image. It seemed like minutes, though in reality only a couple seconds passed.

“I can’t read it,” Ibrahim said as he passed back Siobhan’s phone. “And I’m not lying just because your ideas are sacrilegious to me. I wouldn’t do that. I would say ‘I can read it, but I will not.’”

Siobhan was grinding her thumb on the power button, trying to make the phone shut down faster. Once it did, she turned back to Ibrahim and nodded. Her head hung low. Cameron made this man sound like he could fix everything and when the two of them pointed out the possible implications of her idea, it had seemed like they were on the edge of solving everything. But it turned out to be a complete waste of time.

“I can, however, tell you in what language the words are written.”

Her demeanor flashed from crestfallen to hopeful almost at once. She leaned forward to Ibrahim, waiting for his next words. The old man smiled at her.

“It’s a language that was dying out in Muhammad’s day, peace and blessings be upon him. It faded away not long after he died. I am almost sure this is written in Sassanian, which is also called ‘Middle Persian,’” he said. “It’s an ancient Mesopotamian dialect. Not many can read it. I am not one of those who can. I don’t even know anyone who can.”

Siobhan’s chest began to hurt from emotional whiplash. First, she had been almost heartbroken Ibrahim couldn’t help. Then, she had felt her heart leap when he said he knew the language. And now… Middle Persian…

“What’s the matter, Siobhan?” Cam asked. “It’s a big step forward to know what language the words are in. Just because he doesn’t know anyone who speaks it…”

She cut him off with the words, “I do.”

Cameron and Ibrahim stared at her.

“You do what?”

“I know someone who speaks Middle Persian,” she replied.

Cam asked, “Then… why do you look like someone just punched you in the gut? That’s great! We can find out what this says. We can find out if your theory is right. Maybe this will help persuade people we’re innocent…”

He trailed off when he saw her expression only got darker, not lighter.

“That’s just it,” Siobhan said. “I know someone who reads Middle Persian. He’s even in Israel right now.”

With her right hand, she reached into her back pocket to touch the folded up letter in its metal case.

“His name is Professor Wilson Kendrick.”