Authors: Tim LaHaye
Prime Minister Solomon “Sol” Benksy was seated at his usual place at the head of the long conference table. The security cabinet was there, along with the chief legal counsel and the head of economic advisors. The meetings were always lively, occasionally combative, but in a cordial kind of way. Today, however, the gloves were off.
Normally the meeting would take place at the NSC headquarters at Ramat Hasharon. But on Thursdays, following long-established custom, the prime minister always conducted his business at the IDF compound in Tel Aviv, in the conference room just down the hall from the big bronze bust of David Ben Gurion.
The secretary raised her voice above the din, trying to quiet the argument that was in full swing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, attention, please. We will now hear, once again, the short executive summary of the proposal —”
But the head of counterterrorism wouldn’t quit. “You call that offer from the United Nations a
proposal
? I call it a Trojan horse!”
Prime Minister Bensky stepped in. “Please, everyone, quiet. Bring yourselves to order. Mrs. Kiryas, read it.”
The NSC secretary proceeded to read aloud from the government bulletin: “‘Summary of the communiqué from the secretary-general of the United Nations, the most Honorable Alexander Coliquin, to the Honorable Prime Minister Solomon Bensky. Key Points. Number one.
The Temple Mount plateau in Jerusalem shall be divided according to those coordinates on the attached addendum 6, with the Islamic Waqf Trust to continue its current control over the Al Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock in that portion marked “section A,” and with the Nation of Israel to possess the right and title and full control over “section B,” on the Temple Mount, including but not limited to the right of Israel to construct sacred buildings, synagogues, or a temple for worship —’”
The chief of security policy interrupted. “We have concerns about the accuracy of the measurements necessary for any kind of Jewish construction on the Temple Mount. We need to avoid a violent reaction later from the Muslims over that. After all, they’ve had possession of that plateau for a long time. They’re not going to give any of it lightly.”
But the head of foreign policy stopped him. “We’ve been in touch with the IAA, our antiquities experts, as well as geologists, engineers, surveyors — all of them tell us that if you take that one-million-square-foot plateau on the Temple Mount, and you take the U.N.’s measurements, and look at their attached diagram, it certainly looks to all of us that the section they’re giving us would be more than ample for the construction —”
A voice boomed from the corner, “
Giving
us?” It was the chief rabbi for the city of Jerusalem. “Did you say the U.N. is
giving us
a section of the Temple Mount? That’s blasphemy! The Most High King of the Universe — He is the one who gave it to us. The
whole
of the Temple Mount. It is only because of our cowardice and lack of faith that we have not resolved this issue long ago.”
Prime Minister Bensky jumped in. “Gentlemen and ladies, please. Let’s not argue over semantics. The point here is that the United Nations, and, I might add, the Palestinian Authority and the entire Arab League of Muslim nations — they have all supported this proposal. And President Tulrude is an enthusiastic advocate for this approach, as well as the entire U.N. security council. This is historic … the opportunity to take control of a large segment of the Mount. And as our chief of foreign policy was about to describe, the construction …”
The prime minister paused and lifted his hands up for just a half second, enough for the Rabbi to intervene.
“Construction of our Temple,” the rabbi pronounced with the passionate tone of an epiphany, “the central place for holy worship on Mount Moriah, to become the epicenter of all Judaism, after two thousand years of waiting.” Then with eyes half closed and hands outstretched he said, “Finally, in my lifetime, it may yet come to pass …”
“With all deference to our chief rabbi,” the security-policy leader added, “there is the reality of the secular, nonreligious segment of the Israeli population. To them, the rebuilding of the Temple on the Mount may have some historical and cultural interest, of course, but it will certainly
not
be a religious priority.”
The prime minister’s economic advisor tapped his pen on the table. “You are forgetting two things. First, the construction of the Temple would not only be a religious, historical, and cultural event, it would also be an economic benefit of monumental proportions. My staff has already done the calculations. Tourism would double in the first twelve months and increase exponentially each year thereafter. The construction effort alone would be a tremendous asset to our economy in terms of job creation, both primary and secondary employment, and contract labor. We have estimated that international nonprofit groups, many of them religious, would contribute up to sixty percent of the building costs. And then there is the second point: increased internationalization of Jerusalem through this peace plan will actually
lessen
the risk of violence in Jerusalem.”
Prime Minister Bensky jumped on that. “This is why I am in support of this proposal.” He looked directly at his scowling chief of counterterrorism as he continued, “The Palestinians and the Arab League are calling for the cessation of hostilities against Israel in the future as part of this plan. And look at point number two in the Coliquin proposal — the United Nations becomes a permanent board of mediation on any disputes within Jerusalem. By agreeing with the U.N. plan, we put on the white hats. We are the good guys. We start winning back much of the esteem that we have lost over the last few decades in the international community.”
The chief of counterterrorism was not convinced. “I am not as concerned about what color our hats are as I am about the explosive belts and missile launchers that some of our enemies will be carrying. This plan does nothing for my concerns — except to invite the United Nations to exercise control over the nation of Israel.”
“And yet,” the prime minister’s female media advisor added, “the polling data tells us something different. The majority of Israelis want a peace plan. Even with the miraculous victory we just won against the Russian-Islamic invaders, our citizens are tired … tired of war, tired of waiting for their cell phone to ring, wondering if a loved one has just been blown up in a bus attack or in an explosion at a sidewalk café. Fatigue and fear, ladies and gentlemen — those are powerful emotions. And they are powerful political realities.”
“I still can’t believe we ran into each other.” Ethan smiled at the athletic and attractive Rivka, who was dressed in hiking shorts, with a water bottle dangling from her belt. They were both looking out from a spot near the ancient ruins on top of the sandy plateau down to the desert floor far below. Then he added, “First, that planning meeting in South Korea, and now here, at this spot, with you, actually hiking and taking it easy.”
“Why does that surprise you?” she asked. She had a mischievous smile.
“Okay, look, I’m former military myself, so I understand downtime, and furloughs …”
“But you just don’t picture people like me taking time off, is that it?”
“Maybe, yes. Military is one thing. But your outfit, Israeli’s spy shop — the Mossad —”
“Who told you that’s where I work?” she said with a sudden flash of anger. “I work as a clerk in the statistics department of the IDF.”
Taken aback, Ethan studied the athletic, pretty Israeli woman. Then he noticed a flicker of another smile. “Okay,” he said, “now you’re playing with me. So, are you or aren’t you? I suppose you can’t say anyway, even though you and I were both in that North Korean
deal together — or, well, actually you were, I was just sitting back in South Korea with my hands in my pockets. Though I wondered why Israel was involved in that deal in the first place.”
She dodged his first question, about which agency signed her paychecks, but she answered the second one. “The last few years, Israel and South Korea have become very close diplomatically. We have more in common than meets the eye.”
“Like?”
“They send a high number of tourists to Israel each year, and, like Israel, they have learned to live their lives under the shadow of enemies who are very close. And then there is the matter of our past historic alliances with the United States.”
“
Past historic
? You’re making a point, I take it?”
“American foreign policy is different now and impacts both Israel and South Korea in similar ways. Your country used to be smart about picking its allies, and even smarter about choosing its friends. Things have changed considerably.”
Rivka shrugged off that topic and took a step toward the edge of the high plateau, looking out over the desert. “So, you’re here in Israel with Colonel Jordan?”
“Always glued to his side.”
“But not right now?”
“Well, almost always. I get some free time.”
“I’m glad for that,” she said with a smile. She pulled out a water bottle and uncapped it. She raised it to her lips, but instead of drinking from it, she gave it a shake in Ethan’s direction and playfully splashed water on his face, and they both laughed loudly. Rivka took an extra T-shirt from her belt, pulled it out, and dabbed the water from his face.
Ethan took a long look at Rivka, all five feet six inches of her, as she grinned back at him. And he thought how things seemed just a little bit bizarre at that moment. It was almost laughable.
Is this woman who’s flirting with me really the same Rivka I met in Seoul? The same one Josh said had kicked a North Korean guard into unconsciousness?
Apparently she was.
They started the steep climb down from the high cliffs of Masada, the place where the ancient stone walls and crumbled structures testified to the siege that took place there two thousand years before — the last desperate stand of the Jewish rebels against the legions of the Roman Empire. As Ethan and Rivka began to hike down to the desert floor, Ethan had another thought.
Okay, Rivka, let’s see where you and I go from here
.
Faris D’Hoestra adjusted his steel-gray glasses with two fingers and maintained his expression of calm satisfaction. The session was progressing well.
He had traveled from Brussels, where the largest of his mansions and office complexes were located, to attend the quarterly meeting of the Order of World Builders — or simply “The Builders,” as its members referred to it — and to preside as its permanent chairman.
The fifty members were seated around a mahogany table on the top floor of the hotel — the entire level of which had been reserved for the Builders on a hundred-year lease. Four similar leases stretched back to the eighteenth century, when the hotel was founded, but the history of the Builders went back much farther than that.
D’Hoestra’s last motion had been carried unanimously, just like all the others that day.
Now for the last one.
The secretary of the Builders read it aloud — and it was moved and seconded — that “action be taken immediately to circumscribe and limit, by any means necessary, the international authority of the office of secretary-general of the United Nations, while creating an alternative international organization that shall be more receptive to the membership and influence of the Order of World Builders.”
A small red light on the polished table, directly in front of one of the attendees, lit up.
D’Hoestra called on the deputy prime minister of India.
“Mr. Chairman,” the Indian representative said, “I question the wording of the phrase ‘circumscribe and limit.’ You want to reign in the power of the office of the secretary-general when in actuality, you want to reign in the charismatic secretary-general himself, Mr. Alexander Coliquin, perhaps even to depose him. Am I correct?”
Several heads were nodding.
“I’ll answer that,” D’Hoestra said. “Because each of us pledged to keep these proceedings secret, as has been our honored tradition, and each of us understands the consequences that come with any violation of that pledge, I can be candid.” D’Hoestra stood up from his executive chair and began to stroll slowly around the circumference of the mammoth table. “Mr. Coliquin has played the game of global chess quite well, squaring nations off against nations, constructing international coalitions behind the scenes to do his bidding. And he possesses what no prior secretary-general has ever had before — a lock-grip over the U.N. Security Council, including having Madam President Tulrude at his beck and call. A singular, titular head of global power like this — resting in the person of one man — is simply not good for the future world order. It is certainly not good for us. It is ruinous for the Builders. Our heritage stretches back through the annals of time. Yes, Coliquin must be dealt with. Quickly and decisively.”
Another red bulb lit up. Lord Raxtony, an English Lord from the Royal Society, was leaning forward to speak. D’Hoestra recognized him. “Yes, well, if I may, this raises, rather well, I think, the problem I see with the other phrasing in your motion. You say we will limit Mr. Coliquin ‘by any means necessary.’ There is an implication there, clearly, that we will limit him without regard for any moral or legal limits. It has, Mr. Chairman, been a rather long time since this body has been asked to authorize the use of extreme sanctions.”
D’Hoestra motioned to Deter Von Gunter, the controlling head of the large industrial and military armaments company the Von Gunter Group. He clearly wanted to address Lord Raxtony’s comment.
“You accurately point out,” Von Gunter said, his voice as smooth as warm honey, “that it has been a long time since extreme sanctions were authorized by this body. Those sanctions are called ‘extreme’ because
they are exceptional and to be used sparingly.” He paused. Then his voice suddenly jumped up a pitch, as he slapped his hands on the varnished table top. “But
extreme
, exceptional sanctions must sometimes be used! Is this not true? Otherwise we should call them
unusable
sanctions. Or
unimaginable
sanctions. Personally, I have tired of Mr. Coliquin and his antics. His international treaties entangle the world and have made life difficult for our companies — mine in particular. He is a wasp in our house. Let’s get some bug spray and rid our houses of this bothersome pest.”
D’Hoestra was surprised by Von Gunter, not by the outburst itself — which was typical of him — but by the degree of his passion. Then again, some intrigues obviously existed within Von Gunter’s world that D’Hoestra could not possibly know about.
The chairman permitted the discussion to continue for another hour. He was in no rush. He could see the dynamics of the meeting slowly bending to his will.
In the end, although two members abstained, the rest of the World Builders voted in favor of the motion.
With his motion passed, Faris D’Hoestra adjourned the meeting. After a few pleasantries with the members, he had his driver take him to his palatial thirty-thousand-square-foot villa on the edge of the Black Forest, outside Baden-Baden. There he would be attended to by his staff of seventy. First, a soaking bath while music from a live baroque quartet in the drawing room would be piped down to his steam room. Then a massage, facial, and manicure from a bevy of female attendants. After that, a sumptuous banquet at which he would entertain six Hollywood celebrities, the president of a small island nation, a Nobel Prize winner, and a news anchor and his wife from the American Internet News Channel.
Finally, at the end of the evening, he would slip into his silk sheets. There, before drifting off to sleep to the scent of rose petals, he would contemplate his expanding empire. And Faris D’Hoestra would wonder at his place among the powerful Roman emperors like Hadrian, who had once trod those very same woods outside his villa.