The Sacred Cipher (38 page)

Mahamoud immediately recognized the voice of Leonidas. “Hotel Tzuba . . . in the kibbutz.
The vehicle has been positively identified, and Shin Bet has two armed squads en route,
probably thirty minutes away. But they have no orders yet to engage. They will likely
stage at the Mevasseret Zion interchange awaiting orders. You don’t have long.”

The phone line went dead.

Mahamoud had gotten the earlier report from Leonidas and passed it along to the leader
of En Sharif, the renegade arm of the Northern Islamic Front. Shin Bet had recorded
the four men entering the King’s Garden Temple and had now tagged them as suspected
terrorists. But no one knew their allegiance. And the Imam’s instructions had been
clear. “Alert Yazeer and his team. I want these men eliminated tonight. They must
never come near the Mount.”

Now, the last remnants of light fading in the western sky, Yazeer was at his right,
his two men in the back seat, as they sat in the deep shadows of an olive grove just
off the Sataf Roundabout.

“Shin Bet will move the reserve squads to control the intersection at Highway 1 and
move the other two squads into Tzuba,” said Yazeer. “We can’t fight Shin Bet . . .
too many, too well armed. If they capture these men in Tzuba, there will be nothing
for us to do.” Yazeer rested his head in his hands. “We are in Allah’s hands.” Turning
to the back seat, he looked at his men. “Take your vehicles farther down this road,
away from Highway 1. About four kilometers south, the road ascends over a hill and
then drops down to the right on the far side of the hill. Take your vehicles to the
base, on the far side of the hill, one on each side of the road. Remain out of sight.
Only move when you receive my call.”

Kallie was filling a fourth backpack with bottled water, trail mix, and peanut butter
and jelly sandwiches. Johnson was checking their lanterns and flashlights and packing
extra batteries while Rizzo was filling a backpack with their caving gear. Rodriguez
had the toughest job, making sure the thin arthroscopes didn’t get crushed by the
small, tanklike, pipe inspector and that all of the monitors and control cables were
secure and undamaged. Bohannon was stowing the mini cameras and recorder, extra CDs,
and the communication equipment when he nearly had a heart attack. He had just placed
the satellite phone in the backpack when it lit up like a pinball machine and started
spitting out its annoying beeps. Bohannon didn’t know whether to answer it, or hit
it for scaring the living hoots out of him. Gingerly, he picked it up, realizing he
didn’t know how it worked. He put the receiver to his ear. “Yes?”

“Tom, is that you?” The voice sounded as if it was in the next room, not halfway around
the world. “Tom, listen, this is Sam Reynolds at State. We don’t have time to chat.
Mideast desk just got a flash from Shin Bet. They know where you are and they have
some very unpleasant ideas about what you are up to. Two squads of their counterterrorism
unit are staged at the Highway 1 interchange, just north of you, waiting for the ‘go’
order. The only thing holding them back was to notify us they were about to pick up
a very suspicious American and the three men he’s traveling with.

“I’d say you have less than five minutes to get out of there and get lost, or you
will be inside an Israeli jail cell within the hour. Get out . . . get out now.”

The lights went off, the phone went in the bag, and Bohannon was yelling for his partners
to move.

The Israeli pilot had not yet seen his relief on the radar screen and was beginning
to register a little anxiety about his dwindling fuel. For this job, he couldn’t just
hover in place. He had to remain some distance away, downwind, flying gentle loops
that generated the least amount of noise. He was beginning to stir up some righteous
indignation toward his dispatcher when the door to the hotel room swung open, no lights
showing, and five people raced to the black SUV, each one toting an overstuffed backpack.

“Targets are running . . . say again . . . targets are running.” No longer concerned
about stealth, the pilot swung his chopper hard to the left and accelerated as the
Toyota came to life and bolted past the kibbutz gates. “Intercept is moving,” came
the disembodied voice from his radio.

“Target vehicle is moving at high speed toward the Sataf Roundabout,” reported the
pilot.

“Understood. We’ll be on them shortly.”

The phone rang. “Mahamoud, they are moving. They are coming to you. Shin Bet will
not be far behind.” Yazeer already had his automatic weapon at the ready.

The phone rang. “Effendi, they are moving. We are ready. The others are just below
us.”

“Very well, Rasaf. You know what to do.”

Rasaf bit his lip and shifted the dirty leather cap on his head. “But, Effendi. We
have seen watchers from the Northern Front. They also pursue these Americans. These
Muslim brothers of ours may interfere. Of course, we would kill the infidels to recover
the scroll. But our brothers? How—”

“Fool,” snapped the voice in his ear. “Anyone who stands between the scroll and the
Prophet’s Guard is an enemy. For the first time in over one hundred years, we have
a chance to recover the scroll. Do not allow anyone to stand in your way. Not anyone.
Do you understand me?”

Rasaf held his breath to quiet his heart. “Yes, Effendi. We are ready.”

The phone rang. In the back seat, Johnson dug it out of the backpack. Bohannon was
driving at a ridiculous speed, and Rodriguez, riding shotgun, was vainly trying to
spot potholes in the distance. “We’re coming to the roundabout,” said Rodriguez. “Slow
down. Tom, slow down!”

“Yes . . .” Johnson listened, then turned to Bohannon. “Shin Bet has two squads coming
down 3095 right now, two more at the interchange, and a helicopter on our tail.”

“Faster,” Rizzo shouted. “Come on . . . faster!”

The black SUV careened past them, wildly ignoring the laws of physics. Two wheels
clung to the asphalt as it hurtled round the circle, then all the weight shifted to
the other two wheels as the black monster headed south on the 3095.

“Now, Mahamoud. Now,” called Yazeer as he crawled halfway out the passenger-side window.
“Call them.”

“Target vehicle gaining speed. Just turned south on the 3095,” reported the pilot.

“Roger that,” said the voice.

“Wait,” the pilot stammered. “Another vehicle just came out of the trees at the roundabout
and is pursuing the SUV, also at a high rate of speed. No lights. It appears they
are trying to intercept.”

“Say again?” came the voice. “Is this two hostiles?”

“I have no clue,” said the pilot. “What I do know is that my fuel is getting very
low.”

“Understood. We’re minutes out.”