The Sacred Cipher (43 page)

“Tourist,” Bohannon growled.

“C’mon,” said Rodriguez. He turned the corner, and was gone.

Levin ignored the phone and grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Squads one and two—move, now!
Squad three—cross the valley, just opposite the Golden Gate. One kilometer to the
east, a farmer’s truck. Secure it. The rest, follow the path down to the tunnel. Be
careful. We haven’t located them yet.”

Levin was inclined to dispatch his two reserve squads from David’s Tower to help with
the worsening situation on the Temple Mount, but they were his backup: all he had
in case something else went wrong.

He saw the movement at the same moment his wireless phone squawked.

“Rasaf, soldiers are converging on the entrance to the King’s Garden Temple.”

“Yes, I can see them.”

“What would you have us do?”

Rasaf thought for a moment. “Have you seen any other movement near the tunnel entrance,
have any of you?”

No one answered.

Rasaf had failed to lift his finger from the transmit button. “Something is wrong
here.” The words were meant for himself, not for his team. “Something is very wrong
here.” He saw the transmit key depressed. “Stay alert. This doesn’t make sense.”

After Johnson helped him get up, Bohannon stepped around the boulder and joined Rodriguez
at the entrance. There was a chain across the entrance with a warning sign attached,
but Rodriguez had hoisted the chain, allowing Bohannon, then Johnson, then himself
to get into the foyer and under cover.

“Rasaf . . . there is movement at the entrance.”

Ehud had the growing demonstration on the Temple Mount, another of the squad remained
zeroed in on the truck, but Levin and Mordechai were draped all over Stern, straining
to see what was happening at the King’s Garden Tunnel in the half-light of early dawn.
“Kick up the resolution,” snapped Levin. “This is the worst time of day to get a clear
visual.”

Stern tried to tighten the image.

“There’s movement by the entrance,” said Stern, watching dusky shadows slip into the
tunnel entrance.

“Yes, but who?” Mordechai looked down at Stern. “Who is that?”

Standing on a rooftop, mostly hidden by a parapet, the Imam watched as the demonstration,
apparently random, unfolded below him. He was not interested in the masses swarming
the courtyard of the Dome of the Rock. The Imam was watching intently those to whom
he was connected by the walkie-talkie in his hand, the fingers of demonstrators who
were spilling over onto the sides of the Mount. He was following information, and
so far, the information had proven to be accurate. They were down there somewhere,
he was sure. They intended to destroy the Dome or the Mosque, of that he was also
sure.

His cell phone rang, forcing him to put down the walkie-talkie. He knew the voice.
He didn’t expect pleasantries.

“Have you heard of the Prophet’s Guard?”

“No.”

“An Egyptian group, Muslim, based in Suez City. For the last nine hundred years or
more, they were the guardians of something they kept in a secure vault. Whatever it
is, it is no longer there. Now, these men are out in the world, trying to retrieve
what they have lost.”

A momentary pause, while the Imam sifted through the information. “And why do you
tell me this?”

Leonidas allowed the question to float, unanswered, for several long moments.

“These men, the Prophet’s Guard, are the ones who killed Mahamoud and Yazeer. You
can identify them by an amulet they wear—a Coptic cross intersected by a lightning
bolt. Many of them are in Jerusalem at this moment.”

The call disconnected. And the Imam threw his phone onto the rooftop.

“Anwar . . . Aphek . . . come down the hill, through the crowd, and pass by the tunnel
entrance. Tell me what you see.”

Rasaf felt his pockets. No more cigarettes.

Once past the chain, fear and adrenalin smacked into gear. Quickly, at a brisk trot,
they crossed the main visitors’ area and stopped at an iron-gate barrier that covered
the entrance to the main tunnel. All three of them dropped their sacks, untied the
burlap, and pulled out their backpacks. While Johnson and Bohannon were strapping
into their backpacks, Rodriguez pulled a small bolt cutter out of a side pocket and
deftly snapped the lock. The bolt cutter and the snapped lock went back in the side
pocket and out came another, identical lock. Johnson swung open the gate, Bohannon
picked up the loose burlap sacks, and both headed down the main tunnel. Rodriguez
closed the gate behind him, snapped the new lock in place, and hustled to catch up,
jogging into the dark.

The sergeant and the rest of his squad had engaged their night-vision goggles. Gefen
wasn’t comfortable with the goggles. He believed it restricted his range of vision.
But whatever you were directly looking at was certainly clear.

Gefen held his squad in place while he peered around the boulder at the tunnel entrance.
A chain stretched across the entrance, with a “No Admittance” sign. Past the chain
was a visitors’ area and off the visitors’ area appeared to be side rooms—four of
them. He detected no movement, no sign of anyone inside.