Jerusalem
Y usef Sartawi opened the door of the safe house at the sound of the pre-arranged knock. Despite the mission that was being planned, Wasfiheh Khatib looked calm and untroubled, almost peaceful. Just nineteen, the striking young woman was studying sociology at the Palestinian Al-Quds University in Ramallah. To make ends meet she drove an ambulance on weekends and it was this that had pushed her to a state of utter despair. When her ambulance had been shot at by Israeli soldiers she had put it down to a mistake, but in the past few months it had happened repeatedly and she had been wounded twice. The Red Crescent uniform made no difference to the Israeli soldiers. Too many times Wasfiheh had cradled a dying child in her arms, and too many times she had tried to stem the lifeblood of many others who had lost a leg or an arm at the hands of the Israelis.
Yusef checked beyond the doorway and ushered Wasfiheh inside.
‘The restaurant is Numero Venti,’ he said, pointing to King George V Street and Ha Histradrut in a street directory. ‘It’s an upmarket restaurant and the targets often dine there. You have a booking to eat there next week,’ Yusef said, handing Wasfiheh an envelope. ‘Familiarise yourself with the layout and wear something stylish but nondescript. Once we are happy that you know the target and you are thoroughly familiar with wearing the explosives we will put you on standby. You will have to be able to respond quickly as we sometimes only get one or two hours’ notice of a booking.’
Wasfiheh nodded calmly.
Yusef pulled two photographs out of a folder. They were the standard Hebrew University mug shots that were taken of all lecturers and staff.
‘Memorise the faces of the infidels so that when the attack is finalised you can get as close to their table as possible before you detonate the belt.’
‘Mine will be the last face they will see.’ At last Wasfiheh felt empowered and the lives of the innocent would be avenged.
Tel-Aviv
Mike McKinnon waited for the encryptions to boot up on his computer and for the latest report from Echelon to appear on his screen. Two days before he’d had a breakthrough. An Echelon report had provided a printout on a mobile that had been tracked by satellite to a laneway off Yehuda ha-Yamit, not far from Tel-Aviv’s port of Old Yafo. Armed with the necessary diplomatic clearances for any roadblocks, Mike had found the laneway and an old garage under an ancient stone building, but his reconnaissance had yielded nothing more. Now, as the most recent intercept appeared, it looked as if he’d hit paydirt. Operation Omega. Echelon Intercept Tel-Aviv. 261200Z hours. ‘Repair of safe approved and clearances in place. Proceed 1500 tomorrow.’
Mike checked the date/time group and then the number of the mobile. It matched the ‘Yes, I am in position – they are at the entrance to Cave One’ intercept. It seemed that whatever was in the safe was associated with the surveillance on Dr David Kaufmann and Dr Allegra Bassetti. Might that mean, he wondered, that the pair had found something quite significant, significant enough for Hamas to dispatch someone to retrieve it?
The next day, just after 2.30 p.m. Mike parked his beige Renault Clio sedan where he could see down the laneway and waited. He was on his own, acutely aware that he was making decisions that the Director of the CIA would rightfully deny. Worse still, with the intercepts posing more questions than they answered, there were gaping holes in the intelligence. Mossad would not take too kindly to any attempt to steal a scroll and without their help Mike had been forced to put together a plan that was based on instinct – follow the Hamas operative and wait for an opportunity.
A little further along the road Giorgio Felici put down his binoculars and wondered why the CIA would have an interest in a Dead Sea Scroll. Hamas might need a little help, he mused, absentmindedly feeling for his Beretta Cougar hidden under his Armani jacket.
At 1500 hours, a swarthy-faced Arab emerged from a side gate. The garage doors underneath the old stone house were not the usual tilta-door or roller variety. They were big, heavy wooden doors that opened like a concertina and Mike watched as the stocky Arab began, with some difficulty, to force them apart. Shortly afterwards the Arab drove out in a dark green van, its sides painted with gold lettering: Leibzoll Safes and Security, 84 Ben Yehuda Street, Tel-Aviv.
The lane was quite a distance from Ben Yehuda Street and Mike McKinnon concluded that although Leibzoll Safes and Security were probably a legitimate company, this van was one they didn’t know they owned.
The van driver didn’t seem in any hurry as they negotiated the traffic in Tel-Aviv but once they got onto Route 1 and the freeway to Jerusalem the van sped up with Mike following at a distance. Three roadblocks, which the van took far more time to get through than he did, and an hour later, the ‘safe man’ reached the Mount Scopus campus of the Hebrew University. After a brief discussion where the guard on the entrance appeared to be giving directions, the Arab was waved through. Sometimes the Israelis could be very cooperative Mike thought grimly, wondering whether he should follow the van onto the campus. That, he thought, would only attract attention and he settled down to wait in a side road where he could watch the entrance.
Jerusalem
David called in to see Bishop O’Hara and then headed off to meet Allegra at Numero Venti, reflecting on Allegra’s stunning results. The carbon dating had been easy – 20 to 40 AD – but even with David helping out, it had taken Allegra nearly two months to complete the initial task of analysing two thousand fragments into parcels of DNA. At least the Essenes had only used three goatskins, David thought. Allegra’s analysis had enabled fragments of the Gospel of Thomas, the Great Isaiah Scroll and the Omega Scroll to be separated into three large plastic bags but the extraordinarily difficult task of piecing together the fragments of the Omega Scroll still lay ahead of them.
‘Congratulations, David!’ Allegra raised her champagne glass in a toast to the country’s newest member of the Knesset just as Elie appeared with the menus.
‘Congratulations on your election, Dr Kaufmann,’ Elie said, adding his own best wishes to those of Allegra. ‘At last there seems to be an opportunity for peace.’
‘I hope so, Elie, I really hope so, and thank you.’
A short distance away in the Muslim quarter of the Old City, Yusef Sartawi made the final adjustments to the thin explosives belt that he had packed with ammonium nitrate. To maximise the casualties, more than three hundred nails and steel bearings had been packed in with the explosive. Wasfiheh raised the top of her elegant jacket and he strapped the belt firmly around her slender waist.
‘Keep the detonator in your pocket until you have to use it,’ Yusef instructed, making sure Wasfiheh’s top covered the wire running from the belt. ‘And here is 100 shekels. Make sure you catch a taxi, clients of Numero Venti don’t travel by bus.’
Mike McKinnon weighed up his options. The freeway was unlikely to provide an interception opportunity, he mused – too much traffic and too many Israeli patrols. It would be better to follow the Arab driver back to Tel-Aviv. Any further consideration was cut short by the re-appearance of the van at the university entrance. Mike McKinnon started his car and eased out of the side street.
Just before they reached Nablus Road they encountered the first of what would be a number of random checkpoints and Mike waited uneasily while the van driver handed over his papers. If his suspicions were correct, and the Omega Scroll was in the safe and the Israeli soldiers found it, it would spell disaster. The Hamas paperwork must have been very professional, Mike thought as he watched the Uzi-wielding Israeli soldiers let the van pass.
By the time they reached the freeway to Tel-Aviv, Mike realised that his earlier assessment had been correct. Interception on the freeway was out of the question. The traffic, apart from two more checkpoints, was free flowing and the van’s tyres could have been shot out easily enough but the Israeli patrols were everywhere and he forced himself to remain calm as he followed. When the traffic slowed on the outskirts of Tel-Aviv and darkness descended, Mike closed on the van, not wanting to lose his quarry in the traffic snarls of Tel-Aviv. Thirty minutes later Mike watched the van turn off into the lane and he parked as close as he dared. Normally Mike didn’t wear driving gloves but this time they served another purpose and leaving them on he retrieved his Heckler-Koch from the glove box. Glancing up and down he was relieved to find that the road was empty and he was grateful for the sparseness of street lighting in this part of Tel-Aviv. Moving quickly, he melted into the shadows, keeping the parked cars between him and his target as he moved silently down the lane.
The van had pulled up in front of the garage and his quarry was once again having trouble forcing the heavy doors apart. Using the van as cover, Mike moved silently along the side until he was only two steps away from the Arab who was now cursing loudly. Judging that he would not have a better chance, Mike reversed his grip on his Heckler-Koch to bring the butt down hard on the Arab’s head, but as he did so the Arab lost his footing in the dirt and slipped forwards. Mike’s pistol butt cracked against the Arab’s back instead of his head. The Hamas man had been trained to deal with a surprise attack from behind and dropped to his knees. With a powerful backward thrust he flung Mike into the air. Instinctively Mike hit the dirt entrance of the garage and rolled, weapon in hand, in time to see the Arab draw his own weapon.
Pfunk. Pfunk. Pfunk. The silenced. 45 sounded incredibly loud as Mike squeezed off three quick shots in succession. The Langley training had not been wasted. The Arab clutched his chest, his gun tumbling harmlessly underneath the van. Mike watched his quarry sink in what seemed like slow motion to the garage floor, his lifeblood ebbing away, hatred visible in his eyes, but fading. Calmly, Mike McKinnon dragged the body into the back of the garage and drove the van inside. He picked up the three spent cartridges and pocketed them.
With the aid of the small microphone and earpiece that the boys in the basement had provided, Mike listened to the final tumbler fall into position. After he opened the door of the old Chubb safe he scanned the contents. There was one envelope, and the only outside marking was in thick black pen:?.
Giorgio Felici had followed Mike McKinnon on the opposite side of the lane. The Hamas operative would be more than a match for the American, he thought, but he would get in close, just in case.
For a brief moment Felici lost sight of the other two men behind the van. Then he heard three shots from a silenced. 45 and knew he’d lost his Hamas man. Deciding against taking on the American in a confined space, Felici waited. As the CIA agent drove the van into the garage, Felici crouched low. Moving past the garage he took cover behind a parked car.
Fifteen minutes later the CIA agent emerged carrying a plastic envelope. Felici watched as his target looked around quickly before moving up the lane towards his car. Felici drew his Beretta and silently followed.
Mike McKinnon heard a noise and immediately reached for his gun as he spun around towards the sound. A single bullet hit him between the eyes and he crumpled silently to the footpath.