Daniel Silva - The Fallen Angel

“So under your scenario, Vienna was Calais.”

“It’s not my scenario. It’s Massoud’s.”

“Prove it.”

“I can’t.”

“Do the best you can, Dina.”

She showed Navot the two steganographic images that had been discovered by Unit 8200. Navot furrowed his brow.

“David Girard standing in a cave, and a map that looks as though it was drawn by a five-year-old.”

“But look what happens when you compare that crude map to this .”

Using her computer, Dina superimposed the image over a map of the Temple Mount.

“Close,” Navot said.

“Close enough.” Dina quickly explained her theory about the significance of the number 689, that it represented the depth of the underground cavern where David Girard was standing in the photo.

“Are you certain he sent those images to Massoud?”

“No. But we have no choice but to assume that was the case.”

“Why would he?”

“Because he’s a classical archaeologist, not a geologist or an engineer. He needed someone with the right background to run the numbers for him.”

“What numbers?”

“He needed to know how much high explosive he would need to bring down the Temple Mount.”

Navot’s face was now ashen. “Who’s the other man in the photograph?”

“Imam Hassan Darwish,” Dina said. “He oversaw the expansion of the Marwani Mosque. He’s also regarded as the most radical member of the Waqf.”

Dina held up the VEVAK message that had gone out the previous night.

Blood never sleeps. . . .

“Saladin?” asked Navot.

Dina nodded. “I think it’s a signal to prepare for the violent uprising that would sweep the Islamic world the instant the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque are destroyed. If anything happens to those buildings . . .” Her voice trailed off. “It’s over, Uzi. It’s lights out.”

“Even the Iranians aren’t that crazy,” Navot said dismissively. “Why would the mullahs blow up two of Islam’s most important shrines?”

“Because they’re not their shrines,” Dina answered. “The Noble Sanctuary is a Sunni sanctuary, and we all know how Sunnis and Shiites feel about each other. All the Iranians would need is one apocalyptic maniac inside the Waqf to help them.”

“You think Darwish is their maniac?”

“Read his file.”

Navot lapsed into a thoughtful silence. “You can’t prove a word of it,” he said at last.

“Are you willing to bet I’m wrong?”

He wasn’t. “How long do we have?”

She looked at the television. “If I had to guess, the Temple Mount will come down at three o’clock while His Holiness is inside the Sepulchre.”

“The hour that Christ died on the cross?”

“Precisely.”

Navot looked at his watch. “That leaves us ninety minutes.”

“Tell Orit to put me through next time I call.”

Navot ran a hand anxiously over his cropped gray hair. “Do you know how many people are atop the Temple Mount right now.”

“Ten thousand. Maybe more.”

“And do you know what will happen if we go up there and start looking for a bomb? We’ll start the third intifada.”

“But we don’t have to look for the bomb, Uzi. We already know where it is.”

“One hundred and sixty-seven feet beneath the surface, somewhere between the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa Mosque?”

Dina nodded.

“Is Eli Lavon still working in the Western Wall Tunnel?”

“He hasn’t left since we got back to town.”

“Do phones work down there?”

“Sometimes.”

Navot exhaled heavily. “I can’t send Eli into the Temple Mount without the prime minister’s authority.”

“Then perhaps you should call him,” Dina said. “And you might want to think about getting Eli some help.”

Navot looked at the television screen and saw Gabriel walking a step behind the pope along the Via Dolorosa. Then he reached for the phone.

Gabriel felt his mobile phone vibrate as the pope arrived at the eighth station of the cross, the spot where Christ paused to comfort the women of Jerusalem. He checked the number on the caller ID screen, then quickly raised the phone to his ear.

“We might have a problem,” Navot said.

“The pope?”

“No.”

“Where, Uzi?”

“The one place in Jerusalem we can’t afford one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Start walking toward the Western Wall Tunnel. Dina will tell you the rest on the way.”

GABRIEL DID NOT WALK FOR LONG. In fact, by the time he reached the Church of the Redeemer, he was running as fast as his legs would carry him. In the narrow alleys of the Christian Quarter, pilgrims blocked his way at every turn, but once he crossed into the Jewish Quarter, the crowds thinned. He wound his way eastward—up and down stone steps, beneath archways, and across quiet squares—until he arrived at one of the portals to the Western Wall. Because it was a Friday, the plaza was more crowded than usual. Several hundred people, men and women, were praying directly against the Wall, and Gabriel reckoned there were at least a hundred more inside the synagogues of Wilson’s Arch. Pausing, he tried to imagine what would happen if even one of the giant Herodian ashlars broke loose. Then he walked over to the highest-ranking police officer he could find.

“I want you to close the Wall and plaza.”

“Who the hell are you?” the police officer asked.

Gabriel raised his wraparound sunglasses. The officer almost snapped to attention.

“I can’t close it down without a direct order from my chief,” he said nervously.

“As of this moment, I am your chief.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Close the plaza and Wilson’s Arch. And do it as quietly as possible.”

“If I tell those haredim they have to leave, it won’t be quiet.”

“Just get them out of here.”

Gabriel turned without another word and headed toward the entrance of the Western Wall Tunnel. The same Orthodox woman was there to greet him.

“Is he down there?” Gabriel asked.

“Same place,” the woman said, nodding.

“How many other people are in the tunnel?”

“Sixty tourists and about twenty staff.”

“Get everyone out.”

“But—”

“Now.”

Gabriel paused briefly to download an e-mail from Dina onto his BlackBerry. Then he followed the path downward into the earth and backward through time, until he was standing at the edge of Eli Lavon’s excavation pit. Lavon was crouched over the bones of Rivka in a pool of blinding white light. Hearing Gabriel, he looked up and smiled.

“Nice suit. Why aren’t you with His Holiness?”

Gabriel dropped the BlackBerry into the void. Lavon snatched it deftly out of the air and stared at the screen.

“What’s this?”

“Get out of that hole, Eli, and I’ll tell you everything.”

A mile to the west, at the apartment in Narkiss Street, Chiara was watching live coverage of the Good Friday procession on Israeli television. A few moments earlier, as the pope was leading the delegation in prayer at the eighth station of the cross, she had noticed Gabriel holding a mobile phone to his ear. Now, as the Holy Father made his way solemnly from the eighth station to the ninth, Gabriel was no longer at his side. Chiara stared at the screen a few seconds longer before snatching up the phone and dialing Uzi Navot’s office at King Saul Boulevard. Orit answered.

“He was just about to call you, Chiara.”

“What’s happening?”

“He’s on his way to Jerusalem. Hold on.”

Chiara felt her stomach churning as Orit put her on hold. Navot came on the line a few seconds later.