End of Days (Pike Logan #16)(121)
Ten minutes later, the Israeli forces faded away, leaving the security to the Islamic Waqf, the ones chartered for the sanctity of the compound.
He went forward in a group, his rucksack on his back, wearing a taqiyah skullcap, blending in because of his swarthy skin and dark hair. He reached the gate and showed the Islamic Waqf member his certificate, and was allowed to continue, bypassing all security, the chaos of the protest letting him slip through even a rudimentary search.
He went inside, not sure where to go next. He’d been on the Temple Mount the day before, but hadn’t been allowed to visit any of the Muslim areas. Because yesterday he’d been an infidel. But not today.
He saw the Dome of the Chain, a smaller structure that was adjacent to the golden Dome of the Rock, and thought about just placing his explosives there. But he knew that wouldn’t work. They needed a fight. Needed the Muslim Ummah to rise up, and they were clearly primed to do just that thing. In order to ensure success, he needed something bigger. He stared at the golden dome ahead of him. The location of the Rock of Ascension—the place where the Islamic faith believed Muhammed ascended into heaven.
Jennifer followed Aaron through the city, finally ending at the Gate of the Tribes, one of eleven that Muslims could use to enter to pray on the Temple Mount, known in the Islamic faith as the Noble Sanctuary.
They scanned the crowd and didn’t see their target. Aaron said, “He’s already inside. We’re done.”
Jennifer said, “How are we done? This is your country. Can’t you talk to the people here?”
She pointed to a bunch of young men and women wearing riot gear, saying, “Tell them he’s on the loose.”
“Tell them what? That I think there’s a guy with a bomb? And I don’t know what he’s calling himself, but he’s about to kill people? Look at them. They’re all barely twenty years old. It’ll take forty minutes to get anyone to penetrate the compound, especially after the fiasco we had here last year.”
He slapped the wall next to the gate and said, “Nobody wants to trigger the next Intifada. They don’t want a fight, and because of it, we’re going to get a much bigger one.” He looked at Jennifer and said, “We’re about to lose.”
She said, “Those people in uniform can get in. We cannot. We’re not Muslim, but they can get in. Go talk to them. Get them to help.”
He heard the words and said nothing, his eyes unfocused, thinking. He returned to her, now all business. He said, “Yes. Yes, they can. Are you ready to commit? I mean really commit?”
Jennifer saw the zeal in his eyes and hesitantly said, “Yes? What’s that mean?”
He flicked his eyes to the left and said, “Those two riot police looked at you when we entered the gate area. They’re like every other soldier. They want you to want them. Go get them to follow you.”
“Follow me how?”
“I don’t really care, but get them into that alley behind us. The small one.”
She narrowed her eyes and said, “Why?”
“Because you’re right. They can get in, and we need their uniforms.”
Michelangelo surveyed the area, knowing the entire compound had religious significance for all the great faiths, but he knew this had to be big. An explosion of rage.
And that was the Dome of the Rock. Feeling the sweat on his back, the fear flooding through him, he knew what he needed to do, because it was the original plan: attack the Rock of Ascension. If he blew that apart, the third most holy site in all of Islam, it would cause a war, the Muslim world not caring who had done it. They would release their rage against the West on all fronts. Israel would be buried in fire, and the United States would come to their defense. And it would be the End of Days. Islam would lose. When the smoke cleared, Israel would control the Temple Mount, and would build the third temple, leading to the second coming of Christ.
He saw the entrance to the Dome, surrounded by Israeli security in riot gear, wearing helmets, elbow shields, and holding batons. They were antsy, but not looking for a fight. He went toward it, unsure if he was supposed to prove he was a Muslim.
He reached the entrance, tucked his head, and showed his certificate. The man at the gate waved him on, and he entered, finding a circular space full of people praying and taking pictures. But no rock.
He saw a stairwell to the left, strands of people vanishing down it, and went that way.
He descended the stairwell, entering a small, cavelike structure, people praying at an altar, others taking selfies inside. He tapped a man on the shoulder and said, “Where is the Rock of Ascension?”
“Above us. It’s above us. We pray here, right underneath it.”
He nodded and dropped his pack, going to his knees. He knew enough about the Muslim faith to fake a prayer, having seen the actions happen in a multitude of countries, starting with Bosnia. Bowing forward with the three next to him, he thought about what he should do. There was no rock he could use his shape charges against, nothing to destroy. But that might not matter. The attack all along had been psychological, and this place appeared to be sacrosanct, underneath the oldest Islamic prayer structure on earth. He could do it here and accomplish the mission.
He glanced about the room, saw nobody paying any particular attention to him, and unzipped his small rucksack. He went through the camouflage of bread and cheese, finding his six-pack of shaped charges. He daisy-chained them together, snapping wires into the blasting caps, and then tied them to a disposable flip phone, just like had been done against him in Syria. He set the built-in timer for three minutes, wanting to be far away when it went off.