southern end of the Mount. Seven tall, strong arches lined the front of the Mosque, forming a sheltered porch and colonnade. In front of the Mosque was a large, square fountain for ablutions.
Unlike the golden Dome of the Rock, the smaller dome of al-Aqsa was sheathed in grayish lead. Four ancient minarets graced the building, the newest seven hundred years old.
It was here that Muhammad had arrived on the Night Journey. Muslims believed that from al-Aqsa the Prophet had gone to the rock of Abraham across the way and ascended on a winged horse to paradise, to talk with God. To the Muslim world, al-Aqsa was only a shade less important than Mecca itself.
I n Islam the Temple Mount was called Haram-al-Sharif, the Noble Sanctuary. In the West the nearest equivalent was perhaps St. Peter's Basilica, but the religious fervor and sacred devotion directed at the Noble Sanctuary by Muslims had no real counterpart in the Christian world.
T he news networks had set up cameras and satellite links for the event. Nick saw logos for CNN, Al-Jazeera, Israeli television, BBC. There were others he couldn't identify. The entire world was watching.
A speaking stage had been erected. Two rows of chairs for dignitaries lined the back of the stage. Secret Service and Shin Bet agents were stationed on the stage and around it. A raised podium bristled with microphones. It was armored and big enough for Rice to get behind if someone was stupid enough to start shooting. Bullet-proof deflectors were attached front and sides. It seemed an odd way to bring a message of peace and reconciliation to the world.
Calloway positioned Nick on the square in front of the stage, to the right of the podium. He gave him one of the earpieces and mikes used by the Secret Service. With his wrap around shades and cord curling away from his ear, Nick felt like he fit right in, even if his suit was gray instead of black.
In front of the stage, seats for the invited guests were arranged in a semicircular pattern . It was meant to create a friendly atmosphere. Nick couldn't help thinking it was going to take more than seating arrangements to get these people to agree on anything. The seats were filled, buzzing with speculation about what the President was going to say.
At five minutes before ten, Rice positioned himself at the podium.
Someone made last minute adjustments to his makeup. Someone else moved a mi crophone. The cameras fired up.
It was s howtime.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The cell in the basement of Shin Bet Headquarters was damp and cool. It had a bare cement floor and a drain in the middle of the room. It smelled of something unpleasant, old and dark. A single bright light glared down on the prisoner.
The prisoner sat in a battered wooden chair, his arms and feet bound with stained leather straps. He had been sitting there for more than three hours, waiting. A black, coiled hose was hooked to a rusty water faucet on one wall. The walls were unpainted gray cement, stained with dark streaks and splatters that might have been anything, but might have been dried tissue and blood.
The room was far underground. No sound could penetrate the building above. The door was of steel. It was not the kind of room anyone would want to be in. It was a room heavy with anticipation.
Ari Herzog observed the man Carter had seen at the mall bombing, two days and what seemed a lifetime ago. He'd been beaten when he was captured. His face was bruised and one eye was blackened and puffed shut, but he'd suffered no real damage. Two silent interrogators stood to the side of the room, dressed in black jeans and tee shirts. They waited for Ari to begin.
In the hard and secretive world of Shin Bet, Ari was legendary for getting results in interrogations. The old school methods were not his style. Ari detested violence and torture. He believed it debased prisoner and jailer alike. He was sure there was a better way.
Over the years Ari had perfected the art of d eception. The cell
Unlike the golden Dome of the Rock, the smaller dome of al-Aqsa was sheathed in grayish lead. Four ancient minarets graced the building, the newest seven hundred years old.
It was here that Muhammad had arrived on the Night Journey. Muslims believed that from al-Aqsa the Prophet had gone to the rock of Abraham across the way and ascended on a winged horse to paradise, to talk with God. To the Muslim world, al-Aqsa was only a shade less important than Mecca itself.
I n Islam the Temple Mount was called Haram-al-Sharif, the Noble Sanctuary. In the West the nearest equivalent was perhaps St. Peter's Basilica, but the religious fervor and sacred devotion directed at the Noble Sanctuary by Muslims had no real counterpart in the Christian world.
T he news networks had set up cameras and satellite links for the event. Nick saw logos for CNN, Al-Jazeera, Israeli television, BBC. There were others he couldn't identify. The entire world was watching.
A speaking stage had been erected. Two rows of chairs for dignitaries lined the back of the stage. Secret Service and Shin Bet agents were stationed on the stage and around it. A raised podium bristled with microphones. It was armored and big enough for Rice to get behind if someone was stupid enough to start shooting. Bullet-proof deflectors were attached front and sides. It seemed an odd way to bring a message of peace and reconciliation to the world.
Calloway positioned Nick on the square in front of the stage, to the right of the podium. He gave him one of the earpieces and mikes used by the Secret Service. With his wrap around shades and cord curling away from his ear, Nick felt like he fit right in, even if his suit was gray instead of black.
In front of the stage, seats for the invited guests were arranged in a semicircular pattern . It was meant to create a friendly atmosphere. Nick couldn't help thinking it was going to take more than seating arrangements to get these people to agree on anything. The seats were filled, buzzing with speculation about what the President was going to say.
At five minutes before ten, Rice positioned himself at the podium.
Someone made last minute adjustments to his makeup. Someone else moved a mi crophone. The cameras fired up.
It was s howtime.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The cell in the basement of Shin Bet Headquarters was damp and cool. It had a bare cement floor and a drain in the middle of the room. It smelled of something unpleasant, old and dark. A single bright light glared down on the prisoner.
The prisoner sat in a battered wooden chair, his arms and feet bound with stained leather straps. He had been sitting there for more than three hours, waiting. A black, coiled hose was hooked to a rusty water faucet on one wall. The walls were unpainted gray cement, stained with dark streaks and splatters that might have been anything, but might have been dried tissue and blood.
The room was far underground. No sound could penetrate the building above. The door was of steel. It was not the kind of room anyone would want to be in. It was a room heavy with anticipation.
Ari Herzog observed the man Carter had seen at the mall bombing, two days and what seemed a lifetime ago. He'd been beaten when he was captured. His face was bruised and one eye was blackened and puffed shut, but he'd suffered no real damage. Two silent interrogators stood to the side of the room, dressed in black jeans and tee shirts. They waited for Ari to begin.
In the hard and secretive world of Shin Bet, Ari was legendary for getting results in interrogations. The old school methods were not his style. Ari detested violence and torture. He believed it debased prisoner and jailer alike. He was sure there was a better way.
Over the years Ari had perfected the art of d eception. The cell
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