Path Of The Assassin

As the last of the worshippers filed into the sparsely treed area outside, a spray of machine gun fire leapt out from behind the fabric façade of the mosque’s scaffolding. In an instant, the square was engulfed in a storm of panic as bodies were sawn in half from large-caliber rounds. The once parched, pale ground quickly ran crimson with rivers of blood. As the frenzied mob ran from the front of the mosque toward what they hoped would be safety, another course of leaded fire erupted from the scaffolding of the nearby Dome of Learning. Muslim worshippers, as well as crowds of tourists, were running for their lives. The religious protocol dictating that non-Muslims be restricted to using only two of the many gates that led from the Temple Mount was all but forgotten. The only thing that Jews, Christians, and Muslim’s alike were thinking about was getting out alive.

Though security forces were on the scene, nothing could be done to stop the carnage. The machine guns chewed through the crowds and the surrounding buildings in less than two minutes. Once their supply of ammunition was exhausted, the guns fell silent.

Suddenly, from the top of the scaffolding covering the Grammar College, came the deadly thump…thump…thump of three mortar rounds being loosed. The projectiles hung in the air like perfect NFL punts, and then came screaming back down toward earth. The first two hit their target with devastating accuracy, and the explosions ripped gaping holes into the gilded Dome of the Rock, ending the lives of thirty-two people inside. The third projectile landed in a heavily populated section of the Muslim Quarter, just north of the Temple Mount, killing scores more. It was the worst terrorist attack in Jerusalem’s history.

9

Back at the Jerusalem Hotel, Scot Harvath was sitting outside at the hotel’s sunny garden patio restaurant reading The International Herald Tribune when the machine gun fire started. Even at this distance, he could tell it was from a heavy caliber weapon and it was lasting far longer than most such incidents. Jerusalem was not normally the site of prolonged firefights. Those were reserved for the occupied territories, but even they were carried out in bursts, not a continuous stream of fire.

Then came the explosions from the mortar fire-the third and final explosion sounding too close to the hotel for Harvath’s liking. So much for his theory of being safe at a minority-owned-and-operated hotel. All at once, the air was filled with the desperate sound of sirens rushing to the scene. Harvath was tempted to investigate, but then thought better of it. He needed to stay put and wait for the man he was hoping would make contact with him.

Before leaving Switzerland, Harvath had spent days making phone calls and had sent countless e-mails trying to track down a man named Ari Schoen. He had been one of the Mossad’s top agents and part of the Israeli contingent assigned to Operation Rapid Return. Shortly after the mission, the Israelis claimed that he had died, but Harvath believed otherwise. Through his extensive network of contacts, Harvath had been able to locate the elusive man, who appeared to be very much alive. It was Harvath’s hope that Schoen might be able to tell him something, anything, about what had happened that night and who had coordinated the ambush.

After the incident at the Temple Mount, Harvath passed the rest of the day and most of the night inside the hotel glued to either the television set that had been placed in the garden restaurant, or the one in his room.

The next afternoon, halfway through his lunch, a bellboy brought a package to his table. Harvath tipped him a few shekels and, once the boy had walked back inside, carefully opened it. Inside was a digital phone. No note and no number, just the phone. As it was already turned on, Harvath placed it on the table next to him and waited.

Within minutes, the phone rang.

“Shalom,” said Harvath as he opened the phone and raised it to his ear.

“Mr. Harvath, how nice that you speak our language,” replied the man on the other end. He had a deep voice accentuated by a thick lisp.

“I know enough to get by.”

“And enough to choose an inconspicuous, yet excellent hotel.”

“I’m starting to have my doubts about its location.”

“No doubt you are referring to the attack at the Temple Mount,” said the voice.

“No doubt.”

“An unfortunate incident and one that I am afraid kept me from contacting you earlier; but, in the face of Arab terror and aggression against the Israeli people, it was inevitable that the Israelis would eventually employ the same tactics.”

“So, this was an Israeli attack against Arabs?” asked Harvath.

“Indeed. Two remote-controlled machine guns on the Temple Mount opened fire on a large crowd of Muslims leaving the noon service at the al-Aqsa Mosque.”

“Opening fire on a group of innocent people doesn’t sound very civilized to me. Is this what Israel has come to?”

“For some, yes.”

“Who? The Hand of God?”