The Second Messiah

He escorted them to Josuf’s pickup, where he yanked open the driver’s door and barked an order at the soldier behind the wheel. The man jumped down, first removing the Ford’s ignition keys, before he tossed them to Josuf.

The major snapped off a salute. “I’ll leave you here. You haven’t far to go; just carry on past the village and you’ll come to St. Paul’s Monastery.”

“My thanks, Cousin.” Josuf and the major embraced and kissed each other on both cheeks, Arab style.

The major shook hands with Yasmin and Jack and offered them a map. “Take this, just in case the old goat that’s driving you gets lost on the way back in the dark. The roads around here are poorly marked.”

Josuf started the engine, and Yasmin climbed into the pickup, followed by Jack. “We appreciate your help, Major.”

The major slapped the roof twice with the palm of his hand. “Drive carefully, and may Allah go with you.”

34

7:28 P.M.

The Black Hawk is a robust helicopter, one of the most successful ever built, with powerful twin GE turboshaft engines and a top cruising speed of over 150 knots. The one that Lela and Ari Tauber flew in that evening was a well-used special ops transporter, its mission ferrying them both to a rendezvous near the monastery of St. Paul.

Lela tried to ignore the noise as she and Ari sat on a couple of bucket seats up near the cockpit, the chop of the blades a constant throb in their ears. Five feet away, standing near the flight crew, was a small, balding man with a mustache and cautious eyes who held a map and a pencil torch in his hand and talked with the crew via a communications headset.

Ari said above the rotor noise, “Saul’s our dispatcher. He’s going to make sure the pilots drop us at our rendezvous and not on some dung pile in the wrong part of the desert.”

“Have you ever done this kind of thing before?” Lela shouted above the din.

Ari smiled. “I better not answer that on the grounds it might incriminate me.”

“Where are we now?”

The man named Saul must have overheard the question because he removed one of the headset cans from his ear and smiled over at Lela. “We’ve just crossed the Jordanian border. Another forty-five minutes will have us at our target. Sit back, relax, enjoy the ride.”

The man named Saul turned back to talk with the flight crew. Lela said to Ari, “What about the Jordanian or Syrian radar and their air defenses? Couldn’t we get shot at?”

Ari grinned. “What radar? It doesn’t operate at low altitudes. We simply keep to under a thousand feet. As for air defenses, Saul tells me that we’ll be keeping well away from the established Jordanian and Syrian patrol routes.” He shrugged. “Don’t ask me how Mossad knows the routes, but intelligence collected by American satellites probably plays a big part.”

Lela peered out of the nearest cabin window. At a dusky, moonlit seven hundred feet all she could see was endless desert, dotted with the dark outline of an occasional gnarled tree. The Black Hawk buffeted in a gust of wind, and then settled. “What if we encounter a technical problem and have to land short of our drop?”

“No problem, Lela. We’ve got another Black Hawk flying shotgun three minutes behind us that’ll pick us up.”

“Your boss seems to have thought of everything.”

Ari smiled. “Did you get a load of his sandals? They look like something he stole off a dead monk. Speaking of footwear, I’ve got something for you.” He opened a couple of black canvas bags at his feet and removed a pair of plain, flat black shoes for Lela. Next came undergarments, then black jeans, a cotton top, and a female Arab gown, a black hijab, which would cover her completely from head to toe.

Ari said, “The clothes are all Syrian made and you can change into them now but keep the hijab handy. Slip it over whatever you’re wearing if there’s a chance we might be stopped by a Syrian patrol. That way they’re less likely to search you. They’re generally respectful toward women. You remember our cover story?”

“We’re traveling to Damascus for our wedding anniversary to visit relatives.”

Ari nodded. “Just stick to the bare bones of the story and let me do the talking. A Syrian patrol wouldn’t expect the woman to do much of the explaining. These are your documents.”

He handed Lela a Syrian passport. She flicked through it and saw what looked like the actual snapshot from her own passport, but in the photograph she was wearing an Arab headdress with her face exposed. Even her passport signature style matched, and her birth date, but the document was in the name of a woman named Melina Rasifa.

Lela marveled at how authentic the forgery looked. “How did Mossad get my photograph?”

“Our forgers had to work fast so they pulled the copy held at the passport office. They had less than three hours once Weiss decided he wanted you on board. They did a pretty good job, don’t you think?”

“The headdress looks so realistic. Did they doctor the shot by computer?”

Ari nodded. “Forgers can do wonders these days with technology, and Mossad’s guys are the best in the business.”