dark, but he’d been tracking the abnormal traffic since the 6th of September.
Over $200 million in illegal transactions had been rushed through the Neal Black WTC computers in the past forty-eight hours alone.
Then there was the single five-billion-dollar Treasury note trade that von Duysen had mentioned over drinks yesterday.
He looked through the glass doors of his office over to the boardroom, troubled.
It was connected with Europe. The Powers that were never to be disobeyed. Of that he was certain.
Maxwell tapped the key of his keyboard impatiently, then stared back at his computer.
There was no doubt about it. An extensive financial ‘sacking’ operation was in process.
Someone was covering their tracks. Every file was being downloaded out of the building at lightning speed. Out of the system. ‘But where to? And why?’
He picked up his lukewarm coffee and walked towards the window to gaze out at the clear Manhattan skies.
He frowned. There was a strange sound. If it wasn’t so ludicrous, he’d swear it was the roar of jet engines.
He turned his head to the left and the coffee cup slid out of his hand onto the elegant Berber carpet.
The 767 was headed straight towards him.
TWENTY YEARS LATER
Chapter One
Allah’s Chariot
December 2021
Cistern Number 30, Temple Mount, Jerusalem
‘Grandfather! Grandfather!’ Jul Mansoor tugged on the old Bedouin’s tunic as his grandfather walked doggedly through the maze of cistern entries down towards Warren’s Gate.
‘Grandfather!’ he cried. ‘We should not be here – it is forbidden territory – the radiation!’ Abdul-Qawi turned, frowning at his thirteen-year-old grandson. He raised his gnarled hands in the air in exasperation, then unclipped a hand-held radiation meter from his belt and held it up. Suddenly his leathered face broke into a broad toothless smile.
‘Hah! No radiation!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is the UN’s – how do you say – spin? The radiation is in Tel Aviv – in Jaffa, not in Jerusalem.’
‘The soldiers will stop us, Grandfather.’
‘Do you see the Israelis? Do you even see the Wakf?’ Abdul-Qawi gestured dramatically at the cordoned-off and deserted Mount. He spat on the ground, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘They are all gone – gone – since the war ended.’
The old man continued walking the 150 feet towards the Gate.
‘The soldiers are gone – but YOU are still trespassing, Jadd.’
At the sound of his name in Arabic, Abdul-Qawi halted.
‘Ah!’ He flung his hands in the air, this time in despair. ‘Private school – European tutors – all it teaches you is to disrespect your grandfather. Now let your Jadd be your teacher.’ He turned to face Jul, his hands on his scrawny hips.
‘This old Bedouin archaeologist knows that at this very moment the Israelis and the Wakf lie dead and wounded in hospitals all across Jerusalem while the Europeans recline in their opulent palaces – dividing the Mount as we speak.’
He raised one hand dramatically.
‘This for the Jews – this for the Arabs – this for the UN. Pah! We take our chance.’
He pointed to the rubble ahead of them.
‘The Israelis and the Wakf sealed the Gate – the earthquake has unsealed it. For the sake of Allah – for the sake of my archaeological diggings these past sixty-five years – I must search.’
Carefully, the old man began to climb through the rubble and into a great hall about seventy-five feet long with many exit tunnels running in different directions. His hawk-like eyes glittered with excitement.
‘Hurry, hurry.’ He gestured impatiently to Jul, who was ten feet behind him, and started clambering down the stone stairs.
Then he stopped, lit his lamp and hunched down over a crumpled map.
Jul sighed. Suddenly, the old man clasped his free hand so tightly the boy winced.
‘The Holy of Holies!’ Abdul-Qawi’s eyes shone with a strange ecstasy. Trembling, he clambered to his feet and scuttled
Over $200 million in illegal transactions had been rushed through the Neal Black WTC computers in the past forty-eight hours alone.
Then there was the single five-billion-dollar Treasury note trade that von Duysen had mentioned over drinks yesterday.
He looked through the glass doors of his office over to the boardroom, troubled.
It was connected with Europe. The Powers that were never to be disobeyed. Of that he was certain.
Maxwell tapped the key of his keyboard impatiently, then stared back at his computer.
There was no doubt about it. An extensive financial ‘sacking’ operation was in process.
Someone was covering their tracks. Every file was being downloaded out of the building at lightning speed. Out of the system. ‘But where to? And why?’
He picked up his lukewarm coffee and walked towards the window to gaze out at the clear Manhattan skies.
He frowned. There was a strange sound. If it wasn’t so ludicrous, he’d swear it was the roar of jet engines.
He turned his head to the left and the coffee cup slid out of his hand onto the elegant Berber carpet.
The 767 was headed straight towards him.
TWENTY YEARS LATER
Chapter One
Allah’s Chariot
December 2021
Cistern Number 30, Temple Mount, Jerusalem
‘Grandfather! Grandfather!’ Jul Mansoor tugged on the old Bedouin’s tunic as his grandfather walked doggedly through the maze of cistern entries down towards Warren’s Gate.
‘Grandfather!’ he cried. ‘We should not be here – it is forbidden territory – the radiation!’ Abdul-Qawi turned, frowning at his thirteen-year-old grandson. He raised his gnarled hands in the air in exasperation, then unclipped a hand-held radiation meter from his belt and held it up. Suddenly his leathered face broke into a broad toothless smile.
‘Hah! No radiation!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is the UN’s – how do you say – spin? The radiation is in Tel Aviv – in Jaffa, not in Jerusalem.’
‘The soldiers will stop us, Grandfather.’
‘Do you see the Israelis? Do you even see the Wakf?’ Abdul-Qawi gestured dramatically at the cordoned-off and deserted Mount. He spat on the ground, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘They are all gone – gone – since the war ended.’
The old man continued walking the 150 feet towards the Gate.
‘The soldiers are gone – but YOU are still trespassing, Jadd.’
At the sound of his name in Arabic, Abdul-Qawi halted.
‘Ah!’ He flung his hands in the air, this time in despair. ‘Private school – European tutors – all it teaches you is to disrespect your grandfather. Now let your Jadd be your teacher.’ He turned to face Jul, his hands on his scrawny hips.
‘This old Bedouin archaeologist knows that at this very moment the Israelis and the Wakf lie dead and wounded in hospitals all across Jerusalem while the Europeans recline in their opulent palaces – dividing the Mount as we speak.’
He raised one hand dramatically.
‘This for the Jews – this for the Arabs – this for the UN. Pah! We take our chance.’
He pointed to the rubble ahead of them.
‘The Israelis and the Wakf sealed the Gate – the earthquake has unsealed it. For the sake of Allah – for the sake of my archaeological diggings these past sixty-five years – I must search.’
Carefully, the old man began to climb through the rubble and into a great hall about seventy-five feet long with many exit tunnels running in different directions. His hawk-like eyes glittered with excitement.
‘Hurry, hurry.’ He gestured impatiently to Jul, who was ten feet behind him, and started clambering down the stone stairs.
Then he stopped, lit his lamp and hunched down over a crumpled map.
Jul sighed. Suddenly, the old man clasped his free hand so tightly the boy winced.
‘The Holy of Holies!’ Abdul-Qawi’s eyes shone with a strange ecstasy. Trembling, he clambered to his feet and scuttled
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