The Project 01 - White Jade

sites of Jerusalem.
    Ibrahim opened the guide to a hollowed out space where the bomb would be concealed. The new compound his guest had provided was a marvel of technology, fifty times more powerful than conventional Semtex or C-4. It had a color like sand or old, yellowed limestone and could be molded and shaped as needed. It seemed small, but the explosive force it yielded was devastating. It was also undetectable by current methods. Even the dogs would never sense it.
    The book was well thumbed, innocent in appearance. The pages concealed shielding that blocked detection by the most sophisticated electronic equipment. Of course there was always a chance of discovery. The Jews and the Americans were good at counter terrorism. Ibrahim assumed the bomb was meant for one or the other.
    Success was not Ibrahim's concern, nor was he concerned about where or how the bomb would be used. He knew it was good. His work was done. He placed the bomb in the book. He locked the pages in place that would keep a casual observer from noticing anything. He closed the cover and put the book back in the pack.
    The haunting sound of the call to prayer echoed through the ancient city from speakers atop the Umayyad Mosque. Ibrahim would go to the mosque and refresh his relationship with God. The other could do as he pleased.
    "You have done well, my brother." His client's voice was quiet, toneless. "Allah will reward you in the afterlife."
    "There is still this life, no? You have brought payment?"
    "Of course. I have it here."
    The Visitor reached under his jacket and took out a silenced .22 Ruger automatic pistol and shot Ibrahim in the forehead. The bomb maker's mouth formed a soft oh. His eyes opened wide and rolled upward. The Visitor fired another round into the Syrian's left ear, a whisper soft as a baby's breath. The body toppled sideways from the chair to the floor. A trickle of blood ran out onto the worn, scarred linoleum.
    The Visitor bent down and wiped a few spatters of blood from the end of one of his shiny black shoes. He took the backpack and placed it in a cloth shopping bag . He turned on a small radio set on the table. The rhythmic notes of an oud and drums filled the room with sounds of life. Ibrahim's neighbors would not notice anything amiss for some time.
    The Syrian had been a good asset, but all possible trails to what was going to happen, any loose ends, must be eliminated. Ibrahim had been a loose end.
    The so-called nation of Israel would soon cease to exist . A ll it would take to start the process was this one, small bomb. The Visitor closed the apartment door behind him and walked down the stairs to the cobbled alley below, whistling to himself.

CHAPTER THREE

    Carter sat with his back against the wall at a café in the New City, drinking espresso, watching the crowd. The night was warm. The pedestrian mall where King George and Ben-Yahuda streets and the Jaffa Road came together in Jerusalem was packed with people.
    For the Jewish people , Jerusalem was the center of the world . It was where the Messiah would some day appear . It was the place where God had commanded the building of His Temple, where every stone, pebble and grain of dust o n the Temple Mount was sacred ground. D evout Jews all over the world recited prayers each day for the restoration of the Temple, destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE.
    The most important shrines of Christianity were here. The tomb of Christ, the room of the last supper, the Garden of Gethsemane where Christ received the Judas kiss. The place where Pontius Pilate passed sentence. The place of crucifixion. Every Christian denomination in the world had a church or shrine somewhere in the Old City.
    For Muslims, the al-Aqsa Mosque on the Temple Mount was one of the holiest sites in Islam. The Mosque faced the Dome of the Rock, where they believed Muhammad had ascended to heaven on a winged horse to receive instruction from God . The Muslims had lost Jerusalem to the Israelis in the 1967 war. They wanted it back.
    Armies had fought over Jerusalem for three thousand years. T he narrow streets of the Old City had run ankle deep in blood more than once. U nless someone found a path to peace in the region, Carter figured the streets would run with blood again.
    He'd thought he was done with all that, with the blood, when he left the Marines . Now he worked for the Project. Even though he was a civilian, he was still waking up in war zones. He did his best not to think about it.