The Brotherhood Conspiracy Read Online Free PDF Page A

concluded.
    “Me too,” said Whitestone.
    The president looked out the window once more, to the west, where the sun was setting. “Seems like we’re moving much faster toward Armageddon than we are toward Camp David.”

    Six men disembarked from the transatlantic container cargo ship Adelaide , just as four of their brethren did a few months prior. Sea bags slung over their shoulders, dressed in the nondescript clothing of merchant seamen, these six dark-haired, dark-hearted men descended the gangplank in full daylight, undistinguished from the score of shipmates who preceded and followed them to shore at the Staten Island Cargo Ship Terminal.
    Merchant ships were still the simplest and safest way to gain unnoticed entry into the United States. Airports were far from impenetrable, but increased levels of security and screening left too much risk of unwanted questioning. Gettingon a ship leaving Egypt was no problem. Making it through connections in Europe was becoming more difficult. And America . . . who knew what the Americans would do next?
    Tarik Ben Ali raised a hand to bid farewell to his brothers . . . brothers in the faith; brothers in the hunt. Each one knew his assignment. Each was sworn to secrecy, sworn to success, or sworn not to return.

3
    F RIDAY , J ULY 24
    New York City
    Something hit Tom Bohannon in the chest as he walked out the front door of the Bowery Mission, something as angry as the drivers trying to navigate the snarled traffic and double-parked delivery trucks on the Bowery. Still jumpy, he jerked back and looked down for the blood on his shirt, but saw only the meaty finger of a protester, who stepped forward and began thumping his chest again.
    “You destroyed the Temple, you brought destruction on the Temple Mount and the Western Wall,” railed the thick-set, muscular man, his face contorted with hate as a New York City policeman stepped in and dragged him back behind the police barrier in front of the Bowery Mission. “Fool . . . you have placed Jerusalem at risk!”
    Feeling the eyes of the world on his back, Bohannon looked down at his shoes and willed his feet to move forward. But they remained frozen to the concrete sidewalk. In spite of the tumult behind the barrier and the horns of impatient taxi drivers, he could hear the shouts from across the street of the people bussed in from the Lower East Side mosque: “Free Temple Mount. Free Temple Mount. Free Temple Mount.”
    Stew Manthey took Bohannon’s arm and steered him around the shouting throng and through the narrow passage being held open by the police. “It’s been like this every day,” Manthey said. “When is it ever going to stop?”
    Bohannon’s despair bent his neck—its intensity matched only by the depth of his confusion. His body moved in response to Manthey’s urging, but it had no direction or destination of its own.
    Manthey, CFO of the Bowery Mission, pulled Bohannon to a halt at the corner of Bowery and Stanton. “You don’t need lunch, you need some peace. And you need to talk. C’mon,” he said, steering Bohannon down Stanton Street, “we’re going to the park.”

    Officially it was called Sara D. Roosevelt Park. But the long, thin strip of paved basketball courts, fenced in soccer fields, and community gardens that stretched from Houston to Canal between Chrystie and Forsyth streets had always been known as Chrystie Park to Bohannon. The gate to the community gardens was open. Manthey and Bohannon entered and found a park bench shaded by an overhanging red maple.
    They sat in silence for a moment, breathing in the heavy perfume of peach-colored roses and the honeysuckle that covered the chain-link fence to their backs.
    “You know, Tom, I thought you were distracted before the four of you took off for Jerusalem,” said Manthey. “But since you’ve gotten back . . . well . . . it’s like you’ve hidden yourself in some deep place . . . locked yourself in a room and refused to open the