The Brotherhood Conspiracy Read Online Free

to the southwest, closing quickly on the large tent compound gathered along the edge of the Red Sea Mountains, far from the sight of the road to the oasis Dayr al Qiddis Antun.
    Charging out from the compound, a troop of mounted riders spurred their real stallions into a collision course with the phalanx of Land Rovers.
    The horse-and-rider troop, dazzling in their white kaftans and carrying huge war banners of dark green, split in half and swarmed down both sides of the Land Rover formation. Their war cries of welcome echoed off the mountain flanks to the east, drowning out the whine of the engines. The welcoming party escorted the vehicles into the midst of the tent compound to the portal of a huge, green tent.
    Men came running from all directions, joining the riders in a rising tide of throaty warbles, shouts of triumph, and beating drums.
    Imam Moussa al-Sadr stepped from the foremost vehicle and was immediately surrounded by the black-robbed entourage that poured out of the other Rovers.
    Clothed in the simple black linen robes of the Shi’ite clergy, al-Sadr’s oncepampered body was now lean and hard, carrying the stamp of thirty years on the run, in hiding. He was smaller and thinner than the image which hung in mosques and homes throughout Lebanon, revered as the heart and soul of Hezbollah. The once jet-black beard was now streaked with gray and his long fingers were misshapen. But his dark intentions blazed hotter than Daniel’s furnace.
    Al-Sadr was led into a small, dark room in the middle of the green tent. Patterned carpets hung on the walls and covered the ground. Two small lamps hung from the ceiling, their light muted by red glass panes. A small, low table separated two cushioned wooden chairs. A silver tea set sat atop the table, a hookah positioned at the table’s flank. Goats bleated in the distance, and somewhere meat sizzled over an open fire.
    Al-Sadr was led to one of the chairs by the silent attendant. He sat, and waited.
    Moments later, the old man arrived. His kaftan was the color of sandstorm, his sandals as wrinkled and aged as his skin. Only his face was visible. That was enough. His skin was dark, heavily creased by sun and wind. And his eyes were mismatched—one yellow and one brown. The mark of Allah.
    Al-Sadr assessed this man, the one spoken of in whispers, never named. He was older, more frail, than al-Sadr himself. Yet there was life in this spirit that belied the age of the flesh. Al-Sadr could not escape the magnetism of the old man’s eyes. Fierce, feral, consuming, they sang a song of jihad, a song echoed in his own heart. They called him to great sacrifice. They embraced him with ancient hate.
    The old man bowed from the waist. “Welcome, my brother.” His voice sounded like silk in a breeze. “Allah be praised for your safe arrival.”
    Al-Sadr rose, and returned the bow. “I am honored, Holy One, to be in your presence. Thank you for your kindness in granting me audience.”
    The older man sat, waving al-Sadr back into his chair. “It is I who am honored to have you here in my tent. I beg you to forgive the poverty of my humble home. Would you honor me by sharing some tea?”
    Al-Sadr inclined his head and, out of the shadows emerged a bull in a man’s shape. Arms as big as thighs, an angry, sweeping crescent scar connecting the corner of his mouth to the lobe of his right ear. Al-Sadr could not miss the amulet—a Coptic cross with a lightning bolt slashing through on the diagonal—hanging from his neck as the bull-man poured the tea, then disappeared once more into the shadows.
    “My brother, I beg your forgiveness for being so rude,” said al-Sadr, “but I come today not for your blessing, but for your help.”
    “How can I help the heart of Hezbollah?”
    “Holy One, I believe we can help each other.”
    Al-Sadr’s spirit began to swim in the beckoning of the old man’s eyes. His mind fought against a sudden riptide of malice.
    “You seek a scroll, I