The Brotherhood Conspiracy Read Online Free Page A

believe,” said al-Sadr. “And the scroll holder that protected it.”
    The old man moved not a muscle, but power shimmered around him in waves. “You are correct . . . in part. And you seek the blood of the Jew and the infidel.”
    “Yes, Effendi . . . and we both seek that which has been stolen from us and destroyed by the Zionist pigs—the most holy Dome and the mosque of the Haram. Help me, Holy One, and I promise you . . . not only will al-Haram al-Sharif be restored to Islam, but the mezuzah and scroll will be restored to you.”
    Silence hung in the air and mixed with the stale smell of powerful, old smoke.
    “The scroll was deciphered.” The old man spread his hands, palms up. “It is no longer of any use to us.”
    “Then I will bring you the blood of those who have defiled your scroll and murdered your followers.”
    “Why would I need you for that task, my brother? There are many who wear the slash of lightning, many who would be blessed to give their lives to restore what has been stolen.”
    Moussa al-Sadr leaned forward, resting his right elbow on his knee, turning his right hand palm up. “Holy One, I am offering you the power and reach of the Muslim Brotherhood.”
    “Is it yours to offer?”
    “Soon, Effendi . . . Soon the resources at your disposal will be unlimited.”
    Al-Sadr could feel the power of the man’s presence pressing into him, searching for weakness, for duplicity.
    “What is it you seek from me, Lion of Lebanon?”
    “I seek nothing, except your wisdom, your support, and your counsel as I fulfill my promise.” From beneath the black folds of his kaftan, al-Sadr withdrew two pieces of paper. He raised his hands in front of his body, holding his prize in front of him. “And I bring you gifts.”
    “Allah, be praised,” said the old man.
    “The first is a list of student dissidents in Cairo. We have infiltrated their groups, their meetings, and have helped to awaken their anger and frustration at Kamali and his insatiable government. They have raised their voices in protest, but they remain dry grass . . . waiting for a spark. Waiting for your spark.”
    Al-Sadr showed the old man the second sheet.
    “A numbered account in a Swiss bank. There are two million dollars there. Use what you need. There is more if necessary.”
    The old man’s eyes narrowed. He took measure of al-Sadr once more.
    “Where does this abundant gift come from? And what is required?”
    Al-Sadr laughed. There was no mirth in his laughter, only mayhem. He raised his arms to heaven. “Praise to God . . . the money was raised by the Holy Land Foundation in America and now is being raised by its new offspring. How sweet to use America’s dollars against their own self-interests.”
    “ Allahu Akbar ,” whispered the old man.
    With the reverence of ritual, al-Sadr passed the documents to the old man. “Begin the revolution, Holy One. Use these gifts to raise the voice of jihad from the sands—raise it so that it will be heard throughout the world!”
    “Allahu Akbar!” the old man shouted. And his cry rang death.
    Washington, DC
    Flashing lights from the four escort choppers barely pierced the polarized, bulletproof windows of Marine One. Surprisingly, all of the bullet-proofing and strengthening of the VH-3D Sea King failed in one key regard—sound. The presidential helicopter boasted leather seats and other comforts, but the thirty-year-old Sea King still rattled the eardrums.
    President Jonathan Whitestone sat very close to CIA director Bill Cartwright on the short jump to Camp David. And not only because of the noise.
    “Khalil is scared to death that the Iranians and the Israelis are about to start throwing nukes at each other,” Whitestone said of the Jordanian king who waited for him at the secure Maryland retreat. “He’s convinced it was Mossad that assassinated the two nuclear scientists in Tehran last month.”
    “He’s right on that,” Cartwright said above the clatter. “Iran