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empathized with the mayor and shared his grief for Jerusalem and its citizens. He felt sorry for Goldsmith as well. But not that much. The man was a fool if he thought he could pressure the government into a decision about the Temple Mount.
    “Mr. Mayor.” Orhlon’s sonorous voice was as soothing as a lullaby, but as final as a father’s last word. “You may repair your streets. You may inspect your buildings. You may invite people to return to their homes as soon as they are deemed safe. You may even demolish those buildings that are a hazard . . . with prior approval, of course. But you will not go near the Mount. Not even close.”
    Thin, bald, embittered by years of insignificance, Goldsmith’s face burned crimson as he looked at the men and women around the table for support of any kind. None was offered.
    “But the Wall,” he pleaded, abandoning any pretense of power. “The rabbis are demanding we do something about the Wall.”
    For once, you’re right. Orhlon turned from his pity for the mayor and half-pointed to a man across the table, the half-hearted gesture the only physical evidence of the exhaustion that sapped strength from each of his cells. “Avram, how long before you are ready?”
    Captain Avram Levin, commander of the Aleph Reconnaissance Center, which covered central Jerusalem, including the Old City and the Temple Mount, looked up from the legal pad on which he was writing. “All of the cameras have been replaced or relocated,” he said, looking only at General Orhlon, his ultimate commander. “The Aleph Center is now in a secure building. Our monitors and computers have been replenished and the men I lost—”
    Levin’s voice caught for a moment, confirming once again Orhlon’s confidence in Captain Levin as an exceptional leader of men.
    “—the men we lost have been replaced with well-trained veterans. All that remains is completing the fiber optics to link the cameras to the monitors. Two days.”
    Orhlon’s gaze swept the recovery task force sitting around the table in Central Command. “All right, then . . . Mr. Mayor, you have Krupp’s crews for two more days. After that, you will have to continue the recovery with the police and reserve units at your disposal.
    “Captain Levin . . . as soon as Aleph Center is operational, we will divert the Krupp Industries crews to the Temple Mount. Since Mr. Krupp was kind enough to offer his unlimited support, and the service of his engineers and laborers from the refinery site, we will take him up on the offer. Combining our engineers and equipment with Krupp’s support, we will rebuild the walls of the Mount, starting with the Western Wall. But only the walls. We’ll get the stones back in place, repair the breach, and make sure the perimeter is secure—but that is all. And no one goes near the walls until we are ready.”
    “But—” Gideon Goldsmith tried to interject, but was immediately stopped by Orhlon’s raised hand.
    “And you, Mr. Mayor, take care of your wounded, your homeless, your streets and houses. And leave the future of the Mount to those with a clearer, more complete vision.”
    Damascus, Syria
    King Abbudin of Saudi Arabia reluctantly yielded the floor to his wild-eyed adversary across the conference table. Even here, among the leaders of the Muslim Brotherhood—the long-standing, but little-known, ruling body of global Islam—Abbudin no longer enjoyed his unquestioned leadership of the past, nor the ability to squash a dissenter like a ripe melon. Not any longer.
    During most of his reign, Abbudin felt a match for any Arab usurper. Years earlier his influence withstood a challenge from President Baqir al-Musawi of Syria, that Alawi Shi’a dog who used fear and his secret police to suppress the Sunni majority of his country. Of course, to keep their two Sunni populations at peace, he needed to marry one of al-Musawi’s cousins, making her one of his thirty wives.
    Abbudin was the sixth of the Saudi kings,