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differences that kept us divided. But now . . . now . . . how can we be anything but united?”
    Al-Sadr’s burning gaze swept around the table.
    “The Haram al-Sharif has been desecrated, the beautiful Dome has beendestroyed. Our Al-Aqsa Mosque no longer exists. And the Zionists refuse to allow us access to either bury our dead or save our holy sites. Who knows what rape they are perpetrating within the Haram.”
    Moussa al-Sadr’s power and influence within the Muslim Brotherhood grew exponentially when Hezbollah’s heavily armed and well-trained militia humbled the vaunted armies of Israel, forcing the Jews to scramble back across their fortified borders after an ill-advised invasion of Lebanon in the summer of 2006.
    But it was the Americans who had led Abbudin to this precipice. Foolishly, he believed the younger Bush would be as wise as his father. Abbudin lived with deep regret for the younger Bush’s weakness, his hatred for that madman in Baghdad, hatred that absorbed his good sense and blinded him to prudence. There had been no weapons of mass destruction. But misguided and misdirected intelligence had led the West into an endless land war in Asia.
    As a result, America reinforced its image in the Arab world as the Great Satan, the Shi’a religious fanatics in Tehran were racing joyously toward nuclear war, and King Abbudin, the once undisputed leader of the Arab world, felt as if he no longer led anyone. This was a world which had no place for Abbudin’s calculated, self-serving version of moderation.
    “As Protector of the Two Temples, the family Saud is also dedicated to protecting Islam’s revered al-Haram al-Sharif,” Abbudin said to the assembled members of the Brotherhood. “But, what can be protected that has already been destroyed? This earthquake was an act of God. The Israelis are only trying to stabilize a dangerous situation. An act of God is no reason to call for jihad.”
    Abbudin remained regal in bearing, the power of his wealth radiating through his long, embroidered robes. But few around the table appeared to be impressed.
    “Your esteemed majesty must be correct.” Al-Sadr’s words slithered across the table like a viper on the prowl. “The Zionist pigs would never do anything to benefit themselves at the expense of their Arab brothers. As the king of the Saud claims, we can all put our trust in Israel’s protection of Islam’s shrines.”
    Silence filled the spacious room.
    “Fool!” Imam al-Sadr leapt to his feet. “Puppet! You have placed your trust in the Americans rather than your own people, and what have you reaped? Personal wealth, and the enmity of all true Muslims. We have already waited too long.”
    Abbudin watched as others got to their feet. “The Zionists continue theiraggression—Gaza, West Bank, Jerusalem, and now the Haram al-Sharif itself,” al-Sadr raged. “Arabs must no longer bow to the yoke of Zion. And we must no longer wait for the weak to find their strength.”
    Al-Sadr’s right arm rose, a specter in black, a gnarled finger pointing at King Abbudin. “It is time we wipe the world clean of Zion,” he shouted, as those around him pounded the table with their fists. “And all those who give succor to the pigs of Israel. It is jihad, and nothing less, that will restore the Haram and the holy city into our hands.”
    Jerusalem
    Style eluded him, no matter how hard he tried. Keeping up with the example set by the prime minister was beyond his level of competence.
    Chaim Shomsky purchased only expensive suits. All his shirts were handmade, his ties from Venice.
    Yet he always looked like a schlump.
    Shomsky spilled over the edges of the leather chair in the prime minister’s makeshift office, trying to find the crease that once defined his pants. His clothes were disheveled, as always, but his mind was precisely tuned to the times.
    Eliazar Baruk’s chief of staff since the early days of Baruk’s first campaign, Shomsky held the pulse of the