Free Bloodline by Alan Gold Page A

the temple that had replaced the Temple of Solomon. He shuddered in disgust that the infidels, those who had rejected the word of Mohammed, were allowed to congregate so close to such holy centers of Muslim belief.
    Abu Ahmed bin Hambal bin Abdullah bin Mohammed, the imam of Bayt al Gizah, a Palestinian village on the easternslopes of the Kidron Valley, which separated it from Jerusalem, tried to restrain his anger. Not with the Jews, for he knew in his heart that they would soon be driven out of Jerusalem westward into the distant Mediterranean. Not with the police or Shin Bet or any of the other repressive organs of Jewish control over the lives of his people. No, his anger and fear were because Bilal was not dead. And his anger was also directed at himself for having trusted such a vital mission to such a bonehead.
    Of the twenty young men who sat regularly at his feet and listened to his sermons and shared his hopes and aspirations for the future of the Palestinian land and people, he could have chosen anybody. Any number of young men would have taken the mission in desire of becoming shahid s. The attempt at desecration of the Jews’ most holy place was more important than the deaths of a handful of black-hatted Jews bowing and scraping at a wall.
    But Abu Ahmed bin Hambal had chosen Bilal, in part out of pity for the idiot and in part because he knew he wouldn’t return. But instead of succeeding in exploding his bombs, or more likely dying before any great destruction, the imbecile had managed to be wounded and was now in a hospital and would be tried, and then it might all come out. For a youth such as Bilal was like a stalk of wheat on a mountaintop: a strong wind and he would bend. And when the Jews’ Shin Bet security agency began to torture him, he would bend so quickly that he would tell everything.
    Were he an imam in Egypt or Saudi Arabia, such an exposure would have meant little. The Americans would do their best to find him with flying drones and satellites, or they’d send in a killing party from Delta Force, only to see their soldiers left as bones in the desert, killed by the imam’s loyal protectors.
    But if Israel’s secret service, Shin Bet, came after him, then his chances of survival were negligible, for they had spies and turncoats and traitors throughout the Palestinian communities, and nobody knew who was in their pay. He shuddered when he thought of what Shin Bet could do to him, even though hecontinued to enjoy a layer of protection from their highest placed operative.
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942 BCE
    A S A HIMAAZ WALKED THE STREETS from the temple back toward his home, a servant approached from a dark alleyway and demanded that he follow. When Ahimaaz asked to know who wanted to see him, the servant replied simply, “Queen Naamah,” and continued on.
    Now Ahimaaz stood in front of Solomon’s third wife and felt her radiating presence, which filled the room like light. He had barely time to ask why she wished to see him, when the queen dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand and drew Ahimaaz down to sit on a long, low bench.
    â€œThe king is frustrated,” she said in a surprisingly gentle tone.
    Ahimaaz did not need the context of her statement explained to him.
    â€œI know, Majesty, but even a king as powerful as Solomon can’t defy God.”
    Naamah nodded slowly and said, “A country ruled by priests! Such an interesting place. But who is it who rules over the priests?”
    â€œThe high priest,” he said bluntly, but found himself strangely confused.
    â€œAhh . . . your brother . . .” Naamah smiled, then turned her body more fully to face him, well aware of her nipples showing through the translucent gown.
    â€œAhimaaz, you are cunning yet powerless.”
    Ahimaaz flinched at her beauty, but her words were an insult to a priest, especially from a pagan queen. “Powerless? How can you say that? I am close to the