Promised Land Read online

  Dedication

  To all who dwell in the Promised Land and the Land of Promises

  Epigraph

  Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,

  to the temple of the God of Jacob.

  He will teach us his ways,

  so that we may walk in his paths.

  —Micah 4:2

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Acclaim for Robert Whitlow

  Also by Robert Whitlow

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Rahal Abaza sat motionless in front of the panoramic view of the Persian Gulf. The gently rippling blue water sparkled beneath a cloudless sky. Rahal lived in a modern apartment that occupied the entire thirty-sixth floor of a skyscraper in the Al Dafna neighborhood of Doha, the capital and largest city of Qatar. He owned a half interest in the building. The other owner was a member of the Qatari royal family.

  The first son of his father’s second wife, Rahal found favor as a boy due to his sharp mind, skill as an archer, and literary talent as a poet. Upon his father’s death, he assumed control of the family’s stake in the country’s oil reserves and quickly expanded into other business ventures, including several contracts with the US government at the Al Udeid Air Base located twenty miles southwest of Doha. With a population of more than eleven thousand, Al Udeid contained the largest concentration of US military personnel in the Middle East. Rahal’s company supplied everything from cleaning services for bathrooms to caviar for banquets.

  Five years earlier, Rahal’s life had dramatically changed during a pilgrimage to Mecca. Not far from the entrance to the Great Mosque he encountered a wizened, elderly beggar. Since he was on a pilgrimage, Rahal stopped to give alms to the man. The beggar grabbed his hand with surprising strength and didn’t let go until Rahal looked directly at him.

  “Do not spend your wealth on pleasure but for the glory of jihad until all the earth is in submission to Allah and his prophet. Then you will be welcomed with open arms into paradise,” the old man said.

  Rahal jerked his hand away. The beggar threw the money on the ground and spat on the pavement.

  “Take your wicked alms to the place of torment,” he said.

  Rahal couldn’t tear his gaze away from the beggar’s face. The old man’s eyes were deep pools that plunged to depths far beyond anything that existed in the natural realm. Rahal desperately wanted to escape the beggar’s presence, but his feet refused to move. There were over one million pilgrims in the holy city during the height of the hajj, but Rahal felt completely alone. He knelt down and slowly collected the money with trembling hands.

  “What must I do?” he asked.

  “Recognize Ali as rightful successor to the prophet,” the old man said in a low but intense voice. “Truth flows from truth.”

  Rahal drew back.

  “But I am Sunni,” he protested. “Just like all my fathers before me. I’m making the hajj as commanded by the prophet.”

  “You!” the man said as he pointed his finger at Rahal’s chest. “You are an infidel!”

  Rahal’s heart pounded. He’d been raised as a Sunni, not a Shiite. The greatest controversy between the two groups arose from the correct line of succession from the prophet Muhammad. No one but Rahal knew that for over two years he had been at war with himself over the issue. To express doubt about Sunni beliefs in Qatar, where ninety percent of the Arab population and all the political leadership were Sunnis, would cause him to be ostracized or worse. Rahal felt his soul being ripped in two.

  “I have questions,” he said, his voice quivering.

  “Question no more!” the man commanded, raising his voice.

  “But—”

  “Go!” the old man ordered, pointing toward the Great Mosque and the Kaaba.

  Suddenly, Rahal’s feet came unstuck and he was swept along with the crowd that moments before had flowed around him like water past a rock in a river. Over the next few days, he completed the requirements of the hajj, but the old man’s warning haunted his every waking thought. As the power of the beggar’s words burrowed deeper and deeper into Rahal’s consciousness, they exposed his previous beliefs as false. He returned several times to the place where he’d encountered the old man, but he never saw him again. Perhaps he was a malak, an angel.

  Rahal returned to Doha and terminated the lease on the apartment in Paris where his favorite mistress lived. He began studying the Qur’an as never before, memorizing long passages and secretly listening to sermons by influential Shiite imams. Soon he was utterly convinced that the Sunni heresy was a malignancy almost as great as the moral corruption of the West. The only thing that exceeded them both was the cancerous presence of the Zionists along the shores of the Mediterranean.

  Rahal’s wife cared about nothing except comfort, and his two grown daughters were married to men more interested in horse racing than religion. Rahal had no son or men his age in whom he could confide. He carefully began to expand his network of connections to include those who shared his zeal and faith.

  “Sir,” said a male voice behind Rahal.

  Rahal swiveled in his chair and faced a pair of wiry but strong young men in their early thirties. Khalil and Mustafa Morsi came from a well-respected Shiite family in Beirut that had fallen on hard times due to the political upheaval in Lebanon. They shared Rahal’s beliefs and knew about his spiritual change while on the hajj. A sophisticated IT expert trained in Germany, Khalil was a Hafiz, the term awarded to a person who had memorized the entire Qur’an. Mustafa, two years younger, was Rahal’s chief of security. Before moving to Qatar he’d served for five years in an elite military unit of Hezbollah in Lebanon. The brothers looked so similar they could pass for twins. Both of them were open Shiites, but their presence as part of Rahal’s entourage didn’t raise suspicions because they occupied subservient roles.

  “You wanted to see us,” Khalil said, bowing his head slightly.

  “Yes,” Rahal said. “I want to ask you a question.”

  Neither Khalil nor Mustafa showed any sign of nervousness or fear in his presence. It was another reason Rahal included the talented young men in his inner circle. Emotion was the enemy of courage.

  “Where does the heart of darkness reside?” Rahal asked.

  Mustafa was quieter, Khalil more vocal.

  “In four places,” Khalil answered. “The soul of an infidel, the
eyes of a loose woman, the land occupied by the Jews, and in America.”

  “You’ve answered well,” Rahal replied. “Let me add another—a traitor who betrays those who follow the prophet.”

  Both brothers nodded.

  “What should we do about the heart of darkness?” Rahal continued.

  “Strike it with the sword of jihad!” Mustafa moved his right hand forward as if thrusting an imaginary blade.

  “And who best wields that sword in my household?”

  “I do,” Mustafa answered, standing up even straighter.

  Khalil put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “And together we are invincible.”

  “Sit beside me,” Rahal said, motioning to two empty chairs. “I want to talk to you about piercing the heart of darkness in Sharm el-Sheikh.”

  Chapter 1

  It was 3:33 a.m., and the Lord gently nudged Hana Abboud Hasan awake for a night watch. Daud, her husband of six months, was out of the country on business. A sound sleeper, Daud rarely woke up when she slipped out of bed. When Hana asked him about it, he smiled and replied, “The sleep of the righteous is sweet.” Hana rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Daud was a good man, the husband she’d prayed for, and the soul mate chosen for her by God himself.

  Hana went into the living room of the one-bedroom house where she’d lived since moving from Israel to the US. Turning on a lamp, she opened her Bible. A low moan came from the kitchen, followed by a series of short snorts. The source of the noises was Leon, a furry, eighty-five-pound black-and-white dog who had trotted out of the woods and into Hana’s life a year earlier. A random mix of big dog breeds, Leon looked like a small Saint Bernard. His thick coat forced Hana and Daud to set the thermostat on the air-conditioning unit a few degrees cooler to keep their pet comfortable in the humid heat of the Georgia summer. Otherwise the dog’s long red tongue would hang out of his mouth and drip saliva all over the house.

  After reading a psalm, Hana placed earbuds in her ears and listened to worship music performed in Aramaic, the ancient language spoken by Jesus and his disciples. Hana spoke Arabic, Hebrew, English, and French. She wasn’t fluent in Aramaic but knew enough to understand familiar songs. She closed her eyes and listened to melodies that might sound discordant to a Westerner but captured the expanse of the star-filled skies that had beckoned her ancestors to gaze heavenward and worship the one who created all things. Hana quietly sang along in a clear alto voice. She transitioned to songs in Arabic.

  As the final song came to an end, a spontaneous lyric rose up in Hana’s heart. Turning off the music, she continued to sing a cappella. The new song was part prayer, part declaration. When a phrase formed in her mind, she repeated it over and over until sensing a release to continue. Phrase followed phrase, then doubled back in repetition that built on what came before. Few things nurtured Hana’s confidence in the Lord’s love and faithfulness more than the songs he gave her. But tonight she didn’t sing in personal worship. Instead, she offered up a song of intercession—for her new husband.

  * * *

  Daud sat alone in a hotel room in Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt. A US government–issued cell phone lay on the bed beside him. Through the window he had a clear view of Na’ama Bay and its glistening beach. It was late afternoon, and as the sun sank lower in the sky only a handful of people strolled along on the white sand.

  It was a two-hour boat ride from the local marina to the beautiful coral reefs that made Sharm el-Sheikh a choice destination for scuba divers. Close by were places where anyone could snorkel and swim with the colorful, exotic fish. Daud was a certified diver who’d explored the reefs of Tiran Island and Ras Muhammad in the past, but on this trip he wouldn’t rent scuba gear and schedule a pleasure-boat ride.

  Daud glanced at his phone and waited for the text message that would send him into action. Four days had passed since his arrival at the southern tip of the Sinai. Twice, orders came through directing him to begin his phase of the mission. Both times his CIA contact rescinded the order within thirty minutes. His phone vibrated and lit up.

  Stand down until tomorrow at 0900 hours.

  It wasn’t the message Daud wanted to receive. He resisted the urge to fire back a response questioning the competency of his American superiors who seemed fixated on everything being perfect before authorizing him to move forward. Exact preparation was impossible when people were involved. Daud’s years of experience working as a covert agent for the Shin Bet, the Israeli equivalent of the FBI, had taught him it was better to act when the chance of success was ninety percent than delay and see the odds rapidly diminish due to unforeseen changes in circumstances. He paced back and forth across the room in an effort to release his pent-up tension. Confined by the walls, he decided to go out for a walk and an early dinner. Putting on dark sunglasses, he left the hotel room.

  Just over six feet tall with a muscular physique, Daud had celebrated his thirty-second birthday while on honeymoon with Hana in southern Spain. They spent two weeks in Seville, Grenada, and Cordoba, places where Arab culture continued to exert its influence hundreds of years after the final defeat of the Moors by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.

  Daud and Hana’s wedding in Reineh was the culmination of a weeklong celebration involving his small family and her much larger one. Because of security concerns arising from Daud’s previous undercover work and ongoing threats against his life, the wedding was a private affair without any public announcements or posts on social media.

  One of Daud’s favorite moments was the time they spent with Anwar Abboud, Hana’s aged great-uncle. The ninety-nine-year-old man welcomed the couple into a small room where he sat in a comfortable chair with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade on the table beside him. Anwar’s memory was unreliable, and Daud wasn’t sure the family patriarch remembered him from a single previous meeting, so he introduced himself in a respectful tone of voice.

  “I’m not like Isaac, who didn’t know the difference between Esau and Jacob,” the old man replied with a gap-toothed grin. “The Lord is faithful. He often brings Hana’s face before my spirit. Recently, you’ve joined her there. That means the Holy Spirit brought you together.”

  Daud felt chills involuntarily run across his shoulders and down his arms. He glanced at Hana, whose face beamed at the confirmation of what they both believed.

  “Has the Lord told you anything about Daud?” she asked.

  Anwar nodded. “Child, you always ask the right question. Does Daud want to know the answer?”

  Daud swallowed. He’d survived multiple life-or-death situations, but never had his heart beat faster. Hana nudged him and vigorously nodded her head.

  “Yes, sir,” Daud answered and then held his breath.

  Anwar locked eyes with Daud before he spoke. “Like your namesake, King David, you are destined to occupy the gates of your enemies.”

  Daud waited for an explanation, but none came. Anwar’s eyes closed, and his head dropped to his chest. Within seconds his breathing indicated that he was asleep.

  “Should we leave?” Daud whispered to Hana.

  “I’m not sure,” she answered. “I was hoping he would pray a blessing over us.”

  They sat quietly and waited. Anwar snorted. He squinted and looked at Hana. “And what about you?” he asked. “Do you want to hear from the Lord?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” Hana replied respectfully. “I want to be like Mary when the angel Gabriel came to her and she said, ‘Be it unto me according to thy word.’”

  Anwar smiled. “I’m not an angel, just an old man who loves you.”

  He then stared directly at Hana with a fiery intensity that startled Daud. He heard Hana’s sharp intake of breath.

  “Did you feel that?” Anwar asked her.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered.

  “Some promises come only through pain and sacrifice. And so it will be for you.” Anwar extended his hand outward in a broad motion and ended by pointing his index finger at his chest. “There is a pr
omised land without and a land of promises within. Both realms are yours to possess if you pass the tests.”

  Hana bowed her head for a moment. “Daud and I are getting married tomorrow,” she said. “It would be an honor if you would bless us as husband and wife.”

  Anwar paused as if listening. “Be fruitful in every way,” he said in a lighter tone of voice. “It is the first commandment.”

  The old man became silent and in a few moments fell back asleep. Daud and Hana slipped from the room. Daud reached for Hana’s hand as they walked down the hallway onto a small balcony that overlooked a spacious enclosed garden at the rear of the property. People were setting up tables and decorations for a party in their honor later in the evening. Hana leaned against Daud, who looked down at her.

  “What do you think about your uncle’s words?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. Uncle Anwar’s words are like seeds that have to lie in the ground until they germinate and sprout. And what comes up isn’t always what you expect.”

  * * *

  As he waited for the hotel elevator, Daud felt his wedding ring in the left front pocket of his pants. He slipped it on and off his finger and thought about Hana. His heart ached at the longest separation of their young marriage.

  Daud’s boss for this project was a man who communicated via a secure computer network and sent texts to the designated cell phone. He used the name Charlie, but Daud had never met him in person and suspected it wasn’t his real name, a common practice in the intelligence world to limit the knowledge of each person about the chain of command. That way if an agent like Daud was arrested or captured, he couldn’t divulge damaging information.

  A Shin Bet supervisor named Aaron Levy who’d worked with Daud in Israel recommended him to Charlie. When Daud learned the purpose of the mission, he accepted the offer to be part of a team. The interests of the United States and Israel to limit the spread of sophisticated missile technology and nuclear proliferation in the Middle East were parallel, and in this instance, the US had the better logistical capability to accomplish the mission.