Newton’s Fire

III

At last the story broke. Red banners announcing an incident in Jerusalem’s Old City appeared at the foot of Croke’s TV screen. He turned up the volume. The first reports were ambiguous enough that he feared the assault had failed. Then a news camera arrived near the Temple Mount and it became obvious that it had succeeded to perfection.

He’d already drafted his message to Grant, prodding him for the next set of passwords for the Rutherford amp; Small’s bank account. Now he sent it on its way.

The TV reporter handed back to her studio. A harried-looking anchor attempted to make sense of the information pouring in. The Dome had been seized by up to thirty armed men. The Golden Gate was a smouldering ruin. Two Waqf guards were confirmed dead, and many more were grievously injured. There were reports of arrests on the Mount of Olives.

Croke checked his inbox. Nothing. He wasn’t anxious, though. Seventy million was a fleabite to Grant’s friends, and they weren’t stupid. They knew he had the Ark in his hold; and while it might not fetch his full fee on the black market, it would still do him nicely.

Live feed now appeared from East Jerusalem. Thousands of Muslims were marching on the Temple Mount. The reporter stopped several for their opinions. Most sounded angry beyond control, but others strove for calm, citing rumours of a threat to destroy the Dome at any attempt to storm it.

He checked his inbox again, sighed. Looked like he’d have to give Grant a nudge. Every plane was, by law, fitted with GPS. Plug an aircraft’s registration number into a flight-tracking website, therefore, and you could follow its progress live. Grant would doubtless be following him right now, so a change of course was certain to get his attention. But even as he was about to give Craig Bray the order, the new passwords arrived. He typed them in, clenched a fist in quiet satisfaction when they worked, giving him irrevocable joint authority over the $70 million.

So close now. So very, very close.