Chapter Thirty Nine: The Great Hall. A thousand voices chanted and shook their fists in unison. The crowd jumped and throbbed; every beating heart ready to die for freedom and equality.
Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!
Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!
Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!
Sol shook his fist also and rolled with the crowd. It was then that he noticed people running into the square via the east road adjacent to the great hall. A tank and two troop sections were approaching via the east road. The crowd backed away nervously as the tank rumbled closer to the square, the sound of steel tracks squealing against their drive shafts cut through the noise of the crowd. Everyone was looking to the East road as the tank suddenly and unexpectedly came to a halt at the corner of the hall and the outer edge of the square; a moment later the troops came to a halt which completely blocked the view down the side of the great hall. Solomon pushed his way through for a better view, and just got a glimpse of the limousines parked up behind the tank and army troops, all stood neatly to attention in rows around the limousines. It was obvious that Bashar Al-Assad had entered the great hall from the East entrance and would not be in view at the front steps. The sniper was useless; it was up to the Rabbi now. More limousines pulled up, body guards and security stood alert as generals and governors quickly filed into the great hall. The crowds continued to chant; the rhythmic clapping becoming even louder:
Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!
No peace. No welfare.
Down with the government!
The Ayatollah and the Rabbi waved one last time to the crowd and re-entered the heart of the building. They worked their way to the great hall and stood in line to greet President Basher Al-Assad. A strict line was presented that reflected the rank and position of everyone required, and permitted to attend. The Rabbi was mid-line, then the district governors, the head of security and finally senior army officers. Minor party members were already sat down and would stand when the president and his entourage approached the benches. The president chatted calmly with the head of the army as if nothing was going on outside, he seemed oblivious to it. The Rabbi stood his turn in line, looking calm and serene; but beneath his ceremonial robes he sweated profusely, the pistol weighing heavily on his arm. He knew his time was short in this world for when he struck the fatal blow, he would be shot down like a dog in the street. The president approached the first in line, spoke a few words and moved to the next person. The Rabbi looked at the ground and prayed to the Lord for forgiveness, for it was a far larger sin not to take this chance to help his people towards a better life. The president would not suspect a holy man to be a threat, so he would take his chance at point blank range. Under his robes, he fingered the trigger and pushed the safety catch forward like he was taught, going over and over this in his mind. He must not miss; so many people depended on him. Panic shot through the Rabbi as if touched by a scolding iron: the head of the army was approaching him first and the president was still at least ten metres away. Good evening Rabbi. How are you enjoying the Ayatollahs Synagogue? It is fine general, a beautiful building in praise of Allah. I am sure my Lord would agree it is a fine day for us all.
The general looked a little puzzled by the Rabbi’s positive reply and looked him up and down with a look on his face that suggested he was not impressed. The Rabbi looked at the ground, his body language showing no signs of defiance, just placid submission to this powerful man. The president approached but the general was still in the way, he was sure he would fail if the general did not move aside. But then he moved as the president approached the Ayatollah; he checked the safety catch one more time and pushed the catch firmly forward until it would travel no more. The Ayatollah smiled and offered his hand in friendship, they exchanged a few words. And then President Basher Al-Assad turned towards the Rabbi. The Rabbi wanted to scream out about all the injustice and cruelty that had befallen his people, but instead he calmly raised his head to greet the President. His hands were now folded in front of him as protocol expected when the president approached, but they were still concealed by his robes; and then as the president offered his hand, they made eye contact and the Rabbi exposed a hand, and shook hands with the President who began to speak, but the Rabbi could not hear him, he just nodded at the end of each sentence and agreed with everything he said. The president turned to walk away, every fibre of the Rabbi’s body screamed at him to act now, or nothing will change. The Rabbi should have just folded his hands to the front of his robes, but he slipped his right hand beneath his robes and grasped the pistol with both hands, raised the pistol, which was still beneath his robes and fired. In the instant it took for the explosion to register to all around that it was gunfire; the president slumped to the ground as a hole in the Rabbi’s robes burnt and smoked. In the next few seconds as the general and his aids realised it was the Rabbi who had fired the fatal shot; as if in slow motion: their muscles flexed and each took a step towards the Rabbi, pulling to arm their pistols and small arm weapons. In this time, the Rabbi got off three more rounds; the president jerked and gasped his last breath, blood splattered on his shirt and dress jacket. Then, a moment later, round after round of small arms fire hit the Rabbi: four rounds directly to the chest; he slumped to his knees and fell face first onto the marble floor, he did not move, a round directly to his heart killing him instantly. Blood trickled from the corners of his mouth, his eyes staring, eerily into the distance. Both the President and the Rabbi lay stone dead on the cold marble floor. The stunned audience to this drama: the two hundred minor party members waiting for the emergency conference; suddenly burst into a crescendo of indignant protest at the murder of their beloved president, all so desperate to show their loyalty. The crowd of party members joined the scuffle around the dead president, arms waving frantically, faces screaming with rage; ignoring the dead Rabbi. While the military high general and his staff tried to hold them back; the Ayatollah worked his way to the edge of the ensuing scuffle and left the building. He had to find Solomon and fulfil his promise to the Rabbi; he headed up the side street towards the square. The Rabbi had given him a mobile and a pre written text he must send. He kept walking, fumbling in his robes for the mobile phone. The crowd jumped in unison, fists in the air, chanting:
Jews and Arabs refuse to be enemies!
No peace. No welfare. Down with the government!
One God, one people
Solomon stood quietly at the corner waiting for news of the Rabbi’s mission. He could see soldiers forming a defensive square around the side entrance of the Mosque. Had the Rabbi succeeded? He felt a vibration against his ribs; his sat nav phone had a message. He pulled the phone from his robes and pushed the message button; it read: Silent President completes phase one. It was done; Bashar Al-Assad was dead. He moved to draft messages; he had a pre designed message to send to his fellow missionaries: ‘phase one complete, inform our new friends that Al-Assad is dead’.