The Brotherhood Conspiracy by Terry Brennan

of the Bible, is not like the ancient gods of the Greeks, or the Sumerians, or any number of people groups, who were so fickle and unpredictable that men could never figure out what was coming next. The Christian God is the great creator, the one who brought order and beauty out of chaos. If you believe, he’s the one who sent his Son as a sacrificial offering to wash away the sins of those men who believe. That’s in your book. So, Tom, that God is not a puppeteer who is impulsively pulling your strings. If he is the Creator God, who brings order, then it is not in his character to bring chaos.”
    Bohannon was stunned by Johnson’s theological insight. “Do you really believe that?”
    “It is my belief, Thomas, that you will need to reconcile the dichotomy you perceive as God. Either he is a good God who cares for you . . . who leads you in prayer . . . or he’s an unpredictable and erratic creature who can’t be trusted. I don’t see how you can have it both ways.”
    Well groomed, impeccably dressed, Doc was an anachronism sitting comfortably on that rock. And Tom, without conscious effort, found himself once again considering the depth and progress of Doc’s spiritual journey. But Doc wouldn’t let him off the hook.
    “I believe you are experiencing what is called a crisis of faith?” Johnson said with a question at the end, a smirk wrestling with a smile. “And how you deal with your dilemma will determine the rest of your life. And, I believe, will have a profound impact on mine.
    “Come along.” Doc rose from the rock, reached out, and grasped Bohannon’s elbow. “The light is beginning to fade and I don’t want to break an ankle on this sad excuse for a street.”
    Tom’s mind was scrambled like the stones at the crumbling sides of Independence Avenue as the evening gathered around them. Doc was leading,picking his way along the left side berm, head down, intensely focused, as they came to the crest of a small rise. Tom heard it first. A rumble. He looked up. Over the rise launched a black SUV, no lights, spitting stones as it rode the side of the street. There was no thought. Had he thought, they would both have died. Tom’s right hand flashed out, latched onto Doc’s shirt between his neck and right shoulder, and pulled with all his strength as he dove headlong into a hedge of forsythia bushes that lined the side of the street. Bohannon could feel the heat of the engine on his back, his body jolted as fender or running board rapped the sole of his retreating shoe. His face felt like it was at an acupuncture convention, but the huge SUV continued careening down the street, the driver apparently unaware of the two men he sent diving into the bushes.
    Suspended in the shrubbery like some tossed-away rag doll, Tom groped with his left hand, looking for something solid to use for leverage, and then realized he still held Doc’s shirt firmly in the grasp of his right fist. “Doc?”
    “Yes . . . yes, I’m all right,” Doc croaked from within the bush. “Punctured and bruised, yes, but alive.”
    Bohannon released Doc’s shirt and pushed against the bush, trying to regain his feet. “Stupid kid, probably joyriding in his father’s gas guzzler.” His right foot scrabbled in the stones, then got traction. “Probably never saw us.” Bohannon stumbled to his feet . . . and saw Doc staring at him. The force of Bohannon’s rescue had pulled Doc to the left, but also backward, dragging Johnson into the bushes on an angle, his face still pointing out to the street.
    Bohannon pulled Johnson from the prickly embrace of the forsythia, then held him at arm’s length.
    “You didn’t see him?” Doc asked, his question dripping with warning.
    Tom felt a shiver ripple up his spine. “No . . .”
    “Black hair. Prominent nose. Skin the color of the desert,” said Johnson. “He was looking directly at us. And he wasn’t happy that he missed.”

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    S ATURDAY , A UGUST 1
    Damascus, Syria
    The sun