The Brotherhood Conspiracy by Terry Brennan Page A

hammered hard against the al-Shaab presidential palace situated on a hilltop overlooking the drab, dusty streets of Damascus. But in the bunker, far below the soaring fountains and white marble porticos of the palace, the dim lighting and heavy air-conditioning obliterated any thought of sun or sand.
    It was a small band, but some of the most powerful men in the Arab world, that met around the polished maple table. The president of Syria was the ostensible host, but even his presence was trumped by that of Rahim Kashmiri, the ruthless leader of the mafiocracy that ruled Syria’s economy and kept the president on a short leash. Across from Kashmiri sat Muhamed Nazrullah, the visible head of Hezbollah who carried Lebanon in his back pocket. Facing the president sat a short, thin man with a round head, a wispy beard and—at least in public—an unrelenting smile. A man who looked more like a school teacher than the president of Iran—Mehdi Essaghir, public enemy number one of the United States and Israel.
    But the power behind this meeting—the true leader of Hezbollah and the Muslim Brotherhood—stood at the head of the table, holding the others in rapt attention.
    As usual, a black kaftan covered Moussa al-Sadr’s thin, bony frame and a black turban covered his head, leaving visible only a wild mass of gray-streaked beard and two eyes that sang of fanaticism.
    “This is our moment,” said al-Sadr. “The Saudis are of no importance. Abbudin has been neutralized by this lie of Islamic unity . . . this farce of theArab Spring . . . as if we would actually trust that fat, Sunni fool.” His voice was as low as the lighting in the sealed bunker. “We hold the heart and hope of Islam in our hands. Kamali will not survive in Egypt, where the Brotherhood is consolidating its power. When we rise up, all Arabs will join us in the battle. Jihad will call to them from the sands of time.”
    “We don’t need speeches,” said the criminal Kashmiri. “What we need is action.”
    Al-Sadr leaned forward, his thin hands supported by the edge of the table, the withering force of his will projected at the overflowing bulk of the thug, Kashmiri. You, too, will earn justice.
    “There is only one goal, my impatient friend.” Al-Sadr’s voice dripped honey, but his eyes overflowed with hate. “The restoration of the Caliphate. Just as Islam ruled the known world one thousand years ago, so Islam will rule the known world today. For that momentous event to occur, we must break through the Israelis’ illegal blockade, reclaim the Haram al-Sharif before the Zionist pigs can seal up the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque with their plans to rebuild their so-called Temple Mount. There can be no Zionist presence to desecrate the holy hill. Now is the time to strike. But with wisdom, not foolhardy bluster. Our attack must be swift and decisive. We must give the Americans no time to respond.”
    “The Americans are fools.”
    Al-Sadr looked down the table and was surprised to see it was the Syrian puppet who spoke. “You have some insight to share, Baqir?”
    The president held a small knife in his right hand and was seemingly absorbed in cleaning his fingernails. “The Americans are fools,” he repeated, his gaze fixed on his fingers. “They have no idea what to expect from us. One day I received one of their senators, and the next week I received the Russian president. No, venerable one, the Americans are confused. They don’t know who is their friend or their enemy, except”—Baqir al-Musawi bowed to the Iranian president—“for our fearless brother. The fools even believe I have stamped out the Muslim Brotherhood here in Syria. No, my brothers, our concern remains how to neutralize the Israelis.”
    Al-Sadr nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, Baqir. Someday the long-arm threat of Iranian nuclear warheads will prevent Israeli aggression. But, for now, the fighters of Hezbollah will once again neutralize the weak-willed