1:18 A.M. Eastern Time, September 29th
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
The operations center was kept in a state of operational readiness twenty-four hours a day, which was why there was a full shift on duty when the call came.
“We’ve got a call coming in on an Agency TACSAT,” one of the analysts announced, lifting his gaze from the bank of screens in front of him.
Daniel Lasker looked over toward him. As the duty officer, everything that transpired during the 11-7 shift was his responsibility. “Transfer it to my workstation and run system ID check.”
“Roger.” The analyst paused for a moment, then announced, “It’s a TACSAT-8, locator code #4507-43, one of the phones we supplied to PJAK back in ‘08.”
“Right before the Obama administration watchlisted them,” Lasker said thoughtfully, reaching for the phone on his desk.
“Lasker speaking.”
“Danny, is that you?” a familiar voice demanded.
“Parker! What’s going on?”
“I want this call to be recorded, Danny,” Thomas continued. “Are you set up for that?”
“Sure thing,” Lasker replied, reaching across his workstation. “Just a sec. There, we’re on.”
“Nearly twelve hours ago, the rebel group I hooked up with was informed of a biological attack on a Kurdish village to our south. We quick-marched it through the night and just arrived on-scene about twenty minutes ago.”
“And?”
“It’s bad, Danny. We’re still in the heights overlooking the village at the moment-Badir’s a canny old fox-not going to move in until he’s sure the area’s clear. But there’s bodies everywhere.”
“Any signs of life?”
“No.”
Lasker cradled the phone between shoulder and ear, shuffling through the stack of intel reports on his desk. “Hold one, Thomas. We got a bio-tagged flash from the boys over at Intel earlier in the day. Just let me find it-yeah, here it is.”
His eyes tracked down the body of the report, an oath bursting from his lips as he reached the end of it. “Thomas, listen to me. Do not, I repeat, do not go into the village. Can I reach you at this number?”
“Yeah, Badir let me borrow his phone.”
“I’ll call you back within the hour. Hold tight.”
10:25 A.M. Tehran Time
The Presidential Palace
Tehran, Iran
“Any sign of the Kurds?” President Shirazi asked, shutting off the live video feed with the flick of a finger as he leaned back into his armchair.
“No, sir.” Harun Larijani replied, sitting stiffly in the chair in front of his uncle’s desk. “They must know by now.”
“To be sure.” Shirazi glanced at the now-dormant monitor and smiled. “It would appear as though our test was a resounding success.”
Larijani closed his eyes, remembering the carnage. His men had been forced to shoot three of the villagers when they had tried to break from the cordon. They had been the lucky ones. What had followed…
He had emptied his stomach upon the ground outside the village and even now, he felt that he might retch at the memory. The cries of the damned…
Ashamed by his own weakness, he summoned up a smile and faced his uncle. “It certainly was.”
Shirazi rose from his desk and walked across the small office to the far wall. “I am proud of you, Harun. I must confess my uncertainty as to whether you could carry out so difficult an assignment.”
“It was an honor to carry out the work of Allah, the most glorified, the most high,” the young man replied mechanically.
“It was,” Shirazi continued, “I must confess, a test. Not just of our new weapon, but of you.”
“Sir?”
“Fortunately, I may say, both passed the test in splendid form. Your father should be honored that Allah so smiled upon him at your birth.”
Harun sat there speechless, unsure what, if any, response was appropriate. At any rate, his uncle continued without waiting for one. “I have spoken in shadows of our plans, but the time for such ambiguities is past. The time has come to speak of these deeds in the light of day, to speak of the honor accorded to those who have been chosen to perform them.”
The Iranian president took hold of one of the hangings on the wall and tore it away with the dramatic flourish of unveiling a statue.
A picture lay beneath, a picture so familiar that Harun could have easily dismissed it, but for the light shining in his uncle’s eyes.
“Here,” Shirazi proclaimed, tapping the silver-domed structure in the right foreground of the picture, “here is where we strike.”
10:45 A.M.
Isfahan, Iran
Five of the fifty were gone already. A combination of ignorance, incompetence, and other shortcomings. Hossein was not surprised. Whatever else could be said about the shrewd old holy man, he was no soldier.
Rifle shots rippled into the morning breeze as the recruits fired their assault rifles into paper targets at one hundred meters. The major stalked back and forth behind the line, his critical gaze taking in their accuracy, their stance, the way they held their weapons. Noticing everything, missing nothing.
Half-way down the line, a nineteen-year-old boy clutched the Kalishnikov tightly, both eyes closed as he emptied the magazine down-range.
The major stepped in close as the last cartridge fired, striking the gun’s muzzle up with a mighty blow. “Fool!” he hissed, tearing the rifle from the boy’s grasp. “You are finished.”
Hot tears of shame started from the young man’s eyes as he turned to walk away. Hossein watched him go in silence. He, like the others Hossein had already dismissed, knew their Quran better than their Kalishnikov, no doubt something not to be despised, but less than desirable under these circumstances.
Hossein sighed. Promised soldiers, he had received fanatics. Just as he had expected…
8:59 A.M. Local Time
Ashquelon, Israel
The rays of early dawn were just beginning to spread over the Shephelah when Tex returned to his motel.
It had been a productive night. With the first identity that had gained him access into the country stashed securely in the false bottom of his briefcase, he had rented a car under a second, using a credit card registered to that person. Twenty years ago, such a practice would have been forbidden, but times had changed. Anymore, people got very suspicious of someone willing to pay in large sums in cash, and nowhere was that more true than the country of Israel.
That first ID would not be used again until he needed to exit the country, if everything went well. If things progressed poorly, the suitcase contained two more sets of identification, to be used in case of necessity.
With the car parked two blocks down from his motel, his plans were almost complete. Just a few more things…
The TACSAT on his hip hummed silently and he answered after a quick glance at the screen. “Wondering when I would hear from you.”
“Mr. Richards, it was a pleasure to receive your call last night,” the voice replied. “As always. You are in country?”
“Yes.”
“It has been awhile.”
“I don’t travel any more than I can help,” was the Texan’s curt reply. “We need to meet.”
“To be sure, Mr. Richards. When and where?”
“As soon as possible at your place. You open?”
“For my friends, I am always open. Shall we say, thirty minutes? Come to the rear entrance as usual.”
“Of course.”
2:08 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“…sure the area’s clear. But there’s bodies everywhere.”
“Any signs of life?”
“No.”
Lasker pressed STOP on the audio recording and looked up at his superiors. “Substantively, that’s it.”
Lay and Kranemeyer exchanged glances. “It’s started,” was the DCIA’s solemn pronouncement.
“Someone has a sense of irony,” Kranemeyer observed, glancing down the transcript of the call once more. “Saddam Hussein also enjoyed using the Kurds as test subjects. Ah, the joys of being a minority in the Middle East.”
“Hancock will need to see this,” David Lay stated, turning to address the man at his side. “Make sure you get it in the briefing, Ron.”
Ron Carter looked up from polishing his glasses. “Sure thing, boss.”
“I think this is our chance,” Kranemeyer announced without preamble, looking up from the transcript before him.
Lay glanced over, puzzled by the look of excitement that had lit up the unshaven face of the DCS. “What do you mean, Barney?”
“If we can get blood samples from the bodies of the infected Kurds, the bio-war department over at Bethesda might be able to better diagnose what we’re dealing with here.”
“You’re not suggesting…”
“Send Parker in, of course. Why not, for heaven’s sake?” Kranemeyer demanded, looking up in surprise. “He’s within a mile of the target as it is-you don’t get more on-scene than this.”
“He’ll be exposed to the bacteria,” Lay interjected. “You know we can’t extract him fast enough to administer antibiotics in time.”
“Then that’s the price we pay.” The expression in Kranemeyer’s eyes was cold and distant. “Unless you can come up with a better idea, Parker goes in at dusk.”
The DCIA swallowed hard. “He was a good man. Place the call…”
9:32 A.M. Local Time
Ashqelon, Israel
Avraham Najeri’s fingers slid over the receiver of the Galil assault rifle with the intimate touch of a lover. He sighed. Guns were such beautiful things. Instruments of death to be sure, but beautiful nonetheless. There was a certain poetry to them.
The closing of a car door broke upon his reverie and his eyes flickered upwards, above the workbench, across the statue of the Virgin Mary that sat in a niche of the wall, to the small security monitor. There, in the fourth frame of the split-screen, was the figure of his visitor.
He frowned in annoyance. The American stood in unwelcome contrast to the very trait Najeri loved about most of the man’s fellow countrymen. They talked too much and it was very easy to figure out what they were thinking, if they didn’t tell you first. Not this one.
With a heavy sigh, Najeri turned, picking up a Beretta 92 from his workbench. He slammed a full magazine into the butt of the pistol and racked the slide to chamber a round. Time to answer the door.
Tex glanced up and down the alley, unsure whether to knock again, or leave. The Agency had maintained a professional relationship with Avraham Najeri for the better part of two decades, but it was a relationship of mutual suspicion.
While the Maronite Christian Arab maintained a clothing store at the front of his establishment, his real money was made in the basement. Dealing with his passion: black market firearms.
The Texan considered dealing with him an unpleasant necessity. He and the Arab merchant of death had never hit it off. The little man talked too much, and it offended his sensibilities deeply.
“Mr. Richards!” the door opened just as Tex had lifted his hand to knock once more. A wide smile was plastered across the face of the weapons dealer. “Come in, come in, it’s been too long.”
The CIA agent ducked his head to slip inside, observing the pistol in Najeri’s left hand. It wasn’t a mistake-the Arab was ambidextrous.
“So, what brings you to my humble establishment?”
“The usual.”
Najeri laughed. “My outposts have assured me you are alone. This is good-I would have considered it a personal affront had you deceived me. You need a weapon?”
“Two of them.”
“Good, good. Right this way.” The gun dealer hesitated, then waved him forward. “After you.”
11:40 A.M. Tehran Time
The Alborz Mountains
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” Thomas looked out over the mountains, struggling to digest the words of the DCS.
“We’re still looking for another work-around,” Kranemeyer continued. “But until then, it’s on you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will, Parker. You’ve been one of our best men.”
Past tense. The words hit Thomas with the impact of a rifle bullet. His vision seemed to cloud suddenly, as though he moved in a trance. He heard Kranemeyer’s final words of good-bye, heard himself respond with a numbed, “Yes, sir.”
The phone clicked off, severing the connection. He turned, handing the phone back to Azad Badir.
His feet seemed to move of their own will, carrying him across the mountain path to a ledge overlooking the valley. The valley of death.
His death.
Thomas had faced death before, but it had never filled him with this unspeakable, crawling horror. It was one thing to face a man with a gun in your hand, even odds of survival. But the plague…
10:32 A.M. Local Time
Ashqelon, Israel
Leaving Beer-sheba, Tex turned south along the highway. The deal with Najeri had gone well, despite the money it had taken. A Belgian-made FN-FAL rifle was disassembled in the trunk of the car, along with a hundred rounds of 7.62mm NATO.
The other half of the purchase was strapped to the Texan’s ankle: a short-barreled.357 Magnum. Some might have considered a semiautomatic a better choice, but he had always been partial to wheelguns. In any case, it was a back-up gun.
If things went well, the guns and car would wind up in the Red Sea following successful termination of the op.
On the other hand, if things went poorly, the eight thousand dollars he had paid Najeri would be money well spent. Preparation. The name of the game.
Tex sighed and checked his GPS. A hundred kilometers to Eilat…
5:30 A.M. Eastern Time
The Oval Office
Washington, D.C.
“What do you hope to gain from this meeting with the Israelis?” President Hancock asked, lifting his eyes from the dossier in front of him. Directors David Lay and Lawrence Bell sat before him, in chairs facing the Resolute desk.
“A more exact understanding of the situation,” the DCIA replied without hesitation. “I have had a long professional relationship with General Shoham-trust me when I say he would not call for this meeting if he did not believe it would be mutually advantageous.”
“Or advantageous to his government,” Hancock countered. “It has been my experience that the Israelis act exclusively in their own interests, as often as not.”
The remark brought a look of disbelief to Lay’s face. “That, of course, is the spy business, Mr. President. There is no free lunch.”
“The meeting goes down in Eilat?” the President continued, ignoring the tacit reproof in Lay’s reply.
“Yes.”
“Who did we send?”
The DCIA stiffened in his chair. “With all due respect, Mr. President, I must refrain from answering the question. You don’t have need-to-know on that aspect of the operation.”
Hancock shot a look of irritation at Lawrence Bell, but didn’t follow up on the question. After an awkward pause, the National Intelligence Director turned to Lay.
“Keep your men on a tight leash, David. Anything they pass on to the Israelis-I want it run through my office first. Do we have an understanding on this?”
“Of course.”
“I believe that concludes my portion of the briefing,” Lay announced twenty minutes later, closing his briefing folder.
Hancock nodded. “Thank you, director. The Secret Service will see you out.”
Director Bell looked up from his papers as the door closed behind Lay. “You foresee problems, Mr. President?”
It took Hancock a moment to respond. “If Israel gets word of the Iranian biological capability, yes. You know how things have been for the last two years, Lawrence. Ever since Prime Minister Shamir’s election.”
Bell nodded. “The mood has been rebellious, to say the least. Expanding Israeli settlements, reoccupying the Gaza strip, sending troops into Lebanon twice,” he continued, ticking them off on his fingers. “Of course, then again, his party swept into power on the heels of the Hamas ambush that took out a half-dozen mid-level Israeli diplomats in the West Bank. He was elected as a hard-liner, and he’s lived up to his campaign promises. And who can blame him?”
“I can,” Hancock said quietly. So quietly, in fact, that Bell wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.
“Excuse me, Mr. President?”
“I said, ‘I can’,” the President repeated, anger creeping into his voice. “His government has made nothing but trouble for me and my plans for peace in the Middle East. You study the intelligence reports, Lawrence. I’m sure you’ve noticed how oil spikes every time that blamed Jew makes a move. Here in the States, gas hit nine dollars a gallon last week and my poll numbers have fallen off proportionally.”
A brief nod from the DNI indicated that he had noticed. “I’m afraid, Mr. President, that your reelection campaign does not fall within my purview. Probably something you should take up with Ian.”
Bell looked up to find the President staring at him, a cold, steady gaze. It was a moment before Hancock spoke. “Don’t patronize me, Lawrence. Don’t ever make that mistake. Just do your job and make sure the Israelis don’t learn about the bio-weapon from the CIA.”
3:47 P.M. Tehran Time
The Alborz Mountains
Shielding the lens with a careful hand, Thomas swept the valley once again with his binoculars. Nothing. As empty and desolate as it had been ever since their arrival.
The young men of the peshmerga had been straining at their leash for hours, begging Badir for permission to go down into the village.
The old Kurd remained implacable. He knew his enemy far too well to give into the emotion-the despair of seeing their kinsmen lay unburied.
Still nothing. Thomas lowered the binoculars, only too aware that he would be going into that valley soon. He bit his lip, steeling himself against the terror within. The job must be done.
Estere stirred at his side, looking up at him from her prone position by the sniper rifle. “You’re going, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice curiously brittle.
Unable to speak, he nodded, glancing over into her dark eyes.
“It scares you, does it not?”
“What does?” Thomas asked, once more taken off-guard by her bluntness.
“Death.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Doesn’t it everybody?”
She seemed to take the question seriously. “The wise men say that to be a Kurd is to look Death in the eye. It has been that way since the days of my fathers. As Allah has willed it.”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re going anyway?”
“Don’t seem to have many other options,” Thomas sighed, reaching for the rifle that lay at his side.
“I once heard that courage is being scared, but saddling up anyway.”
Her words brought a smile to his face as he recognized the quote.
“Too many American movies,” he exclaimed, laughing as he punched her lightly in the shoulder. “I needed that. The good old Duke.”
Her eyes softened and she reached over, putting her hand in his. “I wish you weren’t going.”
Thomas looked away across the mountains, towering stark and wild against the afternoon sky. There seemed to be nothing to say. Words could not express the emotions roiling through his heart. Life seemed so sweet, so precious, here at it’s end.
He looked back to see her angrily wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. His arms opened to her and she fell against him, her body shaking with noiseless sobs as the long-dammed tears broke forth.
“It’s okay,” Thomas whispered, hugging her to him as he repeated the meaningless lie. “It’s all gonna be okay.”
She looked into his eyes and her upturned face was wet with tears. She seemed about to speak, but the words never came.
Her face was only inches from his own and it seemed so natural. He bent down and kissed her, tasting the salt of tears on her lips. She responded with a desperate passion, her arms circling around his neck and holding him close.
Someone cleared his throat behind the couple and Thomas extricated himself from her embrace to find Sirvan standing about five paces off, a distinctly uncomfortable look on his face.
“I will accompany you into the village tonight,” her brother remarked stiffly. “Two men can work faster than one.”
Then he was gone, disappearing back up the mountain path.
Thomas leaped to his feet, the rifle in his hand as he hurried after him. He caught up with Sirvan before the young Kurd could rejoin the main body of fighters.
“Look,” Thomas began, feeling suddenly awkward. “I didn’t mean-I know what you must think-”
Sirvan cut him off before he could even figure out what to say. “I am not an Arab, Thomas. It is none of my concern. If Estere finds your advances unwelcome, she will kill you herself. Anything I might feel inclined to do would be entirely superfluous…”
8:43 A.M. Eastern Time
Freedom Baptist Church
Cypress, Virginia
There were few places in the earth where Harry felt truly at peace. The church he had attended ever since boyhood was one of them.
As he drove in, he found himself marveling once more at the atmosphere of the old church. The building had started life as the church of a Methodist circuit-rider back in the 1800s, a marvelously simple structure.
A single car sat in the parking lot, in the pastor’s space. That was to be expected-the service didn’t start for over an hour.
Harry walked into the auditorium, finding it empty, as he had figured it would be. The lights were off, a single shaft of sunlight streaming in from the eastern window to fall directly upon the altar.
He smiled. It might have been by design of the architect, but in that moment it seemed remarkably providential.
Walking forward, he fell to his knees before the altar. He was so very, very tired, the stress of the Iranian mission and the guilt of losing a team member weighing upon his shoulders.
“Dear Lord,” he began simply, his voice trailing off into silent prayer. Here in the quiet, kneeling in the sunlight, it all came pouring out.
How long he knelt there, he never would know, but when he rose, it was as though a weight had been removed from his shoulders. A reassurance, perhaps.
His beliefs had never been a hindrance to his mission-not in the way some might have thought. Rather they strengthened his resolve. Some might have called his worldview simplistic, but not anyone that truly knew him. In the perpetually clouded world of espionage, he clung to one fundamental truth: Evil existed to be destroyed.
Knowing that, everything else became clear.
There in the stillness, he suddenly felt a presence behind him, the knowledge that someone was there striking home with the certainty of death.
He turned quickly, his hand flickering inside his suit toward the Colt secured in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
“Good morning. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
Harry withdrew his hand, his face relaxing into a smile as he recognized the figure in the back of the auditorium. “No problem, pastor. I had just finished.”
Pastor Scott emerged from the shadows, still in his shirtsleeves, adjusting a microphone to his lapel. “You’ve noticed.”
“Noticed what?” Harry asked.
“The peace. This old church has seen many a battle over the years, but it’s still as peaceful as the first time I walked through the doors. ‘The peace of God, which passeth all understanding.’”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. I had.”
“I’m glad you could join us,” the older man remarked, laying a hand on Harry’s shoulder. If he could feel the straps of the holster, he gave no sign.
“Plans changed,” Harry replied simply. “I’m flying out again tonight.”
“I’ll be praying for you.”
Harry turned, looking the pastor in the eye. They both fought evil, in their own way. Both had seen the dark side of battle. And they regarded each other with the respect of comrades-in-arms. “And I for you…”
9:02 A.M.
Langley, Virginia
The slippery slope. In better times, during his college days at Princeton, Michael Shapiro had dismissed the concept as archaic, a throw-back to the old notions of moral absolutes-right and wrong.
They had been good days, heady times. Looking back he realized he had been just like every other young man. The world on a string. Before the climb to power.
Before his own feet had hit that legendary slope. The Deputy Director’s Suburban slowed to a stop at the first checkpoint of the complex that was the Central Intelligence Agency, and Shapiro sighed, leaning against the back seat of the SUV as his driver handed out their identification.
If a man could see the end of the road, he would never be tempted to sin. The DD(I) passed a hand over his eyes, remembering the words of a priest from his childhood in Boston. The simple life he had left behind in search of power.
His phone rang and his body tensed, dread coursing through his veins. A look at the screen confirmed his worst fears.
That was just the trouble. No man could see the end of the road.
“Hello.”
“Where are you?”
“Just arriving at Langley,” Shapiro replied, wiping a sweaty palm against the knee of his suit pants. “Unfinished business to sort out before I join my family for mass.”
“God will have to wait,” the voice replied with a short, barking laugh. “The Iranian ambassador to the United Nations is in D.C. You need to arrange a meeting with him.”
“When?”
“Today. Within the next two hours, if possible.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Make it happen, Shapiro.”
5:47 P.M. Local Time
Eilat Airport
Eilat, Israel
The Gulfstream IV taxied to a stop behind a large hangar, the steps folding down out of the business jet almost before the engines had shut down.
A tall, dark-haired man in the slacks and a sports jacket of a vacationing businessman emerged, striding down the stairs with the air of a conqueror.
The mechanic working underneath the Learjet in an adjacent hangar paused to stare appreciatively at the young woman on the businessman’s arm, watching as she turned to her companion, laughing artlessly at his joke.
A vision of beauty. With an envious sigh, the mechanic reached for his wrench and went back to work. The girl in the sundress. Tourists…
The girl’s laughter faded as they turned ‘round the corner of the hangar. “We’re clear,” she whispered to her companion.
Gideon Laner toggled his lip mike. “Time to roll, Yossi. Where are you?”
“I’ve got eyes on you, boss. We’re parked at your nine o’clock. See the green SUV?”
“Roger,” Gideon replied. “Coming to you.”
He wrapped an affectionate arm around the young woman’s waist and led her across the parking lot, laughing like a couple very much in love.
The first stage of the mission was a success…
10:08 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
There. Ron Carter’s hand flicked the mouse cursor across the screen, double-clicking on a Deployment folder.
The folder opened in a separate window and he ran two fingers through his hair, a nervous tic common to his moments of anxiety.
The phone rang, jarring him from his concentration. He grabbed it and tucked it between ear and shoulder, his eyes running down the database index that filled the screen.
“Yes? Yes, Stacy, include Morgan in the hourlies-he’s cleared for CRITIC effective last Wednesday. It’s time he got brought up to speed. Yes, I understand.”
A line caught his attention and everything else went blank as he focused in on the screen before. Yes. Yes!
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, ignoring a confused query from the party on the other end of the line.
He abruptly disconnected the call and began dialing a new number. “Margaret, I need to speak to Director Lay.”
7:25 P.M. Tehran Time
The Alborz Mountains
“I’ll make an incision here with my combat knife,” Thomas stated, drawing an imaginary “Y” on his own chest. “Then we will need to saw off the sternum and lift the heart from the chest cavity.”
Sirvan winced. “This is necessary?”
Thomas nodded. “We’ve got to drain blood from the aorta in order to obtain the samples I need. That’s the whole purpose of going down there.” He looked into the young Kurd’s face and went on. “I can do this myself if you’d rather not.”
Azad Badir leaned forward, a resolute look on his weathered face. “You misunderstand my grandson, Thomas. A Kurd has not been born that fears the shedding of blood. It is just that-what you suggest, in our culture, implies the desecration of the dead.”
“I understand,” Thomas replied, choosing his words with care. “But you must understand how important this is. If the Iranians are not stopped, they could use this bacteria anywhere. Against your people again, against mine-or any other. This is our chance.”
The shepherd seemed to consider this statement for a long moment, as though struggling within himself. At length he raised his eyes to look Thomas in the face.
“You are a brave man, Mr. Patterson. I have seen many such, and never have I let bravery go unrewarded. Go, and may Allah guide your feet.”
Thomas stood, picking up the AK from where it lay at his side. “I thank you,” he responded, reaching forward to clasp the shepherd’s hand.
Sirvan rose to his feet, advancing toward him. “It is not right that you should go alone,” he announced grimly. “You have proven yourself as one of the peshmerga. You have killed in our defense. You are blood of our blood and flesh of our flesh. I have given my word and I will not go back.”
Thomas turned, looking into those dark, enigmatic eyes, reading the friendship written there. “Welcome.”
All at once, a sharp buzzing broke the silence among the three men and Azad Badir reached for the satellite phone on his hip.
“Yes? Thomas, it is for you.”
10:34 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“We’ve had a development here, Thomas,” Director Kranemeyer announced, his eyes running down the screen before him in the nerve center of the Clandestine Service.
“Yes?”
“I want you to hold off on your operation in the valley. Carter just located an Army bio-weapons outfit in Mosul. We’ve contacted CENTCOM and are drawing up requisition orders for the bio-suit you’ll need.”
“Make that two, if at all possible,” Thomas interjected. “I have a volunteer. What is your means of delivery?”
“A GPS-guided High Altitude Low Opening HALO drop. We’ll run it out of Q-West again. Should be able to rig up everything you’ll need to properly secure the samples.”
“What is my timeframe?”
“Yet to be determined. I’d say early morning, your time. Any questions?”
“No. I think we’re good.”
11:23 A.M.
A park
Fairfax, Virginia
Perhaps it was a reflection upon his failures as a father that his wife had expressed surprise at his desire to take the children out to the public park. Thinking back, Michael Shapiro couldn’t remember the last time he had done so.
It was a beautiful day, after all. And the twins wouldn’t be harmed by missing mass this once.
He watched them at play, a sad smile curving his lips as he remembered the day they had come home from the hospital. His precious baby boy and girl. The American dream.
They were growing up without him. Perhaps, in the end, that was just as well.
Reaching inside his shirt pocket, Shapiro fingered the small computer flash drive reposing there. He knew what he had to do.
He took a deep breath as though to compose himself, and walked over to a nearby bench, sitting beside a pretty young mother in her twenties as he tied his shoes.
The flash drive wound up stuck to the underside of the bench.
Twenty minutes later, when a swarthy, distinguished-looking man in a tracksuit came jogging by, accompanied by two men that acted suspiciously like bodyguards, the CIA’s Deputy Director never saw them.
Never saw the man sit down and catch his breath, surreptitiously removing the drive as he did so.
He had his back turned to them, pushing his little daughter on the swings. Her high-pitched giggle filled the air as she swung high and a lump grew in Shapiro’s throat.
The American dream…
8:34 P.M. Local Time
Al ‘Aqabah, Jordan
Al ‘Aqabah was friendly territory for Fayood Hamza al-Farouk, but his movements through the bazaar were circumspect, nonetheless. Less than fifteen kilometers from the border with the Zionist state, it was widely suspected that Mossad agents frequented the small town. And the Hezbollah commander was taking no chances. His body bore the scars of past carelessness.
The prepaid cellphone in his pocket buzzed and he pulled it out to look at the screen. It had been two days since activation and only three people had the number.
“Yes?”
“My brother,” a familiar voice announced. “I have a job for you.”
Farouk listened carefully as the man continued to speak. “Eilat, you say? I think you understand the difficulty of getting my men into the city. No, I did not say it was impossible, simply that it would be difficult. What time does the meeting take place?”
“A few minutes before noon tomorrow,” the voice answered. “At the Eilat marina-the Americans must be killed at the outset of the meeting if at all possible.”
“I understand.”
“I repeat, you must kill both of them.”
“It will be done,” Farouk replied, disconnecting the call. A strange thrill of excitement coursed through his veins as he left the bazaar. He hadn’t operated in Israel in months…
9:02 P.M.
A hotel
Eilat, Israel
Richards reattached the scope mount to the receiver of the FN-FAL, his fingers moving quickly along the rifle.
He was on the fifth floor of the hotel, two hundred and fifty yards from the meeting site, according to the laser range-finder that he had brought with him. He could have made that shot over iron sights, but the scope gave him an added measure of security. The Texan was nothing if not cautious.
Finishing his work, he laid the rifle on the bed and slapped a loaded magazine into the mag well of the gun. Ready to go.
A quick check of his watch and he reached for the phone. Time to order dinner-he wasn’t leaving the room until after the meeting went down.
Fifteen hours…
2:57 P.M. Eastern Time
Cypress, Virginia
There was nothing covert about this operation. At least his side of it. That in and of itself bothered Harry. He was naturally a very private individual, and preferred that the circle of information on matters concerning himself be kept very small.
After a moment’s thought, he opened the diplomatic case and threw in an extra set of identification papers, under a Belgian passport. It had served him well in the past and it never hurt to plan ahead.
The case also contained his Colt.45, two loaded magazines, and a box of Federal Hydra-Shok hollowpoints. Being able to carry the gun through security was one of the benefits of his diplomatic immunity. If he was forced to use it…well, that was another story.
The TACSAT vibrated on his hip and he flipped it open. “Davood? What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure,” the agent responded, glancing out the window of his car. “I’m here down the street from Richards’ house. There’s a black Suburban parked in front of it.”
“Any signs of life?”
“That’s a negative. I just called Langley to run the tags. They’ve got a team on the way.”
“All right, here’s what I want you to do,” Harry instructed. “Sit tight and wait until your back-up arrives. I’ve got a plane to catch, but call me if anything changes.”
“Roger that.”
“Take care of yourself.”
Davood replaced the phone in his pocket and looked down the street at Tex’s house, eyeing the privacy fence that ran around the back two-thirds of the property.
After a moment’s reflection, he pushed open his car door and ran toward the fence, drawing his service Glock as he did so…