3:43 A.M. Tehran Time, October 2nd
The Alborz Mountains
Iran
Thomas awoke from his sleep to find Estere bending over him, her hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to go,” she whispered.
He rolled over, shielding the luminous dial of his watch with a hand as he checked the time. “Now?”
“Yes,” she replied, a voice in the darkness. “I want to be across before dawn.”
He rose, quickly collecting his bedroll and weapon. When he was ready, he found her at the mouth of the cave, standing there at the side of her horse.
His clothes were still damp from the rain and the night breeze held a chill in its breath, wispy clouds drifting across the face of the moon. The storm had passed. Even the birds were still at this time of night, the only sound the rushing stream about fifty meters to their west.
“Ready?” She asked, breaking the silence between them. Thomas grinned. “No worries. I was born to hang, not drown.”
Estere ignored the weak attempt at jest and swung a leg up into the saddle, mounting easily. “Of equal danger at this time of year is exposure to the cold. The horses will probably have to swim the stream and we’ll need to dry off on the other side.”
Thomas slung the assault rifle over his shoulder and put a foot in the stirrup, hoisting himself onto the back of the stallion. “Let’s go for it.”
6:57 P.M. Eastern Time
BWI Airport
Baltimore, Maryland
He only had one bag, and he’d kept it in the overhead through the flight. Nice and convenient. The commuter flight had been neither, Vic reflected, pushing his way through the crowded terminal. But, business was pressing. Their last target had arrived home.
A sharp ringing jangle caused him to jump and he retrieved his cellphone from a pouch at his waist. “Hello.”
He listened for a couple moments, then announced. “Good. I’ll meet you in thirty.”
Adrenalin seemed to flow through his tired body as he hung up. Things were coming together…
4:01 A.M. Tehran Time
The Alborz Mountains
Iran
Estere had been right. The waters were ice-cold, flowing down from snow-capped mountains in the north. He could feel it soak through his combat boots and thick socks as Bahoz plunged on into the turbulent stream.
She rode ahead, a dim form in the darkness on the back of the grey. Deeper now, and the horse let out a neigh of protest. Thomas shivered as the water crept higher, eddying around his legs. The chill touch of death. There was no way to know how much longer the black would be able to keep his footing on the streambed. Then…
They were nearly to the center of the stream when it happened. One moment she was riding before him, the next he saw her horse stagger forward, its front legs flailing for traction.
Time seemed to slow down. He heard Estere scream, saw her clutch at the bridle as the current swirled around her, tearing her from the saddle in agonizing slow-motion.
“Estere!” he cried, an anguished cry torn from his lips as he urged Bahoz further into the stream, heedless of his own danger. One goal, a single purpose filling his mind.
Reach her.
His horse lurched to one side as he stepped into deep water, suddenly without footing and swimming for his life.
He could barely descry Estere in the darkness, a bit of flotsam tossed on the water. Out of reach.
Chaos. He felt Bahoz writhe beneath him, the stallion struggling against the current as it bore them both downstream.
And then she was gone. He pulled hard on the reins of the black, endeavoring to regain control, his eyes searching the night.
In vain…
3:09 A.M. Baghdad Time
Qandil Mountains
Iraq
The mountains were quiet. Unnaturally so, Hamid thought, making his way to the perimeter of camp. Perhaps it was nothing more than inbred prejudice against the traditional enemies of his ancestors, but he would be glad when they were safely back in Baghdad.
Sergeant Obregon was on watch and turned to confront Hamid as he approached. “Oh, it’s you, sir,” he acknowledged, lowering his carbine. Hamid chose to ignore the hostility simmering there under the veneer of civility. Some things had to be overlooked.
“Any sign of the Kurds?”
“That’s a negative,” Obregon replied, gesturing toward the NVGs that hung around his neck. “Everything’s quiet.”
“I had noticed. I was a Ranger, once.”
The sergeant turned toward him, a curious expression in his eyes. “You were? Where did you serve?”
“Afghanistan in the early days, up in the north with General Dostum. Tiger 02 of Task Force Dagger.” A grin spread across Hamid’s face as he continued. “Tasked with an Agency liaison in the spring of ‘03, just before I rotated out from my last tour. Most arrogant, irritating sonuvagun I’d ever met. So I know how you feel.”
He turned to see a look of surprise in Obregon’s eyes, protest and denial rising to the lips of the sergeant. “Sir-I don’t-”
Hamid put up a hand to stop the flow of words. “There’s no need, sergeant. I understand. Just don’t let it get in the way of our mission. Agreed?” he asked, extending his right hand.
The sergeant hesitated, then he reached out to take it, grinning as he did so. “Good enough…”
4:10 A.M. Tehran Time
The Alborz Mountains
Iran
There. In the darkness. He saw her for a brief second in time, her upturned face white against the dark waters, close at hand. So close.
He pulled hard on the reins with a strength born of desperation, feeling the stallion fight the surging water.
An upthrown hand in the water and he reached out, the water tearing at him as he leaned from the saddle. Their fingers touched and then parted, her body drawn just out of reach by the torrent.
Again, and he leaned forward, seizing her hand in a frenzied grip. Her fingers felt cold and lifeless in his grasp. A dead weight. Dear God…
She wasn’t going to help him. He wrapped one arm around the thick neck of the swimming stallion for support, using the other to pull her toward him. Pain flowed through his veins as the current swirled around them, nearly pulling his arm from its socket.
He couldn’t remember having ever been so cold. Another hard jerk and she lay across the saddle in front of him, his numb fingers seizing the reins once again.
Whether she was dead or alive, he knew not.
“Now, Bahoz,” he whispered, urging the horse toward the side of the stream, out of the current. The stallion was tiring of the fight. Another few moments and they would be swept downstream, swept to destruction.
The impact jarred Thomas to the bone, the flailing hooves of Bahoz striking once more upon the rocky streambed. Almost.
The black shot from the water with a mighty lunge, bearing his double burden and coming down with a crash in the more torpid waters near shore.
Thomas buried his hands against the warm neck of the stallion as they splashed to shore, the body heat restoring his benumbed fingers.
Safety.
He slid down from the back of the horse, his legs seeming stiff and useless. He reached up and took her limp body in his arms, staggering toward a clump of bushes a few feet from the swollen stream.
So weak. So cold.
His legs gave out from under him half-way there and they crumpled to the ground, bodies entwined together. Tears fell from his eyes as he leaned over her, hands cradling her cold, lifeless face. The end of all dreams…
She coughed suddenly, an almost alien sound striking his ears. Water spewed from her mouth and he laughed, an almost giddy feeling overcoming him as he leaned back, placing both hands on her chest and pressing down to force the water from her lungs. She was alive…
8:04 P.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
It was a lot of information. Almost too much information to be compiled on one man. Certainly not in the last fifteen hours. Harry closed the dossier and handed it back to the waiting Carter. “May I ask why the Agency has taken such an interest in Asefi in the past?”
“The past?” Carter asked, as though he had no idea what Harry was talking about.
“Don’t give me that, Ron,” Harry shot back, rising from his chair. “You didn’t pull all this together since my call this morning. Even the timestamps on these photos-they’re five years old. What’s the history?”
The analyst sighed. “Asefi was involved in an assassination attempt of ours, back in the fall of 2011. You’ve read the file on Isfahani-he’s not always been the sort of cooperative peacenik who would work with the Israelis. He wasn’t the Supreme Leader at the time, but his status as the principal disciple of Khamenei made him one of the most influential clerics behind Iran’s nuclear program. And we tried to take him out.”
Harry stood with his hand on the door, listening. “Tried as in failed?”
“That would be correct. We lost our most important assets running the mission and we didn’t get Isfahani. Largely because of Asefi’s skill in protecting his principal. He may be queer as a three-dollar bill, but he’s a pretty formidable adversary all the same.”
“So then you went after him?” Harry asked, gesturing at the dossier on the table. Carter nodded.
“That’s right. Trying to find something we could exploit-a chink in the armor. And we found it. As they say, follow the money. We found that he had paid out large sums from a credit card over the course of two years to an Eastern European escort service specializing in male hookers. That gave us something to work with, and we planned to use it against him, either trying to get him to take out Isfahani, or give us a window in which to do so.”
“And then President Shirazi came to power, reducing the power of the clerics?” Harry guessed, glancing shrewdly at Carter.
“Exactly. All of a sudden, Isfahani was an unwilling moderate by comparison and we had no reason to target him.”
“Until now.” Nothing in the story surprised Harry-it was the type of thing that went on constantly. Bribery, back-stabbing and blackmail, the way the game was played. It went with the territory. He checked his watch and smiled. “It’s getting late and I’ve had quite a day. When do you plan to run the op on Asefi?”
“You mean when are you going to do it, don’t you?” came the analyst’s retort. “The DCIA needs to sign off, but we plan on having you run him tomorrow.”
“Really?” Harry grinned. “If you don’t mind, I’ll process that bit of intel tomorrow as well.”
“Good night.”
“Night.”
A car was waiting in the parking lot of a convenience store off the CIA access road. The man inside paused only long enough to run a check of the license plate on the back of Harry’s Chevy, then punched speed-dial. “He’s on the road, Vic. Heading home.”
6:33 A.M. Tehran Time
The Alborz Mountains
Iran
“Someone might see the smoke.” Thomas looked up from the small fire he was tending into Estere’s eyes. Even as her lips uttered the protest, she shuddered uncontrollably and leaned closer to the flame, hugging her knees close to her body and drawing the blanket tightly around her.
“Don’t worry about that,” he replied, studying her closely, watching for signs of hypothermia. Their clothes lay in front of the fire, drying out-and absorbing the smoke. The blanket she was wearing, which he had stuffed in a water-tight pack along with the vials of blood, was the only thing dry that was left to them. He reached out and felt the material of his pants. Still too wet to wear, he realized distastefully. The awkwardness between them could be cut with a knife.
All the same, in the face of death, modesty didn’t rank too high on his list of priorities. His or hers.
Thomas dipped his finger into the metal cup of water he had been warming over the embers. “Drink this,” he instructed, raising the cup to her lips.
She drank deeply, a faint smile crossing her lips as she let him take the empty cup away. She was still weak. So terribly weak.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For saving my life. I should have died in those waters.”
He grinned. “Not while I’m around.” He looked into the cup and stood. “I’ll fill this in the stream.”
“Don’t leave me, Thomas.”
“I won’t,” he replied, bending down to kiss her cheek. Her skin was flushed with a dangerous, almost feverish warmth.
“Promise?”
He knelt beside her for a moment, seeing in that moment a side of her, a vulnerability he had never before witnessed. “I’m never gonna leave you,” he whispered, running his fingers through her damp, matted hair. “Never.”
He stood and walked from the small cave, self-conscious in the early dawn as he made his way to the stream. It was then that he heard it, the hair on the back of his neck rising at the sound. A helicopter. Headed their way.
It could only mean one thing. The Iranians were coming.
He turned and sprinted for shelter, bare feet scraping against the rock as he dove for cover, clambering into the cave just as a Mi-24 “Hind” attack helicopter came over the ridge to the north.
“Douse the fire!” he hissed, tearing the blanket from Estere’s back and throwing it over the struggling embers.
The blanket smoldered and then a faint tendril of smoke curled upward from the fabric as the flames died, robbed of oxygen. She reached for the blanket to cover herself and he gave it to her, rolling to the side of the cave where his rifle lay. It was the only weapon they had left after their immersion in the deluge.
A single thirty-round magazine. Little enough. He could only hope the helicopter had been going too fast to notice the clump of bushes where Bahoz was tied.
Hope. And wait…
1:03 A.M. Eastern Time
Grove Manor
Cypress, Virginia
It was his fifth cup of coffee for the night. Or his sixth. It was like the old joke about getting drunk, never sure which glass had done it.
“Give me the rundown on Nichols’ morning routine again,” Vic ordered, draining the cup. The pleasant buzz of caffeine flooded through his system and he put down the empty cup regretfully. He was right there, on the knife’s edge. Any more coffee and he would crash and burn.
The second man lowered his binoculars, turning his attention away from the house across the road. “Bill says his schedule is clear tomorrow morning. Typically, he goes running at 0500 for an hour, then comes back to the house for a shower before heading into work. That’s just a rough approximation, he’s pretty careful to vary his exact time and route. This is what we know for sure-security personnel are coming to watch the house at 0700, so we need to get you inside within that window.”
Vic nodded. A cold breeze swept across the Virginia Piedmont and he zipped up his jacket, feeling the comforting bulge of the Colt Delta Elite 10mm in the holster at his hip. Four hours to go…
10:08 A.M. Tehran Time
The Alborz Mountains
Iran
“They were supposed to be on horseback, were they not?” the corporal asked.
Harun nodded, standing there on the bank of the stream. The mangled grey carcass stretched on the rocks below them was recognizable as a horse, but only if one used their imagination. “The river may have already done our job for us,” he observed, a trace of regret palpable in his tones.
He and the corporal descended the rocks until they stood beside the body. It had been a magnificent animal, he could tell that much.
Whatever the truth, they were at the endpoint of the journey. No human was in sight. At some point along the way, rider and horse had parted company. Finding that point was going to be the key.
Harun turned, waving to the eight men that had accompanied him on his search. “Back in the helicopter. We’ll take to the air once more.”
His pants were dry at least. It amazed him how confidence-restoring that alone was. Thomas laid down the rifle and moved back to Estere’s side, placing a hand against her forehead. She was still feverishly warm, slipping in and out of lucidity as the morning had progressed.
He reached inside his pouch for the TACSAT, once again thanking whomever had possessed the forethought to make it waterproof.
The call was picked up on the second ring, a burst of static as the encryption sequence finished.
“Where are you?”came Hamid’s voice. “We were expecting you to be at the rendevous by now.”
“Listen, we nearly drowned crossing the river and now we’ve got an Iranian attack helicopter breathing down our necks. Is that reason enough for you?”
“Take it easy, Thomas,” Hamid replied, his voice low and urgent. “I’m not the enemy. Just calm down and tell me where you are.”
“Near as I can tell, we’re about ten, eleven klicks from the border, holed up in a cave.”
“Are you mobile?”
“Yes. We’ve still got one horse, but my guide is suffering from hypothermia. I’m not sure she should be moved in this fever.”
“Leave her, Thomas.”
He heard Estere moan and looked over to where she lay, turning helplessly on the blanket. He had needed to dress her, like one would a baby. “I can’t.”
“Excuse me? Thomas, you know how important those vials are. They’re more important than any one of us. Now I’m going to press my men as close to that blasted border as my orders will let me. Meet us there. Follow protocol.”
Protocol. The cold, hard rules of tradecraft. They hadn’t been designed for situations like this, Thomas thought, ending the call. Protocol be hanged. He wasn’t going to leave her. He had promised…
“Where’s Parker?” Davood asked, coming up as Hamid shoved the TACSAT back in his pocket.
Hamid told him as the two men walked back to the Humvee. “Sergeant Obregon!”
“Yes?” Obregon asked, poking his head out the door of the vehicle.
“What do we have in the way of antiaircraft capability?”
11:11 A.M.
Make a wish. The thought struck Thomas with astonishing absurdity. A memory from an old girlfriend. Eleven minutes past eleven. The time for wish-making.
He had only one. That they might reach the border alive. Estere moved restlessly in his arms as he lifted her into the saddle. “Where are we going?” she murmured, turning her flushed face toward him.
“Home, baby. Home.”
“America?” A light shone ever so briefly in her eyes. “I’ve-I’ve always wanted to go there…”
“You’ve got it, girl,” he whispered, forcing cheer into his voice as she drifted back into the grasp of the fever. “America.”
The helicopter flew over the streambed at treetops level, the rotor wash churning the water into a frenzy as it passed. Rocket pods hung from pylons on either side of the fuselage, a four-barreled 12.7-mm cannon protruding assertively from the chin of the gunship.
A killing machine. A hunter…
3:13 A.M. Eastern Time
Grove Manor
Cypress, Virginia
Lights out, the sport utility vehicle slowed along the road and then came to a stop near where they stood. Illegal, yes, but that was better than the alternative of blowing their mission.
Vic watched as a young woman stepped from the driver’s seat, into the Virginia night. Dressed in sweatpants and a light jacket, there was nothing in her appearance to attract attention. She looked like any one of a thousand soccer moms in the Mid-Atlantic region.
“Are we still go-mission?” she asked, coming up to the pair of men.
Vic nodded. “You’re to tail Nichols on his run. Are you armed?”
“You know it.” She opened her jacket to reveal a subcompact Kahr 9mm holstered close to her torso. “We’ve got what, two hours?”
“Right. Then we earn our pay…”
12:34 P.M. Tehran Time
Alborz Mountains
Iran
The Ranger beacon had been deployed, and Thomas saw it as a flashing symbol on the screen of his TACSAT. They had six kilometers to go.
He bent forward over the neck of the horse, holding Estere in front of him, an arm wrapped tightly around her waist.
Trees covered the slope of the mountain, shielding them from hostile eyes above. He urged the horse forward at a breakneck speed, winding in and out between the trees, jumping over fallen logs on the slope. He could still hear the helicopter in the distance. Looking for them. Hunting them down.
He felt the Kalishnikov dig into his back and wondered at the futility of the weapon. No time, no way to fight. In the age-old question of fight or flight, their fate had already been decided.
Flee…
Harun was in the open door of Mi-24 as it swept low over the trees, cursing angrily. Forests were not uncommon in the southwestern Alborz, but having his prey flee into one was a bitter pill. That they were in there was not in doubt. Not according to the words of BEHDIN, the faithful one.
Harun fingered the headset, thinking back to the communication five minutes before with the sleeper agent. The American was somewhere in the forest below them, scarce six kilometers from the border. He was running out of time.
An idea struck him suddenly and he switched comm channels, over to the frequency used by the pilot of the helicopter. “Set my men and me down in the nearest clearing,” he instructed, speaking loudly to ensure that he was heard over the roar of the engines. “Then proceed to the western edge of the forest, near the Iraqi border, and set up patrol. We will drive them toward you.”
11:54 A.M. Baghdad Time
Qandil Mountains
Iraq
“Ever used one of those things before?” Hamid asked, glancing critically at the Stinger SAM clutched in Sergeant Obregon’s hands.
The Hispanic nodded. “Where?” came the next question, but he just grinned.
“Not allowed to say, amigo.”
A few chuckles greeted his retort, but they were few and far between. Tension pervaded the atmosphere as the men waited, eyes on the wooded mountainside a mile away. One of the Rangers rested the barrel of his M249 SAW on the hood of the Humvee as the other two members of the squad stood by, M-4 carbines at the ready.
The two CIA men had donned flak jackets and unslung their own rifles, accurized AK-74s. The sight of the Eastern Bloc weapons had raised a few eyebrows at first, but there were no comments now. Just silence.
And they waited…
Thomas drew up at the edge of the forest, dismounting in the underbrush to aim his binoculars in the direction indicated by the beacon. The ground between them was open, marked by only an occasional tree. Naked as the surface of the moon. A canyon stretched off to the north, adding to the austerity of the landscape.
He lowered the binoculars and listened, ears alert for any sound of the helicopter. He hadn’t heard it for nearly fifteen minutes. Perhaps it had gone.
“Any sign of the bird?” he asked, holding the TACSAT to his ear.
“That’s negative,” came Hamid’s calm, reassuring voice. “Come on in.”
He swung back up onto the back of the stallion, touching Estere on the shoulder as he took the reins once more in his hands. “We’re going home.”
A weak smile crossed her lips and she squeezed his fingers. “Good…”
It was time to go. He took a deep breath and kicked the horse into a gallop, out across the open ground…
4:01 A.M. Eastern Time
Grove Manor
Cypress, Virginia
He had always been an early riser, even as a kid. But not this early. Harry leaned over and looked at the clock on his nightstand. Just a couple minutes past four. Something was wrong.
He swung out of bed and pulled on his jeans, reaching for the.45 on the nightstand. A round was already in the chamber, hammer back the way it always was. He finished dressing in the dark, unable to shake himself free from the feeling of danger.
Anymore, he no longer tried. It had saved his life too many times.
12:02 P.M. Baghdad Time
Qandil Mountains
Iraq
Hamid felt himself holding his breath as he saw the horse emerge from the treeline, galloping hard toward the border. He raised the binoculars to his eyes, making out the form of Thomas on its back. And the woman.
The two CIA men were standing on a small hillock about fifteen meters in front of the Ranger Humvee. He looked back down the hill, realizing Thomas was out of the Rangers’ line of sight. It didn’t matter. Just another couple minutes.
Then it happened, suddenly and without warning. An Mi-24 attack helicopter swept into view, out of the canyon to the north. A huge, menacing bird of prey sweeping down on the horseman from behind.
Hamid screamed out a warning and thrust Davood to the earth, bringing his rifle up into firing position. There was no time.
No time. The horse’s hooves pounded a grim tattoo against the hard-packed earth, toward the border. Painfully slow.Thomas felt his entire body tense, waiting for the gunship to open fire.
Any moment now, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. His options had decreased to a singular course. One option.
Fate. He urged the horse forward, guiding him first right, then left, slaloming like a skier down a snowy hill.
A horrible sound broke from the sky behind them as the helicopter’s cannon began firing, a roar like canvas ripped in the hands of a giant, 12.7-mm shells biting into the ground around them.
The next instant, a terrible whinnying cry echoed from the lips of the stallion and Thomas went flying over its head.
Pain. He struck the ground with a bone-jarring thud, rolling over and over on the earth as plumes of dust erupted around his body. The Kalishnikov was laying a few feet from his outstretched hand, just out of reach.
A scream pierced his numbed mind and he turned to see Estere go down, her body hit repeatedly, riddled by bullets. She cried out again and started to crawl toward him, pain distorting the beauty of her features.
“No!” It took Thomas a moment to realize the cry had come from his own lips. He hurled himself forward, his world narrowing to one focus, a sole purpose. Save her…
Sergeant Obregon hurtled up the hill, dropping to one knee beside Hamid’s firing position. The Stinger was already locked-on, beeping TARGET ACQUIRED.
Missile away…
She was dying. He knew that, her blood soaking his shirt as he held her close. A stinging pain tore at his side as the helicopter bore down upon the helpless couple.
They were going to die.
All at once, Thomas heard a sound, like a fiery arrow arcing through the air. He looked up just in time to see the sky explode in flame as the missile connected with its target, directly impacting the Hind’s port engine.
Molten pieces of metal showered down upon them as the helicopter staggered off course, going down. He held her close, sheltering her with his body, only too aware of the futility of the gesture.
“Stay with me, baby,” he whispered desperately. “Just stay with me.”
Another explosion pierced his consciousness as the helicopter slammed into the ground a hundred yards away. Inferno…
Harun arrived at the edge of the treeline just in time to see the helicopter hit by a SAM. “Spread out,” he ordered, waving his men forward. “We need the American.”
He checked the chamber of his rifle once more in a nervous gesture. It was loaded. Then they were moving, fanned out across the hill as they moved into the open.
She coughed, tiny flecks of blood spattering against Thomas’s cheek as he held her there against his shoulder. Breathing was an effort now as she drifted in and out of consciousness.
He laid her body on the ground, careful to move her gently. “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded as she felt his hands move away.
“Don’t worry,” he bent over to kiss her forehead. “We’re going home.”
“America?” A light shone ever so briefly in those beautiful eyes.
“Yeah,” he lied bravely. “America.”
He looked up to see Hamid standing over them, a grim, shadowed look on the Iraqi’s face. “She’s not going to make it,” he stated, his voice quiet.
“She needs a medic,” Thomas shot back, unwilling to face it. Not now. “Do you have IVs?”
Hamid started to nod, then movement out of the corner of his eye caused him to turn. Just as the shooting started.
Harun dove toward the ground as the Americans started to return fire, cursing as he did so. One of his men had lost his nerve and opened up too soon. He saw the offender stagger and fall, cut down by enemy fire, and Harun smiled. Justice…
“Get him back to the vehicle!” Hamid yelled, going prone near the body of the horse and aiming his AK-74 over the corpse.
Two Rangers took hold of Thomas by the arms and pulled him away from the scene, hurrying him back toward the border and the waiting Humvee.
Hamid toggled the switch on his lip mike. “Disengage and fall back. We are on the wrong side of the border. I repeat, disengage.”
He knelt by the girl’s side, feeling carefully for a pulse. There was none. His gaze swept over her bullet-riddled torso, up to where her sightless eyes stared skyward. Such a waste, he reflected, taking his fingers and gently closing her eyes in a final gesture of respect. Time to go…
4:23 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“We just received a message from Officer Zakiri,” the communications officer stated, poking her head into Daniel Lasker’s cubicle. “They have Parker and are exfiltrating from the Qandil. He’s been shot in the side, a flesh wound.”
“They had trouble, Michelle?”
The woman nodded. “An Iranian helicopter showed up just as they were crossing. They were forced to bring it down.”
Lasker took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll need to wake up the DCIA. We’ve got to start putting together a story. Do they have the blood samples?”
“I don’t know,” she replied after a moment. “Zakiri didn’t say.”
“Then call him back. Lay will want to know.”
12:28 P.M. Baghdad Time
Qandil Mountains
Iraq
Thomas winced as the Humvee went over a bump, feeling pain shoot through his side as the adrenaline faded from his system. Hamid was wrapping a bandage around his mid-section and he looked up into the Iraqi’s eyes. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
A nod was the only reply he received. Thomas fell silent, fighting against the emotions inside him. To have left her that way.
Hamid’s TACSAT went off and he motioned for Davood to pick it up, as he tightened the bandage firmly against the wound.
“They want to know if we have the vials,” Davood stated over a moment, covering the phone with his hand.
A look of surprise spread over the Iraqi’s face. “Didn’t you get them?”
“No.”
Hamid banged his fist against the door of the Humvee, swearing under his breath. “We can’t go back for it-that place is swarming with military. Tell Langley that the mission was a wash.”
“Wait.” It was Thomas’s voice.
“What’s the matter?”
Grimacing against the pain, he reached into the remnants of his jacket and pulled a pair of vials from an inner pocket. “I got these.”
“Affirmative, Langley,” Davood responded. “The package is secure. In transit.”
4:49 A.M. Eastern Time
Grove Manor
Cypress, Virginia
“The front door just opened. We have a twenty on Nichols.”
“He’s leaving early,” Vic observed, stamping his feet against the ground. “Are you ready to move, Terri?”
“Already on the road,” the woman’s voice replied over his headset.
Harry felt the lock click behind him and then he was out, into the darkness. There was something he loved about this time, the early morning before the world was awake. He was a creature of the night, at his most comfortable when surrounded by darkness.
But something was wrong. He could feel it in the air. He was wearing a light jacket, the.45 holstered underneath close to his side.
He picked up the pace, jogging out onto the country road that ran past his house. The countryside had changed greatly since his parents had been alive, the urban sprawl spreading out from Alexandria and Richmond in all directions. But Cypress had somehow escaped, remaining a largely rural community. At times, that was a good thing.
“Start moving, Vic. I’m on him.”
At her words, he leaped from his cover and ran toward the back door of the manor, ducking low to minimize his silhouette against the moonlight.
The security system was sophisticated, but nothing he wasn’t capable of handling. His only problem was time-Nichols’ early departure had thrown them. Was he going to stick to his routine, or cut the run short today?
The woman had been behind him for ten minutes. She wasn’t a local, Harry knew that much for certain. It was the main reason he still lived in Cypress, despite the commute and other disadvantages. Someone who didn’t belong stuck out like a sore thumb.
Speaking of sore… He slowed down and limped to the side of the road, sitting down and breathing heavily.
Her pace never slackened as she ran toward him and he watched her come, his hand across his stomach and near the butt of his Colt.
“You all right?” she asked, slowing as she came up. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, a pleasant if not pretty face gazing down upon him. A wire ran from her ear to what looked like an MP3 player at her waist.
“Stomach cramps,” he responded with a grimace.
A look of concern came into her eyes. “Are you going to make it all right?”
“Yeah, just need to catch my breath. The doctor said I needed to run every morning and I’m going to do it if it kills me,” Harry joked.
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” she replied, chuckling at his humor. “Good luck and enjoy your run.”
She seemed to pass on almost reluctantly, hitting her stride again only when she was twenty yards beyond him.
“I’ve been made,” she hissed into her lip mike once she was out of earshot of Nichols.
“You’re sure?”
“He had a case of stomach cramps and sat down by the edge of the road,” was her bitter retort. “Fine actor, but-”
“But fifteen-year spec-ops veterans don’t get stomach cramps from running three hundred yards,” the other man finished for her.
“Exactly. And he’s packing.”
“Vic, are you hearing this? Are you in?”
“Yes to both questions. Where is he now?”
“He just passed me, I’m laying here in the stubble of a corn field.”
“Be more careful next time.”
She was behind him again. He could feel her, a palpable presence there in the darkness and he pressed on. Just a couple hundred yards more.
A mailbox loomed ahead of him and he turned in, his feet pounding down a gravel driveway. The building at the end had started life as a barn until it had been renovated in the ‘60s as a country house by an enterprising lobbyist in the Johnson administration.
Harry went up to the front step and slid back a metal hinge on the door handle, exposing a biometric scanner. A quick scan of his thumbprint and he was in, closing the door carefully behind him.
The front rooms were nicely-furnished, giving the impression of middle-class occupancy. He didn’t spend much time there within view of the windows, making his way through the darkness to the basement door.
“He went into a house,” Vic heard the woman declare, giving his partner an address to run down.
“Stay there and stay out of sight,” she was instructed. Vic diverted his attention from the conversation in his ear, focusing instead on Nichols’ desk. A laptop computer sat closed in the top drawer of the desk and he took it out, doing a careful examination of it for any possible hazards.
His partner’s voice came back on the network. “The deed was registered in the name of Manuel Diaz in 2005.”
“And?” Terri asked.
“He’s not your average Joe Sixpack. Nichols served with this guy when he first joined the CIA.” There was a long pause, silence filling up the other end of the network. “We’re looking at something strange here-running cross-check now-Diaz died in 2003. Somebody used his identity to buy the house.”
“Nichols?”
Harry adjusted the night-vision goggles to his eyes as he made his way through the subterranean darkness. The tunnel was the second reason he had stayed in Cypress, in the old family house. Judging by a date chiseled into a limestone rock near the manor house entrance, the tunnel had been constructed in the early days of the Civil War, as a means of traveling unseen between the manor and the stables. When the barn had been renovated in the 1960s, the exit had been covered up by rubble and never uncovered during the lobbyist’s occupancy.
Harry had finally secured the second property following the death of the owner and used it as his own personal safehouse, registering the deed in the name of a close colleague at the Agency.
Wooden stairs appeared, their outline a dark green through the lens of the goggles. He paused at their bottom to unzip his jacket, withdrawing the.45 from its holster. Time to roll…
5:21 A.M.
“Where are we at, Vic?”
Vic sighed in exasperation. “Do I have to answer that question every five minutes?”
“Just nervous, I guess. Nichols still hasn’t left this bogus property and no lights have been turned on. It’s like he’s waiting for something.”
“He’s a career operator. Cautious. Can you blame him? Believe me, that caution extends to his computer security. It’s one of the most thorough jobs I’ve ever seen.”
“Nice to know my work is appreciated,” a new voice cut in. Vic whirled on heel to find himself staring into the muzzle of a.45 Colt. The man behind the gun was tall, his height seemingly accentuated by a pair of NVGs perched atop his head. Cold blue eyes stared down the barrel of the Colt at Vic. But he knew the face well, from a dozen surveillance photos taken over the last week. Harold Nichols.
“Take off the wire and give it here,” Nichols instructed carefully, his voice even. Determined. The look on his face told Vic he would shoot without hesitation if his orders were not followed.
The CIA man took the microphone from him and crushed it against the floor, his gaze never wavering. “Now, I don’t need to know who you are. Names are irrelevant and I know you’re the man who was following us at the service station five days ago. What I want to know is who you’re working for.”
Vic took a deep breath. “My ID is in my wallet-may I?”
A smile crossed Nichols’ face and he cocked his head. “Left hand, and do it slowly. Very slowly.”
Harry watched the man as he reached into his back pocket, moving awkwardly with his left hand. The wallet came back out and fell open, disclosing a blue shield. The man smiled suddenly. “Special Agent Victor Caruso. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation…”
5:30 A.M.
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
Carter came bustling through the door of the op-center with his jacket over his arm, a cup of steaming coffee in his right hand and a bagel clenched firmly between his teeth.
“I’ve got a call for you, Ron,” Michelle announced, looking up from her terminal. “Harold Nichols, on your secure line.”
He rolled his eyes and gestured toward her with the cup of coffee. “I’ll transfer it to your workstation,” she replied.
He mumbled something that might have been “thanks” and hurried to his cubicle, punching the speaker button as he bit off a chunk of bagel and deposited his coffee beside the computer. “Good grief, Harry,” he began with his mouth full, “do you suppose you could have picked a busier time to call? I haven’t been here five minutes and we’re already running damage control on an international situation. Everything’s gotta be tight before the intelligence briefing in an hour. Is this important?”
“I’m sitting here in my den with a gun pointed at a burglar who claims to be working for the Bureau. So, no, to answer your question, it’s not important,” Harry retorted acidly. “Not important at all.”
6:13 A.M.
Grove Manor
Cypress, Virginia
Harry looked from the picture on his TACSAT’s screen to the handcuffed man sitting in front of him and back again. “You check out,” he announced finally.
The FBI agent smiled. “What did I tell you? Now safe that blamed pistol before you hurt somebody with it.”
“We’re not done yet,” Harry announced, rising from his chair, the cocked.45 still leveled at the agent’s mid-section. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here, in my house.”
Caruso looked back at him, unruffled. “As a federal agent without powers of arrest, you don’t have the authority to interrogate me regarding the nature of my warrant.”
Taking him by the collar of his jacket, Harry pulled the agent to his feet, propelling him toward the door. “For now, it’ll suffice that I’m the guy with the gun. Come on, we’ve got a trip to take.”
The first faint traces of dawn were creeping over the Piedmont as the pair exited from the side door of the house. Harry pushed the FBI man toward the large outbuilding that served as his garage.
“How did you get back into the house?” Caruso demanded, looking back over his shoulder as they entered the garage.
Harry snorted, opening the door of his sedan. “Wouldn’t you just love to know. Get in, you’re driving.”
A man in the treeline across the road watched through binoculars as the garage door opened and the two men drove out onto the road. “Get Director Haskel on the phone. Agent Caruso is in CIA custody.”
7:01 A.M.
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“What is the Bureau doing running an investigation of our operators?” David Lay wondered aloud, looking up from his desk into the eyes of Ron Carter.
“I don’t know, sir. Nichols and this Agent Caruso just arrived at the main gate, so we may get some answers soon.”
“He brought him here?”
“Yes, sir. I authorized the visitor’s pass for Caruso, although I’m told Nichols has him in handcuffs.”
The DCIA chuckled. “An FBI agent in irons. That alone should be worth the price of admission.”
The phone on his desk buzzed and he picked it up. “Sir,” his secretary began, “I have Director Eric Haskel on line 4.”
Lay rolled his eyes. “That didn’t take long. Put him through.”
The phone beeped twice and then the transfer was complete. “Good morning, Eric,” Lay greeted cheerfully.
The FBI director did not reciprocate. “I’m informed that you have one of my people, Lay. An agent named Victor Caruso.”
“Your sources are good, Eric. I was only told fifteen minutes ago myself.”
“I want him released. At once.”
The congeniality went out of Lay’s voice. “ And I’d like to know why your agents have been pulling black bag jobs on my men. Any answers?”
A long silence. “Let me place a call.”
“To whom? Blast it, Eric, who authorized this operation?”
“Let’s set up a video-conference for nine o’clock,” Director Haskel said after a moment. “I will then read you in on the operation, if I am authorized to do so.”
Lay looked up at Ron and shook his head, puzzled by the words of the Bureau chief. “I want Ron Carter and Harold Nichols read in as well.”
When Haskel responded, there was uncertainty in his voice. “I’ll get back to you.”
4:34 A.M. Pacific Time
The Hilton
San Diego, California
“That’s where we stand, Mr. President,” Cahill announced, moving back from the whiteboard he had been writing on. “As of today. With a month to go.”
“Problem areas, Ian?” Hancock asked, leaning forward on the couch. He covered a yawn with his hand. Late nights and early mornings would be the death of him, but she had made him feel young again.
“A number of them, Mr. President, and regrettably, many of them are beyond our control.”
“Such as?”
“The price of oil, for example,” Cahill responded, taking the red marker in his hand and underlining an item on the board. The chief of staff was old school and avoided powerpoint presentations as though they were the work of the devil. “It’s hitting Americans below the belt every time they fuel up. And they’re going to remember this on Election Day. I have the Gallup poll here on your handling of the economy. Thirty-two percent approval, Mr. President. I don’t have to tell you how bad that is. And while your latest stimulus package met with a mixed reception on Main Street, there’s not a thing you can do regarding the price of oil.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Hancock said, his voice quiet.
Cahill turned toward him. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean things may turn around in the Middle East.” The President shrugged. “There’s always that possibility.”
A snort came from the Chicago strategist. “As long as those Jews squat on the Muslim promised land? Not very likely. I’ll tell you what you can do.”
“And that would be?”
“Stop bedding young staffers and spend some time with your wife, take her on a romantic weekend getaway, anything-I’m telling you, Roger, if any of this gets out, this close to the election…you are through! Done, finished. Fini.”
Hancock chuckled. “I know you were a top student in parochial school, Ian, but your Latin is less than impressive.”
“You’re not taking this seriously,” Cahill retorted, disbelief in his tones.
The President rose and crossed the room to place his finger on the whiteboard. “Oil, Ian. If the price of oil went through the floor, if Americans could fill up their cars for what they could six, even seven years ago-what would you give our chances?”
“The economy’s just a part of it, but with a drop in gasoline prices and barring a sex scandal, I’d say we had it in the bag. Norton’s good, but he doesn’t have anything to beat that.”
“Consider it done,” Hancock responded, enjoying the incredulous look on Cahill’s face. It was a rare sight.
The phone rang before the chief of staff could pose the question forming on his lips. “FBI Director Eric Haskel on line 2, Mr. President.”
“Put him through.”
7:59 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“Just the man I wanted to see.” Harry walked out of the elevator and looked up to see Ron Carter bearing down on him.
“What did you do with Agent Caruso?” the analyst asked without further preamble.
“Left him downstairs with Security. Any word on what type of investigation the Bureau is running?”
“A conference call is set up with Haskel at 0900. In the meantime, you’re to meet Carol Chambers in Conference Room #11. She’ll debrief you on this morning’s encounter and start prep for the call to Asefi.”
“We have go-mission on that now?”
“You know it.”
5:25 P.M. Tehran Time
The Presidential Palace
Tehran
“I am happy to report, sir, that the American did not escape with samples of the toxin.” President Shirazi lifted his eyes to look into the monitor above his desk, displaying the video uplink from the border. He smiled. “Well done, Harun. You have confirmed this?”
“Yes, sir. Plastic vials were recovered from the saddlebags of the dead horse. They contained the blood samples he was transporting. Having brought the Americans under fire, they were unable to retrieve the vials before we closed in.”
“You have pleased me, my nephew, but your work is not yet done. I want you to return to Tehran as soon as possible.”
“As you will, sir.”
Shirazi hit a button on his remote and the monitor went black. He rose and walked across his office. Fate. Destiny.
The will of Allah. It didn’t much matter what one called it, the end result was the same. His fingers trembled at the thought of it. This was the purpose for which he had been born.
Casualty reports lay on his desk, estimates of the Jews and Muslims who would die in the attack. They were only the beginning. The world would be set aflame…
8:27 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“Do you know whether this Agent Caruso was acting alone? Was his, in effect, a solo mission?” Carol Chambers asked, looking up from her notes.
Harry shook his head. “No, he had a woman follow me on my run, so that gives you two. Standard protocol would be a third person who would hang back and provide coordination and overwatch. Minimum three.”
“So that would likely be how Director Haskel found out so quickly?”
“Correct.”
She turned back to her laptop and began typing. “If you’ll give me a moment, I need to get this forwarded to the DCIA immediately. Then we’ll prepare for your call to Achmed Asefi.”
“Good.” Harry remained seated, watching her as she typed. “One thing Carter didn’t say-how did we get a current number for Asefi?”
“If Ron didn’t tell you, I’m sure you don’t need to know,” she replied, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.
Harry shrugged. “If that’s the way you want to be.”
“Just jerking your chain,” Carol retorted with a laugh. “Let’s put it this way. Asefi is a dirtbag.”
“I gathered as much.”
“Carter told you about the whorehouse in Bulgaria?”
“An ‘Eastern European escort service’, was I believe the delicate way he described it,” Harry responded with a smile.
“A whorehouse in Bulgaria,” she repeated, looking over the top of her computer at him. “Asefi left contact information there, updated every two months. It seems that they have periodic access to young boys, and our man wanted to stay in the loop on the hottest ‘deals’.”
“So, we’re negotiating with a pedophile,” Harry said after a moment.
“That’s right. We don’t know if the contact number will connect us directly with Asefi or whether he has a cut-out, but the director has given the go-ahead.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
5:58 P.M. Tehran Time
The training camp
Isfahan, Iran
Chaos. As a warrior, Hossein had always been tasked with its creation, its manipulation. Having it thrust upon him was another matter.
He looked at the model on his desk, a model of their target made from bits of wood and clay by a recruit who had been considerably more skilled at art than he was with a rifle. He was gone now, along with the rest of the ineffectives.
Hossein rose and crossed the room, carefully considering and rejecting his options each in turn. He could still hear Isfahani’s words, streaming through his mind.
“I want the biological agent. Do not allow it to fall into the hands of the infidel.”
Then why, he had asked, are we going to all this bother?
“Allah has not given us this gift that it might be squandered by madmen,” the Ayatollah had replied. “It is ours to seize and hold. For His glory. Fear not, He will aid our cause.”
Hossein’s fingers stroked the dome of the model absently as he stood there, lost in thought. Somehow, pragmatist that he was, the promise of divine intervention seemed less than helpful. Semantics aside, it did nothing to conceal the truth.
This was a suicide mission…
8:57 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“Nichols,” Lay acknowledged Harry’s arrival with a brief greeting. “We’re almost ready to begin.”
Carter looked up from the laptop in front of him. “All due respect, sir, but I would like to point out that Director Haskel did not agree to read Nichols in on the FBI’s mission.”
“Haskel is not in charge here,” Lay announced, turning to glare at his top analyst. “I am. He got caught with his pants down and I’ll be hanged if he’s going to dictate terms. If you will, Harry, sit at that end of the conference table. You’ll be out of camera range, but able to hear what goes on.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Lay adjusted his tie, a nervous tic Harry had seen many times before. Putting on his battle face.
The phone in front of Lay buzzed. “Director Haskel is waiting for you to start, sir.”
“Good.” Lay reached for the remote and powered up the LCD monitor on the opposite wall. After a couple seconds, the visage of the FBI director appeared on-screen.
“Good morning, Director Lay. Shall we get started?”
Lay’s face didn’t change. “That would be a good idea, Eric. I’m meeting with Colonel Mueller of GSG-9 at eleven, so don’t waste my time.”
“I don’t intend to. A week ago, director, your agency put this country in the peril of great embarrassment with the poor execution of Operation TALON.”
Harry could see the surprise written in the DCIA’s eyes, but he made no expression of it. “Following the revelation that someone was responsible for leaking mission-sensitive intelligence to the Iranians,” Haskel continued, “the President asked my Bureau to run a covert investigation of your Agency.”
“Redundant,” Lay objected. “We had already launched our own investigation of the incident through Lucas Ellsworth and the inspector general’s office.”
“Perhaps. Have you traced the source of the leak?”
“That information is classified,” came Lay’s sharp retort.
“Which is another way of saying you haven’t.” An irritatingly superior expression spread across the face of the FBI chief.
The DCIA leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished wood of the conference table. “And you have?”
“Our investigation was unfortunately interrupted this morning by the actions of one of the men under scrutiny, but we had already identified a person of interest in the matter.”
“Indeed?”
On-screen, Haskel could be seen to open a folder laying on his desk. “Our investigation came to focus upon one man. He is a paramilitary operations officer in your Clandestine Service. A man with the motive, the access, and the opportunity to betray your mission.”
“Go on.”
“The man’s name is Davood Sarami.”
Harry’s face froze at the declaration. Davood? It couldn’t be. No. There was no way he could have betrayed the team.
“And may I ask what caused your investigation to center on Officer Sarami?” Lay asked, his posture stiff, unmistakably hostile.
“Our investigation of the field team was thorough. Our focus turned to Sarami after we delved into the financial records of the mosque he attends in Falls Church. The imam there, Abdul Faisal Shabaz, a naturalized citizen of this country, has given large sums of money, ostensibly from his congregation, to a charity based out of Amman, Jordan.”
“Get to your point,” Lay ordered irritably when the FBI director paused for effect.
“The charity has close ties to Hezbollah and Hamas. In 2009, Shabaz was photographed with this man.” A picture came flashing up on screen, momentarily blocking their view of Haskel’s face. “Fayood Hamza al-Farouk. Thirty-two years of age, one of the bright young men of Hezbollah. He’s led field operations for the past three years following his successful assassination of a member of the Knesset.”
“So he was not a leader of their organization at the time of this photograph?”
“That is correct. However, he was on his way up. As you can confirm, he’s been on our watchlists for the better part of the last decade.”
“I recognize the name. Do you have any direct connections between Sarami and al-Farouk?”
“Not as of yet. As stated, our operation was blown this morning when one of your other paramilitary operations officers, one Harold Nichols, took it upon himself to pull a gun on Agent Caruso. I am still awaiting word of his release.”
“Wait away, it’s no skin off my nose. So, let me get this straight, your only tie between Sarami and Hezbollah is this imam?”
“That is correct. Undercover agents in the Muslim community in Virginia report that Sarami is seen as being very close to Shabaz, apparently regarding him as a spiritual mentor. Another point of concern is the activities of Sarami’s parents. His father is a partner in a legal firm based in Dayton, which took upon itself pro bonowork for several notable Guantanamo detainees back in 2011.”
“As did every fashionably liberal law firm in the country,” Lay responded with forced humor. “We knew that when Sarami entered training. If you have nothing more to offer, director, I believe we will bring this conversation to a close.”
“I want my agent. Under the provisions of the CIA’s charter, your detention of him is illegal, and I want him released immediately unless you want action to be taken.”
The DCIA seemed unperturbed. “He was processed out five minutes ago. Sorry, Eric, but you need to get your act together before you start making threats. Good day.”
The screen went black and a heavy, awkward silence fell over the conference room. Lay sighed heavily. “What do we have, Ron?”
The analyst’s face was pained as he looked up from his computer. “It’s not good, boss. The Israelis have fingered al-Farouk as being responsible for the attack on our field team at Eilat, based on security footage showing him in the hotel forty-five minutes before the blast.”
Harry sat there in stunned disbelief. It wasn’t possible. That Davood had betrayed the team, betrayed their brotherhood…
He heard Lay ask, “Was Sarami cleared for the Eilat mission?”
“Yes,” Carter replied. “He was fully aware of operational details.”
Through the swirling fog of emotion, Harry heard his name called and looked up to see Lay staring at him. “I will need you to contact Hamid Zakiri and alert him to the new intelligence.”
“Sir,” Harry began, “with all due respect, I would like to protest this. I have served with Davood, I’ve fought side by side with him, for heaven’s sake! I don’t want to see him hung out to dry on evidence this circumstantial.”
The DCIA seemed to ponder his words. “Not before TALON, right?”
“Sir?”
“You had not served with Sarami prior to TALON, had you?”
“That is correct.”
“Your loyalty to your men is commendable,” Lay began slowly. “And I believe we need to work circumspectly here. We have thousands of dollars of training invested in Sarami. Should he be in fact innocent of the suspicion now fixed upon him, we do not want that money to go to waste. But we need to be careful. Sarami will continue to serve in the field-but I will be counting on you to keep an eye on him. You and your team, so I want you to contact Zakiri ASAP. Are we running the same play?”
“Yes, sir.”
5:35 P.M. Baghdad Time
Station Baghdad
Iraq
Memories. Hot water cascaded down Thomas’s body as he stood beneath the pulsating showerhead, his thoughts wandering unbidden.
I’m never gonna leave you. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her shattered body, lying there crumpled on the ground. Abandoned. He had lied. Even as he had held her in his arms, he had lied, knowing she was dying, knowing he must leave her.
He pushed the knob to turn the water off and slowly sank to the rough tile of the shower floor, feeling sick, like someone was twisting a knife inside him.
Her face rose before him, eyes full of recrimination and unanswered pleas. Calling out his name, a haunting entreaty. There was no help for it. How long he sat there, the water dripping down upon him from the showerhead, he would never know.
At long last, the silence was broken by the sound of his name being called. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming, then it came again. “Parker? Are you still in here?”
He hadn’t heard the door to the showers open or close, but it was Davood’s voice. “Yeah?”
“Petras is setting up for mission debrief. Are you ready?”
“Is there such a thing?” Thomas asked. Pain shot through his side as he rose and staggered to the door of the shower, peering through the evaporating steam. “Hand me a towel, will you?”
Davood handed him an old towel, averting his eyes as Thomas dried off, the body modesty characteristic of his Middle Eastern background coming to the fore.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“The death of your guide-the Kurdish woman. Such a waste.”
Thomas looked away, his face stiff and drawn. “Yeah. Could you throw my pants over here?”
“Sure thing. Petras is going to start wondering where we are.”
“Let’s go back to the events of the morning,” Rebecca Petras instructed, typing something into her laptop. Hamid shifted in his chair, the TACSAT buzzing suddenly in his ribs.
“Excuse me,” he said, smiling across the table at the assistant station chief. “I need to take this.”
“Can’t it wait?”
He rose from his seat, the TACSAT in his hand. “Afraid not.”
“I owe you one, Harry,” he announced with a laugh as the door closed behind him. “You just got me out of debrief with Petras.”
Harry wasn’t laughing. When he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. “Other business, Hamid. What went wrong?”
“The Iranians were tracking Parker-how I don’t know. Finding him in those mountains would have been like picking the proverbial needle out of the haystack.”
“Unless they had a source,” Harry replied.
“That could explain it, I suppose. Last I heard Langley hadn’t found the leak that blew TALON.”
“As of this morning they did.”
“Who?”
“Davood.”
Hamid’s mouth fell open. “Ya Allah,” he whispered in Arabic. Oh God. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I wish I was,” Harry responded grimly. “That’s the opinion of the seventh floor. Could he have compromised Parker?”
“Harry, he’s one of us, he wouldn’t-”
“That’s not what I asked and you know it.” Harry’s voice was detached. Clinical. Cold as ice. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, I asked if he had the opportunity.”
“I suppose so. We weren’t together the whole time.” Hamid paused. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I. I suppose we’ll know for certain in a few hours. The boys from Intel are scouring Davood’s phone logs.”
The thought struck Hamid with the force of a slug. “Harry, tell them to check mine as well.”
“What?”
“A couple hours before extraction, Davood asked to borrow my TACSAT. Said his was charging in the Humvee.”
“Who’d he need to call?”
“I had asked him to coordinate satellite resources with CENTCOM so that we could keep an eye out for Iranian reinforcements. He was back at the vehicle for thirty minutes or more.”
Silence from the other end of the line. Then Harry spoke, slowly and reluctantly. “I’ll pass it on. Remember, nothing of this to Davood or anyone else. Just keep an eye on him and get back Stateside.”
“Yeah. I’ll do that.”
5:23 P.M. Local Time
Gaza
A stainless steel bottle about the size of a liter of soda sat on the kitchen table of the small apartment. So small, yet so deadly.
Fayood Hamza al-Farouk took another sip from the cup of tea in front of him and regarded the man sitting across from him with an appraising glance.
“Will it work?”
“To be sure,” the young man he knew only as “Rashid” replied, sounding offended. “The device can be armed forty-eight hours in advance-once the internal timer reaches zero, the bacteria will be dispersed in an aerosol cloud.”
“And if the infidels manage to find the canisters before that time?” Farouk demanded, his voice taking on a peculiar intensity.
The young man responded with an expansive shrug. A pair of packets lay on the table between them and he shoved one of them across to the Hezbollah terrorist. “Plastique,” he replied simply. “Manufactured in the 1980s.”
Both men knew what that meant. In the early ‘90s, Europe’s explosive manufacturers had started adding a detection taggant to their plastic explosives, a volatile chemical which slowly evaporated from the explosive and could be detected by bomb-sniffing dogs. Explosives made before then did not have such a chemical agent, although then one had to deal with explosives that were well past their guaranteed shelf life of ten years. In cases like this, the trade-off was worth it.
“I will use these to render each device tamper-proof,” he said. “There is only one concern. Would the bacteria be then rendered impotent in the heat of the explosion?”
“You believe that we would not have thought of this?” Farouk asked, glaring across the table. Frankly, having to explain details to a subordinate nettled him. “This strain of y. pestis is more heat-resistant than anything we have ever seen before. It will survive the explosion. Just make sure they cannot be disarmed.”
With a grim smile, the young man held up both his hands in front of his bearded face. All ten digits remained. The mark of either a very skilled or a very lucky bombmaker. Only time would tell.
“Inshallah,” Farouk breathed. As Allah wills it…
12:49 P.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“The software has been reconfigured,” Ron Carter announced, gesturing to the phone on the desk. “His caller I.D. will show the call originating from Bulgaria, the personal office number of Vladimir Dubosky.”
“And that is?” Harry asked, looking from Ron to the director and back again.
“The pimp, or whatever you call somebody running male prostitutes. He’s a Russian, Mafia capo that got caught in the losing end of a Moscow gang war in the mid ‘90s. Fled to Bulgaria and apparently went into the sex trade.”
The DCIA leaned forward “Here’s the deal you’re to offer him, Harry. He has two choices-he can be unhelpful and we’ll send the body of our information to the Ayatollah. Or he can play ball.”
“That’s the stick,” Harry nodded. “Where’s the carrot?”
“If his information is of value, we’ll arrange for his safe passage to a country that looks more kindly on men of his ‘persuasion’.”
Harry snorted. “Great. We’ve got a CIA operator with ties to Hezbollah and now we’re cutting deals with a pedophile. Another wonderful day at the office.”
“I can have someone else place the call,” Lay responded with a shrug.
A grim smile crossed Harry’s lips and he shook his head. “No, I’ll do it.”
“Good.” The CIA director rose and headed toward the door of the conference room. “I’ll be in my office.”
Harry picked up the phone and hit SEND. The call took only a couple moments to connect and then a man’s voice came on the line. “Vladimir?”
9:51 P.M. Tehran Time
The Ayatollah’s Residence
Qom, Iran
There was a second’s pause and then Asefi heard an unfamiliar voice in Russian. “Kak dela, Achmed?”
“I am well, thank you,” the bodyguard replied in the same language, his tone wary. “Who is this?”
“Names don’t matter,” the cold voice continued. “What matters is that I have something you need.”
“I see no point in continuing this conversation.”
“Da, that is your choice. We all make choices, Achmed. Does the Ayatollah Isfahani know of the choices of your bedchamber?”
He froze, the words of the caller ringing in his ear. A quick glance down the hallway in either direction assured him that he was alone, at least for the moment. “What do you mean?”
“Your phone is data-equipped, is it not?”
“Da, da.”
“One moment. I am sending you a file.”
Asefi stepped to the side of the hall, inserting his keycard into the lock of a nearby storage room. A beep signaled the arrival of the message as he stepped into the comforting darkness. He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as they moved across the phone’s keyboard, opening the file folder.
He groaned. Photos. Dozens of photos. Of him and others-beautiful young men, in Bulgaria, in a score other places around Eastern Europe. And other documents. He could guess at their contents. The voice was speaking again. “You have received the file?”
“This is a base forgery!” he exploded, slamming his fist against the wall. “A fabrication of Satan. You can prove nothing except the evil of your hearts!”
“Nyet?” the voice asked incredulously. “Go on and tell yourself that, Achmed. Believe that and I will enjoy watching as they heap stones over your body.”
“What do you want?”
“What do I want? You’ve been raping little boys, Achmed. Speaking personally, I want you dead.”
“What business is this of yours?” His mouth seemed suddenly dry as sand, a hoarse whisper the only sound escaping his lips.
“None whatsoever. Which is why my employers are offering you a way out.”
“What?”
“We need to meet. Your place or mine?” the voice continued, sardonic laughter in its tones.
“I will be flying to Beirut tomorrow,” Asefi replied, thinking rapidly. “Meet me at the airport.”
“Spasiba bolshoi.” Thank you very much.
“How will I recognize you?”
“You won’t. But I’ll know you.” The phone went dead, the click sounding like a death knell in the narrow confines of the storage room…
1:03 P.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
Harry laid the cellphone back on the table and glanced across at Ron Carter. “What’s your take?”
“I think he’s playing ball. Giving him time to think about it is dangerous, but then again, so is talking over an unsecured line.” Carter looked down at his laptop. “I can have you and Richards on a flight to Beirut as early as tonight.”
“Just what I need-another trans-Atlantic flight. What is Zakiri and Parker’s status?” Harry asked, studiously avoiding a reference to Davood.
“They are due to leave for Bagram in two hours with the recovered vials in their posession. Why?”
“Have them diverted to Crete. Tex and I will meet them there after the conclusion of our meeting with Asefi. I’ll clear things with Kranemeyer.”
Carter shrugged. “Again I ask, ‘Why?’”
“If the attack goes down in the U.S., well, under posse comitatus that’s Bureau jurisdiction, not ours. The Hezbollah connection, the situation with the Israelis, everything indicates this is going to hit the Middle East. Call it prepositioning assets if you like. Just do it.”
9:45 P.M. Local Time
Jerusalem, Israel
Darkness had fallen over the Holy City, but it was no impediment to Fayood al-Farouk. He was a creature of the night and he welcomed its protecting cover. To his west, he could hear the evening prayer of the muezzin drifting through the night air. He did not bow in prayer, his eyes remaining fixed on his target, the night-vision binoculars giving a greenish cast to the surrounding scenery. At the end of days, when the angels came to weigh the good and evil of his life, this omission would count as nothing against his slaughter of the Jews.
From his vantage point, he could see the Israeli guards patrolling the entrance of the Haram Al-Sharif. Jews guarding the entrance to the Noble Enclosure. Within a few short days, they would be dead. Along with the rest of their kinsmen.
The door opened behind him, creaking as it swung inward. He knew without looking who was there. “Harun, my brother. I trust you had a good flight.”
“As Allah willed it.”
He sighed, the binoculars sweeping up to rest upon the center of the enclosure, upon the golden dome covering the rock from which Mohammed had ascended to heaven.
It would start here. Two days…