1:03 A.M. Local Time, October 3rd
Air France Flight 256
En route to Ankara, Turkey
She had worked in Brussels as an accountant. Her father was French, her mother English. She had been married for two years. No, no children. Not yet, anyway. This was her first trip to Turkey, although she had visited Athens as a senior in college. And she never had been able to sleep on airplanes.
Unfortunately, that meant neither could he. Harry sighed wearily as his seat companion chattered on. He had stopped paying close attention an hour before, although the young woman had yet to notice.
His cellphone beeped with an incoming text and he flipped it open to check the screen. A NEW TIMEZONE, the message from Tex read. SET YOUR WATCH TO ZERO ONE HUNDRED.
Harry placed the cellphone in his pocket and adjusted the stem of his Rolex to one o’clock in the morning. The watch was an Agency prop, to aid in his cover as a German businessman.
He looked up to realize his companion was asking a question now. “Veuillez m’excuser?”
She smiled indulgently. “I asked, are you married, monsieur?”
3:07 A.M. Damascus Time
A small airport
The outskirts of Damascus, Syria
Damascus. A city of history and legend. Had his mind not been so occupied with other matters, Hossein might have been more impressed.
As it was, the watchdog was speaking. “This mission is of the utmost importance. The fanatics must not be allowed to profane the Haram al-Sharif with their madness. I will be relying upon you to guide our men through the Golan.”
“Indeed?”
“I will be leaving you,” the watchdog added unexpectedly.
Hossein turned to look Achmed Asefi in the face. “And why is this?”
“There is unfinished business in Beirut. I will rejoin you in Al Quds later today.” A furtive look danced in Asefi’s eyes as the two men stood there in the darkness of the Syrian night.
“I was not informed of this change of plans,” Hossein retorted, his gaze never wavering.
Asefi seemed annoyed by the challenge.“A sudden call from the Ayatollah. As your men were disembarking.”
“I see.” The major paused for a moment before adding piously, “Go with Allah.”
Hossein watched as the Ayatollah’s bodyguard walked off toward the Gulfstream that had brought them from Isfahan under cover of night.
The corporal, Mustafa, materialized at his side. “The truck is ready, sir,” he announced with a smart salute.
“Good,” Hossein replied, sighing as he turned away toward the Land Rover that was to transport them into the land of Palestine. A thought struck him about half-way across the tarmac and he turned to Mustafa. “You were the first off the plane. Achmed Asefi-did you see him receive a phone call?”
The corporal’s brow furrowed in thought as the two men walked beneath the flickering glare of the airport lights. “No. It is possible, but I was with him most of the time. Why?”
“Nothing of any moment,” Hossein replied, appearing to dismiss it off-hand. He looked back to see jet turbines fire as the Gulfstream turned back toward the runway.
Something was wrong.
5:30 A.M. Local Time
C-130 “Hercules”
Over the Mediterranean
Hamid shifted restlessly on the bench against the side of the C-130 transport. No one had said a great deal since the transport had left Baghdad.
Thomas lay on the bench across from him, apparently asleep. Davood had his PDA out, his eyes focused intently on the little screen as he played a video game. Hamid cast a sidelong glance in his direction, contempt filling his heart. You have betrayed your country and your faith. No true Muslim could perpetrate this act of treachery, that much he knew.
Perhaps feeling his gaze upon him, Davood looked up from the screen. “Do you know why we’ve been diverted to Crete?”
“No,” he lied, his face expressionless. “The orders came down from Langley, that is all.”
After a moment, the young agent turned back to his game. Hamid sighed, feeling the bulge of his Glock dig into his side. Knowing what must be. The penalty for treason was death, but he knew one thing with a certainty.
Davood would never live to see the inside of a federal prison. That was the price of betrayal…
6:27 A.M. Local Time
Beirut-Rafic Hariri International Airport
Beirut, Syria
Bomb craters from the last Israeli incursion nearly seven months before dotted the runway as the Turkish Airlines 737 touched down, flaps fully extended. An attempt had been made to patch the damage with asphalt, but the attempt was partially successful at best.
Harry looked out the window, thinking back. He had been here then, seeking to recover an Agency asset before the Israeli army overran his position and compromised him. He could still remember the fiery hell, the clouds of oily-black smoke that had drifted over the city.
The mercurial nature of the Middle East.
It took them an hour to reunite on the other side of the multi-layered security checkpoints. When they did, Tex was holding up his phone. “Langley called,” he announced grimly.
“Yes?” Harry asked, shouldering his carry-on bag.
“Ron finally went through all the phone records from yesterday’s op.”
“What did he find?”
“Hamid was right. His TACSAT was used to place two calls to an unrecognized satellite phone. Carter traced the number to Kosovo before losing it in a maze of Eastern European networks.”
“So, we essentially have nothing.”
“Davood’s TACSAT was used to call a phone with the same prefix hours before the launch of TALON.”
Harry’s lips compressed into a thin line. “I see. Is that all the information he was able to pull?”
“Not quite,” the Texan replied, falling in behind Harry as they exited the terminal. “He’s got a location on Asefi.”
“Already?”
“He arrived two hours early.”
“Figures. Imaging?”
“Carol was able to hack into the airport CCTV,” Tex continued, referring to the closed circuit television network so common at airports. “The cameras last have him entering a cafe garden about a mile from here. No sign that he’s made an exit.”
“He’s probably armed. Coming in on a private jet, he’d be able to carry,” Harry observed, thinking of his own.45, disassembled and concealed in his luggage. Still coming through security and well out of reach.
A rare smile crossed the Texan’s face and he palmed a Glock, holding it beneath his jacket, out of the sight of passer-by.
“Where’d you get that?”
“A guard this side of the checkpoint has an empty holster,” he replied simply, passing it to Harry with the dexterity of a trained pickpocket. “Go, check on our friend. I’ll take up position.”
Alcohol was a vice. His vice. Alcohol and boys, two of his transgressions against the sacred teachings of the Quran. Perhaps it had been fated to end this way.
Asefi took another long draught of the vodka, coughing as the liquor slid down his throat. It was a taste he had acquired in Chechnya, fighting against the Russians.
Fate. The end of every man. What will be, will be. There is no changing the will of Allah.
Perhaps.
He tipped the bottle back once more, his mind turning over the options left to him. There was a possibility…
A man appeared in the door of the cafe garden, moving in without hesitation. Tall, slender, dressed in the garb of a Westerner, there was nothing to attract attention about him.
It was him. Asefi knew it at once. The caller. The man moved with a grace that was at once both beautiful and terrible to look upon. The subtle ease of a killer.
The Heckler amp; Koch semiautomatic pistol seemed to tremble under his jacket as the stranger approached his table, the man’s movements at the same time purposeful and casual. A mad desire to draw the gun and shoot his antagonist seized him. Shoot and be done with it-but there was no end but death in that action. This man was not acting alone.
“Dobroe utro,” the tall man greeted in perfect Russian, sliding into the seat opposite. Good morning.
“You’re not a Russian,” Asefi observed abruptly, his eyes meeting with the stranger’s in a coolly appraising glance.
The man chuckled. “Is that so?”
“Your speech is that of a Muscovite, but your face betrays you.” He leaned forward on the table, willing his hands to stop their trembling. “What do you want?”
Harry smiled. “It has come to the attention of my friends that your government has come into possession of a deadly toxin. A toxin which may be used in an attack on the West. What do you know of this?”
“I have heard of this-this toxin of which you speak. Rumors. I know very little that I would consider substantive.” The bodyguard spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “Nothing that could be of help to you. I am sorry that you have come so far to hear so little.”
Pushing his chair back, Harry rose to his feet. “As am I,” he replied. “Still, I am sure you can appreciate the delicacy of this situation-we cannot have it known that there were inquiries made.”
“I can assure you of my discretion.”
“I am assured of it,” Harry nodded. “A sniper rifle is aimed at your chest as we speak. Two minutes after I leave, you will die. If you move, you will only die sooner. You see, a man who knows nothing is of no use to my employers.”
“I don’t believe you,” Asefi snorted, contempt in his tones.
Never taking his eyes off the bodyguard, Harry reached up, carelessly smoothing his dark hair with his fingers. The next moment, the red dot of a laser beam sprouted on the collar of Asefi’s shirt.
“Goodbye, Achmed,” he smiled, turning to leave. The sound of Asefi’s voice arrested his footsteps.
“No. Wait!” There was fear in those words, fear mixed with dangerous rage.
Harry looked back. “You’ve wasted a great deal of my time, Achmed. Is there something else you have to offer?”
“Da, da.” The bodyguard’s eyes darted fearfully around the perimeter of the garden, to the high roofs surrounding. Looking for the sniper. “Your employers will protect me?”
“That’s right,” Harry responded, taking his seat once again. “A new home, a new name, in a place where men of your, shall we say, ‘orientation’ are looked upon more kindly. What do you offer us in return?”
“The target, the location of the toxin, everything. I know everything. But I need more than what you have offered.”
“Oh?”
“I need money as a proof of fidelity,” Asefi retorted. “Eight million dollars. Wired into my account in the Caymans. Before I will tell you what I know.”
“For a man who has only heard rumors, Achmed, you claim to know a great deal. Let’s see some proof. When and where does this attack go down?”
The bodyguard held up a finger. “Not when and where. Not yet. But who. Five terrorists, led by an IRGC major, entered the Golan this morning. They will cross into Israel within the hour.”
“I need names.”
“The names of the four soldiers are unknown to me. But they are led by one Major Farshid Hossein.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, Achmed. Hossein is dead, I watched the video of his execution myself.”
“How is that they say in America-reports of his death have been greatly exaggerated?” Asefi gestured toward his suit pocket. “May I?”
Harry nodded and the bodyguard produced a cellphone, flipping it open to reveal a photo on-screen. It was of he and Hossein, standing together near the steps of a mosque. The time-stamp was eighteen hours old.
“All right,” Harry conceded, watching him carefully. “You’ve convinced me. Why is he in Israel?”
“Enough.” Confidence had returned to Asefi’s voice. “This was a gesture of good faith. Now, show me the money.”
Harry nodded slowly. “I’ll need to make a call. Come with me.”
Turning away from the table, his hands flashed the “stand down” signal.
Tex took one last look from the third-story window that had served as his surveillance position and then lowered his binoculars, turning back toward the stairs. As he headed for the door, he looked at the laser pointer in his hand and smiled. It was curiously effective…
12:25 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
Ron Carter looked up from his terminal as Carol Chambers swept into the op-center. “Good morning, Carol.”
She set down her briefcase at the side of her workstation and glared at him. “I was in the shower when you called.”
“No comment,” he smiled.
She rolled her eyes, sweeping her damp hair back over her shoulders. “What’s our situation?”
“We have eight million dollars that needs to be transferred to a class-A oxygen thief. ASAP.”
“Right. Like there’s no one else in this building who could do that?”
“But the transfer’s not to go through,” Ron added, taking another sip from the cup of cold coffee on his desk.
She pulled back her chair and sat down. “So, we’re running a con. Bait and switch.”
“That’s right. The mark needs to think he’s got the money, needs to know he’s got the money-and he can’t find out the truth.”
“Where’s his banker?” Carol asked.
“On your screen presently-an account in the Caymans.”
“This is gonna be cute.”
“What’s the problem?”
“These accounts have been steadily hardened over the last few years. Getting in isn’t as easy as it used to be. I take it we don’t have authorization to actually hand over the cash.”
The analyst made a face. “That’s directorate-level access. Everybody of that pay grade is asleep at this hour.”
“As all God’s children.”
8:45 A.M. Local Time
A hotel
Beirut, Lebanon
“Who do you work for?”
Harry looked up from the screen of his laptop, into the face of Achmed Asefi. “Does it matter?”
“I like to know whom I am dealing with. The SIS? CIA? Mossad? You cannot be SVR,” he finished, referring to the reconstituted former KGB. “They would not be running this type of bargain.”
The hotel lobby was well-nigh deserted, save for a few early risers among the tourist traffic-and the employees. Harry made out the form of Tex Richards, ensconced near the coffee bar.
“Keep guessing,” he replied shortly, his eyes returning to the screen. The window to stop the terrorists before they entered Israel was closing rapidly. A clandestine op into Syria was dubious enough, but Israel…
“It is sad, this conflict, this terrorism that has engulfed our world. In another life, you and I could have been friends. Perhaps more. Companions, even?”
Harry snorted. “Not likely. The companionship of women has always been good enough for me.”
“You see shame in desire. As a warrior, perhaps, you view it as a weakness. Have you never read of the phalanx of lovers in the Sacred Band of Thebes? Bound to each other by loyalty and love, they performed feats of valor that live down through history. Am not I right?”
The man was circling for an advantage, Harry realized. There was purpose to his words, a distraction, the hidden hand. Why?
He raised his eyes, fixing Asefi with a cold, hard stare. “Perhaps. But look where it’s gotten you.”
9:57 A.M. Tehran Time
The Ayatollah’s Residence
Qom, Iran
“No, I have not contacted Asefi since your departure from Qom this morning. Why, is something wrong?” the Ayatollah Isfahani asked.
He listened carefully, his face growing longer with concern as the man on the other end of the line went on. “Take every precaution you deem necessary, Major Hossein. Just make sure you reach Al Quds by sundown.”
He terminated the call and walked onto the balcony, looking out over the desert in the glow of the morning sun. Something was going wrong.
Asefi had served him faithfully for over a decade. The man’s body bore the scars of bullets, bullets that had been meant for him. Why would he betray him now?
Hossein’s men must succeed, but now, if Asefi had defected, that very success was in jeopardy. He glanced down at the phone in his hand and began to dial. There was only one way to find out…
8:57 A.M. Local Time
The hotel
Beirut, Lebanon
“Listen carefully, Harry,” Carol Chambers began. “We’re ready to do this. Things on your side?”
He cast a cautious look across the lobby to where Asefi sat, leafing through a fashion magazine. “Yeah, we’re good to go. What’s the plan?”
“I tried a couple of ways, but we’re up against airtight security with the bank. We’re going to have to go ahead and transfer the money.”
“You got authorization on that?”
“Yes,” she replied impatiently. “Got my old man out of bed. Good times. This is what’s going down. I’ve remotely installed software on your laptop to capture his password and log-in information. After he’s confirmed the deposit and you’ve gotten the information, we’ll use it to withdraw the eight mil.”
“Simple as that,” Harry observed. “In and out.”
“That’s the plan.”
Harry tucked the phone back in his pocket and strode back across the lobby to where the bodyguard sat.
“Everything all right?” Asefi enquired blandly, looking up into his eyes as he returned to his seat.
“Yeah. The money’s being transferred into your account as we speak.”
“You understand I must confirm this with my bank. Your word is simply not good enough. No offense intended.”
“None taken.” Harry smiled. “I would count you the biggest sort of fool if you did not. Feel free to use my laptop to access your account.”
It was the Iranian’s turn to smile, producing his cellphone from the pocket “And I ask myself in turn what sort of fool do you count me?”
“Pardon?”
“This phone is perfectly able to access my account through the mobile web. And infinitely more secure for my purposes than your laptop.”
Disaster.
“As you wish,” Harry responded, his face expressionless as his mind raced through the possibilities. The money was being transferred. Without password and log-in information, there was no way to retrieve it.
He could have laughed at the irony of it all.
At that moment, the phone in Asefi’s hand began to ring. The bodyguard glanced down at the display and the blood seemed to drain from his face, confidence melting away like the morning mist.
“What is it?”
He lifted the phone so that Harry could see the screen, his fingers trembling as he did so. “The Ayatollah Isfahani,” he whispered. “What do I do?”
“Don’t answer it,” Harry responded. “Power down the phone and remove the SIM card. If you use the phone, he’ll be able to pin down your location.”
Asefi hit the power button and watched anxiously as the screen went black. “He knows something or else he would not have called.”
“Then we need to finish our business quickly,” Harry prompted, gesturing toward his laptop. “Shall we?”
9:15 A.M.
An Internet cafe
Jerusalem, Israel
“Salaam alaikum, my brother. The job is done,” Rashid announced, taking his place at the table across from al-Farouk. The terrorist looked around at the cafe before replying with a nod.
It was no accident that the meeting had been arranged in such a public place. Due to the inherent ambient noise, public venues were notoriously difficult for enemy intelligence services to wire.
He and Rashid had never frequented this cafe before, and when they parted ways in a few moments, they would never reenter it. That was as secure as it got.
“Alaikum salaam,” he said at long last, stirring the hot cup of tea before him. “The arrangements have been made to get the devices inside?”
“Nam,” Rashid replied. Yes. “But we have a problem. Our man-he wants something.”
Farouk’s eyebrows went up in surprise, anger flickering across his face. “Money? The will of Allah need not be facilitated by hirelings. I thought you said he was a true believer.”
“It is nothing of the sort,” the young man replied with an impatient gesture. “It is his sister. She has dishonored her family by sleeping with a khafir.” An unbeliever.
“A Jew?”
Rashid shook his head. “The son of a French contractor. She was caught in the very act.”
“So many have strayed from the ways of purity and truth,” Farouk murmured, raising the cup of tea to his lips and blowing upon it. “How does this concern our mission?”
“In order to remove this stain from her family, she has agreed to give her life in the holy jihad. In return for our help with this, he will help us get inside. What answer should I give him?”
The terrorist leader took a sip of the tea and made a face. It was still boiling hot. “Anything can be arranged, inshallah. Are you capable of making another bomb?”
9:20 A.M.
The hotel
Beirut, Lebanon
“And good-day to you as well.”
Asefi smiled as he turned off the TACSAT and handed it back to Harry. “The woman I just spoke with is my personal account manager, has handled my finances for years. Her voice-shall we say, it is unmistakable. I am satisfied. My apologies for doubting you.”
“Nichevo,” Harry responded. It doesn’t matter. “Suspicion is the coin of our realm. Now, to whom much is given, much is required. The information you agreed to provide?”
The Iranian took a cautious look around the lobby, then leaned forward, gazing intently into Harry’s eyes. “Hossein is on a mission from President Shirazi. His execution was staged to cover his role in this attack.”
“And the target?”
“Al Quds, or Jerusalem as you call it. The al-Aqsa mosque,” Asefi replied calmly. “During Friday prayers.”
Harry sat there for a moment, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing.
“You’re sure?” he asked. “A biological attack on the Temple Mount will kill thousands of Muslims. It doesn’t make sense.”
Asefi shrugged. “You can believe what you will, but it does not change what is true. The murder of Muslims at worship, in a place guarded by the Jews. It will be a pretext for war.”
“Dear God,” Harry whispered. “He’s going to set the Middle East on fire.”
A sigh escaped the Iranian’s lips as he glanced out the window. “ You mean the world…”
1:26 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
She entered the log-in verification for the third time, then clicked OK on the screen that appeared. A moment later, the adjusted balance appeared, minus the eight million dollars. In and out. Everything according to plan.
“It’s done,” Carol announced in a tired voice, looking over toward Carter’s workstation. “The Agency gives with one hand and takes with the other. Situation normal.”
She rose and retrieved her purse. “Now, to home and to bed. Don’t try calling me again, Ron. My phone will be off.”
“I’m headed home too,” he responded with a grin. “We’ve earned some sleep.” He looked at the dregs of coffee at the bottom of his mug and grimaced. “And a fresh brew of coffee in the morning.”
A phone rang somewhere in the bowels of the op-center and they exchanged glances. A couple moments later, Daniel Lasker appeared, his face grim in the glow of the electronics.
“Carol,” he announced without preamble, “I want you to call the DCIA and DCS. Get them out of bed and in here at once. Ron, get me a run-down of our assets in the East Mediterranean, focusing on support structure in Lebanon and Israel. I’ll see everyone in Conference Room #5 at 0200 hours for a complete mission briefing. Have your sitreps ready and with you.”
And then he was gone, down the hallway.
Carol sighed. Ron rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand and glanced speculatively at the empty coffee mug on his desk. “Well, that’s the end of sleep for the night. What’s the name of the new guy?”
“Ames?”
“Yeah, Ames. Send him down to the cafeteria for coffee. We’re gonna need it.”
Chapter Fifteen
12:19 A.M. Pacific Time
Beverly Hills, California
There was a satisfied expression on President Hancock’s face as he stepped into the limousine. It had been a successful evening, a fundraising dinner attended by a who’s who list of Hollywood celebrities. He enjoyed a great deal of support on the West Coast, and this was turning out to be a good trip.
Hancock took his seat and smiled into the eyes of the starlet who already sat within, his hand closing over hers. The evening was yet young.
“Mr. President,” a voice broke in upon his thoughts. His head jerked up to see the head of his Secret Service detail, Curt Hawkins, with a phone in his hand. “I have David Lay on the phone, sir. He says it’s urgent.”
“Isn’t it always,” Hancock retorted in disgust. “I have briefing in five hours, can’t it wait till then?”
The agent shook his head. “That’s a negative, Mr. President.”
“All right, give it here.”
Hawkins shot a pointed look in the direction of the actress and the President sighed, kissing her on the cheek. “Give me a moment, darling.”
Another agent escorted her from the vehicle as he picked up the phone.“Hello, David.”
“Mr. President, we have a situation.”
“More of your agents in trouble, director?” Hancock suggested. “You’ve already disrupted my evening, so get to the point.”
“The Iranians have a commando team in Israel, planning to deploy the biological weapon within the next twenty-four hours.”
“How did this happen?”
“We’re still determining that. The fact is that they are in-country, and planning to hit the crowd worshiping at the al-Aqsa mosque during Friday prayers”
“Killing Muslims? Why?”
“It’s a casus belli, Mr. President. Remember the riots of ‘96? I was Station Chief Tel Aviv at the time. The murder of worshipers on the Temple Mount will unleash a wave of violence across the Middle East and Europe. Probably even here. It could lead to war, to the annihilation of Israel. With your permission, I will contact my counterpart in Israel so that he can employ necessary countermeasures.”
“No.”
There was a moment of shocked silence on the other end of the line, then David Lay asked, “Why on earth not, Mr. President?”
“You speak of a casus belli, a cause for war, without realizing that it is a double-edged sword,” Hancock replied. “While you speak of Shirazi using this ruse as pretext, you overlook the fact that Prime Minister Shamir could and might use this information in exactly the same way. You know as well as I do that if Israel strikes Iran the world goes up in flames. We’ll handle this crisis ourselves.”
“And how might we do that, sir?”
There was an edge to Hancock’s voice when he spoke again. “Ever since I took office, I’ve heard you before Congress justifying the budget of your Clandestine Service, Lay. Maybe it’s time your men started earning their keep.”
11:36 A.M. Local Time
The hotel
Beirut, Lebanon
“So, we’re supposed to put a team on the ground within the borders of an allied country, take out the terrorists and escape without detection?” Harry asked, glancing across the lobby to where Asefi still sat.
There was a faint crackle of static on the connection and then Kranemeyer responded, “That’s correct. Can you do it, Harry?”
“Sure as there’s a Santa Claus. Why doesn’t the President just order a missile strike? Sat coverage shows the Land Rover to still be in the Golan, collateral damage would be kept to a minimum.”
“We suggested that. Too much of a footprint, he says. Has to be people on the ground.”
“Yeah, well, you might remind him that humans leave footprints too. That’s where the term originated.”
“Tick-tock, Harry. Are we getting anywhere with this conversation?”
“My men are still alive,” Harry shot back. “I want the President to understand the potential fallout of what he’s ordering. We don’t have the luxury of loose border security, so we’ll have to get creative.”
“Is there anything you need?”
“There is,” he replied. “We’re not using the team. Tex and I will go in, across the border. Contact Avraham Najeri and have him meet us in Hebron with the necessary equipment.”
“Harry, we’ve got a minimum of five terrorists, possibly more, with a bio-weapon. Less than twenty-four hours to search and destroy. Can you do that with a team of two?”
“It’s all about footprint, remember. Two people. Bring Najeri up to speed and we’ll work things from our end.”
“What do you want him to deliver?”
Harry glanced at his phone, his fingers dancing across the screen to bring down a menu. “Uploading a wish list presently.”
“What are your plans concerning Asefi?” the DCS asked after a second.
Harry looked across the hotel lobby in the Iranian’s direction, a cold look coming into his eyes. “Kill him, most likely.”
“Then take care of it,” Kranemeyer replied calmly. “Your best option is to do it there in Beirut, before you leave.”
“No, can’t do that.”
“Why?”
“He knows something he’s not telling us. And we don’t have the time to get it out of him. That’s what he’s betting on.”
“Is his information regarding the terrorists on the level?”
A moment’s hesitation, then Harry responded, “No. He’s hiding something, like somebody bluffing with a pair of deuces.”
“Is the Land Rover worth following?”
“We back-tracked the Gulfstream to Tehran. They’re in Israel for a reason. We won’t know why until we hunt them down. So, yes, I think we need to take them down. And take Asefi along for the ride. As long as he’s useful.”
“Do it.”
11:43 A.M.
Beer-sheba, Israel
Avraham Najeri was reassembling a PSG-1 sniper rifle when his prepaid cellphone vibrated with an incoming call.
A frown crossed his face as he glanced at the screen. The Agency. “Salaam alaikum,” he answered cautiously. Blessing and peace be upon you.
He listened carefully for the space of five minutes, then closed the phone without another word, going to a safe on the other side of his workroom. Fingers moving over the biometric keypad, he pulled the door open and removed a pair of Galil assault rifles, laying them out on the workbench. Three magazines for each, followed by two sets of night-vision binoculars.
Working quickly, he expertly field-stripped the rifles, dumping the components into a sack. The resulting jumble would have confused most, but not a man of his experience. He could have put them both back together in the space of five minutes if he had been so inclined. It wouldn’t baffle the men he was delivering them to either.
Another glance around his workroom and he turned off the lights, running the beads of a rosary through his fingers as he headed toward the stairs. Time to make the delivery…
12:01 P.M. Local Time
The hotel
Beirut, Lebanon
The two men were no longer in sight, but he could feel their presence. They were watching. Asefi turned back to his food, picking at it with a fork. His appetite left something to be desired.
The big man had been the sniper-or was there a third?
He looked out the window of the hotel restaurant at the street outside, the sunlight streaming in through the glass. The fork trembled in his hand as he thought of the deception he was perpetrating. Hossein and his men didn’t have the toxin-he knew that. But they linked him to the Ayatollah, and if they were dead…
His eyes closed as he imagined the firefight between Hossein’s picked guerillas and the-Americans, maybe? It was not so much that the man looked like an American, but he acted with the confidence of one. A cowboy.
A shadow fell across his plate and he glanced up. “Come on, Achmed,” the man announced in Russian. “It’s time to go.”
A worried expression crossed Asefi’s face. “I thought our business together was concluded?”
Harry smiled. “Nyet. I sincerely wish it was. But it is not our lot to be so fortunate. You’ll come with us until we’ve verified the information you provided.”
12:13 P.M.
The foothills of the Golan
The patrol wasn’t going anywhere. Hossein came to this realization after half an hour of watching the Israeli Humvee through the lens of his binoculars.
They had hidden the Land Rover about half a mile back, leaving two men guarding it. Now he, Mustafa, and another of the militants lay in the bushes on the outskirts of the village, their weapons trained on the four Israeli soldiers.
No more time, Hossein decided, reaching for the pistol at his hip. Motioning for his men to stay put, he screwed a silencer into the muzzle and rose to a crouch.
Forty yards. He could have made the shot, but there was no room for error. One shot and the remaining soldiers would react. With two of them inside the house beyond the vehicle, he wouldn’t stand a chance.
He moved into an alley between the houses, marveling at the incongruity of modern Palestine. A donkey grazed in the courtyard of a house surmounted by a television aerial. The old and the new fused together in an inseparable bond.
A wheelbarrow full of bricks stood in front of a house farther down the street and Hossein moved toward it, shoving his pistol into the load.
One of the two soldiers on guard looked up at his approach, dismissed him as a common laborer and continued to scan the street.
It was a fatal mistake. Five yards away, Hossein dropped the handles of the barrow and grabbed the pistol, his arm a blur as he brought it to bear.
The pistol coughed, a bullet spitting from its cold muzzle to strike the soldier in the middle of the forehead. A young man, he observed dispassionately, almost young enough to be his son.
His body fell backward, thudding softly against the metal of the Humvee. His comrade reacted, the muzzle of his weapon swinging upward in a sickeningly slow motion.
Hossein squeezed the trigger again. Target down. He ducked and moved forward, unclipping a stun grenade from the belt of the second man.
Alerted, the last two soldiers emerged from the door of the dwelling just as he pulled the pin on the grenade, lofting it into the air.
Thunder and lightning. The major shielded his eyes as the stun grenade went off, a blinding flash lit up the area.
He raised himself up, the pistol in both hands. Chaos. Surprise. The Israelis had been blinded by the blast and he shot both of them, one after the other, watching as their lifeless bodies crumpled to the ground.
The way was clear. The path to Al Quds…
4:25 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“I need a sitrep, Carter,” Kranemeyer announced, bustling around the end of the cubicle. “Do we still have eyes on the Land Rover?”
Carter didn’t respond for a moment, his eyes focused intently on the screen before him. A command prompt appeared and he clicked on it, the resolution of the image changing as it zoomed in.
“Bet your life we do. More than that, we’ve got a situation.”
“What’s going on?” the DCS asked, shifting his weight on his prosthetic leg to lean toward the screen.
“Watch this-three minutes ago.”
The view was uncanny, a true top-down birds-eye view. The perspective of the gods. It always reminded Carter of the original Grand Theft Auto games he had played as a teenager.
A figure moving down the street, toward a patrol of Israeli soldiers. The analyst clicked another button and slowed the scene down. “Watch here-between frames 2375 and 2394.”
“He pulls a pistol,” Kranemeyer announced slowly, narrating the video as it continued. “One man, two men down. Stops. Whoa!”
The explosion spread out over the satellite imaging, concealing the scene from view for a few seconds. The DCS grimaced. “Flash-bang. It’d have to be. There. Two more men down. He utilized his element of surprise to the fullest-we’re dealing with a professional. What’s their present heading?”
“Currently-south-southwest. Toward the West Bank. At their present rate of speed, they’ll be within the jurisdiction of the Palestinian Authority in two hours.”
“We’re going to break a lot of laws today,” Kranemeyer observed, shaking his head.
The comment drew an ironic look from the analyst. “When don’t we?”
1:13 P.M. Local Time
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel
“It’s a match?” General Shoham looked from the analyst in front of him down to the grainy surveillance photo on the desk.
“The computer says the match is 83 % positive.”
“The computer?” the Mossad chief asked, more than a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “And what say you?”
The analyst hesitated and Shoham waved his hand impatiently. “Make the call. Is it Nichols?”
A brief nod, then the man replied, “Yes. It’s him. I’m certain of it.”
“I concur,” Shoham acknowledged, picking up the picture and transfixing it with a hard glance. “The question is-what is he doing crossing the border from Lebanon an hour ago, and who is the man with him?”
“I don’t have that answer, sir. We should have information on their identities within the hour.”
“Or who they said they were,” was Shoham’s brief retort. “Lies within lies. Bring me what you know as soon as you know it.”
2:01 P.M.
The road to Nablus
“Who are you?”
Harry sighed with irritation. It was the third time Asefi had asked him the question, and his mood had not improved with the repetition.
“A friend,” he responded sarcastically.
“They’ll be looking for us,” the Iranian observed, glancing out the window of the car as he drove. “Tradecraft says that you don’t steal a car unless you have to.”
“I had to,” was Harry’s brief reply. “And I seriously doubt the Israeli police go looking for cars stolen in Beirut.”
“I don’t understand why we can’t go our separate ways.”
Harry’s gaze shifted from the road in front of them to Asefi, giving the man a hard look. There was no way the man didn’t understand the rationale behind the situation. There was an object in his chatter, an ulterior motive.
“What if we’re stopped and I’m like this?” the Iranian demanded, gesturing with the right hand that Harry had cuffed to the steering wheel. “They’ll search the vehicle and us.”
“Then I suggest you drive in such a manner as not to attract attention.”
“It would be safer if you would uncuff me.”
“Safer for whom, Achmed? I’ve read your file. The Spetsnaz you killed in Chechnya, three men with your bare hands?”
“You have my word.”
Harry spat out the window of the car. “That for your word. Trust does not exist between men such as us.”
Asefi opened his mouth in protest, but Harry cut him off. “Be quiet and drive.”
Time was short…
2:37 P.M. Local Time
The Al-aqsa mosque
Jerusalem, Israel
“They are coming.”
Harun’s breath caught in his throat and he glanced up and down the length of the hall before responding. They were alone, the faint whirring of the ventilation fans the only sound disturbing the silence. On either side of them the stone walls of the Masjid al-Aqsa’s lower level rose into the vaulted ceiling, mute witness to their presence there. “Who?”
“The Americans,” the Hezbollah leader replied, calm pervading his features.
Harun recoiled from him in shock. “How? When? Where are they?”
“Control yourself, my brother. Rest in the might of Allah and He will be your strength. This is our moment.”
“How did they find out?”
Farouk seemed to ponder the question for a moment. “The how is not important, Harun. Rather, it is the why that matters.”
“Why?”
“Why?” the older man repeated, seeming amused by the question. A man in Western clothing entered at the far end of the hall and Al-Farouk raised his cellphone, snapping a picture of the stonework like any typical tourist.
“The answer is simple. That Allah might deliver them into our hands. It is His will.”
“Inshallah,” Harun replied after a moment, fighting down the fear that rose in his throat. As Allah wills it.
6:51 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“What’s our status, gentlemen?” David Lay asked, taking his seat at the head of the conference table. To his right sat Ron Carter, to his left the DD(I) Michael Shapiro. An analyst from the Intelligence Directorate rounded out the meeting.
Shapiro folded his hands, a grim look on his round face. “We’re picking up increased chatter from the Middle East.”
“What type of chatter?” Lay asked.
“Give them the lowdown, Troy,” Shapiro instructed, turning to his analyst. The man cleared his throat and shuffled through his papers. “We’ve made a score of intercepts over the last few hours, all high-level government comm channels. The conversations were encrypted, but we’ve managed to crack some of it.”
“And?”
“The conversations are emanating largely from Tehran. Our computers ran the voiceprint, cross-referencing with the speech President Mahmoud F’Azel Shirazi gave in front of the U.N. General Assembly this past April. It’s a match.”
“Who’s he been talking to?”
“This man,” the analyst replied, shoving a photograph across the table in Lay’s direction. “His Royal Highness, Prince Ibrahim bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud. A half-brother to the Crown Prince, he’s made his billions in the oil business and has been suspected of funneling money to Al-Qaida in past years. In 2012, we froze five hundred million dollars worth of his assets in this country.”
Lay nodded. “I remember. A hard-liner, if I recall?”
“He defines the term. Fifteen minutes after their conversation terminated, al-Saud called General Yussef Farik Mutallab, the head of the Jordanian Air Force.”
“What was the substance of their conversation?”
“Yet to be translated, sir.”
“No matter,” Lay whispered, folding his hands. “The train has been laid, and he’s priming the fuse. Where are we on the bacteria itself?”
Carter looked up from his laptop. “It will be arriving at Bethesda within the hour. Doctor Schuyler has a team prepped to expedite the process.”
“Good,” Lay nodded. “What’s the status of the field team?”
“On the road toward the Palestinian Authority. Due to rendevous with CRUCIFIX in less than two hours.”
3:21 P.M. Local Time
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel
A knock sounded on the door of Shoham’s office and he looked up to see the analyst standing in the doorway. “We have a positive ID on the man who accompanied Nichols into the country,” the man proclaimed, striding into the room without further ceremony.
“Indeed?”
The analyst extended a dossier and Shoham took it, his eyes narrowing as he opened the folder. “The Ayatollah’s personal bodyguard?”
“Our photos of Asefi are dated, but we believe it to be a match.”
“And what aliases did they use to gain entrance?”
“Nichols is posing as an aid worker from Ireland, one Daniel O’Bryan. Asefi is under the identity of Muhammad Hassan, listed as a translator for Doctors Without Borders.”
The Mossad chief snorted. “We’ve already run those names through our database and put out an alert,” the analyst continued.
“Waste of time,” Shoham shot back. “Nichols is good. He’ll already have dumped those identities and traded them for others. My guess is he’s masquerading as a Coptic priest by now.”
“We are also tracking the license number on the car.”
“Good. Keep me informed. And find Lieutenant Gideon Laner for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Silence fell over the room following the departure of the analyst and Shoham rose from his chair, walking slowly to the map which covered a full wall of office.
A sigh escaped his lips. “Nichols, why are you back?”
7:47 A.M. Eastern Time
National Navy Medical Center
Bethesda, Maryland
Dr. Maria Schuyler signed for the package, taking it from the hands of the pair of CIA agents detailed to protect it.
“I’ll take it from here, thanks. Ted, will you get this down to my lab?”
“We’ll go along, if you don’t mind,” the older agent demurred, not a trace of a smile on his face.
She nodded after a moment, then waved for them to accompany her into the building. They split up, flanking her as the trio moved down the hallway.
It was such a small package. She had been working with infectious disease for most of her adult life, but it still never failed to amaze her that something so small was capable of such destruction.
Outside the hermetically-sealed doors to her lab, she motioned for the agents to stop, opening a locker to the right of the door and pulling out three bio-suits. She set down the package on the bench beside her and slid into the suit, pulling it on one leg at a time.
A chill ran through her as she did so, casting a sidelong glance at the package as though to assure herself that it was still there.
It was like being in the very presence of evil…
4:09 P.M.
Nablus
The West Bank
There is a man in Nablus named Omar. A man of pure faith and true. Go to him and he will aid you in your mission.
The Ayatollah’s words did little to reassure Hossein as he wrapped a towel around his mid-section, preparing to enter the steam room of the Turkish bath.
Of pure faith and true. Yes, well, he’d settle for competent.
Billowing steam wafted into his face as he opened the door. The al-Shifa hammam had originally been built in the 17th-century, the flowing script of the Quran decorating the ancient stones. Hossein blinked away the water droplets condensing on his eyelids and groped his way through the steam, his fingers tracing the engravings on the wall.
Rockets from an Israeli helicopter had struck the Turkish bath during the fighting of the Second Intifada, Hossein remembered, but there was no sign of that damage now.
An old man sat upon a bench near the warm stones, his eyes apparently closed in quiet repose and the major took a seat nearby, to await the arrival of Omar.
“The steam serves to warm an aged body on such a cool day,” a voice observed. It took Hossein a moment to realize the old man was looking in his direction.
He nodded stiffly, forcing himself to concentrate. “Much as the truth of Allah warms and purifies the soul,” the old man continued, his gaze penetrating. “You are searching for something, perhaps?”
“And what would that be, father?” Hossein asked respectfully, concerned by the strange inquiry. The man’s face seemed free of dissimulation, an open page before him.
“Faith, perhaps. Many men search in the dark tangles of life for something they can cling to. Or perchance you search for me?” A smile crossed the old man’s face, his lips parting to reveal badly chipped teeth. “My name is Omar.”
A heavy sigh escaped the major’s lips, coming along with the realization that he had been holding his breath. “I see.”
Omar smiled once more, taking Hossein’s hand in both of his and pressing a small key into the palm. “There is a black van in the alley outside. It should be more than sufficient for your needs.”
“Thank you, father,” Hossein responded, rising to his feet and looking down at the old man. It was time to leave.
Omar leaned back against the stones, a look of sadness coming into his eyes. “As you have found me, may you find your faith, my son. Allah guide your steps.”
4:23 P.M. Local Time
The road to Nablus
“The Land Rover is parked outside the Hammam al-Shifa in Nablus. The men went inside.”
“How long have they been there?” Harry asked, glancing at his watch.
There was a brief pause, then Carter responded, “About thirty minutes.”
“Do we know what’s there?”
“I hear it’s a good place to get a massage, but no, we don’t have anything that would explain their presence there.”
Harry looked over at Asefi. The bodyguard was looking away from him, out the window of the car, but no doubt listening to the conversation. “Hold one, I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Make it quick,” Carter advised. “CRUCIFIX is fifteen minutes out. We need you ready to move as soon as he makes the delivery.”
“Roger that.” Harry slipped the phone back in his pocket and sat there for a moment, alternatives, options playing through his mind. Choices. His eyes wandered to the rear-view mirror and he could see Tex seated on an idling motorcycle about thirty yards back toward the highway.
There was only one choice when it came down to it.
“Ready to go?” Asefi asked, glancing idly back toward the highway. There was no response to his question, just silence. His head jerked around, panic gripping his body in a premonition of evil.
He was staring down the barrel of a gun. “Wh-what’s going on?”
“You lied to us,” the man responded, his voice containing all the warmth of an arctic storm.
If you can touch it, you can take it. The long-ago instruction came flashing back into Asefi’s brain, the words of a mentor of his. A Russian martial arts instructor. Take the gun, his mind screamed, but the-the American, as he had come to regard him, moved first, exiting the car.
“Get out.”
“I don’t understand,” the bodyguard protested, pushing open the driver’s side door and stepping out. “What’s going on?”
“Simple, Achmed,” the American replied, keeping the hood of the car between the two of them. Disarming him was no longer a viable option. “You lied to us, took our money, sold us out.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Eight million dollars, Achmed. We paid that money for reliable intelligence and you sold us a bill of goods.”
“A bill of goods? What do you mean?”
The pistol never wavered as the American continued, cold anger in his tones. “The target never was the Masjid al-Aqsa, was it? Just a city of 130,000 souls. And you take your money and ride off into the sunset.”
“A city?” Asefi demanded, the earth seeming to swim beneath his feet. He leaned forward, his hands against the hood of the car. “What are you saying?”
“Nablus is what I’m talking about. One of the largest cities of the West Bank. Thousands of Palestinians are going to die and it’s going to be your pretext for war. That crap about the Temple Mount was just that, a smokescreen to divert our efforts.”
“No, no, I told you the truth,” the bodyguard replied desperately, a cold sweat breaking forth upon his body. Everything he had said was a lie, but-Nablus? Nothing made sense. “I swear it.”
“You swear it, Achmed? Then tell me, why are your people in the Hammam al-Shifa of Nablus?”
Asefi shook his head. “I don’t know. By the beard of the Prophet, I don’t know!”
The American took a step closer, thumbing off the safety of the Colt. The metallic snick resounded in his ears like a death knell and he felt himself stiffen. “Wrong answer, Achmed. I’ve had it with your lies. Last chance. Why is Farshid Hossein in Nablus?”
“I don’t know,” Asefi repeated, his pride the only thing left keeping him on his feet. Another moment and his life would be snuffed out. The American’s face was expressionless, void of emotion. A death mask.
A minute passed, then another as Harry stared into the Iranian’s eyes through his gunsights. Truth was written there for him. Whatever else Asefi might be concealing, he knew nothing about Nablus. He’d seen what he needed to see.
He lowered the pistol and gestured to Achmed. “Back in the car, please.”
The Iranian obeyed numbly, his legs seeming on the verge of collapse, and Harry watched him, fishing in his pocket for the satphone. Their leads were wearing thin…
8:37 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“Anything on the hammam?” Carter asked, hurrying into Carol Chambers’ cubicle with another sheaf of papers. She looked up and shook her head. “Precious little.”
“They need something,” he retorted, almost snapping at her. She glanced into his bloodshot eyes and let it pass. He was running on fumes. They all were.
He ran his fingers through his already-tousled hair. “Building schematics?”
“Ron, the Hammam al-Shifa was built in 1624,” Carol replied. “I can’t even find a floor plan.”
“So, we’re sending them in blind.” He stared past her, at the satellite feed displayed on her workstation. “Something’s not right here. I can just feel it.”
4:40 P.M. Local Time
The road to Nablus
The West Bank
Harry stood along the side of the highway, watching as an old Dodge Caravan pulled off the road toward him.
As it neared, he could see the face of Avraham Najeri behind the wheel and he made a small hand gesture, directing the weapons dealer onto the side road.
Thoughts of his first meeting with Najeri flashed through his mind as he followed him along the road, waiting as he shifted the Dodge into park.
Harry had been a young agent then, barely two years in the field. Najeri, God only knew-the Arab had always seemed ageless. Objective: the forced extradition of a Chechen war criminal from the Gaza Strip. The dealer’s advice had been invaluable then.
So little had changed. As Harry approached, he could see the small statue of the Virgin Mary standing erect on the dashboard. A symbol that carried a risk of its own in this land, but Najeri was undeterred. And still alive.
“Salaam alaikum, my friend,” the weapons dealer greeted him, stepping out of the SUV. Blessings and peace be upon you.
“Alaikum salaam.”
“It’s been far too long. You are well?”
“I am,” Harry replied, seeing the look of uncertainty in Najeri’s eyes. The expectation that he would see others with Harry.
It wasn’t going to happen. Asefi was bound and gagged in the trunk of the car and Tex…well, Tex was conveniently elsewhere.
“Good, good,” Najeri chuckled. “And your family?”
It was an old sally, and they both knew it. “As I’ve told you before, I have no family, Avraham. That’s unchanged.” That lie was an old one as well, but he had no intention of discussing his personal affairs with the man.
Together, they worked to transfer the weapons from one car to another, with Najeri keeping up a running conversation regarding the weather, politics, and the general state of affairs in the Palestinian authority.
“A pleasure to do business with you, my old friend,” Harry said finally, placing the last bag of equipment in the back seat of the car.
The little man chuckled once again. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. But do tell your employers that I do not make a practice of these deliveries.”
“I’ll pass that along,” Harry replied amiably, watching as the weapons dealer walked back toward his vehicle. The engine started and he made a u-turn on the dusty road, heading back the way he came.
Harry waited until the SUV was out of sight, then raised a hand to his ear. A moment later, Tex appeared, a cloth-wrapped object in his hand.
“Mission accomplished?” Harry asked.
A rare smile crossed the Texan’s face and he knelt down at the back of the car, unwrapping the second of Najeri’s license plates. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
9:05 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“All right, here’s what we’ve got,” Carol announced as Ron came through the door behind her. “In thirty minutes, we’ll have a satellite overpass. We should be able to get a decent thermal scan of the bath house during that window.”
“And Nichols?”
“Will be in position in twenty, as of last sitrep.”
Carter took another look at her workstation’s screens, then cleared his throat. “I’ll brief the director. Let me know when the strike team is in position.”
5:36 P.M. Local Time
Old City Nablus
West Bank
“Right there, that’s right-hold it! Smile.” The shutter clicked and Harry lowered the camera, smiling at the young Western couple he had just photographed.
The young man gave his bride an affectionate squeeze and stepped forward to take the camera from Harry’s hand. “Merci.”
“Don’t mention it,” Harry replied, watching as they strolled away down the crowded street of the Old City. A vision of happiness. Of love.
His hand went up to adjust the earbud microphone. “How are we coming, Tex?”
“Done,” was his friend’s terse reply. Good, Harry thought. The assault rifles were reassembled.
He resisted the urge to glance at his watch. There was no point in signaling to any watchers that he was waiting for something. They already had been lingering too long in one place.
Hurry up and wait was standard protocol.
The TACSAT in his shirt pocket started vibrating and he palmed it. “Hello.”
“Sir, we have the results of your scan.” It was Carol’s voice. “We have identified thirteen polyps within your right lung.”
“All malignant?” Harry asked, more than slightly amused at the phrasing.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have that information yet.”
He glanced across the street at the hammam. Even as they spoke, a man left the building, disappearing into a nearby alley. “Do you recommend further tests?”
“Negative. The doctor’s recommendation is immediate removal.”
“All right.” Harry ended the call without another word, moving quickly back to the car, parked down the street a full hundred meters. Tex was in the back seat, a blanket covering the rifles.
“Time to move.”
5:40 P.M.
Ramallah, West Bank
Countryside and village flashed past at eighty kilometers per hour as the black van sped south. A war-torn country, Hossein reflected, glancing out the window as Mustafa drove. The land of Palestine had not known peace in well over seventy years, ever since the establishment of the Zionist state.
The phone in his pocket went off with a jarring ring. “Yes?”
His brow furrowed in astonishment. It was Omar, the old man’s voice pitched no higher than a whisper. “The Jews are here.”
For a scant moment in time, Hossein was struck speechless. How could it be? That they could have been tracked so quickly.
Asefi! His teeth ground together in anger as he realized the truth. It was the traitor. Another moment passed before he replied, but when he did it was with perfect calm. “You know your instructions. I can trust you to carry them out?”
“Of course, my son,” the old man replied, a trace of humor in his voice. Laughing at death. “When the angels weigh my deeds at the end of time, I will not be found wanting.”
Hossein’s face hardened, his eyes flickering from the countryside to the road before them. “The blessing of Allah upon you,” he responded finally.
“Allahu akbar.”
9:41 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
There was something wrong. Carol could feel it. Her father would probably have jibed about feminine “intuition”, but she kept returning to the same set of frames. Just after the Land Rover parked in front of the hammam. Men exited the vehicle and entered the building. She had watched it a dozen times, yet still the feeling lingered.
Struck by a sudden inspiration, she panned the camera right, southwest, Carol noted abstractly. Movement in the alley between frames 1157 and 1209 caught her eye and she zoomed in. There!
She reached for the phone and began dialing, knowing even as she did so that there was no time…
5:43 P.M. Local Time
Old City Nablus
West Bank
“Moving in,” Harry whispered into his microphone. “Take up overwatch.”
He glanced up at the towering heights of Mount Gerizim as he crossed the street toward the hammam. The mountain of blessing.
The.45 under his jacket was his only weapon, a silencer screwed into the end of the five-inch barrel. Tex would provide back-up with the assault rifles, if needed.
At least that was the plan. Few knew better than he how quickly a plan could dissolve under the tensions of engagement. Particularly under the strain of fatigue that was beginning to bear down on him.
An elderly Palestinian man was sitting in his car about fifteen meters from the door of the hammam. Including their car and the Land Rover, there were only five vehicles in sight. Nablus hadn’t been laid out with automobile traffic in mind.
Reaching the side of the building, Harry ducked into an alcove, pulling a black balaclava ski mask over his face. When he emerged, his face was completely hidden, the Colt in his right hand.
Five steps to the door.
He saw the old man’s face out of the corner of his eye as he moved forward. There was something there-alarm bells exploded in Harry’s mind and he looked back.
The man was staring straight at him, taking in the mask and pistol without a trace of concern on his face. He might have imagined it, but it seemed as though a faint smile tugged at the corners of the wrinkled mouth.
The look of a martyr. The thought struck Harry suddenly and the pistol came up in his hand almost of its own accord.He saw the old man’s face framed in the straight-eight sights of the Colt and time itself seemed to slow down. To take a human life-on a hunch. Instinct against fact. The imaginations of a tired mind.
A voice came over his earpiece, breaking in upon the trance. Carol’s voice, low and urgent. “Get out of there, the place is a wash. I repeat, our quarry is not there!”
The decision had been made for him. His finger curled around the trigger, taking up the slack. The big Colt recoiled into his hand.
The heavy slug smashed through the windshield, spraying glass and blood over the seat as the bullet found its mark in the forehead of the old man.
Screams erupted from the crowd as people panicked and turned to flee. As if in a dream, Harry saw the couple he had photographed, running. Terror.
His feet leaden, he jogged to the side of the car, looking in upon the shattered body. The life he had taken.
A detonator was clutched loosely in the now lifeless fingers of the old man, his thumb only inches away from the button. The right call…
9:57 A.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“What’s going on?” Every head in the op-center swivelled at the entrance of Bernard Kranmeyer. The DCS stood in the doorway, leaning on his good leg, his face black as thunder.
The Dark Lord, Carol mused, turning down the volume of her communications headset as she hurried toward him. The nickname was apt.
“Our field team in Nablus was nearly compromised,” she stated with as much calm as she could muster. “A trap was laid for us and the terrorists were already gone.”
“How?”
“They switched vehicles without us catching on,” Carol explained, leading the way to an empty workstation. She gestured for Kranemeyer to take a seat. “When Nichols and Richards arrived at the hammam, a would-be suicide bomber was waiting for them.”
“The bomb didn’t detonate?”
“No. Nichols shot the bomber and they escaped in the confusion.”
Kranemeyer let out a long sigh. “Confusion, eh? So they were compromised. Where are they now?”
“On their way out of the city. There’s no indication of an alarm having been raised yet. The Nablus police are notoriously corrupt.”
“Well, isn’t that a mercy,” the DCS snorted. “Do we have a visual on the terrorists’ new wheels?”
“Negative. They were headed south in a black van on the Wadi al-Harimaya highway when they passed out of range of the satellite-here.” She traced the line on the map. “We’re working through the NRO and commercial companies to see if someone else could have picked them up.”
“Commercial satellites won’t have our resolution,” Kranemeyer observed. “You’ll be lucky to be able to pick out the license number.”
“But they have broader coverage,” Carol shot back, massaging her forehead with a hand. “We’re running out of options here-NRO had to divert satellites to Myanmar after the coup yesterday. Piggybacking onto a commercial sat may be our only chance of locating them.”
Kranemeyer rose, his eyes still on the computer screen. “Do it. And do try to be unobtrusive-the last thing we need is corporations on the Hill complaining about government entities hacking their servers.”
6:03 P.M. Local Time
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel
“We’ve located their vehicle,” an aide announced, bustling into Shoham’s office with a hand full of print-outs.
The Mossad chief turned away from the television. “In the West Bank, I’ll be bound. Military police just found a dead suicide bomber in Old City Nablus. Shot between the eyes, his finger only inches away from a detonator. Whoever took him out was a professional.”
The aide shook his head, spreading out the photographs on a table. “The vehicle was abandoned outside Hebron but there’s a catch.”
“Isn’t there always?” Shoham asked, irony dripping from his tones as he walked over. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s the tags-but not the vehicle that crossed in from Lebanon. We found them attached to a Dodge Caravan in a wadi outside Jericho.”
“Burned out, I see.”
“Yes, it was on fire when responders arrived. No sign of a driver.”
“There wouldn’t be,” Shoham responded grimly, laying the photograph on the table. He tapped the image of the smoldering hulk. “This is a diversion. What’s the status of Lt. Laner and his team?”
“Ten minutes out. They were staging for an operation in the Negev.”
Shoham walked over to the window, gazing out through the reinforced windows at the city of Tel Aviv. “Let me know the moment they arrive.”
6:17 P.M.
The Masjid al-Aqsa
Jerusalem, Israel
There is no God but God, and Mohammed is His Prophet. His face turned toward Mecca, Harun fell forward upon his prayer mat, his forehead touching the cool fabric.
A chill ran through his body as the sunset prayer continued, the wailing cry of the muezzin ringing out over the ancient city.
His eyes closed, his mind raced with a thousand thoughts, uncertainties plaguing him.
As prayer ended, he rose, looking along the crowded plaza to the east, toward the golden-domed shrine in the center of the Haram al-Sharif. His fingers trembled at the sight. From his earliest childhood, he had been taught to revere this ground as sacred, as one of the holiest sites of all Islam. So many would die.
His choice had been made…
Farouk’s voice broke in upon his reverie and he looked up into the face of the Hezbollah commander.
“Take a good look, my brother,” Farouk said, encompassing the entire haram with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “This is the end of all things.”
Harun nodded, his expression serious. “This is the day that was spoken of by the Prophet,” the older man continued, still caught in the grandeur of the moment. “As it is written in the hadith, the very stones will refuse to conceal the Jews in their terror.”
“Inshallah,” Harun whispered, looking out upon the crowd. A moment passed and he could feel Farouk’s eyes upon him.
“How could this be anything but the will of Allah?” the Hezbollah commander demanded, his voice low, intense.
For a long moment, neither man spoke, then Harun cleared his throat, spreading his hands out over the city. Al-quds. “So many of the faithful will die tomorrow, so many pilgrims at the noonday prayer. They have come to worship at the shrine of the Prophet, blessed be his name, and we will kill them.”
“You have doubts?”
Mustering up his remaining courage, Harun turned to look the older man in the eye. “Doubt is a human affliction. It will not sway me from the task at hand. Allah forgive this moment of weakness.”
Another moment passed, then the flinty expression on Farouk’s face relaxed into some semblance of a smile. “He will, my brother. Be strong…”
7:25 P.M. Tehran Time
The Ayatollah’s Residence
Qom, Iran
The sun was going down. Day ending and night beginning in the eternal cycle. The Ayatollah Isfahani closed his Quran and sat there for a moment, looking out his window as the clouds turned gold, then purple, then crimson, bathing the sky in blood as the sun slipped across the salt desert of the Darsht-e Kavir.
It would be a long night. He laid the sacred book aside and reached into the drawer of his metal desk, pulling out a black Russian-made MP-443 semiautomatic pistol. It was loaded with seventeen rounds, hollowpoints, 9mm Luger. He had never fired a pistol before in his life, but after a moment’s reflection, he slipped it into a pocket of his robe, beside the satellite phone that was his link to Hossein and his men.
He was committed. There were times along this path when he could have gone back, turned aside, fled in the face of his destiny. No longer.
To stake one’s life on a roll of the dice…
Chapter Sixteen
6:32 P.M. Local Time
A safehouse in Ramallah
The West Bank
“Have the men secure their weapons,” Hossein ordered, exiting the van with Mustafa at his side. “We’ll be here no longer than an hour.”
The next part of the journey would be the hardest, Hossein reflected. Crossing back into the occupied territories, the so-called state of Israel. Some of his men would cross the border on foot, rejoining the rest of the team on the other side. Difficult, but it could be done.
Miles overhead, a commercial satellite swung into position over the West Bank, taking hundreds of images. It’s subjects, among other things, included the black van.
10:38 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“We’ve got it!” Carol announced, a sort of exhausted triumph in her voice as she laid the photograph down on Kranemeyer’s desk.
“Where are they?”
“A house on the outskirts of Ramallah. We’ve checked the address-it was flagged on our servers as a possible Fatah safehouse back in 2010.”
“Fatah?” Kranemeyer asked skeptically. “That’s a connection we’ve not seen before.”
He stared at the picture for a moment, lost in thought. All at once, his head came up, a look of decision on his face. “Pass this along to Nichols and get him moving in that direction. Have Ron contact Sorenson over at the NRO and get him to task a satellite to the West Bank. Pull it off Myanmar if he has to. If he complains, tell him Burmese monks will be the least of our worries if these dirtbags reach their target.”
“Yes, sir.”
6:43 P.M. Local Time
Wadi al-Harimaya Highway
The West Bank
Harry’s phone closed with a click and he looked over at Asefi, who was once more ensconced behind the steering wheel. “Let’s get this show on the road, Achmed.”
“What do we have?” Tex asked from the back seat.
“The tangos are at a Fatah safehouse in Ramallah. Word is it looks like they’re preparing to move.”
The car moved out onto the highway, merging with southbound traffic. Harry looked up from his map. “Given current traffic conditions, I’d say we can be there in twenty-five minutes. Be ready.”
There was no acknowledgment from the backseat. None was needed. Just a look of grim determination on the Texan’s face. They were going into battle once again.
Asefi stole a look at the American beside him as the car gained speed, accelerating down the highway. Despite the warmth of the day, he felt himself shiver. What a risk it was, this deception he had chosen to perpetrate. He felt for all the world like a tightrope artist, balancing high above a bottomless chasm. A single step to the left or the right and his fate was sealed.
Never look down…
6:56 P.M.
Outside Jericho
It’s a diversion. Nichols is behind this somewhere. And he’s got help. Shoham’s words rang in Gideon’s mind as he climbed out of the wadi, leaving behind the burned-out SUV in the gathering twilight.
The old man was right. As usual.
Nichols’ fingerprints were all over this. Not in the sense of physical, iron-clad proof, but the very absence of it. After years in the field, Gideon’s instincts were as honed as finely as those of a sonarman.
Don’t look for the signs of a trained operator because you won’t see them. Look for what’s not there, the black hole where there should be noise.
Yossi Eiland was waiting at the vehicle, a kheffiyeh draped jauntily around his shoulder, an assault rifle in his hands.
Gideon motioned for him to get in the SUV and slipped into the driver’s seat himself, sitting there in silence for a long moment. The American had made fools of them only days before, he reflected grimly. It wasn’t going to happen again.
“Where now, boss?” Eiland asked, handing the rifle to Chaim in the back seat.
Off to the east, Laner could see the setting sun glinting off the turbulent waters of the Jordan River. “Ramallah,” he responded finally. “I’ve got contacts there.”
11:13 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“Nichols and the rest of the field team are here,” Ron explained, using a pointer to illustrate. The sat image from the commercial bird was displayed on a screen covering one wall of the conference room. “They’ve abandoned their vehicle a mile from the safehouse and are moving in on foot.”
“Where’s Asefi?” Kranemeyer asked, a shrewd look in his eyes.
“I believe Harry has him,” Carter replied.
The DCS shook his head. “He’ll be a liability. Should have terminated him along the side of the road.”
“Harry believes that the Iranian bodyguard has more information he’s holding back,” Carol interjected, entering the room with a file folder under her arm.
“Key words there,” Kranemeyer retorted, “are ‘Harry believes’. Nobody has to convince me how good he is, but he’s exhausted. His behavior in Nablus only proves that he’s getting sloppy. If I thought we could get Hamid and the rest of the team into Ramallah in time, I’d pull him. What’s our estimate from Sorenson?”
Carol spread out her papers on the conference table. “Another forty-five minutes before he has the spy sat in place. Until then, we’re on our own.”
“Then make this clear to Nichols. There is to be no assault until we have thermal imaging. Let’s reduce the variables here. If they start to leave, well then, that’s a different story.”
Ron and Carol exchanged uncomfortable glances. At last Carter cleared his throat.“The field team went dark five minutes ago,” he stated. “We don’t have a way to reach him.”
7:15 P.M. Local Time
At the safehouse
Ramallah, the West Bank
A half-starved, mangy dog scavenged in an overturned basket of rubbish as the team moved down the street, gliding like vengeful ghosts in the twilight. He whimpered at the sight of the strangers and ran off with his tail tucked between his legs.
The stock of the Galil assault rifle fully extended against his shoulder, Harry crept forward, using the growing shadows to his advantage.
Achmed Asefi was at his shoulder, covered from the rear by Tex’s rifle. Their only safety was going to be in a quick, surgical strike. Take out the terrorists, secure the bio-agent, and get out of Dodge.
It was no surprise to Harry that the safehouse had been identified years before by Agency assets on the ground. It stood out. The courtyard was surrounded by a high wall, maybe eleven or twelve feet in height, surmounted by razor wire and security cameras. There went the quick part of their plan.
He motioned to Tex and together the three men dropped to the ground, working their way along behind the parked cars.
From behind the walls of the courtyard they could hear a vehicle engine idling. Maybe more than one. Time was short.
Lying on his belly under a parked truck, Harry rubbed a hand across his eyes, scanning the perimeter for weaknesses-for the proverbial chink in the armor.
At length, he nudged Tex with an elbow. “There’s a gap in the coverage of the security cameras. If we time it right, I can get in close to the gate before the camera turns back this way.”
“You up to a sprint?”
Harry grinned, forcing himself to ignore his tired muscles. “Don’t have that much choice, now do I?”
“You got that right,” the big man replied simply. “Go with God.”
One, two, three-four! Harry was up and moving, his feet pounding across the street, toward the looming shelter of the courtyard wall. Unbidden, his mind flickered back to his childhood Little League, sliding for his first base at the age of seven. The euphoric adrenaline flowing through his body.
Sliding for home plate.
The stakes here defied comparison. The security camera started to swivel back toward him. And with one final desperate burst of energy, he hurled himself toward the wall, sliding across the rough asphalt.
He rolled onto his back in the shadow of the wall, gasping for breath, the assault rifle clutched in his skinned hands.
Now voices added themselves to the cacophony of engine noise, barely intelligible amidst the racket. It sounded like Farsi, he realized after another moment’s reflection. Orders barked back and forth.
Then footsteps, boots thudding against asphalt on the other side of the reinforced metal gate. The rattle of a padlock.
Shifting his rifle to his left hand, Harry drew the suppressed.45 from his jacket, aiming it at the opening.
The gate swung outward as though in slow motion. The man that emerged was dressed in the traditional garb of a Palestinian fellah. An AK-47 was cradled in his arms as he pulled the gate fully open, his back turned toward the CIA men.
Harry didn’t wait for him to turn around. This wasn’t a Western movie. There were no white hats. No honor in this. His arm came up, the big Colt an extension of his hand. A part of him.
Asefi’s breath caught as the fellah’s face turned toward him, and in the gathering twilight he recognized the man. One of the Ayatollah’s young scholars from Qom. They had been lovers once, in a better day. A beautiful boy.
He tried to rise, tried to scream out a warning, but the words turned to dust in his throat. He saw the gun rise in the American’s hand, a terrible certainty.
The sound of the suppressed.45 was more like that of a nail driver than a gun and so it was. A nail in his coffin.
The bullet struck the young man in the back of the head and an anguished scream broke from Asefi’s lips as his lover crumpled to the ground, a shattered wreck.
Dead. He felt as though his heart had been torn out. Time itself seemed to slow down as he rose, evading the big man’s hand by only inches. Tears ran down his face as he ran forward, his vision reduced to nothing but the American in front of him.
Asefi saw him look up, saw the surprise on his face. Surprise quickly melting away to resolution as the gun came up.
He wasn’t going to make it. He knew that when he saw the pistol aimed at his chest. Deep down he had known it before he even started running. Cold as fate.
Two.45-caliber hollowpointed slugs tore into his chest, piercing a lung and mushrooming into his body.
Falling. He threw out a hand to catch himself as the asphalt came rushing up to meet him, but his body was no longer responding to the dictates of his mind.
Darkness…
Hossein heard the muffled shot, recognized it for what it was. He saw the body of the young scholar crumple into the street.
They were here.
“Fall back!” he bellowed, grasping the situation in a trice. There were too many unknowns to risk pitched battle.
His orders fell on deaf ears. His men stood exposed in the open, staring at the corpse of their fallen comrade in open-mouthed shock. Scholars, he fumed bitterly. Only Mustafa reacted in accordance with his training, taking shelter behind the engine block of the van, his rifle unslung.
Hossein hurried forward to the screen of vehicles, taking command of the situation. He grabbed one of the young men by the shoulder and pulled him down behind the van, slapping him across the face.
At that moment, a small steel cylinder rolled into the courtyard, tinkling against the asphalt. “Down!” Hossein screamed, covering his eyes with his hands.
The courtyard turned bright as the noonday sun.
Harry was through the gate two seconds after the stun grenade went off, Tex following him in. Target to the left.
A burst of fire rippled from the Galil’s barrel and the man went down. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw another man helpless on the pavement, rubbing his eyes in agony.
Tex shot him twice and he stopped moving.
Reaching the line of vehicles, they separated, their movements practiced, almost choreographed. Danse macabre.
A man was crouched behind the van, a rifle in his hands. He got off a wild burst, bullets fanning the air near Harry’s ear.
Harry fired a quick double-tap, both rounds entering the tango’s head. The rifle clattered to the asphalt as the corpse fell backward.
Silence fell over the courtyard, the silence of the grave. Four men dead. Harry and Tex exchanged glances, their rifles still held at the ready.
“Any sign of Hossein?” Harry asked cautiously, his eyes scanning the courtyard for a further threat.
Tex shook his head.
“Check the vehicles for the package,” Harry instructed. “I’ve got your back.”
10:35 A.M. Central Time
Columbus, Ohio
“And as we work together, we will move this country into a bright future of hope and prosperity. Thank you all, and may God bless the United States of America!” With a wave and a brilliant smile for the cameras, President Hancock walked quickly off the platform, after four years still moving with the rugged, youthful athleticism that had endeared him to his supporters in the first campaign.
Cahill was waiting backstage and together they walked down the hall of the convention building. “Something’s going on, isn’t there, Ian?” Hancock demanded, undoing his necktie as they walked.
The only reply was a nod and the President sighed. “Let me have it.”
“We got a flash from Langley shortly after you went on-stage. They were able to locate the terrorist cell charged with transporting the bacteria into Israel.”
Hancock stopped dead in his tracks, a strange fire flashing in his eyes as he stared at Cahill. “They did?”
“Yes, Mr. President. As of our last update, fifteen minutes ago, an NCS strike team was in the process of executing the takedown.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t see fit to notify me of this?”
“This was a very important speech,” Cahill responded, baffled by Hancock’s response. “As I’m sure you can understand, it was imperative that you remain focused while delivering it.”
“Ian, I can give speeches till the Second Coming of Christ and none of it will matter if the Middle East goes up in smoke. Now get me an update. I want real-time intelligence on the developing situation, ASAP.”
7:39 P.M. Local Time
The safehouse
Ramallah
Harry heard the van’s doors close behind him at long last, then Tex cleared his throat. “Nothing,” the big man said finally. “Nothing at all.”
“Then we’ll search the safehouse.”
Tex shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense for it to be concealed inside. They were leavin’.”
Silence reigned over the courtyard as the two men stood there. Indecision. It had been fatal in the past. At last Harry spoke. “Stay here, I’m going to check Asefi.”
He walked back out through the steel gates, his Galil rifle held at the ready. It was a testament to the violence that had wracked Ramallah for the last few years that no one had yet responded to the firefight.
The Iranian bodyguard lay there on the pavement, beside the corpse of the young fellahin Harry had shot. He was cradling the young man’s shattered head against his chest.
“I loved him,” Asefi whispered, his voice a faint, dying murmur. Tears of anger shone in his eyes as he glared up at Harry.
Harry did not respond for a moment, and when he did, he ignored the bodyguard’s anger over the death of his lover. “The bacteria isn’t here, Achmed,” he replied, dropping to one knee beside the dying man. “What can you tell me about that?”
Raising himself up on one elbow with a tremendous effort, Asefi spat in Harry’s face, bloody spittle striking him on the cheek.
Harry never blinked, staring at the Iranian with preternatural calm as the spittle dripped from his face. “The bacteria,” he repeated coldly. “Let’s have the truth this time.”
Asefi coughed, a bloody froth flecking his lips as he struggled to breathe. A smile twisted his features as he met Harry’s gaze. “You’re too late,” he replied, chuckling at the irony of the situation. His laughter was cut short by another fit of coughing and Harry was forced to lean closer to hear his next words.
“You thought you could play me, didn’t you? The terrorists are already in Al Quds…”
“Where?” Harry demanded, realizing that the man’s strength was ebbing fast. With a critical eye, he assessed and then rejected the possibility of stabilizing the bodyguard. He had aimed to kill.
A curse was Asefi’s only response. His body shuddered and then collapsed over the corpse of his lover, the two of them entwined in death…
Tex looked up as Harry returned to the courtyard, but with his characteristic reticence, he asked no questions. To his eyes the team leader looked worn, exhausted.
“We were rolled,” Harry said finally, his tone weary. Bitter. “The bacteria isn’t here. Never was.”
Tex accepted the statement without challenge. “Where to next?”
“We clear the building,” Harry replied, a grim determination creeping into his voice. “Maybe he was lying once again.”
Even as he spoke, he knew the fallacy of that argument. No, Asefi had been telling the truth this time. He had seen it in the dying man’s eyes. Still, there was no harm in checking. “Back me up,” he instructed. “I’ve got point.”
The two men took up positions outside the door of the safehouse and Harry tried the door handle. Unlocked.
He pushed the door open with the barrel of his rifle, following it in. They were in a long, dark hallway, their only illumination coming from a ceiling light in the room at the end.
A room to the left. Locked. Tex kicked it open and Harry entered, sweeping the bedroom with the muzzle of his rifle. All clear.
Two more rooms down the hallway were also cleared without incident. The place seemed deserted. Still leading the way, Harry entered the kitchen at the end of hall. And he stopped stock-still.
Farshid Hossein was seated calmly at a table in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the two of them without a flicker of fear or surprise on his countenance. An empty semiautomatic pistol lay on the table before him, pulled back to slide-lock. A satellite phone rested beside it.
His right hand was pressed to the base of his throat, his fingers holding down the spoon of a fragmentation grenade. The pin was gone.
One slip, one tremor of his fingers and he would blow them all to kingdom come. That much was clear. His motivation was not.
After a moment, his face cracked into a smile and he gestured with his free hand. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”
8:54 P.M. Tehran Time
The Ayatollah’s Residence
Qom, Iran
The phone on Isfahani’s desk vibrated for the second time in twenty minutes and he glanced briefly at the screen before answering it. He sighed and the sound seemed to fill the small, austere bedchamber of the Ayatollah.
Seldom had he seen things go more completely awry and his mind searched for answers to the chaos. Had Allah rejected him as an instrument of his will?
“Hello?”
It was Hossein’s number that had been displayed on-screen, but the voice that responded was not that of the major.
“Am I speaking with the Ayatollah Isfahani?” a voice asked in perfect Arabic. If Isfahani had not known better, he might have thought the man was a native speaker.
“You are,” he replied evenly, in the same language. “There is a certain irony in speaking with the man who killed my soldiers.”
“We all must make our deals with the devil,” came the ready retort. “I find myself in the same position.”
Isfahani was too surprised at his boldness to be angry. “Faustian bargains are not a part of my day-to-day life,” he replied. “But Goethe has been a favorite of mine ever since my days in Germany. I ask myself, have you not cast the wrong player in the role of Mephistopheles?”
Harry cleared his throat. “We’re wasting time with semantics, sir. Would you cut to the quick?”
“As you wish, of course. The biological agent is in the hands of a Hezbollah field commander named Fayood Hamza al-Farouk. I am prepared to give you their plan of attack, their strength, and most importantly, a way to stop them.”
“And you ask in return?”
“I beg pardon?”
Harry glanced over at Tex before turning his attention back to the phone on the table. It was on speaker, ensuring that all three men could hear the conversation.
“What’s the trade-off? What do you hope to gain?”
“I hope to gain the lives of the faithful, of the thousands of my fellow Muslims who will be butchered by this madman. The destruction of the Zionist state is not worth this folly.”
“I appreciate your sentiments. Hopefully with your help, that can be avoided.”
“And I would like safe passage to a country of my choosing, which I’m sure your government can arrange.”
Harry hesitated a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I will have to discuss this with my principals.”
“My request is reasonable enough. What was your deal with my traitorous bodyguard? I doubt he would have sold his soul for a pittance.”
“Whether Achmed Asefi had a soul to sell is a topic best left to theologians such as yourself,” Harry replied caustically. “Our deal with him was a bargain between thieves and best forgotten.”
“I will await your call.”
Harry powered down the phone and handed it back to Hossein, his eyes meeting briefly with those of the former insurgent. The man who had killed his friend.
“Let’s roll. We’ve stayed here too long already,” he announced. The major rose, putting the loaded magazine of his semiautomatic in his pocket. He reached out for the pistol itself, but Harry’s voice stayed his hand.
“I’ll take that,” Harry said quietly, not a trace of a smile on his face. Hossein shrugged and let him remove the gun as the trio moved toward the door.
“Tex, you’ll drive. I have a call to make.”
12:05 P.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“Thank you, Nichols. We’ll get back to you shortly.” Director Lay thumbed the END button to close the call and glanced up at the faces around the conference table.
“Gentlemen, your thoughts?”
Ron Carter cleared his throat, looking up from the screen of his laptop. Lay had seldom seen the analyst look more rumpled, but he seemed to still be on top of his game. “I’ve sent the recording Richards made of the call over to Intel for voiceprint analysis. Once we confirm that it is the voice of the Ayatollah Isfahani, we’ll have more to go on.”
“How long might that take?”
“Anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour,” Carter replied, rubbing the back of his neck.
Kranemeyer shot him a pained look.“May I remind everyone that we’ve got a field team hanging out in the open? We need to either commit to this operation or exfil from the area ASAP.”
“There’s greater risk in moving too fast,” the analyst retorted. “Look what happened with Achmed Asefi.”
The DCS leaned forward, his eyes snapping like black coals of fire as he glared at Carter. “Running Asefi was a decision made by your old buddies at the Intelligence Directorate. My people did the best they could on the intel provided.”
“Intel they explicitly warned you was dated,” Carter shot back. “‘Proceed with caution’ was the directive, if I remember it correctly.”
“Gentlemen!” Lay brought his hands down on the table with a resounding thud. Having gotten their attention, he continued, “There was no way to predict that Asefi would choose an old-fashioned triple-cross as his best way out. That’s the human element of every op we’ve ever run. Put under fear and pressure, people react unpredictably. And can generally find a route of escape that you hadn’t even factored into the equation. Now, as Barney said, we’ve got a team in the field. Time to hold the ball, make the call. Let’s proceed under the assumption that we are dealing with the genuine item. Ron, give us the rundown. Pros and cons.”
Carter deflated, turning back to his laptop for a moment. “We need to remember above all that Yousef Mohaymen Isfahani is not a moderate by any stretch of the imagination. We didn’t try to assassinate him back in 2011 because we thought he was a fan of the West.”
“But compared to the current regime…” Deputy Director(I) Michael Shapiro interjected, adding his voice to the discussion for the first time.
“It’s the classic Overton window scenario,” Ron admitted with a shrug. “What was once radical now appears moderate. It’s a matter of perspective. With his past history, I question the wisdom of allowing him any measure of control over a field operation.”
“Control?” Kranemeyer asked skeptically. “I was in spec-ops back in the ‘90s and I can tell you first-hand that any perception of control over a field team is an illusion. I am confident in the abilities of my people to deceive the Ayatollah if necessary.”
“Even with this Major Hossein along?”
“Yes.”
“And if he’s deceiving us?”
“His story holds together thus far. We’ll have to play it by ear and monitor all communications as it goes. Right now we’re looking at very limited options. And he’s offering the best deal.”
Lay sighed. “Which brings us back to square one. Can we extract Isfahani and what are the benefits of doing so?”
“Can we? I believe it’s feasible. We have assets in Qom. As much of a paradox as it might seem, getting a high-level official like the Supreme Leader out of the country is actually easier than extracting your average rube,” Carter noted with just a trace of a smile. “Despite his fall from supreme power three years ago, he still commands enormous respect among the people of Iran, including many in governmental circles. My guess would be that he could probably fly out of the country, no questions asked.”
“And how is his defection advantageous to us?”
“If he’s willing to play ball, it could be huge. Someone of his stature publicly breaking with Shirazi…It has the potential to bring down the Iranian president.”
“Can we risk that?” The DCIA asked quietly. “Having Shirazi out of power is of obvious benefit, but the resultant power vacuum. The devil you know…”
Silence fell over the conference room as the work and bustle of the Agency continued outside its soundproofed doors.
At length, David Lay gathered his briefing folders together and closed them, rising to his feet as a signal that the meeting was closed. “Barney, contact the field team. I’ll brief the President.”
8:25 A.M. Local Time
Eight kilometers outside Jerusalem
Israel
The night was clear and cool, a light breeze stirring the blades of grass there on the Judean hillside. Harry zipped up his jacket against the chill, holding the TACSAT between ear and shoulder. Kranemeyer hadn’t finished talking.
“We’re going to bring them in, Harry. We don’t have another option.”
A long sigh escaped Harry’s lips and he looked back toward the darkened vehicle where he had left Hossein and Tex. “Yes, we do. Tex and I will handle the takedown.”
“It’s not enough. You need more people for overwatch, if nothing else. And the team is fresh. You and Richards are beat tired.”
There wasn’t much of a way to argue with that. No matter how much he might try to ignore his aching muscles. It would be good to have Hamid’s input, another pair of eyes on the situation. An opinion he trusted. Still…
“I trust it hasn’t escaped the analysis of your desk jockeys that we’ll be bringing in an agent who has likely been in contact with the very commander of the terrorist cell we’re trying to stop. Davood’s imam was photographed with al-Farouk.”
“It hasn’t. The decision has been made, Harry. Now, tell me what you need.”
“Give Hamid and the rest of the team in Crete the use of a Pave Low. Tactical load-outs for the full team. A Zodiac. I think that should be all for the moment.”
“You have a plan?”
“Working on one. You were spec-ops back in the day-what’s the easiest way to get in anywhere?”
“Water,” came the instinctive answer. “You go in by water.”
“Nothing’s changed. And, boss?”
Kranemeyer heard his agent’s voice change and stiffened, knowing what was coming. “Yes?”
“If you send Davood here, you know what’s going to happen.”
The DCS nodded as though he thought Harry could see him. “Yes, I do. Just don’t let it get in the way of your mission.”
“It won’t.” The phone clicked with the finality of death. A cell door closing.
“What did he mean?” Kranemeyer looked up to see Carol standing behind his workstation, a thick folder in her hand.
He reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes, shook one out and lit it in blatant violation of the ‘No Smoking’ signs posted everywhere in the federal building.
Smoke curled upward from the tobacco as he looked into her eyes. “They’re going to kill him…”
8:41 P.M. Local Time
US Naval Support Activity
Souda Bay, Crete
Her eyes. The memories came flooding back and Thomas winced, looking down and away in an effort to shut them out.
“Does it hurt?” the nurse asked, a solicitous look coming into her dark eyes. So much like Estere. He shook his head as she finished changing his bandages. He had been lucky. Another inch and the slug would have broken a rib, rather than plowing a furrow in his flesh.
The door opened and Hamid poked his head in. “All finished up here?”
The nurse smiled. “Almost.”
“Could you give us a moment, please?” he responded, closing the door behind him. There was concern written on his face, a certain urgency that Thomas found himself at a loss to explain.
“Certainly.”
Hamid stepped to the side of the table as the nurse left the room. “How do you feel, Thomas?”
“Better.”
“Ready for some action?”
A wry grin twisted Thomas’ mouth. “That depends on the type of action. Women or guns?”
“Why don’t I rephrase that-are you up for a mission?” Hamid asked, chuckling. “We’ve got a developing situation in Israel.”
Thomas listened as his friend outlined the state of affairs. After he had finished, he asked quietly, “How do we get in?”
“I was hoping you would ask. We don’t have time to wait for nightfall, so we’re going to fast-rope into the Mediterranean. Harry and Tex will meet us in a boat rented from the Tel Aviv marina. I’ve got Davood out right now looking for a Zodiac to keep us afloat till the rendevous.”
“Does he know the details of the op?”
“No,” Hamid sighed, a look of concern on his face. “I didn’t think it was wise.”
Thomas reached for his jacket, slipping it on over his bandages. “Why are we taking him with us?”
“Orders from Langley. I suppose they think he might expose his true loyalties on this mission.”
“Or get us all killed,” Thomas retorted, grunting with pain as he stood.
“Are you up to this?”
A grim smile crossed the New Yorker’s face. “Don’t have much choice, do I? You’re already down one man with Davood.”
Hamid clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks. I knew I could count on you. Get your kit together and meet me at the airfield. Wheels-up in two hours.”
8:58 P.M. Local Time
The safehouse
Ramallah
The broken asphalt crunched under his knee as Gideon knelt beside the corpses in front of the steel gates. His hands moved carefully around their distorted limbs, feeling for explosives.
Nothing.
The bodies were still slightly warm, lying in a pool of congealed blood. They hadn’t been dead for long.
He took the arm of the older man and rolled him over, shining his taclight full into the corpse’s face. The man’s visage was distorted in the agonies of death, but his identity was clear.
“Concur?” Gideon asked, glancing up at Sergeant Eiland.
Yossi nodded. “I’ll contact the general. Achmed Asefi is dead. And Nichols is nowhere to be seen.”
Gideon glanced around the courtyard at the sprawled bodies. Each killed precisely. Minimal force. “But he was here…”
9:07 P.M.
The road to Tel Aviv
“Cigarette?” Hossein asked in clear, unaccented English, glancing into his rear-view mirror. From the backseat, Harry shook his head.
“You’ll live.” The major’s lighter and pack of Marlboros reposed in Harry’s shirt pocket and that was where they were staying.
Hossein frowned in disappointment and turned his attention back to his driving. Harry stared at the back of the man’s head, lost in thought. Abu al-Mawt. The father of death.
Since that time in Iraq, years had passed and loyalties had shifted. Or had they? Nothing was ever as it seemed.
Tex’s voice broke in upon his thoughts. “What did you hear from WHIPPOORWILL?”
“She’ll meet us at the marina,” Harry replied. “A boat is to be waiting. She’ll handle disposal of this vehic-”
His expression changed and he broke off in mid-sentence, reaching in his pocket for the vibrating TACSAT. “Here.”
“Plans have changed, Harry.” Kranemeyer’s grim voice.
“How so?”
“We’re not going to be able to use a Pave Low. The nearest one is in Cairo-a detachment of the 160th on joint exercises with the Egyptian Army.”
“Then fly it in,” Harry retorted.
“The logistics don’t work. To get the team from Crete to you we’d need to arrange mid-flight refueling.”
“And that’s not feasible?”
“There’s a KC-135 Stratotanker stationed at Ramstein. It’s down for maintenance.”
Harry looked out at the road flashing past in the darkness. “Then Tex and I will go in as originally planned.”
“I said that plans had changed, not that they had been scrapped. Fortunately, there is a C-130 there at Souda Bay. We’ll launch a rubber duck operation.”
Harry sucked in a deep breath. “No.”
“You’re not in command of this operation, Nichols. I am. And this was my decision.”
“And respectfully, boss, it’s the wrong one,” Harry fired back, causing Tex to look back at him in surprise. “A parachute jump, over water, at night? The Navy lost good people at Grenada pulling that type of stunt.”
“I appreciate your input,” Kranemeyer replied coldly, the tone of his voice making it clear that he didn’t. “My decision stands.”
9:35 P.M. Local Time
US Naval Support Activity
Souda Bay, Crete
The C-130 had apparently been in service since the Vietnam War. Hamid found the inscription Khe Sanh carved into a wood frame near the door. Despite its age, the aircraft seemed to be in superb shape.
A shadow fell across the door as Hamid worked through the equipment locker, and he looked up to see a black man in Air Force fatigues standing there watching him, backlit by the runway lights.
“I was told to expect a spec-ops team,” the man announced. “Would that be you?”
“That’s right,” Hamid smiled, extending a hand. “Sergeant White’s the name. The rest of my people should be here soon. We’re out looking for a Zodiac at the moment.”
“Lieutenant Eric Hanson, United States Air Force,” he introduced himself. “I’m your pilot.”
He cast a critical glance at Hamid’s jeans and sweatshirt. “Sergeant, eh? You guys Army?”
“Not exactly,” Hamid replied, his smile vanishing. “Let me make something clear, lieutenant. My men and I, we don’t exist. We weren’t here. You never saw us. You never flew this mission. Your flight logs will be adjusted to reflect this reality. Am I coming through?”
“Loud and clear. Never flew a mission like this before.”
Hamid acknowledged the statement with a nod. “Well, there’s a first time for everything-just follow my instructions and we’ll be fine. What type of missions do they have you flying?”
The pilot laughed. “Ferry. I was taking this baby back to Iraq from Ramstein when my orders had me diverted here.”
The sound of a diesel approached and Hamid looked out to see a utility truck pull up beside the plane. Davood stepped out of the cab, waving to the Zodiac Combat Rubber Raiding Craft(CRRC) in the trailer behind it. “Finally found one. Needed a little work on the engine, but I think that Navy mechanic got things in order.”
“Lieutenant, I’d like you to meet one of my men. This is Sergeant Black.”
9:43 P.M. Local Time
A Hezbollah safehouse
Jerusalem
“I understand. Do they have intelligence regarding our present location?” Farouk’s face expanded into a grin as he heard the answer. “The blessings of Allah, the most glorified, the most high, be upon you, my brother.”
He closed the satellite phone and looked around the room at the members of his cell. They were few in number, just the four of them. He and Harun. Rashid, the bombmaker. And the fourth, the woman taken in fornication. He had never bothered to learn the whore’s name.
“BEHDIN,” he announced simply. “The Americans are on their way to the marina in Tel Aviv. They intend to rendevous at sea with the rest of their team. They have learned of our presence here in the city, along with the time and place of our attack.”
Harun’s jaw fell open. “How?”
The Hezbollah commander turned to face him, and there was cool appraisal in his eyes as he did so. “There is a traitor somewhere, clearly. Who is a question that BEHDIN was not prepared to answer.”
A low murmur ran around the room as dark looks shot back and forth. “Silence,” Farouk demanded, raising his hands. “Let this not be a tool of Shaitan to divide us.”
He took five steps into the safehouse’s kitchen and returned bearing a laptop. The number of a secure mobile line was displayed on-screen. “ISRAFIL will be able to learn the truth. What time is it in America?”
1:49 P.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
From the attitude of Carol Chambers as she walked into the outer office of the DCIA, one would have never been able to guess that he was her father. The years of separation had only served to accentuate the professional distance she tried to maintain at Langley.
“Sir, everything’s prepped in Conference Room #4.”
Lay nodded soberly, pulling on his jacket as he followed her out of the office. It was the moment they had all been waiting for. With dread.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he proclaimed, walking into the conference room. At another time, another day, his subordinates would have risen at his entrance, but today it seemed a frivolous waste of energy. And the DCIA thought nothing of it.
“Is everything ready?” Lay asked, shooting a glance in Ron Carter’s direction.
The analyst nodded wordlessly, picking up a remote and aiming it at the giant flatscreen mounted to the far wall.
A moment passed and then the face of Doctor Maria Schuyler appeared on-screen. She looked up from the folders spread out in front of her, a curiously stiff look on her face.
Lay put on his glasses. “Good afternoon, Dr. Schuyler.”
“I wish I could say as much, director,” she replied tightly. “It’s anything but.”
“You’ve reached a conclusion regarding our bacteria?”
“That is correct. A copy of the information is before you. I’d like to walk you through it, if I may.”
“Go ahead.”
“Let me preface this by saying that accurate estimates can only be achieved by days of testing. We simply haven’t had the time to do the type of concrete analysis that we would customarily do in this type of scenario.”
“Worst-case it for me, doctor,” Lay retorted. “We’re running a tight schedule.”
“My initial assessment was correct. It is the pneumonic plague bacteria. But it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before. As you may be aware, director, outbreaks of the plague are not unknown. We had a case in Colorado a few years back. This is different.”
“They weaponized it?”
“You’re partly correct. The bacteria was weaponized for aerosol dispersion, but it is also a different strain from anything we’ve ever dealt with. In two ways. First, the bacteria remains viable in the air for up to four and a half hours. That’s over four times the duration of your garden-variety Y. pestis. Secondly, it’s significantly more lethal-it seems to have mutated. It’s lethality may actually be our salvation.”
“How so?”
“It’s cold mathematics, director. The quicker the victim dies, the less time he has to infect others.”
The DCIA nodded his understanding. “Do we have anything to fight it?”
“There are antibiotics developed to treat Y. Pestis. From my preliminary evaluation in this case, I would say that they would only serve to slow down the progression of the disease.”
“Slow it down by how much?”
“It’s too soon to say with any certainty. My personal estimate would be that the victim would still be dead inside of the month…”
The screen went black and David Lay glanced at his watch. The briefing had taken thirty minutes in totality.
“What do we have, Ron?”
Carter looked up from the laptop where he had been running casualty estimates and gazed soberly at Lay and Shapiro.
“According to the intelligence provided by Isfahani, the attack will go down tomorrow during the noon prayer. You can typically count on anywhere between twenty and thirty thousand in attendance.”
“We’re talking a megachurch.”
The analyst acknowledged Shapiro’s comment with a grim nod. “Essentially, yes. A large part of them worship in the open air, which might reduce their exposure, but we can’t count on that.”
“Your estimates?”
“Jerusalem has a population of over seven hundred thousand. An average five percent of them will be at Ground Zero.” Carter rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Factor in their families and people they might be in close contact with during the time between exposure and possible death. You’re looking at a minimum hundred-hundred and twenty thousand potentially infected. Untreated, pneumonic plague has a mortality rate between ninety-six and one hundred percent.”
“And Schuyler’s just told us we can’t treat this strain,” Lay added. “Figure one hundred thousand plus dead across Israel and the Palestinian Authority. Epicenter: Jerusalem.”
“That’s not how Shirazi’s looking at it,” Carter replied shrewdly.
“What do you mean?”
“For Shirazi, this is nothing more than a beginning. You might say it’s the down payment on apocalypse.”
The DCIA’s lips pursed, drawing together into a thin, bloodless line. “Then, gentlemen, our course is perfectly clear. As cliched as it sounds, it’s true. Failure is not an option.”
At that moment, his secretary knocked on the conference room door. “I have the President on line two, sir.”
“Put him through,” Lay responded, dismissing Shapiro and Carter with a curt, “That will be all, gentlemen.”
A moment later, the phone in his hand rang and he hesitated before answering it. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”
“A request for operational approval crossed my desk a few minutes ago,” Hancock responded, a characteristically hostile edge to his voice. It had been years since Lay had let it bother him.
“Oh, yes, the extraction papers. If I might insist, Mr. President, we need that approval expedited.”
“I would have thought we were done with these games, director.”
“Games?”
“The document simply requests approval for the extraction of an Iranian cleric. The name has been redacted.”
“Based on need-to-know, Mr. President,” Lay replied wearily. “This is an ongoing operation.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware of the history of these mullahs. You’re seeking to bring one of them into this country and I’m somehow not supposed to care who it is?”
The DCIA looked up at the ceiling, considering his options. “As you wish, Mr. President. The man in question is the Ayatollah Yousef Mohaymen Isfahani.”
A sharp intake of breath was the only sound from the other end of the phone for a long moment. Then, “The Supreme Leader? Have you lost your mind, Lay?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“In 2011 you tried to assassinate this man as a terrorist!”
Lay sighed. It was going to be a long conversation. “That’s all relative, Mr. President. Alliances change…”
10:29 P.M. Local Time
US Naval Support Activity
Souda Bay, Crete
Hamid checked the silenced Heckler amp; Koch MP-5SD submachine gun for a third and final time before slapping a thirty-round magazine of 9mm hollowpoints into the mag well. Four more magazines were held in pouches around his belt.
He looked over at Thomas, who was breaking down his Barrett M98B sniper rifle for travel. “You bring the rubbers?”
“Sure thing,” the New Yorker grinned. He dug in his pocket and retrieved a small package, tossing it over.
Hamid tore open the plastic and leaned his MP-5 up against the fuselage of the aircraft, unrolling a prophylactic over the barrel.
“Condoms?”
The two agents looked up to see Lt. Hanson standing in the cockpit doorway, a quizzical expression on his face. Hamid laughed. “Yeah, they’re great for all sorts of things. Forms a waterproof seal on the barrel, helps prevent a blockage. You need to go into action quickly? Just pull the trigger. No worries.”
Hanson forced a smile. “I wish that was all I was worried about.”
“What’s going on?” Hamid asked, looking up from his work.
“The barometer’s falling fast,” the airman replied. “We’ve got a cold front moving in.”
“Here or at the drop zone?”
“Here.”
“Then what’s our problem?”
Hanson took a step into the back of the airplane and faced the CIA agents. “Look, I’ve been flying in and out of here for five years. The mountains generally shield you from the wind, but when a front like this strikes here, the westerlies funnel down between here and the main island. It’s like a wind tunnel. I’ve seen times when the Navy wouldn’t even berth their ships, the gusts were so bad.”
“And the planes were grounded,” Thomas added quietly, grasping the situation.
“That’s right.”
Davood spoke up. “How long is the storm expected to last? Can we wait it out?”
“I’m game to wait,” the pilot replied, “but the weatherman’s playing fast and loose with his forecast. The storm could last from between twelve and fifteen hours.”
Hamid exchanged a look with Thomas, then cleared his throat. “That’s a non-option. Can you get us out now?”
“I can try.”
10:48 P.M. Local Time
The road to Tel Aviv
The city lights of Tel Aviv-Yafo glittered in the distance as the car sped down the divided highway toward the coast. The Romans had called this region the Via Maris. The Way of the Sea.
Harry dismissed the thought, a memory from a long-ago Sunday School lesson, turning his mind back to the telephone. Carter was talking.
“We’re in direct contact with Isfahani now. He’s agreed to probe further and come up with a current location for al-Farouk and the terrorist cell.”
“Make sure he doesn’t jeopardize his current status with his inquiries,” Harry cautioned, an unusual feeling of disquiet coming over him. “His relationship with the Grand Mufti is our only ticket into the compound.”
“Play ‘em close, Harry. We’re still looking into the connections there. Tahir al-din Husayni isn’t exactly known as a friend to the West.”
It wasn’t new information to Harry. He could remember when Husayni had been appointed as the Grand Mufti, the Sunni guardian of Islamic holy places in Jerusalem. At the time, he had been seen as a pawn of Fatah’s leadership, but over the years he had parlayed his considerable talents as an orator into something more. A power broker.
He had succeeded in settling the breach between Fatah and Hamas, channeling their energies away from each other and outward…
In the spring of 2012, he had survived a bomb planted in his car, an explosion that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Fatah, Hamas, Hezbollah, Mossad-the players behind the attack had never been identified, but Husayni had carried on, as indomitable as ever. As much as the faction leaders might have hated him, the man held the Arab street in thrall.
His sermons were fiery and inspiring, deploring the Jewish occupation in the house of Islam, but always stopping just short of calling for violence. He was what passed for a moderate, which was what made sharing operational details with him so dangerous. Roll the dice and guess which side he would back.
“Keep me posted,” Harry replied finally, glancing toward the Iranian major in the front seat. “We’ll be in position when the time comes.”
11:03 P.M.
The residence of the Grand Mufti
Jerusalem
The inside of Husayni’s residence was remarkably austere, reflective of a man who remembered his past-a simple lad tending sheep in the hills of Galilee. His lack of pretension, coupled with his passionate oratory, had won him the adoration of the Prophet’s people. Their shepherd. He brushed at a fancied piece of lint on his plain cotton trousers and leaned back in his wheelchair, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone.
“You’re the last person I would have expected this request to come from, Youssef,” he replied in Arabic, the language of Allah.
A moment passed, silence filling the void.
“Alliances change, Tahir,” the Ayatollah Isfahani responded. “Even the servants of the Prophet must adapt.”
“I understand that better than most, yet adaptability has never been among the chief virtues of our people. Have you ever questioned why we have suffered the people of Allah, the most glorified, the most high, to be divided thus? Divided by a thousand-year-old betrayal between chieftains?”
When Isfahani spoke again, there was a trace of humor in his voice. “You have bridged many divides in your life, my old friend, but this one is too much for even you.”
“Too much for the will of Allah?” Husayni asked, still completely serious. “I have received visions, Youssef. As long as this rift between Sunni and Shia continues to divide our people-we cannot receive the blessings of Allah, or expect the return of His promised one.”
“Then your answer is?”
The Mufti seemed surprised that the issue was still in question. “I will help your American friends-with certain conditions.”
His friend remained silent as Husayni continued to speak, outlining the terms of his agreement…
11:17 P.M.
US Naval Support Activity
Souda Bay, Crete
The windspeed was 28 knots as the C-130 taxied to the airfield’s only runway, blowing hard from the west.
“Tower to Titan Alpha 17, you are cleared for take-off. Gusts exceeding 40 knots have been recorded in the last twenty minutes. Please exercise caution.”
“Roger that, Tower,” Lt. Hanson replied, adjusting the straps of his flight harness. He pushed the throttles all the way in, feeling the Allison turboprops respond, revving to full power. Another check of the gauges and he took the flight controls from the co-pilot. “I have the bird.”
In the back of the aircraft, Hamid checked his equipment one more time, flashing Thomas a tight thumbs-up as they began to pick up speed. The airframe trembled in the teeth of the cross-wind, lifting briefly from the concrete, then slamming back down with a teeth-rattling jolt.
Hamid closed his eyes, fighting against the sensations that threatened to overwhelm him, his fingers wound tightly in the mesh netting stretched against the side of the fuselage. Flying. It gave him a feeling of helplessness. There was nothing to do, nothing he could do except pray. Allah give us wings..
“Climb, climb,” Hanson whispered through clenched teeth, his knuckles white as he pulled back on the yoke, urging the heavy plane higher. It seemed to falter, the engines groaning as the rain hit full force, droplets of water pelting against the windows of the cockpit. The airfield lights disappeared in the gale and Hanson forced his gaze down, focusing on his instruments. There was only one way out. Up…
Thirty minutes later the battered aircraft rose above the clouds, into the clear, starlit black of night. Hanson released control of the Hercules to autopilot and leaned back in his seat, letting out a sigh of relief. The danger was past. The hardest part of the mission was over.
For his passengers in the back, it was only beginning.
Feeling the tremors of the airframe subside, Hamid released his deathgrip on the mesh and opened his eyes.
“That was fun,” Thomas observed sarcastically.
“Yeah.” Hamid checked his dive watch and marked the time. A tight smile on his face, he looked over at his team and announced, “We drop at oh-one hundred. Less than two hours…”