5:03 A.M.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel
“For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Nichols has been spotted in Israel in the company of known Iranian terrorists,” Shoham stated, throwing both pictures on the desk.
Gideon Laner picked them up, then passed them on back to Yossi. “And one of them’s dead.”
“I’m afraid that is irrelevant in the face of the conclusion that must be drawn. The Americans are running a clandestine operation on our shores, and it involves our greatest enemy. For the past two weeks, we’ve been monitoring a spike in chatter emanating from Iran outward to the Arab states. Yesterday it dropped off and went silent.”
All three men knew the significance of that. “The attack is imminent,” Yossi nodded, his voice quiet.
Shoham’s hand moved to the computer at his desk. “Our analysts spent the last twenty-four hours decoding this conversation between Shirazi and His Royal Highness, Prince Ibrahim bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud.”
He hit a button and the tape began to roll. It hadn’t been translated, but no matter. They were all fluent in Arabic. First the voice of the Iranian president.
“The time has come…as it was spoken of by the Prophet, peace be upon him. We will rise up and claim the birthright of the faithful, the true.”
“Everything is in readiness?” the prince asked.
“Turn your face toward the northern sky, my brother, for tomorrow the first blow is struck against the infidel. Jewish blood will run once more in the streets of Al-Quds.”
“Inshallah.”
Shoham paused the recording. “There’s more ideological pep talk, but it is largely irrelevant. They’re coming here.”
“You believe the threat is credible?”
“Apocaplytic fantasies are only dangerous if one has the ability to carry them out. These men do.”
Gideon nodded. “What are your orders?”
“You and your team will go to Jerusalem. I want you there in case of an attack. It may be rhetoric, it may be real.”
“What about the Americans?”
“Not your concern,” Shoham replied. “The Prime Minister will be filing a formal complaint with the American embassy within the hour. The last thing we need is them getting caught in the cross-fire.”
5:21 A.M.
The Hezbollah safehouse
Jerusalem
Silence. His men had departed, leaving Farouk to finish his work. The false back of the closet had been emptied of the four liter-sized steel containers holding the bacteria. He sorted through a pile of paperwork and personal effects, IDs, vehicle leases and the like, feeding sheet after sheet into the small incinerator that sat at his feet. There must be nothing left.
The call to fajr, the dawn prayer, rang out over the city, but the Hezbollah commander did not fall to his knees. There was no time, and surely Allah would forgive, just once more. In comparison with his work of this day…
His fingers moved faster as he flew through the paperwork, one sheet after another dissolving to ash in the fire.
He paused as he came to the bottom of the stack, a smile lighting his eyes as he held up a small, wallet-sized photograph.
The eyes of a child stared back at him out of a paint-blackened face, the green scarf of the Imam al-Mahdi Scouts wrapped around his young forehead. Hassan, his eleven-year-old son.
The boy’s small hands were clasping the stock and barrel of a Kalishnikov assault rifle. Closing his eyes, Farouk could remember the day it had been taken, could still feel his pride in his son, could still smell the gunpowder that had perfumed the air as Hassan had emptied that rifle down-range at a poster of the American president. Oh, the irony of it all…
Farouk raised the picture to his lips and slowly, reverently kissed the image of his son. The memories were precious.
His hand paused over the flaming maw of the incinerator, then opened. The photograph fluttered in the air once, twice, then the flames closed over it, curling the edges of the paper, the image blackening as it disappeared into the fire.
Gone forever. Farouk gathered up his laptop and cellphone and looked around the room one last time before leaving. No matter what course the day took, he would not live to see another sunrise. It was the will of Allah…
9:45 P.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“Nichols is planning to put Thomas Parker in overwatch here,” Carter explained, tapping the screen with his finger. “The bell tower of the Church of the Redeemer.”
Kranemeyer shook his head skeptically. “Once he’s up there, there’s only one way out-it’s not exactly your ideal sniper location.”
“And we’re dealing with a medieval city. Like it or not, it is the high ground.”
“Is Parker in position?”
Carol looked up from her workstation. “Negative. The general public doesn’t have access to the bell tower until 0800. Another couple hours.”
“He’s posing as what-a photographer?”
“That’s correct, from Time magazine. His legend’s been back-stopped, and I had Michelle clear the photoshoot with the probst.”
“The probst?”
“The on-site representative of the German Lutheran church. They own the building and lease it out to several different congregations. Ames is manning communications in case they try to call Time for verification.”
Kranemeyer managed a worn grin. “Make sure we expedite his departure. We can’t re-route that number forever.”
6:27 A.M. Local Time
The residence of the Grand Mufti
Jerusalem
There were no guards in sight, but the barbed wire and security cameras surmounting the high wall around the compound spoke of a man who took his security seriously. As well Husayni might, following the car bomb that had paralyzed his lower body.
Harry took a deep breath and made his way across the street. “I’m going in,” he announced into his TACSAT.
“Roger that,” Hamid responded. “We’ve got eyes on your position.”
Keeping his eyes down as he crossed the street, Harry didn’t look around for his back-up. He had been in the field for too many years to make such a mistake. “Give me thirty minutes. If I’ve not made contact by then, things have gone south. In that case, you’re in command. Do the best you can and don’t waste time coming after me.”
For a moment, only silence filled the other end of the connection, then his friend cleared his throat. “I understand. See you in thirty.”
Harry closed the phone and tucked it back in his shirt pocket, moving up the street toward the gate of the compound.
Despite the ancient look of the structure, there was a call button and microphone mounted in the gate. Harry pressed the button and stood there waiting. Waiting…
From behind the tinted windows of an off-white Toyota Corolla parked a hundred yards away, Davood watched as the gate opened, as Harry disappeared inside.
“Mark the time,” Hamid announced gruffly. “0633 hours.”
“Thirty minutes?” Davood asked, looking over at the older agent.
Hamid nodded.
“You’d leave him?”
Another nod. “Just pray it doesn’t come to that.”
Prayer. Even as they spoke, the call of the muezzin rang out again over Jerusalem, calling the faithful to morning prayer. Allahu akbar. La ilaha illa Allah. Muhammad rasul Allah…
Davood ignored it, as he had once already. He would have to make up the salah later in the day, if he lived. And if not…
Husayni’s bodyguards were reputedly Jordanian spec-ops, on indefinite loan from King Hussein. Whether that rumor was true or not, Harry could not say. At any rate, they were competent. And thorough.
He surrendered his TACSAT and.45 at the gate, but the two guards took him aside into a small outbuilding. The room was lit with a single bulb, dangling by bare wire from the ceiling.
The older man took the only chair in the room while the other bodyguard rummaged in the closet, finally pulling out an orange jumpsuit, similar to those used in the U.S. for convicts.
His eyes locked with Harry’s and he tossed the garment in his direction, uttering a single word in English. “Strip.”
A second passed, and then Harry nodded. It wasn’t unexpected. His gaze still fixed on the young bodyguard’s face, his hands moved to his belt and he started taking off his clothes…
10:42 P.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
The physical arrival of David Lay on the op-center floor was rare enough to be worrisome. It typically signaled trouble.
“What’s going on, David?” Kranemeyer asked, leaning in the doorway of his office. Lay brushed past him without a greeting. “Get Ron and Carol in here at once.”
Five minutes later, Lay was seated at Kranemeyer’s desk, with Carter, Carol, and the DCS standing in a loose half-circle before him.
“What’s going on?” Kranemeyer repeated.
The DCIA looked drained. “The last forty minutes have been just lovely. Simply put, people, the Israelis know we have a team on the ground. An hour ago, they filed a formal complaint with our embassy in Tel Aviv.”
Carter leaned forward until his hands rested on the front of the desk. “How?”
“Shapiro’s still working on that. My best guess would be that cameras picked him up as he crossed back in from the West Bank earlier tonight. The Israelis use a great deal of facial-recognition software and he’s hardly an unknown entity over there.”
“Do they have any idea where he is now?” This from Kranemeyer.
“If they do, they’re not telling.”
The DCS snorted. “If they had that card, they’d be sure to play it. I’d say we’re in the clear for the moment.”
“That’s not the official stance of the White House,” Lay replied with a shake of the head. “The politicos have made their position plain.”
“What’s the word from on high?”
“We’re to conduct a circumspect withdrawal.”
“And they’ve informed Israeli intelligence of the impending attack?”
“No-apparently they feel it would damage U.S.-Israeli relations if it were known that we had withheld this information up until this point.”
An oath escaped Kranemeyer’s lips. “Do they now? Then what’s the story supposed to be?”
Lay shrugged. “The Israelis handed it to us. They also know about Farshid Hossein, and the official line is that it was a prisoner snatch. The State Department has agreed to let Israeli interrogators have a go at him, starting next week.”
“This is madness.”
Lay pursed his lips. “I know. But their ways are ever higher than our ways. Get the word out to the field team.”
6:51 A.M. Local Time
The residence of the Grand Mufti
Jerusalem
“So, your name is Floyd Craig?” Tahir Husayni asked, passing the identification back to his bodyguard.
“That’s right. US State Department.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Craig, though I doubt that is your real name. I trust my bodyguards weren’t unduly rough.”
“No worries,” Harry shook his head with a smile. “I was due for a prostate examination anyway.”
A laugh escaped Husayni’s lips. “I have been told that you need something from me?”
Harry nodded. “Your cooperation, primarily. We need covert access to the Haram al-Sharif.”
The cleric seemed to consider the question for a moment, then he cleared his throat. “You know there are people in this city who would kill us both for merely talking together.”
“ ‘I am for peace: but when I speak, they are for war’”, quoted Harry, his eyes fixed on Husayni’s face.
A quiet smile crossed the older man’s lips. “From the songs of Davood, the shepherd king. See, we are not as different as some would have us believe, are we?”
“Men of principle can always find common ground,” Harry replied glibly. “Or, in our case, a common enemy.”
“Ah, yes. The common enemy. You and I both know it is an ancient ploy. You would ask that I trust you?”
Harry shook his head. “No, I would not. We both know that suspicion, not trust, is the coin of our realm. In this case, it’s a simple exchange. Give us the access we need, and we’ll make your problem go away.”
“The problem you say exists.”
“I understand your skepticism,” Harry nodded. “In the end it’s your choice. A few hours and we’ll know. Do you want to risk your people and your city on us being wrong?”
“Or lying?”
“Or lying.”
A silence fell over the room as Husayni regarded him with a coolly appraising glance. Assessment. Decision. A minute passed, then two-a high-stakes game of chicken playing out between the two men.
Finally the cleric smiled, propelling his wheelchair forward from behind the desk until he sat directly in front of Harry. “My men will escort you and your team to the Haram al-Sharif. We have a security center located beneath the prayer room of Omar. You will be able to review security footage and I would insist that your non-Muslim team members remain there for the course of the operation.”
Harry looked out the window at the light of the morning sun streaming into the courtyard. Day had dawned. “Agreed.”
At that moment, as if to punctuate his words, the muffled crump of an explosion reverberated from somewhere to the north. Weapons drawn, Husayni’s bodyguards moved to protect their principal.
Harry exchanged a grim look with the cleric.
“It’s begun.”
7:05 A.M.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel-Aviv-Yafo, Israel
“Where was the blast?” General Shoham demanded, coming through the code-protected revolving door of the Mossad watch center.
The watch officer looked up. “Based on what we can determine, the bomb went off in a shop in the Souk el-Qattanin. First responders just arrived on the scene, but the building is in danger of collapsing completely.”
“The wool market?” Shoham asked, incredulous. “In the Muslim Quarter?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a Friday-the market would be almost empty. What are we looking at here, a suicide bomber?”
“We don’t know yet, sir. The initial reports are sketchy, almost worthless when it comes right down to it. The IDF is moving troops into place to cordon off the area.”
The general shook his head. “That’s a mistake. We’ll look like we have something to hide. Where’s Laner and the team?”
“I don’t know,” the watch officer replied. “Eli!”
An analyst glanced up from the next workstation. “Lt. Laner is estimated to arrive in Jerusalem within the next fifteen minutes.”
“Get him on the phone,” Shoham ordered crisply, taking the watch officer by the shoulder and steering him away from the floor of the center. “Open a secure line with the Prime Minister. Do it now.”
7:08 A.M.
The residence of the Grand Mufti
Jerusalem
“I’ll be in a gray Suburban with three of Husayni’s bodyguards. Follow us to the haram,” Harry instructed, the TACSAT tucked against his shoulder as he buttoned his shirt. “I’ll be in contact with Tex. Now, our rules of engage-”
“Harry, will you listen for a minute,” Hamid interrupted, irritation permeating his tones. “We’re through.”
“What?”
“The mission has been scrubbed. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
Harry let out a sigh of relief, leaning back against the wall of the guardhouse. “They’re letting Mossad handle it.”
Dead silence on the other end of the line. “They have briefed Mossad, haven’t they?” Harry repeated, after a moment.
“No, Harry, they haven’t. I got it from Carter-it’s direct from the President. He pulled the mission after receiving a formal complaint from the Israelis regarding our presence in the area.”
“A political decision,” Harry whispered bitterly, his mind racing. “They don’t realize it’s already started.”
“I know, I heard the explosion. It came from the north-northeast, the Muslim Quarter.”
Harry looked over at Husayni’s bodyguards and came to his decision in a trice. “Are you with me?”
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
“Probably. Are you in?”
A long sigh escaped Hamid’s lips, then he chuckled.“We’ve been working together for what, ten years? I’d follow you to hell.”
“Good,” Harry shot back. “Because that’s exactly where we’re going.”
11:25 P.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“According to the tracker on Nichols’ TACSAT, he just arrived at the Haram al-Sharif,” Kranemeyer announced, leaning against the door to David Lay’s office. “Beacons indicate that the rest of the team is converging on his location.”
Lay nodded. “So, he reacted just as you expected him to.”
“As I knew he would,” the DCS corrected. “It’s why I had Carter pass on the information regarding the Israelis.”
“A dangerous business, this thing that we’re doing,” Lay responded, looking out his seventh-floor window at the D.C. skyline. “Could be the end of an illustrious career.”
Kranemeyer limped across the room until he stood directly in front of the DCIA’s oaken desk. “It’s the only decision that makes any sense. The White House is looking at this through a political lens-it’s way past that now. The moment we opened a dialogue with Husayni we were committed. No going back.”
“You’d better hope I can sell it that way,” David Lay replied. “Or else they’re going to come for heads when this is all over.”
He shot his subordinate a grim look and pressed a button on his desk. “Margaret, will you get me President Hancock, please. Yes, I know what time it is. Just do it.”
7:31 A.M. Local Time
The Muslim Quarter
Jerusalem, Israel
The Souk el-Qattanin was an indoor wool market dating back to medieval times, a magnificent building. Or it had been.
The bomb had erupted in one of the many shops deep inside the building, blowing out part of the roof and taking out supporting pillars. The fire was spreading among the bales of wool.
Even as Farouk worked his way through the crowd that had gathered, another section of the roof collapsed, stone cracking under the intensity of the heat. Perhaps it had crushed some of the Jewish firefighters. A man could hope.
A thin line of Zionist soldiers were spread out in a hundred-yard perimeter, keeping the crowd back, including wool merchants who had rushed back from the mosque to save their wares. The Hezbollah commander smiled. By trading with the infidel, they had brought this fate upon themselves. It was the will of Allah.
As Farouk passed, one of the merchants raised his voice in a wail of anguish. “My wool! They won’t let me save my wool.”
He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “They say it was a Jewish bomb. That’s why they will let no one through until they have removed the evidence.”
By the time the man looked up, Farouk had vanished into the crowd. But the rumor spread…
In a car parked not three hundred yards distant, Harun Larijani sat, staring at the satellite phone in his hand. It was the third time he had placed a call to the Ayatollah Isfahani, the third time the call had gone unanswered. And he dared not place a fourth.
Something had gone terribly wrong. He was on his own now, and he trembled at the thought. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.
He had been assured of support. It had seemed the right thing at the time, the path of honor, to betray his uncle and save his faith.
And now it was going to kill him. He tucked the phone into his pocket and leaned back against the driver’s seat, only seconds before the passenger-side door opened. Fayood al-Farouk.
“Quickly! Let’s go,” the Hezbollah commander snapped, impatience filling his voice. “The seeds have been sown.”
7:48 A.M.
The security center under the Haram al-Sharif
Jerusalem
As surveillance systems went, the one that encompassed the Haram al-Sharif was good. Very good in fact, taking into account the difficulties of wiring a centuries-old stone building. Then again, Harry realized, these people had plated a roof with gold not three hundred yards from where he sat reviewing footage. Money was hardly an object.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Husayni’s bodyguard asked, a short, stocky Jordanian by the name of Abdul Ali.
“According to Isfahani, we’re looking for four steel canisters, probably no bigger than a liter of soda,” Harry replied, illustrating with his hands.
The bodyguard nodded. “Already here, or still to be delivered?”
“We don’t have that intel,” Harry admitted. “What exactly are the limitations of your system here?”
“Limitations? What do you mean?”
“Dead space,” Hamid interjected, stepping forward to stand by the bank of screens. “Do you have a map showing the areas not covered by the surveillance cameras?”
“Ah, yes. One was drawn up a year ago.” The Jordanian barked an order in Arabic and one of the security guards left the room, in search of the map. Ali smiled tightly. “It should be here shortly.”
8:06 A.M.
The Church of the Redeemer
Jerusalem
Thomas entered the church from the west, coming through the bustling market of the Muristan. Above the door was an exquisitely carved lamb, a symbol of righteousness and peace.
Peace. Jerusalem meant the “city of peace”. Some might have considered the appellation prophetic, but it struck Thomas as little more than a bad joke. Jerusalem had been the territory of men like him for millennia, and he had nothing to do with peace.
He paused at the entrance, his hand brushing against the cool limestone of a pillar. As he hesitated, a young Western couple entered the church ahead of him, the girl smiling as she passed him. She reminded him of someone, maybe a girl he had known back in the States. He hoped she would survive the day.
Collecting his thoughts, he entered the narthex on their heels. Walls rose high on either side of him, culminating in a magnificently vaulted stone ceiling.
It had been years since he had darkened the door of a church. Not since he’d crashed the wedding of his half-sister, he realized with a smile of amusement. But here he was.
A middle-aged Palestinian man stood at the door to the main sanctuary, apparently the doorman. As Thomas stood looking around, he saw him give the girl a white scarf to cover her bare shoulders before she entered the main part of the church.
Here goes. Thomas took a deep breath and crossed the room, sticking out a hand. “Name’s Warner, sir. Jerry Warner, photographer for Time magazine. You were told to expect me?”
8:29 A.M.
The Haram al-Sharif
Jerusalem
“The crowds are already gathering,” Harry observed grimly, monitoring the bank of screens in the small surveillance center.
Davood nodded, standing by his shoulder. “It’s a pilgrimage for many. I’ve always wanted to come here myself. Here and Mecca.”
“The hajj?” Harry asked, a seemingly idle question.
Hamid looked up from the screens on the opposite end of the room. “The last time I got a vacation to go on hajj the Ravens were playing the Super Bowl. So I went to Florida instead.”
“Priorities, man.” A sharp, brittle laugh was forced from Harry’s lips. “Gotta have priorities.”
Tex cleared his throat a few feet away. “We’ve got a face, people. Near the al-Magribah Gate.”
“Who?” Harry demanded, crossing the room in two strides.
“Right here-in the crowd. It looks like Shirazi’s nephew.”
The frozen image was fuzzy, indistinct. Harry whirled on Ali. “Is there a way to get a higher res on this thing?”
The Jordanian nodded, elbowing the two of them aside as he bent over the keyboard, tapping in commands. “Here we go.”
The camera zoomed in close, the image clearing up as it did so. Even so, the face was turned half-away.
“I think we’ve got a match,” Harry said finally. “Tex, Hamid, I want the two of you to get topside. Shadow this joker, but don’t take him. Yet. Ali, where did you put the major?”
“In the next room,” the bodyguard replied.
“Bring him in here, please. I have a few questions to ask him.”
The moment the door closed behind Ali, Harry’s hand flew to his ear, keying the headset radio. “Come in, LONGBOW. Do you copy?”
8:32 A.M.
The Church of the Redeemer
One hundred and seven. One hundred and eight. One hundred and nine. Panting, Thomas paused on the hundred and tenth step of the narrow spiral staircase, gazing up at the bells hanging far above him. He had made it well past the half-way point. At that moment, his headset crackled with static. “Come in, LONGBOW. Do you copy?”
He leaned against the side of the tower. “Yeah, I copy, EAGLE SIX.”
“Are you in position?”
“Negative, EAGLE SIX. I’m half-way up. My credentials were accepted by the probst.”
“Good. All right, we’ve got a face in the crowd near the south gate. Harun Larijani. How soon are you going to be set up?”
“Ten minutes,” Thomas replied, looking up at the bells once more. His heart was pounding against his chest from the exertion and his injured side was throbbing with every step he took. He was being optimistic. “Maybe eight if I push it.”
“Make it five, LONGBOW. We need you in place.”
8:36 A.M.
The Haram al-Sharif
For all appearances, it could have been another ordinary Friday, but it wasn’t-all because of Farouk. Harun rubbed sweaty palms against his trousers as he elbowed his way through the gathering crowd. This was a final reconnaissance, a test to see if the Jews would deny him access to the Haram al-Sharif. They had been known to turn away young Muslim men before.
There had to be a way to stop this. Only a little over three hours remained until the canisters would start to disperse the bio-agent through the corridors of the masjid.
It was too late to speculate what might have happened if he had made a different choice. His choice had been made back in those mountains, vomiting the contents of his stomach out on the cold, hard ground. He saw those Kurds every time he closed his eyes.
To kill a man in the heat of battle was one thing. But not this.
The Americans were here, somewhere. But he couldn’t take the chance, not with one of them being a traitor.
He was growing paranoid-he knew that. But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling. Eyes seemed to follow him through the crowd. Watching eyes lurking in every passing face. His choice had been made, and his fingers trembled at the thought. It was going to kill him…
“Subject is moving toward el-Kas, the fountain,” Hamid breathed into his headset microphone, his eyes following Harun Larijani.
“Roger that, FULLBACK,” came the Texan’s gruff acknowledgment. “I’m on him.”
Moving in tandem, the agents maintained a careful following distance, keeping in sight of their quarry. Trees shaded parts of the Haram al-Sharif and Hamid marked his position as they passed an aged tree known as the “Prophet’s olive tree”.
“Do you make any escorts? Is he alone?”
“Undetermined. One possible at your one o’clock. LONGBOW, are you in position?”
8:38 A.M.
The Church of the Redeemer
“Almost,” Thomas whispered, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side. His fingers flew as he removed the false bottom from his camera case, lifting out the Barrett M98B in two pieces, a Leupold Mark IV scope mounted along the upper.
He had done this so many times. So many places. Despite his weakness, he could have done it with his eyes closed. Leaning back against the tower stone, he reassembled the sniper rifle and slapped a full 10-round mag of.338 Lapua into the magazine well.
Extending the bipod under the barrel, he moved from the steps into the belfry, taking up his position. A waist-high railing surmounted the balcony, walls of white limestone anchoring each corner of the tower. Beside him hung the three bells, engraved in German. His hand brushed over the cool bronze of the smallest bell, tracing the lettering with his fingers. “Das Jerusalem, das Droben ist. Das ist die Freie. Die ist unser aller Mutter. Gal 4,26 1897” But Jerusalem is free and she is our mother.
Free indeed, Thomas snorted, not recognizing the quotation. Held in bondage by violence and terror was more like it.
The view was amazing. From where he stood he could look down upon the entire Old City, along with much of the rest of Jerusalem. Looking to the south, he saw the Tower of David upon the wall of old Jerusalem, its stone construction having weathered the tempest of well-nigh three thousand years. Off to the west, the double sky-blue domes of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. To the north, far in the distance rose the heights of Mt. Scopus and the new skyscrapers that were being built around Jerusalem. A city of commerce and life. Peace? Anything but.
Lying prone upon the balcony, his body half-concealed in the shadow of the tower, Thomas turned his attention to the east, toward the Dome of the Rock and the surrounding enclosure. Sweeping the area with the massive 14x scope, he quickly picked out the details pointed out by Hamid and Tex. There. He focused in on a face, recognizable from the photos he had been shown. Harun Larijani.
The proprietary BORS software system on the scope was turned on, feeding him targeting data. He settled the cross-hairs just above Harun’s right shoulder and keyed his mike. “LONGBOW to FULLBACK, I have eyes on the target.”
11:46 P.M. Central Time
The Hilton
Columbus, Ohio
“No!” President Hancock shouted, turning from the window to glare at his chief of staff. “I have made my orders clear and I want them to be followed.”
Ian Cahill shook his head. “I don’t understand your opposition to this, Mr. President. The CIA has laid out the case clearly. Once the meeting with Tahir Husayni was authorized, we tipped our hand. There’s no going back.”
Hancock swore softly, passing a hand over his forehead. “There is no such thing as a singular course, Ian. There are always choices, and I have made mine. Here-now, a month before the election, this administration must not be tied to a crisis in the Middle East.”
“We’re already tied to it!” Cahill exclaimed. “Mr. President, I warned you when you first took office not to play these type of games with the Agency. David Lay is an old hand. Trust me, try to pull the rug out from under him, and he will retaliate.”
“He needs to be taken down a peg or two,” Hancock nodded.
Cahill snorted. “That has been tried in the past, and on the whole, I wouldn’t advise it as a strategy.”
“Well, if you’re doing such a great job of strategy, why are we trailing in the polls?”
“As a wise man once said, ‘It’s the economy, stupid’,” the chief of staff retorted. “Until oil prices normalize, you’re in trouble.”
“The price of oil can be handled,” Hancock replied forcefully.
“How?”
The President looked up, as though jarred from his thoughts. Rattled. “I don’t know. Release oil from the Strategic Reserve or something. Just do me a favor and get the CIA out of Jerusalem!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Cahill sighed. “Let me place another call to Langley.”
8:48 A.M. Local Time
Haram al-Sharif
Jerusalem
“Subject is heading toward the Islamic Museum.” Harry stared at the surveillance screens as Hamid continued to speak. “Body language is nervous, EAGLE SIX, he’s checking his back every few seconds. Closing the following distance without him bolting is going to be difficult.”
“Then hold where you are,” Harry replied, glancing over at Farshid Hossein. The major sat a few feet away, leaning back in an office chair. His posture was relaxed, the look on his face one of peace, if not complete boredom.
“LONGBOW to EAGLE SIX, the target is sweating profusely,” Thomas announced. Harry couldn’t suppress a chuckle.
“You can see that?”
“Listen, a 14x Leupold and I can count the drops for you. Interested?”
“The child is not up to this,” Hossein interjected quietly.
“What do you mean?” Harry demanded, swiveling toward the major.
Hossein cleared his throat. “Harun and I have a history. We have worked together in the past, before my-my untimely death.”
Anger flashed in Harry’s eyes. “And you didn’t tell us?”
The major shrugged. “I was under the impression that I was your prisoner. If you want a spirit of mutual cooperation, then you will have to treat me accordingly.”
“We had a deal,” Harry hissed, leaning forward in his chair.
“Your deal,” Hossein began, “was with the Ayatollah Isfahani-not with me. In the end, we are focused on a shared objective.”
“I doubt that.”
Hossein snorted. “My objective is to prevent the release of this toxin-without sacrificing my own life on the altar of the ‘greater good’, if at all possible. I need assurances that I will not spend the rest of my life rotting in an American prison after all this is over.”
For a moment, Harry seemed to consider his words. “We could use your help. I will contact my superiors at Langley.”
12:55 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“So, our prodigal’s TACSAT is working once more?” David Lay asked with an ironic smile.
Ron Carter cocked his head to the side, staring hard at the DCIA. “I understood Nichols to be following your orders to the letter.”
“He is,” Lay acknowledged with a frown. “I’m sure you understand the necessity of this being deniable. What does Hossein want in exchange for his cooperation?”
“Amnesty, from the looks of it. He’s been on the internal Agency ‘Most Wanted’ list since 2006 and I think he would appreciate losing the distinction.”
“I’m sure. What ‘cooperation’ is he offering, precisely?”
“That is undetermined. The team currently has eyes on Harun Larijani, who seems to be doing a recon of the Temple Mount. The major has a history with Harun and apparently he believes he can offer some insight into this operation.”
“That’s all? Insight? What do you think, Barney?”
The weary DCS glanced up from his seat on the couch across the room. “I say take him up on it.”
“You think it’s worth it?”
Kranemeyer massaged the stump of his knee and leaned back against the pillows. His prosthesis lay beside the couch. “For what he’s offering right now? No. But what if we turn him?”
“It would never work,” Lay shot back. “He’s too closely tied to Isfahani, now. He’d be executed the moment he returned to Tehran.”
“I’m not talking Tehran. For the last year, the Clandestine Service has been trying to get an operative underground in Somalia, to infiltrate the pirate groups there. We’ve lost three people trying to get a man inside. Who better than a former IRGC major with terrorist ties?”
8:59 A.M. Local Time
The bell tower
Jerusalem
He should have had a spotter. That was protocol, would have been the way they’d have done things-except for Davood’s betrayal.
He’d been on the gun for twenty minutes already. Thomas took his eye off the scope for a moment, closing his eyes to rest them. They hurt, red from lack of sleep and stress.
He felt something move behind him, and the next moment the bells began to ring, striking the hour as they had for over a century.
The noise was deafening. Thomas curled up in a ball next to the rifle, hands pressed tightly against his ears. It felt as though his head was going to explode, but the clangor continued as the bells swung back and forth, drowning out everything else…
9:02 A.M.
The Haram al-Sharif
There are things which are well-nigh unavoidable, moments when instinct overrrides training. The impulse to turn toward an explosion is one of those things, the desire to observe the source of the danger overruling everything else.
And so it was. As the shock wave of a second explosion rippled through the Old City, both Hamid and Tex turned, instinctively looking for cover, for the source of the noise.
A pillar of smoke rose from the north, in the Muslim Quarter near the edge of the Haram al-Sharif. The crowd around them seemed to freeze, stop-motion, in shock and fear.
The terrorists had struck again. Hamid swore as men beside him gasped in surprise. It would be only moments before panic seized the crowd and he looked around, his eyes searching the courtyard for their target. For Larijani.
He was nowhere to be seen. “FULLBACK to GUNHAND, do you have eyes on the subject?”
A moment, and Tex’s voice came over his headset. “Negative, FULLBACK, I lost him in the crowd near the museum. The explosion…”
“Same here,” Hamid retorted angrily, jostling his way through the moving crowd. Curses in Arabic, Turkish, and a dozen other languages resounded in his ears as he elbowed worshipers out of his path. “LONGBOW, I need a twenty on the target. Give me some good news.”
Nothing. “LONGBOW, do you copy?”
“Say again, FULLBACK?” Thomas responded after a moment.
“I need a twenty on Harun Larijani. Tell me you have him.”
A pregnant pause, then came the answer. “Sorry, FULLBACK. I lost him a couple minutes ago, when these blasted bells struck the hour.”
1:15 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“Tell me we’re not being snookered,” David Lay ordered, tossing the print-out onto Kranemeyer’s desk. “This just came over the wires from Reuters.”
The DCS looked over the headline. “They’ve had a second bomb go off-in the Muslim quarter. What are you saying?”
Lay sighed, glancing out the window at the D.C. skyline. “What if this is the real attack? What if the plot against the Temple Mount was a red herring, misdirection?”
“It’s not,” Kranemeyer replied with a shake of the head. “There’s something real about what we were told, despite the source.”
He glanced at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the video uplink should be ready.”
Leaving the DCIA, Bernard Kranemeyer made his way down to the op-center, swiping his keycard at the door.
“Everything ready?”
A bedraggled Carter nodded without a word and led the DCS to a nearby workstation. “Here we go.”
The analyst leaned over Kranemeyer’s shoulder, tapping a command into the keyboard. A moment later, the satellite uplink synchronized. The video quality wasn’t much above what a webcam would provide, but it was workable.
“Salaam alaikum, Hossein effendi.”
9:21 A.M. Local Time
The Haram al-Sharif
Jerusalem
Watching the screen above his head, Hossein smiled as the American director’s words came through the speaker. “Alaikum salaam. I am informed that you have a deal for me.”
“That is correct.”
“And the terms? I provide you with information for my freedom?”
On-screen, the American shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be quite that simple. To let a man of your reputation go free… We need more.”
Harry watched Hossein’s face, trying to read him. “Yes?” the Iranian asked finally.
“Simply put,” Kranemeyer continued, “we need you to come work for us. A man of your background and reputation could be very useful in certain parts of the world.”
Real alarm entered Hossein’s eyes. “You are mad if you want me to go back to Tehran. I am of no use to you dead.”
“Rest assured-we are not fools,” the DCS replied tersely.
“Then where?”
“Where has not been decided, but Somalia is on the short list.”
“Out of the frying pan, into the fire, as you Americans say. My answer is ‘no’.” A shrewd look crossed the major’s face and he glanced from Harry to the screen. “I’m not interested in being a pawn the rest of my life. I want political asylum, a new identity, and money. The deal you must have offered Asefi.”
The request had to have caught Kranemeyer by surprise, but Harry could see no signs of it on his face. No question about it, the DCS could play poker.
“And what do you have to offer that would justify such a bargain?”
Hossein smiled. “BEHDIN. The pure and faithful one. It is the codename of an Iranian sleeper agent who has penetrated your vaunted Clandestine Service.”
In that moment, Harry was glad he had sent Davood out of the room. “This man has been activated by Tehran and is currently deployed as a member of one of your strike teams,” Hossein continued. “Give me what I have requested and I will identify him for you, before he can wreak further havoc.”
Kranemeyer’s poker face cracked into a hard smile. “I’m sorry if that was your best card, major, but it’s not good enough. We were already aware of the sleeper agent. He’s on the team with you as we speak.”
A glance at the Iranian’s expression showed that the shot had struck home, confirming the FBI’s suspicions of Davood. He shrugged. “Somalia it is then.”
“I believe we have a deal,” the DCS replied, grinning like a man who had just drawn to an inside straight.
At that moment, Harry’s headset crackled with static. “FULLBACK to EAGLE SIX, we have a visual on the subject. He’s heading toward the Gate of the Chain. Advise takedown.”
Harry didn’t hesitate. “Take him, but do it quietly.”
When he turned back, the screen above them was black. Kranemeyer was gone. Harry placed a hand on the major’s shoulder and spoke, his voice cold and hard. “Time to start earning your pay.”
9:26 A.M.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel
“What is it, Mordecai?” General Shoham asked, entering Mossad’s analysis department. “Did you find something on the bombings?”
The analyst nodded, gesturing toward his screen. “I did, and it’s not good. We have a claim of responsibility.”
“Who wants the credit now?”
A website was loaded on the Mossad screens, displaying multiple webpages in separate windows. “The Lions of Jehovah,” Mordecai responded, indicating their logo with his cursor.
“Refresh my memory. That name is familiar. Why?” Shoham asked, leaning closer to the screen.
“Because it should be. They’re a hard-right Zionist group founded during the Second Intifada. Fiercely opposed to any concept of a two-state solution, they draw most of their support from the neo-evangelical community in the U.S.”
“Any history of direct action?”
“The closest they’ve ever come was when they blew up five of the bulldozers Sharon ordered in on the Gaza settlements. No casualties, just equipment damage, but their founder, Rabbi Benjamin Arel, went to prison. He got out-two months ago.”
“ ‘To drive the Arab from the lands of God’,” Shoham breathed, reading from the top of the page. “All right. Find out where Arel is now. We’ll want to pull him in for questioning.”
An aide hurried in, holding a secure satphone in his hand. “Lt. Laner on the phone for you, sir.”
“Give it here,” Shoham ordered, composing himself. He had enough to deal with without handling these lunatics. “Lieutenant?”
“Sir, we’re looking at a situation,” Laner began, his voice hushed, tense. “The word on the street is that Jews were responsible for the attacks.”
The general hesitated for a long moment before responding. “Here’s what’s worse. They’re right…”
9:29 A.M.
A cafe
Jerusalem
Taking a final sip of tea, Fayood al-Farouk returned the cup to its saucer and typed the last two commands into his laptop, tapping the ENTER key at the end of the sequence. The next moment, the commands went racing across the cafe’s Wi-Fi into the ether.
With any luck, the Lions of Jehovah wouldn’t even know they had been hacked until after Mossad showed up at their door. An archived copy of the website and the video claiming responsibility had already been sent to Al-Jazeera for dissemination across the house of Islam…
9:31 A.M.
Haram al-Sharif
Jerusalem
“GUNHAND, you have a policeman at your eight o’clock,” Hamid advised, keeping his voice low as he pushed his way through the crowd, toward Harun. “Recommend that I make the snatch.”
“Taking up overwatch, FULLBACK,” the Texan acknowledged.
The al-Magribah Gate was only a hundred feet away, maybe less. The window of opportunity was closing. Time to move. Hamid’s hand closed around the suppressed.45 Glock in the pocket of his jacket.
He saw Harun glance around once more, the anxious look still in his eyes. Careful, but not careful enough.
He had run out of options. In desperation, he had placed a fourth phone call to the secure line of the Ayatollah Isfahani, but someone else had answered the phone and he’d hung up in panic.
Someone was watching. Someone was always watching. Harun could feel their eyes boring into his back. Farouk would be expecting him back soon enough.
Suddenly, without warning, a hand closed over his arm and the barrel of a gun jabbed into his ribs.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” a voice admonished in perfect Farsi and Harun froze, fighting the impulse to face his stalker…
“FULLBACK to EAGLE SIX,” Hamid’s voice came over Harry’s headset, “Grab successful. I repeat, I have the subject. Proceeding to your location.”
“Good work,” Harry replied, turning to Major Hossein. “I need you to convince him that it’s in his best interests to cooperate with us. You’re sure that he’s not ideologically invested in this?”
“Harun?” Hossein shook his head. “He’s not a jihadist. He doesn’t have the stomach for it. Give me a lever, and he’ll move.”
“Good. One other thing,” Harry added, a shamefaced grin spreading across his countenance, “I don’t speak a word of Farsi, so I’ll be relying on you to communicate with him during the entire interrogation.”
9:36 A.M.
The Madrasa al-Karimiyya
Jerusalem
It was a stately building-an Islamic school, or madrasa, dating back to the Mameluke rule of Jerusalem in the 14th century, built only thirty years after the expulsion of the Crusaders from Palestine by al-Malik al-Ashraf al-Khalil.
It had been the second target of the Lions of Jehovah. Gideon and his men deployed through the gathering crowd-listening carefully, observing. Eavesdropping to be blunt.
The bomb had been planted in the empty assembly hall of the madrasa, and the upper floor had caved in upon it. Whoever had chosen the target had known what they were doing. The entire ground floor of the school was considered sacred, an extension of the al-Haram, and the mood of the crowd was growing violent…
9:41 A.M.
The Haram al-Sharif
“You are with the Americans, yes?” Harun asked, half-turning back to look at his “escort”.
He received no reply from the grim-faced man at his side as they hustled across the courtyard of the Masjid al-Aqsa. After a moment of uncertainty, Harun decided to take his fate in his own hands. “The bacteria is already in place, within the masjid. I am willing to cooperate with your team-tell them what they need to know to find it.”
Harry was watching the pair as they approached the stairs leading down and around to the surveillance center. So far, so good. Tex was still deployed in the courtyard, making sure Harun wasn’t being followed.
They made it to the staircase, then abruptly went out of camera range. And didn’t reappear. “What’s going on?” Harry demanded, glancing at Abdul Ali, the Jordanian.
The bodyguard glanced from the screens to a map in front of him. “There’s a dead spot right there, ten feet in length. They will reemerge on screen H19, near the bottom of the stairs. Almost outside our door.”
Seconds passed, and nothing. Then minutes, and still no sign of Hamid or his prisoner. Impatiently, Harry activated his radio. “EAGLE SIX to FULLBACK, do you copy?”
Dead silence. “I repeat, come in, FULLBACK.”
There was no answer. Something had gone terribly wrong. Harry looked over at Abdul Ali, a determined look coming into his eyes. “Make sure you have a man guarding the major and come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
Harry reached for his jacket and the H amp;K UMP-45 submachine gun lying beside it. “I’m going to find my friend.”
They found the two of them lying beneath the staircase, just below where the stairs turned at a forty-five degree angle, continuing downward. A drop of six or seven feet.
At first it appeared that both men were unconscious, but as they turned Shirazi’s nephew over, pulling him from on top of Hamid, they found the knife buried deep between his ribs. There had been no accident here.
Harry knelt over his friend, his fingers pressed against Hamid’s neck, feeling for a pulse. “He’s alive,” Harry announced, relief flooding into his voice.
As if hearing the words, Hamid’s eyes fluttered open, a moan escaping his lips. “What happened?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you,” Harry replied, performing a visual assessment of Hamid’s injuries. His shirt was ripped, a long, shallow furrow slicing across his sternum and upper chest. Blood oozed from a nasty gash to his temple, but most of the blood soaking his clothes seemed to have come from his antagonist. “Harun is dead.”
Hamid closed his eyes, murmuring a curse.
“He said he was going to cooperate,” he whispered ruefully. “Said the bacteria was already in place inside the mosque. He turned on me as we were coming down the stairs. Hadn’t had time to check him for weapons-he pulled a knife. That’s about the last thing I remember.”
“Can you stand?”