Pandora's Grave (46 page)

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.”