Pandora's Grave (55 page)

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.