Pandora's Grave (63 page)

At the door to the outside he paused, removing the Colt 1911 from his holster. His thumb hit the release and he heard the sound of the loaded magazine striking the stone floor between his feet. His hands moving quickly over the gun, he racked the slide, ejecting the chambered round.

There was a tinkle of brass against stone and he bent down to retrieve the cartridge, laying it and the gun reverently to the side of the door, covering it with his jacket. The big pistol had saved his life too many times to count but all that was past. It couldn’t save him now.

If the Israelis forced their way into the masjid, in the wake of everything that had gone before, Jerusalem would erupt in violence. And with it the Middle East. All their sacrifice would have been for nothing. All the blood, the tears. Davood…

The noonday sun shone down upon his face as he strode out unarmed into the courtyard on the east of al-Aqsa, a cool north wind rippling through his dark hair.

He felt nothing. Anger. Remorse. Betrayal. They had all come and gone like strangers in the night, leaving him cold, empty. He knew only what he had to do.

12:27 P.M.

The bell tower

There was no identification on either of the bodies, which wasn’t surprising in the least. One had been shot, the other—well, from the position of his body it looked as though he had fallen from the belfry, breaking nearly every bone in his body.

But, they had been players, Sergeant Eiland reflected grimly, which couldn’t be said for the middle-aged Palestinian lying dead in the narthex of the church below, his throat slashed by a knife. The doorkeeper of the sanctuary, apparently, which meant there would be the devil to pay with the Lutheran church.

As such, these had probably deserved everything they had gotten. The question was, who had given it to them?

Yossi looked over to see Chaim kneeling by the body of the woman, his eyes roving over the scoped rifle clasped in her lifeless hands. “It’s a Barrett—recent American make,” the young sniper observed coolly. If the presence of the dead woman bothered him, there was no way to tell it.

With a weary sigh, the sergeant toggled his lip mike. “Lieutenant, I’ve got three Arab KIAs and an American rifle. Any good news on your end?”

12:32 P.M.

The Haram al-Sharif

“Negative,” Gideon replied in frustration. “When we first got here, we could still see the body of the shooting victim, but they took him away in a bag five minutes ago. Not a thing I could do about it. I—”

He broke off abruptly as he looked toward the east of the mosque. A tall man was striding across the open courtyard in his direction, toward the perimeter where the stand-off continued. There was something about him, something familiar.

“I’ll get back to you, Yossi. Do what you can there.”

As he watched, a small group of men emerged from the front doors of al-Aqsa, from underneath the Crusader arch, forming a protective phalanx around a man in a wheelchair.

Tahir al-Din Husayni… the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem. He had never met the Sunni cleric, but he was unmistakable.

He saw the tall man stop, turn to face the entourage. Gideon’s hand went to his pocket, withdrawing a high-powered monocular and focusing it in on the man’s face. It was as he had suspected…

It was the only way. The die had been cast long ago. What had he told Hamid?
Fate is what we make of it
. Perhaps.

Harry looked from the wheelchair-bound cleric to his bodyguards and back again. “It’s for the best.”

Husayni looked up at him, their eyes meeting, and once again Harry felt the strange charisma that had given the man such a power over the masses.

“You and I know differently, Mr.
Craig
,” he replied quietly, putting a heavy, ironic emphasis on the false name he had been given. “This is not the way.”

“And you would suggest?”

“You have sacrificed much this morning in defense of my faith, but Allah does not ask this of you. He asks it of
me
.”

Without another word, Husayni gripped the wheels of his chair and propelled himself forward, across the stones of the courtyard.

Harry watched him go, then he felt two of Husayni’s bodyguards take him by the arms, steering him back toward the sanctuary of the masjid.

He didn’t resist. There seemed no point…

“I need to know what’s going on here.” The young Jewish officer wore no rank or insignia—not even a uniform, but Husayni knew he was in charge—sensed the air of command about him. He’d always been able to read people.

“And I need to speak with your superiors,” Husayni said gently, looking up into the swarthy face of the young man.

“How are the Americans involved?” the Israeli retorted, ignoring the request. Somehow he knew.

“With all due respect,” Husayni retorted, “this is well above your pay grade. I see you have a satellite phone. Call your superiors and tell them I need to talk to them.”

For a minute, maybe two, the two men regarded each other silently, then the officer reached for the phone on his belt. “I hope you have the answers to this…”

12:40 P.M.

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv-Yafo

Avi ben Shoham sighed, leaning back in his chair. The phone on the desk in front of him was on speaker and he was sure his sigh had been heard. Frankly, he didn’t care. He wasn’t dealing from a position of strength anyway.

“My men tell me they made positive identification of an American agent named Harold Nichols near the al-Aqsa mosque a few minutes ago. What can you tell me of US involvement in this incident?”

“I have made myself clear, general,” Husayni replied firmly. “If you want my cooperation, you will have to content yourself with the information I am willing to give you.”

Shoham bristled at the cleric’s attitude. “What if I tell you we can do without your cooperation?”

“If I were you, I would think long and carefully before I made that assertion. Consider the facts, general. There were two bomb blasts in the Muslim Quarter this morning. The street will believe you are hiding something, whether any evidence points to it or not. A worshiper was slain in front of the third-holiest mosque in Islam, by a sniper with military training. Draw your own conclusions, but do not forget which ones the Arab world will draw: an arrow pointing straight at the heart of Israel. If it were not for me.”

He was right, and Shoham knew it. It didn’t mean he had to like it. “You pride yourself on your abilities.”

“Pride is a grievous sin, general, and Allah forgive me if I am guilty of it. There was a boxer in America–a man who went by the name of Cassius Clay before he found the peace of Islam. He said that it was not bragging if you could do it. And you know I can.”

“Monarchs and dictators are little but titular rulers in the house of Islam,” Husayni continued. “They tremble at the noise of the mob in the street. And the people of the street believe that I speak unto them the truth of Allah,
subhanahu wa ta’ala
. The most glorified, the most high. They will follow my words.”

There was a long silence before the Mossad chief replied. “Very well, we’ll do this your way.”

“
Salaam alaikum
, general.”

Blessing and peace be upon you…

12:11 P.M. Tehran Time, October 5th

The Presidential Palace

Tehran, Iran

“And it is with sorrow, my people, that I must give you the truth. The attacks launched yesterday, profaning the holy ground of Al-Quds and the Masjid al-Aqsa with violence, were
not
the work of Zionist forces. Rather,” Husayni continued, looking steadfastly into the television cameras, “they were the work of fanatical forces within the government of Iran.”

A murmur ran through the assembled crowd and the cleric raised his hand for silence. “You find this difficult to believe? It should not be. How many times through history have Shia killed Sunni and Sunni killed Shia? And this time, even the mutual reverence for the site from which the Prophet, peace be upon him, rose unto paradise was not enough to restrain the violence.”

More voices, angry shouts as the crowd stirred at his words. “Retaliation is not the answer, my brethren. It never has been. Give not your ear to those who would twist the words of the Prophet into a call to battle. It is the jihad-within which will sustain our cause, a submission of ourselves to the will of Allah. For far too long has the house of Islam been divided…”

Shirazi could listen to no more and he threw his cup of tea across the room, shattering the plasma screen. The effort, the money, the planning, all of it gone to waste. His nephew dead, the worthless scoundrel.

Retreating to his desk, the Iranian president sank into his chair, burying his head in his hands. All of it lost. Had he misread his destiny? Once, everything had seemed so clear.

When he raised his face once more, determination shone through the grief. Nothing had been misread. It had only been thwarted by the efforts of false believers. And he knew what he must do.

Composing himself, he reached for the phone on his desk…

9:35 A.M. Eastern Time, October 9th

Five days after the attacks

NCS Operations Center

Langley, Virginia

“Good morning, Carol,” Kranemeyer greeted, rounding the corner of her cubicle, a manila folder in his hand. It was her first morning back on the job—the op-center staff had been given a few days off in the aftermath of their marathon shift leading up to the 4th of October.

“Any word from Nichols?” he asked, handing her the folder.

She nodded. “The field team is to touch down at Dover Air Force Base within the hour. Danny’s meeting them with transportation.”

“I want you and Ron to work this up,” he continued, gesturing to the folder. “It’s important to get it done before we have to notify the family.”

Carol opened the folder to see Davood’s dossier inside. Attached to the top of the cover sheet, above his photo, was a sticky note bearing the scrawled words “Directive No. 19.”

Her throat felt suddenly dry. She barely heard Kranemeyer ask, “What can you tell me about his death?”

“Two days ago,” she began, taking a deep breath as the story unfolded in her mind, “Davood Sarami was skiing with Swiss counterterrorism forces in Bern as part of a routine NATO paramilitary exercise when he fell to his death in an Alpine crevasse. His body was recovered by the Swiss, but had been rendered nearly unrecognizable by the fall…”

“Run it,” the DCS interrupted quietly. Carol nodded, turning back to her computer. Truth, that ever-elusive quality of the Clandestine Service.

Even in death, it was nowhere to be found…

5:21 P.M.

The men of the strike teams had a place to call their own in the sprawling complex that was CIA-Langley, an old storage room that had been converted into a combination rec room/lounge. Tex and Thomas were already there when Harry walked in, his debriefing with Kranemeyer over.

A game of football was on the television and Harry noted it absently as he made his way to the refrigerator, opening the door to look inside. “Who’s winning?”

“College ball. Penn State’s getting their butt handed to them by Notre Dame.”

“Any idea where my Pepsi went?”

“I think Nakamura stuffed it behind his case of Jack Daniel’s,” Thomas replied, making an oblique reference to the Bravo Team leader. “Toss one of those over here, will you?”

There was something different in the tone and Harry straightened up, looking over at his friend. “Getting yourself drunk isn’t going to solve anything, Thomas.”

Their eyes met and Harry could see his own hurt reflected there. Hamid had been more than a friend—he’d been a brother. “That’s what they tell me,” Thomas replied, no humor in his voice as he rose from the couch. “The operative point being that I won’t
remember
what it didn’t solve.”

At that moment, a wave of sound erupted from the TV screen, men collapsing in a heap near the goal line. “Touchdown! And Penn State has pulled it off once again, with a come-from-behind victory!”

Without a word between them, Harry and Thomas looked toward the door of the refrigerator, the sheet of paper held there by magnets. Under a rakish heading of “HAMID’S PIGSKIN PICKS” was scrawled a list of dates, games and predictions. Written down at the bottom were the words,
Oct. 9th, Penn State vs. Notre Dame. Penn by one.

It felt as though he had reached back from the grave. Thomas swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as he tore down the sheet and crumpled it up, throwing it into a nearby trash can. “Excuse me,” he whispered brusquely, pushing past Harry to open the refrigerator.

Harry sighed, putting out a hand as he went by. “Give me your car keys…”

12:03 P.M., October 16th

A cemetery

Falls Church, Virginia

The funeral for Davood was held on a Wednesday, nearly two weeks after the attacks he had given his life to prevent. His fellow team members did not attend, under orders from Bernard Kranemeyer. Too many questions would be asked.

It was only after the graveside service was over, after the family and the gravediggers had left, that a lone figure crossed the street and entered the cemetery.

There was no stone to mark the spot of the burial, not yet—mounded earth and trampled grass the only memorial. A simple marker in the shape of the ancient crescent moon with the dates of his birth and death. The date Langley had given.

Harry knelt at the grave of his friend, smoothing the dirt with a careful hand. Dust to dust. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should never have doubted you. You were a better man than any of us, the old hands—torn apart by suspicion and fear. Forgive me…”