Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)
Page 38
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.
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 believ
es 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.