Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  2:44 A.M.

  The cruiser

  The lights of Tel Aviv shone in the distance, casting their shimmering gleam across miles of open sea.

  They were drifting now, engines completely cut, lights out. Drifting inexorably in on the tide. Harry and Thomas stood in the cabin of the cruiser, poring over surveillance photos on the screen of Tex’s laptop. “This one was taken in Marseilles a year ago—al-Farouk was treated like a hero by the Muslim community after his activities in Lebanon. GIGN tried to move in, but they got nowhere with the complete lack of local cooperation,” Harry added, referencing France’s elite counter-terrorism unit.

  Thomas acknowledged the information with a nod, waiting for Harry to continue. A click of the mouse and the image on-screen changed. “This is the only other ‘face’ we have on this mission. Harun Larijani, the nephew of President Shirazi and a colonel in the IRGC. He’s never shown up on our radar before, so these are the only two photos we have of him.”

  “Do we expect either one of them to be on-site?” Thomas asked, committing both faces to memory.

  “Langley’s dossier on al-Farouk would lead me to believe he’ll be there. Appearing in Europe like that, like some sort of extremist fundraiser—the man’s let his ego overrule his judgment in the past.” Irony crept in Harry’s voice, along with a cold certainty. “And what could be more satisfying to the ego than to start a world war? He’ll be there, all right.”

  “Where do you want me?”

  “Up high. Eyes in the sky.” The screen changed to an overlay map of Jerusalem, showing both roads and topography. Harry tapped the screen with his index finger. “Right here.”

  A grin spread across Thomas’s face. “Looks good. What’s security like?”

  “At the church itself? Virtually non-existent.”

  3:00 A.M.

  The Church of the Redeemer

  Jerusalem

  There was little moon, the skies over Jerusalem shrouded by clouds, but the white limestone of the German Lutheran church glistened in the ambient light of the city. Built in the late 19th century and dedicated in 1898 in a ceremony attended by none other than Kaiser Wilhelm II, of Great War fame, the church had seen much in the hundred-plus years since its founding.

  At the western entrance, near the Muristan market, an icon of the Lamb of God surmounted the door, flanked by the engraving of a Prussian eagle on one side and a Maltese cross on the other, the third symbol dating back to the Crusading order of St. John.

  The only Protestant church in the Old City, it was still in use as both a tourist destination and a functioning house of worship. And as Harry had said, security was virtually non-existent.

  Above the church, high above the neo-Romanesque architecture of the Berliner Friedrich Adler, rose the bell tower. From its lofty height, one could gaze down on well-nigh the entire city.

  And have a clear shot at almost anyone in the Haram al-Sharif…

  7:09 P.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  “We just heard from WHIPPOORWILL,” Carol Chambers announced, standing in the door of David Lay’s office. “Nichols and the team have made it safely to land. Phase 2 is beginning.”

  There was no response and for a long moment she thought her father hadn’t heard the message. Then a long, heavy sigh escaped his lips. “You realize what we just did, don’t you? We put a team on the ground inside an ally’s borders. It’s like playing Russian roulette—God knows the Clandestine Service won’t survive if this goes south. It’ll be the ammunition used to shut down all our capacity for black-ops, everything we’ve built since the Bush administration.”

  Carol gazed keenly at him across the room. “Is that the game Hancock is playing?”

  “God knows,” David Lay repeated, shaking his head. “He’s given us Hobson’s choice—which is no choice at all, really. How are you holding up?”

  A faint smile crossed her face. “The coffee consumed by the op-center staff in the last twenty-four hours would float the Titanic. We’re wide awake.”

  “People understand why we can’t bring on another shift?”

  “Operational need-to-know,” Carol nodded. “Restrict the number of people that realize we could be triggering a world war.”

  A grim smile. “That’s right. Housekeeping moved a sofa into Conference Room #3. I’ll be in there if you need me. It’s going to be a long night…”

  3:15 A.M. Local Time

  The marina

  Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

  They left separately, their departures staggered in time. First, Thomas—then Tex and Farshid Hossein together. A body of men traveling together tended to attract undue attention in Palestine, something Harry wanted to avoid at all costs.

  “You understand I’ll need you to take point on this,” Harry said when he and Hamid were alone at last. Davood was behind the wheel of an idling SUV ten yards away, waiting. “With Husayni insisting on only Muslims entering the masjid, you’re going to be the one most likely to be exposed.”

  “It’s what I told the director, Harry,” Hamid replied quietly. “I knew the risks when I joined up. What’s to be done concerning…him?”

  The unspoken name of the traitor seemed to hang like an iron weight between the two men. After a moment of awkward silence, Hamid cleared his throat. “I’ll handle it if you want me to. As a Muslim, his betrayal is my shame, after all.”

  “It’s mine to do,” Harry replied, grim resolution on his face as he glanced toward the vehicle where their target sat. To be discussing his imminent death—was sickening. He had been one of them… “His blood will be on all our hands, but it is my responsibility. I trusted him.”

  Hamid put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. We all trusted him.”

  “I know. There will be time after the mission.” Harry gazed deeply into his friend’s eyes. “It’s mine to do.”

  A brief nod was the only reply. “This is a long shot, isn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This mission—it’s a Hail Mary pass. We don’t have much chance of scoring. Long odds.”

  Harry smiled at the choice of words. “You want decent odds, move to Vegas. In the mean time, I’ll see you in Jerusalem.”

  “May Allah guide our steps,” Hamid responded, the faintest hint of a smile crossing his lips. “I’ll see you there.”

  He turned and walked back to the vehicle, sliding into the passenger seat.

  Harry watched them go, carefully timing their departure by his dive watch. Ten minutes, and he too would leave. He turned, walking back to the dirt-brown old Citroen that WHIPPOORWILL had procured for his use. It was the perfect clandestine car, nondescript and anonymous.

  He slid in on the worn leather seat, letting out a long sigh as he leaned back. He was so tired, emotionally and physically. What did I miss?

  What was it about Davood? What had turned him? Or had he been part of it from the start, a sleeper agent waiting for activation?

  Questions without answers. They would never know the truth. But the blood price would be paid.

  Harry tapped the brakes and put the car into drive…

  Chapter Eighteen

  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 do
orway 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?”