Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)
Page 45
The Church of the Redeemer
“Almost,” Thomas whispered, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side. His fingers flew as he removed the false bottom from his camera case, lifting out the Barrett M98B in two pieces, a Leupold Mark IV scope mounted along the upper.
He had done this so many times. So many places. Despite his weakness, he could have done it with his eyes closed. Leaning back against the tower stone, he reassembled the sniper rifle and slapped a full 10-round mag of .338 Lapua into the magazine well.
Extending the bipod under the barrel, he moved from the steps into the belfry, taking up his position. A waist-high railing surmounted the balcony, walls of white limestone anchoring each corner of the tower. Beside him hung the three bells, engraved in German. His hand brushed over the cool bronze of the smallest bell, tracing the lettering with his fingers. “Das Jerusalem, das Droben ist. Das ist die Freie. Die ist unser aller Mutter. Gal 4,26 1897” But Jerusalem is free and she is our mother.
Free indeed, Thomas snorted, not recognizing the quotation. Held in bondage by violence and terror was more like it.
The view was amazing. From where he stood he could look down upon the entire Old City, along with much of the rest of Jerusalem. Looking to the south, he saw the Tower of David upon the wall of old Jerusalem, its stone construction having weathered the tempest of well-nigh three thousand years. Off to the west, the double sky-blue domes of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. To the north, far in the distance rose the heights of Mt. Scopus and the new skyscrapers that were being built around Jerusalem. A city of commerce and life. Peace? Anything but.
Lying prone upon the balcony, his body half-concealed in the shadow of the tower, Thomas turned his attention to the east, toward the Dome of the Rock and the surrounding enclosure. Sweeping the area with the massive 14x scope, he quickly picked out the details pointed out by Hamid and Tex. There. He focused in on a face, recognizable from the photos he had been shown. Harun Larijani.
The proprietary BORS software system on the scope was turned on, feeding him targeting data. He settled the cross-hairs just above Harun’s right shoulder and keyed his mike. “LONGBOW to FULLBACK, I have eyes on the target.”
11:46 P.M. Central Time
The Hilton
Columbus, Ohio
“No!” President Hancock shouted, turning from the window to glare at his chief of staff. “I have made my orders clear and I want them to be followed.”
Ian Cahill shook his head. “I don’t understand your opposition to this, Mr. President. The CIA has laid out the case clearly. Once the meeting with Tahir Husayni was authorized, we tipped our hand. There’s no going back.”
Hancock swore softly, passing a hand over his forehead. “There is no such thing as a singular course, Ian. There are always choices, and I have made mine. Here—now, a month before the election, this administration must not be tied to a crisis in the Middle East.”
“We’re already tied to it!” Cahill exclaimed. “Mr. President, I warned you when you first took office not to play these type of games with the Agency. David Lay is an old hand. Trust me, try to pull the rug out from under him, and he will retaliate.”
“He needs to be taken down a peg or two,” Hancock nodded.
Cahill snorted. “That has been tried in the past, and on the whole, I wouldn’t advise it as a strategy.”
“Well, if you’re doing such a great job of strategy, why are we trailing in the polls?”
“As a wise man once said, ‘It’s the economy, stupid’,” the chief of staff retorted. “Until oil prices normalize, you’re in trouble.”
“The price of oil can be handled,” Hancock replied forcefully.
“How?”
The President looked up, as though jarred from his thoughts. Rattled. “I don’t know. Release oil from the Strategic Reserve or something. Just do me a favor and get the CIA out of Jerusalem!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Cahill sighed. “Let me place another call to Langley.”
8:48 A.M. Local Time
Haram al-Sharif
Jerusalem
“Subject is heading toward the Islamic Museum.” Harry stared at the surveillance screens as Hamid continued to speak. “Body language is nervous, EAGLE SIX, he’s checking his back every few seconds. Closing the following distance without him bolting is going to be difficult.”
“Then hold where you are,” Harry replied, glancing over at Farshid Hossein. The major sat a few feet away, leaning back in an office chair. His posture was relaxed, the look on his face one of peace, if not complete boredom.
“LONGBOW to EAGLE SIX, the target is sweating profusely,” Thomas announced. Harry couldn’t suppress a chuckle.
“You can see that?”
“Listen, a 14x Leupold and I can count the drops for you. Interested?”
“The child is not up to this,” Hossein interjected quietly.
“What do you mean?” Harry demanded, swiveling toward the major.
Hossein cleared his throat. “Harun and I have a history. We have worked together in the past, before my—my untimely death.”
Anger flashed in Harry’s eyes. “And you didn’t tell us?”
The major shrugged. “I was under the impression that I was your prisoner. If you want a spirit of mutual cooperation, then you will have to treat me accordingly.”
“We had a deal,” Harry hissed, leaning forward in his chair.
“Your deal,” Hossein began, “was with the Ayatollah Isfahani—not with me. In the end, we are focused on a shared objective.”
“I doubt that.”
Hossein snorted. “My objective is to prevent the release of this toxin—without sacrificing my own life on the altar of the ‘greater good’, if at all possible. I need assurances that I will not spend the rest of my life rotting in an American prison after all this is over.”
For a moment, Harry seemed to consider his words. “We could use your help. I will contact my superiors at Langley.”
12:55 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“So, our prodigal’s TACSAT is working once more?” David Lay asked with an ironic smile.
Ron Carter cocked his head to the side, staring hard at the DCIA. “I understood Nichols to be following your orders to the letter.”
“He is,” Lay acknowledged with a frown. “I’m sure you understand the necessity of this being deniable. What does Hossein want in exchange for his cooperation?”
“Amnesty, from the looks of it. He’s been on the internal Agency ‘Most Wanted’ list since 2006 and I think he would appreciate losing the distinction.”
“I’m sure. What ‘cooperation’ is he offering, precisely?”
“That is undetermined. The team currently has eyes on Harun Larijani, who seems to be doing a recon of the Temple Mount. The major has a history with Harun and apparently he believes he can offer some insight into this operation.”
“That’s all? Insight? What do you think, Barney?”
The weary DCS glanced up from his seat on the couch across the room. “I say take him up on it.”
“You think it’s worth it?”
Kranemeyer massaged the stump of his knee and leaned back against the pillows. His prosthesis lay beside the couch. “For what he’s offering right now? No. But what if we turn him?”
“It would never work,” Lay shot back. “He’s too closely tied to Isfahani, now. He’d be executed the moment he returned to Tehran.”
“I’m not talking Tehran. For the last year, the Clandestine Service has been trying to get an operative underground in Somalia, to infiltrate the pirate groups there. We’ve lost three people trying to get a man inside. Who better than a former IRGC major with terrorist ties?”
8:59 A.M. Local Time
The bell tower
Jerusalem
He should have had a spotter. That was protocol, would have been the way they’d have done things—except for Davood’s betrayal.
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He’d been on the gun for twenty minutes already. Thomas took his eye off the scope for a moment, closing his eyes to rest them. They hurt, red from lack of sleep and stress.
He felt something move behind him, and the next moment the bells began to ring, striking the hour as they had for over a century.
The noise was deafening. Thomas curled up in a ball next to the rifle, hands pressed tightly against his ears. It felt as though his head was going to explode, but the clangor continued as the bells swung back and forth, drowning out everything else…
9:02 A.M.
The Haram al-Sharif
There are things which are well-nigh unavoidable, moments when instinct overrrides training. The impulse to turn toward an explosion is one of those things, the desire to observe the source of the danger overruling everything else.
And so it was. As the shock wave of a second explosion rippled through the Old City, both Hamid and Tex turned, instinctively looking for cover, for the source of the noise.
A pillar of smoke rose from the north, in the Muslim Quarter near the edge of the Haram al-Sharif. The crowd around them seemed to freeze, stop-motion, in shock and fear.
The terrorists had struck again. Hamid swore as men beside him gasped in surprise. It would be only moments before panic seized the crowd and he looked around, his eyes searching the courtyard for their target. For Larijani.
He was nowhere to be seen. “FULLBACK to GUNHAND, do you have eyes on the subject?”
A moment, and Tex’s voice came over his headset. “Negative, FULLBACK, I lost him in the crowd near the museum. The explosion…”
“Same here,” Hamid retorted angrily, jostling his way through the moving crowd. Curses in Arabic, Turkish, and a dozen other languages resounded in his ears as he elbowed worshipers out of his path. “LONGBOW, I need a twenty on the target. Give me some good news.”
Nothing. “LONGBOW, do you copy?”
“Say again, FULLBACK?” Thomas responded after a moment.
“I need a twenty on Harun Larijani. Tell me you have him.”
A pregnant pause, then came the answer. “Sorry, FULLBACK. I lost him a couple minutes ago, when these blasted bells struck the hour.”
1:15 A.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“Tell me we’re not being snookered,” David Lay ordered, tossing the print-out onto Kranemeyer’s desk. “This just came over the wires from Reuters.”
The DCS looked over the headline. “They’ve had a second bomb go off—in the Muslim quarter. What are you saying?”
Lay sighed, glancing out the window at the D.C. skyline. “What if this is the real attack? What if the plot against the Temple Mount was a red herring, misdirection?”
“It’s not,” Kranemeyer replied with a shake of the head. “There’s something real about what we were told, despite the source.”
He glanced at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the video uplink should be ready.”
Leaving the DCIA, Bernard Kranemeyer made his way down to the op-center, swiping his keycard at the door.
“Everything ready?”
A bedraggled Carter nodded without a word and led the DCS to a nearby workstation. “Here we go.”
The analyst leaned over Kranemeyer’s shoulder, tapping a command into the keyboard. A moment later, the satellite uplink synchronized. The video quality wasn’t much above what a webcam would provide, but it was workable.
“Salaam alaikum, Hossein effendi.”
9:21 A.M. Local Time
The Haram al-Sharif
Jerusalem
Watching the screen above his head, Hossein smiled as the American director’s words came through the speaker. “Alaikum salaam. I am informed that you have a deal for me.”
“That is correct.”
“And the terms? I provide you with information for my freedom?”
On-screen, the American shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be quite that simple. To let a man of your reputation go free… We need more.”
Harry watched Hossein’s face, trying to read him. “Yes?” the Iranian asked finally.
“Simply put,” Kranemeyer continued, “we need you to come work for us. A man of your background and reputation could be very useful in certain parts of the world.”
Real alarm entered Hossein’s eyes. “You are mad if you want me to go back to Tehran. I am of no use to you dead.”
“Rest assured—we are not fools,” the DCS replied tersely.
“Then where?”
“Where has not been decided, but Somalia is on the short list.”
“Out of the frying pan, into the fire, as you Americans say. My answer is ‘no’.” A shrewd look crossed the major’s face and he glanced from Harry to the screen. “I’m not interested in being a pawn the rest of my life. I want political asylum, a new identity, and money. The deal you must have offered Asefi.”
The request had to have caught Kranemeyer by surprise, but Harry could see no signs of it on his face. No question about it, the DCS could play poker.
“And what do you have to offer that would justify such a bargain?”
Hossein smiled. “BEHDIN. The pure and faithful one. It is the codename of an Iranian sleeper agent who has penetrated your vaunted Clandestine Service.”
In that moment, Harry was glad he had sent Davood out of the room. “This man has been activated by Tehran and is currently deployed as a member of one of your strike teams,” Hossein continued. “Give me what I have requested and I will identify him for you, before he can wreak further havoc.”
Kranemeyer’s poker face cracked into a hard smile. “I’m sorry if that was your best card, major, but it’s not good enough. We were already aware of the sleeper agent. He’s on the team with you as we speak.”
A glance at the Iranian’s expression showed that the shot had struck home, confirming the FBI’s suspicions of Davood. He shrugged. “Somalia it is then.”
“I believe we have a deal,” the DCS replied, grinning like a man who had just drawn to an inside straight.
At that moment, Harry’s headset crackled with static. “FULLBACK to EAGLE SIX, we have a visual on the subject. He’s heading toward the Gate of the Chain. Advise takedown.”
Harry didn’t hesitate. “Take him, but do it quietly.”
When he turned back, the screen above them was black. Kranemeyer was gone. Harry placed a hand on the major’s shoulder and spoke, his voice cold and hard. “Time to start earning your pay.”
9:26 A.M.
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel
“What is it, Mordecai?” General Shoham asked, entering Mossad’s analysis department. “Did you find something on the bombings?”
The analyst nodded, gesturing toward his screen. “I did, and it’s not good. We have a claim of responsibility.”
“Who wants the credit now?”
A website was loaded on the Mossad screens, displaying multiple webpages in separate windows. “The Lions of Jehovah,” Mordecai responded, indicating their logo with his cursor.
“Refresh my memory. That name is familiar. Why?” Shoham asked, leaning closer to the screen.
“Because it should be. They’re a hard-right Zionist group founded during the Second Intifada. Fiercely opposed to any concept of a two-state solution, they draw most of their support from the neo-evangelical community in the U.S.”
“Any history of direct action?”
“The closest they’ve ever come was when they blew up five of the bulldozers Sharon ordered in on the Gaza settlements. No casualties, just equipment damage, but their founder, Rabbi Benjamin Arel, went to prison. He got out—two months ago.”
“ ‘To drive the Arab from the lands of God’,” Shoham breathed, reading from the top of the page. “All right. Find out where Arel is now. We’ll want to pull him in for questioning.”
An aide hurried in, holding a secure satphone in his ha
nd. “Lt. Laner on the phone for you, sir.”
“Give it here,” Shoham ordered, composing himself. He had enough to deal with without handling these lunatics. “Lieutenant?”
“Sir, we’re looking at a situation,” Laner began, his voice hushed, tense. “The word on the street is that Jews were responsible for the attacks.”
The general hesitated for a long moment before responding. “Here’s what’s worse. They’re right…”
9:29 A.M.
A café
Jerusalem
Taking a final sip of tea, Fayood al-Farouk returned the cup to its saucer and typed the last two commands into his laptop, tapping the ENTER key at the end of the sequence. The next moment, the commands went racing across the cafe’s Wi-Fi into the ether.
With any luck, the Lions of Jehovah wouldn’t even know they had been hacked until after Mossad showed up at their door. An archived copy of the website and the video claiming responsibility had already been sent to Al-Jazeera for dissemination across the house of Islam…
9:31 A.M.
Haram al-Sharif
Jerusalem
“GUNHAND, you have a policeman at your eight o’clock,” Hamid advised, keeping his voice low as he pushed his way through the crowd, toward Harun. “Recommend that I make the snatch.”
“Taking up overwatch, FULLBACK,” the Texan acknowledged.
The al-Magribah Gate was only a hundred feet away, maybe less. The window of opportunity was closing. Time to move. Hamid’s hand closed around the suppressed .45 Glock in the pocket of his jacket.
He saw Harun glance around once more, the anxious look still in his eyes. Careful, but not careful enough.