Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  He had run out of options. In desperation, he had placed a fourth phone call to the secure line of the Ayatollah Isfahani, but someone else had answered the phone and he’d hung up in panic.

  Someone was watching. Someone was always watching. Harun could feel their eyes boring into his back. Farouk would be expecting him back soon enough.

  Suddenly, without warning, a hand closed over his arm and the barrel of a gun jabbed into his ribs.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” a voice admonished in perfect Farsi and Harun froze, fighting the impulse to face his stalker…

  “FULLBACK to EAGLE SIX,” Hamid’s voice came over Harry’s headset, “Grab successful. I repeat, I have the subject. Proceeding to your location.”

  “Good work,” Harry replied, turning to Major Hossein. “I need you to convince him that it’s in his best interests to cooperate with us. You’re sure that he’s not ideologically invested in this?”

  “Harun?” Hossein shook his head. “He’s not a jihadist. He doesn’t have the stomach for it. Give me a lever, and he’ll move.”

  “Good. One other thing,” Harry added, a shamefaced grin spreading across his countenance, “I don’t speak a word of Farsi, so I’ll be relying on you to communicate with him during the entire interrogation.”

  9:36 A.M.

  The Madrasa al-Karimiyya

  Jerusalem

  It was a stately building—an Islamic school, or madrasa, dating back to the Mameluke rule of Jerusalem in the 14th century, built only thirty years after the expulsion of the Crusaders from Palestine by al-Malik al-Ashraf al-Khalil.

  It had been the second target of the Lions of Jehovah. Gideon and his men deployed through the gathering crowd—listening carefully, observing. Eavesdropping to be blunt.

  The bomb had been planted in the empty assembly hall of the madrasa, and the upper floor had caved in upon it. Whoever had chosen the target had known what they were doing. The entire ground floor of the school was considered sacred, an extension of the al-Haram, and the mood of the crowd was growing violent…

  9:41 A.M.

  The Haram al-Sharif

  “You are with the Americans, yes?” Harun asked, half-turning back to look at his “escort”.

  He received no reply from the grim-faced man at his side as they hustled across the courtyard of the Masjid al-Aqsa. After a moment of uncertainty, Harun decided to take his fate in his own hands. “The bacteria is already in place, within the masjid. I am willing to cooperate with your team—tell them what they need to know to find it.”

  Harry was watching the pair as they approached the stairs leading down and around to the surveillance center. So far, so good. Tex was still deployed in the courtyard, making sure Harun wasn’t being followed.

  They made it to the staircase, then abruptly went out of camera range. And didn’t reappear. “What’s going on?” Harry demanded, glancing at Abdul Ali, the Jordanian.

  The bodyguard glanced from the screens to a map in front of him. “There’s a dead spot right there, ten feet in length. They will reemerge on screen H19, near the bottom of the stairs. Almost outside our door.”

  Seconds passed, and nothing. Then minutes, and still no sign of Hamid or his prisoner. Impatiently, Harry activated his radio. “EAGLE SIX to FULLBACK, do you copy?”

  Dead silence. “I repeat, come in, FULLBACK.”

  There was no answer. Something had gone terribly wrong. Harry looked over at Abdul Ali, a determined look coming into his eyes. “Make sure you have a man guarding the major and come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Harry reached for his jacket and the H&K UMP-45 submachine gun lying beside it. “I’m going to find my friend.”

  They found the two of them lying beneath the staircase, just below where the stairs turned at a forty-five degree angle, continuing downward. A drop of six or seven feet.

  At first it appeared that both men were unconscious, but as they turned Shirazi’s nephew over, pulling him from on top of Hamid, they found the knife buried deep between his ribs. There had been no accident here.

  Harry knelt over his friend, his fingers pressed against Hamid’s neck, feeling for a pulse. “He’s alive,” Harry announced, relief flooding into his voice.

  As if hearing the words, Hamid’s eyes fluttered open, a moan escaping his lips. “What happened?”

  “That’s what I was going to ask you,” Harry replied, performing a visual assessment of Hamid’s injuries. His shirt was ripped, a long, shallow furrow slicing across his sternum and upper chest. Blood oozed from a nasty gash to his temple, but most of the blood soaking his clothes seemed to have come from his antagonist. “Harun is dead.”

  Hamid closed his eyes, murmuring a curse.

  “He said he was going to cooperate,” he whispered ruefully. “Said the bacteria was already in place inside the mosque. He turned on me as we were coming down the stairs. Hadn’t had time to check him for weapons—he pulled a knife. That’s about the last thing I remember.”

  “Can you stand?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  10:03 A.M. Local Time

  Jerusalem

  It was a beautiful day for the world to end. Two hours now. It felt like the end of a marathon, the last panting strides to the finish line.

  To fulfill one’s destiny. At such moments, it was hard to avoid becoming overconfident, but the Hezbollah commander forced himself to remain focused on the job at hand. And the problem that was now presenting itself.

  Almost two hours had passed since he had sent Shirazi’s nephew into the compound to conduct a reconnaissance. Nothing since.

  When his cellphone rang, he glanced at the screen, half-expecting to see Harun’s number displayed there. It wasn’t, but another equally recognizable. “Hello.”

  “We have been betrayed,” BEHDIN’s voice announced flatly.

  “What?”

  “Shirazi’s nephew. He told the Americans that the bacteria was already in place.”

  Farouk swore, barely able to contain his frustration. He had told the Iranian president that his nephew could not be entrusted…None of that mattered now. All that mattered was containing the problem. “Kill him.”

  “He’s already dead. You need to be here—to make sure no other members of the team have been similarly compromised. We may even need to move up the time of the attack.”

  “I will make that decision when it is necessary,” Farouk responded, bridling his anger at the sleeper’s attempt to take command of the operation. “The first step is to contact ISRAFIL.”

  “Don’t waste the time–they’re no longer taking orders from the top. I warned you of that possibility.”

  “Is there anything else I should know about?”

  “They have a sniper with a high-powered rifle in the bell tower of the Church of the Redeemer. He will need to be taken out before we commit to any overt hostilities in the haram.”

  “I see. Hold tight and keep me informed. Don’t take action until I give you further instructions.”

  “That may not be possible,” BEHDIN replied, his voice cold as an arctic wind. “One cannot delay the will of Allah.”

  There was an abrupt click as the sleeper hung up, leaving Farouk cursing at a black screen. After a moment, he rose from his seat, tucking the cellphone into his shirt pocket.

  A few short steps took him through the door and out onto the balcony of the al-Fakhriyya minaret, looking down upon the silver-colored dome of the Masjid al-Aqsa below him, upon the entire southwestern corner of the Haram al-Sharif. He had anticipated the need to be here…

  10:13 A.M.

  The Haram al-Sharif

  “There’s thirty-five dead zones,” Abdul Ali explained, spreading the chart out on a table. “About half of them are down here, in the area commonly known as Solomon’s Stables. The rest are scattered around the premises of the masjid.”

  Harry leaned over the table, studying the chart intently. As might be expected, the work was i
mprecise, but it gave them a rough sense of the situation. “If you were to initiate an aerosol attack,” he asked the Jordanian, “where would you do it?”

  The commando snorted. “If I were to perpetrate such madness, I would set the canisters in the main hall of the masjid, where they could do the maximum damage to those gathering. They have to have had help on the inside to get them inside. Perhaps one of the students from the madrasa who helps with maintenance.”

  “So they could still be here?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Hamid glanced over Harry’s shoulder, his eyes flickered over the floor plans, taking in the large hypostyle hall. “There are only two dead spaces in the main hall, both of them near the mihrab.”

  “That is correct,” Ali replied. “It would be very difficult to conceal something in so sacred a place.”

  “Then, supposing your plans necessitated concealment, where?”

  Ali thought about it for a moment, his hand tracing over the diagrams. “Somewhere in the stables of Solomon. Combining the potential for concealment with the ability to cause mass casualties.”

  “There are worshipers down there?” Harry asked in surprise.

  The Jordanian nodded. “The Masjid al-Marwani, a large subterranean prayer chamber opened in the last decade. A capacity of some two thousand. Less than the main hall, but it would be far easier to conceal the canisters.”

  “Then let’s get this show on the road,” Hamid announced finally, tucking his Glock 19 back in its holster inside the waistband of his pants.

  A look of concern on his face, Harry pulled him away from the table. “Sure you’re up to this?”

  Hamid shrugged. He had changed shirts with Ali, and combed his dark hair down to hide the gash in his temple.

  “Don’t have much choice, do I? Unless you suddenly want to convert,” he tossed in with a crooked grin. “The Mufti was pretty clear on the subject. I’ll take Davood with me.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “It may reveal the truth.” Hamid said, putting up a hand. “Let me play this my way.”

  Harry stared into his friend’s face, his gaze searching, penetrating. “All right, but take Abdul Ali with you as well. You’ll need an extra man to secure the canisters. And hurry, we’re running short of time.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper,” the Iraqi agent replied, turning away. “I’ll be in comm.”

  2:21 A.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  “Sir, I have the President on Line 2.”

  David Lay shook his head wearily. “You told him I was asleep, I trust?”

  His secretary looked at him, sitting there at his desk, and responded with a shamefaced nod. “He insists.”

  “They get in that office,” Lay sighed, “and start imagining themselves some sort of blasted demigod. I suppose there’s no help for it—put him through.”

  Reaching for the phone on his desk, the DCIA punched the speaker button and leaned back in his chair. “Good morning, Mr. President. A very early morning, I might add.”

  Hancock didn’t respond to the pleasantries. “Lay, I thought I made my orders clear. We cannot afford the fallout of this operation. Pull your people out of Jerusalem!”

  “Mr. President,” Lay began, taking a deep breath before continuing, “neither can you afford the consequences of publicly abandoning Israel. When the facts of this become known, as they will if we pull out, the world will know that we stuck a knife in the back of our closest friend in the Middle East.”

  “Friend,” Hancock murmured bitterly. “They’ve hardly acted like friends over the past few years.”

  Lay didn’t feel that point was worth the argument. “Preserving the balance of power has always been in our best interests, Mr. President. At present, we are committed to this course and there is no pulling out.”

  “So you say.”

  “Respectfully, Mr. President, this has become an operational decision, and protocol dictates that those have to be handled on the ground.”

  “This is your dream, isn’t it, Lay? The same type of sick James Bond fantasies all you spooks seem to share. License to kill, no one with the power to stop you. I tell you this—if this operation goes south and embarrasses my administration, I will have your resignation on my desk before the week is out. Do you understand me?”

  “I assure you, Mr. President, that the consequences have not escaped me. My resignation is already signed and sealed.”

  “See that it is,” Hancock retorted, hanging up without further warning. Lay sighed and reached for the letter of resignation on his desk, his eyes scanning down the sheet to the blank space at the bottom requiring his signature. It represented everything he had spent a lifetime building up, a career he had sacrificed his family for. He wasn’t ready to give that up.

  Not without a fight…

  10:29 A.M. Local Time

  Masjid al-Aqsa

  Jerusalem

  The farthest mosque. In all his life, Davood had never thought he would complete this pilgrimage. A prayer uttered in these halls was said to count for a thousand with Allah, praised be His holy name.

  But he had no time for prayer, despite the sanctity of the spot. There was a mission to be performed. Padding barefoot across the carpeted floor of the assembly hall, he stole a glance across at his companions, each of them about ten feet away, flanking him. Abdul Ali on his left, Hamid on his right.

  Hamid glanced up at the mosaics patterning the arch above him as they made their way down the central aisle. Beautiful work dating from the eleventh century.

  Unlit chandeliers hung from the ceiling, most of the light coming from stained-glass windows on either side of the sanctuary. The light of Heaven streaming down upon this most holy of places.

  He had to force himself not to look at his watch, not to look like a man with a purpose—at least any other purpose than worship or reverence. Little more than an hour remained to accomplish his mission.

  He counted forty, maybe fifty people in the sanctuary as they moved toward the mihrab beneath the dome. It was hard to tell, divided as the hall was into seven aisles by rows of marble pillars. A scant fraction of the five thousand that often packed the masjid, but enough to complicate things.

  Endeavoring to look like a common worshiper, Hamid stopped to glance at a copy of the Quran on a pedestal near one of the pillars, his fingers tracing idly over the flowing script. The sacred scriptures were open to the eighth Sura, the sixty-first verse. And if they incline to peace, incline to it also, and put your trust in Allah. Surely He is the All-Hearing, the All-Knowing.

  And he passed on…

  10:38 A.M.

  The bell tower

  “LONGBOW to EAGLE SIX, all is clear. Sitrep in five minutes.”

  A few seconds passed, then Harry’s voice came over the headset. “Copy that, LONGBOW. Sitrep in five.”

  Smiling thinly, Thomas turned back to his scope. Communicating a situation report every five minutes was standard protocol, designed to guard against an agent being taken out. Not that it helped the agent much.

  Back and forth. The Barrett’s muzzle slowly traversed the courtyard of al-Aqsa, swiveling on the bipod. Back and forth…

  Boredom was the sniper’s greatest enemy, one of many reasons protocol called for a spotter. It was affecting him now, as much as he fought against it. Boredom, lack of sleep, the wound still paining his side. He closed his eyes for a moment.

  A sound pierced his consciousness, perhaps a footstep, perhaps a murmured whisper. Something that didn’t belong. Someone was coming up the stairs of the tower, he realized a moment later.

  Thomas swore under his breath, pulling a silenced Beretta 92 from his holster as he moved swiftly to the side of the tower, away from the stairs. There was no time to hide the rifle and no point in trying. The probst had assured him the exclusive use of the tower…

  He dropped to one knee by a corner of the belfry, steadying the Beretta in b
oth hands. Aimed at the stairs.

  A head emerged from the stairwell, a black balaclava masking it, then shoulders. Thomas took careful aim, the sights of the Beretta aimed directly at the head of his target.

  Whether some sound or simply a premonition of death warned the intruder, Thomas would never know. The head and body shifted upward just as he squeezed the trigger, and the bullet smashed into the target’s shoulder.

  Crying out in pain, the intruder reeled forward, clutching his right arm. Thomas crossed the belfry in two quick steps, his left hand slashing forward to deliver an edge-of-the-hand blow to the intruder’s throat.

  The man crumpled, grabbing Thomas’ arm as he went and pulling him down, the Beretta slipping from his fingers.

  A knife flashed in the intruder’s hand and Thomas seized hold of his wrist, leveraging against the injured shoulder.

  At that moment, a bullet burned through the air past his ear, caroming off the chiseled limestone wall. Wrenching the knife free with a final desperate effort, he rolled away from his downed man, swinging round on the new threat.

  The second assailant was by the brink of the stairs, moving forward, a semiautomatic pistol in his hands. Pain shooting through his side, Thomas pivoted from his prone position, hooking his right foot behind the attacker’s leg. Caught off-balance, the man staggered back as Thomas’s left heel delivered a vicious kick to his shin. Two steps back, and then there was air beneath his feet.

  A scream of fear and surprise tore through the air as the intruder toppled backward into the stairwell, disappearing from sight.