Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  A moan followed the burst of gunfire, then dead silence. After waiting for a minute, then two, Harry rose and vaulted over the railing, landing noiselessly on the carpet below.

  He crouched and moved across the open area, hurrying toward the opposite side of the room.

  Still nothing. No suppressed gunshots welcomed his approach, no bullets flew out of the shadows. Submachine gun held at the ready, he rounded one of the pillars and nearly tripped, his eyes fixed ahead of him.

  He looked down into the face of his friend, pale and drawn in the semi-darkness.

  Hamid lay there on the carpet of the masjid, on his back, his fingers groping toward the butt of the Glock which had fallen from his grasp. There was no sign of his MP-5, presumably discarded after the wound to his arm.

  Harry’s final burst had stitched him across the abdomen and pelvis, breaking the pelvic bone. He wasn’t running any further.

  Without a word, Harry reached out a foot and kicked the Glock away. Hamid watched the gun spin permanently out of reach, a look of defeat on his face.

  Harry looked down upon the crippled body of his friend, remorse and sorrow roiling within him, remembering the good times.

  How had it happened? Theirs had been a brotherhood of steel, forged in the fires of battle. Shattered in the space of a moment.

  “We need to talk,” Harry said finally, forcing the emotion from his voice as he lowered the H&K, letting the weapon hang from its sling. “Where’s the fourth canister?”

  Hamid coughed, blood flecking his cheek. “It was fated to end like this, Harry. There is no escaping the will of Allah.”

  “Fate is what we make of it,” Harry responded coldly, drawing the Colt .45 from its holster on his hip. “That’s not answering the question. Where’s the missing canister?”

  “I don’t know and there’s nothing you can do about it now. You were ordered to take me alive, weren’t you? I’m sure the Dark Lord is wondering—how did the ayatollahs penetrate his top strike team, how many missions were compromised because of me?”

  “How many?”

  A smile played on Hamid’s lips. “Azerbaijan will do for an example. It took the Service almost two years to replace the men they lost that winter.”

  Taking in the look of anger and surprise on Harry’s face, he went on, wiping away blood from the corner from his mouth. “That’s the way Davood looked.”

  “Shut up.” Harry closed his eyes, unable to escape the images burning themselves into his mind, an indelible brand. His own failure had led to this—this unspeakable betrayal.

  The Colt trembled angrily in his outstretched hand, a round in the chamber, hammer back. End this…

  “He screamed when I shot him, Harry,” the sleeper continued with a laugh. “It was a good sound—I shot him five times, enjoying myself. Just like I’d wanted to do for so long. He died like an unbelieving pig should, wallowing in a mire of his own blood.”

  Harry’s face hardened into a cold, pitiless mask. The time for mercy had passed, all chance of redemption gone in that moment.

  “Burn,” he whispered bitterly, his finger tightening around the trigger. Judge and jury were gone, leaving only the last of the offices for him to perform.

  Executioner…

  The hammer came down, the pistol recoiling into Harry’s hand as the mighty roar of the Colt reverberated through the stone galleries.

  Hamid’s head snapped back at the impact of the round, the sneer on his face forever wiped away.

  Harry stood there for a moment, the gun still leveled, looking down at the broken body of his friend, the blood staining the carpet. And it all came back, the emotion surging over him in a flood tide.

  That it would have ended like this. He leaned against the pillar, his stomach convulsed in dry heaves, trying to vomit. Nothing could wash away the vile taste in his mouth. The blood on his hands.

  A voice penetrated his consciousness, echoing in the dark chambers of his mind. He turned to see Hossein standing there about ten feet away.

  He took in the major’s face, saw the revolver shoved into his waistband, and in that moment an image washed over him. Sergeant Major Juan Delgado’s headless, mutilated corpse. Floating in the Euphrates.

  The Colt came up one more time. He saw the look of shock on Hossein’s face, saw his lips move, heard his voice in protest as if in a dream.

  “I thought we had a deal.”

  His own voice, a remorseless response. “Your deal was with Langley, not with me.”

  And he fired, and fired—Hossein’s body reeling backward under the impact of the bullets, and fired until the Colt’s slide locked back on an empty magazine and he could fire no more…

  11:53 A.M.

  The security center

  “What are your CPU usage levels?”

  The TACSAT pressed to his ear, Tex pulled up a screen on the security console. “Sixty-five percent and climbing.”

  “That’s not good,” Carol replied, worry in her voice. “If the usage of the recognition software goes over eighty percent, you’re going to start experiencing problems.”

  “Such as?”

  “The network is built to handle the data load of streaming video, but we just added our software on top of that. You might start experiencing black-outs from certain screens, it might crash the system altogether.”

  “Seventy percent now.”

  “We can dial back the speed of the search,” she added. “That would reduce the load on the central processing unit.”

  “How much longer would that take? We’re at seventy-two percent.”

  “Fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  The big man shook his head grimly. “We don’t have that kind of time.”

  “Are any of Husayni’s people in the room with you?”

  “Negative, they’re in the next room over at the moment. Why?”

  “Well, if the Mufti’s security service starts having to investigate mainframe glitches, they’re going to realize we piggy-backed onto their system. You can’t hide software like this forever.” Carol cleared her throat. “That is not desirable.”

  “Desirability be hanged,” Tex snarled. “We’re going to red-line this thing.”

  Images flickered across the screen as the software sped about its business, searching through the assembled crowd. Usage creeping to seventy-six percent.

  It was a dangerous gamble, but none of the other choices were viable. The Texan knew that. If there were known terrorists in the crowd, they needed to know it, in the next few minutes if at all possible.

  Seventy-nine percent. A screen above Tex’s head to the left flickered and went black, losing its signal. Losing his coverage of the al-Magribah gate, he realized, mentally reviewing the data before him.

  Another two screens went black almost simultaneously as the CPU usage topped eighty-one percent, denying him a view of the crowd around the Dome of Yusuf Agha, toward the west near the Islamic Museum.

  Two of the Jordanian bodyguards came hurtling through the door. “What’s going on?”

  A loud, insistent beep came from the computer, a face morphing onto the screen, pulled from the crowd directly in front of al-Aqsa, near el-Kas, the fountain of ablution. FAYOOD HAMZA AL-FAROUK.

  “We’ve got a face,” he announced, bending over the console. “He’s here. The man himself.”

  “Get word to LONGBOW,” an unexpected voice ordered. Tex turned to find Harry standing in the doorway, his face drained of all its color, the empty pistol still clasped in his right hand. Not thirty minutes had passed since the two men had parted, but the team leader looked ten years older.

  “The radio is secure to use once more,” Harry said, walking across the room to take command. “The traitor is dead.”

  11:57 A.M.

  The bell tower

  “EAGLE SIX to LONGBOW, we have a target.”

  Thomas came instantly alert at the sound of Harry’s voice on the radio network. “What’s going on, EAGLE SIX?”

&
nbsp; “Fayood Hamza al-Farouk. He’s in the crowd near el-Kas, the fountain. He’s wearing a checkered kheffiyeh and Western clothes. I need you to confirm VISDENT.”

  Ignoring the young woman’s glance in his direction, Thomas focused in on the scope, swiveling the Barrett toward the designated spot. The lens picked out the black-and-white pattern of al-Farouk’s kheffiyeh and Thomas rotated the dial of the scope forward two clicks, to the maximum zoom of 14.5x. Focusing on the face of the Hezbollah commander.

  “VISDENT confirmed, EAGLE SIX. I have eyes on Fayood Al-Farouk.” Thomas centered the cross-hairs on the terrorist’s face, his index finger to the side, held carefully away from the Barrett’s trigger. “He’s wearing a bulky jacket, his hands in his pockets.”

  Thomas’s eyes slid over Farouk’s body, remembering the photos he had been shown. Something had changed. It was more than just the jacket, which was justified by the cool north breeze wafting over the city. There was something different.

  His scope drifted lower, along the torso. Something had changed, something was wrong. A sudden weight gain.

  “EAGLE SIX, I think I have our fourth canister…”

  11:59 A.M.

  The courtyard of the Masjid al-Aqsa

  One minute before noon. One minute before the canisters within the masjid were to release their deadly bacteria into the air.

  Farouk smiled, his arms at his sides. The bacteria he carried had been divided into three small pressurized canisters, wrapped around his mid-section along with five pounds of Semtex. This was the coup de grace, the final blow.

  In the wake of his bombing, the victims would be transported to hospitals and emergency clinics around the city, spreading the plague with them. The Jewish doctors would be among the first to die, along with their patients. And that would only be the start of the epidemic. Only the start of the war…

  The fires of jihad would envelop the world and the world would be remade in those refining fires. Remade in the image of Allah, the most glorified, the most high. His prophet, the Twelfth Imam, peace be upon him, ruling over all of mankind.

  A beautiful vision. He heard the muezzin begin the call to prayer and spread out his prayer mat, falling to his knees toward Mecca. The mullahs commanded that every prayer be prayed as though it were one’s last, but Al-Farouk smiled as his forehead touched the fringe of the mat. This would be.

  Allahu akbar. La illaha illa Allah. Muhammad rasul Allah…

  Harry shoved a fresh magazine into the butt of the Colt before stepping out onto the courtyard, racking the slide to chamber a round. It was time to finish this. Tex followed him into the open air of the courtyard as the crowd rose to their feet after the completion of the first ra’akah, the two men separating as they moved in on their target.

  Allaahumma salli 'alaa Muhammadin wa 'alaa ali Muhammadin. Kamaa sallaita 'alaa Ibraaheema wa 'alaa ali Ibraaheema . O Allah, bless our Muhammad and the people of Muhammad. As You have blessed Abraham and the people of Abraham.

  Emotion had left him back there in the deserted stables of Solomon, along with remorse. Gone was everything except a terrible sense of purpose.

  Innaka hameedun Majeed Alaahumma baarik 'ala Muhammadin wa 'alaa ali Muhammadin Kamaa baarakta 'alaa Ibraaheema wa 'alaa ali Ibraaheema Innaka hameedun Majeed. O Allah, be gracious unto Muhammad and the people of Muhammad. As You were gracious unto Abraham and the people of Abraham. Surely You are the Most Praiseworthy, the Most Glorious.

  Harry saw the kheffiyeh once more as he moved into the crowd. He and Tex, the only ones upright now among a sea of kneeling men, advancing upon al-Farouk from the side. There was no help for it. Any delay was fatal.

  As the second ra’akah finished, Farouk regained his feet. He would trigger the bomb at the end of the salah, as the worshippers recited “Peace be unto you”. A delicious irony. The peace of Allah came only through submission to the sword.

  It was then that he saw the face. A face burned into his memory ever since BEHDIN had sent him the classified CIA personnel files, not four days before.

  They were coming to stop him, but it would be futile.

  The detonator was in his coat pocket, securely compressed in his fist. A dead man’s switch. The moment his fingers released their grip, the bomb would detonate. Nothing could stop the will of Allah. He smiled through the crowd, his eyes locking with the American’s in a look of mutual recognition…

  Harry saw the look on Farouk’s face, realized what was about to happen. His pistol was in his hand, but the distance was too far, too many innocents in the way. No clear shot. No way to stop something that had become inevitable.

  He raised his hand to his ear, his voice cold as ice.

  “EAGLE SIX to LONGBOW, take him out.”

  12:03 A.M.

  The bell tower

  The cross-hairs of the Barrett M98B centered on Farouk’s temple and Thomas took up the slack of the trigger, squeezing methodically. The match trigger broke cleanly at one and a half pounds of pressure and the rifle recoiled back into his shoulder as the shot echoed out over the Old City of Jerusalem. The city of peace…

  The .338 Lapua Magnum bullet shot from the Barrett’s muzzle at a speed of 2,750 feet per second, striking its target almost before the sound had reached his ears.

  Farouk’s head exploded like a ripe melon, blood and brains spraying over the surrounding worshipers as he went down. He never had a chance to react, no final words, no prayers for mercy. Quite literally, the 300-grain slug was the last thing to enter his mind.

  He went down hard, legs flailing in their death throes against the stone of the courtyard. And there he lay, the nerveless fingers of his right hand tangled in the folds of his coat pocket, still pressed firmly against the detonator. The bomb didn’t go off.

  The muezzin stopped in mid-prayer, the crowd reacting in frozen horror to sudden death in their midst. In those first few seconds, it must have appeared as though the victim had been struck down by lightning from on high.

  Then pandemonium broke loose. Harry elbowed his way through the scattering throng, reaching Farouk’s body moments after his fall. Tex was already there, on his knees beside the fallen terrorist, working through the wires that encircled Farouk’s waist.

  Behind them, Husayni’s security personnel began to spread out across the Haram al-Sharif, forming a rough perimeter.

  A few yards to the left, el-Kas, the fountain of ablution, continued to gurgle peacefully, its purifying waters splashing and glistening in the sun. A sharp contrast to the pandemonium that surrounded it.

  Harry looked around once more, his eyes alert for trouble, then he pulled his jacket open and shoved the .45 back into its holster.

  Time to stand down. Reaching up, Harry activated his earpiece radio. “EAGLE SIX to LONGBOW, it’s time for you to leave. Exfil before they lock this city down. Standard E&E protocols apply.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then Thomas’s voice came back through the speaker in Harry’s ear. “What happened to FULLBACK?”

  “I killed him,” Harry responded quietly, looking across the courtyard. He disconnected the comm radio without another word, seeing Hamid’s face before his eyes. The way he had looked lying there. He heard Tex’s voice distantly and looked back at the big man. “What?”

  “The bomb’s been disarmed.”

  Harry ran a hand over his forehead, unable to find the words to express his feelings at that moment. His legs felt suddenly rubbery, weak as the adrenaline left his body.

  Unusually, Tex was still talking. “I found this cellphone in his jacket. Doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the bomb, but Langley might want to take a look at it.”

  Harry barely heard him. The threat had been neutralized…

  12:10 P.M.

  Mossad Headquarters

  Tel Aviv-Yafo

  “We’ve got a situation developing on the Temple Mount,” Shoham’s aide announced, appearing without warning in the doorway of his office.

  The general
looked up. “What’s going on?”

  “A man in the crowd gathered for prayer at al-Aqsa mosque was shot by a sniper. The security forces of the Mufti have cordoned off the area and aren’t letting anyone through. Our personnel have been pushed back toward the Gate of the Chain.”

  “The Lions of Jehovah,” Shoham snarled, a grimace contorting his features. “Blast it! Do they have any idea where the sniper is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Get Laner on the phone ASAP.”

  12:12 P.M.

  Haram al-Sharif

  Jerusalem

  Despite the best efforts of both the Israeli police and Husayni’s men, the situation was far from being under control. Both sides now seemed to be engaged in a Mexican standoff about a hundred yards from the front of al-Aqsa, tensions growing by the minute.

  “It seemed to come from somewhere in the Christian quarter,” Gideon responded, struggling to hear the general on the other end of the connection. “My guess would be one of the church towers in the area was used as a sniper hide. I sent Yossi and Chaim over there right after the shot. If he’s smart, he’ll shoot and scoot, but they might find something worthwhile.”

  “Right now,” Shoham replied, “I want you to focus on the situation there on the Temple Mount. Get things settled, get Husayni’s bully boys to stand down. We can’t have this spreading to the streets.”

  Gideon took another look across the wide plaza and nodded grimly. Easier said than done. “Roger that…”

  12:13 P.M.

  The bell tower

  It was time to go. Thomas left the Barrett laying where it was, the magazine still inserted. There was no way he could make it out of the city carrying it.