Pandora's grave

The Ayatollah’s Residence

Qom, Iran

There was a second’s pause and then Asefi heard an unfamiliar voice in Russian. “Kak dela, Achmed?”

“I am well, thank you,” the bodyguard replied in the same language, his tone wary. “Who is this?”

“Names don’t matter,” the cold voice continued. “What matters is that I have something you need.”

“I see no point in continuing this conversation.”

“Da, that is your choice. We all make choices, Achmed. Does the Ayatollah Isfahani know of the choices of your bedchamber?”

He froze, the words of the caller ringing in his ear. A quick glance down the hallway in either direction assured him that he was alone, at least for the moment. “What do you mean?”

“Your phone is data-equipped, is it not?”

“Da, da.”

“One moment. I am sending you a file.”

Asefi stepped to the side of the hall, inserting his keycard into the lock of a nearby storage room. A beep signaled the arrival of the message as he stepped into the comforting darkness. He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as they moved across the phone’s keyboard, opening the file folder.

He groaned. Photos. Dozens of photos. Of him and others-beautiful young men, in Bulgaria, in a score other places around Eastern Europe. And other documents. He could guess at their contents. The voice was speaking again. “You have received the file?”

“This is a base forgery!” he exploded, slamming his fist against the wall. “A fabrication of Satan. You can prove nothing except the evil of your hearts!”

“Nyet?” the voice asked incredulously. “Go on and tell yourself that, Achmed. Believe that and I will enjoy watching as they heap stones over your body.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? You’ve been raping little boys, Achmed. Speaking personally, I want you dead.”

“What business is this of yours?” His mouth seemed suddenly dry as sand, a hoarse whisper the only sound escaping his lips.

“None whatsoever. Which is why my employers are offering you a way out.”

“What?”

“We need to meet. Your place or mine?” the voice continued, sardonic laughter in its tones.

“I will be flying to Beirut tomorrow,” Asefi replied, thinking rapidly. “Meet me at the airport.”

“Spasiba bolshoi.” Thank you very much.

“How will I recognize you?”

“You won’t. But I’ll know you.” The phone went dead, the click sounding like a death knell in the narrow confines of the storage room…

1:03 P.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

Harry laid the cellphone back on the table and glanced across at Ron Carter. “What’s your take?”

“I think he’s playing ball. Giving him time to think about it is dangerous, but then again, so is talking over an unsecured line.” Carter looked down at his laptop. “I can have you and Richards on a flight to Beirut as early as tonight.”

“Just what I need-another trans-Atlantic flight. What is Zakiri and Parker’s status?” Harry asked, studiously avoiding a reference to Davood.

“They are due to leave for Bagram in two hours with the recovered vials in their posession. Why?”

“Have them diverted to Crete. Tex and I will meet them there after the conclusion of our meeting with Asefi. I’ll clear things with Kranemeyer.”

Carter shrugged. “Again I ask, ‘Why?’”

“If the attack goes down in the U.S., well, under posse comitatus that’s Bureau jurisdiction, not ours. The Hezbollah connection, the situation with the Israelis, everything indicates this is going to hit the Middle East. Call it prepositioning assets if you like. Just do it.”

9:45 P.M. Local Time

Jerusalem, Israel

Darkness had fallen over the Holy City, but it was no impediment to Fayood al-Farouk. He was a creature of the night and he welcomed its protecting cover. To his west, he could hear the evening prayer of the muezzin drifting through the night air. He did not bow in prayer, his eyes remaining fixed on his target, the night-vision binoculars giving a greenish cast to the surrounding scenery. At the end of days, when the angels came to weigh the good and evil of his life, this omission would count as nothing against his slaughter of the Jews.

From his vantage point, he could see the Israeli guards patrolling the entrance of the Haram Al-Sharif. Jews guarding the entrance to the Noble Enclosure. Within a few short days, they would be dead. Along with the rest of their kinsmen.

The door opened behind him, creaking as it swung inward. He knew without looking who was there. “Harun, my brother. I trust you had a good flight.”

“As Allah willed it.”

He sighed, the binoculars sweeping up to rest upon the center of the enclosure, upon the golden dome covering the rock from which Mohammed had ascended to heaven.

It would start here. Two days…

Chapter Fourteen

1:03 A.M. Local Time, October 3rd

Air France Flight 256

En route to Ankara, Turkey