Pandora's grave

She had worked in Brussels as an accountant. Her father was French, her mother English. She had been married for two years. No, no children. Not yet, anyway. This was her first trip to Turkey, although she had visited Athens as a senior in college. And she never had been able to sleep on airplanes.

Unfortunately, that meant neither could he. Harry sighed wearily as his seat companion chattered on. He had stopped paying close attention an hour before, although the young woman had yet to notice.

His cellphone beeped with an incoming text and he flipped it open to check the screen. A NEW TIMEZONE, the message from Tex read. SET YOUR WATCH TO ZERO ONE HUNDRED.

Harry placed the cellphone in his pocket and adjusted the stem of his Rolex to one o’clock in the morning. The watch was an Agency prop, to aid in his cover as a German businessman.

He looked up to realize his companion was asking a question now. “Veuillez m’excuser?”

She smiled indulgently. “I asked, are you married, monsieur?”

3:07 A.M. Damascus Time

A small airport

The outskirts of Damascus, Syria

Damascus. A city of history and legend. Had his mind not been so occupied with other matters, Hossein might have been more impressed.

As it was, the watchdog was speaking. “This mission is of the utmost importance. The fanatics must not be allowed to profane the Haram al-Sharif with their madness. I will be relying upon you to guide our men through the Golan.”

“Indeed?”

“I will be leaving you,” the watchdog added unexpectedly.

Hossein turned to look Achmed Asefi in the face. “And why is this?”

“There is unfinished business in Beirut. I will rejoin you in Al Quds later today.” A furtive look danced in Asefi’s eyes as the two men stood there in the darkness of the Syrian night.

“I was not informed of this change of plans,” Hossein retorted, his gaze never wavering.

Asefi seemed annoyed by the challenge.“A sudden call from the Ayatollah. As your men were disembarking.”

“I see.” The major paused for a moment before adding piously, “Go with Allah.”

Hossein watched as the Ayatollah’s bodyguard walked off toward the Gulfstream that had brought them from Isfahan under cover of night.

The corporal, Mustafa, materialized at his side. “The truck is ready, sir,” he announced with a smart salute.

“Good,” Hossein replied, sighing as he turned away toward the Land Rover that was to transport them into the land of Palestine. A thought struck him about half-way across the tarmac and he turned to Mustafa. “You were the first off the plane. Achmed Asefi-did you see him receive a phone call?”

The corporal’s brow furrowed in thought as the two men walked beneath the flickering glare of the airport lights. “No. It is possible, but I was with him most of the time. Why?”

“Nothing of any moment,” Hossein replied, appearing to dismiss it off-hand. He looked back to see jet turbines fire as the Gulfstream turned back toward the runway.

Something was wrong.

5:30 A.M. Local Time

C-130 “Hercules”

Over the Mediterranean

Hamid shifted restlessly on the bench against the side of the C-130 transport. No one had said a great deal since the transport had left Baghdad.

Thomas lay on the bench across from him, apparently asleep. Davood had his PDA out, his eyes focused intently on the little screen as he played a video game. Hamid cast a sidelong glance in his direction, contempt filling his heart. You have betrayed your country and your faith. No true Muslim could perpetrate this act of treachery, that much he knew.

Perhaps feeling his gaze upon him, Davood looked up from the screen. “Do you know why we’ve been diverted to Crete?”

“No,” he lied, his face expressionless. “The orders came down from Langley, that is all.”

After a moment, the young agent turned back to his game. Hamid sighed, feeling the bulge of his Glock dig into his side. Knowing what must be. The penalty for treason was death, but he knew one thing with a certainty.

Davood would never live to see the inside of a federal prison. That was the price of betrayal…

6:27 A.M. Local Time

Beirut-Rafic Hariri International Airport

Beirut, Syria

Bomb craters from the last Israeli incursion nearly seven months before dotted the runway as the Turkish Airlines 737 touched down, flaps fully extended. An attempt had been made to patch the damage with asphalt, but the attempt was partially successful at best.

Harry looked out the window, thinking back. He had been here then, seeking to recover an Agency asset before the Israeli army overran his position and compromised him. He could still remember the fiery hell, the clouds of oily-black smoke that had drifted over the city.

The mercurial nature of the Middle East.