Pandora's grave

“We’re still determining that. The fact is that they are in-country, and planning to hit the crowd worshiping at the al-Aqsa mosque during Friday prayers”

“Killing Muslims? Why?”

“It’s a casus belli, Mr. President. Remember the riots of ‘96? I was Station Chief Tel Aviv at the time. The murder of worshipers on the Temple Mount will unleash a wave of violence across the Middle East and Europe. Probably even here. It could lead to war, to the annihilation of Israel. With your permission, I will contact my counterpart in Israel so that he can employ necessary countermeasures.”

“No.”

There was a moment of shocked silence on the other end of the line, then David Lay asked, “Why on earth not, Mr. President?”

“You speak of a casus belli, a cause for war, without realizing that it is a double-edged sword,” Hancock replied. “While you speak of Shirazi using this ruse as pretext, you overlook the fact that Prime Minister Shamir could and might use this information in exactly the same way. You know as well as I do that if Israel strikes Iran the world goes up in flames. We’ll handle this crisis ourselves.”

“And how might we do that, sir?”

There was an edge to Hancock’s voice when he spoke again. “Ever since I took office, I’ve heard you before Congress justifying the budget of your Clandestine Service, Lay. Maybe it’s time your men started earning their keep.”

11:36 A.M. Local Time

The hotel

Beirut, Lebanon

“So, we’re supposed to put a team on the ground within the borders of an allied country, take out the terrorists and escape without detection?” Harry asked, glancing across the lobby to where Asefi still sat.

There was a faint crackle of static on the connection and then Kranemeyer responded, “That’s correct. Can you do it, Harry?”

“Sure as there’s a Santa Claus. Why doesn’t the President just order a missile strike? Sat coverage shows the Land Rover to still be in the Golan, collateral damage would be kept to a minimum.”

“We suggested that. Too much of a footprint, he says. Has to be people on the ground.”

“Yeah, well, you might remind him that humans leave footprints too. That’s where the term originated.”

“Tick-tock, Harry. Are we getting anywhere with this conversation?”

“My men are still alive,” Harry shot back. “I want the President to understand the potential fallout of what he’s ordering. We don’t have the luxury of loose border security, so we’ll have to get creative.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“There is,” he replied. “We’re not using the team. Tex and I will go in, across the border. Contact Avraham Najeri and have him meet us in Hebron with the necessary equipment.”

“Harry, we’ve got a minimum of five terrorists, possibly more, with a bio-weapon. Less than twenty-four hours to search and destroy. Can you do that with a team of two?”

“It’s all about footprint, remember. Two people. Bring Najeri up to speed and we’ll work things from our end.”

“What do you want him to deliver?”

Harry glanced at his phone, his fingers dancing across the screen to bring down a menu. “Uploading a wish list presently.”

“What are your plans concerning Asefi?” the DCS asked after a second.

Harry looked across the hotel lobby in the Iranian’s direction, a cold look coming into his eyes. “Kill him, most likely.”

“Then take care of it,” Kranemeyer replied calmly. “Your best option is to do it there in Beirut, before you leave.”

“No, can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“He knows something he’s not telling us. And we don’t have the time to get it out of him. That’s what he’s betting on.”

“Is his information regarding the terrorists on the level?”

A moment’s hesitation, then Harry responded, “No. He’s hiding something, like somebody bluffing with a pair of deuces.”

“Is the Land Rover worth following?”

“We back-tracked the Gulfstream to Tehran. They’re in Israel for a reason. We won’t know why until we hunt them down. So, yes, I think we need to take them down. And take Asefi along for the ride. As long as he’s useful.”

“Do it.”

11:43 A.M.

Beer-sheba, Israel

Avraham Najeri was reassembling a PSG-1 sniper rifle when his prepaid cellphone vibrated with an incoming call.

A frown crossed his face as he glanced at the screen. The Agency. “Salaam alaikum,” he answered cautiously. Blessing and peace be upon you.

He listened carefully for the space of five minutes, then closed the phone without another word, going to a safe on the other side of his workroom. Fingers moving over the biometric keypad, he pulled the door open and removed a pair of Galil assault rifles, laying them out on the workbench. Three magazines for each, followed by two sets of night-vision binoculars.