Pandora's grave

His orders fell on deaf ears. His men stood exposed in the open, staring at the corpse of their fallen comrade in open-mouthed shock. Scholars, he fumed bitterly. Only Mustafa reacted in accordance with his training, taking shelter behind the engine block of the van, his rifle unslung.

Hossein hurried forward to the screen of vehicles, taking command of the situation. He grabbed one of the young men by the shoulder and pulled him down behind the van, slapping him across the face.

At that moment, a small steel cylinder rolled into the courtyard, tinkling against the asphalt. “Down!” Hossein screamed, covering his eyes with his hands.

The courtyard turned bright as the noonday sun.

Harry was through the gate two seconds after the stun grenade went off, Tex following him in. Target to the left.

A burst of fire rippled from the Galil’s barrel and the man went down. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw another man helpless on the pavement, rubbing his eyes in agony.

Tex shot him twice and he stopped moving.

Reaching the line of vehicles, they separated, their movements practiced, almost choreographed. Danse macabre.

A man was crouched behind the van, a rifle in his hands. He got off a wild burst, bullets fanning the air near Harry’s ear.

Harry fired a quick double-tap, both rounds entering the tango’s head. The rifle clattered to the asphalt as the corpse fell backward.

Silence fell over the courtyard, the silence of the grave. Four men dead. Harry and Tex exchanged glances, their rifles still held at the ready.

“Any sign of Hossein?” Harry asked cautiously, his eyes scanning the courtyard for a further threat.

Tex shook his head.

“Check the vehicles for the package,” Harry instructed. “I’ve got your back.”

10:35 A.M. Central Time

Columbus, Ohio

“And as we work together, we will move this country into a bright future of hope and prosperity. Thank you all, and may God bless the United States of America!” With a wave and a brilliant smile for the cameras, President Hancock walked quickly off the platform, after four years still moving with the rugged, youthful athleticism that had endeared him to his supporters in the first campaign.

Cahill was waiting backstage and together they walked down the hall of the convention building. “Something’s going on, isn’t there, Ian?” Hancock demanded, undoing his necktie as they walked.

The only reply was a nod and the President sighed. “Let me have it.”

“We got a flash from Langley shortly after you went on-stage. They were able to locate the terrorist cell charged with transporting the bacteria into Israel.”

Hancock stopped dead in his tracks, a strange fire flashing in his eyes as he stared at Cahill. “They did?”

“Yes, Mr. President. As of our last update, fifteen minutes ago, an NCS strike team was in the process of executing the takedown.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t see fit to notify me of this?”

“This was a very important speech,” Cahill responded, baffled by Hancock’s response. “As I’m sure you can understand, it was imperative that you remain focused while delivering it.”

“Ian, I can give speeches till the Second Coming of Christ and none of it will matter if the Middle East goes up in smoke. Now get me an update. I want real-time intelligence on the developing situation, ASAP.”

7:39 P.M. Local Time

The safehouse

Ramallah

Harry heard the van’s doors close behind him at long last, then Tex cleared his throat. “Nothing,” the big man said finally. “Nothing at all.”

“Then we’ll search the safehouse.”

Tex shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense for it to be concealed inside. They were leavin’.”

Silence reigned over the courtyard as the two men stood there. Indecision. It had been fatal in the past. At last Harry spoke. “Stay here, I’m going to check Asefi.”

He walked back out through the steel gates, his Galil rifle held at the ready. It was a testament to the violence that had wracked Ramallah for the last few years that no one had yet responded to the firefight.

The Iranian bodyguard lay there on the pavement, beside the corpse of the young fellahin Harry had shot. He was cradling the young man’s shattered head against his chest.

“I loved him,” Asefi whispered, his voice a faint, dying murmur. Tears of anger shone in his eyes as he glared up at Harry.

Harry did not respond for a moment, and when he did, he ignored the bodyguard’s anger over the death of his lover. “The bacteria isn’t here, Achmed,” he replied, dropping to one knee beside the dying man. “What can you tell me about that?”

Raising himself up on one elbow with a tremendous effort, Asefi spat in Harry’s face, bloody spittle striking him on the cheek.

Harry never blinked, staring at the Iranian with preternatural calm as the spittle dripped from his face. “The bacteria,” he repeated coldly. “Let’s have the truth this time.”