Pandora's grave

“Carol got in through the firewall of their HQ at Hakirya and hacked into their patrol grid. The nearest unit’s an Eilat-class Sa’ar 5 corvette, the INS Lahav. It’s forty klicks away, moving southeast toward us at a speed of ten knots.”

“Good. Fire it up.” Harry followed Hamid down onto the lower deck where the laptop was set up. Davood was standing there between Thomas and Tex, his eyes fixed on the screen.

“Get topside and keep an eye on our friend,” Harry ordered. “We’ll pass along the info dump later.”

The young agent shot him a surprised look, but didn’t challenge the order. After he disappeared, Thomas looked over at Harry. “Sure that’s a good idea?”

“Having him sit in on the final pre-op does not jive with his current need-to-know. Where’d they pick you up, outside the local cigar store?”

Thomas chuckled, adjusting the beach blanket he wore Indian-style over his shoulders. “Tex found this for me in an equipment locker. Good for keeping warm and dry.”

“That’s what they all say, Pocahontas.”

“Langley with us in five,” Hamid announced, his fingers dancing over the keyboard. “Huddle time.”

A few minutes later, the face of David Lay appeared full-screen. “Good morning, gentlemen. We’ve had a complication.”

Harry and Hamid exchanged glances.

“Satellite coverage indicates that Iranian security forces stormed the compound of the Ayatollah Isfahani half an hour ago. All contact with him and the Agency assets assigned to guard him has been lost. We believe the Ayatollah to either be under interrogation or possibly dead. To be blunt, you are to proceed under the assumption that the mission has been compromised.”

Hamid took a deep breath. “They know we’re coming for them.”

“Most likely, yes.”

“Then what do you advise, director?” Harry asked, taking a step closer to the laptop. “Are you ordering mission abort?”

The figure on screen shook its head in reply. “That’s not on the table, Nichols. Stopping the release of this bacteria remains your top priority.”

“Do I have permission to share this intel with my colleagues in Israeli Mossad? They’re far better positioned for a covert takedown within the Haram al-Sharif.”

“Negative.” Another shake of the head. “The administration has made itself clear. Israeli involvement is undesirable at best. We’ll handle this unilaterally.”

“Undesirable? We’re risking WWIII because involving them is undesirable?” Harry asked, incredulous.

“You have your orders,” Lay replied sternly. “I can’t make clear enough how important it is that none, I repeat none of the toxin escapes into the atmosphere. Due to the covert nature of your mission, providing you with bio-suits is out of the question. I want to make the risks perfectly clear to you gentlemen.”

“The risks were perfectly clear to me when I signed up, sir,” Hamid retorted, his voice calm and even. “Let’s do it.”

“Dr. Schuyler’s team at Bethesda is testing current antibiotics against the bacteria, but the odds are slim. If you are exposed, you will likely die. So, don’t let them release it. Good luck, and God bless.”

The screen went black, leaving the team members looking at each other in silence. Finally, Thomas cleared his throat.

“That,” he intoned dryly, “is what passes at Langley for work incentive.”

2:35 A.M.

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

The knock on the door seemed to come only moments after his head had touched the pillow. General Shoham grabbed the alarm clock off the night stand in the sparsely appointed room and glanced at the time.

“Come in!” was his gruff demand as he swung his legs out of bed. “What’s going on?”

“You wanted to know the moment we found anything,” a woman’s voice replied and he turned to see an embarrassed female adjutant standing in the doorway. Shoham sighed, reaching for his pants and pulling them on over his boxers. “Yes, I did. What is it?”

“Our systems just red-flagged a security fence report from near Ramallah earlier tonight. This man crossed from the West Bank, along with two others, shortly after twenty hundred hours.”

A glance at the photograph was enough to confirm Shoham’s suspicions. Lt. Laner’s report had placed Nichols in Ramallah as well. “What identity was he using?”

She placed a xeroxed copy of a driver’s license on the bed. “Hans de Vries, a Belgian journalist for National Geographic. He was accompanied by this man, Piter Muller, identified as his photographer. And this man, his translator, a Palestinian named Muhammad Rahman.”

“Do we have anything on Rahman?”

“His identification was out-of-date, but after placing a call to National Geographic to confirm de Vries’ identity, the guards waved them through.”

Shoham cursed under his breath. The man in the third photograph looked familiar, strangely so. And Nichols’ last “translator” had ended up with a.45 slug in each lung. “Have Gabriel run this one through our facial-recognition software. See if we can come up with any matches.”

2:44 A.M.