Pandora's grave

“It’s what I told the director, Harry,” Hamid replied quietly. “I knew the risks when I joined up. What’s to be done concerning…him?”

The unspoken name of the traitor seemed to hang like an iron weight between the two men. After a moment of awkward silence, Hamid cleared his throat. “I’ll handle it if you want me to. As a Muslim, his betrayal is my shame, after all.”

“It’s mine to do,” Harry replied, grim resolution on his face as he glanced toward the vehicle where their target sat. To be discussing his imminent death-was sickening. He had been one of them… “His blood will be on all our hands, but it is my responsibility. I trusted him.”

Hamid put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. We all trusted him.”

“I know. There will be time after the mission.” Harry gazed deeply into his friend’s eyes. “It’s mine to do.”

A brief nod was the only reply. “This is a long shot, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“This mission-it’s a Hail Mary pass. We don’t have much chance of scoring. Long odds.”

Harry smiled at the choice of words. “You want decent odds, move to Vegas. In the mean time, I’ll see you in Jerusalem.”

“May Allah guide our steps,” Hamid responded, the faintest hint of a smile crossing his lips. “I’ll see you there.”

He turned and walked back to the vehicle, sliding into the passenger seat.

Harry watched them go, carefully timing their departure by his dive watch. Ten minutes, and he too would leave. He turned, walking back to the dirt-brown old Citroen that WHIPPOORWILL had procured for his use. It was the perfect clandestine car, nondescript and anonymous.

He slid in on the worn leather seat, letting out a long sigh as he leaned back. He was so tired, emotionally and physically. What did I miss?

What was it about Davood? What had turned him? Or had he been part of it from the start, a sleeper agent waiting for activation?

Questions without answers. They would never know the truth. But the blood price would be paid.

Harry tapped the brakes and put the car into drive…

Chapter Eighteen

5:03 A.M.

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

“For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Nichols has been spotted in Israel in the company of known Iranian terrorists,” Shoham stated, throwing both pictures on the desk.

Gideon Laner picked them up, then passed them on back to Yossi. “And one of them’s dead.”

“I’m afraid that is irrelevant in the face of the conclusion that must be drawn. The Americans are running a clandestine operation on our shores, and it involves our greatest enemy. For the past two weeks, we’ve been monitoring a spike in chatter emanating from Iran outward to the Arab states. Yesterday it dropped off and went silent.”

All three men knew the significance of that. “The attack is imminent,” Yossi nodded, his voice quiet.

Shoham’s hand moved to the computer at his desk. “Our analysts spent the last twenty-four hours decoding this conversation between Shirazi and His Royal Highness, Prince Ibrahim bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud.”

He hit a button and the tape began to roll. It hadn’t been translated, but no matter. They were all fluent in Arabic. First the voice of the Iranian president.

“The time has come…as it was spoken of by the Prophet, peace be upon him. We will rise up and claim the birthright of the faithful, the true.”

“Everything is in readiness?” the prince asked.

“Turn your face toward the northern sky, my brother, for tomorrow the first blow is struck against the infidel. Jewish blood will run once more in the streets of Al-Quds.”

“Inshallah.”

Shoham paused the recording. “There’s more ideological pep talk, but it is largely irrelevant. They’re coming here.”

“You believe the threat is credible?”

“Apocaplytic fantasies are only dangerous if one has the ability to carry them out. These men do.”

Gideon nodded. “What are your orders?”

“You and your team will go to Jerusalem. I want you there in case of an attack. It may be rhetoric, it may be real.”

“What about the Americans?”

“Not your concern,” Shoham replied. “The Prime Minister will be filing a formal complaint with the American embassy within the hour. The last thing we need is them getting caught in the cross-fire.”

5:21 A.M.

The Hezbollah safehouse

Jerusalem

Silence. His men had departed, leaving Farouk to finish his work. The false back of the closet had been emptied of the four liter-sized steel containers holding the bacteria. He sorted through a pile of paperwork and personal effects, IDs, vehicle leases and the like, feeding sheet after sheet into the small incinerator that sat at his feet. There must be nothing left.

The call to fajr, the dawn prayer, rang out over the city, but the Hezbollah commander did not fall to his knees. There was no time, and surely Allah would forgive, just once more. In comparison with his work of this day…