Pandora's grave

Hamid looked up from the screens on the opposite end of the room. “The last time I got a vacation to go on hajj the Ravens were playing the Super Bowl. So I went to Florida instead.”

“Priorities, man.” A sharp, brittle laugh was forced from Harry’s lips. “Gotta have priorities.”

Tex cleared his throat a few feet away. “We’ve got a face, people. Near the al-Magribah Gate.”

“Who?” Harry demanded, crossing the room in two strides.

“Right here-in the crowd. It looks like Shirazi’s nephew.”

The frozen image was fuzzy, indistinct. Harry whirled on Ali. “Is there a way to get a higher res on this thing?”

The Jordanian nodded, elbowing the two of them aside as he bent over the keyboard, tapping in commands. “Here we go.”

The camera zoomed in close, the image clearing up as it did so. Even so, the face was turned half-away.

“I think we’ve got a match,” Harry said finally. “Tex, Hamid, I want the two of you to get topside. Shadow this joker, but don’t take him. Yet. Ali, where did you put the major?”

“In the next room,” the bodyguard replied.

“Bring him in here, please. I have a few questions to ask him.”

The moment the door closed behind Ali, Harry’s hand flew to his ear, keying the headset radio. “Come in, LONGBOW. Do you copy?”

8:32 A.M.

The Church of the Redeemer

One hundred and seven. One hundred and eight. One hundred and nine. Panting, Thomas paused on the hundred and tenth step of the narrow spiral staircase, gazing up at the bells hanging far above him. He had made it well past the half-way point. At that moment, his headset crackled with static. “Come in, LONGBOW. Do you copy?”

He leaned against the side of the tower. “Yeah, I copy, EAGLE SIX.”

“Are you in position?”

“Negative, EAGLE SIX. I’m half-way up. My credentials were accepted by the probst.”

“Good. All right, we’ve got a face in the crowd near the south gate. Harun Larijani. How soon are you going to be set up?”

“Ten minutes,” Thomas replied, looking up at the bells once more. His heart was pounding against his chest from the exertion and his injured side was throbbing with every step he took. He was being optimistic. “Maybe eight if I push it.”

“Make it five, LONGBOW. We need you in place.”

8:36 A.M.

The Haram al-Sharif

For all appearances, it could have been another ordinary Friday, but it wasn’t-all because of Farouk. Harun rubbed sweaty palms against his trousers as he elbowed his way through the gathering crowd. This was a final reconnaissance, a test to see if the Jews would deny him access to the Haram al-Sharif. They had been known to turn away young Muslim men before.

There had to be a way to stop this. Only a little over three hours remained until the canisters would start to disperse the bio-agent through the corridors of the masjid.

It was too late to speculate what might have happened if he had made a different choice. His choice had been made back in those mountains, vomiting the contents of his stomach out on the cold, hard ground. He saw those Kurds every time he closed his eyes.

To kill a man in the heat of battle was one thing. But not this.

The Americans were here, somewhere. But he couldn’t take the chance, not with one of them being a traitor.

He was growing paranoid-he knew that. But try as he might, he couldn’t shake the feeling. Eyes seemed to follow him through the crowd. Watching eyes lurking in every passing face. His choice had been made, and his fingers trembled at the thought. It was going to kill him…

“Subject is moving toward el-Kas, the fountain,” Hamid breathed into his headset microphone, his eyes following Harun Larijani.

“Roger that, FULLBACK,” came the Texan’s gruff acknowledgment. “I’m on him.”

Moving in tandem, the agents maintained a careful following distance, keeping in sight of their quarry. Trees shaded parts of the Haram al-Sharif and Hamid marked his position as they passed an aged tree known as the “Prophet’s olive tree”.

“Do you make any escorts? Is he alone?”

“Undetermined. One possible at your one o’clock. LONGBOW, are you in position?”

8:38 A.M.

The Church of the Redeemer

“Almost,” Thomas whispered, gritting his teeth against the pain in his side. His fingers flew as he removed the false bottom from his camera case, lifting out the Barrett M98B in two pieces, a Leupold Mark IV scope mounted along the upper.

He had done this so many times. So many places. Despite his weakness, he could have done it with his eyes closed. Leaning back against the tower stone, he reassembled the sniper rifle and slapped a full 10-round mag of.338 Lapua into the magazine well.