Pandora's grave

“And I need to speak with your superiors,” Husayni said gently, looking up into the swarthy face of the young man.

“How are the Americans involved?” the Israeli retorted, ignoring the request. Somehow he knew.

“With all due respect,” Husayni retorted, “this is well above your pay grade. I see you have a satellite phone. Call your superiors and tell them I need to talk to them.”

For a minute, maybe two, the two men regarded each other silently, then the officer reached for the phone on his belt. “I hope you have the answers to this…”

12:40 P.M.

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv-Yafo

Avi ben Shoham sighed, leaning back in his chair. The phone on the desk in front of him was on speaker and he was sure his sigh had been heard. Frankly, he didn’t care. He wasn’t dealing from a position of strength anyway.

“My men tell me they made positive identification of an American agent named Harold Nichols near the al-Aqsa mosque a few minutes ago. What can you tell me of US involvement in this incident?”

“I have made myself clear, general,” Husayni replied firmly. “If you want my cooperation, you will have to content yourself with the information I am willing to give you.”

Shoham bristled at the cleric’s attitude. “What if I tell you we can do without your cooperation?”

“If I were you, I would think long and carefully before I made that assertion. Consider the facts, general. There were two bomb blasts in the Muslim Quarter this morning. The street will believe you are hiding something, whether any evidence points to it or not. A worshiper was slain in front of the third-holiest mosque in Islam, by a sniper with military training. Draw your own conclusions, but do not forget which ones the Arab world will draw: an arrow pointing straight at the heart of Israel. If it were not for me.”

He was right, and Shoham knew it. It didn’t mean he had to like it. “You pride yourself on your abilities.”

“Pride is a grievous sin, general, and Allah forgive me if I am guilty of it. There was a boxer in America-a man who went by the name of Cassius Clay before he found the peace of Islam. He said that it was not bragging if you could do it. And you know I can.”

“Monarchs and dictators are little but titular rulers in the house of Islam,” Husayni continued. “They tremble at the noise of the mob in the street. And the people of the street believe that I speak unto them the truth of Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala. The most glorified, the most high. They will follow my words.”

There was a long silence before the Mossad chief replied. “Very well, we’ll do this your way.”

“Salaam alaikum, general.”

Blessing and peace be upon you…

Chapter Twenty

12:11 P.M. Tehran Time, October 5th

The Presidential Palace

Tehran, Iran

“And it is with sorrow, my people, that I must give you the truth. The attacks launched yesterday, profaning the holy ground of Al-Quds and the Masjid al-Aqsa with violence, were not the work of Zionist forces. Rather,” Husayni continued, looking steadfastly into the television cameras, “they were the work of fanatical forces within the government of Iran.”

A murmur ran through the assembled crowd and the cleric raised his hand for silence. “You find this difficult to believe? It should not be. How many times through history have Shia killed Sunni and Sunni killed Shia? And this time, even the mutual reverence for the site from which the Prophet, peace be upon him, rose unto paradise was not enough to restrain the violence.”

More voices, angry shouts as the crowd stirred at his words. “Retaliation is not the answer, my brethren. It never has been. Give not your ear to those who would twist the words of the Prophet into a call to battle. It is the jihad-within which will sustain our cause, a submission of ourselves to the will of Allah. For far too long has the house of Islam been divided…”

Shirazi could listen to no more and he threw his cup of tea across the room, shattering the plasma screen. The effort, the money, the planning, all of it gone to waste. His nephew dead, the worthless scoundrel.

Retreating to his desk, the Iranian president sank into his chair, burying his head in his hands. All of it lost. Had he misread his destiny? Once, everything had seemed so clear.

When he raised his face once more, determination shone through the grief. Nothing had been misread. It had only been thwarted by the efforts of false believers. And he knew what he must do.

Composing himself, he reached for the phone on his desk…

9:35 A.M. Eastern Time, October 9th

Five days after the attacks

NCS Operations Center

Langley, Virginia