Pandora's grave

Reaching inside his shirt pocket, Shapiro fingered the small computer flash drive reposing there. He knew what he had to do.

He took a deep breath as though to compose himself, and walked over to a nearby bench, sitting beside a pretty young mother in her twenties as he tied his shoes.

The flash drive wound up stuck to the underside of the bench.

Twenty minutes later, when a swarthy, distinguished-looking man in a tracksuit came jogging by, accompanied by two men that acted suspiciously like bodyguards, the CIA’s Deputy Director never saw them.

Never saw the man sit down and catch his breath, surreptitiously removing the drive as he did so.

He had his back turned to them, pushing his little daughter on the swings. Her high-pitched giggle filled the air as she swung high and a lump grew in Shapiro’s throat.

The American dream…

8:34 P.M. Local Time

Al ‘Aqabah, Jordan

Al ‘Aqabah was friendly territory for Fayood Hamza al-Farouk, but his movements through the bazaar were circumspect, nonetheless. Less than fifteen kilometers from the border with the Zionist state, it was widely suspected that Mossad agents frequented the small town. And the Hezbollah commander was taking no chances. His body bore the scars of past carelessness.

The prepaid cellphone in his pocket buzzed and he pulled it out to look at the screen. It had been two days since activation and only three people had the number.

“Yes?”

“My brother,” a familiar voice announced. “I have a job for you.”

Farouk listened carefully as the man continued to speak. “Eilat, you say? I think you understand the difficulty of getting my men into the city. No, I did not say it was impossible, simply that it would be difficult. What time does the meeting take place?”

“A few minutes before noon tomorrow,” the voice answered. “At the Eilat marina-the Americans must be killed at the outset of the meeting if at all possible.”

“I understand.”

“I repeat, you must kill both of them.”

“It will be done,” Farouk replied, disconnecting the call. A strange thrill of excitement coursed through his veins as he left the bazaar. He hadn’t operated in Israel in months…

9:02 P.M.

A hotel

Eilat, Israel

Richards reattached the scope mount to the receiver of the FN-FAL, his fingers moving quickly along the rifle.

He was on the fifth floor of the hotel, two hundred and fifty yards from the meeting site, according to the laser range-finder that he had brought with him. He could have made that shot over iron sights, but the scope gave him an added measure of security. The Texan was nothing if not cautious.

Finishing his work, he laid the rifle on the bed and slapped a loaded magazine into the mag well of the gun. Ready to go.

A quick check of his watch and he reached for the phone. Time to order dinner-he wasn’t leaving the room until after the meeting went down.

Fifteen hours…

2:57 P.M. Eastern Time

Cypress, Virginia

There was nothing covert about this operation. At least his side of it. That in and of itself bothered Harry. He was naturally a very private individual, and preferred that the circle of information on matters concerning himself be kept very small.

After a moment’s thought, he opened the diplomatic case and threw in an extra set of identification papers, under a Belgian passport. It had served him well in the past and it never hurt to plan ahead.

The case also contained his Colt.45, two loaded magazines, and a box of Federal Hydra-Shok hollowpoints. Being able to carry the gun through security was one of the benefits of his diplomatic immunity. If he was forced to use it…well, that was another story.

The TACSAT vibrated on his hip and he flipped it open. “Davood? What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” the agent responded, glancing out the window of his car. “I’m here down the street from Richards’ house. There’s a black Suburban parked in front of it.”

“Any signs of life?”

“That’s a negative. I just called Langley to run the tags. They’ve got a team on the way.”

“All right, here’s what I want you to do,” Harry instructed. “Sit tight and wait until your back-up arrives. I’ve got a plane to catch, but call me if anything changes.”

“Roger that.”

“Take care of yourself.”

Davood replaced the phone in his pocket and looked down the street at Tex’s house, eyeing the privacy fence that ran around the back two-thirds of the property.

After a moment’s reflection, he pushed open his car door and ran toward the fence, drawing his service Glock as he did so…

Chapter Eleven

12:07 A.M. Tehran Time, September 30th

The Alborz Mountains

The temperature fell quickly in the mountains after the setting of the sun. Harun Larijani rubbed his hands together vigorously before scanning the valley again through a pair of night-vision binoculars.