The analyst acknowledged Shapiro’s comment with a grim nod. “Essentially, yes. A large part of them worship in the open air, which might reduce their exposure, but we can’t count on that.”
“Your estimates?”
“Jerusalem has a population of over seven hundred thousand. An average five percent of them will be at Ground Zero.” Carter rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Factor in their families and people they might be in close contact with during the time between exposure and possible death. You’re looking at a minimum hundred—hundred and twenty thousand potentially infected. Untreated, pneumonic plague has a mortality rate between ninety-six and one hundred percent.”
“And Schuyler’s just told us we can’t treat this strain,” Lay added. “Figure one hundred thousand plus dead across Israel and the Palestinian Authority. Epicenter: Jerusalem.”
“That’s not how Shirazi’s looking at it,” Carter replied shrewdly.
“What do you mean?”
“For Shirazi, this is nothing more than a beginning. You might say it’s the down payment on apocalypse.”
The DCIA’s lips pursed, drawing together into a thin, bloodless line. “Then, gentlemen, our course is perfectly clear. As cliched as it sounds, it’s true. Failure is not an option.”
At that moment, his secretary knocked on the conference room door. “I have the President on line two, sir.”
“Put him through,” Lay responded, dismissing Shapiro and Carter with a curt, “That will be all, gentlemen.”
A moment later, the phone in his hand rang and he hesitated before answering it. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”
“A request for operational approval crossed my desk a few minutes ago,” Hancock responded, a characteristically hostile edge to his voice. It had been years since Lay had let it bother him.
“Oh, yes, the extraction papers. If I might insist, Mr. President, we need that approval expedited.”
“I would have thought we were done with these games, director.”
“Games?”
“The document simply requests approval for the extraction of an Iranian cleric. The name has been redacted.”
“Based on need-to-know, Mr. President,” Lay replied wearily. “This is an ongoing operation.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware of the history of these mullahs. You’re seeking to bring one of them into this country and I’m somehow not supposed to care who it is?”
The DCIA looked up at the ceiling, considering his options. “As you wish, Mr. President. The man in question is the Ayatollah Yousef Mohaymen Isfahani.”
A sharp intake of breath was the only sound from the other end of the phone for a long moment. Then, “The Supreme Leader? Have you lost your mind, Lay?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“In 2011 you tried to assassinate this man as a terrorist!”
Lay sighed. It was going to be a long conversation. “That’s all relative, Mr. President. Alliances change…”
10:29 P.M. Local Time
US Naval Support Activity
Souda Bay, Crete
Hamid checked the silenced Heckler & Koch MP-5SD submachine gun for a third and final time before slapping a thirty-round magazine of 9mm hollowpoints into the mag well. Four more magazines were held in pouches around his belt.
He looked over at Thomas, who was breaking down his Barrett M98B sniper rifle for travel. “You bring the rubbers?”
“Sure thing,” the New Yorker grinned. He dug in his pocket and retrieved a small package, tossing it over.
Hamid tore open the plastic and leaned his MP-5 up against the fuselage of the aircraft, unrolling a prophylactic over the barrel.
“Condoms?”
The two agents looked up to see Lt. Hanson standing in the cockpit doorway, a quizzical expression on his face. Hamid laughed. “Yeah, they’re great for all sorts of things. Forms a waterproof seal on the barrel, helps prevent a blockage. You need to go into action quickly? Just pull the trigger. No worries.”
Hanson forced a smile. “I wish that was all I was worried about.”
“What’s going on?” Hamid asked, looking up from his work.
“The barometer’s falling fast,” the airman replied. “We’ve got a cold front moving in.”
“Here or at the drop zone?”
“Here.”
“Then what’s our problem?”
Hanson took a step into the back of the airplane and faced the CIA agents. “Look, I’ve been flying in and out of here for five years. The mountains generally shield you from the wind, but when a front like this strikes here, the westerlies funnel down between here and the main island. It’s like a wind tunnel. I’ve seen times when the Navy wouldn’t even berth their ships, the gusts were so bad.”
“And the planes were grounded,” Thomas added quietly, grasping the situation.
“That’s right.”
Davood spoke up. “How long is the storm expected to last? Can we wait it out?”
“I’m game to wait,” the pilot replied, “but the weatherman’s playing fast and loose with his forecast. The storm could last from between twelve and fifteen hours.”
Hamid exchanged a look with Thomas, then cleared his throat. “That’s a non-option. Can you get us out now?”
“I can try.”
10:48 P.M. Local Time
The road to Tel Aviv
The city lights of Tel Aviv-Yafo glittered in the distance as the car sped down the divided highway toward the coast. The Romans had called this region the Via Maris. The Way of the Sea.
Harry dismissed the thought, a memory from a long-ago Sunday School lesson, turning his mind back to the telephone. Carter was talking.
“We’re in direct contact with Isfahani now. He’s agreed to probe further and come up with a current location for al-Farouk and the terrorist cell.”
“Make sure he doesn’t jeopardize his current status with his inquiries,” Harry cautioned, an unusual feeling of disquiet coming over him. “His relationship with the Grand Mufti is our only ticket into the compound.”
“Play ‘em close, Harry. We’re still looking into the connections there. Tahir al-din Husayni isn’t exactly known as a friend to the West.”
It wasn’t new information to Harry. He could remember when Husayni had been appointed as the Grand Mufti, the Sunni guardian of Islamic holy places in Jerusalem. At the time, he had been seen as a pawn of Fatah’s leadership, but over the years he had parlayed his considerable talents as an orator into something more. A power broker.
He had succeeded in settling the breach between Fatah and Hamas, channeling their energies away from each other and outward…
In the spring of 2012, he had survived a bomb planted in his car, an explosion that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Fatah, Hamas, Hezbollah, Mossad—the players behind the attack had never been identified, but Husayni had carried on, as indomitable as ever. As much as the faction leaders might have hated him, the man held the Arab street in thrall.
His sermons were fiery and inspiring, deploring the Jewish occupation in the house of Islam, but always stopping just short of calling for violence. He was what passed for a moderate, which was what made sharing operational details with him so dangerous. Roll the dice and guess which side he would back.
“Keep me posted,” Harry replied finally, glancing toward the Iranian major in the front seat. “We’ll be in position when the time comes.”
11:03 P.M.
The residence of the Grand Mufti
Jerusalem
The inside of Husayni’s residence was remarkably austere, reflective of a man who remembered his past—a simple lad tending sheep in the hills of Galilee. His lack of pretension, coupled with his passionate oratory, had won him the adoration of the Prophet’s people. Their shepherd. He brushed at a fancied piece of lint on his plain cotton trousers and leaned back in his wheelchair, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone.
“You’r
e the last person I would have expected this request to come from, Youssef,” he replied in Arabic, the language of Allah.
A moment passed, silence filling the void.
“Alliances change, Tahir,” the Ayatollah Isfahani responded. “Even the servants of the Prophet must adapt.”
“I understand that better than most, yet adaptability has never been among the chief virtues of our people. Have you ever questioned why we have suffered the people of Allah, the most glorified, the most high, to be divided thus? Divided by a thousand-year-old betrayal between chieftains?”
When Isfahani spoke again, there was a trace of humor in his voice. “You have bridged many divides in your life, my old friend, but this one is too much for even you.”
“Too much for the will of Allah?” Husayni asked, still completely serious. “I have received visions, Youssef. As long as this rift between Sunni and Shia continues to divide our people—we cannot receive the blessings of Allah, or expect the return of His promised one.”
“Then your answer is?”
The Mufti seemed surprised that the issue was still in question. “I will help your American friends—with certain conditions.”
His friend remained silent as Husayni continued to speak, outlining the terms of his agreement…
11:17 P.M.
US Naval Support Activity
Souda Bay, Crete
The windspeed was 28 knots as the C-130 taxied to the airfield’s only runway, blowing hard from the west.
“Tower to Titan Alpha 17, you are cleared for take-off. Gusts exceeding 40 knots have been recorded in the last twenty minutes. Please exercise caution.”
“Roger that, Tower,” Lt. Hanson replied, adjusting the straps of his flight harness. He pushed the throttles all the way in, feeling the Allison turboprops respond, revving to full power. Another check of the gauges and he took the flight controls from the co-pilot. “I have the bird.”
In the back of the aircraft, Hamid checked his equipment one more time, flashing Thomas a tight thumbs-up as they began to pick up speed. The airframe trembled in the teeth of the cross-wind, lifting briefly from the concrete, then slamming back down with a teeth-rattling jolt.
Hamid closed his eyes, fighting against the sensations that threatened to overwhelm him, his fingers wound tightly in the mesh netting stretched against the side of the fuselage. Flying. It gave him a feeling of helplessness. There was nothing to do, nothing he could do except pray. Allah give us wings.. .
“Climb, climb,” Hanson whispered through clenched teeth, his knuckles white as he pulled back on the yoke, urging the heavy plane higher. It seemed to falter, the engines groaning as the rain hit full force, droplets of water pelting against the windows of the cockpit. The airfield lights disappeared in the gale and Hanson forced his gaze down, focusing on his instruments. There was only one way out. Up…
Thirty minutes later the battered aircraft rose above the clouds, into the clear, starlit black of night. Hanson released control of the Hercules to autopilot and leaned back in his seat, letting out a sigh of relief. The danger was past. The hardest part of the mission was over.
For his passengers in the back, it was only beginning.
Feeling the tremors of the airframe subside, Hamid released his deathgrip on the mesh and opened his eyes.
“That was fun,” Thomas observed sarcastically.
“Yeah.” Hamid checked his dive watch and marked the time. A tight smile on his face, he looked over at his team and announced, “We drop at oh-one hundred. Less than two hours…”
Chapter Seventeen
12:03 A.M. Local Time, October 4th
The marina
Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel
A forest of masts reached into the night sky from the multitude of sailboats and yachts docked in the marina. Tex put the car into park and Harry motioned for Hossein to get out, keeping the .45 in his pocket trained on the major as they exited the car.
It was a beautiful, clear night. The water shimmered with the reflection of hundreds of lights from the boats at anchor, flickering like diamonds set afire. Loud music pulsed from the deck of a nearby yacht as the agents moved down toward the wharf. A party was still in full swing.
Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Harry moved closer to Farshid Hossein as the trio made their way through the crowd.
A woman was standing outside the small office that served as the marina headquarters and security office, her form backlit by the building lights. She looked up at his approach, taking another long drag on the cigarette between her fingers.
“Evening,” was her curt greeting. “You need something?”
“Bonjour. My friends and I are in need of a boat,” Harry began, gesturing to Tex and Hossein.
“What do you plan to use the boat for?” she responded, exhaling the smoke and watching as the breeze blew it away.
He smiled. “We’re birdwatchers from southern France. Following the migration of the whippoorwill.”
“They are flying south this time of year, aren’t they?” she asked, throwing the cigarette butt against the gravel of the roadway.
“Well nigh from Paris to Dakar,” he replied, finishing the code exchange.
She nodded. “Come with me. I think I have what you’re looking for.”
4:42 P.M. Eastern Time
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
“We just heard from Nichols,” Kranemeyer announced, sweeping hurriedly into the DCIA’s office. “They’re at sea, on their way to the drop zone.”
David Lay looked up, his fingers laced together as he leaned forward in his chair. “Have a seat, Barney.”
“Thanks.” The DCS sighed heavily as he sank into the chair in front of Lay’s desk. “Haven’t kept this type of hours since the skinnies holed us up in Mogadishu.”
Lay nodded. “We have a problem.”
“Oh?”
“I just got off the phone with Tahir al-Din Husayni. He’s agreed to help.”
A wary look came into Kranemeyer’s eyes. “And? Where’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one, really. At least not from his perspective. Just necessary concessions to his religious sensibilities. He can’t permit non-Muslims to enter the mosque proper.”
“Then we’ll have to stop them before they get inside,” Kranemeyer retorted. “That, or rely on Zakiri and Sarami.”
The CIA director grimaced. “Make sure Nichols and Zakiri have the message loud and clear. Under no circumstances is Sarami to be left unattended on this mission. No circumstances. Where are we with the extraction of Isfahani?”
“Our people are with him, at his residence. He wants to see this through before he leaves.”
“That’s his decision,” Lay acknowledged. “Instruct your assets to monitor his communications and make sure his inquiries don’t jeopardize operational security or his personal well-being.”
“A protective detail, essentially?”
“That’s right. If he gets taken out at this point, it becomes a whole new ballgame. After the mission is over…”
“We can’t bring him back to the States,” Kranemeyer said, rising to his feet. “There’s no way that’s viable politically.”
“Never intended to.”
“Meaning?”
Lay cleared his throat. “Meaning we finish what we started in 2011, Barney. Just make sure our hands stay clean.”
12:49 A.M.
The cruiser
The Mediterranean
They were in international waters now. Harry took a look at the GPS screen and mentally calculated their distance to the drop zone. Thirty minutes out, at their current rate of speed.
Tex had the wheel, if you could use that metaphor to describe the sophisticated control console. The big man had a lot of experience with boats, dating back to his time in the Marine Corps.
Hossein stood near the rail, calmly puffing a cigarette as he watched the spray kicked up by the rapidly-moving craft. He had
gotten a light from WHIPPOORWILL, but Harry didn’t know where he had obtained the cigarette. He must have had another pack stashed somewhere they hadn’t found it.
Abu al-mawt. The father of death. Harry turned and spat into the sea. He and a team of Green Berets had spent five months tracking the insurgent leader through the Iraqi desert. Five months of fruitless search.
And now to have him right here. He could close his eyes and see Juan Delgado’s mutilated torso, feel the bile rise in his throat as he thought back. They had never found his severed head. Perhaps it was just as well.
“You hate me, don’t you?” Harry jerked his head up to see Hossein looking across at him, a strangely enigmatic look playing across that sharply-chiseled Persian face.
Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?” he asked, taking a step toward the Iranian major. Another step and they stood side by side.
“A feeling, perhaps,” Hossein replied, looking out at the churning foam.
“I wouldn’t feel the slightest compunction in putting a bullet through your head, if that’s what you mean.”
Hossein exhaled, watching the smoke blow away in the wind. “That’s what I thought,” he said, still seeming utterly composed. “I must confess a curiosity as to whether this hatred is personal or professional?”
“There’s no such thing as professional hatred,” Harry responded, frankly baffled by the man’s calm. “You should know that. And I have killed a good many men whom I did not hate.”
“Too true. Then, I take it that we have a history?”
There was no answer to his question.
Hossein finished his cigarette and tossed it into the sea, watching as the glowing ember was extinguished in the foam of their wake. “Quite like a life, don’t you think?”
Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors) Page 41
