Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  “No—apparently they feel it would damage U.S.-Israeli relations if it were known that we had withheld this information up until this point.”

  An oath escaped Kranemeyer’s lips. “Do they now? Then what’s the story supposed to be?”

  Lay shrugged. “The Israelis handed it to us. They also know about Farshid Hossein, and the official line is that it was a prisoner snatch. The State Department has agreed to let Israeli interrogators have a go at him, starting next week.”

  “This is madness.”

  Lay pursed his lips. “I know. But their ways are ever higher than our ways. Get the word out to the field team.”

  6:51 A.M. Local Time

  The residence of the Grand Mufti

  Jerusalem

  “So, your name is Floyd Craig?” Tahir Husayni asked, passing the identification back to his bodyguard.

  “That’s right. US State Department.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Craig, though I doubt that is your real name. I trust my bodyguards weren’t unduly rough.”

  “No worries,” Harry shook his head with a smile. “I was due for a prostate examination anyway.”

  A laugh escaped Husayni’s lips. “I have been told that you need something from me?”

  Harry nodded. “Your cooperation, primarily. We need covert access to the Haram al-Sharif.”

  The cleric seemed to consider the question for a moment, then he cleared his throat. “You know there are people in this city who would kill us both for merely talking together.”

  “ ‘I am for peace: but when I speak, they are for war’”, quoted Harry, his eyes fixed on Husayni’s face.

  A quiet smile crossed the older man’s lips. “From the songs of Davood, the shepherd king. See, we are not as different as some would have us believe, are we?”

  “Men of principle can always find common ground,” Harry replied glibly. “Or, in our case, a common enemy.”

  “Ah, yes. The common enemy. You and I both know it is an ancient ploy. You would ask that I trust you?”

  Harry shook his head. “No, I would not. We both know that suspicion, not trust, is the coin of our realm. In this case, it’s a simple exchange. Give us the access we need, and we’ll make your problem go away.”

  “The problem you say exists.”

  “I understand your skepticism,” Harry nodded. “In the end it’s your choice. A few hours and we’ll know. Do you want to risk your people and your city on us being wrong?”

  “Or lying?”

  “Or lying.”

  A silence fell over the room as Husayni regarded him with a coolly appraising glance. Assessment. Decision. A minute passed, then two—a high-stakes game of chicken playing out between the two men.

  Finally the cleric smiled, propelling his wheelchair forward from behind the desk until he sat directly in front of Harry. “My men will escort you and your team to the Haram al-Sharif. We have a security center located beneath the prayer room of Omar. You will be able to review security footage and I would insist that your non-Muslim team members remain there for the course of the operation.”

  Harry looked out the window at the light of the morning sun streaming into the courtyard. Day had dawned. “Agreed.”

  At that moment, as if to punctuate his words, the muffled crump of an explosion reverberated from somewhere to the north. Weapons drawn, Husayni’s bodyguards moved to protect their principal.

  Harry exchanged a grim look with the cleric.

  “It’s begun.”

  7:05 A.M.

  Mossad Headquarters

  Tel-Aviv-Yafo, Israel

  “Where was the blast?” General Shoham demanded, coming through the code-protected revolving door of the Mossad watch center.

  The watch officer looked up. “Based on what we can determine, the bomb went off in a shop in the Souk el-Qattanin. First responders just arrived on the scene, but the building is in danger of collapsing completely.”

  “The wool market?” Shoham asked, incredulous. “In the Muslim Quarter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s a Friday—the market would be almost empty. What are we looking at here, a suicide bomber?”

  “We don’t know yet, sir. The initial reports are sketchy, almost worthless when it comes right down to it. The IDF is moving troops into place to cordon off the area.”

  The general shook his head. “That’s a mistake. We’ll look like we have something to hide. Where’s Laner and the team?”

  “I don’t know,” the watch officer replied. “Eli!”

  An analyst glanced up from the next workstation. “Lt. Laner is estimated to arrive in Jerusalem within the next fifteen minutes.”

  “Get him on the phone,” Shoham ordered crisply, taking the watch officer by the shoulder and steering him away from the floor of the center. “Open a secure line with the Prime Minister. Do it now.”

  7:08 A.M.

  The residence of the Grand Mufti

  Jerusalem

  “I’ll be in a gray Suburban with three of Husayni’s bodyguards. Follow us to the haram,” Harry instructed, the TACSAT tucked against his shoulder as he buttoned his shirt. “I’ll be in contact with Tex. Now, our rules of engage—”

  “Harry, will you listen for a minute,” Hamid interrupted, irritation permeating his tones. “We’re through.”

  “What?”

  “The mission has been scrubbed. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  Harry let out a sigh of relief, leaning back against the wall of the guardhouse. “They’re letting Mossad handle it.”

  Dead silence on the other end of the line. “They have briefed Mossad, haven’t they?” Harry repeated, after a moment.

  “No, Harry, they haven’t. I got it from Carter—it’s direct from the President. He pulled the mission after receiving a formal complaint from the Israelis regarding our presence in the area.”

  “A political decision,” Harry whispered bitterly, his mind racing. “They don’t realize it’s already started.”

  “I know, I heard the explosion. It came from the north—northeast, the Muslim Quarter.”

  Harry looked over at Husayni’s bodyguards and came to his decision in a trice. “Are you with me?”

  “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  “Probably. Are you in?”

  A long sigh escaped Hamid’s lips, then he chuckled.“We’ve been working together for what, ten years? I’d follow you to hell.”

  “Good,” Harry shot back. “Because that’s exactly where we’re going.”

  11:25 P.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  “According to the tracker on Nichols’ TACSAT, he just arrived at the Haram al-Sharif,” Kranemeyer announced, leaning against the door to David Lay’s office. “Beacons indicate that the rest of the team is converging on his location.”

  Lay nodded. “So, he reacted just as you expected him to.”

  “As I knew he would,” the DCS corrected. “It’s why I had Carter pass on the information regarding the Israelis.”

  “A dangerous business, this thing that we’re doing,” Lay responded, looking out his seventh-floor window at the D.C. skyline. “Could be the end of an illustrious career.”

  Kranemeyer limped across the room until he stood directly in front of the DCIA’s oaken desk. “It’s the only decision that makes any sense. The White House is looking at this through a political lens—it’s way past that now. The moment we opened a dialogue with Husayni we were committed. No going back.”

  “You’d better hope I can sell it that way,” David Lay replied. “Or else they’re going to come for heads when this is all over.”

  He shot his subordinate a grim look and pressed a button on his desk. “Margaret, will you get me President Hancock, please. Yes, I know what time it is. Just do it.”

  7:31 A.M. Local Time

  The Muslim Quarter

 
Jerusalem, Israel

  The Souk el-Qattanin was an indoor wool market dating back to medieval times, a magnificent building. Or it had been.

  The bomb had erupted in one of the many shops deep inside the building, blowing out part of the roof and taking out supporting pillars. The fire was spreading among the bales of wool.

  Even as Farouk worked his way through the crowd that had gathered, another section of the roof collapsed, stone cracking under the intensity of the heat. Perhaps it had crushed some of the Jewish firefighters. A man could hope.

  A thin line of Zionist soldiers were spread out in a hundred-yard perimeter, keeping the crowd back, including wool merchants who had rushed back from the mosque to save their wares. The Hezbollah commander smiled. By trading with the infidel, they had brought this fate upon themselves. It was the will of Allah.

  As Farouk passed, one of the merchants raised his voice in a wail of anguish. “My wool! They won’t let me save my wool.”

  He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “They say it was a Jewish bomb. That’s why they will let no one through until they have removed the evidence.”

  By the time the man looked up, Farouk had vanished into the crowd. But the rumor spread…

  In a car parked not three hundred yards distant, Harun Larijani sat, staring at the satellite phone in his hand. It was the third time he had placed a call to the Ayatollah Isfahani, the third time the call had gone unanswered. And he dared not place a fourth.

  Something had gone terribly wrong. He was on his own now, and he trembled at the thought. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.

  He had been assured of support. It had seemed the right thing at the time, the path of honor, to betray his uncle and save his faith.

  And now it was going to kill him. He tucked the phone into his pocket and leaned back against the driver’s seat, only seconds before the passenger-side door opened. Fayood al-Farouk.

  “Quickly! Let’s go,” the Hezbollah commander snapped, impatience filling his voice. “The seeds have been sown.”

  7:48 A.M.

  The security center under the Haram al-Sharif

  Jerusalem

  As surveillance systems went, the one that encompassed the Haram al-Sharif was good. Very good in fact, taking into account the difficulties of wiring a centuries-old stone building. Then again, Harry realized, these people had plated a roof with gold not three hundred yards from where he sat reviewing footage. Money was hardly an object.

  “What exactly are we looking for?” Husayni’s bodyguard asked, a short, stocky Jordanian by the name of Abdul Ali.

  “According to Isfahani, we’re looking for four steel canisters, probably no bigger than a liter of soda,” Harry replied, illustrating with his hands.

  The bodyguard nodded. “Already here, or still to be delivered?”

  “We don’t have that intel,” Harry admitted. “What exactly are the limitations of your system here?”

  “Limitations? What do you mean?”

  “Dead space,” Hamid interjected, stepping forward to stand by the bank of screens. “Do you have a map showing the areas not covered by the surveillance cameras?”

  “Ah, yes. One was drawn up a year ago.” The Jordanian barked an order in Arabic and one of the security guards left the room, in search of the map. Ali smiled tightly. “It should be here shortly.”

  8:06 A.M.

  The Church of the Redeemer

  Jerusalem

  Thomas entered the church from the west, coming through the bustling market of the Muristan. Above the door was an exquisitely carved lamb, a symbol of righteousness and peace.

  Peace. Jerusalem meant the “city of peace”. Some might have considered the appellation prophetic, but it struck Thomas as little more than a bad joke. Jerusalem had been the territory of men like him for millennia, and he had nothing to do with peace.

  He paused at the entrance, his hand brushing against the cool limestone of a pillar. As he hesitated, a young Western couple entered the church ahead of him, the girl smiling as she passed him. She reminded him of someone, maybe a girl he had known back in the States. He hoped she would survive the day.

  Collecting his thoughts, he entered the narthex on their heels. Walls rose high on either side of him, culminating in a magnificently vaulted stone ceiling.

  It had been years since he had darkened the door of a church. Not since he’d crashed the wedding of his half-sister, he realized with a smile of amusement. But here he was.

  A middle-aged Palestinian man stood at the door to the main sanctuary, apparently the doorman. As Thomas stood looking around, he saw him give the girl a white scarf to cover her bare shoulders before she entered the main part of the church.

  Here goes. Thomas took a deep breath and crossed the room, sticking out a hand. “Name’s Warner, sir. Jerry Warner, photographer for Time magazine. You were told to expect me?”

  8:29 A.M.

  The Haram al-Sharif

  Jerusalem

  “The crowds are already gathering,” Harry observed grimly, monitoring the bank of screens in the small surveillance center.

  Davood nodded, standing by his shoulder. “It’s a pilgrimage for many. I’ve always wanted to come here myself. Here and Mecca.”

  “The hajj?” Harry asked, a seemingly idle question.

  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 reconnaiss
ance, 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.