Stephen England - Pandora's grave

“Aye, aye, skipper,” the Iraqi agent replied, turning away. “I’ll be in comm.”

2:21 A.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“Sir, I have the President on Line 2.”

David Lay shook his head wearily. “You told him I was asleep, I trust?”

His secretary looked at him, sitting there at his desk, and responded with a shamefaced nod. “He insists.”

“They get in that office,” Lay sighed, “and start imagining themselves some sort of blasted demigod. I suppose there’s no help for it-put him through.”

Reaching for the phone on his desk, the DCIA punched the speaker button and leaned back in his chair. “Good morning, Mr. President. A very early morning, I might add.”

Hancock didn’t respond to the pleasantries. “Lay, I thought I made my orders clear. We cannot afford the fallout of this operation. Pull your people out of Jerusalem!”

“Mr. President,” Lay began, taking a deep breath before continuing, “neither can you afford the consequences of publicly abandoning Israel. When the facts of this become known, as they will if we pull out, the world will know that we stuck a knife in the back of our closest friend in the Middle East.”

“ Friend ,” Hancock murmured bitterly. “They’ve hardly acted like friends over the past few years.”

Lay didn’t feel that point was worth the argument. “Preserving the balance of power has always been in our best interests, Mr. President. At present, we are committed to this course and there is no pulling out.”

“So you say.”

“Respectfully, Mr. President, this has become an operational decision, and protocol dictates that those have to be handled on the ground.”

“This is your dream, isn’t it, Lay? The same type of sick James Bond fantasies all you spooks seem to share. License to kill, no one with the power to stop you. I tell you this-if this operation goes south and embarrasses my administration, I will have your resignation on my desk before the week is out. Do you understand me?”

“I assure you, Mr. President, that the consequences have not escaped me. My resignation is already signed and sealed.”

“See that it is,” Hancock retorted, hanging up without further warning. Lay sighed and reached for the letter of resignation on his desk, his eyes scanning down the sheet to the blank space at the bottom requiring his signature. It represented everything he had spent a lifetime building up, a career he had sacrificed his family for. He wasn’t ready to give that up.

Not without a fight…

10:29 A.M. Local Time

Masjid al-Aqsa

Jerusalem

The farthest mosque. In all his life, Davood had never thought he would complete this pilgrimage. A prayer uttered in these halls was said to count for a thousand with Allah, praised be His holy name.

But he had no time for prayer, despite the sanctity of the spot. There was a mission to be performed. Padding barefoot across the carpeted floor of the assembly hall, he stole a glance across at his companions, each of them about ten feet away, flanking him. Abdul Ali on his left, Hamid on his right.

Hamid glanced up at the mosaics patterning the arch above him as they made their way down the central aisle. Beautiful work dating from the eleventh century.

Unlit chandeliers hung from the ceiling, most of the light coming from stained-glass windows on either side of the sanctuary. The light of Heaven streaming down upon this most holy of places.

He had to force himself not to look at his watch, not to look like a man with a purpose-at least any other purpose than worship or reverence. Little more than an hour remained to accomplish his mission.

He counted forty, maybe fifty people in the sanctuary as they moved toward the mihrab beneath the dome. It was hard to tell, divided as the hall was into seven aisles by rows of marble pillars. A scant fraction of the five thousand that often packed the masjid, but enough to complicate things.

Endeavoring to look like a common worshiper, Hamid stopped to glance at a copy of the Quran on a pedestal near one of the pillars, his fingers tracing idly over the flowing script. The sacred scriptures were open to the eighth Sura, the sixty-first verse. And if they incline to peace, incline to it also, and put your trust in Allah. Surely He is the All-Hearing, the All-Knowing.

And he passed on…

10:38 A.M.

The bell tower

“LONGBOW to EAGLE SIX, all is clear. Sitrep in five minutes.”

A few seconds passed, then Harry’s voice came over the headset. “Copy that, LONGBOW. Sitrep in five.”

Smiling thinly, Thomas turned back to his scope. Communicating a situation report every five minutes was standard protocol, designed to guard against an agent being taken out. Not that it helped the agent much.

Back and forth. The Barrett’s muzzle slowly traversed the courtyard of al-Aqsa, swiveling on the bipod. Back and forth…

Boredom was the sniper’s greatest enemy, one of many reasons protocol called for a spotter. It was affecting him now, as much as he fought against it. Boredom, lack of sleep, the wound still paining his side. He closed his eyes for a moment.

A sound pierced his consciousness, perhaps a footstep, perhaps a murmured whisper. Something that didn’t belong. Someone was coming up the stairs of the tower, he realized a moment later.

Thomas swore under his breath, pulling a silenced Beretta 92 from his holster as he moved swiftly to the side of the tower, away from the stairs. There was no time to hide the rifle and no point in trying. The probst had assured him the exclusive use of the tower…

He dropped to one knee by a corner of the belfry, steadying the Beretta in both hands. Aimed at the stairs.

A head emerged from the stairwell, a black balaclava masking it, then shoulders. Thomas took careful aim, the sights of the Beretta aimed directly at the head of his target.

Whether some sound or simply a premonition of death warned the intruder, Thomas would never know. The head and body shifted upward just as he squeezed the trigger, and the bullet smashed into the target’s shoulder.

Crying out in pain, the intruder reeled forward, clutching his right arm. Thomas crossed the belfry in two quick steps, his left hand slashing forward to deliver an edge-of-the-hand blow to the intruder’s throat.

The man crumpled, grabbing Thomas’ arm as he went and pulling him down, the Beretta slipping from his fingers.

A knife flashed in the intruder’s hand and Thomas seized hold of his wrist, leveraging against the injured shoulder.

At that moment, a bullet burned through the air past his ear, caroming off the chiseled limestone wall. Wrenching the knife free with a final desperate effort, he rolled away from his downed man, swinging round on the new threat.

The second assailant was by the brink of the stairs, moving forward, a semiautomatic pistol in his hands. Pain shooting through his side, Thomas pivoted from his prone position, hooking his right foot behind the attacker’s leg. Caught off-balance, the man staggered back as Thomas’s left heel delivered a vicious kick to his shin. Two steps back, and then there was air beneath his feet.

A scream of fear and surprise tore through the air as the intruder toppled backward into the stairwell, disappearing from sight.

“EAGLE SIX to LONGBOW, do you copy? What is your sitrep?”

Thomas forced himself to ignore the voice in his ear, swinging around as the first assailant rose to his knees, his elbow arcing into the man’s jaw…

10:44 A.M.

The security center

“EAGLE SIX to LONGBOW, I need a sitrep.” Harry closed his eyes, forcing calm. Something had gone wrong. Seven minutes now.