Stephen England - Pandora's grave

A great gulf fixed…

At that moment, Ali’s two-way crackled with static. As he lay there on the stone steps, he responded, speaking rapidly in Arabic.

“My technicians say that the feed is still on-line,” he said finally, glancing over at Harry. “The error messages are apparently themselves erroneous.”

“Then why can’t we access it?” Harry asked softly, never taking his eyes off the iron sights of the UMP-45.

“The video feed has been pirated by someone with a satellite phone.”

“Hamid,” Harry breathed, the pieces clicking in place. “He’s using the system to track us . Isn’t there a way you can shut him out?”

The Jordanian shook his head. “We have only had the cameras in place for five months. We’re still going through the manuals on how to use them, much less figure out how to stop a hacker.”

There was an answer. There had to be. “Just give me the bacteria,” Harry shouted once more down the corridor. Lying in an effort to make Hamid show himself. If only for a moment. Just enough time to snap off a quick burst. “Give me the bacteria and I’ll let you go free. No one need know of the deal we make.”

A harsh laugh echoed off the limestone. “The West has never understood us, Harry, and they will die because of it. But you, you disappoint me. You should understand. My whole life has been given for this moment. I could no more walk away from this mission than you could let me-after I killed Davood.”

He was right. There was no way he could let him go. The answer came to Harry in a sudden burst of clarity and he rose to his knees, making his way down the stairs behind him.

His brow furrowed in puzzlement, Hamid watched him go on the camera screen. Watched Harry walk about ten yards back and pull the TACSAT from the pocket of his jacket…

3:38 A.M. Eastern Time

NCS Operations Center

Langley, Virginia

“What do you need me to do?” Carol asked, still absorbing the news of Hamid’s betrayal. It seemed like a bad dream. That the Service could have been infiltrated…

“It is possible to remotely deactivate an Agency TACSAT, isn’t it?”

She nodded reflexively. “Yes-yes it is. It’s just a matter of accessing the servers and restricting user-”

“Just do it,” Harry interrupted, his voice flat, eerily emotionless. “As soon as you can. Let me know when it’s accomplished.”

The phone clicked without warning, the connection broken. Carol rose from her workstation, her mind swirling. This had to go to the DCS…

11:41 A.M. Local Time

The Masjid al-Aqsa

Jerusalem

The first inkling he had of danger was when bullets whined past his covert, impacting and glancing off the centuries-old limestone walls. Hamid’s fingers tightened around the grip of his MP-5 as fluorescent bulbs exploded and shattered down the length of the hall, glass tinkling against the stone. In seconds, the corridor was plunged into subterranean darkness.

He smiled grimly. The opening move, yet despite his danger he felt more alive than he had for years.

All deception past, it felt as though a weight had fallen from his shoulders. All those years, the times he had belittled his own faith to maintain his cover. Little deaths of the soul.

Gone now, at long last. Allahu akbar .

Truly, God was great.

A glance at his TACSAT’s luminescent screen confirmed his antagonists were still in their places. As though they were waiting for something.

The canister still lay by his side, nineteen minutes remaining on the invisible clock. He couldn’t wait forever. But neither could they.

A whining beep drew his attention back to his phone, a message scrolling across the screen. DEACTIVATION SEQUENCE INITIATING. 15…14…13…

Hamid swore angrily, tossing the phone away from him. He had worked long enough with Harry-he should have known. Never underestimate the man.

Harry slammed a fresh 25-round magazine of.45 ACP into the mag well of the UMP-45, pulling back the charging handle. Fourteen minutes left.

At that moment, the phone in his pocket vibrated and he flipped it open, expecting to hear Carol’s voice.

“Harry, Zakiri’s TACSAT is off-line,” Kranemeyer announced gruffly. “Carol is working to restore the camera network to administrator control.”

“Tell her thanks,” Harry replied. “Is there anything else?”

“One more thing, Harry. This has been an unprecedented breach of security. Understanding how this was accomplished is of primary importance. If at all possible, we need Hamid Zakiri alive. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, gazing ahead into the darkness, understanding all too well. He had seen it all before. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a canister to recover.”

Rising to his feet, he motioned to his companions, his stride steady as he moved down the corridor, the muzzle of his submachine gun sweeping from side to side. On point. In days past, that had been Hamid’s role.

The traitor. Why ?

Harry knew the answer, knew and it angered him that he had never seen the signs. Hamid, the genial king of the office NFL pool-Hamid, the guy who had given up his pilgrimage to Mecca to watch the Ravens win the Super Bowl-yeah, that Hamid had been a jihadist. The man he had recruited. Hamid had killed to cover his trail, for Harry knew now exactly how Harun Larijani had died.

There would be no deals at the end of this road, no pay-offs, no trading freedom for information.

The brotherhood had been betrayed, and this road ended in the grave. The oldest law of mankind. Lex talionis . An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

He reached the corner and hesitated before going on, nervously checking the sling of his H amp;K once more. Everything was silent, a silence as cold as the grave.

Abdul Ali and Hossein fanned out behind him, pistols drawn, and Harry rounded the corner wide, the cold, suppressed muzzle of the UMP-45 tracking left to right.

Hamid was gone, the discarded TACSAT lying broken half-way across the adjoining corridor the only proof that he had ever been there. Harry motioned for a halt, his ears straining to pick up the slightest sound.

“Where does the corridor go from here?” he asked quietly, glancing back at Ali.

“To the left, on into the Masjid al-Musalla al-Marwani, the prayer hall of the Stables of Solomon,” the Jordanian replied. “To the right, it continues for about five yards, ending in a dead-end and a platform surmounted by displayed copies of the Quran.”

“Take left, I’ll take right,” Harry instructed. “He may be laying an ambush.”

It’s what they both would have done. Back in the day. In better times, odd as that seemed now.

At Harry’s signal, the three men moved out, Hossein and Ali going left, Harry going right into the dead-ended corridor as they rounded the corner. Empty.

The emptiness struck him with the force of a blow, his mind screaming danger as he started to turn. Knowing it was too late even as he did so.

In the narrow limestone corridors, the cough of Hamid’s silenced Glock resounded like thunder, the sound of the slide cycling. One, two shots.

The classic double-tap. Out of the corner of his eye, as if in slow motion, Harry saw Abdul Ali reel backward, blood spraying from a wound in his throat, the pistol falling from his hands.

He turned on heel, hearing the sharp report of the revolver in Hossein’s hands, the ring of steel against stone as Hamid staggered, dropping the canister. The UMP-45 came up to level, Hamid’s face coming into perspective through iron sights.

It was the kill shot. A single press of the trigger would have sent three 230-grain hollowpointed cartridges on their deadly way.