Stephen England - Pandora's grave

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?”