Pandora's Grave (43 page)

With a grim smile, the young man held up both his hands in front of his bearded face. All ten digits remained. The mark of either a very skilled or a very lucky bombmaker. Only time would tell.

“
Inshallah
,” Farouk breathed. As Allah wills it…

12:49 P.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“The software has been reconfigured,” Ron Carter announced, gesturing to the phone on the desk. “His caller I.D. will show the call originating from Bulgaria, the personal office number of Vladimir Dubosky.”

“And that is?” Harry asked, looking from Ron to the director and back again.

“The pimp, or whatever you call somebody running male prostitutes. He’s a Russian, Mafia
capo
that got caught in the losing end of a Moscow gang war in the mid ‘90s. Fled to Bulgaria and apparently went into the sex trade.”

The DCIA leaned forward “Here’s the deal you’re to offer him, Harry. He has two choices—he can be unhelpful and we’ll send the body of our information to the Ayatollah. Or he can play ball.”

“That’s the stick,” Harry nodded. “Where’s the carrot?”

“If his information is of value, we’ll arrange for his safe passage to a country that looks more kindly on men of his ‘persuasion’.”

Harry snorted. “Great. We’ve got a CIA operator with ties to Hezbollah and now we’re cutting deals with a pedophile. Another wonderful day at the office.”

“I can have someone else place the call,” Lay responded with a shrug.

A grim smile crossed Harry’s lips and he shook his head. “No, I’ll do it.”

“Good.” The CIA director rose and headed toward the door of the conference room. “I’ll be in my office.”

Harry picked up the phone and hit SEND. The call took only a couple moments to connect and then a man’s voice came on the line. “Vladimir?”

9:51 P.M. Tehran Time

The Ayatollah’s Residence

Qom, Iran

There was a second’s pause and then Asefi heard an unfamiliar voice in Russian. “
Kak dela
, Achmed?”

“I am well, thank you,” the bodyguard replied in the same language, his tone wary. “Who is this?”

“Names don’t matter,” the cold voice continued. “What matters is that I have something you need.”

“I see no point in continuing this conversation.”

“
Da
, that is your choice. We all make choices, Achmed. Does the Ayatollah Isfahani know of the choices of your bedchamber?”

He froze, the words of the caller ringing in his ear. A quick glance down the hallway in either direction assured him that he was alone, at least for the moment. “What do you mean?”

“Your phone is data-equipped, is it not?”

“
Da, da
.”

“One moment. I am sending you a file.”

Asefi stepped to the side of the hall, inserting his keycard into the lock of a nearby storage room. A beep signaled the arrival of the message as he stepped into the comforting darkness. He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as they moved across the phone’s keyboard, opening the file folder.

He groaned. Photos. Dozens of photos. Of him and others—beautiful young men, in Bulgaria, in a score other places around Eastern Europe. And other documents. He could guess at their contents. The voice was speaking again. “You have received the file?”

“This is a base forgery!” he exploded, slamming his fist against the wall. “A fabrication of Satan. You can prove nothing except the evil of your hearts!”

“
Nyet
?” the voice asked incredulously. “Go on and tell yourself that, Achmed. Believe that and I will enjoy watching as they heap stones over your body.”

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? You’ve been raping little boys, Achmed. Speaking personally, I want you dead.”

“What business is this of yours?” His mouth seemed suddenly dry as sand, a hoarse whisper the only sound escaping his lips.

“None whatsoever. Which is why my employers are offering you a way out.”

“What?”

“We need to meet. Your place or mine?” the voice continued, sardonic laughter in its tones.

“I will be flying to Beirut tomorrow,” Asefi replied, thinking rapidly. “Meet me at the airport.”

“
Spasiba bolshoi
.” Thank you very much.

“How will I recognize you?”

“You won’t. But I’ll know you.” The phone went dead, the
click
sounding like a death knell in the narrow confines of the storage room…

1:03 P.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

Harry laid the cellphone back on the table and glanced across at Ron Carter. “What’s your take?”

“I think he’s playing ball. Giving him time to think about it is dangerous, but then again, so is talking over an unsecured line.” Carter looked down at his laptop. “I can have you and Richards on a flight to Beirut as early as tonight.”

“Just what I need—another trans-Atlantic flight. What is Zakiri and Parker’s status?” Harry asked, studiously avoiding a reference to Davood.

“They are due to leave for Bagram in two hours with the recovered vials in their posession. Why?”

“Have them diverted to Crete. Tex and I will meet them there after the conclusion of our meeting with Asefi. I’ll clear things with Kranemeyer.”

Carter shrugged. “Again I ask, ‘Why?’”

“If the attack goes down in the U.S., well, under
posse comitatus
that’s Bureau jurisdiction, not ours. The Hezbollah connection, the situation with the Israelis, everything indicates this is going to hit the Middle East. Call it prepositioning assets if you like. Just do it.”

9:45 P.M. Local Time

Jerusalem, Israel

Darkness had fallen over the Holy City, but it was no impediment to Fayood al-Farouk. He was a creature of the night and he welcomed its protecting cover. To his west, he could hear the evening prayer of the muezzin drifting through the night air. He did not bow in prayer, his eyes remaining fixed on his target, the night-vision binoculars giving a greenish cast to the surrounding scenery. At the end of days, when the angels came to weigh the good and evil of his life, this omission would count as nothing against his slaughter of the Jews.

From his vantage point, he could see the Israeli guards patrolling the entrance of the Haram Al-Sharif. Jews guarding the entrance to the Noble Enclosure. Within a few short days, they would be dead. Along with the rest of their kinsmen.

The door opened behind him, creaking as it swung inward. He knew without looking who was there. “Harun, my brother. I trust you had a good flight.”

“As Allah willed it.”

He sighed, the binoculars sweeping up to rest upon the center of the enclosure, upon the golden dome covering the rock from which Mohammed had ascended to heaven.

It would start here. Two days…

1:03 A.M. Local Time, October 3rd

Air France Flight 256

En route to Ankara, Turkey

She had worked in Brussels as an accountant. Her father was French, her mother English. She had been married for two years. No, no children. Not yet, anyway. This was her first trip to Turkey, although she had visited Athens as a senior in college. And she never had been able to sleep on airplanes.

Unfortunately, that meant neither could he. Harry sighed wearily as his seat companion chattered on. He had stopped paying close attention an hour before, although the young woman had yet to notice.

His cellphone beeped with an incoming text and he flipped it open to check the screen. A NEW TIMEZONE, the message from Tex read. SET YOUR WATCH TO ZERO ONE HUNDRED.

Harry placed the cellphone in his pocket and adjusted the stem of his Rolex to one o’clock in the morning. The watch was an Agency prop, to aid in his cover as a German businessman.

He looked up to realize his companion was asking a question now. “
Veuillez m’excuser
?”

She smiled indulgently. “I asked, are you married,
monsieur
?”

3:07 A.M. Damascus Time

A small airport

The outskirts of Damascus, Syria

Damascus. A city of history and legend. Had his mind not been so occupied with other matters, Hossein might have been more impressed.

As it was, the watchdog was speaking. “This mission is of the utmost importance. The fanatics must not be allowed to profane the Haram al-Sharif with their madness. I will be relying upon you to guide our men through the Golan.”

“Indeed?”

“I will be leaving you,” the watchdog added unexpectedly.

Hossein turned to look Achmed Asefi in the face. “And why is this?”

“There is unfinished business in Beirut. I will rejoin you in Al Quds later today.” A furtive look danced in Asefi’s eyes as the two men stood there in the darkness of the Syrian night.

“I was not informed of this change of plans,” Hossein retorted, his gaze never wavering.

Asefi seemed annoyed by the challenge.“A sudden call from the Ayatollah. As your men were disembarking.”

“I see.” The major paused for a moment before adding piously, “Go with Allah.”

Hossein watched as the Ayatollah’s bodyguard walked off toward the Gulfstream that had brought them from Isfahan under cover of night.

The corporal, Mustafa, materialized at his side. “The truck is ready, sir,” he announced with a smart salute.

“Good,” Hossein replied, sighing as he turned away toward the Land Rover that was to transport them into the land of Palestine. A thought struck him about half-way across the tarmac and he turned to Mustafa. “You were the first off the plane. Achmed Asefi—did you see him receive a phone call?”

The corporal’s brow furrowed in thought as the two men walked beneath the flickering glare of the airport lights. “No. It is possible, but I was with him most of the time. Why?”

“Nothing of any moment,” Hossein replied, appearing to dismiss it off-hand. He looked back to see jet turbines fire as the Gulfstream turned back toward the runway.

Something was wrong.

5:30 A.M. Local Time

C-130 “Hercules”

Over the Mediterranean

Hamid shifted restlessly on the bench against the side of the C-130 transport. No one had said a great deal since the transport had left Baghdad.

Thomas lay on the bench across from him, apparently asleep. Davood had his PDA out, his eyes focused intently on the little screen as he played a video game. Hamid cast a sidelong glance in his direction, contempt filling his heart.
You have betrayed your country and your faith
. No true Muslim could perpetrate this act of treachery, that much he knew.

Perhaps feeling his gaze upon him, Davood looked up from the screen. “Do you know why we’ve been diverted to Crete?”

“No,” he lied, his face expressionless. “The orders came down from Langley, that is all.”

After a moment, the young agent turned back to his game. Hamid sighed, feeling the bulge of his Glock dig into his side. Knowing what must be. The penalty for treason was death, but he knew one thing with a certainty.

Davood would never live to see the inside of a federal prison. That was the price of betrayal…

6:27 A.M. Local Time

Beirut-Rafic Hariri International Airport

Beirut, Syria

Bomb craters from the last Israeli incursion nearly seven months before dotted the runway as the Turkish Airlines 737 touched down, flaps fully extended. An attempt had been made to patch the damage with asphalt, but the attempt was partially successful at best.

Harry looked out the window, thinking back. He had been here then, seeking to recover an Agency asset before the Israeli army overran his position and compromised him. He could still remember the fiery hell, the clouds of oily-black smoke that had drifted over the city.

The mercurial nature of the Middle East.

It took them an hour to reunite on the other side of the multi-layered security checkpoints. When they did, Tex was holding up his phone. “Langley called,” he announced grimly.

“Yes?” Harry asked, shouldering his carry-on bag.

“Ron finally went through all the phone records from yesterday’s op.”

“What did he find?”

“Hamid was right. His TACSAT was used to place two calls to an unrecognized satellite phone. Carter traced the number to Kosovo before losing it in a maze of Eastern European networks.”

“So, we essentially have nothing.”

“Davood’s TACSAT was used to call a phone with the same prefix hours before the launch of TALON.”

Harry’s lips compressed into a thin line. “I see. Is that all the information he was able to pull?”

“Not quite,” the Texan replied, falling in behind Harry as they exited the terminal. “He’s got a location on Asefi.”

“Already?”

“He arrived two hours early.”

“Figures. Imaging?”

“Carol was able to hack into the airport CCTV,” Tex continued, referring to the closed circuit television network so common at airports. “The cameras last have him entering a café garden about a mile from here. No sign that he’s made an exit.”

“He’s probably armed. Coming in on a private jet, he’d be able to carry,” Harry observed, thinking of his own .45, disassembled and concealed in his luggage. Still coming through security and well out of reach.

A rare smile crossed the Texan’s face and he palmed a Glock, holding it beneath his jacket, out of the sight of passer-by.

“Where’d you get that?”

“A guard this side of the checkpoint has an empty holster,” he replied simply, passing it to Harry with the dexterity of a trained pickpocket. “Go, check on our friend. I’ll take up position.”