Pandora's Grave (51 page)

9:35 P.M. Local Time

US Naval Support Activity

Souda Bay, Crete

The C-130 had apparently been in service since the Vietnam War. Hamid found the inscription
Khe Sanh
carved into a wood frame near the door. Despite its age, the aircraft seemed to be in superb shape.

A shadow fell across the door as Hamid worked through the equipment locker, and he looked up to see a black man in Air Force fatigues standing there watching him, backlit by the runway lights.

“I was told to expect a spec-ops team,” the man announced. “Would that be you?”

“That’s right,” Hamid smiled, extending a hand. “Sergeant White’s the name. The rest of my people should be here soon. We’re out looking for a Zodiac at the moment.”

“Lieutenant Eric Hanson, United States Air Force,” he introduced himself. “I’m your pilot.”

He cast a critical glance at Hamid’s jeans and sweatshirt. “Sergeant, eh? You guys Army?”

“Not exactly,” Hamid replied, his smile vanishing. “Let me make something clear, lieutenant. My men and I, we don’t exist. We weren’t here. You never saw us. You never flew this mission. Your flight logs will be adjusted to reflect this reality. Am I coming through?”

“Loud and clear. Never flew a mission like this before.”

Hamid acknowledged the statement with a nod. “Well, there’s a first time for everything—just follow my instructions and we’ll be fine. What type of missions do they have you flying?”

The pilot laughed. “Ferry. I was taking this baby back to Iraq from Ramstein when my orders had me diverted here.”

The sound of a diesel approached and Hamid looked out to see a utility truck pull up beside the plane. Davood stepped out of the cab, waving to the Zodiac Combat Rubber Raiding Craft(CRRC) in the trailer behind it. “Finally found one. Needed a little work on the engine, but I think that Navy mechanic got things in order.”

“Lieutenant, I’d like you to meet one of my men. This is Sergeant Black.”

9:43 P.M. Local Time

A Hezbollah safehouse

Jerusalem

“I understand. Do they have intelligence regarding our present location?” Farouk’s face expanded into a grin as he heard the answer. “The blessings of Allah, the most glorified, the most high, be upon you, my brother.”

He closed the satellite phone and looked around the room at the members of his cell. They were few in number, just the four of them. He and Harun. Rashid, the bombmaker. And the fourth, the woman taken in fornication. He had never bothered to learn the whore’s name.

“BEHDIN,” he announced simply. “The Americans are on their way to the marina in Tel Aviv. They intend to rendevous at sea with the rest of their team. They have learned of our presence here in the city, along with the time and place of our attack.”

Harun’s jaw fell open. “How?”

The Hezbollah commander turned to face him, and there was cool appraisal in his eyes as he did so. “There is a traitor somewhere, clearly. Who is a question that BEHDIN was not prepared to answer.”

A low murmur ran around the room as dark looks shot back and forth. “Silence,” Farouk demanded, raising his hands. “Let this not be a tool of
Shaitan
to divide us.”

He took five steps into the safehouse’s kitchen and returned bearing a laptop. The number of a secure mobile line was displayed on-screen. “ISRAFIL will be able to learn the truth. What time is it in America?”

1:49 P.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

From the attitude of Carol Chambers as she walked into the outer office of the DCIA, one would have never been able to guess that he was her father. The years of separation had only served to accentuate the professional distance she tried to maintain at Langley.

“Sir, everything’s prepped in Conference Room #4.”

Lay nodded soberly, pulling on his jacket as he followed her out of the office. It was the moment they had all been waiting for. With dread.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he proclaimed, walking into the conference room. At another time, another day, his subordinates would have risen at his entrance, but today it seemed a frivolous waste of energy. And the DCIA thought nothing of it.

“Is everything ready?” Lay asked, shooting a glance in Ron Carter’s direction.

The analyst nodded wordlessly, picking up a remote and aiming it at the giant flatscreen mounted to the far wall.

A moment passed and then the face of Doctor Maria Schuyler appeared on-screen. She looked up from the folders spread out in front of her, a curiously stiff look on her face.

Lay put on his glasses. “Good afternoon, Dr. Schuyler.”

“I wish I could say as much, director,” she replied tightly. “It’s anything but.”

“You’ve reached a conclusion regarding our bacteria?”

“That is correct. A copy of the information is before you. I’d like to walk you through it, if I may.”

“Go ahead.”

“Let me preface this by saying that accurate estimates can only be achieved by days of testing. We simply haven’t had the time to do the type of concrete analysis that we would customarily do in this type of scenario.”

“Worst-case it for me, doctor,” Lay retorted. “We’re running a tight schedule.”

“My initial assessment was correct. It is the pneumonic plague bacteria. But it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before. As you may be aware, director, outbreaks of the plague are not unknown. We had a case in Colorado a few years back. This is different.”

“They weaponized it?”

“You’re partly correct. The bacteria was weaponized for aerosol dispersion, but it is also a different strain from anything we’ve ever dealt with. In two ways. First, the bacteria remains viable in the air for up to four and a half hours. That’s over four times the duration of your garden-variety
Y. pestis
. Secondly, it’s significantly more lethal—it seems to have mutated. It’s lethality may actually be our salvation.”

“How so?”

“It’s cold mathematics, director. The quicker the victim dies, the less time he has to infect others.”

The DCIA nodded his understanding. “Do we have anything to fight it?”

“There are antibiotics developed to treat
Y. Pestis
. From my preliminary evaluation in this case, I would say that they would only serve to slow down the progression of the disease.”

“Slow it down by how much?”

“It’s too soon to say with any certainty. My personal estimate would be that the victim would still be dead inside of the month…”

The screen went black and David Lay glanced at his watch. The briefing had taken thirty minutes in totality.

“What do we have, Ron?”

Carter looked up from the laptop where he had been running casualty estimates and gazed soberly at Lay and Shapiro.

“According to the intelligence provided by Isfahani, the attack will go down tomorrow during the noon prayer. You can typically count on anywhere between twenty and thirty thousand in attendance.”

“We’re talking a megachurch.”

The analyst acknowledged Shapiro’s comment with a grim nod. “Essentially, yes. A large part of them worship in the open air, which might reduce their exposure, but we can’t count on that.”

“Your estimates?”

“Jerusalem has a population of over seven hundred thousand. An average five percent of them will be at Ground Zero.” Carter rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Factor in their families and people they might be in close contact with during the time between exposure and possible death. You’re looking at a minimum hundred—hundred and twenty thousand potentially infected. Untreated, pneumonic plague has a mortality rate between ninety-six and one hundred percent.”

“And Schuyler’s just told us we can’t treat this strain,” Lay added. “Figure one hundred thousand plus dead across Israel and the Palestinian Authority. Epicenter: Jerusalem.”

“That’s not how Shirazi’s looking at it,” Carter replied shrewdly.

“What do you mean?”

“For Shirazi, this is nothing more than a beginning. You might say it’s the down payment on apocalypse.”

The DCIA’s lips pursed, drawing together into a thin, bloodless line. “Then, gentlemen, our course is perfectly clear. As cliched as it sounds, it’s true. Failure is not an option.”

At that moment, his secretary knocked on the conference room door. “I have the President on line two, sir.”

“Put him through,” Lay responded, dismissing Shapiro and Carter with a curt, “That will be all, gentlemen.”

A moment later, the phone in his hand rang and he hesitated before answering it. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

“A request for operational approval crossed my desk a few minutes ago,” Hancock responded, a characteristically hostile edge to his voice. It had been years since Lay had let it bother him.

“Oh, yes, the extraction papers. If I might insist, Mr. President, we need that approval expedited.”

“I would have thought we were done with these games, director.”

“Games?”

“The document simply requests approval for the extraction of an Iranian cleric. The name has been redacted.”

“Based on need-to-know, Mr. President,” Lay replied wearily. “This is an ongoing operation.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware of the history of these mullahs. You’re seeking to bring one of them into
this
country and I’m somehow not supposed to care who it is?”

The DCIA looked up at the ceiling, considering his options. “As you wish, Mr. President. The man in question is the Ayatollah Yousef Mohaymen Isfahani.”

A sharp intake of breath was the only sound from the other end of the phone for a long moment. Then, “The
Supreme
Leader? Have you lost your mind, Lay?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“In 2011 you tried to assassinate this man as a terrorist!”

Lay sighed. It was going to be a long conversation. “That’s all relative, Mr. President. Alliances change…”

10:29 P.M. Local Time

US Naval Support Activity

Souda Bay, Crete

Hamid checked the silenced Heckler & Koch MP-5SD submachine gun for a third and final time before slapping a thirty-round magazine of 9mm hollowpoints into the mag well. Four more magazines were held in pouches around his belt.

He looked over at Thomas, who was breaking down his Barrett M98B sniper rifle for travel. “You bring the rubbers?”

“Sure thing,” the New Yorker grinned. He dug in his pocket and retrieved a small package, tossing it over.

Hamid tore open the plastic and leaned his MP-5 up against the fuselage of the aircraft, unrolling a prophylactic over the barrel.

“Condoms?”

The two agents looked up to see Lt. Hanson standing in the cockpit doorway, a quizzical expression on his face. Hamid laughed. “Yeah, they’re great for all sorts of things. Forms a waterproof seal on the barrel, helps prevent a blockage. You need to go into action quickly? Just pull the trigger. No worries.”

Hanson forced a smile. “I wish that was all I was worried about.”

“What’s going on?” Hamid asked, looking up from his work.

“The barometer’s falling fast,” the airman replied. “We’ve got a cold front moving in.”

“Here or at the drop zone?”

“Here.”

“Then what’s our problem?”

Hanson took a step into the back of the airplane and faced the CIA agents. “Look, I’ve been flying in and out of here for five years. The mountains generally shield you from the wind, but when a front like this strikes here, the westerlies funnel down between here and the main island. It’s like a wind tunnel. I’ve seen times when the Navy wouldn’t even berth their ships, the gusts were so bad.”

“And the planes were grounded,” Thomas added quietly, grasping the situation.

“That’s right.”

Davood spoke up. “How long is the storm expected to last? Can we wait it out?”

“I’m game to wait,” the pilot replied, “but the weatherman’s playing fast and loose with his forecast. The storm could last from between twelve and fifteen hours.”

Hamid exchanged a look with Thomas, then cleared his throat. “That’s a non-option. Can you get us out now?”

“I can try.”

10:48 P.M. Local Time

The road to Tel Aviv

The city lights of Tel Aviv-Yafo glittered in the distance as the car sped down the divided highway toward the coast. The Romans had called this region the
Via Maris
. The Way of the Sea.

Harry dismissed the thought, a memory from a long-ago Sunday School lesson, turning his mind back to the telephone. Carter was talking.

“We’re in direct contact with Isfahani now. He’s agreed to probe further and come up with a current location for al-Farouk and the terrorist cell.”

“Make sure he doesn’t jeopardize his current status with his inquiries,” Harry cautioned, an unusual feeling of disquiet coming over him. “His relationship with the Grand Mufti is our only ticket into the compound.”

“Play ‘em close, Harry. We’re still looking into the connections there. Tahir al-din Husayni isn’t exactly known as a friend to the West.”

It wasn’t new information to Harry. He could remember when Husayni had been appointed as the Grand Mufti, the Sunni guardian of Islamic holy places in Jerusalem. At the time, he had been seen as a pawn of Fatah’s leadership, but over the years he had parlayed his considerable talents as an orator into something more. A power broker.

He had succeeded in settling the breach between Fatah and Hamas, channeling their energies away from each other and outward…

In the spring of 2012, he had survived a bomb planted in his car, an explosion that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Fatah, Hamas, Hezbollah, Mossad—the players behind the attack had never been identified, but Husayni had carried on, as indomitable as ever. As much as the faction leaders might have hated him, the man held the Arab street in thrall.