Pandora's Grave (52 page)

His sermons were fiery and inspiring, deploring the Jewish occupation in the house of Islam, but always stopping just short of calling for violence. He was what passed for a moderate, which was what made sharing operational details with him so dangerous. Roll the dice and guess which side he would back.

“Keep me posted,” Harry replied finally, glancing toward the Iranian major in the front seat. “We’ll be in position when the time comes.”

11:03 P.M.

The residence of the Grand Mufti

Jerusalem

The inside of Husayni’s residence was remarkably austere, reflective of a man who remembered his past—a simple lad tending sheep in the hills of Galilee. His lack of pretension, coupled with his passionate oratory, had won him the adoration of the Prophet’s people. Their shepherd. He brushed at a fancied piece of lint on his plain cotton trousers and leaned back in his wheelchair, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone.

“You’re the last person I would have expected this request to come from, Youssef,” he replied in Arabic, the language of Allah.

A moment passed, silence filling the void.

“Alliances change, Tahir,” the Ayatollah Isfahani responded. “Even the servants of the Prophet must adapt.”

“I understand that better than most, yet adaptability has never been among the chief virtues of our people. Have you ever questioned why we have suffered the people of Allah, the most glorified, the most high, to be divided thus? Divided by a thousand-year-old betrayal between chieftains?”

When Isfahani spoke again, there was a trace of humor in his voice. “You have bridged many divides in your life, my old friend, but this one is too much for even you.”

“Too much for the will of Allah?” Husayni asked, still completely serious. “I have received visions, Youssef. As long as this rift between Sunni and Shia continues to divide our people—we cannot receive the blessings of Allah, or expect the return of His promised one.”

“Then your answer is?”

The Mufti seemed surprised that the issue was still in question. “I will help your American friends—with certain conditions.”

His friend remained silent as Husayni continued to speak, outlining the terms of his agreement…

11:17 P.M.

US Naval Support Activity

Souda Bay, Crete

The windspeed was 28 knots as the C-130 taxied to the airfield’s only runway, blowing hard from the west.

“Tower to Titan Alpha 17, you are cleared for take-off. Gusts exceeding 40 knots have been recorded in the last twenty minutes. Please exercise caution.”

“Roger that, Tower,” Lt. Hanson replied, adjusting the straps of his flight harness. He pushed the throttles all the way in, feeling the Allison turboprops respond, revving to full power. Another check of the gauges and he took the flight controls from the co-pilot. “I have the bird.”

In the back of the aircraft, Hamid checked his equipment one more time, flashing Thomas a tight thumbs-up as they began to pick up speed. The airframe trembled in the teeth of the cross-wind, lifting briefly from the concrete, then slamming back down with a teeth-rattling jolt.

Hamid closed his eyes, fighting against the sensations that threatened to overwhelm him, his fingers wound tightly in the mesh netting stretched against the side of the fuselage. Flying. It gave him a feeling of helplessness. There was nothing to do, nothing he
could
do except pray.
Allah give us wings
.. .

“Climb,
climb
,” Hanson whispered through clenched teeth, his knuckles white as he pulled back on the yoke, urging the heavy plane higher. It seemed to falter, the engines groaning as the rain hit full force, droplets of water pelting against the windows of the cockpit. The airfield lights disappeared in the gale and Hanson forced his gaze down, focusing on his instruments. There was only one way out. Up…

Thirty minutes later the battered aircraft rose above the clouds, into the clear, starlit black of night. Hanson released control of the Hercules to autopilot and leaned back in his seat, letting out a sigh of relief. The danger was past. The hardest part of the mission was over.

For his passengers in the back, it was only beginning.

Feeling the tremors of the airframe subside, Hamid released his deathgrip on the mesh and opened his eyes.

“That was fun,” Thomas observed sarcastically.

“Yeah.” Hamid checked his dive watch and marked the time. A tight smile on his face, he looked over at his team and announced, “We drop at oh-one hundred. Less than two hours…”

12:03 A.M. Local Time, October 4th

The marina

Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

A forest of masts reached into the night sky from the multitude of sailboats and yachts docked in the marina. Tex put the car into park and Harry motioned for Hossein to get out, keeping the .45 in his pocket trained on the major as they exited the car.

It was a beautiful, clear night. The water shimmered with the reflection of hundreds of lights from the boats at anchor, flickering like diamonds set afire. Loud music pulsed from the deck of a nearby yacht as the agents moved down toward the wharf. A party was still in full swing.

Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die
. Harry moved closer to Farshid Hossein as the trio made their way through the crowd.

A woman was standing outside the small office that served as the marina headquarters and security office, her form backlit by the building lights. She looked up at his approach, taking another long drag on the cigarette between her fingers.

“Evening,” was her curt greeting. “You need something?”

“
Bonjour
. My friends and I are in need of a boat,” Harry began, gesturing to Tex and Hossein.

“What do you plan to use the boat for?” she responded, exhaling the smoke and watching as the breeze blew it away.

He smiled. “We’re birdwatchers from southern France. Following the migration of the whippoorwill.”

“They are flying south this time of year, aren’t they?” she asked, throwing the cigarette butt against the gravel of the roadway.

“Well nigh from Paris to Dakar,” he replied, finishing the code exchange.

She nodded. “Come with me. I think I have what you’re looking for.”

4:42 P.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“We just heard from Nichols,” Kranemeyer announced, sweeping hurriedly into the DCIA’s office. “They’re at sea, on their way to the drop zone.”

David Lay looked up, his fingers laced together as he leaned forward in his chair. “Have a seat, Barney.”

“Thanks.” The DCS sighed heavily as he sank into the chair in front of Lay’s desk. “Haven’t kept this type of hours since the skinnies holed us up in Mogadishu.”

Lay nodded. “We have a problem.”

“Oh?”

“I just got off the phone with Tahir al-Din Husayni. He’s agreed to help.”

A wary look came into Kranemeyer’s eyes. “And? Where’s the catch?”

“There isn’t one, really. At least not from his perspective. Just necessary concessions to his religious sensibilities. He can’t permit non-Muslims to enter the mosque proper.”

“Then we’ll have to stop them before they get inside,” Kranemeyer retorted. “That, or rely on Zakiri and Sarami.”

The CIA director grimaced. “Make sure Nichols and Zakiri have the message loud and clear. Under no circumstances is Sarami to be left unattended on this mission. No circumstances. Where are we with the extraction of Isfahani?”

“Our people are with him, at his residence. He wants to see this through before he leaves.”

“That’s his decision,” Lay acknowledged. “Instruct your assets to monitor his communications and make sure his inquiries don’t jeopardize operational security or his personal well-being.”

“A protective detail, essentially?”

“That’s right. If he gets taken out at this point, it becomes a whole new ballgame. After the mission is over…”

“We can’t bring him back to the States,” Kranemeyer said, rising to his feet. “There’s no way that’s viable politically.”

“Never intended to.”

“Meaning?”

Lay cleared his throat. “Meaning we finish what we started in 2011, Barney. Just make sure our hands stay clean.”

12:49 A.M.

The cruiser

The Mediterranean

They were in international waters now. Harry took a look at the GPS screen and mentally calculated their distance to the drop zone. Thirty minutes out, at their current rate of speed.

Tex had the wheel, if you could use that metaphor to describe the sophisticated control console. The big man had a lot of experience with boats, dating back to his time in the Marine Corps.

Hossein stood near the rail, calmly puffing a cigarette as he watched the spray kicked up by the rapidly-moving craft. He had gotten a light from WHIPPOORWILL, but Harry didn’t know where he had obtained the cigarette. He must have had another pack stashed somewhere they hadn’t found it.

Abu al-mawt
. The father of death. Harry turned and spat into the sea. He and a team of Green Berets had spent five months tracking the insurgent leader through the Iraqi desert. Five months of fruitless search.

And now to have him right here. He could close his eyes and see Juan Delgado’s mutilated torso, feel the bile rise in his throat as he thought back. They had never found his severed head. Perhaps it was just as well.

“You hate me, don’t you?” Harry jerked his head up to see Hossein looking across at him, a strangely enigmatic look playing across that sharply-chiseled Persian face.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?” he asked, taking a step toward the Iranian major. Another step and they stood side by side.

“A feeling, perhaps,” Hossein replied, looking out at the churning foam.

“I wouldn’t feel the slightest compunction in putting a bullet through your head, if that’s what you mean.”

Hossein exhaled, watching the smoke blow away in the wind. “That’s what I thought,” he said, still seeming utterly composed. “I must confess a curiosity as to whether this hatred is personal or professional?”

“There’s no such thing as professional hatred,” Harry responded, frankly baffled by the man’s calm. “You should know that. And I have killed a good many men whom I did not hate.”

“Too true. Then, I take it that we have a history?”

There was no answer to his question.

Hossein finished his cigarette and tossed it into the sea, watching as the glowing ember was extinguished in the foam of their wake. “Quite like a life, don’t you think?”

A nod served as his reply.

“Iraq?” Hossein asked, glancing sideways at Harry.

“I don’t know where you think you’ll get with a game of ‘Twenty Questions’,” Harry sighed.

“Truth, perhaps.”

Harry snorted in disbelief. “You beheaded a friend of mine in Iraq. Sergeant Major Juan Delgado, United States Army.”

“I remember him,” the Iranian replied simply. “A brave man. We didn’t get anything from him. His death gave me no pleasure, if that’s what you were wanting to know.”

A moment passed, then Harry turned to look at him. “Is that all you can say?” he asked, his voice little more than a hiss. His hands trembled with barely-contained anger.

Hossein shrugged. “It is as you say. I, too, have killed many men whom I did not hate. We are warriors, you and I, and killing is our birthright.”

“Warriors?” Harry asked, unable to escape the irony of the comment. “You and I? Where is the heroism in beheading a man whose hands are tied?”

The Iranian shook his head. “Should I tell you I regret his death and stay your hand of execution? You’ve made up your mind already. And I see no reason to lie now…”

12:57 A.M.

The C-130 “Hercules
”

It was time. Hamid checked the fastenings holding the Zodiac against its plywood backing for the last time and knelt down beside it, his arm braced.

Davood knelt opposite to him, ready to help push it out the back. The young agent’s face was pale in the eerie red lights of the cabin.

Gears meshed and ground, the back ramp of the C-130 folding down before their eyes. Cold air swept into the cabin, biting at Hamid’s face.

The light went green.

“Go, go,
go
!” he screamed, throwing his weight against the palleted raft. With all three men pushing, it gathered speed, heading for oblivion at the end of the ramp. Nine thousand feet down.

And then they were in free-fall—descending at an average speed of one hundred and twenty-five miles an hour. A thousand feet every five seconds.

Hamid kicked away from the raft and threw out his hands, body slicing through the air as he fell into the pitch-black night.

The raft’s parachute would automatically open when its onboard altimeter hit two thousand feet above sea level. In theory.

A GPS locator would enable them to find it. Once again, in theory. Theories had a way of clashing with reality.

A parachute opened somewhere off to his left, the sound jarring him to his senses. Thomas sucked in a breath of ice-cold air, checking his altimeter. Twenty-three hundred. Pull at two thousand. His fingers closed around the rip cord.
Pull
!

His SF-10 parachute billowed above him, the shock of the canopy opening transmitting itself through his body. He gritted his teeth against the pain—the wound in his side was far from healed.

There was no time to think about that now. His hands reached up, grabbing hold of the guidelines, his body swinging gently beneath the canopy of nylon as he descended toward the sea.

Hamid heard, rather than saw, the splash of the Zodiac hitting the water. The parachute was designed to disconnect from the Rigid Inflatable Boat or RIB platform on impact, to prevent the boat from being dragged through the water or capsized.