Harry looked out the window at the light of the morning sun streaming into the courtyard. Day had dawned. “Agreed.”
At that moment, as if to punctuate his words, the muffled crump of an explosion reverberated from somewhere to the north. Weapons drawn, Husayni’s bodyguards moved to protect their principal.
Harry exchanged a grim look with the cleric.
“It’s begun.”
“Where was the blast?” General Shoham demanded, coming through the code-protected revolving door of the Mossad watch center.
The watch officer looked up. “Based on what we can determine, the bomb went off in a shop in the Souk el-Qattanin. First responders just arrived on the scene, but the building is in danger of collapsing completely.”
“The wool market?” Shoham asked, incredulous. “In the Muslim Quarter?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a Friday — the market would be almost empty. What are we looking at here, a suicide bomber?”
“We don’t know yet, sir. The initial reports are sketchy, almost worthless when it comes right down to it. The IDF is moving troops into place to cordon off the area.”
The general shook his head. “That’s a mistake. We’ll look like we have something to hide. Where’s Laner and the team?”
“I don’t know,” the watch officer replied. “Eli!”
An analyst glanced up from the next workstation. “Lt. Laner is estimated to arrive in Jerusalem within the next fifteen minutes.”
“Get him on the phone,” Shoham ordered crisply, taking the watch officer by the shoulder and steering him away from the floor of the center. “Open a secure line with the Prime Minister. Do it now.”
“I’ll be in a gray Suburban with three of Husayni’s bodyguards. Follow us to the haram,” Harry instructed, the TACSAT tucked against his shoulder as he buttoned his shirt. “I’ll be in contact with Tex. Now, our rules of engage—”
“Harry, will you listen for a minute,” Hamid interrupted, irritation permeating his tones. “We’re through.”
“What?”
“The mission has been scrubbed. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
Harry let out a sigh of relief, leaning back against the wall of the guardhouse. “They’re letting Mossad handle it.”
Dead silence on the other end of the line. “They have briefed Mossad, haven’t they?” Harry repeated, after a moment.
“No, Harry, they haven’t. I got it from Carter — it’s direct from the President. He pulled the mission after receiving a formal complaint from the Israelis regarding our presence in the area.”
“A political decision,” Harry whispered bitterly, his mind racing. “They don’t realize it’s already started.”
“I know, I heard the explosion. It came from the north-northeast, the Muslim Quarter.”
Harry looked over at Husayni’s bodyguards and came to his decision in a trice. “Are you with me?”
“Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”
“Probably. Are you in?”
A long sigh escaped Hamid’s lips, then he chuckled.“We’ve been working together for what, ten years? I’d follow you to hell.”
“Good,” Harry shot back. “Because that’s exactly where we’re going.”
“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.”
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.”
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.