“What?”
“Shirazi’s nephew. He told the Americans that the bacteria was already in place.”
Farouk swore, barely able to contain his frustration. He had told the Iranian president that his nephew could not be entrusted…None of that mattered now. All that mattered was containing the problem. “Kill him.”
“He’s already dead. You need to be here — to make sure no other members of the team have been similarly compromised. We may even need to move up the time of the attack.”
“I will make that decision when it is necessary,” Farouk responded, bridling his anger at the sleeper’s attempt to take command of the operation. “The first step is to contact ISRAFIL.”
“Don’t waste the time — they’re no longer taking orders from the top. I warned you of that possibility.”
“Is there anything else I should know about?”
“They have a sniper with a high-powered rifle in the bell tower of the Church of the Redeemer. He will need to be taken out before we commit to any overt hostilities in the haram.”
“I see. Hold tight and keep me informed. Don’t take action until I give you further instructions.”
“That may not be possible,” BEHDIN replied, his voice cold as an arctic wind. “One cannot delay the will of Allah.”
There was an abrupt click as the sleeper hung up, leaving Farouk cursing at a black screen. After a moment, he rose from his seat, tucking the cellphone into his shirt pocket.
A few short steps took him through the door and out onto the balcony of the al-Fakhriyya minaret, looking down upon the silver-colored dome of the Masjid al-Aqsa below him, upon the entire southwestern corner of the Haram al-Sharif. He had anticipated the need to be here…
“There’s thirty-five dead zones,” Abdul Ali explained, spreading the chart out on a table. “About half of them are down here, in the area commonly known as Solomon’s Stables. The rest are scattered around the premises of the masjid.”
Harry leaned over the table, studying the chart intently. As might be expected, the work was imprecise, but it gave them a rough sense of the situation. “If you were to initiate an aerosol attack,” he asked the Jordanian, “where would you do it?”
The commando snorted. “If I were to perpetrate such madness, I would set the canisters in the main hall of the masjid, where they could do the maximum damage to those gathering. They have to have had help on the inside to get them inside. Perhaps one of the students from the madrasa who helps with maintenance.”
“So they could still be here?”
“Perhaps.”
Hamid glanced over Harry’s shoulder, his eyes flickered over the floor plans, taking in the large hypostyle hall. “There are only two dead spaces in the main hall, both of them near the mihrab.”
“That is correct,” Ali replied. “It would be very difficult to conceal something in so sacred a place.”
“Then, supposing your plans necessitated concealment, where?”
Ali thought about it for a moment, his hand tracing over the diagrams. “Somewhere in the stables of Solomon. Combining the potential for concealment with the ability to cause mass casualties.”
“There are worshipers down there?” Harry asked in surprise.
The Jordanian nodded. “The Masjid al-Marwani, a large subterranean prayer chamber opened in the last decade. A capacity of some two thousand. Less than the main hall, but it would be far easier to conceal the canisters.”
“Then let’s get this show on the road,” Hamid announced finally, tucking his Glock 19 back in its holster inside the waistband of his pants.
A look of concern on his face, Harry pulled him away from the table. “Sure you’re up to this?”
Hamid shrugged. He had changed shirts with Ali, and combed his dark hair down to hide the gash in his temple.
“Don’t have much choice, do I? Unless you suddenly want to convert,” he tossed in with a crooked grin. “The Mufti was pretty clear on the subject. I’ll take Davood with me.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“It may reveal the truth.” Hamid said, putting up a hand. “Let me play this my way.”
Harry stared into his friend’s face, his gaze searching, penetrating. “All right, but take Abdul Ali with you as well. You’ll need an extra man to secure the canisters. And hurry, we’re running short of time.”
“Aye, aye, skipper,” the Iraqi agent replied, turning away. “I’ll be in comm.”
“Sir, I have the President on Line 2.”
David Lay shook his head wearily. “You told him I was asleep, I trust?”
His secretary looked at him, sitting there at his desk, and responded with a shamefaced nod. “He insists.”
“They get in that office,” Lay sighed, “and start imagining themselves some sort of blasted demigod. I suppose there’s no help for it — put him through.”
Reaching for the phone on his desk, the DCIA punched the speaker button and leaned back in his chair. “Good morning, Mr. President. A very early morning, I might add.”
Hancock didn’t respond to the pleasantries. “Lay, I thought I made my orders clear. We cannot afford the fallout of this operation. Pull your people out of Jerusalem!”
“Mr. President,” Lay began, taking a deep breath before continuing, “neither can you afford the consequences of publicly abandoning Israel. When the facts of this become known, as they will if we pull out, the world will know that we stuck a knife in the back of our closest friend in the Middle East.”
“Friend,” Hancock murmured bitterly. “They’ve hardly acted like friends over the past few years.”
Lay didn’t feel that point was worth the argument. “Preserving the balance of power has always been in our best interests, Mr. President. At present, we are committed to this course and there is no pulling out.”
“So you say.”
“Respectfully, Mr. President, this has become an operational decision, and protocol dictates that those have to be handled on the ground.”
“This is your dream, isn’t it, Lay? The same type of sick James Bond fantasies all you spooks seem to share. License to kill, no one with the power to stop you. I tell you this — if this operation goes south and embarrasses my administration, I will have your resignation on my desk before the week is out. Do you understand me?”
“I assure you, Mr. President, that the consequences have not escaped me. My resignation is already signed and sealed.”
“See that it is,” Hancock retorted, hanging up without further warning. Lay sighed and reached for the letter of resignation on his desk, his eyes scanning down the sheet to the blank space at the bottom requiring his signature. It represented everything he had spent a lifetime building up, a career he had sacrificed his family for. He wasn’t ready to give that up.
Not without a fight…
The farthest mosque. In all his life, Davood had never thought he would complete this pilgrimage. A prayer uttered in these halls was said to count for a thousand with Allah, praised be His holy name.
But he had no time for prayer, despite the sanctity of the spot. There was a mission to be performed. Padding barefoot across the carpeted floor of the assembly hall, he stole a glance across at his companions, each of them about ten feet away, flanking him. Abdul Ali on his left, Hamid on his right.
Hamid glanced up at the mosaics patterning the arch above him as they made their way down the central aisle. Beautiful work dating from the eleventh century.