He smiled grimly. The opening move, yet despite his danger he felt more alive than he had for years.
All deception past, it felt as though a weight had fallen from his shoulders. All those years, the times he had belittled his own faith to maintain his cover. Little deaths of the soul.
Gone now, at long last. Allahu akbar.
Truly, God was great.
A glance at his TACSAT’s luminescent screen confirmed his antagonists were still in their places. As though they were waiting for something.
The canister still lay by his side, nineteen minutes remaining on the invisible clock. He couldn’t wait forever. But neither could they.
A whining beep drew his attention back to his phone, a message scrolling across the screen. DEACTIVATION SEQUENCE INITIATING. 15…14…13…
Hamid swore angrily, tossing the phone away from him. He had worked long enough with Harry — he should have known. Never underestimate the man.
Harry slammed a fresh 25-round magazine of .45 ACP into the mag well of the UMP-45, pulling back the charging handle. Fourteen minutes left.
At that moment, the phone in his pocket vibrated and he flipped it open, expecting to hear Carol’s voice.
“Harry, Zakiri’s TACSAT is off-line,” Kranemeyer announced gruffly. “Carol is working to restore the camera network to administrator control.”
“Tell her thanks,” Harry replied. “Is there anything else?”
“One more thing, Harry. This has been an unprecedented breach of security. Understanding how this was accomplished is of primary importance. If at all possible, we need Hamid Zakiri alive. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Harry replied, gazing ahead into the darkness, understanding all too well. He had seen it all before. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a canister to recover.”
Rising to his feet, he motioned to his companions, his stride steady as he moved down the corridor, the muzzle of his submachine gun sweeping from side to side. On point. In days past, that had been Hamid’s role.
The traitor. Why?
Harry knew the answer, knew and it angered him that he had never seen the signs. Hamid, the genial king of the office NFL pool — Hamid, the guy who had given up his pilgrimage to Mecca to watch the Ravens win the Super Bowl — yeah, that Hamid had been a jihadist. The man he had recruited. Hamid had killed to cover his trail, for Harry knew now exactly how Harun Larijani had died.
There would be no deals at the end of this road, no pay-offs, no trading freedom for information.
The brotherhood had been betrayed, and this road ended in the grave. The oldest law of mankind. Lex talionis. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
He reached the corner and hesitated before going on, nervously checking the sling of his H &K once more. Everything was silent, a silence as cold as the grave.
Abdul Ali and Hossein fanned out behind him, pistols drawn, and Harry rounded the corner wide, the cold, suppressed muzzle of the UMP-45 tracking left to right.
Hamid was gone, the discarded TACSAT lying broken half-way across the adjoining corridor the only proof that he had ever been there. Harry motioned for a halt, his ears straining to pick up the slightest sound.
“Where does the corridor go from here?” he asked quietly, glancing back at Ali.
“To the left, on into the Masjid al-Musalla al-Marwani, the prayer hall of the Stables of Solomon,” the Jordanian replied. “To the right, it continues for about five yards, ending in a dead-end and a platform surmounted by displayed copies of the Quran.”
“Take left, I’ll take right,” Harry instructed. “He may be laying an ambush.”
It’s what they both would have done. Back in the day. In better times, odd as that seemed now.
At Harry’s signal, the three men moved out, Hossein and Ali going left, Harry going right into the dead-ended corridor as they rounded the corner. Empty.
The emptiness struck him with the force of a blow, his mind screaming danger as he started to turn. Knowing it was too late even as he did so.
In the narrow limestone corridors, the cough of Hamid’s silenced Glock resounded like thunder, the sound of the slide cycling. One, two shots.
The classic double-tap. Out of the corner of his eye, as if in slow motion, Harry saw Abdul Ali reel backward, blood spraying from a wound in his throat, the pistol falling from his hands.
He turned on heel, hearing the sharp report of the revolver in Hossein’s hands, the ring of steel against stone as Hamid staggered, dropping the canister. The UMP-45 came up to level, Hamid’s face coming into perspective through iron sights.
It was the kill shot. A single press of the trigger would have sent three 230-grain hollowpointed cartridges on their deadly way.
He hesitated. The world seemed to close in, his vision narrowing to a singular focus. His target. Off to his left, Hossein fired another shot, the bullet going wild, the report seeming as distant as a faraway storm. His friend’s face stared back at him through those deathly iron posts, seemingly frozen in time. Disbelief overwhelmed him, the sour taste of bile rising in the back of his throat.
He couldn’t pull the trigger. Moments passed — it could have been hours for all he knew. He saw Hamid, his left arm dangling useless at his side, move backward, toward the sheltering pillars, firing another shot to cover his retreat. Disappearing into the darkness.
Numbly, Harry heard Hossein’s voice, and the mist seemed to clear away. He’d had the shot…
His gaze flickered from Abdul Ali’s lifeless body crumpled on the floor to the canister laying a few feet away. “Disarm the bomb,” he ordered, his throat dry. “I’ll go after him.”
For a moment, Hossein didn’t move and Harry turned on him. “Can you do the job?”
The major’s gaze was unwavering. “Of course. Can you?”
Hesitation. It was the killer. Those moments when you paused when you should have kept moving, when you had the shot and failed to take it. It was those moments that killed. And he knew it. Alone now, moving deeper into the passages beneath al-Aqsa, Harry felt his eyes adjust to the darkness. Whether Hamid would lead him to the fourth canister, he knew not. It was like following a wounded tiger into his lair.
The corridor opened out into a large hall, arched pillars extending off as far as Harry could see. He moved slowly, cautiously, listening every few paces.
Sunlight streamed into the center of the room from a window high in the wall, on the southern wall of al-Aqsa if he remembered correctly.
A bullet smacked into the stone beside his head and Harry ducked low, his eyes searching the semi-darkness. A shape, about fifteen yards off, moving behind the pillars.
He knelt down behind a wooden railing partitioning off the worship space, the muzzle of his UMP-45 resting across the carved wood. Waiting, every sense alert, listening for any movement, any sign of his antagonist.
Patience — it had always been one of Hamid’s virtues. One of the things that had made him so valuable to the team. The team that had been torn apart by his treachery. Harry’s lips compressed into a thin line, forcing himself to remember the sight of Davood’s body. There was only one way this could end.
Movement there in the darkness, movement hesitant and uncertain. Harry saw the outline of a gun in the shadows and fired, the suppressed burst sounding like a trio of handclaps in the darkened hall. Applause for a requiem.