The chief of the Israeli Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, popularly known as Mossad, closed his eyes as his aide began to read the transcript, the words burning themselves into his memory just as they had done every time he had heard them, ever since they had first been uttered, eight days before. The day when one of his prime intelligence assets had disappeared off the face of the earth. He knew them by heart.
“… three of the Americans are dead… The Iranian military will be here soon… I am initiating the destruction of all mission-pertinent files. Nothing will be left for them to find… Good-bye and Mazel tov.”
Good luck. The last words known to have been spoken by their agent, a man he had known and respected for years. A man who at that moment had needed more than his share of luck.
Shoham turned back to the window, gazing out over the lake below him, a lake of darkness, a lake of turbulence. In ancient times, the Jews had called it the abyss. For him it had always been a symbol of the country he had sworn to protect. Dark, turbulent, teetering on the brink of destruction, of the abyss. Of Galilee.
He had conceived the operation, overseen its execution, watched as it started to produce some of their best intelligence on exactly what the Iranian government was planning. The best since the fall of the ayatollahs and the rise of the Shirazi as military dictator. Six months. That’s how long it had lasted. And now this. His aide’s voice brought him back to the present.
“Sir, I don’t think the Iranians know he was working for us.”
“Why?” the Mossad chief turned on the young man, fire flashing in his dark eyes.
“Well, sir,” he began, suddenly hesitant under the general’s gaze, “every time in the past that they have burned our agents, they’ve immediately exhibited them to the world as a sign of Zionist treachery and duplicity. This time, they have been completely silent.”
“Then what did happen to him?” Shoham demanded, his voice filling the room like an echo of thunder.
“Sir, I have no idea.”
“I figured as much,” the general said heavily, walking across the room to his desk. “The Americans will come calling soon, wondering what happened to their citizens. It’s just a matter of whom they’ll call first, Tehran or us.” He glanced up quickly, looking across the room at the aide. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly even. “We know nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“Right, sir.”
“Get me Tel Aviv.”
“All right, gentlemen. Another burst.” The crackle of Kalishnikov assault rifles on full-automatic followed his order, a high rippling sound reminiscent of a string of firecrackers going off.
Harry lifted the binoculars to his eyes, gazing down the makeshift firing range. Good, he thought. Quite good. But not good enough.
“Davood, Parker,” he ordered sharply, “pick it up a bit. We need to tighten those groupings.”
“Roger, roger,” the New Yorker replied, the metal stock of his AK-47 fully extended against his shoulder as he lay prone against the hot desert sand. He sighted quickly down the barrel and triggered off what was left of the magazine into the silhouette target seventy yards away. “How’s that, chief?”
Harry nodded grimly. The chest of the paper target had been all but obliterated. “Good work. Davood?”
The Iranian hadn’t moved, instead was glaring up at Harry, irritation glinting in his dark eyes.
“I said, give it another try.”
Davood gestured downrange, at his last grouping. “I’ve already done the best I could. And I’d like to see you do better.”
Harry was at his side in two quick steps, twisting the assault rifle from his grasp. Their eyes locked for a brief moment in time, their faces only inches apart. “Don’t do that again,” Harry whispered, his voice a low hiss. “ Ever. If it happens after deployment, people will die. Because of your stupidity.”
He pulled away from the Iranian agent, smoothly ejecting the half-empty clip from the AK, slamming another into the breech with a practiced motion. “Fresh targets!” he ordered, his voice calm and level, as though nothing had passed between them.
The Air Force airman assisting them with the firing exercise stepped quickly forward, replacing the target. Harry waited a moment until the man had stepped back out of the way, then dropped to one knee, flicking the rifle’s heavy safety off with a loud klatch.
Harry carefully squeezed the trigger, aiming for the head of the silhouette, holding the rifle in a rock-hard grip as lead streamed from the Kalishnikov’s muzzle, burst after burst of fire. Controlled lethality.
The banana magazine was half-empty when he stopped a moment later, rising to his feet. There was a single ragged hole in the forehead of the silhouette, scarcely larger than a silver dollar.
He turned back to Davood, tossing the AK at him. Uneasy silence hung for a moment over the range as the two men glared at each other. “Let’s get cracking,” Harry said finally, turning away.
Davood took another long look down the range, at the mutilated silhouette, and slowly nodded. He dropped back into his prone position, ready to fire. They didn’t have the time to waste…
“So, that’s the situation at present, major.” Dr. Mahmood Ansari looked back down the trailer’s corridor, then turned back to the man at his side.
“You’re certain?” Hossein asked, still unable to believe his ears. “But the archaeologists — I mean, they…” his sentence trailed off.
“That is why I am keeping them in isolation,” the scientist replied. “Eleven died, four survived. I need to know why.”
“Tehran will be wanting to know the potential of this. What do I tell them?”
Dr. Ansari turned, seeing the light shining in the major’s eyes, realizing the full import of the question. And he shuddered inwardly.
“Give me time to think about it.”
Farshid nodded. “Twenty-four hours, doctor. Then I will need an answer.”
Major Hossein stepped outside the lab trailer, his hands still trembling nervously. The power. The possibility.
He needed something to settle his nerves and he dug into his pocket, coming out a moment later with a pack of cigarettes. American Marlboros, cigarettes he had obtained off the black market. They were expensive, but he had lost his taste for the local weed after his years in Iraq, where anything American could be readily obtained. Decadence? Perhaps. Despite his position in the Revolutionary Guard, he wasn’t a man religious enough to dwell on his sins. Or the penitence he was supposed to have felt.
He took a long drag and sighed as the nicotine flooded through his system, giving him a brief exhilarating rush. He had asked the scientist to evaluate the discovery’s potential, but the truth was, he didn’t need an answer. He knew.
The Iranian nuclear program had floundered for years. The cyber-sabotage of the Israeli-American STUXNET and STARS viruses had only been the beginning. Scientists had gone missing, parts had malfunctioned — at one point a reactor had nearly red-lined and been stopped only moments away from turning southern Iran into the wasteland of a second Chernobyl. All that work. And now at his very feet, all around him, lay something far more insidiously powerful, discovered by a Jew, of all things!