“I concur,” Shoham acknowledged, picking up the picture and transfixing it with a hard glance. “The question is — what is he doing crossing the border from Lebanon an hour ago, and who is the man with him?”
“I don’t have that answer, sir. We should have information on their identities within the hour.”
“Or who they said they were,” was Shoham’s brief retort. “Lies within lies. Bring me what you know as soon as you know it.”
“Who are you?”
Harry sighed with irritation. It was the third time Asefi had asked him the question, and his mood had not improved with the repetition.
“A friend,” he responded sarcastically.
“They’ll be looking for us,” the Iranian observed, glancing out the window of the car as he drove. “Tradecraft says that you don’t steal a car unless you have to.”
“I had to,” was Harry’s brief reply. “And I seriously doubt the Israeli police go looking for cars stolen in Beirut.”
“I don’t understand why we can’t go our separate ways.”
Harry’s gaze shifted from the road in front of them to Asefi, giving the man a hard look. There was no way the man didn’t understand the rationale behind the situation. There was an object in his chatter, an ulterior motive.
“What if we’re stopped and I’m like this?” the Iranian demanded, gesturing with the right hand that Harry had cuffed to the steering wheel. “They’ll search the vehicle and us.”
“Then I suggest you drive in such a manner as not to attract attention.”
“It would be safer if you would uncuff me.”
“Safer for whom, Achmed? I’ve read your file. The Spetsnaz you killed in Chechnya, three men with your bare hands?”
“You have my word.”
Harry spat out the window of the car. “That for your word. Trust does not exist between men such as us.”
Asefi opened his mouth in protest, but Harry cut him off. “Be quiet and drive.”
Time was short…
“They are coming.”
Harun’s breath caught in his throat and he glanced up and down the length of the hall before responding. They were alone, the faint whirring of the ventilation fans the only sound disturbing the silence. On either side of them the stone walls of the Masjid al-Aqsa’s lower level rose into the vaulted ceiling, mute witness to their presence there. “Who?”
“The Americans,” the Hezbollah leader replied, calm pervading his features.
Harun recoiled from him in shock. “How? When? Where are they?”
“Control yourself, my brother. Rest in the might of Allah and He will be your strength. This is our moment.”
“How did they find out?”
Farouk seemed to ponder the question for a moment. “The how is not important, Harun. Rather, it is the why that matters.”
“Why?”
“Why?” the older man repeated, seeming amused by the question. A man in Western clothing entered at the far end of the hall and Al-Farouk raised his cellphone, snapping a picture of the stonework like any typical tourist.
“The answer is simple. That Allah might deliver them into our hands. It is His will.”
“Inshallah,” Harun replied after a moment, fighting down the fear that rose in his throat. As Allah wills it.
“What’s our status, gentlemen?” David Lay asked, taking his seat at the head of the conference table. To his right sat Ron Carter, to his left the DD(I) Michael Shapiro. An analyst from the Intelligence Directorate rounded out the meeting.
Shapiro folded his hands, a grim look on his round face. “We’re picking up increased chatter from the Middle East.”
“What type of chatter?” Lay asked.
“Give them the lowdown, Troy,” Shapiro instructed, turning to his analyst. The man cleared his throat and shuffled through his papers. “We’ve made a score of intercepts over the last few hours, all high-level government comm channels. The conversations were encrypted, but we’ve managed to crack some of it.”
“And?”
“The conversations are emanating largely from Tehran. Our computers ran the voiceprint, cross-referencing with the speech President Mahmoud F’Azel Shirazi gave in front of the U.N. General Assembly this past April. It’s a match.”
“Who’s he been talking to?”
“This man,” the analyst replied, shoving a photograph across the table in Lay’s direction. “His Royal Highness, Prince Ibrahim bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud. A half-brother to the Crown Prince, he’s made his billions in the oil business and has been suspected of funneling money to Al-Qaida in past years. In 2012, we froze five hundred million dollars worth of his assets in this country.”
Lay nodded. “I remember. A hard-liner, if I recall?”
“He defines the term. Fifteen minutes after their conversation terminated, al-Saud called General Yussef Farik Mutallab, the head of the Jordanian Air Force.”
“What was the substance of their conversation?”
“Yet to be translated, sir.”
“No matter,” Lay whispered, folding his hands. “The train has been laid, and he’s priming the fuse. Where are we on the bacteria itself?”
Carter looked up from his laptop. “It will be arriving at Bethesda within the hour. Doctor Schuyler has a team prepped to expedite the process.”
“Good,” Lay nodded. “What’s the status of the field team?”
“On the road toward the Palestinian Authority. Due to rendevous with CRUCIFIX in less than two hours.”
A knock sounded on the door of Shoham’s office and he looked up to see the analyst standing in the doorway. “We have a positive ID on the man who accompanied Nichols into the country,” the man proclaimed, striding into the room without further ceremony.
“Indeed?”
The analyst extended a dossier and Shoham took it, his eyes narrowing as he opened the folder. “The Ayatollah’s personal bodyguard?”
“Our photos of Asefi are dated, but we believe it to be a match.”
“And what aliases did they use to gain entrance?”
“Nichols is posing as an aid worker from Ireland, one Daniel O’Bryan. Asefi is under the identity of Muhammad Hassan, listed as a translator for Doctors Without Borders.”
The Mossad chief snorted. “We’ve already run those names through our database and put out an alert,” the analyst continued.
“Waste of time,” Shoham shot back. “Nichols is good. He’ll already have dumped those identities and traded them for others. My guess is he’s masquerading as a Coptic priest by now.”
“We are also tracking the license number on the car.”
“Good. Keep me informed. And find Lieutenant Gideon Laner for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Silence fell over the room following the departure of the analyst and Shoham rose from his chair, walking slowly to the map which covered a full wall of office.
A sigh escaped his lips. “Nichols, why are you back?”
Dr. Maria Schuyler signed for the package, taking it from the hands of the pair of CIA agents detailed to protect it.
“I’ll take it from here, thanks. Ted, will you get this down to my lab?”
“We’ll go along, if you don’t mind,” the older agent demurred, not a trace of a smile on his face.