She reached for the phone and began dialing, knowing even as she did so that there was no time…
“Moving in,” Harry whispered into his microphone. “Take up overwatch.”
He glanced up at the towering heights of Mount Gerizim as he crossed the street toward the hammam. The mountain of blessing.
The .45 under his jacket was his only weapon, a silencer screwed into the end of the five-inch barrel. Tex would provide back-up with the assault rifles, if needed.
At least that was the plan. Few knew better than he how quickly a plan could dissolve under the tensions of engagement. Particularly under the strain of fatigue that was beginning to bear down on him.
An elderly Palestinian man was sitting in his car about fifteen meters from the door of the hammam. Including their car and the Land Rover, there were only five vehicles in sight. Nablus hadn’t been laid out with automobile traffic in mind.
Reaching the side of the building, Harry ducked into an alcove, pulling a black balaclava ski mask over his face. When he emerged, his face was completely hidden, the Colt in his right hand.
Five steps to the door.
He saw the old man’s face out of the corner of his eye as he moved forward. There was something there — alarm bells exploded in Harry’s mind and he looked back.
The man was staring straight at him, taking in the mask and pistol without a trace of concern on his face. He might have imagined it, but it seemed as though a faint smile tugged at the corners of the wrinkled mouth.
The look of a martyr. The thought struck Harry suddenly and the pistol came up in his hand almost of its own accord.He saw the old man’s face framed in the straight-eight sights of the Colt and time itself seemed to slow down. To take a human life — on a hunch. Instinct against fact. The imaginations of a tired mind.
A voice came over his earpiece, breaking in upon the trance. Carol’s voice, low and urgent. “Get out of there, the place is a wash. I repeat, our quarry is not there!”
The decision had been made for him. His finger curled around the trigger, taking up the slack. The big Colt recoiled into his hand.
The heavy slug smashed through the windshield, spraying glass and blood over the seat as the bullet found its mark in the forehead of the old man.
Screams erupted from the crowd as people panicked and turned to flee. As if in a dream, Harry saw the couple he had photographed, running. Terror.
His feet leaden, he jogged to the side of the car, looking in upon the shattered body. The life he had taken.
A detonator was clutched loosely in the now lifeless fingers of the old man, his thumb only inches away from the button. The right call…
“What’s going on?” Every head in the op-center swivelled at the entrance of Bernard Kranmeyer. The DCS stood in the doorway, leaning on his good leg, his face black as thunder.
The Dark Lord, Carol mused, turning down the volume of her communications headset as she hurried toward him. The nickname was apt.
“Our field team in Nablus was nearly compromised,” she stated with as much calm as she could muster. “A trap was laid for us and the terrorists were already gone.”
“How?”
“They switched vehicles without us catching on,” Carol explained, leading the way to an empty workstation. She gestured for Kranemeyer to take a seat. “When Nichols and Richards arrived at the hammam, a would-be suicide bomber was waiting for them.”
“The bomb didn’t detonate?”
“No. Nichols shot the bomber and they escaped in the confusion.”
Kranemeyer let out a long sigh. “Confusion, eh? So they were compromised. Where are they now?”
“On their way out of the city. There’s no indication of an alarm having been raised yet. The Nablus police are notoriously corrupt.”
“Well, isn’t that a mercy,” the DCS snorted. “Do we have a visual on the terrorists’ new wheels?”
“Negative. They were headed south in a black van on the Wadi al-Harimaya highway when they passed out of range of the satellite — here.” She traced the line on the map. “We’re working through the NRO and commercial companies to see if someone else could have picked them up.”
“Commercial satellites won’t have our resolution,” Kranemeyer observed. “You’ll be lucky to be able to pick out the license number.”
“But they have broader coverage,” Carol shot back, massaging her forehead with a hand. “We’re running out of options here — NRO had to divert satellites to Myanmar after the coup yesterday. Piggybacking onto a commercial sat may be our only chance of locating them.”
Kranemeyer rose, his eyes still on the computer screen. “Do it. And do try to be unobtrusive — the last thing we need is corporations on the Hill complaining about government entities hacking their servers.”
“We’ve located their vehicle,” an aide announced, bustling into Shoham’s office with a hand full of print-outs.
The Mossad chief turned away from the television. “In the West Bank, I’ll be bound. Military police just found a dead suicide bomber in Old City Nablus. Shot between the eyes, his finger only inches away from a detonator. Whoever took him out was a professional.”
The aide shook his head, spreading out the photographs on a table. “The vehicle was abandoned outside Hebron but there’s a catch.”
“Isn’t there always?” Shoham asked, irony dripping from his tones as he walked over. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s the tags — but not the vehicle that crossed in from Lebanon. We found them attached to a Dodge Caravan in a wadi outside Jericho.”
“Burned out, I see.”
“Yes, it was on fire when responders arrived. No sign of a driver.”
“There wouldn’t be,” Shoham responded grimly, laying the photograph on the table. He tapped the image of the smoldering hulk. “This is a diversion. What’s the status of Lt. Laner and his team?”
“Ten minutes out. They were staging for an operation in the Negev.”
Shoham walked over to the window, gazing out through the reinforced windows at the city of Tel Aviv. “Let me know the moment they arrive.”
There is no God but God, and Mohammed is His Prophet. His face turned toward Mecca, Harun fell forward upon his prayer mat, his forehead touching the cool fabric.
A chill ran through his body as the sunset prayer continued, the wailing cry of the muezzin ringing out over the ancient city.
His eyes closed, his mind raced with a thousand thoughts, uncertainties plaguing him.
As prayer ended, he rose, looking along the crowded plaza to the east, toward the golden-domed shrine in the center of the Haram al-Sharif. His fingers trembled at the sight. From his earliest childhood, he had been taught to revere this ground as sacred, as one of the holiest sites of all Islam. So many would die.
His choice had been made…
Farouk’s voice broke in upon his reverie and he looked up into the face of the Hezbollah commander.
“Take a good look, my brother,” Farouk said, encompassing the entire haram with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “This is the end of all things.”
Harun nodded, his expression serious. “This is the day that was spoken of by the Prophet,” the older man continued, still caught in the grandeur of the moment. “As it is written in the hadith, the very stones will refuse to conceal the Jews in their terror.”