“Inshallah,” Harun whispered, looking out upon the crowd. A moment passed and he could feel Farouk’s eyes upon him.
“How could this be anything but the will of Allah?” the Hezbollah commander demanded, his voice low, intense.
For a long moment, neither man spoke, then Harun cleared his throat, spreading his hands out over the city. Al-quds. “So many of the faithful will die tomorrow, so many pilgrims at the noonday prayer. They have come to worship at the shrine of the Prophet, blessed be his name, and we will kill them.”
“You have doubts?”
Mustering up his remaining courage, Harun turned to look the older man in the eye. “Doubt is a human affliction. It will not sway me from the task at hand. Allah forgive this moment of weakness.”
Another moment passed, then the flinty expression on Farouk’s face relaxed into some semblance of a smile. “He will, my brother. Be strong…”
The sun was going down. Day ending and night beginning in the eternal cycle. The Ayatollah Isfahani closed his Quran and sat there for a moment, looking out his window as the clouds turned gold, then purple, then crimson, bathing the sky in blood as the sun slipped across the salt desert of the Darsht-e Kavir.
It would be a long night. He laid the sacred book aside and reached into the drawer of his metal desk, pulling out a black Russian-made MP-443 semiautomatic pistol. It was loaded with seventeen rounds, hollowpoints, 9mm Luger. He had never fired a pistol before in his life, but after a moment’s reflection, he slipped it into a pocket of his robe, beside the satellite phone that was his link to Hossein and his men.
He was committed. There were times along this path when he could have gone back, turned aside, fled in the face of his destiny. No longer.
To stake one’s life on a roll of the dice…
Chapter Sixteen
“Have the men secure their weapons,” Hossein ordered, exiting the van with Mustafa at his side. “We’ll be here no longer than an hour.”
The next part of the journey would be the hardest, Hossein reflected. Crossing back into the occupied territories, the so-called state of Israel. Some of his men would cross the border on foot, rejoining the rest of the team on the other side. Difficult, but it could be done.
Miles overhead, a commercial satellite swung into position over the West Bank, taking hundreds of images. It’s subjects, among other things, included the black van.
“We’ve got it!” Carol announced, a sort of exhausted triumph in her voice as she laid the photograph down on Kranemeyer’s desk.
“Where are they?”
“A house on the outskirts of Ramallah. We’ve checked the address — it was flagged on our servers as a possible Fatah safehouse back in 2010.”
“Fatah?” Kranemeyer asked skeptically. “That’s a connection we’ve not seen before.”
He stared at the picture for a moment, lost in thought. All at once, his head came up, a look of decision on his face. “Pass this along to Nichols and get him moving in that direction. Have Ron contact Sorenson over at the NRO and get him to task a satellite to the West Bank. Pull it off Myanmar if he has to. If he complains, tell him Burmese monks will be the least of our worries if these dirtbags reach their target.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harry’s phone closed with a click and he looked over at Asefi, who was once more ensconced behind the steering wheel. “Let’s get this show on the road, Achmed.”
“What do we have?” Tex asked from the back seat.
“The tangos are at a Fatah safehouse in Ramallah. Word is it looks like they’re preparing to move.”
The car moved out onto the highway, merging with southbound traffic. Harry looked up from his map. “Given current traffic conditions, I’d say we can be there in twenty-five minutes. Be ready.”
There was no acknowledgment from the backseat. None was needed. Just a look of grim determination on the Texan’s face. They were going into battle once again.
Asefi stole a look at the American beside him as the car gained speed, accelerating down the highway. Despite the warmth of the day, he felt himself shiver. What a risk it was, this deception he had chosen to perpetrate. He felt for all the world like a tightrope artist, balancing high above a bottomless chasm. A single step to the left or the right and his fate was sealed.
Never look down…
It’s a diversion. Nichols is behind this somewhere. And he’s got help. Shoham’s words rang in Gideon’s mind as he climbed out of the wadi, leaving behind the burned-out SUV in the gathering twilight.
The old man was right. As usual.
Nichols’ fingerprints were all over this. Not in the sense of physical, iron-clad proof, but the very absence of it. After years in the field, Gideon’s instincts were as honed as finely as those of a sonarman.
Don’t look for the signs of a trained operator because you won’t see them. Look for what’s not there, the black hole where there should be noise.
Yossi Eiland was waiting at the vehicle, a kheffiyeh draped jauntily around his shoulder, an assault rifle in his hands.
Gideon motioned for him to get in the SUV and slipped into the driver’s seat himself, sitting there in silence for a long moment. The American had made fools of them only days before, he reflected grimly. It wasn’t going to happen again.
“Where now, boss?” Eiland asked, handing the rifle to Chaim in the back seat.
Off to the east, Laner could see the setting sun glinting off the turbulent waters of the Jordan River. “Ramallah,” he responded finally. “I’ve got contacts there.”
“Nichols and the rest of the field team are here,” Ron explained, using a pointer to illustrate. The sat image from the commercial bird was displayed on a screen covering one wall of the conference room. “They’ve abandoned their vehicle a mile from the safehouse and are moving in on foot.”
“Where’s Asefi?” Kranemeyer asked, a shrewd look in his eyes.
“I believe Harry has him,” Carter replied.
The DCS shook his head. “He’ll be a liability. Should have terminated him along the side of the road.”
“Harry believes that the Iranian bodyguard has more information he’s holding back,” Carol interjected, entering the room with a file folder under her arm.
“Key words there,” Kranemeyer retorted, “are ‘Harry believes’. Nobody has to convince me how good he is, but he’s exhausted. His behavior in Nablus only proves that he’s getting sloppy. If I thought we could get Hamid and the rest of the team into Ramallah in time, I’d pull him. What’s our estimate from Sorenson?”
Carol spread out her papers on the conference table. “Another forty-five minutes before he has the spy sat in place. Until then, we’re on our own.”