The sound of a diesel approached and Hamid looked out to see a utility truck pull up beside the plane. Davood stepped out of the cab, waving to the Zodiac Combat Rubber Raiding Craft(CRRC) in the trailer behind it. “Finally found one. Needed a little work on the engine, but I think that Navy mechanic got things in order.”
“Lieutenant, I’d like you to meet one of my men. This is Sergeant Black.”
“I understand. Do they have intelligence regarding our present location?” Farouk’s face expanded into a grin as he heard the answer. “The blessings of Allah, the most glorified, the most high, be upon you, my brother.”
He closed the satellite phone and looked around the room at the members of his cell. They were few in number, just the four of them. He and Harun. Rashid, the bombmaker. And the fourth, the woman taken in fornication. He had never bothered to learn the whore’s name.
“BEHDIN,” he announced simply. “The Americans are on their way to the marina in Tel Aviv. They intend to rendevous at sea with the rest of their team. They have learned of our presence here in the city, along with the time and place of our attack.”
Harun’s jaw fell open. “How?”
The Hezbollah commander turned to face him, and there was cool appraisal in his eyes as he did so. “There is a traitor somewhere, clearly. Who is a question that BEHDIN was not prepared to answer.”
A low murmur ran around the room as dark looks shot back and forth. “Silence,” Farouk demanded, raising his hands. “Let this not be a tool of Shaitan to divide us.”
He took five steps into the safehouse’s kitchen and returned bearing a laptop. The number of a secure mobile line was displayed on-screen. “ISRAFIL will be able to learn the truth. What time is it in America?”
From the attitude of Carol Chambers as she walked into the outer office of the DCIA, one would have never been able to guess that he was her father. The years of separation had only served to accentuate the professional distance she tried to maintain at Langley.
“Sir, everything’s prepped in Conference Room #4.”
Lay nodded soberly, pulling on his jacket as he followed her out of the office. It was the moment they had all been waiting for. With dread.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he proclaimed, walking into the conference room. At another time, another day, his subordinates would have risen at his entrance, but today it seemed a frivolous waste of energy. And the DCIA thought nothing of it.
“Is everything ready?” Lay asked, shooting a glance in Ron Carter’s direction.
The analyst nodded wordlessly, picking up a remote and aiming it at the giant flatscreen mounted to the far wall.
A moment passed and then the face of Doctor Maria Schuyler appeared on-screen. She looked up from the folders spread out in front of her, a curiously stiff look on her face.
Lay put on his glasses. “Good afternoon, Dr. Schuyler.”
“I wish I could say as much, director,” she replied tightly. “It’s anything but.”
“You’ve reached a conclusion regarding our bacteria?”
“That is correct. A copy of the information is before you. I’d like to walk you through it, if I may.”
“Go ahead.”
“Let me preface this by saying that accurate estimates can only be achieved by days of testing. We simply haven’t had the time to do the type of concrete analysis that we would customarily do in this type of scenario.”
“Worst-case it for me, doctor,” Lay retorted. “We’re running a tight schedule.”
“My initial assessment was correct. It is the pneumonic plague bacteria. But it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before. As you may be aware, director, outbreaks of the plague are not unknown. We had a case in Colorado a few years back. This is different.”
“They weaponized it?”
“You’re partly correct. The bacteria was weaponized for aerosol dispersion, but it is also a different strain from anything we’ve ever dealt with. In two ways. First, the bacteria remains viable in the air for up to four and a half hours. That’s over four times the duration of your garden-variety Y. pestis. Secondly, it’s significantly more lethal — it seems to have mutated. It’s lethality may actually be our salvation.”
“How so?”
“It’s cold mathematics, director. The quicker the victim dies, the less time he has to infect others.”
The DCIA nodded his understanding. “Do we have anything to fight it?”
“There are antibiotics developed to treat Y. Pestis. From my preliminary evaluation in this case, I would say that they would only serve to slow down the progression of the disease.”
“Slow it down by how much?”
“It’s too soon to say with any certainty. My personal estimate would be that the victim would still be dead inside of the month…”
The screen went black and David Lay glanced at his watch. The briefing had taken thirty minutes in totality.
“What do we have, Ron?”
Carter looked up from the laptop where he had been running casualty estimates and gazed soberly at Lay and Shapiro.
“According to the intelligence provided by Isfahani, the attack will go down tomorrow during the noon prayer. You can typically count on anywhere between twenty and thirty thousand in attendance.”
“We’re talking a megachurch.”
The analyst acknowledged Shapiro’s comment with a grim nod. “Essentially, yes. A large part of them worship in the open air, which might reduce their exposure, but we can’t count on that.”
“Your estimates?”
“Jerusalem has a population of over seven hundred thousand. An average five percent of them will be at Ground Zero.” Carter rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Factor in their families and people they might be in close contact with during the time between exposure and possible death. You’re looking at a minimum hundred — hundred and twenty thousand potentially infected. Untreated, pneumonic plague has a mortality rate between ninety-six and one hundred percent.”
“And Schuyler’s just told us we can’t treat this strain,” Lay added. “Figure one hundred thousand plus dead across Israel and the Palestinian Authority. Epicenter: Jerusalem.”
“That’s not how Shirazi’s looking at it,” Carter replied shrewdly.
“What do you mean?”
“For Shirazi, this is nothing more than a beginning. You might say it’s the down payment on apocalypse.”
The DCIA’s lips pursed, drawing together into a thin, bloodless line. “Then, gentlemen, our course is perfectly clear. As cliched as it sounds, it’s true. Failure is not an option.”
At that moment, his secretary knocked on the conference room door. “I have the President on line two, sir.”
“Put him through,” Lay responded, dismissing Shapiro and Carter with a curt, “That will be all, gentlemen.”
A moment later, the phone in his hand rang and he hesitated before answering it. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”
“A request for operational approval crossed my desk a few minutes ago,” Hancock responded, a characteristically hostile edge to his voice. It had been years since Lay had let it bother him.
“Oh, yes, the extraction papers. If I might insist, Mr. President, we need that approval expedited.”
“I would have thought we were done with these games, director.”
“Games?”
“The document simply requests approval for the extraction of an Iranian cleric. The name has been redacted.”