“Based on need-to-know, Mr. President,” Lay replied wearily. “This is an ongoing operation.”
“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware of the history of these mullahs. You’re seeking to bring one of them into this country and I’m somehow not supposed to care who it is?”
The DCIA looked up at the ceiling, considering his options. “As you wish, Mr. President. The man in question is the Ayatollah Yousef Mohaymen Isfahani.”
A sharp intake of breath was the only sound from the other end of the phone for a long moment. Then, “The Supreme Leader? Have you lost your mind, Lay?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“In 2011 you tried to assassinate this man as a terrorist!”
Lay sighed. It was going to be a long conversation. “That’s all relative, Mr. President. Alliances change…”
Hamid checked the silenced Heckler & Koch MP-5SD submachine gun for a third and final time before slapping a thirty-round magazine of 9mm hollowpoints into the mag well. Four more magazines were held in pouches around his belt.
He looked over at Thomas, who was breaking down his Barrett M98B sniper rifle for travel. “You bring the rubbers?”
“Sure thing,” the New Yorker grinned. He dug in his pocket and retrieved a small package, tossing it over.
Hamid tore open the plastic and leaned his MP-5 up against the fuselage of the aircraft, unrolling a prophylactic over the barrel.
“Condoms?”
The two agents looked up to see Lt. Hanson standing in the cockpit doorway, a quizzical expression on his face. Hamid laughed. “Yeah, they’re great for all sorts of things. Forms a waterproof seal on the barrel, helps prevent a blockage. You need to go into action quickly? Just pull the trigger. No worries.”
Hanson forced a smile. “I wish that was all I was worried about.”
“What’s going on?” Hamid asked, looking up from his work.
“The barometer’s falling fast,” the airman replied. “We’ve got a cold front moving in.”
“Here or at the drop zone?”
“Here.”
“Then what’s our problem?”
Hanson took a step into the back of the airplane and faced the CIA agents. “Look, I’ve been flying in and out of here for five years. The mountains generally shield you from the wind, but when a front like this strikes here, the westerlies funnel down between here and the main island. It’s like a wind tunnel. I’ve seen times when the Navy wouldn’t even berth their ships, the gusts were so bad.”
“And the planes were grounded,” Thomas added quietly, grasping the situation.
“That’s right.”
Davood spoke up. “How long is the storm expected to last? Can we wait it out?”
“I’m game to wait,” the pilot replied, “but the weatherman’s playing fast and loose with his forecast. The storm could last from between twelve and fifteen hours.”
Hamid exchanged a look with Thomas, then cleared his throat. “That’s a non-option. Can you get us out now?”
“I can try.”
The city lights of Tel Aviv-Yafo glittered in the distance as the car sped down the divided highway toward the coast. The Romans had called this region the Via Maris. The Way of the Sea.
Harry dismissed the thought, a memory from a long-ago Sunday School lesson, turning his mind back to the telephone. Carter was talking.
“We’re in direct contact with Isfahani now. He’s agreed to probe further and come up with a current location for al-Farouk and the terrorist cell.”
“Make sure he doesn’t jeopardize his current status with his inquiries,” Harry cautioned, an unusual feeling of disquiet coming over him. “His relationship with the Grand Mufti is our only ticket into the compound.”
“Play ‘em close, Harry. We’re still looking into the connections there. Tahir al-din Husayni isn’t exactly known as a friend to the West.”
It wasn’t new information to Harry. He could remember when Husayni had been appointed as the Grand Mufti, the Sunni guardian of Islamic holy places in Jerusalem. At the time, he had been seen as a pawn of Fatah’s leadership, but over the years he had parlayed his considerable talents as an orator into something more. A power broker.
He had succeeded in settling the breach between Fatah and Hamas, channeling their energies away from each other and outward…
In the spring of 2012, he had survived a bomb planted in his car, an explosion that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Fatah, Hamas, Hezbollah, Mossad — the players behind the attack had never been identified, but Husayni had carried on, as indomitable as ever. As much as the faction leaders might have hated him, the man held the Arab street in thrall.
His sermons were fiery and inspiring, deploring the Jewish occupation in the house of Islam, but always stopping just short of calling for violence. He was what passed for a moderate, which was what made sharing operational details with him so dangerous. Roll the dice and guess which side he would back.
“Keep me posted,” Harry replied finally, glancing toward the Iranian major in the front seat. “We’ll be in position when the time comes.”
The inside of Husayni’s residence was remarkably austere, reflective of a man who remembered his past — a simple lad tending sheep in the hills of Galilee. His lack of pretension, coupled with his passionate oratory, had won him the adoration of the Prophet’s people. Their shepherd. He brushed at a fancied piece of lint on his plain cotton trousers and leaned back in his wheelchair, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone.
“You’re the last person I would have expected this request to come from, Youssef,” he replied in Arabic, the language of Allah.
A moment passed, silence filling the void.
“Alliances change, Tahir,” the Ayatollah Isfahani responded. “Even the servants of the Prophet must adapt.”
“I understand that better than most, yet adaptability has never been among the chief virtues of our people. Have you ever questioned why we have suffered the people of Allah, the most glorified, the most high, to be divided thus? Divided by a thousand-year-old betrayal between chieftains?”
When Isfahani spoke again, there was a trace of humor in his voice. “You have bridged many divides in your life, my old friend, but this one is too much for even you.”
“Too much for the will of Allah?” Husayni asked, still completely serious. “I have received visions, Youssef. As long as this rift between Sunni and Shia continues to divide our people — we cannot receive the blessings of Allah, or expect the return of His promised one.”
“Then your answer is?”
The Mufti seemed surprised that the issue was still in question. “I will help your American friends — with certain conditions.”
His friend remained silent as Husayni continued to speak, outlining the terms of his agreement…
The windspeed was 28 knots as the C-130 taxied to the airfield’s only runway, blowing hard from the west.
“Tower to Titan Alpha 17, you are cleared for take-off. Gusts exceeding 40 knots have been recorded in the last twenty minutes. Please exercise caution.”
“Roger that, Tower,” Lt. Hanson replied, adjusting the straps of his flight harness. He pushed the throttles all the way in, feeling the Allison turboprops respond, revving to full power. Another check of the gauges and he took the flight controls from the co-pilot. “I have the bird.”