Shoham paused the recording. “There’s more ideological pep talk, but it is largely irrelevant. They’re coming here.”
“You believe the threat is credible?”
“Apocaplytic fantasies are only dangerous if one has the ability to carry them out. These men do.”
Gideon nodded. “What are your orders?”
“You and your team will go to Jerusalem. I want you there in case of an attack. It may be rhetoric, it may be real.”
“What about the Americans?”
“Not your concern,” Shoham replied. “The Prime Minister will be filing a formal complaint with the American embassy within the hour. The last thing we need is them getting caught in the cross-fire.”
Silence. His men had departed, leaving Farouk to finish his work. The false back of the closet had been emptied of the four liter-sized steel containers holding the bacteria. He sorted through a pile of paperwork and personal effects, IDs, vehicle leases and the like, feeding sheet after sheet into the small incinerator that sat at his feet. There must be nothing left.
The call to
His fingers moved faster as he flew through the paperwork, one sheet after another dissolving to ash in the fire.
He paused as he came to the bottom of the stack, a smile lighting his eyes as he held up a small, wallet- sized photograph.
The eyes of a child stared back at him out of a paint-blackened face, the green scarf of the Imam al-Mahdi Scouts wrapped around his young forehead. Hassan, his eleven-year-old son.
The boy’s small hands were clasping the stock and barrel of a Kalishnikov assault rifle. Closing his eyes, Farouk could remember the day it had been taken, could still feel his pride in his son, could still smell the gunpowder that had perfumed the air as Hassan had emptied that rifle down-range at a poster of the American president. Oh, the irony of it all…
Farouk raised the picture to his lips and slowly, reverently kissed the image of his son. The memories were precious.
His hand paused over the flaming maw of the incinerator, then opened. The photograph fluttered in the air once, twice, then the flames closed over it, curling the edges of the paper, the image blackening as it disappeared into the fire.
Gone forever. Farouk gathered up his laptop and cellphone and looked around the room one last time before leaving. No matter what course the day took, he would not live to see another sunrise. It was the will of Allah…
“Nichols is planning to put Thomas Parker in overwatch here,” Carter explained, tapping the screen with his finger. “The bell tower of the Church of the Redeemer.”
Kranemeyer shook his head skeptically. “Once he’s up there, there’s only one way out-it’s not exactly your ideal sniper location.”
“And we’re dealing with a medieval city. Like it or not, it is the high ground.”
“Is Parker in position?”
Carol looked up from her workstation. “Negative. The general public doesn’t have access to the bell tower until 0800. Another couple hours.”
“He’s posing as what-a photographer?”
“That’s correct, from
“The probst?”
“The on-site representative of the German Lutheran church. They own the building and lease it out to several different congregations. Ames is manning communications in case they try to call
Kranemeyer managed a worn grin. “Make sure we expedite his departure. We can’t re-route that number forever.”
There were no guards in sight, but the barbed wire and security cameras surmounting the high wall around the compound spoke of a man who took his security seriously. As well Husayni might, following the car bomb that had paralyzed his lower body.
Harry took a deep breath and made his way across the street. “I’m going in,” he announced into his TACSAT.
“Roger that,” Hamid responded. “We’ve got eyes on your position.”
Keeping his eyes down as he crossed the street, Harry didn’t look around for his back-up. He had been in the field for too many years to make such a mistake. “Give me thirty minutes. If I’ve not made contact by then, things have gone south. In that case, you’re in command. Do the best you can and don’t waste time coming after me.”
For a moment, only silence filled the other end of the connection, then his friend cleared his throat. “I understand. See you in thirty.”
Harry closed the phone and tucked it back in his shirt pocket, moving up the street toward the gate of the compound.
Despite the ancient look of the structure, there was a call button and microphone mounted in the gate. Harry pressed the button and stood there waiting. Waiting…
From behind the tinted windows of an off-white Toyota Corolla parked a hundred yards away, Davood watched as the gate opened, as Harry disappeared inside.
“Mark the time,” Hamid announced gruffly. “0633 hours.”
“Thirty minutes?” Davood asked, looking over at the older agent.
Hamid nodded.
“You’d leave him?”
Another nod. “Just pray it doesn’t come to that.”
Davood ignored it, as he had once already. He would have to make up the
Husayni’s bodyguards were reputedly Jordanian spec-ops, on indefinite loan from King Hussein. Whether that rumor was true or not, Harry could not say. At any rate, they were competent. And thorough.
