Golan.”
“Indeed?”
“I will be leaving you,” the watchdog added unexpectedly.
Hossein turned to look Achmed Asefi in the face. “And why is this?”
“There is unfinished business in Beirut. I will rejoin you in Al Quds later today.” A furtive look danced in Asefi’s eyes as the two men stood there in the darkness of the Syrian night.
“I was not informed of this change of plans,” Hossein retorted, his gaze never wavering.
Asefi seemed annoyed by the challenge.“A sudden call from the Ayatollah. As your men were disembarking.”
“I see.” The major paused for a moment before adding piously, “Go with Allah.”
Hossein watched as the Ayatollah’s bodyguard walked off toward the Gulfstream that had brought them from Isfahan under cover of night.
The corporal, Mustafa, materialized at his side. “The truck is ready, sir,” he announced with a smart salute.
“Good,” Hossein replied, sighing as he turned away toward the Land Rover that was to transport them into the land of Palestine. A thought struck him about half-way across the tarmac and he turned to Mustafa. “You were the first off the plane. Achmed Asefi-did you see him receive a phone call?”
The corporal’s brow furrowed in thought as the two men walked beneath the flickering glare of the airport lights. “No. It is possible, but I was with him most of the time. Why?”
“Nothing of any moment,” Hossein replied, appearing to dismiss it off-hand. He looked back to see jet turbines fire as the Gulfstream turned back toward the runway.
Something was wrong.
Hamid shifted restlessly on the bench against the side of the C-130 transport. No one had said a great deal since the transport had left Baghdad.
Thomas lay on the bench across from him, apparently asleep. Davood had his PDA out, his eyes focused intently on the little screen as he played a video game. Hamid cast a sidelong glance in his direction, contempt filling his heart.
Perhaps feeling his gaze upon him, Davood looked up from the screen. “Do you know why we’ve been diverted to Crete?”
“No,” he lied, his face expressionless. “The orders came down from Langley, that is all.”
After a moment, the young agent turned back to his game. Hamid sighed, feeling the bulge of his Glock dig into his side. Knowing what must be. The penalty for treason was death, but he knew one thing with a certainty.
Davood would never live to see the inside of a federal prison. That was the price of betrayal…
Bomb craters from the last Israeli incursion nearly seven months before dotted the runway as the Turkish Airlines 737 touched down, flaps fully extended. An attempt had been made to patch the damage with asphalt, but the attempt was partially successful at best.
Harry looked out the window, thinking back. He had been here then, seeking to recover an Agency asset before the Israeli army overran his position and compromised him. He could still remember the fiery hell, the clouds of oily-black smoke that had drifted over the city.
The mercurial nature of the Middle East.
It took them an hour to reunite on the other side of the multi-layered security checkpoints. When they did, Tex was holding up his phone. “Langley called,” he announced grimly.
“Yes?” Harry asked, shouldering his carry-on bag.
“Ron finally went through all the phone records from yesterday’s op.”
“What did he find?”
“Hamid was right. His TACSAT was used to place two calls to an unrecognized satellite phone. Carter traced the number to Kosovo before losing it in a maze of Eastern European networks.”
“So, we essentially have nothing.”
“Davood’s TACSAT was used to call a phone with the same prefix hours before the launch of TALON.”
Harry’s lips compressed into a thin line. “I see. Is that all the information he was able to pull?”
“Not quite,” the Texan replied, falling in behind Harry as they exited the terminal. “He’s got a location on Asefi.”
“Already?”
“He arrived two hours early.”
“Figures. Imaging?”
“Carol was able to hack into the airport CCTV,” Tex continued, referring to the closed circuit television network so common at airports. “The cameras last have him entering a cafe garden about a mile from here. No sign that he’s made an exit.”
“He’s probably armed. Coming in on a private jet, he’d be able to carry,” Harry observed, thinking of his own.45, disassembled and concealed in his luggage. Still coming through security and well out of reach.
A rare smile crossed the Texan’s face and he palmed a Glock, holding it beneath his jacket, out of the sight of passer-by.
“Where’d you get that?”
“A guard this side of the checkpoint has an empty holster,” he replied simply, passing it to Harry with the dexterity of a trained pickpocket. “Go, check on our friend. I’ll take up position.”
Alcohol was a vice. His vice. Alcohol and boys, two of his transgressions against the sacred teachings of the Quran. Perhaps it had been fated to end this way.
Asefi took another long draught of the vodka, coughing as the liquor slid down his throat. It was a taste he had acquired in Chechnya, fighting against the Russians.
Fate. The end of every man. What will be, will be. There is no changing the will of Allah.
Perhaps.
He tipped the bottle back once more, his mind turning over the options left to him. There was a possibility…
A man appeared in the door of the cafe garden, moving in without hesitation. Tall, slender, dressed in the garb of a Westerner, there was nothing to attract attention about him.
It was him. Asefi knew it at once. The caller. The man moved with a grace that was at once both beautiful and terrible to look upon. The subtle ease of a killer.
The Heckler amp; Koch semiautomatic pistol seemed to tremble under his jacket as the stranger approached his table, the man’s movements at the same time purposeful and casual. A mad desire to draw the gun and shoot his antagonist seized him. Shoot and be done with it-but there was no end but death in that action. This man was not acting alone.
“
“You’re not a Russian,” Asefi observed abruptly, his eyes meeting with the stranger’s in a coolly appraising glance.
