shuffled through his papers. “We’ve made a score of intercepts over the last few hours, all high-level government comm channels. The conversations were encrypted, but we’ve managed to crack some of it.”
“And?”
“The conversations are emanating largely from Tehran. Our computers ran the voiceprint, cross-referencing with the speech President Mahmoud F’Azel Shirazi gave in front of the U.N. General Assembly this past April. It’s a match.”
“Who’s he been talking to?”
“This man,” the analyst replied, shoving a photograph across the table in Lay’s direction. “His Royal Highness, Prince Ibrahim bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud. A half-brother to the Crown Prince, he’s made his billions in the oil business and has been suspected of funneling money to Al-Qaida in past years. In 2012, we froze five hundred million dollars worth of his assets in this country.”
Lay nodded. “I remember. A hard-liner, if I recall?”
“He defines the term. Fifteen minutes after their conversation terminated, al-Saud called General Yussef Farik Mutallab, the head of the Jordanian Air Force.”
“What was the substance of their conversation?”
“Yet to be translated, sir.”
“No matter,” Lay whispered, folding his hands. “The train has been laid, and he’s priming the fuse. Where are we on the bacteria itself?”
Carter looked up from his laptop. “It will be arriving at Bethesda within the hour. Doctor Schuyler has a team prepped to expedite the process.”
“Good,” Lay nodded. “What’s the status of the field team?”
“On the road toward the Palestinian Authority. Due to rendevous with CRUCIFIX in less than two hours.”
A knock sounded on the door of Shoham’s office and he looked up to see the analyst standing in the doorway. “We have a positive ID on the man who accompanied Nichols into the country,” the man proclaimed, striding into the room without further ceremony.
“Indeed?”
The analyst extended a dossier and Shoham took it, his eyes narrowing as he opened the folder. “The Ayatollah’s personal bodyguard?”
“Our photos of Asefi are dated, but we believe it to be a match.”
“And what aliases did they use to gain entrance?”
“Nichols is posing as an aid worker from Ireland, one Daniel O’Bryan. Asefi is under the identity of Muhammad Hassan, listed as a translator for Doctors Without Borders.”
The Mossad chief snorted. “We’ve already run those names through our database and put out an alert,” the analyst continued.
“Waste of time,” Shoham shot back. “Nichols is good. He’ll already have dumped those identities and traded them for others. My guess is he’s masquerading as a Coptic priest by now.”
“We are also tracking the license number on the car.”
“Good. Keep me informed. And find Lieutenant Gideon Laner for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Silence fell over the room following the departure of the analyst and Shoham rose from his chair, walking slowly to the map which covered a full wall of office.
A sigh escaped his lips. “Nichols, why are you back?”
Dr. Maria Schuyler signed for the package, taking it from the hands of the pair of CIA agents detailed to protect it.
“I’ll take it from here, thanks. Ted, will you get this down to my lab?”
“We’ll go along, if you don’t mind,” the older agent demurred, not a trace of a smile on his face.
She nodded after a moment, then waved for them to accompany her into the building. They split up, flanking her as the trio moved down the hallway.
It was such a small package. She had been working with infectious disease for most of her adult life, but it still never failed to amaze her that something so small was capable of such destruction.
Outside the hermetically-sealed doors to her lab, she motioned for the agents to stop, opening a locker to the right of the door and pulling out three bio-suits. She set down the package on the bench beside her and slid into the suit, pulling it on one leg at a time.
A chill ran through her as she did so, casting a sidelong glance at the package as though to assure herself that it was still there.
It was like being in the very presence of evil…
The Ayatollah’s words did little to reassure Hossein as he wrapped a towel around his mid-section, preparing to enter the steam room of the Turkish bath.
Of pure faith and true. Yes, well, he’d settle for competent.
Billowing steam wafted into his face as he opened the door. The al-Shifa hammam had originally been built in the 17th-century, the flowing script of the Quran decorating the ancient stones. Hossein blinked away the water droplets condensing on his eyelids and groped his way through the steam, his fingers tracing the engravings on the wall.
Rockets from an Israeli helicopter had struck the Turkish bath during the fighting of the Second Intifada, Hossein remembered, but there was no sign of that damage now.
An old man sat upon a bench near the warm stones, his eyes apparently closed in quiet repose and the major took a seat nearby, to await the arrival of Omar.
“The steam serves to warm an aged body on such a cool day,” a voice observed. It took Hossein a moment to realize the old man was looking in his direction.
He nodded stiffly, forcing himself to concentrate. “Much as the truth of Allah warms and purifies the soul,” the old man continued, his gaze penetrating. “You are searching for something, perhaps?”
“And what would that be, father?” Hossein asked respectfully, concerned by the strange inquiry. The man’s face seemed free of dissimulation, an open page before him.
“Faith, perhaps. Many men search in the dark tangles of life for something they can cling to. Or perchance you search for me?” A smile crossed the old man’s face, his lips parting to reveal badly chipped teeth. “My name is Omar.”
A heavy sigh escaped the major’s lips, coming along with the realization that he had been holding his breath. “I see.”
Omar smiled once more, taking Hossein’s hand in both of his and pressing a small key into the palm. “There is a black van in the alley outside. It should be more than sufficient for your needs.”
“Thank you, father,” Hossein responded, rising to his feet and looking down at the old man. It was time to
