Harun nodded, his expression serious. “This is the day that was spoken of by the Prophet,” the older man continued, still caught in the grandeur of the moment. “As it is written in the
“
“How could this be anything
For a long moment, neither man spoke, then Harun cleared his throat, spreading his hands out over the city.
“You have doubts?”
Mustering up his remaining courage, Harun turned to look the older man in the eye. “Doubt is a human affliction. It will not sway me from the task at hand. Allah forgive this moment of weakness.”
Another moment passed, then the flinty expression on Farouk’s face relaxed into some semblance of a smile. “He will, my brother. Be strong…”
The sun was going down. Day ending and night beginning in the eternal cycle. The Ayatollah Isfahani closed his Quran and sat there for a moment, looking out his window as the clouds turned gold, then purple, then crimson, bathing the sky in blood as the sun slipped across the salt desert of the Darsht-e Kavir.
It would be a long night. He laid the sacred book aside and reached into the drawer of his metal desk, pulling out a black Russian-made MP-443 semiautomatic pistol. It was loaded with seventeen rounds, hollowpoints, 9mm Luger. He had never fired a pistol before in his life, but after a moment’s reflection, he slipped it into a pocket of his robe, beside the satellite phone that was his link to Hossein and his men.
He was committed. There were times along this path when he could have gone back, turned aside, fled in the face of his destiny. No longer.
To stake one’s life on a roll of the dice…
Chapter Sixteen
“Have the men secure their weapons,” Hossein ordered, exiting the van with Mustafa at his side. “We’ll be here no longer than an hour.”
The next part of the journey would be the hardest, Hossein reflected. Crossing back into the occupied territories, the so-called state of Israel. Some of his men would cross the border on foot, rejoining the rest of the team on the other side. Difficult, but it could be done.
Miles overhead, a commercial satellite swung into position over the West Bank, taking hundreds of images. It’s subjects, among other things, included the black van.
“We’ve got it!” Carol announced, a sort of exhausted triumph in her voice as she laid the photograph down on Kranemeyer’s desk.
“Where are they?”
“A house on the outskirts of Ramallah. We’ve checked the address-it was flagged on our servers as a possible Fatah safehouse back in 2010.”
“Fatah?” Kranemeyer asked skeptically. “That’s a connection we’ve not seen before.”
He stared at the picture for a moment, lost in thought. All at once, his head came up, a look of decision on his face. “Pass this along to Nichols and get him moving in that direction. Have Ron contact Sorenson over at the NRO and get him to task a satellite to the West Bank. Pull it off Myanmar if he has to. If he complains, tell him Burmese monks will be the least of our worries if these dirtbags reach their target.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harry’s phone closed with a
“What do we have?” Tex asked from the back seat.
“The tangos are at a Fatah safehouse in Ramallah. Word is it looks like they’re preparing to move.”
The car moved out onto the highway, merging with southbound traffic. Harry looked up from his map. “Given current traffic conditions, I’d say we can be there in twenty-five minutes. Be ready.”
There was no acknowledgment from the backseat. None was needed. Just a look of grim determination on the Texan’s face. They were going into battle once again.
Asefi stole a look at the American beside him as the car gained speed, accelerating down the highway. Despite the warmth of the day, he felt himself shiver. What a risk it was, this deception he had chosen to perpetrate. He felt for all the world like a tightrope artist, balancing high above a bottomless chasm. A single step to the left or the right and his fate was sealed.
Never look down…
The old man was right. As usual.
Nichols’ fingerprints were all over this. Not in the sense of physical, iron-clad proof, but the very absence of it. After years in the field, Gideon’s instincts were as honed as finely as those of a sonarman.
Don’t look for the signs of a trained operator because you won’t see them. Look for what’s not there, the black hole where there should be noise.
Yossi Eiland was waiting at the vehicle, a
Gideon motioned for him to get in the SUV and slipped into the driver’s seat himself, sitting there in silence for a long moment. The American had made fools of them only days before, he reflected grimly. It wasn’t going to happen again.
“Where now, boss?” Eiland asked, handing the rifle to Chaim in the back seat.
Off to the east, Laner could see the setting sun glinting off the turbulent waters of the Jordan River.
