Pandora's grave

The view was uncanny, a true top-down birds-eye view. The perspective of the gods. It always reminded Carter of the original Grand Theft Auto games he had played as a teenager.

A figure moving down the street, toward a patrol of Israeli soldiers. The analyst clicked another button and slowed the scene down. “Watch here-between frames 2375 and 2394.”

“He pulls a pistol,” Kranemeyer announced slowly, narrating the video as it continued. “One man, two men down. Stops. Whoa!”

The explosion spread out over the satellite imaging, concealing the scene from view for a few seconds. The DCS grimaced. “Flash-bang. It’d have to be. There. Two more men down. He utilized his element of surprise to the fullest-we’re dealing with a professional. What’s their present heading?”

“Currently-south-southwest. Toward the West Bank. At their present rate of speed, they’ll be within the jurisdiction of the Palestinian Authority in two hours.”

“We’re going to break a lot of laws today,” Kranemeyer observed, shaking his head.

The comment drew an ironic look from the analyst. “When don’t we?”

1:13 P.M. Local Time

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

“It’s a match?” General Shoham looked from the analyst in front of him down to the grainy surveillance photo on the desk.

“The computer says the match is 83 % positive.”

“The computer?” the Mossad chief asked, more than a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “And what say you?”

The analyst hesitated and Shoham waved his hand impatiently. “Make the call. Is it Nichols?”

A brief nod, then the man replied, “Yes. It’s him. I’m certain of it.”

“I concur,” Shoham acknowledged, picking up the picture and transfixing it with a hard glance. “The question is-what is he doing crossing the border from Lebanon an hour ago, and who is the man with him?”

“I don’t have that answer, sir. We should have information on their identities within the hour.”

“Or who they said they were,” was Shoham’s brief retort. “Lies within lies. Bring me what you know as soon as you know it.”

2:01 P.M.

The road to Nablus

“Who are you?”

Harry sighed with irritation. It was the third time Asefi had asked him the question, and his mood had not improved with the repetition.

“A friend,” he responded sarcastically.

“They’ll be looking for us,” the Iranian observed, glancing out the window of the car as he drove. “Tradecraft says that you don’t steal a car unless you have to.”

“I had to,” was Harry’s brief reply. “And I seriously doubt the Israeli police go looking for cars stolen in Beirut.”

“I don’t understand why we can’t go our separate ways.”

Harry’s gaze shifted from the road in front of them to Asefi, giving the man a hard look. There was no way the man didn’t understand the rationale behind the situation. There was an object in his chatter, an ulterior motive.

“What if we’re stopped and I’m like this?” the Iranian demanded, gesturing with the right hand that Harry had cuffed to the steering wheel. “They’ll search the vehicle and us.”

“Then I suggest you drive in such a manner as not to attract attention.”

“It would be safer if you would uncuff me.”

“Safer for whom, Achmed? I’ve read your file. The Spetsnaz you killed in Chechnya, three men with your bare hands?”

“You have my word.”

Harry spat out the window of the car. “That for your word. Trust does not exist between men such as us.”

Asefi opened his mouth in protest, but Harry cut him off. “Be quiet and drive.”

Time was short…

2:37 P.M. Local Time

The Al-aqsa mosque

Jerusalem, Israel

“They are coming.”

Harun’s breath caught in his throat and he glanced up and down the length of the hall before responding. They were alone, the faint whirring of the ventilation fans the only sound disturbing the silence. On either side of them the stone walls of the Masjid al-Aqsa’s lower level rose into the vaulted ceiling, mute witness to their presence there. “Who?”

“The Americans,” the Hezbollah leader replied, calm pervading his features.

Harun recoiled from him in shock. “How? When? Where are they?”

“Control yourself, my brother. Rest in the might of Allah and He will be your strength. This is our moment.”

“How did they find out?”

Farouk seemed to ponder the question for a moment. “The how is not important, Harun. Rather, it is the why that matters.”

“Why?”

“Why?” the older man repeated, seeming amused by the question. A man in Western clothing entered at the far end of the hall and Al-Farouk raised his cellphone, snapping a picture of the stonework like any typical tourist.

“The answer is simple. That Allah might deliver them into our hands. It is His will.”

“Inshallah,” Harun replied after a moment, fighting down the fear that rose in his throat. As Allah wills it.

6:51 A.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia