Pandora's grave

There is a man in Nablus named Omar. A man of pure faith and true. Go to him and he will aid you in your mission.

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 leave.

Omar leaned back against the stones, a look of sadness coming into his eyes. “As you have found me, may you find your faith, my son. Allah guide your steps.”

4:23 P.M. Local Time

The road to Nablus

“The Land Rover is parked outside the Hammam al-Shifa in Nablus. The men went inside.”

“How long have they been there?” Harry asked, glancing at his watch.

There was a brief pause, then Carter responded, “About thirty minutes.”

“Do we know what’s there?”

“I hear it’s a good place to get a massage, but no, we don’t have anything that would explain their presence there.”

Harry looked over at Asefi. The bodyguard was looking away from him, out the window of the car, but no doubt listening to the conversation. “Hold one, I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Make it quick,” Carter advised. “CRUCIFIX is fifteen minutes out. We need you ready to move as soon as he makes the delivery.”

“Roger that.” Harry slipped the phone back in his pocket and sat there for a moment, alternatives, options playing through his mind. Choices. His eyes wandered to the rear-view mirror and he could see Tex seated on an idling motorcycle about thirty yards back toward the highway.

There was only one choice when it came down to it.

“Ready to go?” Asefi asked, glancing idly back toward the highway. There was no response to his question, just silence. His head jerked around, panic gripping his body in a premonition of evil.

He was staring down the barrel of a gun. “Wh-what’s going on?”

“You lied to us,” the man responded, his voice containing all the warmth of an arctic storm.

If you can touch it, you can take it. The long-ago instruction came flashing back into Asefi’s brain, the words of a mentor of his. A Russian martial arts instructor. Take the gun, his mind screamed, but the-the American, as he had come to regard him, moved first, exiting the car.

“Get out.”

“I don’t understand,” the bodyguard protested, pushing open the driver’s side door and stepping out. “What’s going on?”

“Simple, Achmed,” the American replied, keeping the hood of the car between the two of them. Disarming him was no longer a viable option. “You lied to us, took our money, sold us out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Eight million dollars, Achmed. We paid that money for reliable intelligence and you sold us a bill of goods.”

“A bill of goods? What do you mean?”

The pistol never wavered as the American continued, cold anger in his tones. “The target never was the Masjid al-Aqsa, was it? Just a city of 130,000 souls. And you take your money and ride off into the sunset.”