Pandora's grave

“Isn’t there always?” Shoham asked, irony dripping from his tones as he walked over. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s the tags-but not the vehicle that crossed in from Lebanon. We found them attached to a Dodge Caravan in a wadi outside Jericho.”

“Burned out, I see.”

“Yes, it was on fire when responders arrived. No sign of a driver.”

“There wouldn’t be,” Shoham responded grimly, laying the photograph on the table. He tapped the image of the smoldering hulk. “This is a diversion. What’s the status of Lt. Laner and his team?”

“Ten minutes out. They were staging for an operation in the Negev.”

Shoham walked over to the window, gazing out through the reinforced windows at the city of Tel Aviv. “Let me know the moment they arrive.”

6:17 P.M.

The Masjid al-Aqsa

Jerusalem, Israel

There is no God but God, and Mohammed is His Prophet. His face turned toward Mecca, Harun fell forward upon his prayer mat, his forehead touching the cool fabric.

A chill ran through his body as the sunset prayer continued, the wailing cry of the muezzin ringing out over the ancient city.

His eyes closed, his mind raced with a thousand thoughts, uncertainties plaguing him.

As prayer ended, he rose, looking along the crowded plaza to the east, toward the golden-domed shrine in the center of the Haram al-Sharif. His fingers trembled at the sight. From his earliest childhood, he had been taught to revere this ground as sacred, as one of the holiest sites of all Islam. So many would die.

His choice had been made…

Farouk’s voice broke in upon his reverie and he looked up into the face of the Hezbollah commander.

“Take a good look, my brother,” Farouk said, encompassing the entire haram with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “This is the end of all things.”

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 hadith, the very stones will refuse to conceal the Jews in their terror.”

“Inshallah,” Harun whispered, looking out upon the crowd. A moment passed and he could feel Farouk’s eyes upon him.

“How could this be anything but the will of Allah?” the Hezbollah commander demanded, his voice low, intense.

For a long moment, neither man spoke, then Harun cleared his throat, spreading his hands out over the city. Al-quds. “So many of the faithful will die tomorrow, so many pilgrims at the noonday prayer. They have come to worship at the shrine of the Prophet, blessed be his name, and we will kill them.”

“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…”

7:25 P.M. Tehran Time

The Ayatollah’s Residence

Qom, Iran

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

6:32 P.M. Local Time

A safehouse in Ramallah

The West Bank

“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.

10:38 A.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“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?”