Pandora's grave

“Your estimates?”

“Jerusalem has a population of over seven hundred thousand. An average five percent of them will be at Ground Zero.” Carter rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Factor in their families and people they might be in close contact with during the time between exposure and possible death. You’re looking at a minimum hundred-hundred and twenty thousand potentially infected. Untreated, pneumonic plague has a mortality rate between ninety-six and one hundred percent.”

“And Schuyler’s just told us we can’t treat this strain,” Lay added. “Figure one hundred thousand plus dead across Israel and the Palestinian Authority. Epicenter: Jerusalem.”

“That’s not how Shirazi’s looking at it,” Carter replied shrewdly.

“What do you mean?”

“For Shirazi, this is nothing more than a beginning. You might say it’s the down payment on apocalypse.”

The DCIA’s lips pursed, drawing together into a thin, bloodless line. “Then, gentlemen, our course is perfectly clear. As cliched as it sounds, it’s true. Failure is not an option.”

At that moment, his secretary knocked on the conference room door. “I have the President on line two, sir.”

“Put him through,” Lay responded, dismissing Shapiro and Carter with a curt, “That will be all, gentlemen.”

A moment later, the phone in his hand rang and he hesitated before answering it. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

“A request for operational approval crossed my desk a few minutes ago,” Hancock responded, a characteristically hostile edge to his voice. It had been years since Lay had let it bother him.

“Oh, yes, the extraction papers. If I might insist, Mr. President, we need that approval expedited.”

“I would have thought we were done with these games, director.”

“Games?”

“The document simply requests approval for the extraction of an Iranian cleric. The name has been redacted.”

“Based on need-to-know, Mr. President,” Lay replied wearily. “This is an ongoing operation.”

“I’m aware of that. I’m also aware of the history of these mullahs. You’re seeking to bring one of them into this country and I’m somehow not supposed to care who it is?”

The DCIA looked up at the ceiling, considering his options. “As you wish, Mr. President. The man in question is the Ayatollah Yousef Mohaymen Isfahani.”

A sharp intake of breath was the only sound from the other end of the phone for a long moment. Then, “The Supreme Leader? Have you lost your mind, Lay?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“In 2011 you tried to assassinate this man as a terrorist!”

Lay sighed. It was going to be a long conversation. “That’s all relative, Mr. President. Alliances change…”

10:29 P.M. Local Time

US Naval Support Activity

Souda Bay, Crete

Hamid checked the silenced Heckler amp; Koch MP-5SD submachine gun for a third and final time before slapping a thirty-round magazine of 9mm hollowpoints into the mag well. Four more magazines were held in pouches around his belt.

He looked over at Thomas, who was breaking down his Barrett M98B sniper rifle for travel. “You bring the rubbers?”

“Sure thing,” the New Yorker grinned. He dug in his pocket and retrieved a small package, tossing it over.

Hamid tore open the plastic and leaned his MP-5 up against the fuselage of the aircraft, unrolling a prophylactic over the barrel.

“Condoms?”

The two agents looked up to see Lt. Hanson standing in the cockpit doorway, a quizzical expression on his face. Hamid laughed. “Yeah, they’re great for all sorts of things. Forms a waterproof seal on the barrel, helps prevent a blockage. You need to go into action quickly? Just pull the trigger. No worries.”

Hanson forced a smile. “I wish that was all I was worried about.”

“What’s going on?” Hamid asked, looking up from his work.

“The barometer’s falling fast,” the airman replied. “We’ve got a cold front moving in.”

“Here or at the drop zone?”

“Here.”

“Then what’s our problem?”

Hanson took a step into the back of the airplane and faced the CIA agents. “Look, I’ve been flying in and out of here for five years. The mountains generally shield you from the wind, but when a front like this strikes here, the westerlies funnel down between here and the main island. It’s like a wind tunnel. I’ve seen times when the Navy wouldn’t even berth their ships, the gusts were so bad.”

“And the planes were grounded,” Thomas added quietly, grasping the situation.

“That’s right.”

Davood spoke up. “How long is the storm expected to last? Can we wait it out?”

“I’m game to wait,” the pilot replied, “but the weatherman’s playing fast and loose with his forecast. The storm could last from between twelve and fifteen hours.”

Hamid exchanged a look with Thomas, then cleared his throat. “That’s a non-option. Can you get us out now?”

“I can try.”

10:48 P.M. Local Time

The road to Tel Aviv