Pandora's grave

“Good morning, David,” he replied, hesitating before he went on. The two men went back a long way-back to the ‘90s when Lay had been CIA chief of station in Tel Aviv and Shoham had been a liaison between their two intelligence agencies. The friendship had become steadily more distant over the years, as the two men climbed the ladder in their respective countries and the number of secrets to be kept grew.

But he was still a man Shoham called “friend”, and there were few of those. Precious few.

“How are things in Israel, Avi?” Lay asked, an innocent pleasantry designed to fill the suddenly awkward silence.

“As usual, David. Challenging. That’s not why I called. There’s been a matter which has come up in the last few days-a matter I believe you could shed some light upon.”

“I’ll do what I can, Avi. You know that.” The general smiled grimly, hearing the edge of reserve come into his friend’s voice.

“It’s not the kind of thing that can truly be discussed over the phone. I would like to set up a face-to-face meeting.”

He could almost hear the American flip open a schedule. “I’m sorry, Avi, but I don’t know when I could do that. My schedule is pretty much set for the next month, and that doesn’t allow for the crises that might demand my presence here.”

“I understand, and anticipated your dilemma. Neither can I leave Israel at this point in time. What I would instead propose is a meeting between our subordinates. In Eilat.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Let me check with Shapiro, my Deputy Director, and I will get back to you.”

“No,” Shoham interjected, abrupt as usual. “I have no interest in a meeting with Shapiro. Here in Israel we prefer to work with people we’ve worked with before, people with an understanding of the situation in the field. People we trust.”

“Who then?”

“Harold Nichols.”

“An NCS team leader? Why?”

“He will be meeting with Lieutenant Gideon Laner, one of my leading operators. A meeting of equals, you might say. He and Nichols worked together in the Bekaa Valley four years ago. I believe you remember the particulars.”

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line. “Tell me, Avi. Why should I accede to your request?”

“We are like children, David. Each holding pieces of the other’s puzzle. To give the picture meaning we must put our pieces together. Need I say more?”

“No. I will have to determine Nichols’ status, but we will arrange a meeting.”

“Thank you, David. And a good day to you.”

General Shoham hung up the phone with a heavy sigh, glancing across the room and out the window at the deep blue of the Mediterranean. The die had been cast…

7:38 A.M. Eastern Time

A mosque

Falls Church, Virginia

The door to the mosque was unlocked as always. Davood Sarami opened the door and slipped into the foyer, kneeling to remove his shoes. The mosque was a purpose-built structure, replacing the warehouse that had served as the local Islamic community’s house of worship when Davood had first visited two years before. He paused for a moment, taking in the beauty of the architecture. His heritage.

From within, he could hear the sound of a man sweeping and he walked forward, his bare feet padding noiselessly against the rugs. “Peace be upon you and the mercies of Allah. You have returned, my son,” the imam said, without looking up from his dustpan.

Davood just stood there, amused as always by the old man’s perception. “Yes, I have. You knew I would?”

“It is not in you, to depart from the faith of your fathers,” the imam stated, his voice calm and unequivocal.

The young agent leaned against one of the pillars, unsure of what to say. Faithful? He hardly felt that way. Yet perhaps the imam was right. The faith of one’s fathers…

“You are not in trouble, are you, my son?”

A shake of the head was Davood’s reply. “Why?”

The imam glanced up. “There were men here, about noon yesterday. Asking for you. They wished to ascertain what I knew of your past.”

“And you told them?”

“No, my son,” the old man replied slowly. “It is not a sin to lie to the infidel, but rather an act blessed of Allah. I told them nothing of pertinence.”

Davood stood there for a moment, seemingly rooted to the ground, his face pale in the glow of the candles. “Who were these men?”

“They did not identify themselves, my son. Their leader was of average height, dark-haired-of Italian descent, by the looks of him, swarthy, but not as dark as you or I.”

“How were they dressed?”

“Casually enough, the leader wore jeans and a light jacket.”

“A black jacket with the letters VT emblazoned on the back?”

The imam hesitated for a moment, looking up at the domed roof of the mosque as though he expected to find the answer written there. “Yes, I believe so. Why, do you know them?”