His beliefs had never been a hindrance to his mission — not in the way some might have thought. Rather they strengthened his resolve. Some might have called his worldview simplistic, but not anyone that truly knew him. In the perpetually clouded world of espionage, he clung to one fundamental truth: Evil existed to be destroyed.
Knowing that, everything else became clear.
There in the stillness, he suddenly felt a presence behind him, the knowledge that someone was there striking home with the certainty of death.
He turned quickly, his hand flickering inside his suit toward the Colt secured in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.
“Good morning. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
Harry withdrew his hand, his face relaxing into a smile as he recognized the figure in the back of the auditorium. “No problem, pastor. I had just finished.”
Pastor Scott emerged from the shadows, still in his shirtsleeves, adjusting a microphone to his lapel. “You’ve noticed.”
“Noticed what?” Harry asked.
“The peace. This old church has seen many a battle over the years, but it’s still as peaceful as the first time I walked through the doors. ‘The peace of God, which passeth all understanding.’”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. I had.”
“I’m glad you could join us,” the older man remarked, laying a hand on Harry’s shoulder. If he could feel the straps of the holster, he gave no sign.
“Plans changed,” Harry replied simply. “I’m flying out again tonight.”
“I’ll be praying for you.”
Harry turned, looking the pastor in the eye. They both fought evil, in their own way. Both had seen the dark side of battle. And they regarded each other with the respect of comrades-in-arms. “And I for you…”
The slippery slope. In better times, during his college days at Princeton, Michael Shapiro had dismissed the concept as archaic, a throw-back to the old notions of moral absolutes-right and wrong.
They had been good days, heady times. Looking back he realized he had been just like every other young man. The world on a string. Before the climb to power.
Before his own feet had hit that legendary slope. The Deputy Director’s Suburban slowed to a stop at the first checkpoint of the complex that was the Central Intelligence Agency, and Shapiro sighed, leaning against the back seat of the SUV as his driver handed out their identification.
If a man could see the end of the road, he would never be tempted to sin. The DD(I) passed a hand over his eyes, remembering the words of a priest from his childhood in Boston. The simple life he had left behind in search of power.
His phone rang and his body tensed, dread coursing through his veins. A look at the screen confirmed his worst fears.
That was just the trouble. No man could see the end of the road.
“Hello.”
“Where are you?”
“Just arriving at Langley,” Shapiro replied, wiping a sweaty palm against the knee of his suit pants. “Unfinished business to sort out before I join my family for mass.”
“God will have to wait,” the voice replied with a short, barking laugh. “The Iranian ambassador to the United Nations is in D.C. You need to arrange a meeting with him.”
“When?”
“Today. Within the next two hours, if possible.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Make it happen, Shapiro.”
The Gulfstream IV taxied to a stop behind a large hangar, the steps folding down out of the business jet almost before the engines had shut down.
A tall, dark-haired man in the slacks and a sports jacket of a vacationing businessman emerged, striding down the stairs with the air of a conqueror.
The mechanic working underneath the Learjet in an adjacent hangar paused to stare appreciatively at the young woman on the businessman’s arm, watching as she turned to her companion, laughing artlessly at his joke.
A vision of beauty. With an envious sigh, the mechanic reached for his wrench and went back to work. The girl in the sundress. Tourists…
The girl’s laughter faded as they turned ‘round the corner of the hangar. “We’re clear,” she whispered to her companion.
Gideon Laner toggled his lip mike. “Time to roll, Yossi. Where are you?”
“I’ve got eyes on you, boss. We’re parked at your nine o’clock. See the green SUV?”
“Roger,” Gideon replied. “Coming to you.”
He wrapped an affectionate arm around the young woman’s waist and led her across the parking lot, laughing like a couple very much in love.
The first stage of the mission was a success…
There. Ron Carter’s hand flicked the mouse cursor across the screen, double-clicking on a Deployment folder.
The folder opened in a separate window and he ran two fingers through his hair, a nervous tic common to his moments of anxiety.
The phone rang, jarring him from his concentration. He grabbed it and tucked it between ear and shoulder, his eyes running down the database index that filled the screen.
“Yes? Yes, Stacy, include Morgan in the hourlies — he’s cleared for CRITIC effective last Wednesday. It’s time he got brought up to speed. Yes, I understand.”
A line caught his attention and everything else went blank as he focused in on the screen before. Yes. Yes!
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed, ignoring a confused query from the party on the other end of the line.
He abruptly disconnected the call and began dialing a new number. “Margaret, I need to speak to Director Lay.”
“I’ll make an incision here with my combat knife,” Thomas stated, drawing an imaginary “Y” on his own chest. “Then we will need to saw off the sternum and lift the heart from the chest cavity.”
Sirvan winced. “This is necessary?”
Thomas nodded. “We’ve got to drain blood from the aorta in order to obtain the samples I need. That’s the whole purpose of going down there.” He looked into the young Kurd’s face and went on. “I can do this myself if you’d rather not.”
Azad Badir leaned forward, a resolute look on his weathered face. “You misunderstand my grandson, Thomas. A Kurd has not been born that fears the shedding of blood. It is just that — what you suggest, in our culture, implies the desecration of the dead.”
“I understand,” Thomas replied, choosing his words with care. “But you must understand how important this is. If the Iranians are not stopped, they could use this bacteria anywhere. Against your people again, against mine — or any other. This is our chance.”
The shepherd seemed to consider this statement for a long moment, as though struggling within himself. At length he raised his eyes to look Thomas in the face.
“You are a brave man, Mr. Patterson. I have seen many such, and never have I let bravery go unrewarded. Go, and may Allah guide your feet.”
Thomas stood, picking up the AK from where it lay at his side. “I thank you,” he responded, reaching forward to clasp the shepherd’s hand.
Sirvan rose to his feet, advancing toward him. “It is not right that you should go alone,” he announced grimly. “You have proven yourself as one of the peshmerga. You have killed in our defense. You are blood of our blood and flesh of our flesh. I have given my word and I will not go back.”
Thomas turned, looking into those dark, enigmatic eyes, reading the friendship written there. “Welcome.”