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nothing. Just this blasted game of chicken with the Iranians, wondering who in heaven’s name is going to blink first !” He glared over at the young man standing before him. “Read me the last transmission again.”
    The chief of the Israeli Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, popularly known as Mossad, closed his eyes as his aide began to read the transcript, the words burning themselves into his memory just as they had done every time he had heard them, ever since they had first been uttered, eight days before. The day when one of his prime intelligence assets had disappeared off the face of the earth. He knew them by heart.
    “… three of the Americans are dead… The Iranian military will be here soon… I am initiating the destruction of all mission-pertinent files. Nothing will be left for them to find… Good-bye and Mazel tov .”
    Good luck. The last words known to have been spoken by their agent, a man he had known and respected for years. A man who at that moment had needed more than his share of luck.
    Shoham turned back to the window, gazing out over the lake below him, a lake of darkness, a lake of turbulence. In ancient times, the Jews had called it the abyss. For him it had always been a symbol of the country he had sworn to protect. Dark, turbulent, teetering on the brink of destruction, of the abyss. Of Galilee .
    He had conceived the operation, overseen its execution, watched as it started to produce some of their best intelligence on exactly what the Iranian government was planning. The best since the fall of the ayatollahs and the rise of the Shirazi as military dictator. Six months. That’s how long it had lasted. And now this. His aide’s voice brought him back to the present.
    “Sir, I don’t think the Iranians know he was working for us.”
    “Why?” the Mossad chief turned on the young man, fire flashing in his dark eyes.
    “Well, sir,” he began, suddenly hesitant under the general’s gaze, “every time in the past that they have burned our agents, they’ve immediately exhibited them to the world as a sign of Zionist treachery and duplicity. This time, they have been completely silent.”
    “Then what did happen to him?” Shoham demanded, his voice filling the room like an echo of thunder.
    “Sir, I have no idea.”
    “I figured as much,” the general said heavily, walking across the room to his desk. “The Americans will come calling soon, wondering what happened to their citizens. It’s just a matter of whom they’ll call first, Tehran or us.” He glanced up quickly, looking across the room at the aide. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly even. “We know nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
    “Right, sir.”
    “Get me Tel Aviv.”
     
    8:05 A.M. Baghdad Time
    Q-West Airfield
    Northern Iraq
     
    “All right, gentlemen. Another burst.” The crackle of Kalishnikov assault rifles on full-automatic followed his order, a high rippling sound reminiscent of a string of firecrackers going off.
    Harry lifted the binoculars to his eyes, gazing down the makeshift firing range. Good, he thought. Quite good. But not good enough .
    “Davood, Parker,” he ordered sharply, “pick it up a bit. We need to tighten those groupings.”
    “Roger, roger,” the New Yorker replied, the metal stock of his AK-47 fully extended against his shoulder as he lay prone against the hot desert sand. He sighted quickly down the barrel and triggered off what was left of the magazine into the silhouette target seventy yards away. “How’s that, chief?”
    Harry nodded grimly. The chest of the paper target had been all but obliterated. “Good work. Davood?”
    The Iranian hadn’t moved, instead was glaring up at Harry, irritation glinting in his dark eyes.
    “I said , give it another try.”
    Davood gestured downrange, at his last grouping. “I’ve already done the best I could. And I’d like to see you do better.”
    Harry was at his side in two quick steps, twisting the assault