Guardian by Erik Williams Page A

done or not doesn’t matter right now. Believe it or not, Mike, my ass is on the line. You end up dead at the hands of some Arab group on US soil, ­people are going to ask a lot of questions. They’ll assume an ex-­CIA agent was killed by a terrorist cell. Then they’ll dig for more info on you, and I can’t afford them digging.”
    â€œAll to cover your ass. That’s what this is about.”
    â€œAnd yours, Cochise. Because if this gets exposed and you don’t end up dead, you win a front row seat up in before Congress with me and we both serve prison time together. Until we get this situation under control, we need to be smart. Which means you stay hidden. Get the picture now?”
    â€œYeah, sure.” Until I figure a way to kill this guy without your watchful eyes on me.
    â€œGood. Now get gone. I’ll call the FBI and give them Greengrass’s info.”

 
    Chapter Eleven
    K harija stood at the top of the terraced gardens of the Shrine of Báb and gazed out over Haifa toward the intoxicating blue waters of the Mediterranean. The view from the top of Mount Carmel was, albeit a cliché, absolutely breathtaking. All at once he could see the surrounding gardens with their lush grass and manicured hedges, the exquisite dome of the shrine half a kilometer below him, the skyline of Haifa, and the sea. For a moment he forgot he was not a tourist like the dozens of ­people around him, hiking and chatting and snapping photographs.
    But you are playing tourist for a day, and you have somewhat enjoyed i t , he thought, and commenced his descent down the stairs toward the base of the shrine. That is why you came here. To be a normal person for a few hours before baiting the hound.
    Yet it felt false, no matter how much he wanted to appreciate the beauty. He knew why, of course. He was alone. Without Malika and Rasha, he was nothing. A tool. A means to a regional holocaust. But he would willingly bring about that holocaust to save them. Millions of strangers meant nothing to him. Malika and Rasha, though, were everything. Their lives were still savable, though he knew that the only way to save them was to bait the hound. To catch him and hand him over and ensure the holocaust Nassir desired. And he would do it. To be with them once more.
    Or die trying.
    Mayyat had failed to draw Caldwell into the open thus far. Two days since the first two victims had been set on the hook with not even a nibble. The man had not succumbed to his anger. The need for vengeance, which Caldwell’s profile clearly reflected as a serious character trait, had not blossomed. Instead, he had probably moved deeper underground.
    Kharija had learned something over the years. Better to wait and react than to simply react. He had not anticipated this, but then, he’d been desperate, and so hoped that Caldwell would fall into his usual intoxication with justified killing. As a result, he could see that a new catalyst was needed. The time had come to lay fresh bait. Kharija nodded and quickened his descent.
    A cool breeze drifted off the Mediterranean and kept the high sun from heating the air beyond comfortable. Wearing a white linen shirt and slacks, Kharija looked very much the part of a successful Arab on holiday. Even the Haifa police ignored him, probably assuming he was one of the few rich Arabs who made Haifa home. Or maybe they thought he was a Syrian Jew. Either way, it worked to his advantage.
    He reached the bottom of the mountain and found a gift shop. He selected a postcard with a wide view of the Shrine of Báb and the terraced gardens rising behind it. He also picked up a bottle of water and set them on the counter for the cashier.
    This is a desperate and terrible plan, he thought. But what choice do I have?
    He thought about Malika and Rasha. Nassir’s patience grew thinner by the second. And Mayyat’s brutality had failed thus far. It was time to tell Caldwell where the