He lifted his coffee mug, sipping, staring at the screen. “Could you assholes really get access to that sort of weapons tech?”

Hammerson went back another day, then another week, then a month. The trace was gone, vanished. It didn’t exist one day, and then the next, it just shows up in Mosul.

“Well now, who dropped that gift into your laps?”

Hammerson was in luck; the satellite had been directly over Mosul, making drill-down possible. He selected and amplified, diving down to the city blocks and then to the roofs, until he came to a single dwelling – a large flat structure that could be a small warehouse or factory.

“Love to get a look in there.” Hammerson read the Case Activity Section of the classified report – the situation was currently under the jurisdiction of the CIA, who was coordinating with the local Iraqi police and armed forces.

So, a nuke goes off in the Middle East and we let the suits and sunglasses go front and center, he thought. Might as well close the file now. He grunted, drumming his fingers. He knew he couldn’t push his nose into everything, but something about this incident made the hair on his neck prickle. He had the feeling it was like a test run – a prelude to something bigger.

Hammerson turned in his seat to look out of his large office window. He doubted the Israelis would be treating a thermonuclear explosion in their backyard with as much indifference.

CHAPTER 2

Tel Aviv, Israel

General Meir Shavit was the head of Metsada, the Special Operations Division of the Mossad. Short and grizzle-haired, he had served his country for over fifty years in both military theaters and dedicated intelligence services. He could even boast an apprenticeship under the fearsome Ariel Sharon in the infamous Unit 101 – Israel’s very first Special Forces command.

Though the Mossad was classed a civilian bureaucratic security operation, Shavit’s Metsada was the most structured and professional. It was also the deadliest, responsible for assassination, paramilitary operations, sabotage, and psychological warfare. Metsada was Israel’s fist, and Shavit was its brain.

Shavit spread the photographs out on his desk like a hand of playing cards. His stubby finger came down on one with a circle of red around a flat roofed building.

“In here, Addy. That is where we believe the bomb originated.” He looked up at his niece, his eyes yellowed from years of smoking. “There are no traces leading in, only ones leading out.”

Adira Senesh nodded, looking at the building, memorizing every stone, crack and piece of rubble in the streets surrounding it. Noting access points, exits, and potential danger zones from surrounding buildings.

“A bomb factory.” She knew it must be fortified. “They must have landed a helicopter on the roof. Dropped the components or completed device in that way.”

Shavit grunted. “I think yes. They received it there, and then someone, one person, somehow walked it to Soran.” He sat back. “Impossible.”