Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  11:45 A.M.

  The Residence of the Supreme Ayatollah

  Qom, Iran

  “Time?” The Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Yousef Mohaymen Isfahani, asked, turning to the attendant at his side.

  “Fifteen minutes until noon,” the man replied, bowing deeply. Isfahani acknowledged his words with a nod, looking northward from the portico as though fancying he could see the approaching helicopter.

  Failing in that, he turned away, placing both hands on the balustrade as he glanced into the courtyard beneath him. So much had changed in the last few years. And the world had barely noticed.

  Gone was the theocracy that had ruled Iran for over three decades. Not truly gone, perhaps, but gutted of all true power. Men might still call him the Supreme Leader, but he was a figurehead, little more.

  This meeting had the potential to change all that. A chill ran through his aging body, despite the pounding heat of the noonday sun. It was a terrible risk.

  He smiled with a grim humor. The West was too consumed with its worsening economic troubles to keep track of events in Iran. And outwardly, little had changed in the years since a military cabal had seized power in Tehran. Led by then-general Mahmoud F’Azel Shirazi, the conspirators had succeeded in corrupting large numbers of the Revolutionary Guard and regular army to their cause. The revolt had been sudden and swift, leaving the ayatollahs with no time to react.

  Those few Western press agencies that had taken notice had hailed the end of Iran’s theocracy in terms of the demise of radical Islam in Iran.

  The Ayatollah’s lip curled upward in a sneer of disdain at the memory. The fools! Had they bothered to investigate Shirazi and his compatriots, their blood would have run cold. Despite his apparent interest in increased openness to the West, Mahmoud Shirazi was odds-on the most radical leader Iran had ever seen.

  The twelfth imam. To some Iranians the concept was more figurative than literal, just as some in the Christian world regarded the revelations of John to be allegorical in nature.

  Others saw him as their messiah, who would return in the midst of apocalypse to save true believers. And still others believed that they must bring about that apocalypse to usher in his return…

  Isfahani sighed at the reflection. It was a theological debate that traced its roots back to the very foundations of the Islamic faith. The world of Islam had begun to fracture before the body of its Prophet had even cooled.

  On the one hand, there were those who believed that in the absence of a directly appointed successor, one should be elected from among their ranks. Their name, Sunni, clearly indicated that they felt they had chosen the “Right Path”.

  On the other hand, however, a minority faction of Mohammed’s close followers and kin put forth the idea that a close relative of the Prophet should succeed him and named Hazrat Ali, a cousin and son-in-law of Mohammed, as successor.

  Looking back, the ayatollah thought, the debate seemed trite, but it had split Islam in two. In the midst of a bloody civil war, Hazrat Ali, the “Lion of God”, had been slain by Sunni assassins, who then replaced him with one of their own luminaries. The partisans of Ali withdrew in defeat, to become a persecuted minority, known as the Shiah, a name taken from the Arabic word for partisan.

  But they had kept the bloodline pure, through the ravages of war, persecution, and assassination. Over the following two centuries, eleven men carried the title of imam in the Shiite world. Eleven men—warriors, scholars, and theologians. Descendants of Hazrat Ali and pure of both blood and faith.

  And then there were twelve.

  What mark this twelfth imam might have left on the world was unknown–or rather, as Shirazi and his followers believed, yet to be seen.

  He had been a lad of four years old when he disappeared down a well in the year A.D. 874, never to be seen again. But what might have been written off as a tragic accident took a different shape in the Shiite mind. The twelfth, and last, of the imams had not fallen to his death. Nay, rather, he had been occultated or hidden away by Allah until his return at the end of the world, when he would return in a flaming vengeance to cleanse the earth of unbelievers.

  He heard the helicopter before he saw it, the steady drumbeat of the rotor intruding itself upon his thoughts.

  The old man’s eyes brightened. “That should be Major Hossein now,” he said, turning to his attendant. “Bring him to me as soon as he lands.”

  10:20 A.M. Local Time

  C-141 Starlifter

  Final approach to Ramstein Airbase, Germany

  The small knot of men in Air Force uniforms near the back of the Starlifter’s cargo hold bore no resemblance to the men that had just spent two days deep inside hostile territory.

  Hostile territory, Harry mused, running a hand over his smooth-shaven chin. Completing the job had been necessary to once again pass himself off as an Air Force colonel, despite the lack of time.

  With Rebecca Petras in the picture, he very much fancied himself still in hostile territory. Or at least less than friendly.

  From the looks on the faces of his fellow team members, he knew they were thinking the same thing. Such was the world of an operator. Caught on the knife’s edge between the cold, hard facts of life in the field and the political maneuvering of bureaucratic desk jockeys more interested in advancing their own careers than protecting their country’s interests.

  Not that it mattered in the end. Going in, they had known the score. They had done the job they had been given to do. Now the trick was to survive the fallout.

  “What’s our play, boss?” Hamid asked.

  Harry smiled. It was sometimes difficult to imagine the football-crazed Zakiri as a kid growing up in Saddam Hussein’s Iraq. As with most of those who’ve learned English as a second language, Hamid’s speech was very proper and correct, but when slang slipped in, it was invariably sports-related.

  The question remained. “Keep our mouths shut,” Harry replied, answering it. “Answer everything they ask—volunteer nothing more.”

  “It’s our duty to help them in any way we can,” Davood blurted out, a look of surprise on his face as he glanced up. “We’re all on the same side.”

  Harry and Tex exchanged a quiet smile, then Harry responded. “You think so? Get a few more missions under your belt before you go drawin’ those conclusions. We’re a team. We think like a team, we act like a team, we depend on each other. Why? Because no one’s on our side—and don’t fool yourself into thinking any different. Each other—that’s all we can count on. Do you understand?”

  Davood looked from one team member to another, then responded with a quiet, “Yes.”

  With the same grim smile on his face, Harry reached out and clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Good. Let’s stick together on this. We’re a team.”

  Yet even as he said the words, Harry could see the doubt in Davood’s eyes. He was young, he was inexperienced, and perhaps worst of all, trusting.

  Just above them, the “Fasten Seatbelts” light came on and the men retreated to their seats to prepare for landing. Harry watched the young agent out of the corner of his eye as he collected his personal effects. Recognizing the danger there.

  Trust. It was the currency of human relationships, perhaps the most basic and sacred element of personal life. Extended to the wrong people, he had seen it kill. Often enough to question whether there were any “right” people.

  Harry turned away, looking out the window as the Starlifter’s wheels touched down on German soil. These were his people. His team. And he would do whatever it took to protect them. They would do the same for him…

  12:23 P.M. Tehran Time

  The Holy Shrine of Hazrat-e Ma’sumeh

  Qom, Iran

  The last echoes of the muezzin’s call had scarcely died away when an attendant scurried forward to retrieve the prayer mat. Isfahani rose, looking toward the golden dome of the shrine.

  He cast a sidelong glance at the man rising next to him, a cool appra
isal. The ayatollah had long prided himself in his ability to take the measure of a man in a single glance.

  Major Hossein was proving measurably more difficult. He was a tall man, his features undeniably Persian.

  Farshid. His name too was Persian, not Islamic, taken from the secular Shahnama saga, and meaning “bright as the sun”.

  Bright as the hope flickering in the ayatollah’s heart.

  They made a strange couple as they, flanked by Isfahani’s bodyguards, walked across the square toward the mural-bedecked cemetery of the Martyrs.

  The holy man and the warrior.

  “You understand why I have brought you here, do you not?” The ayatollah asked a few short moments later, gesturing to a mural of a slain fighter, fallen, like all the rest in this cemetery, during the Iran-Iraq War.

  The major nodded, his face well-nigh expressionless, the only trace of nervousness visible in the twisting of the coral beads between his fingers.

  He is not a religious man, Isfahani realized with a sudden start, recognizing the awkwardness with which Hossein handled the tasbih, the Muslim equivalent of the rosary, a beaded recitation of the hundred names of Allah. For a moment, doubt smote his heart, but he pushed it aside with an effort. The will of Allah would be fulfilled regardless.

  “They died fighting, major. Fighting their fellow Muslims. Your own father among them,” the ayatollah finished, a warning lurking in his words. A warning that Hossein’s past was an open book.

  A nod was the major’s only reply, for Isfahani had gone on without waiting for one. “It is happening again. Think of it, my son, if these forces were but united against the infidel.”

  “ ‘I against my brother,’”quoted Hossein, “ ‘my brother and I against our cousin—my brother, my cousin, and I against the infidel.’”

  “Such has always been our weakness,” Isfahani mused bitterly. “Ever since the days of the Prophet. So it will always be. Unity is more than we can hope for, major.”

  “Then what is our objective?” Hossein asked, the military man rising to the surface as his confidence returned.

  Isfahani turned, his steel gray eyes seeming to pierce to the very soul with the intensity of their stare. “To prevent desecration…”

  2:11 P.M. Tehran Time

  Northwestern Iran

  They had seen the flames shortly after fording the stream. It had taken them two hours to reach this small Kurdish village—or rather what was left of it, Thomas thought, standing in the smoldering ruins. Beyond him lay the body of an aged grandmother, her skull crushed in by a rifle-butt. A couple of feet to her right, the corpse of a small child, face charred beyond recognition by the flames. The odor of burnt flesh hung in the air.

  Butchery. The body of an aged man lay across the threshold of his house, a bolt-action Mosin-Nagant clutched in his stiff, lifeless hands. Thomas’s mind registered the futility of the old man’s resistance even as his heart moved in silent admiration of its raw courage.

  An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, Thomas reflected. The old laws of vengeance had never died here in the East. He was standing amidst the fruits of it. The ashes of dreams.

  Thomas saw several of the women among the PJAK group kneel among the rubble, weeping over the bodies of the dead. Estere was not among them. He turned to find her standing by a shell crater, looking out over the valley, the British-made sniper rifle still cradled in her arms.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered, walking up to stand at her shoulder.

  It was a long time before she even turned to look at him. “Sorry,” she murmured, almost spitting the word from her mouth. “We have been abandoned here.” Estere turned toward him, and a chill went down his spine at the look in her eyes. “They slay our people as they sleep, and when we strike back, your President calls us terrorists. We fight for our liberty,” she continued, her voice trembling, “nothing more. And nothing less.”

  She fell silent once more as Sirvan came up to join them. “Regular army,” he announced grimly. “Likely in retaliation for our ambush two weeks ago.”

  A shovel was in his left hand, and he tossed it to Thomas with the words, “Let us bury the dead.”

  Thomas took it without a word and followed the young Kurd through the streets of the village. Yet even later, as they dug the graves, he could not get Estere’s face out of his mind. The look in her eyes. He had seen it, so many times before, in the eyes of his comrades through the years. The look of death.

  Your President calls us terrorists…

  6:04 A.M. Eastern Time

  The Oval Office

  Washington, D.C.

  “So, we’re negotiating with terrorists, are we?”

  David Lay lifted his eyes from the folder in front of him to meet President Hancock’s gaze. “PJAK’s status has been a matter of dispute over the years. Under the previous administration, they were removed from the US terrorism watch list.”

  “A mistake I was quick to rectify,” Hancock interjected coldly, cutting the DCIA off. “Did you know about this, Lawrence?”

  Lawrence Bell, the National Intelligence Director, shook his head slowly. “I was not briefed on the situation till late yesterday afternoon. By then PJAK had already sequestered our agent.”

  The President turned back to Lay. “Is there a reason you did not send this through the appropriate channels, director?”

  Lay sighed. This was going about the way he had expected. Not well. “With all due respect, Mr. President, the situation was moving very fast. Our man was in danger of being picked up by members of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards. Given that possibility and the difficulties intrinsic to conducting an E&E through northwestern Iran, I authorized Director Kranemeyer to work our contacts with PJAK in order to secure our agents’ safety. I believe the actions of my people were necessary to avoid compromising the mission and I signed off on every step,” the DCIA finished boldly, his eyes locking with those of the President.

  Hancock traded an irritated glance with the DNI, then turned back to Lay. “One of our agents is in the hands of Kurdish terrorists and you believe the mission isn’t compromised?”

  He glanced down at the dossier in front of him, then went on without waiting for Lay to answer. “Director Bell informs me that you established some sort of quid pro quo with Badir in order to secure the return of our agent. What were the terms of this agreement?”

  “An agreement pending your authorization, Mr. President,” Lay replied, choosing his words carefully.

  “Of course. What were the terms?”

  The DCIA took a deep breath. This was going to be the difficult part. “Badir is in need of surface-to-air missiles, or SAMs—Stingers, more specifically. He has requested a shipment in exchange for delivering our agent to our forces in Iraq.”

  Hancock’s expression didn’t change. “So,” he said finally, “we’re now paying for the release of a hostage, is that it?”

  “I would prefer not to put it in those terms, Mr. President,” Lay said with a grimace. “Look upon it rather as rewarding Badir for his services. One could hardly expect the man to risk his forces for nothing.”

  “And when an Iranian airliner is brought down on final approach to Tehran, what then?” the President demanded.

  “There will be nothing to tie the missile to us,” Lay responded without the barest hint of compunction. “We can easily forge armory records in Germany to show a theft. In the end, sir, a crate of SAMs is far more deniable than an American agent.”

  “I will need time to consider the decision,” Hancock replied finally. “In the mean time, I want you to keep a lid on this thing. Do you understand?”

  “Of course. Also, we are launching an internal investigation to determine the source of the leak which initially compromised Operation TALON.”

  “Very good, director,” Hancock pronounced. “That will be all, I believe. I’ll let you get back to running your agency.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.” Lay rose, exiting the Oval Office
past the Secret Service agents stationed at the door.

  Hancock waited until the door closed behind the CIA director before turning to Lawrence Bell.

  “Something further, Mr. President?” the DNI asked.

  “I think we both know the efficacy of ‘internal’ investigations, Lawrence. Have the FBI launch a probe into the matter…”

  Chapter Eight

  6:20 A.M. Local Time, September 27th

  Lufthansa Flight 298

  Over the Atlantic Ocean

  Their stay in Germany had been unexpectedly brief, Harry thought, gazing out the window of the Airbus at the predawn sky. The folder tucked securely into his carry-on bag explained why.

  The team had been recalled stateside, ordered to stand down “pending an internal investigation.”

  Harry didn’t need to guess what that meant. He knew. It wasn’t the first time his team had been subjected to the bureaucratic intrusions of an investigation designed more for the purposes of saving face than arriving at the truth.

  Truth. The official motto of the Central Intelligence Agency was taken from the Gospel of John, “For you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.” Harry had often thought they would have been better off going with Pilate’s cynical soliloquy, “What is truth?”

  For in the high-stakes poker of espionage and international relations, truth was rarely even on the table, let alone in play. And all players were equally concerned that it remain that way.

  The airliner was less than half full, mostly weary businessmen catching the trans-Atlantic flight after a tiring week. He glanced back and caught Hamid’s eye. The agent had put his seat back and was doing his best impression of complete inertia. Harry wasn’t fooled, recognizing the quiet tension in the Iraqi-American’s body, the complete awareness of his surroundings.