Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  The team had come aboard separately, under a variety of new identities assigned to them by the CIA chief of station(Berlin). Harry flipped his wallet open, gazing at the passport of one Todd Winters. A small grin creased his lips as he thumbed through the snapshots placed within by the station’s ever-meticulous staff.

  Mighty good-looking woman. Didn’t even know I was married…

  11:09 A.M. Tehran Time

  The Ayatollah’s Residence

  Qom, Iran

  Major Hossein felt the presence without turning, that sixth sense that had kept him alive so many times alerting him to the presence of man.

  He ignored it, looking out from the balcony across the holy city. It had been almost twenty-four hours since the Ayatollah had laid out before him the sketch of President Shirazi’s plan, but the enormity of it all still stunned him. The audacity of it.

  Fortune favors the audacious.

  The strike was cunning in its conception, but the practical side of Hossein had detected a fatal flaw from the outset. There was no fall back. If the attack failed and they were implicated in its execution—had an entire nation ever before committed suicide?

  Like he was doing now. Hossein rolled the rough coral beads of the tasbih between his callused fingers, mouthing the names of Allah in a silent prayer.

  From the doorway, the Ayatollah Isfahani smiled once more at the audacity of the man. There were not many in Iran, even in these days, who would refuse to recognize the entrance of the Supreme Ayatollah. That this major did so was at once testament to both his irreverence and his bravery. Isfahani whispered a quiet prayer that Allah would overlook the one while blessing the other. Everything depended upon his success.

  He took two steps out onto the balcony and Hossein turned to meet him, his face stoic.

  “Are you ready, major?”

  Hossein’s only reply was a brief nod, but Isfahani could see the doubt in his eyes. “You understand why this has to be done, I trust?”

  “Yes.”

  1:09 P.M.

  The mountains of the Alborz

  Mobility was the chief asset of any modern army, but the men below them hadn’t been utilizing it to their advantage. Thomas shaded the binoculars with his hands before passing them back to Sirvan, endeavoring to keep sun from glinting off the lens.

  They were looking down into the bivouac of a platoon of Iranian soldiers. Two trucks were parked at the edge of camp, clearly the group’s transportation. Not using them to leave the mountains ASAP was going to be their last mistake.

  It had taken the Kurdish fighters just under twenty-four hours to catch up with the men who had butchered their fellow villagers. Or at least soldiers like them. No one among the rebels seemed to care, least of all Thomas.

  Sirvan placed a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “You were a sniper?” he asked, recalling their conversation of the previous day.

  The American replied with a nod.

  “Then remain here and spot for Estere,” Sirvan ordered, handing him the binoculars.

  “Don’t I get a weapon?” Thomas asked, a glimmer of hope appearing ever so briefly.

  White teeth showed in the Kurd’s swarthy countenance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Patterson. Hawre will remain to provide security.”

  And then he was gone, moving silently through the scrub to rally his fighters and organize them for the attack.

  Estere was prone in the grass, her eye already on the scope of the rifle as she aimed down the bluff into the enemy camp. Her dark hair was pulled sharply back from her face to keep it out of her eyes.

  Thomas crawled to her side, adjusting the binoculars once more to his eyes. The fighter named Hawre knelt less than five feet away and behind them, an AK-47 in his hands.

  The mountain had grown silent, the whisper of the wind the only sound of nature remaining. It was the calm before the storm.

  It was almost as though Thomas could feel the Kurds moving into position. Though their movements were shielded from his eyes, he had been on enough ops through the years to be able to predict where they would be taking up positions.

  He counted a total of forty soldiers in view below them, and there was no way to know whether that was all of them. They might even have a patrol or two out. Thomas stole a glance at the pistol on Estere’s hip, wishing it was in his hand.

  There were two soldiers on guard duty by each of the transport trucks. He had just turned the binoculars carefully to examine them when a shot was fired.

  It was a signal. At that instant, Thomas heard the well-nigh simultaneous whoosh of two RPGs leaving their tubes, one from each side of the valley. One for each truck.

  The trucks exploded a moment later, the fireball nearly blinding Thomas as the bodies of the unfortunate guards were vaporized.

  The rifle beside him spat fire as Estere got off her first shot. “Target?”

  “An officer,” Thomas stammered out, still trying to recover his vision. “To your right.”

  “Range?” she demanded, swiveling the rifle on its bipod to acquire the new target. “I need the range.”

  “Hundred and eighty meters,” replied Thomas. Rifle fire filled the air as Sirvan and Badir’s forces descended the slope, as the panicked soldiers tried to rally.

  He felt the sniper rifle recoil beside him, watched the officer crumple into the dirt, a clean headshot. Soldiers were falling all around, caught in the ambush.

  “Target?”

  Something felt suddenly wrong, the hairs on the back of Thomas’s neck prickling even before gunfire exploded behind them.

  He turned just in time to see Hawre fall, his body nearly cut in two by bullets. Thomas screamed out a warning, throwing himself toward the fallen Kurd.

  Bullets fanned the air near his head as Thomas reached him, grabbing a fragmentation grenade from the dead man’s belt.

  Things seemed to slow down, crystallize, as he grasped the situation. Their assailants were sweeping down from the ridge above, acting stupidly, he realized even as he pulled the pin on the grenade. They were bunched up.

  He heard the crack of a pistol shot as though through a dream, saw one of the five men stagger. The frag landed among them and Thomas grabbed Hawre’s AK.

  Their attackers dove for the ground, seeking whatever cover they could find against the grenade. One man tried to run. The blast caught him square in the middle of the back and he collapsed, screaming pitifully.

  Thomas aimed the barrel of the AK up the ridge, seeking out their hiding places. Movement came from a thicket and he squeezed the trigger gently, a burst of fire ripping out from the rifle’s barrel.

  The movement stopped.

  His eyes scanned the landscape carefully, looking for further threats. Three bodies were in sight. Another perhaps lay dead in the scrub.

  That left one. Thomas hit the magazine release and checked on his ammunition supply. Seven rounds remaining. It would have to be enough.

  He looked over and saw Estere laying there prone on the hill, a Tokarev pistol clutched in both hands, her eyes focused intently up the slope.

  Then he saw it, a betraying movement out of the corner of his eye. A hand reaching for a discarded Kalishnikov about ten meters to his right.

  Thomas held his breath, shifting the AK carefully to his shoulder. The man had learned caution, and was crawling forward on his belly, Thomas judged, unable to see anything but the hand.

  Time itself seemed to slow down as the man shifted forward. He had almost reached his rifle when he put his head up to look.

  Thomas squeezed the trigger twice, sending two 7.62mm bullets crashing through the man’s brain.

  Target down. He felt the tension drain from his body and realized suddenly that the palms of his hands were slick with sweat. He didn’t remember being that nervous in years.

  Silence. It hit him suddenly, that all the firing, even from below in the camp, had ceased. Estere rose and walked over to where one of the Iranian soldiers lay moaning, his legs nearly torn off by the grena
de blast.

  She aimed the Tokarev down and pulled the trigger once. The moaning stopped suddenly.

  “Estere!” Thomas turned to see Sirvan appear from below, at the head of his fighters, his clothing stained with blood. He swept his sister into his arms, embracing her fiercely.

  For a long moment, Thomas stood there, awkwardly, his hands still gripping the nearly-empty AK. Then Sirvan glanced at him over his sister’s shoulder and mouthed a single word.

  Thanks.

  5:30 A.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  A light rain was falling as Director Lay’s car wound its way through the network of checkpoints stretching into the bowels of the parking garage. It was shaping up to be an ugly day, not to mention the weather.

  The sight of Ron Carter standing next to his parking space did little to lighten his mood. “What’s going wrong now, Ron?” Director Lay snapped, exiting the limousine as his bodyguard opened the door for him.

  “I’ve got something you need to see, sir.”

  “Don’t you always?” Lay asked, regretting the sarcasm moments after it left his lips. When Carter failed to rise at the sally, the DCIA sighed. “My office or yours?”

  “Yours, sir.”

  Lay nodded to his bodyguard as they entered the elevator. “Take us up, Pete.”

  Not another word was spoken between the two men until the door of Lay’s office closed behind them. “Coffee?” Lay offered.

  “No thanks, boss. Any more caffeine in my system and something’s bound to go haywire.”

  “Late night?”

  “Didn’t go home,” was the succinct reply. “We got this about four hours ago.”

  Lay accepted the thick folder, taking a seat behind his desk. “What is it?”

  “A report from Dr. Maria Schuyler, over at Bethesda.”

  “She’s running their bio-weapons research department, right?” Lay asked, his brow furrowing. “What does she want with us?”

  “If you will recall, boss, we had the boys at Intel send over those pictures of the cadaver from the field team. It would appear as though that fell within her purview.”

  “The pictures were scrubbed of background data, I trust?”

  “Of course, sir. We got another memo from her at 0400, demanding to know where they were taken.”

  “Great,” Lay murmured. He was suffering from the beginnings of a headache, and from the looks of the day, it was only going to get worse. “And we replied?”

  “We haven’t. I figured you’d better take a look at her data before formulating a response.”

  The DCIA opened the folder with a half-hearted gesture. “What did she conclude?”

  “That’s something I think you should read for yourself, sir.”

  By the time he had finished fifteen minutes later, the blood had largely drained from Lay’s face. His fingers trembled as he tucked the last sheet back into the folder. Outside the window, the rain continued to fall unabated.

  “Did you have the Intelligence Directorate run her figures?”

  The analyst nodded wordlessly.

  Lay pursed his lips together, still staring out the window. “Dear God, they’ve opened Pandora’s grave…”

  7:45 A.M.

  Dulles International Airport

  Virginia

  The movies never show you losing your luggage, Harry thought, suppressing an amused smile at the irony of it all. No indeed, the movies never showed the mundane truth of the spy business, and he found that mildly funny. No trace of his humor escaped onto his face, however. He wasn’t a spy. He wasn’t Harry Nichols. He was Todd Winters—average Joe Citizen—and mad as the devil over losing his luggage.

  That the aforementioned luggage consisted of a teddy bear for a child he didn’t have, Swiss chocolates for a wife he had never seen, and paperwork for a company he had never worked for was largely extraneous. The average businessman would raise Cain over losing them, and so that was the part he had been assigned to play.

  All the world’s a stage. A sharp buzz jabbed at his ribs as his cellphone went off. “Winters speaking.”

  It was Hamid’s voice. “Hey, Todd! You just make it in, bro?”

  “Yeah, I’m still at the airport. The turkeys over here lost my luggage.”

  “Well, hurry on down just as soon as you can. Grandma’s put on the roast in celebration of your return.”

  The rest of the team had left the terminal without drawing untoward attention to themselves. Time to exit, stage right.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a uniformed man headed toward him, a suitcase in one hand and an oversized, stupid-looking stuffed bear in the other.

  “Here you go, Mr. Winters. Somehow they got sent to the opposite end of the terminal by mistake.”

  Harry snarled something appropriately ungracious under his breath and stalked off, the very picture of a weary, haggard businessman just off the red-eye, balancing the bear and suitcase with practiced clumsiness.

  It was raining outside, a slow miserable drizzle as he wound his way toward the Agency car. Harry slid inside, tossing the bear carelessly onto the seat between himself and Davood. Hamid glanced back from the driver’s seat, a grin splitting his face. “Why if it isn’t Goldilocks and the baby bear!”

  Harry leaned back against the seat of the car and shot a murderous look at his friend. “Just shut up and drive.”

  As they pulled onto Dulles Airport Road, another car, nearly obscured by the rain, swung out to follow them…

  2:56 P.M. Local Time

  Mossad Headquarters

  Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

  Shoham turned away from the monitor with a look of sadness in his eyes. “He’s not eating.”

  The general’s words had been a statement, rather than a question, but his aide answered anyway. “No, sir.”

  “What are we getting from Langley?” Shoham asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the image of Moshe Tal on monitor.

  “Officially or unofficially?”

  “Unofficially, of course,” the Mossad chief clarified, irritation creeping into his tones. “What are our sources telling us?”

  “Virtually nothing, sir.”

  “And what do you mean by virtually?”

  “If the Americans rescued the other hostages, they’re keeping it a very tight secret. We were, however, able to confirm that they had an NCS strike team deployed during the operational window.”

  “Any details?”

  “None, except that briefs were sent to General Westheimer with instructions to cooperate fully with the Clandestine Service.”

  The commander of the American forces in Iraq, Shoham mused. Interesting. “Locate Lt. Laner for me as soon as possible. I have a few questions he may be able to answer.”

  8:25 A.M. Eastern Time

  Virginia

  Five minutes had passed since Hamid had first noticed the car in back of them, and now Harry was sure of it. They were being followed.

  He ran his thumb down the screen of his TACSAT. “Hamid, there’s a gas station 1.5 miles ahead. I want you to pull in there. I’m gonna call Langley and have them run this guy’s tags.”

  “Roger that.”

  Harry exited from the mapscreen and dialed a number from memory. “Good morning, Hannah,” he said when the encryption sequence finished. “I need you to run a number for me. Yes, it’s got Virginia tags. I’m looking at a brown Ford Taurus, license number: Echo-Yankee-Golf-three-seven-niner. Yes, I know it will take a couple minutes, just do it as fast as you can. Yes, I’ll wait.”

  The car slowed, turning off into a small Mobil gas station on the side of the highway. “Hamid,” Harry instructed, covering the phone with his hand. “I want you to go into the store and buy some gas, a couple bagels and a coffee.”

  “I’m fresh out of cash, boss,” the agent grinned. “Loan me a twenty?”

  Harry rolled his eyes. “Makes that forty you owe me,” he said, placing a bill
in Hamid’s outstretched hand.

  “Don’t worry—it’s deductible,” was the Parthian shot as Hamid pushed the door open, exiting into the drizzle.

  “Yes, Hannah, you’ve got it?” Harry asked, realizing his phone had come alive again. He listened patiently for a moment. “Thank you, that’s what I figured.”

  “What did she tell you?” Tex looked back as Harry closed the phone.

  “The car is owned by a Richmond rental agency. It’s currently leased out to one of the Beltway Bandits,” he replied, referring to the high-priced consulting firms that had sprung up around D.C over the decades. “She says it would take two or three hours to find out the specifics of who is driving.”

  “There it goes.” Davood observed, looking out his window. Sure enough, the Ford Taurus rolled right on past on the highway, its speed unchanged. Harry watched it go, his eyes narrowing as it disappeared into the mist.

  “Keep an eye out,” he said finally. “I’m gonna get out and pump.”

  “They just turned into a gas station off the Airport Road. I drove on past.”

  “Do you think they detected you?” the man asked, speaking directly into his headset as he glanced out past his wiper blades at the rain.

  “Impossible to say. This rain made the following distance close.”

  The man nodded, thinking through his options. He was running short on time, no matter what he chose. In the end, he opted for confirmation. “Lead to Car Four, take up following position. Car Five, head to the I-495 ramp and wait there for go-orders. I’m headed into the station for VISDENT.”

  Harry shifted the nozzle to his left hand, his eyes roving the terrain around the gas pumps. The possibility of a sniper could never be ruled out, but visibility was poor enough to make that unlikely. A sedan pulled into the gas station and Harry shoved his right hand deep into the pocket of his overcoat, his fingers closing around the grip of his Colt.