Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  Davood bit his lip, holding back the answer that strained to burst free. “It won’t.”

  “Good. Let’s roll.”

  6:47 P.M. Tehran Time

  The Alborz Mountains

  Rice. Thomas reached into the plastic bag once more, scooping the pasty, white boiled rice out with his fingers. He had eaten worse.

  Estere sat across from him in silence, her head down as she stared into the western sky, watching as the sun sank into blood-red clouds.

  “Listen,” Thomas began, “I’m sorry for what I said about the horse.”

  She ignored his words, seeming not to even realize that he had spoken. He crossed to where she sat, cradling the assault rifle against her chest.

  “Sirvan,” he began, kneeling at her side, “Sirvan was one of the bravest men I have ever known.”

  Still no response. She sat there as though chiseled in stone, gazing into the dying sun.

  He touched her shoulder ever so gently. “I consider it an honor to have known him, to have fought at his side.”

  She sighed, a weak smile crossing her lips as she reached over to touch his hand. “When do you expect contact from your people?”

  “Probably not until the morning,” he replied, respecting her decision to change the subject. “They said they would make the necessary arrangements. How many days do you expect it to take before we reach the border?”

  She smiled again. “That would depend on how hard you can ride…”

  7:28 P.M. Local Time

  Eilat, Israel

  The door to the holding cell opened and Harry turned to see Gideon Laner standing in the entrance.

  The two regarded each other in silence for a long moment, a silent game of “chicken” playing itself out. At last the Israeli spoke. “Where’s your partner?”

  “My what?”

  “Your partner. We know he was in the hotel.”

  Harry smiled, a bit of the devil lurking in his eyes. “There must be some mistake. I’ve never fancied men.”

  “Don’t give me that, Harry,” Gideon warned, swearing under his breath. “I lost a good man out there today and I want to know everything about the circumstances surrounding his death. The three dead Arabs in the hotel were shot with a .357 Magnum. A revolver. Hardly what you were carrying. A scope-equipped FN-FAL was found in a room on the fourth floor. A shell casing under the dresser. You had back-up. Who?”

  Harry stood there, gazing intently into Gideon’s eyes as the Israeli fell silent. “Are you done?” he asked mildly.

  Anger flashed across Gideon’s face. “Done! I’m not sure you understand the situation, Harry. We have—”

  “I understand it perfectly,” Harry replied, his voice even. “I came to Israel because you wanted something from me. You haven’t got it yet. Nor will you if you keep going as you are. That’s the situation.”

  Gideon subsided. “What do you want?”

  “I want to see Dr. Tal. I want you to forget about the rifle you found. And I want you to call off the search for this so-called ‘partner’ of mine. Understood?”

  “You drive a hard bargain,” Gideon replied, unsmiling.

  Harry nodded. “Of course. I hold the cards. When can I meet with Tal?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twelve

  4:45 A.M. Baghdad Time, October 1st

  Baghdad International Airport

  Baghdad, Iraq

  Returning home always awoke mixed emotions within Hamid Zakiri. The country had changed so much, in the years since the withdrawal of American combat brigades.

  So much of the old. So much of the new. He sighed as he retrieved the gun case containing his Glock from the baggage line. A car from the CIA station should be awaiting them.

  “Hope the TiVo works tonight,” he observed to Davood as the pair exited the terminal. “The Ravens are playing the Cowboys.”

  “You’ve got a bet on the game?”

  Hamid laughed. “Of course. Don’t I always win the op-center pool?”

  “Just about,” Davood acknowledged, with a grudging smile. “Which team are you down for this evening?”

  “The Cowboys, of course. The Ravens defense hasn’t been worth a plugged nickel for the last couple seasons. Just can’t seem to pull it together in draft.”

  Davood nodded, his mind elsewhere. “Is that who I think it is?” he asked suddenly.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Hamid agreed, glancing in the direction his fellow agent had indicated. “Petras bothering to show up in person is not a good sign, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Afraid so.”

  6:09 A.M. Tehran Time

  Isfahan

  They had come far in these few days, Hossein thought, surveying his recruits with a critical eye. The constant training had served to harden their bodies, the incessant pressure quickening their minds.

  Only twenty were left.

  A helicopter came in low over the mountains. The former major watched with concern as it banked hard over the city of Isfahan and flew straight toward the small training camp. Concern that was only barely assuaged when a green flare burst from one of the rocket tubes on the pylons of the attack helicopter. It was the Ayatollah arriving from Qom.

  Whatever the situation, it had to be serious to risk an unprecedented personal visit. Hossein turned over the command of training to a particularly apt pupil named Mustafa, and walked back toward the helipad in the center of the camp, tapping a baton nervously against the top of his jump boots. Trouble was coming. He could almost smell it…

  “What is the condition of your readiness?” Isfahani asked later, in the headquarters building. He was sitting in Hossein’s chair, slicing a ripe peach with a jewel-encrusted Sassanid knife.

  Hossein took a deep breath. “We’re not.”

  “I sent you the best men I could find,” the Ayatollah replied, an accusative edge in his voice.

  “You sent me your best religious scholars,” Hossein shot back, undeterred and defiant. “They were not fighters. They are now, but they have a long way to go.”

  Isfahani took another slice of the peach, the razor-edge of the knife sliding easily through supple flesh. “We have a situation.”

  The major remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

  “The attack is to be launched within three days. Your men must be in position in Palestine to stop it.”

  8:43 A.M. Local Time

  Mossad Headquarters

  Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

  Harry looked down as the Jetranger circled over the nondescript cluster of buildings, heading for the helipad on the roof of the central office building.

  Gideon sat beside him at the controls of the helicopter, a look of intense concentration on his face as he guided the chopper in. The bat leveyha sat in the back, her hands bandaged.

  The familiar figure of General Avi ben Shoham was standing to one side of the roof as the helicopter came to rest, giving Harry some idea of how much this meant to the Israelis. He had worked with Shoham three years before, a joint American-Israeli operation to rescue missionaries in Lebanon, and been impressed by the man’s professionalism.

  “We’re here,” Gideon announced tersely, glancing over at Harry. There was palpable tension between the two men, had been ever since the previous night. The restrained violence Harry knew so well. The Israeli didn’t like being bullied.

  Harry shoved open the door of the Jetranger and slipped out, his leather jacket rippling in the breeze created by the rotor wash. “Good morning, general.”

  Shoham smiled, shaking Harry’s extended hand. “And the same to you, my friend. Come inside.”

  The Mossad commander paused at the door of the elevator, nodding to his bodyguards to remain behind.

  “I give you a token of my trust, Mr. Nichols,” he stated as the doors closed. “We are alone and you are armed.”

  Harry nodded, shooting a pointed glance toward the general’s waistband. “As are you.”

  Shoham smiled. “Ah, well,
trust goes only so far. I must apologize for Lt. Laner’s reticence. He did as he felt best.”

  “And you feel differently?”

  “Laner was following my orders—orders I doubted could be fulfilled. You are not a man to give something up without expecting something in return.”

  Harry leaned against the wall of the elevator as it continued its descent, watching Shoham carefully. “You speak in riddles.”

  A wry smile. “Plain speaking is ever a danger in our business, is it not? In short, the Iranians are moving.”

  “You have information indicating a nuclear deployment?”

  Shoham replied with an emphatic shake of the head. “We don’t know. Only Dr. Tal knows the true nature of this threat.”

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “He believes that we abandoned the rest of his team to their captors. Now you see why we contacted you.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Well done, Harry,” the general retorted, his face creasing into a smile. “Remind me never to play poker against you. You would deny that your government rescued the remaining hostages?”

  The elevator shuddered to a halt, doors sliding open. Two guards stood across the corridor, Galil assault rifles in their hands.

  Harry looked from Shoham to them and back again. “Let me see Tal,” he responded finally. “I will give you my answer then.”

  9:57 A.M. Baghdad Time

  Station Baghdad

  Iraq

  “Khebat Ahmedi. He’s the commander of PJAK in the Qandil,” Rebecca Petras informed them, tapping a finger on the screen of her laptop. “Khebat means ‘struggle’ in the Kurdish, and we suspect it to be a nom de guerre.”

  “An alias?” Hamid asked, an amused smile crossing his face at her choice of words.

  “That’s what I said. Now, I want to make something absolutely clear to the both of you. Despite the watchlisting of PJAK by the Obama administration in 2008, here in Iraq we’re dealing with realpolitik. That said, Ahmedi’s friendship is vital to the stability of this region. If you do anything to offend him or jeopardize our relationship in any way, I will hang you from a nail.”

  Hamid exchanged a glance with Davood before turning his attention back to Petras. He could have let it go, but diplomacy had never been his forte. Neither was dealing with bureaucrats.

  “My orders from the DCS are clear, Petras,” he stated, rising from his seat at the table. “Extract Parker at all costs. I’m going to do that, no matter whose toes I have to step on. Read me?”

  The CIA station chief stared back at him, unblinking. “Tough-guy antics aren’t going to change my mind, Zakiri. I have made my position plain and I will file a report to Langley to that effect.”

  “File away.”

  12:37 P.M. Tehran Time

  The Alborz Mountains

  If anything, the second day’s ride was worse than the first. His muscles almost rigid after a night’s sleep, Thomas gritted his teeth as the horses picked their way across the mountainside, each movement sending a jolt straight up his spine.

  He’d barely been able to mount when they had risen that morning, but he had done so. Hanged if he was going to ask for help.

  The air was cool against his face, the mountain breeze laden with moisture. It felt like rain, but the only clouds in the sky soared light and effortless high over the mountain peaks.

  All the same, Estere kept glancing toward the sky as they rode, a worried look on her face.

  “What is it?” he asked, after a time.

  “The bahoz.” She lifted a hand to the breeze, sniffing at the air. “I can smell rain.”

  “What does that have to do with the horse?” he inquired, aware he was treading on a sensitive subject.

  Her face wore a puzzled expression for a moment, then it cleared in sudden realization. “Bahoz is the Kurdish word for storm. A storm is coming. We may need to take shelter.”

  The TACSAT buzzed at his side and he motioned to Estere to halt. “Hello,” he answered cautiously, reining in the stallion.

  “Thomas, this is Hamid.”

  “How are things progressing?”

  “Fairly well. We’re having to dance around Petras, but I think things are shaping up. Kranemeyer pressured CENTCOM to release a squad of Army Rangers as escort.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I’d prefer it. She’s wanting us to be particularly careful with a Kurdish warlord, one Khebat Ahmedi. She forgets that I was born in this country—I know these people. And I prefer a show of force.”

  “Bluff and swagger,” Thomas expressed, summing it up succinctly.

  “Exactly. I need to establish our rendevous. Do you have a map?”

  “That’s a negative. One moment.” He looked over to where Estere sat on her horse. “How well do you know this area?”

  “Quite well,” she replied. There was no bravado there, just a simple statement of fact.

  Thomas raised the satphone again. “I’ll let you speak to my guide. She was raised in these mountains.”

  “She?” Hamid asked, laughter in his voice “How do you always manage it, Thomas? Put her on.”

  He extended the TACSAT to her and she took it, listening as Hamid laid out his plan of action. Thomas watched her as they talked, steadying the impatient stallion between his knees. At length, she closed the cover of the phone and handed it back to Thomas, shooting another anxious glance skyward.

  Even in the intervening moments, clouds had begun to move in, darkness drifting across the face of the sun as the mercurial nature of mountain weather asserted itself.

  “We need to ride southwest to meet with your military. There is a place–south of the Qandil. I know it well. It is about forty kilometers from here.”

  “It looks like your storm may be upon us soon.”

  “I know,” she replied, looking up at the clouds. “There is a mountain stream, about twenty-nine kilometers ahead of us. We need to reach the ford before the rain swells the stream.”

  “Can’t we go around?”

  She shook her head. “A detour of nearly seventy kilometers. It is the nature of these mountains, Thomas. It is what has kept my people alive.”

  “Then let’s ride.”

  10:45 A.M. Local Time

  Mossad Headquarters

  Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

  Harry raised his eyes from the dossier in front of him, staring through the one-way glass at the civilian in the interrogation room on the other side—Dr. Moshe Tal. In the previous two hours, he had gone through every scrap of information the Israelis were willing to give him on Tal. Unmarried, devoted to his work—and his country. Growing up on a kibbutz in the shadow of the Golan, Tal had early learned what it meant to defend his land.

  And yet this reticence. Harry motioned to the guard, who had stood silently by the door the entire time. “I’m ready.”

  Tal’s eyes flickered up at his entrance, then back down, a furtive, almost hunted look. Harry had seen it before, the look of a man broken beyond his endurance. For a brief moment, he wondered how far Mossad might have gone in trying to wrest his secret from him. Then he dismissed it without another thought. It was irrelevant to the task at hand.

  He drew up a chair and sat down wordlessly, across from the archaeologist. Another long, interminable moment passed before Harry spoke.

  “The Iranians are planning something, aren’t they?”

  Tal raised his head, a strange light coming into his eyes. It was such a contrast to his previous browbeaten demeanor that Harry wondered for a moment if he was facing the same man. “Yes,” he replied. “They are.”

  “What?”

  The archaeologist shook his head. “I’ll never tell you. You left my people behind. You left them to die.”

  It was as though Harry’s first question had given him a feeling of control, a sense of being in charge. Harry grimaced inwardly. Time to take that away. With a careful motion, he opened his sports jacket, withdrawing his diplomati
c passport and identification, placing them on the table beside them.

  “I’m from the U.S. State Department. I didn’t leave anyone behind.”

  Tal took the passport and ID, scrutinizing them carefully. “You’re no diplomat,” he announced, looking back up.

  Harry smiled. “Let’s call it a polite fiction.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Joseph Isaac,” Harry replied, tapping the ID before tucking it back in his wallet. “You can call me Joe. I’m your salvation.”

  The archaeologist settled back in his chair, an expression of disbelief on his face.

  “You see, there were Americans among your crew. President Hancock authorized a CIA strike team to rescue them. Our people arrived in the dark of night, just hours after Mossad brought you back here. And we were able to extract some of your team.”

  Tal leaned forward, an almost painful eagerness on his face. “Some?”

  Harry nodded. “Unfortunately, not all. The Iranians were on alert. We lost some people as well.”

  “How can I believe you?”

  Reaching once more into his jacket, Harry laid a cellphone on the table between them. A wire stretched from it to an earbud microphone, which Harry promptly inserted.

  “We’re going to place a call to one of your colleagues. I believe you know Grant Peterson?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “I will give you the number to dial,” he continued, fixing the archaeologist in a cold gaze. “And you will speak directly to Grant. This is a token of good faith. Don’t abuse it.”

  Tal nodded his assent and Harry gave him the number to dial.

  4:02 A.M. Eastern Time

  A CIA safe house

  West Virginia