“You said he would call, Roberto,” Grant Peterson said, looking up into the eyes of the man he had been staying with for the past week.
“He will,” the man called “Roberto” replied, in one of his longer speeches. Whether he had a last name or not, Grant had no idea. Whatever his skills, conversation was not among them.
Almost at that moment, the man’s hand went to his pocket, withdrawing a vibrating cellphone. He cast a quick glance at the screen before handing it over to Peterson.
“Answer it.”
“Hello, this is Grant.”
“Grant!” It was Dr. Tal, nervous excitement in his voice. “Thank God you’re alive. Where are you?”
“Here in the US,” Grant replied, looking over at Roberto as though to ask if he should be more specific. Something in the man’s face told him he should not. “Are you okay, doctor?”
Tal seemed not to hear him, rushing on as if the question was irrelevant. “The rest of the team, Grant. Are the others all right?”
Grant opened his mouth to speak, but in that instant, the line went dead.
11:06 A.M. Local Time
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
“Wrong move,” Harry stated calmly, replacing the phone on the table. “I told you not to abuse it.”
Tal stared at him, his eyes wide with sudden fear. “You’re sick.”
A shrug was the only reply Harry gave to the accusation. “You and I have business to discuss. You give me what I want, I’ll tell you who lived and who died. Not until.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You can’t. But you’re running out of options. You know Grant is alive and safe. Let’s work from that basis.”
“What do you want?”
“I think you know.”
The archaeologist looked away, towards the blank wall of the interrogation room. “All right,” he said at last, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll talk.”
Rising from his chair, Harry moved across the darkened room, punching a gloved fist through the drywall. His fingers closed around a thin wire. Just where Carter said it would be, he thought before snapping it as he would a twig.
Circling the room, he came up against the opposite wall and retrieved the other parabolic mike, disabling it in similar fashion. The bugs were dead.
“What is he doing?” Shoham wondered aloud, watching the scene live on the TV screen in the Mossad operations room.
Gideon leaned forward. “I can take my team in.”
“No,” the general replied, shaking his head. “We gain nothing by direct action. Let Nichols run his course.”
The next minute, their TV screen went black as someone draped a jacket over the camera lens.
“Move to my chair,” Harry instructed, returning to the table. “Sit with your back to the glass.”
“Why?”
“With that camera dead, they’re going to move next door. I don’t want them to be able to read your lips.”
“Who are you?”
Harry turned back to the table, his gun hand resting on his hip, near the holstered .45. Time was running short. He stared at Tal, not bothering to respond to the question. “Talk.”
4:39 A.M. Eastern Time
The White House
Washington, D.C.
“Thank you for coming in early, Director,” President Hancock said, looking up from his desk as a pair of Secret Service agents ushered David Lay into the Oval Office. “It is the imperatives of the campaign season, you understand.”
“To be sure,” Lay responded, acknowledging the presence of Lawrence Bell with a brief nod. “Missouri today?”
Hancock nodded. “Air Force One departs from Andrews at seven o’clock.”
Preliminaries out of the way, the DCIA opened the folder in front of him. “First on the agenda is the Eilat situation.”
“So I saw,” Hancock nodded, a biting edge to his voice. “I’m sure you understand, David, that this is one of my concerns with these so-called ‘deniable’ operations. They have a way of ending up on CNN.”
Lay bit his tongue. “There was a leak.”
“Isn’t there always,” came the President’s irony-laced rejoinder. “How many people did we lose?”
“None. A couple from Savannah were in the crowd and killed in the blast, but other than that collateral damage, no one. Our operations personnel extracted safely.”
The President paled. “Collateral damage? Dear God, David, do you realize how cold you sound?”
Lay briefly looked at the ceiling of the Oval Office, sighing heavily. “That’s the spy business, Mr. President. People get hurt. People get killed. We’re busy tracking down the leaked information as we speak.”
“Do the Israelis know about the biological weapon?” Hancock asked, a sudden intensity creeping into his voice.
“No,” Lay replied, looking surprised. “You gave orders to that effect, and they have not been contravened.”
“Good.” Hancock sank back into his chair. “See that they aren’t…”
11:57 A.M. Local Time
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
After Moshe Tal finished talking, silence reigned in the interrogation room for the space of about two minutes.
Harry sat there, silently regarding the archaeologist as he processed the information he had been given. None of it was recorded, unless Ron Carter’s intel had been bad and there was a device he had missed. He had taken no notes. Everything was committed to memory.
Taken all together, Tal’s information tallied with the intelligence the CIA had gotten from the debrief of the rest of the team. The pneumonic plague had been contained in the mass grave of the Persian city, lying dormant over the centuries until its release by the archaeologist’s dig. Opening Pandora’s grave, to speak of it figuratively.
He stood, turning toward the door as if to leave. “What about the others?” Tal asked, a plaintive note in his voice.
“What?”
“You promised. Who lived?”
Harry turned back, leaning across the table until his face was only inches from that of the archaeologist. “They all did,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “And if you want to keep it that way, you need to do exactly as I say.”
The expression on Tal’s face was a curious blend of surprise and relief, mingled with an overwhelming fear. “What?” he asked, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
“Tell anyone what you’ve told me and your friends die. And if anyone asks, you told me nothing. Can you remember this?”
The professor nodded mutely. Harry walked over and lifted his jacket from over the lens of the surveillance camera. “Good. Your friends are depending on you.”
And then he was gone, opening the door and disappearing into the corridor. Shoham was waiting outside…
2:03 P.M. Tehran Time
The Alborz Mountains
Iran
The rain had come. First in huge droplets, heavy orbs of water splashing down from on high. Then steady rain, soaking their garments. Finally wind-driven sheets of water, falling from an ink-black sky. Lightning lit the scene as the riders pressed on, mounts splashing through pools of standing water.
Thomas bent low over the neck of the stallion, urging him forward against the fury of the storm, endeavoring to keep pace with the girl on his right.
“How much farther?” he called out. For a minute, he thought she hadn’t heard him, his words whipped away in the teeth of the wind. Then, her hand flew out, three outstretched fingers giving him his answer. Three kilometers. .
12:09 P.M. Local Time
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel
“So, that’s all you were able to get out of Tal?” General Shoham asked, glancing up from his notes.
“Yes,” Harry replied, lying easily. “Nothing actionable, unfortunately. His best guess is that his communication with the Ayatollah was hacked.”
“W
hat of the lab trailers?”
Harry turned to meet Gideon’s question. “He and the team were isolated following their arrest. He wasn’t able to provide any conjecture as to their nature.”
The two Israelis exchanged glances. “Why did you disrupt our surveillance of the interrogation room?” Shoham demanded, clearing his throat.
Harry leaned forward, lacing his fingers together. “You’ve witnessed for yourselves the emotional state I found Dr. Tal in. He was insistent that everything he shared must stay between the two of us. I needed to take steps of good faith. The man is a basketcase. I frankly don’t know what you’ve done to him, but…”
He let the comment hang there, an unspoken accusation dangling in the air. The Mossad commander seemed on the brink of an angry retort, but he choked it down. “We don’t torture our own, Mr. Nichols. I regret that you could not be more helpful, but I appreciate your willingness to try.”
“Of course,” Harry responded, rising from his chair. The bodyguard opened the door and he exited, stage right, into the corridor.
“He was lying,” Gideon observed, moments after the door had closed.
Avi ben Shoham sighed heavily, his eyes scanning the rough notes in front of him. “I know it.”
The lieutenant’s hand moved toward the phone on the table. “I can call security.”
“To what purpose? His government knows exactly where he is. Causing an incident with the Americans is not in our best interests, particularly if the Iranians have something in the offing. This will be a waiting game, lieutenant. In the mean time, we work with what we still have. Get a team working on Tal again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re dismissed.” Gideon had made it half-way to the door when the general’s voice arrested him. “And, Lt. Laner.”
“Yes?”
“I will need the contact information for Nathan Gur’s next of kin. See that it gets to my desk by this evening, if you please.”
“Of course, sir.”
The car from Station Tel Aviv was waiting for Harry in the parking garage and he got in, beginning a careful search for bugs. He was exhausted, emotionally drained from the stress of the interrogation. Tal was a good man, of that he was sure.
He leaned back in the seat of the car, closing his eyes. It didn’t help—the face of the Israeli rose before him, playing across the back of his eyelids. A basketcase, yeah, he was that. And he had helped make him that way.
Harry had seen men like Tal before—it wasn’t Stockholm, but a syndrome similar in effect. Men who seemed to shut down, forsaking their mission in a panicked attempt to save those around them. The world seemed to withdraw into narrow focus, a world in which nothing else mattered.
Playing upon those loyalties had been the only way to break him. And despite what he had told Shoham, the results had been worth it.
He found a mike under the steering wheel and ripped it out, crushing the small instrument before tossing it from the window as the car left the underground garage. Reaching inside his pocket for the TACSAT, he allowed himself a small, tired smile.
“This is Nichols,” he announced when the encryption sequence finished. “I need you to run an inter-agency database sweep for me. Yes, of course I have a name. Achmed Asefi.”
2:13 P.M. Tehran Time
The training camp
Isfahan, Iran
The door opened abruptly and the Ayatollah Isfahani emerged from the room where he had been in conference with Hossein for the past several hours. “It’s time to go,” he announced quietly, turning to the man who had been standing outside the door the entire time.
Achmed Asefi nodded wordlessly and led the way out of the building, his eyes alert to any and all potential threats. There had been two attempts on the Ayatollah’s life in the thirteen years he had served him as bodyguard. He had killed both assassins with his own hand, earning himself the implicit trust of his master.
But now… They were wading into treacherous waters. The sentry at the helipad saluted briskly at their approach. Asefi regarded him with the hooded eyes of a bird of prey, considering and then rejecting him as a source of trouble.
He opened the door of the helicopter, ushering the Ayatollah inside before entering himself. Seating himself at the side of his principal, he caught a glimpse of the major standing outside the mosque.
“I don’t trust that man,” he observed. “He is not a true believer.”
“Hossein?” Isfahani asked, casting a sidelong glance at his bodyguard.
A nod served as the only reply, Asefi’s eyes still fixed on the subject of their conversation as the helicopter rose into the air.
The Ayatollah shrugged. “Neither do I. Which is why you will accompany him to Al Quds.”
3:07 P.M.
The Alborz Mountains
Iran
It had taken over an hour to ride the final three kilometers to the ford. The horses were tiring, as were they. The wind was lessening, but the rain still beat down upon their soaked, weary bodies.
She urged the grey up the slope ahead, and over the thunder of the ebbing storm Thomas heard the sharp gasp that broke from her lips.
“What is it?” he asked, reining in his horse abreast of her. Before she could respond, his own eyes had given him the answer.
The ford could be seen below them, through a screen of trees. A ford? Swollen by the rain, it looked more like a raging torrent. They had lost their race with the storm.
Thomas looked over into her eyes, reading the exhaustion written there. Knowing it was mirrored in his own.
There was no time for indecision. They both knew it. After a long moment, Estere spoke. “We’ve got to go through.”
“What?” Thomas exclaimed. “Cross that?”
“I’ve seen it higher,” she asserted. She turned toward him, a stubborn look on her face. “It’s a ride of over a hundred kilometers to go around.”
“How long would it take to subside?”
“Days, if it stops raining.” She sat there in the rain for a moment or two longer, then announced her decision. “We need to find shelter—we’ll rest the horses till morning and then make the attempt.”
6:49 A.M. Central Time
A residential development
Outside Dayton, Ohio
“I have target clear, Vic. Subjects have left the residence.”
“Separately or together?”
“Separately. They were dressed for work.”
“Good.” Vic stuck the cellphone back in his pocket and exited the rental car, pulling a packet of tracts from his pocket as he moved up the sidewalk. The pamphlets bore the logo of the Watchtower Society and he smiled at the irony.
He left tracts at two of the houses on his way up the cul-de-sac, then approached the Sarami’s house. Kazem Sarami served as a lawyer in a prominent Dayton firm and was handling a case before the Ohio State Supreme Court this day. The house sat off the cul-de-sac, connected by a stone driveway.
Approaching to the front door of the imposing residence, he knocked loudly on the door, holding the tracts in his right hand, only inches away from his concealed automatic. A couple minutes, and no one came. Another knock. Still silence.
“I’m going in,” he whispered into his lip mike. “Cover me.”
“Roger that. The alarm has been disabled. You’re clear to move.”
Five minutes later, he had picked the lock on the back door of the Sarami residence and was standing in the mudroom, examining the alarm system. Sure enough, it was off-line. Never hurt to double-check, he thought, running a gloved finger over the unit.
A brief check of the living room and kitchen revealed nothing. Time to head upstairs…
5:30 P.M. Baghdad Time
The foothills of the Qandil
Iraq
“What’s the good word, sir?” Hamid turned to find Sergeant Jose Obregon standing at his side.
“It isn’t,” he replied, shoving the TACSAT back into the pocket of his Kevlar vest.
“We’ve got some problems.”
Hamid turned without another word and walked back to the Humvee, the Army Ranger sergeant following in his wake, M-4 held at the ready.
The Humvee was of Iraq War vintage, additional armor plates bolted onto the sides. A .50-caliber Browning was mounted to the roof, manned by a nineteen-year-old technical from Kennesaw, Georgia.
“Everybody listen up.” Hamid called out as he stopped a few feet away from the vehicle. It had been years since his own days in the Army Rangers, but he remembered the command voice well.
“Everyone dismount and set up bivouac here for the night. We just received comm from Sergeant Brown,” Hamid continued. Due to the clandestine nature of their operation, they were using pseudonyms in front of the Rangers. Thomas was Sergeant Brown. “He and his guide are trapped on the other side of a rain-swollen mountain stream. To detour around would involve well over a hundred kilometers and several days of travel. They’re going to make an effort to cross in the morning. Then we will meet at the border as planned.”
“Why not keep pressing forward?” Obregon asked.
Hamid cast a critical glance in the sergeant’s direction. “I grew up in this part of the world, sergeant. I don’t want to spend any more time in Kurd-controlled territory than I have to. Comprende?” he asked, switching into Spanish for the sheer fun of it. He had enjoyed language school.
Obregon nodded, a temporary flash of annoyance crossing his face before the iron mask of discipline once again asserted itself. The CIA was in control of this mission, whether he liked it or not.
“Take your men and start setting up a defensive perimeter. Sergeant Black!” Hamid called. “I need to talk with you.”
Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors) Page 29