Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  Davood appeared from the other side of the Humvee, an anxious look on his face. “Yes, Sergeant White?”

  Hamid motioned for him to follow, then walked away from the path, until they were out of earshot of the Rangers. “Is Thomas all right?”

  “Exhausted, but okay otherwise,” Hamid replied. “I hope they can cross the stream in safety.”

  “Did he say where they were specifically?”

  Hamid shook his head. “No. Just that they were on the east side of a stream there in the mountains. Keep your eyes open,” he continued, looking toward the mountains. “Hopefully the Kurds will leave us be.”

  8:02 A.M. Central Time

  The suburbs of Dayton

  He had been in the house for an hour and three minutes, precisely, he realized, checking the luminous dial of his Armitron wristwatch. And he was stymied.

  It would appear that the lawyer possessed a laptop. At any rate, it was gone, leaving behind an empty socket where it would have been docked with the flatscreen LCD monitor. Modern technology had such frustrating potential.

  Despite this setback, he’d tossed the house. No dice. He moved back to the desk with the monitor, drawn there by a sudden impulse. A thin book lay there, with the word Address across the front in gold filigree. He picked up the book once again, unsure as to why he was returning. It was filled with personal contact information, the addresses of family and colleagues. The monotonous trivia of life in the suburbs. He turned all the way to the back and his breath caught in surprise.

  All at once his earbud came to life with static, taking him off-guard. It was his partner’s voice, low and urgent.

  “We’ve got an issue, Vic.”

  His body tensed, every sense alert. He knew that tone. “What is it?”

  “A car just pulled into the drive.”

  “Oh, crap. One of theirs?”

  “That’s a negative. It’s a little Honda. Ohio tags.”

  Vic paused, torn by indecision. “A woman’s getting out,” his partner reported. “Looks like she’s got some sort of mop in her hand. I think she’s there to clean the place.”

  He swore under his breath, standing there with the book in his hands. “I’ve got to have five minutes.”

  “I don’t think you’ve got that kind of time, Vic. Get out of there. Now.”

  “You’ve got to stall her somehow.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t care how, just do it,” he retorted stubbornly, whipping a PDA out of his pocket and running it over the open page. A scanned image appeared on the screen and he clicked Save. Next page. Rinse and repeat.

  Plan B. Improvise. The man in the car sighed, disconnecting his lip mike and shoving it in a pocket. After ten years working with Vic, one might think you would become accustomed to this kind of thing.

  A single coffee-stained pamphlet from the Jehovah’s Witnesses was crumpled in the center console, still there from their rehearsal of the night before. The trouble was, it was Vic that had rehearsed. Not him.

  He took a deep breath, trying to smooth out the paper as he stepped from the car. Time to convert the lost…

  8:06 A.M.

  Air Force One

  On approach to St. Louis

  Missouri

  “We have approximately twenty minutes till landing, Mr. President.” Hancock raised his head to smile at the brunette staffer who had just made the announcement. “Thank you, Mary.”

  She smiled back, fairly glowing at his remembrance of her name. It was his specialty, he thought, watching as she returned to her seat.

  “What do you think, Ian?”

  “I think things would go much more smoothly if you would keep it zipped, Mr. President.”

  Hancock laughed. Ian was among the very few men who would dare say such a thing to him. A straightforward opinion could be refreshing. At times. He tapped his fingers together and shrugged. “What could be the problem? Nicole stayed home on this trip.”

  “And the wingnuts are already speculating as to why your wife wouldn’t accompany you. I would prefer not to throw any more bones their way.”

  “Always the practical one, right, Ian? I take it you’ve seen this?” Hancock asked, throwing a paper with the headlines of the Eilat bombing into Cahill’s lap.

  “Yes,” the chief of staff replied. “Any word leaked of our involvement?”

  “No. That’s one thing the Jews are good at—keeping secrets.” The President smiled. “I want her transferred to my personal staff. Call it a performance promotion.”

  “What?” Cahill asked, caught off-balance by the sudden change of subject.

  “Not what. Who. Mary.”

  8:09 A.M.

  The suburbs of Dayton

  He could feel the woman’s eyes bore into his back as he turned to walk away, leaving her holding the crumpled leaflet. Better have made good use of that time, Vic, he thought, rubbing his palms on the front of his suit pants. He didn’t reach for the phone until he had returned to the safety of his car.

  “Are you out of there?” he demanded when the connection finalized.

  “Yes.”

  “Well it better have been worth it. Felt like a fool. I’ll bet she figured I wasn’t a JW within five seconds.”

  “It was,” Vic replied, ignoring his partner’s complaints. “His computer was gone, but I have account numbers, passwords—we can access the whole blasted system remotely. Try to figure out how he ties in with his son.”

  “Good, good. Now let’s get moving before the maid decides to call the cops.”

  8:30 P.M. Tehran Time

  The Presidential Palace

  Tehran

  “They were using classic rearguard tactics,” President Shirazi commented, looking up from the reports in front of him.

  Larijani stood there before the president’s desk, stiffly at attention. Hearing an appraisal of the tactics used against him was not pleasing. He had lost good men against the Kurds, only to have the peshmerga melt into the mountains, denying him a decisive victory. Sixty soldiers killed, by the last count. An indeterminate number of dead Kurds in exchange. And their targets had slipped away.

  But when his uncle looked up again, he was smiling. “Fortunately, you have another chance to prove yourself.”

  “Sir.”

  “We have received communication from BEHDIN.”

  It took a moment to register in Harun’s tired brain. Then he nodded in understanding. “The American succeeded in escaping with vials containing the bacteria,” Shirazi continued. “He’s an experienced field operative named Thomas Parker and considered to be extremely competent. Clearly, he has survived thus far, so it is best to believe that assessment. But he has not yet crossed the border into Iraq.”

  “Do we know where he is?”

  “Not exactly,” the Iranian president acknowledged, spreading out a map on his desk. “Based on the intelligence provided by BEHDIN, he must be somewhere in this area—here. He’s on horseback, so an aerial search is necessary.”

  “Do you wish me to conduct the search, sir?”

  “In the morning,” Shirazi responded, a smile creeping out from behind his beard. “You deserve your rest, nephew.”

  6:19 P.M. Eastern Time

  Dulles International Airport

  “Nichols?” Despite the seriousness of the past forty-eight hours, Harry couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Daniel Lasker in the uniform of a cab driver, holding a sign that read Nichols in bold lettering.

  “How was the flight?” Lasker asked, taking Harry’s briefcase as the two of them walked from the terminal.

  “Like normal. Jet lag is a pain in the neck, but the trip was uneventful, thank God. The Agency short on personnel?”

  “Because they sent me?”

  Harry nodded.

  “No,” the watch officer replied. “Carter’s in the cab. Word from the top is that you’re to be debriefed on the way in to Langley.”

  “No rest for the weary,” Harry commented.
Lasker returned the briefcase as they reached the cab, and Harry slid into the back, beside Ron Carter.

  “What’s Richards’ status?”

  The analyst looked up from his laptop computer. “On an Athens-Bern flight as we speak.”

  Harry leaned back against the seat of the cab, momentarily closing his eyes. “Good. The Alps are beautiful this time of year.”

  “How long do you give it before the Israelis get the same information out of Tal that you did?” Carter asked. Harry opened his eyes to find the analyst staring intently at the screen of his laptop.

  “Depends. They don’t have the same chips. What, exactly, did I get out of the good professor?”

  “Achmed Asefi is the personal bodyguard of the Ayatollah Isfahani. Served him for thirteen years. Has Isfahani’s implicit trust.”

  “And served as the cutout between Isfahani and the archaeologist,” Harry added, impatience in his voice. “We know all of that from Tal. What do we have besides this?”

  Carter grinned, an unusually satisfied expression flickering across his dark face.

  “We have a way to contact him. And, did I mention? He likes boys…”

  Chapter Thirteen

  3:43 A.M. Tehran Time, October 2nd

  The Alborz Mountains

  Iran

  Thomas awoke from his sleep to find Estere bending over him, her hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to go,” she whispered.

  He rolled over, shielding the luminous dial of his watch with a hand as he checked the time. “Now?”

  “Yes,” she replied, a voice in the darkness. “I want to be across before dawn.”

  He rose, quickly collecting his bedroll and weapon. When he was ready, he found her at the mouth of the cave, standing there at the side of her horse.

  His clothes were still damp from the rain and the night breeze held a chill in its breath, wispy clouds drifting across the face of the moon. The storm had passed. Even the birds were still at this time of night, the only sound the rushing stream about fifty meters to their west.

  “Ready?” She asked, breaking the silence between them. Thomas grinned. “No worries. I was born to hang, not drown.”

  Estere ignored the weak attempt at jest and swung a leg up into the saddle, mounting easily. “Of equal danger at this time of year is exposure to the cold. The horses will probably have to swim the stream and we’ll need to dry off on the other side.”

  Thomas slung the assault rifle over his shoulder and put a foot in the stirrup, hoisting himself onto the back of the stallion. “Let’s go for it.”

  6:57 P.M. Eastern Time

  BWI Airport

  Baltimore, Maryland

  He only had one bag, and he’d kept it in the overhead through the flight. Nice and convenient. The commuter flight had been neither, Vic reflected, pushing his way through the crowded terminal. But, business was pressing. Their last target had arrived home.

  A sharp ringing jangle caused him to jump and he retrieved his cellphone from a pouch at his waist. “Hello.”

  He listened for a couple moments, then announced. “Good. I’ll meet you in thirty.”

  Adrenalin seemed to flow through his tired body as he hung up. Things were coming together…

  4:01 A.M. Tehran Time

  The Alborz Mountains

  Iran

  Estere had been right. The waters were ice-cold, flowing down from snow-capped mountains in the north. He could feel it soak through his combat boots and thick socks as Bahoz plunged on into the turbulent stream.

  She rode ahead, a dim form in the darkness on the back of the grey. Deeper now, and the horse let out a neigh of protest. Thomas shivered as the water crept higher, eddying around his legs. The chill touch of death. There was no way to know how much longer the black would be able to keep his footing on the streambed. Then…

  They were nearly to the center of the stream when it happened. One moment she was riding before him, the next he saw her horse stagger forward, its front legs flailing for traction.

  Time seemed to slow down. He heard Estere scream, saw her clutch at the bridle as the current swirled around her, tearing her from the saddle in agonizing slow-motion.

  “Estere!” he cried, an anguished cry torn from his lips as he urged Bahoz further into the stream, heedless of his own danger. One goal, a single purpose filling his mind.

  Reach her.

  His horse lurched to one side as he stepped into deep water, suddenly without footing and swimming for his life.

  He could barely descry Estere in the darkness, a bit of flotsam tossed on the water. Out of reach.

  Chaos. He felt Bahoz writhe beneath him, the stallion struggling against the current as it bore them both downstream.

  And then she was gone. He pulled hard on the reins of the black, endeavoring to regain control, his eyes searching the night.

  In vain…

  3:09 A.M. Baghdad Time

  Qandil Mountains

  Iraq

  The mountains were quiet. Unnaturally so, Hamid thought, making his way to the perimeter of camp. Perhaps it was nothing more than inbred prejudice against the traditional enemies of his ancestors, but he would be glad when they were safely back in Baghdad.

  Sergeant Obregon was on watch and turned to confront Hamid as he approached. “Oh, it’s you, sir,” he acknowledged, lowering his carbine. Hamid chose to ignore the hostility simmering there under the veneer of civility. Some things had to be overlooked.

  “Any sign of the Kurds?”

  “That’s a negative,” Obregon replied, gesturing toward the NVGs that hung around his neck. “Everything’s quiet.”

  “I had noticed. I was a Ranger, once.”

  The sergeant turned toward him, a curious expression in his eyes. “You were? Where did you serve?”

  “Afghanistan in the early days, up in the north with General Dostum. Tiger 02 of Task Force Dagger.” A grin spread across Hamid’s face as he continued. “Tasked with an Agency liaison in the spring of ‘03, just before I rotated out from my last tour. Most arrogant, irritating sonuvagun I’d ever met. So I know how you feel.”

  He turned to see a look of surprise in Obregon’s eyes, protest and denial rising to the lips of the sergeant. “Sir—I don’t—”

  Hamid put up a hand to stop the flow of words. “There’s no need, sergeant. I understand. Just don’t let it get in the way of our mission. Agreed?” he asked, extending his right hand.

  The sergeant hesitated, then he reached out to take it, grinning as he did so. “Good enough…”

  4:10 A.M. Tehran Time

  The Alborz Mountains

  Iran

  There. In the darkness. He saw her for a brief second in time, her upturned face white against the dark waters, close at hand. So close.

  He pulled hard on the reins with a strength born of desperation, feeling the stallion fight the surging water.

  An upthrown hand in the water and he reached out, the water tearing at him as he leaned from the saddle. Their fingers touched and then parted, her body drawn just out of reach by the torrent.

  Again, and he leaned forward, seizing her hand in a frenzied grip. Her fingers felt cold and lifeless in his grasp. A dead weight. Dear God…

  She wasn’t going to help him. He wrapped one arm around the thick neck of the swimming stallion for support, using the other to pull her toward him. Pain flowed through his veins as the current swirled around them, nearly pulling his arm from its socket.

  He couldn’t remember having ever been so cold. Another hard jerk and she lay across the saddle in front of him, his numb fingers seizing the reins once again.

  Whether she was dead or alive, he knew not.

  “Now, Bahoz,” he whispered, urging the horse toward the side of the stream, out of the current. The stallion was tiring of the fight. Another few moments and they would be swept downstream, swept to destruction.

  The impact jarred Thomas to the bone, the flailing hooves of Bahoz striking once more upo
n the rocky streambed. Almost.

  The black shot from the water with a mighty lunge, bearing his double burden and coming down with a crash in the more torpid waters near shore.

  Thomas buried his hands against the warm neck of the stallion as they splashed to shore, the body heat restoring his benumbed fingers.

  Safety.

  He slid down from the back of the horse, his legs seeming stiff and useless. He reached up and took her limp body in his arms, staggering toward a clump of bushes a few feet from the swollen stream.

  So weak. So cold.

  His legs gave out from under him half-way there and they crumpled to the ground, bodies entwined together. Tears fell from his eyes as he leaned over her, hands cradling her cold, lifeless face. The end of all dreams…

  She coughed suddenly, an almost alien sound striking his ears. Water spewed from her mouth and he laughed, an almost giddy feeling overcoming him as he leaned back, placing both hands on her chest and pressing down to force the water from her lungs. She was alive…

  8:04 P.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  It was a lot of information. Almost too much information to be compiled on one man. Certainly not in the last fifteen hours. Harry closed the dossier and handed it back to the waiting Carter. “May I ask why the Agency has taken such an interest in Asefi in the past?”

  “The past?” Carter asked, as though he had no idea what Harry was talking about.

  “Don’t give me that, Ron,” Harry shot back, rising from his chair. “You didn’t pull all this together since my call this morning. Even the timestamps on these photos–they’re five years old. What’s the history?”