Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  The analyst sighed. “Asefi was involved in an assassination attempt of ours, back in the fall of 2011. You’ve read the file on Isfahani—he’s not always been the sort of cooperative peacenik who would work with the Israelis. He wasn’t the Supreme Leader at the time, but his status as the principal disciple of Khamenei made him one of the most influential clerics behind Iran’s nuclear program. And we tried to take him out.”

  Harry stood with his hand on the door, listening. “Tried as in failed?”

  “That would be correct. We lost our most important assets running the mission and we didn’t get Isfahani. Largely because of Asefi’s skill in protecting his principal. He may be queer as a three-dollar bill, but he’s a pretty formidable adversary all the same.”

  “So then you went after him?” Harry asked, gesturing at the dossier on the table. Carter nodded.

  “That’s right. Trying to find something we could exploit—a chink in the armor. And we found it. As they say, follow the money. We found that he had paid out large sums from a credit card over the course of two years to an Eastern European escort service specializing in male hookers. That gave us something to work with, and we planned to use it against him, either trying to get him to take out Isfahani, or give us a window in which to do so.”

  “And then President Shirazi came to power, reducing the power of the clerics?” Harry guessed, glancing shrewdly at Carter.

  “Exactly. All of a sudden, Isfahani was an unwilling moderate by comparison and we had no reason to target him.”

  “Until now.” Nothing in the story surprised Harry—it was the type of thing that went on constantly. Bribery, back-stabbing and blackmail, the way the game was played. It went with the territory. He checked his watch and smiled. “It’s getting late and I’ve had quite a day. When do you plan to run the op on Asefi?”

  “You mean when are you going to do it, don’t you?” came the analyst’s retort. “The DCIA needs to sign off, but we plan on having you run him tomorrow.”

  “Really?” Harry grinned. “If you don’t mind, I’ll process that bit of intel tomorrow as well.”

  “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  A car was waiting in the parking lot of a convenience store off the CIA access road. The man inside paused only long enough to run a check of the license plate on the back of Harry’s Chevy, then punched speed-dial. “He’s on the road, Vic. Heading home.”

  6:33 A.M. Tehran Time

  The Alborz Mountains

  Iran

  “Someone might see the smoke.” Thomas looked up from the small fire he was tending into Estere’s eyes. Even as her lips uttered the protest, she shuddered uncontrollably and leaned closer to the flame, hugging her knees close to her body and drawing the blanket tightly around her.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he replied, studying her closely, watching for signs of hypothermia. Their clothes lay in front of the fire, drying out—and absorbing the smoke. The blanket she was wearing, which he had stuffed in a water-tight pack along with the vials of blood, was the only thing dry that was left to them. He reached out and felt the material of his pants. Still too wet to wear, he realized distastefully. The awkwardness between them could be cut with a knife.

  All the same, in the face of death, modesty didn’t rank too high on his list of priorities. His or hers.

  Thomas dipped his finger into the metal cup of water he had been warming over the embers. “Drink this,” he instructed, raising the cup to her lips.

  She drank deeply, a faint smile crossing her lips as she let him take the empty cup away. She was still weak. So terribly weak.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “For what?”

  “For saving my life. I should have died in those waters.”

  He grinned. “Not while I’m around.” He looked into the cup and stood. “I’ll fill this in the stream.”

  “Don’t leave me, Thomas.”

  “I won’t,” he replied, bending down to kiss her cheek. Her skin was flushed with a dangerous, almost feverish warmth.

  “Promise?”

  He knelt beside her for a moment, seeing in that moment a side of her, a vulnerability he had never before witnessed. “I’m never gonna leave you,” he whispered, running his fingers through her damp, matted hair. “Never.”

  He stood and walked from the small cave, self-conscious in the early dawn as he made his way to the stream. It was then that he heard it, the hair on the back of his neck rising at the sound. A helicopter. Headed their way.

  It could only mean one thing. The Iranians were coming.

  He turned and sprinted for shelter, bare feet scraping against the rock as he dove for cover, clambering into the cave just as a Mi-24 “Hind” attack helicopter came over the ridge to the north.

  “Douse the fire!” he hissed, tearing the blanket from Estere’s back and throwing it over the struggling embers.

  The blanket smoldered and then a faint tendril of smoke curled upward from the fabric as the flames died, robbed of oxygen. She reached for the blanket to cover herself and he gave it to her, rolling to the side of the cave where his rifle lay. It was the only weapon they had left after their immersion in the deluge.

  A single thirty-round magazine. Little enough. He could only hope the helicopter had been going too fast to notice the clump of bushes where Bahoz was tied.

  Hope. And wait…

  1:03 A.M. Eastern Time

  Grove Manor

  Cypress, Virginia

  It was his fifth cup of coffee for the night. Or his sixth. It was like the old joke about getting drunk, never sure which glass had done it.

  “Give me the rundown on Nichols’ morning routine again,” Vic ordered, draining the cup. The pleasant buzz of caffeine flooded through his system and he put down the empty cup regretfully. He was right there, on the knife’s edge. Any more coffee and he would crash and burn.

  The second man lowered his binoculars, turning his attention away from the house across the road. “Bill says his schedule is clear tomorrow morning. Typically, he goes running at 0500 for an hour, then comes back to the house for a shower before heading into work. That’s just a rough approximation, he’s pretty careful to vary his exact time and route. This is what we know for sure—security personnel are coming to watch the house at 0700, so we need to get you inside within that window.”

  Vic nodded. A cold breeze swept across the Virginia Piedmont and he zipped up his jacket, feeling the comforting bulge of the Colt Delta Elite 10mm in the holster at his hip. Four hours to go…

  10:08 A.M. Tehran Time

  The Alborz Mountains

  Iran

  “They were supposed to be on horseback, were they not?” the corporal asked.

  Harun nodded, standing there on the bank of the stream. The mangled grey carcass stretched on the rocks below them was recognizable as a horse, but only if one used their imagination. “The river may have already done our job for us,” he observed, a trace of regret palpable in his tones.

  He and the corporal descended the rocks until they stood beside the body. It had been a magnificent animal, he could tell that much.

  Whatever the truth, they were at the endpoint of the journey. No human was in sight. At some point along the way, rider and horse had parted company. Finding that point was going to be the key.

  Harun turned, waving to the eight men that had accompanied him on his search. “Back in the helicopter. We’ll take to the air once more.”

  His pants were dry at least. It amazed him how confidence-restoring that alone was. Thomas laid down the rifle and moved back to Estere’s side, placing a hand against her forehead. She was still feverishly warm, slipping in and out of lucidity as the morning had progressed.

  He reached inside his pouch for the TACSAT, once again thanking whomever had possessed the forethought to make it waterproof.

  The call was picked up on the second ring, a burst of static as the encryption sequence finished.
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  “Where are you?”came Hamid’s voice. “We were expecting you to be at the rendevous by now.”

  “Listen, we nearly drowned crossing the river and now we’ve got an Iranian attack helicopter breathing down our necks. Is that reason enough for you?”

  “Take it easy, Thomas,” Hamid replied, his voice low and urgent. “I’m not the enemy. Just calm down and tell me where you are.”

  “Near as I can tell, we’re about ten, eleven klicks from the border, holed up in a cave.”

  “Are you mobile?”

  “Yes. We’ve still got one horse, but my guide is suffering from hypothermia. I’m not sure she should be moved in this fever.”

  “Leave her, Thomas.”

  He heard Estere moan and looked over to where she lay, turning helplessly on the blanket. He had needed to dress her, like one would a baby. “I can’t.”

  “Excuse me? Thomas, you know how important those vials are. They’re more important than any one of us. Now I’m going to press my men as close to that blasted border as my orders will let me. Meet us there. Follow protocol.”

  Protocol. The cold, hard rules of tradecraft. They hadn’t been designed for situations like this, Thomas thought, ending the call. Protocol be hanged. He wasn’t going to leave her. He had promised…

  “Where’s Parker?” Davood asked, coming up as Hamid shoved the TACSAT back in his pocket.

  Hamid told him as the two men walked back to the Humvee. “Sergeant Obregon!”

  “Yes?” Obregon asked, poking his head out the door of the vehicle.

  “What do we have in the way of antiaircraft capability?”

  11:11 A.M.

  Make a wish. The thought struck Thomas with astonishing absurdity. A memory from an old girlfriend. Eleven minutes past eleven. The time for wish-making.

  He had only one. That they might reach the border alive. Estere moved restlessly in his arms as he lifted her into the saddle. “Where are we going?” she murmured, turning her flushed face toward him.

  “Home, baby. Home.”

  “America?” A light shone ever so briefly in her eyes. “I’ve–I’ve always wanted to go there…”

  “You’ve got it, girl,” he whispered, forcing cheer into his voice as she drifted back into the grasp of the fever. “America.”

  The helicopter flew over the streambed at treetops level, the rotor wash churning the water into a frenzy as it passed. Rocket pods hung from pylons on either side of the fuselage, a four-barreled 12.7-mm cannon protruding assertively from the chin of the gunship.

  A killing machine. A hunter…

  3:13 A.M. Eastern Time

  Grove Manor

  Cypress, Virginia

  Lights out, the sport utility vehicle slowed along the road and then came to a stop near where they stood. Illegal, yes, but that was better than the alternative of blowing their mission.

  Vic watched as a young woman stepped from the driver’s seat, into the Virginia night. Dressed in sweatpants and a light jacket, there was nothing in her appearance to attract attention. She looked like any one of a thousand soccer moms in the Mid-Atlantic region.

  “Are we still go-mission?” she asked, coming up to the pair of men.

  Vic nodded. “You’re to tail Nichols on his run. Are you armed?”

  “You know it.” She opened her jacket to reveal a subcompact Kahr 9mm holstered close to her torso. “We’ve got what, two hours?”

  “Right. Then we earn our pay…”

  12:34 P.M. Tehran Time

  Alborz Mountains

  Iran

  The Ranger beacon had been deployed, and Thomas saw it as a flashing symbol on the screen of his TACSAT. They had six kilometers to go.

  He bent forward over the neck of the horse, holding Estere in front of him, an arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

  Trees covered the slope of the mountain, shielding them from hostile eyes above. He urged the horse forward at a breakneck speed, winding in and out between the trees, jumping over fallen logs on the slope. He could still hear the helicopter in the distance. Looking for them. Hunting them down.

  He felt the Kalishnikov dig into his back and wondered at the futility of the weapon. No time, no way to fight. In the age-old question of fight or flight, their fate had already been decided.

  Flee…

  Harun was in the open door of Mi-24 as it swept low over the trees, cursing angrily. Forests were not uncommon in the southwestern Alborz, but having his prey flee into one was a bitter pill. That they were in there was not in doubt. Not according to the words of BEHDIN, the faithful one.

  Harun fingered the headset, thinking back to the communication five minutes before with the sleeper agent. The American was somewhere in the forest below them, scarce six kilometers from the border. He was running out of time.

  An idea struck him suddenly and he switched comm channels, over to the frequency used by the pilot of the helicopter. “Set my men and me down in the nearest clearing,” he instructed, speaking loudly to ensure that he was heard over the roar of the engines. “Then proceed to the western edge of the forest, near the Iraqi border, and set up patrol. We will drive them toward you.”

  11:54 A.M. Baghdad Time

  Qandil Mountains

  Iraq

  “Ever used one of those things before?” Hamid asked, glancing critically at the Stinger SAM clutched in Sergeant Obregon’s hands.

  The Hispanic nodded. “Where?” came the next question, but he just grinned.

  “Not allowed to say, amigo.”

  A few chuckles greeted his retort, but they were few and far between. Tension pervaded the atmosphere as the men waited, eyes on the wooded mountainside a mile away. One of the Rangers rested the barrel of his M249 SAW on the hood of the Humvee as the other two members of the squad stood by, M-4 carbines at the ready.

  The two CIA men had donned flak jackets and unslung their own rifles, accurized AK-74s. The sight of the Eastern Bloc weapons had raised a few eyebrows at first, but there were no comments now. Just silence.

  And they waited…

  Thomas drew up at the edge of the forest, dismounting in the underbrush to aim his binoculars in the direction indicated by the beacon. The ground between them was open, marked by only an occasional tree. Naked as the surface of the moon. A canyon stretched off to the north, adding to the austerity of the landscape.

  He lowered the binoculars and listened, ears alert for any sound of the helicopter. He hadn’t heard it for nearly fifteen minutes. Perhaps it had gone.

  “Any sign of the bird?” he asked, holding the TACSAT to his ear.

  “That’s negative,” came Hamid’s calm, reassuring voice. “Come on in.”

  He swung back up onto the back of the stallion, touching Estere on the shoulder as he took the reins once more in his hands. “We’re going home.”

  A weak smile crossed her lips and she squeezed his fingers. “Good…”

  It was time to go. He took a deep breath and kicked the horse into a gallop, out across the open ground…

  4:01 A.M. Eastern Time

  Grove Manor

  Cypress, Virginia

  He had always been an early riser, even as a kid. But not this early. Harry leaned over and looked at the clock on his nightstand. Just a couple minutes past four. Something was wrong.

  He swung out of bed and pulled on his jeans, reaching for the .45 on the nightstand. A round was already in the chamber, hammer back the way it always was. He finished dressing in the dark, unable to shake himself free from the feeling of danger.

  Anymore, he no longer tried. It had saved his life too many times.

  12:02 P.M. Baghdad Time

  Qandil Mountains

  Iraq

  Hamid felt himself holding his breath as he saw the horse emerge from the treeline, galloping hard toward the border. He raised the binoculars to his eyes, making out the form of Thomas on its back. And the woman.

  The two CIA men were standing on a small hillock ab
out fifteen meters in front of the Ranger Humvee. He looked back down the hill, realizing Thomas was out of the Rangers’ line of sight. It didn’t matter. Just another couple minutes.

  Then it happened, suddenly and without warning. An Mi-24 attack helicopter swept into view, out of the canyon to the north. A huge, menacing bird of prey sweeping down on the horseman from behind.

  Hamid screamed out a warning and thrust Davood to the earth, bringing his rifle up into firing position. There was no time.

  No time. The horse’s hooves pounded a grim tattoo against the hard-packed earth, toward the border. Painfully slow.Thomas felt his entire body tense, waiting for the gunship to open fire.

  Any moment now, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. His options had decreased to a singular course. One option.

  Fate. He urged the horse forward, guiding him first right, then left, slaloming like a skier down a snowy hill.

  A horrible sound broke from the sky behind them as the helicopter’s cannon began firing, a roar like canvas ripped in the hands of a giant, 12.7-mm shells biting into the ground around them.

  The next instant, a terrible whinnying cry echoed from the lips of the stallion and Thomas went flying over its head.

  Pain. He struck the ground with a bone-jarring thud, rolling over and over on the earth as plumes of dust erupted around his body. The Kalishnikov was laying a few feet from his outstretched hand, just out of reach.