Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  “Sure thing. Petras is going to start wondering where we are.”

  “Let’s go back to the events of the morning,” Rebecca Petras instructed, typing something into her laptop. Hamid shifted in his chair, the TACSAT buzzing suddenly in his ribs.

  “Excuse me,” he said, smiling across the table at the assistant station chief. “I need to take this.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  He rose from his seat, the TACSAT in his hand. “Afraid not.”

  “I owe you one, Harry,” he announced with a laugh as the door closed behind him. “You just got me out of debrief with Petras.”

  Harry wasn’t laughing. When he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. “Other business, Hamid. What went wrong?”

  “The Iranians were tracking Parker—how I don’t know. Finding him in those mountains would have been like picking the proverbial needle out of the haystack.”

  “Unless they had a source,” Harry replied.

  “That could explain it, I suppose. Last I heard Langley hadn’t found the leak that blew TALON.”

  “As of this morning they did.”

  “Who?”

  “Davood.”

  Hamid’s mouth fell open. “Ya Allah,” he whispered in Arabic. Oh God. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I wish I was,” Harry responded grimly. “That’s the opinion of the seventh floor. Could he have compromised Parker?”

  “Harry, he’s one of us, he wouldn’t—”

  “That’s not what I asked and you know it.” Harry’s voice was detached. Clinical. Cold as ice. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, I asked if he had the opportunity.”

  “I suppose so. We weren’t together the whole time.” Hamid paused. “I still can’t believe it.”

  “Neither can I. I suppose we’ll know for certain in a few hours. The boys from Intel are scouring Davood’s phone logs.”

  The thought struck Hamid with the force of a slug. “Harry, tell them to check mine as well.”

  “What?”

  “A couple hours before extraction, Davood asked to borrow my TACSAT. Said his was charging in the Humvee.”

  “Who’d he need to call?”

  “I had asked him to coordinate satellite resources with CENTCOM so that we could keep an eye out for Iranian reinforcements. He was back at the vehicle for thirty minutes or more.”

  Silence from the other end of the line. Then Harry spoke, slowly and reluctantly. “I’ll pass it on. Remember, nothing of this to Davood or anyone else. Just keep an eye on him and get back Stateside.”

  “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

  5:23 P.M. Local Time

  Gaza

  A stainless steel bottle about the size of a liter of soda sat on the kitchen table of the small apartment. So small, yet so deadly.

  Fayood Hamza al-Farouk took another sip from the cup of tea in front of him and regarded the man sitting across from him with an appraising glance.

  “Will it work?”

  “To be sure,” the young man he knew only as “Rashid” replied, sounding offended. “The device can be armed forty-eight hours in advance—once the internal timer reaches zero, the bacteria will be dispersed in an aerosol cloud.”

  “And if the infidels manage to find the canisters before that time?” Farouk demanded, his voice taking on a peculiar intensity.

  The young man responded with an expansive shrug. A pair of packets lay on the table between them and he shoved one of them across to the Hezbollah terrorist. “Plastique,” he replied simply. “Manufactured in the 1980s.”

  Both men knew what that meant. In the early ‘90s, Europe’s explosive manufacturers had started adding a detection taggant to their plastic explosives, a volatile chemical which slowly evaporated from the explosive and could be detected by bomb-sniffing dogs. Explosives made before then did not have such a chemical agent, although then one had to deal with explosives that were well past their guaranteed shelf life of ten years. In cases like this, the trade-off was worth it.

  “I will use these to render each device tamper-proof,” he said. “There is only one concern. Would the bacteria be then rendered impotent in the heat of the explosion?”

  “You believe that we would not have thought of this?” Farouk asked, glaring across the table. Frankly, having to explain details to a subordinate nettled him. “This strain of y. pestis is more heat-resistant than anything we have ever seen before. It will survive the explosion. Just make sure they cannot be disarmed.”

  With a grim smile, the young man held up both his hands in front of his bearded face. All ten digits remained. The mark of either a very skilled or a very lucky bombmaker. Only time would tell.

  “Inshallah,” Farouk breathed. As Allah wills it…

  12:49 P.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  “The software has been reconfigured,” Ron Carter announced, gesturing to the phone on the desk. “His caller I.D. will show the call originating from Bulgaria, the personal office number of Vladimir Dubosky.”

  “And that is?” Harry asked, looking from Ron to the director and back again.

  “The pimp, or whatever you call somebody running male prostitutes. He’s a Russian, Mafia capo that got caught in the losing end of a Moscow gang war in the mid ‘90s. Fled to Bulgaria and apparently went into the sex trade.”

  The DCIA leaned forward “Here’s the deal you’re to offer him, Harry. He has two choices—he can be unhelpful and we’ll send the body of our information to the Ayatollah. Or he can play ball.”

  “That’s the stick,” Harry nodded. “Where’s the carrot?”

  “If his information is of value, we’ll arrange for his safe passage to a country that looks more kindly on men of his ‘persuasion’.”

  Harry snorted. “Great. We’ve got a CIA operator with ties to Hezbollah and now we’re cutting deals with a pedophile. Another wonderful day at the office.”

  “I can have someone else place the call,” Lay responded with a shrug.

  A grim smile crossed Harry’s lips and he shook his head. “No, I’ll do it.”

  “Good.” The CIA director rose and headed toward the door of the conference room. “I’ll be in my office.”

  Harry picked up the phone and hit SEND. The call took only a couple moments to connect and then a man’s voice came on the line. “Vladimir?”

  9:51 P.M. Tehran Time

  The Ayatollah’s Residence

  Qom, Iran

  There was a second’s pause and then Asefi heard an unfamiliar voice in Russian. “Kak dela, Achmed?”

  “I am well, thank you,” the bodyguard replied in the same language, his tone wary. “Who is this?”

  “Names don’t matter,” the cold voice continued. “What matters is that I have something you need.”

  “I see no point in continuing this conversation.”

  “Da, that is your choice. We all make choices, Achmed. Does the Ayatollah Isfahani know of the choices of your bedchamber?”

  He froze, the words of the caller ringing in his ear. A quick glance down the hallway in either direction assured him that he was alone, at least for the moment. “What do you mean?”

  “Your phone is data-equipped, is it not?”

  “Da, da.”

  “One moment. I am sending you a file.”

  Asefi stepped to the side of the hall, inserting his keycard into the lock of a nearby storage room. A beep signaled the arrival of the message as he stepped into the comforting darkness. He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as they moved across the phone’s keyboard, opening the file folder.

  He groaned. Photos. Dozens of photos. Of him and others—beautiful young men, in Bulgaria, in a score other places around Eastern Europe. And other documents. He could guess at their contents. The voice was speaking again. “You have received the file?”

  “This is a base forgery!” he exploded, slamming his fist against the wall. “A fabrication of Satan. You can pro
ve nothing except the evil of your hearts!”

  “Nyet?” the voice asked incredulously. “Go on and tell yourself that, Achmed. Believe that and I will enjoy watching as they heap stones over your body.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What do I want? You’ve been raping little boys, Achmed. Speaking personally, I want you dead.”

  “What business is this of yours?” His mouth seemed suddenly dry as sand, a hoarse whisper the only sound escaping his lips.

  “None whatsoever. Which is why my employers are offering you a way out.”

  “What?”

  “We need to meet. Your place or mine?” the voice continued, sardonic laughter in its tones.

  “I will be flying to Beirut tomorrow,” Asefi replied, thinking rapidly. “Meet me at the airport.”

  “Spasiba bolshoi.” Thank you very much.

  “How will I recognize you?”

  “You won’t. But I’ll know you.” The phone went dead, the click sounding like a death knell in the narrow confines of the storage room…

  1:03 P.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Harry laid the cellphone back on the table and glanced across at Ron Carter. “What’s your take?”

  “I think he’s playing ball. Giving him time to think about it is dangerous, but then again, so is talking over an unsecured line.” Carter looked down at his laptop. “I can have you and Richards on a flight to Beirut as early as tonight.”

  “Just what I need—another trans-Atlantic flight. What is Zakiri and Parker’s status?” Harry asked, studiously avoiding a reference to Davood.

  “They are due to leave for Bagram in two hours with the recovered vials in their posession. Why?”

  “Have them diverted to Crete. Tex and I will meet them there after the conclusion of our meeting with Asefi. I’ll clear things with Kranemeyer.”

  Carter shrugged. “Again I ask, ‘Why?’”

  “If the attack goes down in the U.S., well, under posse comitatus that’s Bureau jurisdiction, not ours. The Hezbollah connection, the situation with the Israelis, everything indicates this is going to hit the Middle East. Call it prepositioning assets if you like. Just do it.”

  9:45 P.M. Local Time

  Jerusalem, Israel

  Darkness had fallen over the Holy City, but it was no impediment to Fayood al-Farouk. He was a creature of the night and he welcomed its protecting cover. To his west, he could hear the evening prayer of the muezzin drifting through the night air. He did not bow in prayer, his eyes remaining fixed on his target, the night-vision binoculars giving a greenish cast to the surrounding scenery. At the end of days, when the angels came to weigh the good and evil of his life, this omission would count as nothing against his slaughter of the Jews.

  From his vantage point, he could see the Israeli guards patrolling the entrance of the Haram Al-Sharif. Jews guarding the entrance to the Noble Enclosure. Within a few short days, they would be dead. Along with the rest of their kinsmen.

  The door opened behind him, creaking as it swung inward. He knew without looking who was there. “Harun, my brother. I trust you had a good flight.”

  “As Allah willed it.”

  He sighed, the binoculars sweeping up to rest upon the center of the enclosure, upon the golden dome covering the rock from which Mohammed had ascended to heaven.

  It would start here. Two days…

  Chapter Fourteen

  1:03 A.M. Local Time, October 3rd

  Air France Flight 256

  En route to Ankara, Turkey

  She had worked in Brussels as an accountant. Her father was French, her mother English. She had been married for two years. No, no children. Not yet, anyway. This was her first trip to Turkey, although she had visited Athens as a senior in college. And she never had been able to sleep on airplanes.

  Unfortunately, that meant neither could he. Harry sighed wearily as his seat companion chattered on. He had stopped paying close attention an hour before, although the young woman had yet to notice.

  His cellphone beeped with an incoming text and he flipped it open to check the screen. A NEW TIMEZONE, the message from Tex read. SET YOUR WATCH TO ZERO ONE HUNDRED.

  Harry placed the cellphone in his pocket and adjusted the stem of his Rolex to one o’clock in the morning. The watch was an Agency prop, to aid in his cover as a German businessman.

  He looked up to realize his companion was asking a question now. “Veuillez m’excuser?”

  She smiled indulgently. “I asked, are you married, monsieur?”

  3:07 A.M. Damascus Time

  A small airport

  The outskirts of Damascus, Syria

  Damascus. A city of history and legend. Had his mind not been so occupied with other matters, Hossein might have been more impressed.

  As it was, the watchdog was speaking. “This mission is of the utmost importance. The fanatics must not be allowed to profane the Haram al-Sharif with their madness. I will be relying upon you to guide our men through the Golan.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I will be leaving you,” the watchdog added unexpectedly.

  Hossein turned to look Achmed Asefi in the face. “And why is this?”

  “There is unfinished business in Beirut. I will rejoin you in Al Quds later today.” A furtive look danced in Asefi’s eyes as the two men stood there in the darkness of the Syrian night.

  “I was not informed of this change of plans,” Hossein retorted, his gaze never wavering.

  Asefi seemed annoyed by the challenge.“A sudden call from the Ayatollah. As your men were disembarking.”

  “I see.” The major paused for a moment before adding piously, “Go with Allah.”

  Hossein watched as the Ayatollah’s bodyguard walked off toward the Gulfstream that had brought them from Isfahan under cover of night.

  The corporal, Mustafa, materialized at his side. “The truck is ready, sir,” he announced with a smart salute.

  “Good,” Hossein replied, sighing as he turned away toward the Land Rover that was to transport them into the land of Palestine. A thought struck him about half-way across the tarmac and he turned to Mustafa. “You were the first off the plane. Achmed Asefi—did you see him receive a phone call?”

  The corporal’s brow furrowed in thought as the two men walked beneath the flickering glare of the airport lights. “No. It is possible, but I was with him most of the time. Why?”

  “Nothing of any moment,” Hossein replied, appearing to dismiss it off-hand. He looked back to see jet turbines fire as the Gulfstream turned back toward the runway.

  Something was wrong.

  5:30 A.M. Local Time

  C-130 “Hercules”

  Over the Mediterranean

  Hamid shifted restlessly on the bench against the side of the C-130 transport. No one had said a great deal since the transport had left Baghdad.

  Thomas lay on the bench across from him, apparently asleep. Davood had his PDA out, his eyes focused intently on the little screen as he played a video game. Hamid cast a sidelong glance in his direction, contempt filling his heart. You have betrayed your country and your faith. No true Muslim could perpetrate this act of treachery, that much he knew.

  Perhaps feeling his gaze upon him, Davood looked up from the screen. “Do you know why we’ve been diverted to Crete?”

  “No,” he lied, his face expressionless. “The orders came down from Langley, that is all.”

  After a moment, the young agent turned back to his game. Hamid sighed, feeling the bulge of his Glock dig into his side. Knowing what must be. The penalty for treason was death, but he knew one thing with a certainty.

  Davood would never live to see the inside of a federal prison. That was the price of betrayal…

  6:27 A.M. Local Time

  Beirut-Rafic Hariri International Airport

  Beirut, Syria

  Bomb craters from the last Israeli incursion nearly seven months before
dotted the runway as the Turkish Airlines 737 touched down, flaps fully extended. An attempt had been made to patch the damage with asphalt, but the attempt was partially successful at best.

  Harry looked out the window, thinking back. He had been here then, seeking to recover an Agency asset before the Israeli army overran his position and compromised him. He could still remember the fiery hell, the clouds of oily-black smoke that had drifted over the city.

  The mercurial nature of the Middle East.

  It took them an hour to reunite on the other side of the multi-layered security checkpoints. When they did, Tex was holding up his phone. “Langley called,” he announced grimly.

  “Yes?” Harry asked, shouldering his carry-on bag.

  “Ron finally went through all the phone records from yesterday’s op.”

  “What did he find?”

  “Hamid was right. His TACSAT was used to place two calls to an unrecognized satellite phone. Carter traced the number to Kosovo before losing it in a maze of Eastern European networks.”

  “So, we essentially have nothing.”

  “Davood’s TACSAT was used to call a phone with the same prefix hours before the launch of TALON.”

  Harry’s lips compressed into a thin line. “I see. Is that all the information he was able to pull?”

  “Not quite,” the Texan replied, falling in behind Harry as they exited the terminal. “He’s got a location on Asefi.”

  “Already?”

  “He arrived two hours early.”

  “Figures. Imaging?”

  “Carol was able to hack into the airport CCTV,” Tex continued, referring to the closed circuit television network so common at airports. “The cameras last have him entering a café garden about a mile from here. No sign that he’s made an exit.”