Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  “Give them the lowdown, Troy,” Shapiro instructed, turning to his analyst. The man cleared his throat and shuffled through his papers. “We’ve made a score of intercepts over the last few hours, all high-level government comm channels. The conversations were encrypted, but we’ve managed to crack some of it.”

  “And?”

  “The conversations are emanating largely from Tehran. Our computers ran the voiceprint, cross-referencing with the speech President Mahmoud F’Azel Shirazi gave in front of the U.N. General Assembly this past April. It’s a match.”

  “Who’s he been talking to?”

  “This man,” the analyst replied, shoving a photograph across the table in Lay’s direction. “His Royal Highness, Prince Ibrahim bin Abdul Aziz al-Saud. A half-brother to the Crown Prince, he’s made his billions in the oil business and has been suspected of funneling money to Al-Qaida in past years. In 2012, we froze five hundred million dollars worth of his assets in this country.”

  Lay nodded. “I remember. A hard-liner, if I recall?”

  “He defines the term. Fifteen minutes after their conversation terminated, al-Saud called General Yussef Farik Mutallab, the head of the Jordanian Air Force.”

  “What was the substance of their conversation?”

  “Yet to be translated, sir.”

  “No matter,” Lay whispered, folding his hands. “The train has been laid, and he’s priming the fuse. Where are we on the bacteria itself?”

  Carter looked up from his laptop. “It will be arriving at Bethesda within the hour. Doctor Schuyler has a team prepped to expedite the process.”

  “Good,” Lay nodded. “What’s the status of the field team?”

  “On the road toward the Palestinian Authority. Due to rendevous with CRUCIFIX in less than two hours.”

  3:21 P.M. Local Time

  Mossad Headquarters

  Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

  A knock sounded on the door of Shoham’s office and he looked up to see the analyst standing in the doorway. “We have a positive ID on the man who accompanied Nichols into the country,” the man proclaimed, striding into the room without further ceremony.

  “Indeed?”

  The analyst extended a dossier and Shoham took it, his eyes narrowing as he opened the folder. “The Ayatollah’s personal bodyguard?”

  “Our photos of Asefi are dated, but we believe it to be a match.”

  “And what aliases did they use to gain entrance?”

  “Nichols is posing as an aid worker from Ireland, one Daniel O’Bryan. Asefi is under the identity of Muhammad Hassan, listed as a translator for Doctors Without Borders.”

  The Mossad chief snorted. “We’ve already run those names through our database and put out an alert,” the analyst continued.

  “Waste of time,” Shoham shot back. “Nichols is good. He’ll already have dumped those identities and traded them for others. My guess is he’s masquerading as a Coptic priest by now.”

  “We are also tracking the license number on the car.”

  “Good. Keep me informed. And find Lieutenant Gideon Laner for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Silence fell over the room following the departure of the analyst and Shoham rose from his chair, walking slowly to the map which covered a full wall of office.

  A sigh escaped his lips. “Nichols, why are you back?”

  7:47 A.M. Eastern Time

  National Navy Medical Center

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Dr. Maria Schuyler signed for the package, taking it from the hands of the pair of CIA agents detailed to protect it.

  “I’ll take it from here, thanks. Ted, will you get this down to my lab?”

  “We’ll go along, if you don’t mind,” the older agent demurred, not a trace of a smile on his face.

  She nodded after a moment, then waved for them to accompany her into the building. They split up, flanking her as the trio moved down the hallway.

  It was such a small package. She had been working with infectious disease for most of her adult life, but it still never failed to amaze her that something so small was capable of such destruction.

  Outside the hermetically-sealed doors to her lab, she motioned for the agents to stop, opening a locker to the right of the door and pulling out three bio-suits. She set down the package on the bench beside her and slid into the suit, pulling it on one leg at a time.

  A chill ran through her as she did so, casting a sidelong glance at the package as though to assure herself that it was still there.

  It was like being in the very presence of evil…

  4:09 P.M.

  Nablus

  The West Bank

  There is a man in Nablus named Omar. A man of pure faith and true. Go to him and he will aid you in your mission.

  The Ayatollah’s words did little to reassure Hossein as he wrapped a towel around his mid-section, preparing to enter the steam room of the Turkish bath.

  Of pure faith and true. Yes, well, he’d settle for competent.

  Billowing steam wafted into his face as he opened the door. The al-Shifa hammam had originally been built in the 17th-century, the flowing script of the Quran decorating the ancient stones. Hossein blinked away the water droplets condensing on his eyelids and groped his way through the steam, his fingers tracing the engravings on the wall.

  Rockets from an Israeli helicopter had struck the Turkish bath during the fighting of the Second Intifada, Hossein remembered, but there was no sign of that damage now.

  An old man sat upon a bench near the warm stones, his eyes apparently closed in quiet repose and the major took a seat nearby, to await the arrival of Omar.

  “The steam serves to warm an aged body on such a cool day,” a voice observed. It took Hossein a moment to realize the old man was looking in his direction.

  He nodded stiffly, forcing himself to concentrate. “Much as the truth of Allah warms and purifies the soul,” the old man continued, his gaze penetrating. “You are searching for something, perhaps?”

  “And what would that be, father?” Hossein asked respectfully, concerned by the strange inquiry. The man’s face seemed free of dissimulation, an open page before him.

  “Faith, perhaps. Many men search in the dark tangles of life for something they can cling to. Or perchance you search for me?” A smile crossed the old man’s face, his lips parting to reveal badly chipped teeth. “My name is Omar.”

  A heavy sigh escaped the major’s lips, coming along with the realization that he had been holding his breath. “I see.”

  Omar smiled once more, taking Hossein’s hand in both of his and pressing a small key into the palm. “There is a black van in the alley outside. It should be more than sufficient for your needs.”

  “Thank you, father,” Hossein responded, rising to his feet and looking down at the old man. It was time to leave.

  Omar leaned back against the stones, a look of sadness coming into his eyes. “As you have found me, may you find your faith, my son. Allah guide your steps.”

  4:23 P.M. Local Time

  The road to Nablus

  “The Land Rover is parked outside the Hammam al-Shifa in Nablus. The men went inside.”

  “How long have they been there?” Harry asked, glancing at his watch.

  There was a brief pause, then Carter responded, “About thirty minutes.”

  “Do we know what’s there?”

  “I hear it’s a good place to get a massage, but no, we don’t have anything that would explain their presence there.”

  Harry looked over at Asefi. The bodyguard was looking away from him, out the window of the car, but no doubt listening to the conversation. “Hold one, I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Make it quick,” Carter advised. “CRUCIFIX is fifteen minutes out. We need you ready to move as soon as he makes the delivery.”

  “Roger that.” Harry slipped the phone back in his pocket and sat there for a moment, alternatives, options playing through his mi
nd. Choices. His eyes wandered to the rear-view mirror and he could see Tex seated on an idling motorcycle about thirty yards back toward the highway.

  There was only one choice when it came down to it.

  “Ready to go?” Asefi asked, glancing idly back toward the highway. There was no response to his question, just silence. His head jerked around, panic gripping his body in a premonition of evil.

  He was staring down the barrel of a gun. “Wh–what’s going on?”

  “You lied to us,” the man responded, his voice containing all the warmth of an arctic storm.

  If you can touch it, you can take it. The long-ago instruction came flashing back into Asefi’s brain, the words of a mentor of his. A Russian martial arts instructor. Take the gun, his mind screamed, but the—the American, as he had come to regard him, moved first, exiting the car.

  “Get out.”

  “I don’t understand,” the bodyguard protested, pushing open the driver’s side door and stepping out. “What’s going on?”

  “Simple, Achmed,” the American replied, keeping the hood of the car between the two of them. Disarming him was no longer a viable option. “You lied to us, took our money, sold us out.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Eight million dollars, Achmed. We paid that money for reliable intelligence and you sold us a bill of goods.”

  “A bill of goods? What do you mean?”

  The pistol never wavered as the American continued, cold anger in his tones. “The target never was the Masjid al-Aqsa, was it? Just a city of 130,000 souls. And you take your money and ride off into the sunset.”

  “A city?” Asefi demanded, the earth seeming to swim beneath his feet. He leaned forward, his hands against the hood of the car. “What are you saying?”

  “Nablus is what I’m talking about. One of the largest cities of the West Bank. Thousands of Palestinians are going to die and it’s going to be your pretext for war. That crap about the Temple Mount was just that, a smokescreen to divert our efforts.”

  “No, no, I told you the truth,” the bodyguard replied desperately, a cold sweat breaking forth upon his body. Everything he had said was a lie, but—Nablus? Nothing made sense. “I swear it.”

  “You swear it, Achmed? Then tell me, why are your people in the Hammam al-Shifa of Nablus?”

  Asefi shook his head. “I don’t know. By the beard of the Prophet, I don’t know!”

  The American took a step closer, thumbing off the safety of the Colt. The metallic snick resounded in his ears like a death knell and he felt himself stiffen. “Wrong answer, Achmed. I’ve had it with your lies. Last chance. Why is Farshid Hossein in Nablus?”

  “I don’t know,” Asefi repeated, his pride the only thing left keeping him on his feet. Another moment and his life would be snuffed out. The American’s face was expressionless, void of emotion. A death mask.

  A minute passed, then another as Harry stared into the Iranian’s eyes through his gunsights. Truth was written there for him. Whatever else Asefi might be concealing, he knew nothing about Nablus. He’d seen what he needed to see.

  He lowered the pistol and gestured to Achmed. “Back in the car, please.”

  The Iranian obeyed numbly, his legs seeming on the verge of collapse, and Harry watched him, fishing in his pocket for the satphone. Their leads were wearing thin…

  8:37 A.M. Eastern Time

  NCS Operations Center

  Langley, Virginia

  “Anything on the hammam?” Carter asked, hurrying into Carol Chambers’ cubicle with another sheaf of papers. She looked up and shook her head. “Precious little.”

  “They need something,” he retorted, almost snapping at her. She glanced into his bloodshot eyes and let it pass. He was running on fumes. They all were.

  He ran his fingers through his already-tousled hair. “Building schematics?”

  “Ron, the Hammam al-Shifa was built in 1624,” Carol replied. “I can’t even find a floor plan.”

  “So, we’re sending them in blind.” He stared past her, at the satellite feed displayed on her workstation. “Something’s not right here. I can just feel it.”

  4:40 P.M. Local Time

  The road to Nablus

  The West Bank

  Harry stood along the side of the highway, watching as an old Dodge Caravan pulled off the road toward him.

  As it neared, he could see the face of Avraham Najeri behind the wheel and he made a small hand gesture, directing the weapons dealer onto the side road.

  Thoughts of his first meeting with Najeri flashed through his mind as he followed him along the road, waiting as he shifted the Dodge into park.

  Harry had been a young agent then, barely two years in the field. Najeri, God only knew—the Arab had always seemed ageless. Objective: the forced extradition of a Chechen war criminal from the Gaza Strip. The dealer’s advice had been invaluable then.

  So little had changed. As Harry approached, he could see the small statue of the Virgin Mary standing erect on the dashboard. A symbol that carried a risk of its own in this land, but Najeri was undeterred. And still alive.

  “Salaam alaikum, my friend,” the weapons dealer greeted him, stepping out of the SUV. Blessings and peace be upon you.

  “Alaikum salaam.”

  “It’s been far too long. You are well?”

  “I am,” Harry replied, seeing the look of uncertainty in Najeri’s eyes. The expectation that he would see others with Harry.

  It wasn’t going to happen. Asefi was bound and gagged in the trunk of the car and Tex…well, Tex was conveniently elsewhere.

  “Good, good,” Najeri chuckled. “And your family?”

  It was an old sally, and they both knew it. “As I’ve told you before, I have no family, Avraham. That’s unchanged.” That lie was an old one as well, but he had no intention of discussing his personal affairs with the man.

  Together, they worked to transfer the weapons from one car to another, with Najeri keeping up a running conversation regarding the weather, politics, and the general state of affairs in the Palestinian authority.

  “A pleasure to do business with you, my old friend,” Harry said finally, placing the last bag of equipment in the back seat of the car.

  The little man chuckled once again. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. But do tell your employers that I do not make a practice of these deliveries.”

  “I’ll pass that along,” Harry replied amiably, watching as the weapons dealer walked back toward his vehicle. The engine started and he made a u-turn on the dusty road, heading back the way he came.

  Harry waited until the SUV was out of sight, then raised a hand to his ear. A moment later, Tex appeared, a cloth-wrapped object in his hand.

  “Mission accomplished?” Harry asked.

  A rare smile crossed the Texan’s face and he knelt down at the back of the car, unwrapping the second of Najeri’s license plates. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  9:05 A.M. Eastern Time

  NCS Operations Center

  Langley, Virginia

  “All right, here’s what we’ve got,” Carol announced as Ron came through the door behind her. “In thirty minutes, we’ll have a satellite overpass. We should be able to get a decent thermal scan of the bath house during that window.”

  “And Nichols?”

  “Will be in position in twenty, as of last sitrep.”

  Carter took another look at her workstation’s screens, then cleared his throat. “I’ll brief the director. Let me know when the strike team is in position.”

  5:36 P.M. Local Time

  Old City Nablus

  West Bank

  “Right there, that’s right—hold it! Smile.” The shutter clicked and Harry lowered the camera, smiling at the young Western couple he had just photographed.

  The young man gave his bride an affectionate squeeze and stepped forward to take the camera from Harry’s hand. “Merci.”

  “Don’t ment
ion it,” Harry replied, watching as they strolled away down the crowded street of the Old City. A vision of happiness. Of love.

  His hand went up to adjust the earbud microphone. “How are we coming, Tex?”

  “Done,” was his friend’s terse reply. Good, Harry thought. The assault rifles were reassembled.

  He resisted the urge to glance at his watch. There was no point in signaling to any watchers that he was waiting for something. They already had been lingering too long in one place.

  Hurry up and wait was standard protocol.

  The TACSAT in his shirt pocket started vibrating and he palmed it. “Hello.”

  “Sir, we have the results of your scan.” It was Carol’s voice. “We have identified thirteen polyps within your right lung.”

  “All malignant?” Harry asked, more than slightly amused at the phrasing.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have that information yet.”

  He glanced across the street at the hammam. Even as they spoke, a man left the building, disappearing into a nearby alley. “Do you recommend further tests?”

  “Negative. The doctor’s recommendation is immediate removal.”

  “All right.” Harry ended the call without another word, moving quickly back to the car, parked down the street a full hundred meters. Tex was in the back seat, a blanket covering the rifles.

  “Time to move.”

  5:40 P.M.

  Ramallah, West Bank

  Countryside and village flashed past at eighty kilometers per hour as the black van sped south. A war-torn country, Hossein reflected, glancing out the window as Mustafa drove. The land of Palestine had not known peace in well over seventy years, ever since the establishment of the Zionist state.