The Pandora Deception--A Novel

by David Bruns

  “We can’t risk it, Lizzie. Mossad is on to us. If we tip our hand and the Israelis get access to this weapon…”

  “I see,” Liz said with more confidence than she felt. “Tell me how this goes down.”

  “Dre has volunteered to go with you as your tech support,” Don said. “The most likely target is the conference center adjacent to the Jamkaran Mosque.” Liz studied an aerial picture of a stunning mosque with a huge open plaza and an adjoining modern conference center. “The president of Iran will be giving a speech at the conference center following a visit to the mosque. Dre will be able to get us access to video surveillance of the entire area.”

  Liz looked at Dre, seeing the mix of emotions on the young woman’s face. “You’re up for this?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Like Liz, Dre sounded more certain than she looked.

  Michael continued the brief. “You’ll be traveling as a Canadian-Iranian businesswoman and her daughter/assistant, looking for a site to hold a venture-capital conference in the city of Qom in one year’s time. As part of your cover, you will need to see all the facilities, including security, which is where Dre comes in. She will plant a shell program in the security system which gives us access.

  “We’ll be running the operation from Al-Udeid Air Base in Qatar. Your comms will go through satellite phones with an AWACS over Iraq for redundancy. Once we have access to the video system, we’ll be running a facial-rec program. If Tahir shows up anywhere close to the complex, we’ll see her.”

  “What about hardware?” Liz asked.

  “You’ll fly into Isfahan Airport, south of Qom, on the red-eye tomorrow night,” Janet said. “Smaller facility, less security. When you rent a car, an asset on the ground will deliver a package to you with the vehicle. Inside you will find one nine-millimeter handgun and suppressor. Also, two knives and two earbuds for comms. As your assistant, Dre will carry a laptop equipped with everything she needs for her job.”

  “The Iranian president and his entourage arrive the next morning,” Don said, pointing to a map. “We’ve arranged for you to stay at a hotel … right … here.” The map showed the location of the hotel, about a quarter mile from the complex. “The next morning Liz will go back to the compound using a pass identifying her as an attendee at the president’s speech. If Tahir is going to make her move, we expect it will be that day. We find the target and give you a location. From there it’s up to you. The highest priority is to retrieve this device.”

  Janet flashed a picture of a silver cylinder sitting next to a soda can.

  “We believe Dr. Tahir will be carrying the virus in this container,” Don said. “This device can aerosolize the virus to make it airborne. It has a timer, which means she can set it and hide it. She’s done it before.” Don’s face was grim.

  “What will I be doing while Liz is at the site?” Dre asked.

  “You stay at the hotel,” Don said. “It’s too risky for you to go in during the day of the Iranian president’s visit. Security will be much tighter and the chances of you having to speak to someone are too high.”

  Don focused back on Liz. “You do whatever you need to do to secure the biological sample, including deadly force. If the timer has been activated, we’re not sure if it’s able to be turned off. The best thing you can do is submerge it in water and get the hell out of there.”

  * * *

  The situation room at the White House looked a lot like it did on television, Liz thought.

  She stood along with Don when the president entered. His eyes searched the room and found the video screen. They stopped on her for a second, then swept away.

  “Seats, please,” the president said.

  Director of National Intelligence Hellman got right to the point. “Mr. President, we’re here for mission approval of Operation Pinpoint. With your permission, Mr. Riley will brief you on the particulars of the operation.”

  The president opened his briefing book and nodded without looking up. Don spoke for ten minutes straight. His voice was firm and precise, and he relayed the exact details they had gone over earlier that afternoon.

  At the end of Don’s briefing, the president steepled his hands together and touched the tips of his index fingers to his lips. Liz had seen this gesture many times in pictures in the media. Critics called it his “thoughtful pose,” but it seemed genuine to her.

  A few seconds went by before the president spoke.

  “The mission is approved,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Special Agent Soroush. I don’t often get to meet the agents who do this kind of work.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Liz didn’t know what else to say.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” the president said. “I want you to hear the rest of the story.” He nodded at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  The presentation screen changed to a map of the city of Qom. The complex where the operation was to take place was contained in a bright red box. The chairman’s voice was deep and he had a methodical cadence to his words.

  “In the event we are unable to prevent deployment of the biological weapon, Mr. President, we recommend a first strike on the target designed to contain the risk of infection. A layered attack strategy will ensure complete and total destruction of the target.

  “Layer one will be delivered by a pair of B-2 stealth bombers—a primary and a backup, code-named Cyclone One and Two—each carrying two GBU-57A/B Massive Ordnance Penetrators. This ordnance is packed with fifty-three hundred pounds of high explosives and has been modified to detonate on surface contact. The result will be a massive fireball designed to vaporize everything within half a kilometer. We’ll ensure this Pandora virus is destroyed.”

  When he paused, Liz heard the secretary of state whisper, “Jesus Christ.”

  “With your approval, sir, the Cyclone strike force will depart Whiteman Air Force Base tonight to be on station in time.”

  The president pursed his lips. “There’s a second layer to this plan?”

  The chairman smiled thinly. “We believe in belt and suspenders, sir. In the event the Cyclone option fails or is not successful in any way, we recommend a conventional strike of sixty-four Tomahawk missiles launched from the Teddy Roosevelt Carrier Strike Group currently deployed in the Persian Gulf. They’ll hit the target area a minute ahead of an alpha strike by the entire air wing embarked aboard the carrier. This sounds like overkill, but we’ll only get one shot at containing the virus. We need to make it count.”

  The chairman paused, waiting for the president to acknowledge that he understood. Liz could see a sheen of sweat on the chairman’s bald pate. The president nodded.

  “Immediately upon missile deployment, Mr. President, the strike group will draw back from the northern end of the Persian Gulf and assume a defensive posture. We believe the Iranians will consider this an act of war, sir.”

  The president cocked an eyebrow. “I should think so.”

  The secretary of state cleared her throat and picked up the conversation. “We will have diplomats pre-positioned at all of the major countries in the region as well as the UN to meet with heads of state and explain the situation. We also recommend a nationwide broadcast from you, sir, in the event that we have to resort to the military option. The draft text of your speech has been included in your package.”

  At some level, Liz knew a military backup plan was inevitable, but it was difficult to listen to all the same. If she failed, she would likely be in the blast zone. If she was contaminated during the struggle to obtain the biological weapon, she would have to remain inside the blast zone.

  She was thankful Don had the foresight to keep Dre away from the conference center on the day of the Iranian president’s visit.

  “Special Agent Soroush?”

  Liz looked up to find everyone staring at her. The president spoke again. “You understand why I wanted you to hear this briefing?”

  Even through the flat video screen, the president’s gaze was soft. He knew t
he stakes and he was asking for her permission to sign her death warrant.

  “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Isfahan International Airport, Iran

  Instead of feeling self-conscious about wearing traditional Muslim dress, Dre felt oddly comforted. At the embassy in Athens, Dre had been given a new identity—and a new wardrobe.

  She was now Chantal Homayouni, a twenty-four-year-old Canadian, born and raised in Vancouver. She was traveling in the company of her mother, Lili, but this was her first trip to the country of her ancestors. She was unfamiliar with the language or the traditional Muslim dress.

  The women in Athens dressed her in layers. A dress, called an abaya, followed by a hijab, or head scarf, followed by a chador, an overgarment similar to a cloak that had a hood and she could hold closed with her hands. In the end, the only things that showed were her face and her hands.

  The layers gave her a feeling of anonymity that she so desperately wanted.

  The customs line moved at a crawl, and the air in the customs area was stifling. Dre kept her eyes on the floor, her senses racing for any sign of danger. Although she had not slept a wink on the overnight flight from Athens to Istanbul to Isfahan, she was wide awake, her nerves on edge.

  The line moved forward a few paces. Liz, perhaps sensing Dre felt overwhelmed, reached back for Dre’s hand, giving her a comforting squeeze before releasing her fingers. Dre wanted to hold on to her for dear life, but she just moved their roller bags forward. Their luggage was filled with typical clothes and personal effects that a mother and daughter from Vancouver, Canada, would travel with. There was a story with each item—where she’d bought it, how much it cost, who was in each picture in her wallet—that would stand up to at least first-level scrutiny.

  Finally, they were called together by a mustachioed customs agent, a swarthy man with beady black eyes and a gruff manner. Liz spoke to him in a pleasant tone as she handed him both passports. Dre kept her eyes on the floor during the rapid-fire exchange in Farsi. The man said something directed to her and Dre choked down a wave of panic.

  “Lift up your head, dear. Look into the camera,” Liz said to her softly in English.

  Dre did as she was told. When she saw the flicker of the camera lens, she braced herself for the inevitable rush of armed guards to take her off to prison.

  Nothing happened.

  Liz said something to the customs agent that was clearly about Dre, and he laughed loudly as he handed back their stamped passports.

  “What did you say to him?” she whispered to Liz as they walked through the crowded baggage-claim area.

  “I told him you were a stupid girl here to see the land of her forefathers for the first time.”

  The rental-car agency was called EuropCar. The brightly lighted, Kelly-green banner with English lettering seemed to Dre like a beacon of familiarity in a land of swirling Farsi script.

  Liz’s pleasant demeanor was on display again as she spoke to the rental agent. He was a helpful man in his midthirties with a neatly trimmed beard and quick dark eyes.

  “Do you require a GPS with your vehicle?” the man asked Liz.

  “Yes, I am unfamiliar with this part of Iran,” Liz replied. Dre knew this was the coded phrase to establish bona fides.

  “The mountains are beautiful this time of year,” the man said.

  “Unfortunately, our time is short,” Liz said with a smile. “Maybe on our next trip.”

  The agent nodded as he tapped away at his computer, barely acknowledging Liz’s response. He collected a set of keys and small black attaché case and escorted Liz and Dre to the far end of the parking lot. He opened the trunk of a late-model black Toyota sedan and stowed their luggage, then handed the case to Liz. Dre caught the word “GPS” in the chatter.

  Liz navigated through the midmorning traffic on the highways on the outskirts of Isfahan. They were heading north, into the desert. After the first thirty minutes, the traffic thinned and they were on an open highway.

  Liz checked the rearview mirror. “You can open the case now.”

  Dre settled the case on her lap and snapped it open. Underneath the foam cover was a SIG Sauer P226 nine-millimeter handgun with a suppressor and two magazines, two knives in sheaths, and two earpieces. She found the tiny dip switches on the earpieces, turned them on, and paired them with the commercial satellite phones she and Liz carried. Their signals were bounced from their phone to the satellite to Al-Udeid Air Base in Qatar. She handed one to Liz and slipped the other in her ear.

  “Michael, can you hear me?” Dre said.

  There was a long pause, making Dre think maybe she’d done something wrong; then Michael’s low voice sounded in her ear. “I got you five by five, Dre. Good to hear you again.”

  A feeling of relief flooded through her at the familiar voice. She hadn’t realized how on edge she’d been for the last twelve hours, but this visceral reaction to Michael’s voice told her that she had not been fooling anyone—least of all herself.

  “What’s the status, Liz?” Don’s voice.

  “We’re on schedule. No issues.” Liz shot a glance at Dre and winked. “We’re just a couple of Muslim chicks headed to the holiest site in Iran for a working holiday.”

  Dre laughed. The release felt good. Liz reached over and patted her knee.

  “We’ve got another hour and a half, Dre,” Liz said. “Why don’t you take a nap.”

  Dre eased her seat back a few notches. She turned her head toward the window and watched the countryside fly by. It was high desert here, undulating hills of dry brown soil broken only by the occasional shrub or tree or roadside stand. It reminded her of Sudan and the land around the Project Deliverance site.

  She closed her eyes. She knew sleep would not come, but she needed to try.

  When the dream came again, it was different. Dre wasn’t watching Janet. This time, she had taken Janet’s place. She could feel the hard, cold floor of the North Korean bunker under her body.

  And she could not move.

  Footfalls behind her. A shadow slipped over her body, but she was paralyzed. The muzzle of a gun appeared above her and slowly descended until it touched her forehead.

  Dre startled awake.

  “We’re here,” Liz said. “You okay?”

  Dre straightened her seat. They were back in heavy city traffic. The scenery around her was filled with people and cars and buildings. Women, mostly dressed in black, but with a few splashes of color in the crowd, hurried along the streets, clutching bags in one hand, small children by the other. People in Western clothes mixed in with the pedestrians.

  Liz made a turn and pointed through the windshield. “That’s the mosque.”

  Dre tried not to gawk, but the building was magnificent. Two towering minarets flanked an elaborate tiled archway overlooking a vast marble plaza. Rising behind the entrance like a beautiful hot-air balloon, an enormous blue dome gleamed in the sun. On either side of the main mosque were two smaller golden domes with their own entrances.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “It’s reputed to be the mosque of the twelfth imam, the Mahdi, the one who would unite all Muslims under one true faith. That’s where the president will come tomorrow morning. Once he visits the mosque for noon prayers, he will cross the street”—Liz pointed to a brick building across the street—“to go to the conference center for lunch and deliver a speech.”

  Liz found a parking lot. Under the cover of her chador, she secreted the handgun and the knife in pockets already sewn into her undergarments. She stowed the empty GPS case in the trunk.

  “Bring your computer,” Liz said. “This is where you shine, daughter.”

  Dre nodded, feeling the knots of tension ripple up her back as she shouldered her slim computer bag.

  As they walked toward the glass-fronted entrance of the conference center, Liz seemed to transform before Dre’s eyes. The pleasant, agreeable Liz became haughty and imperious, a foreig
ner with a sense of entitlement. She strode through the front doors, making a direct line to the information desk. She rapped out an order to the young woman sitting behind the desk.

  The young woman’s eyes widened. She snatched up a phone and spoke without taking her eyes off Liz. Dre hung back, watching her “mother” tap her foot impatiently. The girl at the desk handed them each a clip-on visitor badge with the seal of the conference center on it.

  Moments later, another woman came rushing out. She was tall and thin and wearing a chador with a fashionable floral print. Liz eyed the woman’s garb with obvious distaste.

  Liz switched to English. “I would like to include my daughter in the conversation. Do you speak English?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Good, that is important for my clients.” Liz lowered her voice. “Bill Gates might be attending this conference, so it needs to be perfect. Do you understand?”

  “Please, this way.” Their guide showed them into a ballroom that was being set up with dozens of round tables. “The space is being set for the president’s visit tomorrow.”

  Liz sniffed. “A little small, but this will do. Show me the kitchens.”

  The guide took them into a service hall that ran along the length of the ballroom, ending in a set of double doors that opened into the kitchens. “Employees and staff all enter from the rear of the building. There is security screening in the back.”

  “What about the facilities?” Liz demanded. “Air and water services.”

  The woman pointed back toward the ballroom. “Those are on the other side of the building, along with security.”

  “Show me.”

  The woman marched them back through the ballroom and through a set of doors into an open area piled high with stacked chairs, tables, and carts full of linens. She pointed to a set of stairs leading up to a door in the high wall.

  “All of the HVAC systems are up there in the mezzanine. The rest of the facilities are in the basement.”

  Their guide walked with quick steps, constantly turning to watch Liz for signs that she was meeting her expectations. “The event tomorrow will have more than one thousand attendees,” she said. “Dignitaries from all over Iran.”