Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  “We have 3-D imaging?” Harry asked, gazing thoughtfully at the image.

  The DCS pushed a couple more buttons and the image on-screen was replaced by a three-dimensional landscape.

  “They’ll have surveillance here—and here, at the very least,” Tex observed, indicating a couple of the taller buildings with a long finger.

  Harry nodded in agreement. “Probably a back-up team along the marina here—that’s the way I would do it if I were them. Maybe laser mic the area if it’s feasible. I doubt they’ll send Laner in with a wire, that’s too obvious.”

  “You’ve worked with the lieutenant in the past, Harry,” Kranemeyer began. “What is your assessment? Is the guy an honest broker?”

  Harry gave him an Are you serious? look. “Are any of us?” he asked. “Gideon’s a good guy, a decorated veteran operator—the son of a rabbi. He’s Blue Team as far as it goes. But he’s going to follow his orders, no matter what.”

  “And we don’t know what those orders are,” the DCS observed, stating the obvious. “Today’s Saturday. We’ve set up the meeting for Monday at noon. Don’t want to appear too accommodating. Harry, you’ll fly to Israel under a diplomatic visa. It’s an official visit, low-key, but hardly clandestine. Your flight leaves Dulles at seventeen hundred tomorrow. Tex, you’ll be leaving for Jerusalem tonight.”

  Richards nodded his understanding, his natural economy with words once again asserting itself. Kranemeyer continued, “Marcus is working up your papers as we speak. Ever had the ambition to go into aid work?”

  8:05 P.M. Tehran Time

  The Alborz Mountains

  Iran

  “Do you understand him?” Thomas asked, down on one knee at Estere’s side. The intruder was a Kurdish boy of fifteen or sixteen, dressed in the rude clothing of a villager. He hadn’t spoken a coherent word in the ten minutes since he had been grabbed by the sentries, his breath still coming in ragged sobs.

  She shook her head, putting a comforting hand against the boy’s tear-stained cheek. “Shhh,” she whispered, speaking to him in their native tongue.

  In that moment, Thomas was struck by the tenderness of her touch, the almost maternal compassion in her eyes as she gazed down into the boy’s face. The boy seemed to relax under her hands, his breathing gradually slowing into normality.

  She spoke to him once again, still in the same gentle tones. He shook his head and the words seemed to pour forth.

  Thomas sat there, unable to understand the words being spoken, his only intimation of their content coming from the expression on the faces of the Kurds gathered round.

  Something had happened. That much he knew. And it wasn’t good.

  Azad Badir spoke rapidly to his grandson and Sirvan rose, disappearing into the darkness. After a moment, Estere stood as well and strode back toward the campfire where the two of them had talked.

  “What’s going on?” Thomas demanded, hurrying to catch up to her. She slung the M-85 over her shoulder as she turned to face him.

  “Another Iranian attack,” she replied, her face an emotionless blank. “The village we were to arrive at tomorrow. Everyone there is dying.”

  There was something about her words that gave Thomas pause. “Dying?”

  “Of disease, Thomas,” she responded flatly. “It’s not the first time we Kurds have been the victims of an experiment.”

  She knelt down to retrieve her pack. “We have to see what we can do for them.”

  Thomas stood there, his mind racing back to the briefings he and the team had gone through before launching TALON. Specifically, the Russian-made laboratory trailers that had dotted the Iranian base camp. An experiment?

  9:06 P.M.

  A compound

  Isfahan, Iran

  The two-and-a-half-ton truck rolled to a gentle halt in front of a chain-link and barbed-wire fence, the driver handing his papers to an armed sentry who materialized out of the small guard shack. Smoke rose idly from the guard’s glowing cigarette as he looked through the papers, then handed them back. He turned and began barking orders.

  The driver glanced over as the gate swung open. “We’re here, Major.”

  Hossein nodded tensely. The drive from Qom had been nerve-wracking, security forces a larger presence than normal on the roads. Almost as though they were preparing for something. And the smell of the guard’s cigarette had done nothing to ease his nicotine craving.

  He thought of the nearly-full carton of Marlboros back in his quarters at the base camp and nearly groaned aloud—no doubt that stupid Larijani had helped himself to them by now. He found the thought sickening.

  Houses lined both sides of the dusty street they drove down. The buildings were similar if not uniform, reminding him of barracks. The street broadened into a plaza, flanked on one side by the imposing structure of a mosque. Men were drawn up before the mosque, standing like soldiers at attention.

  He exited the truck and walked toward them, casting a critical glance at their ranks as he approached. Fifty men in all, the chosen of the Ayatollah.

  None of that mattered. Within the week, they would be his chosen. Or fail, as he had no doubt many would.

  Hossein reached the center of the line and wheeled, clearing his throat as he prepared to address his men for the first time. He watched their faces in the harsh artificial light of the street lamps as he spoke, searching for the early signs. Who would fail. Who would survive.

  And as he continued, the question continued to ring in his head.

  Who?

  6:37 P.M. Eastern Time

  Dulles International Airport

  “Identification, please?”

  Tex watched the face of the TSA security guard as he casually scanned over the passport and ID. The perusal took thirty seconds, maybe forty, no longer. The expression in the man’s eyes was one of boredom.

  The CIA paramilitary had seen it before. Prohibited from actively scanning for threats by an anti-discrimination manual thicker than the concrete of the presidential bunker, the man had become a drone, concerned with nothing more than getting through the monotony of the day. Clock in, clock out.

  No way he was going to stop a potential terrorist with that attitude. Tex accepted his papers back with a forced smile and a murmured “Good day” as the line moved forward, resisting the temptation to rudely wake the security officer by slamming him against the wall. Locking down the terminal was not going to get him anywhere.

  Things would be different on the other end of the line. Israeli airport security was among the best in the world, and with good reason. As the country at the top of every raghead’s hit list, they had been born of fire and learned their lessons in that crucible.

  Still, he had no fears. He had spent the entire afternoon memorizing his new identity. And his papers were solid, put together by some of the best forgers in the world. His legend was firmly back-stopped by Langley. No reason to think things shouldn’t go as planned—except that they never did.

  The Texan looked at his watch as he boarded the plane along with his fellow passengers. Time was going to be critical from the moment he landed in Israel. He would have just over twenty-four hours…

  Chapter Ten

  1:18 A.M. Eastern Time, September 29th

  NCS Operations Center

  Langley, Virginia

  The operations center was kept in a state of operational readiness twenty-four hours a day, which was why there was a full shift on duty when the call came.

  “We’ve got a call coming in on an Agency TACSAT,” one of the analysts announced, lifting his gaze from the bank of screens in front of him.

  Daniel Lasker looked over toward him. As the duty officer, everything that transpired during the 11-7 shift was his responsibility. “Transfer it to my workstation and run system ID check.”

  “Roger.” The analyst paused for a moment, then announced, “It’s a TACSAT-8, locator code #4507-43, one of the phones we supplied to PJAK back in ‘08.”

  “Right bef
ore the Obama administration watchlisted them,” Lasker said thoughtfully, reaching for the phone on his desk.

  “Lasker speaking.”

  “Danny, is that you?” a familiar voice demanded.

  “Parker! What’s going on?”

  “I want this call to be recorded, Danny,” Thomas continued. “Are you set up for that?”

  “Sure thing,” Lasker replied, reaching across his workstation. “Just a sec. There, we’re on.”

  “Nearly twelve hours ago, the rebel group I hooked up with was informed of a biological attack on a Kurdish village to our south. We quick-marched it through the night and just arrived on-scene about twenty minutes ago.”

  “And?”

  “It’s bad, Danny. We’re still in the heights overlooking the village at the moment—Badir’s a canny old fox—not going to move in until he’s sure the area’s clear. But there’s bodies everywhere.”

  “Any signs of life?”

  “No.”

  Lasker cradled the phone between shoulder and ear, shuffling through the stack of intel reports on his desk. “Hold one, Thomas. We got a bio-tagged flash from the boys over at Intel earlier in the day. Just let me find it—yeah, here it is.”

  His eyes tracked down the body of the report, an oath bursting from his lips as he reached the end of it. “Thomas, listen to me. Do not, I repeat, do not go into the village. Can I reach you at this number?”

  “Yeah, Badir let me borrow his phone.”

  “I’ll call you back within the hour. Hold tight.”

  10:25 A.M. Tehran Time

  The Presidential Palace

  Tehran, Iran

  “Any sign of the Kurds?” President Shirazi asked, shutting off the live video feed with the flick of a finger as he leaned back into his armchair.

  “No, sir.” Harun Larijani replied, sitting stiffly in the chair in front of his uncle’s desk. “They must know by now.”

  “To be sure.” Shirazi glanced at the now-dormant monitor and smiled. “It would appear as though our test was a resounding success.”

  Larijani closed his eyes, remembering the carnage. His men had been forced to shoot three of the villagers when they had tried to break from the cordon. They had been the lucky ones. What had followed…

  He had emptied his stomach upon the ground outside the village and even now, he felt that he might retch at the memory. The cries of the damned…

  Ashamed by his own weakness, he summoned up a smile and faced his uncle. “It certainly was.”

  Shirazi rose from his desk and walked across the small office to the far wall. “I am proud of you, Harun. I must confess my uncertainty as to whether you could carry out so difficult an assignment.”

  “It was an honor to carry out the work of Allah, the most glorified, the most high,” the young man replied mechanically.

  “It was,” Shirazi continued, “I must confess, a test. Not just of our new weapon, but of you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Fortunately, I may say, both passed the test in splendid form. Your father should be honored that Allah so smiled upon him at your birth.”

  Harun sat there speechless, unsure what, if any, response was appropriate. At any rate, his uncle continued without waiting for one. “I have spoken in shadows of our plans, but the time for such ambiguities is past. The time has come to speak of these deeds in the light of day, to speak of the honor accorded to those who have been chosen to perform them.”

  The Iranian president took hold of one of the hangings on the wall and tore it away with the dramatic flourish of unveiling a statue.

  A picture lay beneath, a picture so familiar that Harun could have easily dismissed it, but for the light shining in his uncle’s eyes.

  “Here,” Shirazi proclaimed, tapping the silver-domed structure in the right foreground of the picture, “here is where we strike.”

  10:45 A.M.

  Isfahan, Iran

  Five of the fifty were gone already. A combination of ignorance, incompetence, and other shortcomings. Hossein was not surprised. Whatever else could be said about the shrewd old holy man, he was no soldier.

  Rifle shots rippled into the morning breeze as the recruits fired their assault rifles into paper targets at one hundred meters. The major stalked back and forth behind the line, his critical gaze taking in their accuracy, their stance, the way they held their weapons. Noticing everything, missing nothing.

  Half-way down the line, a nineteen-year-old boy clutched the Kalishnikov tightly, both eyes closed as he emptied the magazine down-range.

  The major stepped in close as the last cartridge fired, striking the gun’s muzzle up with a mighty blow. “Fool!” he hissed, tearing the rifle from the boy’s grasp. “You are finished.”

  Hot tears of shame started from the young man’s eyes as he turned to walk away. Hossein watched him go in silence. He, like the others Hossein had already dismissed, knew their Quran better than their Kalishnikov, no doubt something not to be despised, but less than desirable under these circumstances.

  Hossein sighed. Promised soldiers, he had received fanatics. Just as he had expected…

  8:59 A.M. Local Time

  Ashquelon, Israel

  The rays of early dawn were just beginning to spread over the Shephelah when Tex returned to his motel.

  It had been a productive night. With the first identity that had gained him access into the country stashed securely in the false bottom of his briefcase, he had rented a car under a second, using a credit card registered to that person. Twenty years ago, such a practice would have been forbidden, but times had changed. Anymore, people got very suspicious of someone willing to pay in large sums in cash, and nowhere was that more true than the country of Israel.

  That first ID would not be used again until he needed to exit the country, if everything went well. If things progressed poorly, the suitcase contained two more sets of identification, to be used in case of necessity.

  With the car parked two blocks down from his motel, his plans were almost complete. Just a few more things…

  The TACSAT on his hip hummed silently and he answered after a quick glance at the screen. “Wondering when I would hear from you.”

  “Mr. Richards, it was a pleasure to receive your call last night,” the voice replied. “As always. You are in country?”

  “Yes.”

  “It has been awhile.”

  “I don’t travel any more than I can help,” was the Texan’s curt reply. “We need to meet.”

  “To be sure, Mr. Richards. When and where?”

  “As soon as possible at your place. You open?”

  “For my friends, I am always open. Shall we say, thirty minutes? Come to the rear entrance as usual.”

  “Of course.”

  2:08 A.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  “…sure the area’s clear. But there’s bodies everywhere.”

  “Any signs of life?”

  “No.”

  Lasker pressed STOP on the audio recording and looked up at his superiors. “Substantively, that’s it.”

  Lay and Kranemeyer exchanged glances. “It’s started,” was the DCIA’s solemn pronouncement.

  “Someone has a sense of irony,” Kranemeyer observed, glancing down the transcript of the call once more. “Saddam Hussein also enjoyed using the Kurds as test subjects. Ah, the joys of being a minority in the Middle East.”

  “Hancock will need to see this,” David Lay stated, turning to address the man at his side. “Make sure you get it in the briefing, Ron.”

  Ron Carter looked up from polishing his glasses. “Sure thing, boss.”

  “I think this is our chance,” Kranemeyer announced without preamble, looking up from the transcript before him.

  Lay glanced over, puzzled by the look of excitement that had lit up the unshaven face of the DCS. “What do you mean, Barney?”

  “If we can get blood samples from the bodies of th
e infected Kurds, the bio-war department over at Bethesda might be able to better diagnose what we’re dealing with here.”

  “You’re not suggesting…”

  “Send Parker in, of course. Why not, for heaven’s sake?” Kranemeyer demanded, looking up in surprise. “He’s within a mile of the target as it is—you don’t get more on-scene than this.”

  “He’ll be exposed to the bacteria,” Lay interjected. “You know we can’t extract him fast enough to administer antibiotics in time.”

  “Then that’s the price we pay.” The expression in Kranemeyer’s eyes was cold and distant. “Unless you can come up with a better idea, Parker goes in at dusk.”

  The DCIA swallowed hard. “He was a good man. Place the call…”

  9:32 A.M. Local Time

  Ashqelon, Israel

  Avraham Najeri’s fingers slid over the receiver of the Galil assault rifle with the intimate touch of a lover. He sighed. Guns were such beautiful things. Instruments of death to be sure, but beautiful nonetheless. There was a certain poetry to them.

  The closing of a car door broke upon his reverie and his eyes flickered upwards, above the workbench, across the statue of the Virgin Mary that sat in a niche of the wall, to the small security monitor. There, in the fourth frame of the split-screen, was the figure of his visitor.

  He frowned in annoyance. The American stood in unwelcome contrast to the very trait Najeri loved about most of the man’s fellow countrymen. They talked too much and it was very easy to figure out what they were thinking, if they didn’t tell you first. Not this one.

  With a heavy sigh, Najeri turned, picking up a Beretta 92 from his workbench. He slammed a full magazine into the butt of the pistol and racked the slide to chamber a round. Time to answer the door.