Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  The congeniality went out of Lay’s voice. “ And I’d like to know why your agents have been pulling black bag jobs on my men. Any answers?”

  A long silence. “Let me place a call.”

  “To whom? Blast it, Eric, who authorized this operation?”

  “Let’s set up a video-conference for nine o’clock,” Director Haskel said after a moment. “I will then read you in on the operation, if I am authorized to do so.”

  Lay looked up at Ron and shook his head, puzzled by the words of the Bureau chief. “I want Ron Carter and Harold Nichols read in as well.”

  When Haskel responded, there was uncertainty in his voice. “I’ll get back to you.”

  4:34 A.M. Pacific Time

  The Hilton

  San Diego, California

  “That’s where we stand, Mr. President,” Cahill announced, moving back from the whiteboard he had been writing on. “As of today. With a month to go.”

  “Problem areas, Ian?” Hancock asked, leaning forward on the couch. He covered a yawn with his hand. Late nights and early mornings would be the death of him, but she had made him feel young again.

  “A number of them, Mr. President, and regrettably, many of them are beyond our control.”

  “Such as?”

  “The price of oil, for example,” Cahill responded, taking the red marker in his hand and underlining an item on the board. The chief of staff was old school and avoided powerpoint presentations as though they were the work of the devil. “It’s hitting Americans below the belt every time they fuel up. And they’re going to remember this on Election Day. I have the Gallup poll here on your handling of the economy. Thirty-two percent approval, Mr. President. I don’t have to tell you how bad that is. And while your latest stimulus package met with a mixed reception on Main Street, there’s not a thing you can do regarding the price of oil.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Hancock said, his voice quiet.

  Cahill turned toward him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean things may turn around in the Middle East.” The President shrugged. “There’s always that possibility.”

  A snort came from the Chicago strategist. “As long as those Jews squat on the Muslim promised land? Not very likely. I’ll tell you what you can do.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Stop bedding young staffers and spend some time with your wife, take her on a romantic weekend getaway, anything—I’m telling you, Roger, if any of this gets out, this close to the election…you are through! Done, finished. Fini.”

  Hancock chuckled. “I know you were a top student in parochial school, Ian, but your Latin is less than impressive.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously,” Cahill retorted, disbelief in his tones.

  The President rose and crossed the room to place his finger on the whiteboard. “Oil, Ian. If the price of oil went through the floor, if Americans could fill up their cars for what they could six, even seven years ago—what would you give our chances?”

  “The economy’s just a part of it, but with a drop in gasoline prices and barring a sex scandal, I’d say we had it in the bag. Norton’s good, but he doesn’t have anything to beat that.”

  “Consider it done,” Hancock responded, enjoying the incredulous look on Cahill’s face. It was a rare sight.

  The phone rang before the chief of staff could pose the question forming on his lips. “FBI Director Eric Haskel on line 2, Mr. President.”

  “Put him through.”

  7:59 A.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  “Just the man I wanted to see.” Harry walked out of the elevator and looked up to see Ron Carter bearing down on him.

  “What did you do with Agent Caruso?” the analyst asked without further preamble.

  “Left him downstairs with Security. Any word on what type of investigation the Bureau is running?”

  “A conference call is set up with Haskel at 0900. In the meantime, you’re to meet Carol Chambers in Conference Room #11. She’ll debrief you on this morning’s encounter and start prep for the call to Asefi.”

  “We have go-mission on that now?”

  “You know it.”

  5:25 P.M. Tehran Time

  The Presidential Palace

  Tehran

  “I am happy to report, sir, that the American did not escape with samples of the toxin.” President Shirazi lifted his eyes to look into the monitor above his desk, displaying the video uplink from the border. He smiled. “Well done, Harun. You have confirmed this?”

  “Yes, sir. Plastic vials were recovered from the saddlebags of the dead horse. They contained the blood samples he was transporting. Having brought the Americans under fire, they were unable to retrieve the vials before we closed in.”

  “You have pleased me, my nephew, but your work is not yet done. I want you to return to Tehran as soon as possible.”

  “As you will, sir.”

  Shirazi hit a button on his remote and the monitor went black. He rose and walked across his office. Fate. Destiny.

  The will of Allah. It didn’t much matter what one called it, the end result was the same. His fingers trembled at the thought of it. This was the purpose for which he had been born.

  Casualty reports lay on his desk, estimates of the Jews and Muslims who would die in the attack. They were only the beginning. The world would be set aflame…

  8:27 A.M. Eastern Time

  NCS Operations Center

  Langley, Virginia

  “Do you know whether this Agent Caruso was acting alone? Was his, in effect, a solo mission?” Carol Chambers asked, looking up from her notes.

  Harry shook his head. “No, he had a woman follow me on my run, so that gives you two. Standard protocol would be a third person who would hang back and provide coordination and overwatch. Minimum three.”

  “So that would likely be how Director Haskel found out so quickly?”

  “Correct.”

  She turned back to her laptop and began typing. “If you’ll give me a moment, I need to get this forwarded to the DCIA immediately. Then we’ll prepare for your call to Achmed Asefi.”

  “Good.” Harry remained seated, watching her as she typed. “One thing Carter didn’t say—how did we get a current number for Asefi?”

  “If Ron didn’t tell you, I’m sure you don’t need to know,” she replied, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

  Harry shrugged. “If that’s the way you want to be.”

  “Just jerking your chain,” Carol retorted with a laugh. “Let’s put it this way. Asefi is a dirtbag.”

  “I gathered as much.”

  “Carter told you about the whorehouse in Bulgaria?”

  “An ‘Eastern European escort service’, was I believe the delicate way he described it,” Harry responded with a smile.

  “A whorehouse in Bulgaria,” she repeated, looking over the top of her computer at him. “Asefi left contact information there, updated every two months. It seems that they have periodic access to young boys, and our man wanted to stay in the loop on the hottest ‘deals’.”

  “So, we’re negotiating with a pedophile,” Harry said after a moment.

  “That’s right. We don’t know if the contact number will connect us directly with Asefi or whether he has a cut-out, but the director has given the go-ahead.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  5:58 P.M. Tehran Time

  The training camp

  Isfahan, Iran

  Chaos. As a warrior, Hossein had always been tasked with its creation, its manipulation. Having it thrust upon him was another matter.

  He looked at the model on his desk, a model of their target made from bits of wood and clay by a recruit who had been considerably more skilled at art than he was with a rifle. He was gone now, along with the rest of the ineffectives.

  Hossein rose and crossed the room, carefully considering and rejecting his options each i
n turn. He could still hear Isfahani’s words, streaming through his mind.

  “I want the biological agent. Do not allow it to fall into the hands of the infidel.”

  Then why, he had asked, are we going to all this bother?

  “Allah has not given us this gift that it might be squandered by madmen,” the Ayatollah had replied. “It is ours to seize and hold. For His glory. Fear not, He will aid our cause.”

  Hossein’s fingers stroked the dome of the model absently as he stood there, lost in thought. Somehow, pragmatist that he was, the promise of divine intervention seemed less than helpful. Semantics aside, it did nothing to conceal the truth.

  This was a suicide mission…

  8:57 A.M. Eastern Time

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  “Nichols,” Lay acknowledged Harry’s arrival with a brief greeting. “We’re almost ready to begin.”

  Carter looked up from the laptop in front of him. “All due respect, sir, but I would like to point out that Director Haskel did not agree to read Nichols in on the FBI’s mission.”

  “Haskel is not in charge here,” Lay announced, turning to glare at his top analyst. “I am. He got caught with his pants down and I’ll be hanged if he’s going to dictate terms. If you will, Harry, sit at that end of the conference table. You’ll be out of camera range, but able to hear what goes on.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Lay adjusted his tie, a nervous tic Harry had seen many times before. Putting on his battle face.

  The phone in front of Lay buzzed. “Director Haskel is waiting for you to start, sir.”

  “Good.” Lay reached for the remote and powered up the LCD monitor on the opposite wall. After a couple seconds, the visage of the FBI director appeared on-screen.

  “Good morning, Director Lay. Shall we get started?”

  Lay’s face didn’t change. “That would be a good idea, Eric. I’m meeting with Colonel Mueller of GSG-9 at eleven, so don’t waste my time.”

  “I don’t intend to. A week ago, director, your agency put this country in the peril of great embarrassment with the poor execution of Operation TALON.”

  Harry could see the surprise written in the DCIA’s eyes, but he made no expression of it. “Following the revelation that someone was responsible for leaking mission-sensitive intelligence to the Iranians,” Haskel continued, “the President asked my Bureau to run a covert investigation of your Agency.”

  “Redundant,” Lay objected. “We had already launched our own investigation of the incident through Lucas Ellsworth and the inspector general’s office.”

  “Perhaps. Have you traced the source of the leak?”

  “That information is classified,” came Lay’s sharp retort.

  “Which is another way of saying you haven’t.” An irritatingly superior expression spread across the face of the FBI chief.

  The DCIA leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished wood of the conference table. “And you have?”

  “Our investigation was unfortunately interrupted this morning by the actions of one of the men under scrutiny, but we had already identified a person of interest in the matter.”

  “Indeed?”

  On-screen, Haskel could be seen to open a folder laying on his desk. “Our investigation came to focus upon one man. He is a paramilitary operations officer in your Clandestine Service. A man with the motive, the access, and the opportunity to betray your mission.”

  “Go on.”

  “The man’s name is Davood Sarami.”

  Harry’s face froze at the declaration. Davood? It couldn’t be. No. There was no way he could have betrayed the team.

  “And may I ask what caused your investigation to center on Officer Sarami?” Lay asked, his posture stiff, unmistakably hostile.

  “Our investigation of the field team was thorough. Our focus turned to Sarami after we delved into the financial records of the mosque he attends in Falls Church. The imam there, Abdul Faisal Shabaz, a naturalized citizen of this country, has given large sums of money, ostensibly from his congregation, to a charity based out of Amman, Jordan.”

  “Get to your point,” Lay ordered irritably when the FBI director paused for effect.

  “The charity has close ties to Hezbollah and Hamas. In 2009, Shabaz was photographed with this man.” A picture came flashing up on screen, momentarily blocking their view of Haskel’s face. “Fayood Hamza al-Farouk. Thirty-two years of age, one of the bright young men of Hezbollah. He’s led field operations for the past three years following his successful assassination of a member of the Knesset.”

  “So he was not a leader of their organization at the time of this photograph?”

  “That is correct. However, he was on his way up. As you can confirm, he’s been on our watchlists for the better part of the last decade.”

  “I recognize the name. Do you have any direct connections between Sarami and al-Farouk?”

  “Not as of yet. As stated, our operation was blown this morning when one of your other paramilitary operations officers, one Harold Nichols, took it upon himself to pull a gun on Agent Caruso. I am still awaiting word of his release.”

  “Wait away, it’s no skin off my nose. So, let me get this straight, your only tie between Sarami and Hezbollah is this imam?”

  “That is correct. Undercover agents in the Muslim community in Virginia report that Sarami is seen as being very close to Shabaz, apparently regarding him as a spiritual mentor. Another point of concern is the activities of Sarami’s parents. His father is a partner in a legal firm based in Dayton, which took upon itself pro bonowork for several notable Guantanamo detainees back in 2011.”

  “As did every fashionably liberal law firm in the country,” Lay responded with forced humor. “We knew that when Sarami entered training. If you have nothing more to offer, director, I believe we will bring this conversation to a close.”

  “I want my agent. Under the provisions of the CIA’s charter, your detention of him is illegal, and I want him released immediately unless you want action to be taken.”

  The DCIA seemed unperturbed. “He was processed out five minutes ago. Sorry, Eric, but you need to get your act together before you start making threats. Good day.”

  The screen went black and a heavy, awkward silence fell over the conference room. Lay sighed heavily. “What do we have, Ron?”

  The analyst’s face was pained as he looked up from his computer. “It’s not good, boss. The Israelis have fingered al-Farouk as being responsible for the attack on our field team at Eilat, based on security footage showing him in the hotel forty-five minutes before the blast.”

  Harry sat there in stunned disbelief. It wasn’t possible. That Davood had betrayed the team, betrayed their brotherhood…

  He heard Lay ask, “Was Sarami cleared for the Eilat mission?”

  “Yes,” Carter replied. “He was fully aware of operational details.”

  Through the swirling fog of emotion, Harry heard his name called and looked up to see Lay staring at him. “I will need you to contact Hamid Zakiri and alert him to the new intelligence.”

  “Sir,” Harry began, “with all due respect, I would like to protest this. I have served with Davood, I’ve fought side by side with him, for heaven’s sake! I don’t want to see him hung out to dry on evidence this circumstantial.”

  The DCIA seemed to ponder his words. “Not before TALON, right?”

  “Sir?”

  “You had not served with Sarami prior to TALON, had you?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Your loyalty to your men is commendable,” Lay began slowly. “And I believe we need to work circumspectly here. We have thousands of dollars of training invested in Sarami. Should he be in fact innocent of the suspicion now fixed upon him, we do not want that money to go to waste. But we need to be careful. Sarami will continue to serve in the field—but I will be counting on you to keep an eye on him. You and your team, so I want you to cont
act Zakiri ASAP. Are we running the same play?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  5:35 P.M. Baghdad Time

  Station Baghdad

  Iraq

  Memories. Hot water cascaded down Thomas’s body as he stood beneath the pulsating showerhead, his thoughts wandering unbidden.

  I’m never gonna leave you. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her shattered body, lying there crumpled on the ground. Abandoned. He had lied. Even as he had held her in his arms, he had lied, knowing she was dying, knowing he must leave her.

  He pushed the knob to turn the water off and slowly sank to the rough tile of the shower floor, feeling sick, like someone was twisting a knife inside him.

  Her face rose before him, eyes full of recrimination and unanswered pleas. Calling out his name, a haunting entreaty. There was no help for it. How long he sat there, the water dripping down upon him from the showerhead, he would never know.

  At long last, the silence was broken by the sound of his name being called. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming, then it came again. “Parker? Are you still in here?”

  He hadn’t heard the door to the showers open or close, but it was Davood’s voice. “Yeah?”

  “Petras is setting up for mission debrief. Are you ready?”

  “Is there such a thing?” Thomas asked. Pain shot through his side as he rose and staggered to the door of the shower, peering through the evaporating steam. “Hand me a towel, will you?”

  Davood handed him an old towel, averting his eyes as Thomas dried off, the body modesty characteristic of his Middle Eastern background coming to the fore.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

  “What?”

  “The death of your guide—the Kurdish woman. Such a waste.”

  Thomas looked away, his face stiff and drawn. “Yeah. Could you throw my pants over here?”