Pandora's Grave (Shadow Warriors)

by Stephen England

  “He’s probably armed. Coming in on a private jet, he’d be able to carry,” Harry observed, thinking of his own .45, disassembled and concealed in his luggage. Still coming through security and well out of reach.

  A rare smile crossed the Texan’s face and he palmed a Glock, holding it beneath his jacket, out of the sight of passer-by.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “A guard this side of the checkpoint has an empty holster,” he replied simply, passing it to Harry with the dexterity of a trained pickpocket. “Go, check on our friend. I’ll take up position.”

  Alcohol was a vice. His vice. Alcohol and boys, two of his transgressions against the sacred teachings of the Quran. Perhaps it had been fated to end this way.

  Asefi took another long draught of the vodka, coughing as the liquor slid down his throat. It was a taste he had acquired in Chechnya, fighting against the Russians.

  Fate. The end of every man. What will be, will be. There is no changing the will of Allah.

  Perhaps.

  He tipped the bottle back once more, his mind turning over the options left to him. There was a possibility…

  A man appeared in the door of the café garden, moving in without hesitation. Tall, slender, dressed in the garb of a Westerner, there was nothing to attract attention about him.

  It was him. Asefi knew it at once. The caller. The man moved with a grace that was at once both beautiful and terrible to look upon. The subtle ease of a killer.

  The Heckler & Koch semiautomatic pistol seemed to tremble under his jacket as the stranger approached his table, the man’s movements at the same time purposeful and casual. A mad desire to draw the gun and shoot his antagonist seized him. Shoot and be done with it—but there was no end but death in that action. This man was not acting alone.

  “Dobroe utro,” the tall man greeted in perfect Russian, sliding into the seat opposite. Good morning.

  “You’re not a Russian,” Asefi observed abruptly, his eyes meeting with the stranger’s in a coolly appraising glance.

  The man chuckled. “Is that so?”

  “Your speech is that of a Muscovite, but your face betrays you.” He leaned forward on the table, willing his hands to stop their trembling. “What do you want?”

  Harry smiled. “It has come to the attention of my friends that your government has come into possession of a deadly toxin. A toxin which may be used in an attack on the West. What do you know of this?”

  “I have heard of this—this toxin of which you speak. Rumors. I know very little that I would consider substantive.” The bodyguard spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “Nothing that could be of help to you. I am sorry that you have come so far to hear so little.”

  Pushing his chair back, Harry rose to his feet. “As am I,” he replied. “Still, I am sure you can appreciate the delicacy of this situation—we cannot have it known that there were inquiries made.”

  “I can assure you of my discretion.”

  “I am assured of it,” Harry nodded. “A sniper rifle is aimed at your chest as we speak. Two minutes after I leave, you will die. If you move, you will only die sooner. You see, a man who knows nothing is of no use to my employers.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Asefi snorted, contempt in his tones.

  Never taking his eyes off the bodyguard, Harry reached up, carelessly smoothing his dark hair with his fingers. The next moment, the red dot of a laser beam sprouted on the collar of Asefi’s shirt.

  “Goodbye, Achmed,” he smiled, turning to leave. The sound of Asefi’s voice arrested his footsteps.

  “No. Wait!” There was fear in those words, fear mixed with dangerous rage.

  Harry looked back. “You’ve wasted a great deal of my time, Achmed. Is there something else you have to offer?”

  “Da, da.” The bodyguard’s eyes darted fearfully around the perimeter of the garden, to the high roofs surrounding. Looking for the sniper. “Your employers will protect me?”

  “That’s right,” Harry responded, taking his seat once again. “A new home, a new name, in a place where men of your, shall we say, ‘orientation’ are looked upon more kindly. What do you offer us in return?”

  “The target, the location of the toxin, everything. I know everything. But I need more than what you have offered.”

  “Oh?”

  “I need money as a proof of fidelity,” Asefi retorted. “Eight million dollars. Wired into my account in the Caymans. Before I will tell you what I know.”

  “For a man who has only heard rumors, Achmed, you claim to know a great deal. Let’s see some proof. When and where does this attack go down?”

  The bodyguard held up a finger. “Not when and where. Not yet. But who. Five terrorists, led by an IRGC major, entered the Golan this morning. They will cross into Israel within the hour.”

  “I need names.”

  “The names of the four soldiers are unknown to me. But they are led by one Major Farshid Hossein.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that, Achmed. Hossein is dead, I watched the video of his execution myself.”

  “How is that they say in America—reports of his death have been greatly exaggerated?” Asefi gestured toward his suit pocket. “May I?”

  Harry nodded and the bodyguard produced a cellphone, flipping it open to reveal a photo on-screen. It was of he and Hossein, standing together near the steps of a mosque. The time-stamp was eighteen hours old.

  “All right,” Harry conceded, watching him carefully. “You’ve convinced me. Why is he in Israel?”

  “Enough.” Confidence had returned to Asefi’s voice. “This was a gesture of good faith. Now, show me the money.”

  Harry nodded slowly. “I’ll need to make a call. Come with me.”

  Turning away from the table, his hands flashed the “stand down” signal.

  Tex took one last look from the third-story window that had served as his surveillance position and then lowered his binoculars, turning back toward the stairs. As he headed for the door, he looked at the laser pointer in his hand and smiled. It was curiously effective…

  12:25 A.M. Eastern Time

  NCS Operations Center

  Langley, Virginia

  Ron Carter looked up from his terminal as Carol Chambers swept into the op-center. “Good morning, Carol.”

  She set down her briefcase at the side of her workstation and glared at him. “I was in the shower when you called.”

  “No comment,” he smiled.

  She rolled her eyes, sweeping her damp hair back over her shoulders. “What’s our situation?”

  “We have eight million dollars that needs to be transferred to a class-A oxygen thief. ASAP.”

  “Right. Like there’s no one else in this building who could do that?”

  “But the transfer’s not to go through,” Ron added, taking another sip from the cup of cold coffee on his desk.

  She pulled back her chair and sat down. “So, we’re running a con. Bait and switch.”

  “That’s right. The mark needs to think he’s got the money, needs to know he’s got the money—and he can’t find out the truth.”

  “Where’s his banker?” Carol asked.

  “On your screen presently—an account in the Caymans.”

  “This is gonna be cute.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “These accounts have been steadily hardened over the last few years. Getting in isn’t as easy as it used to be. I take it we don’t have authorization to actually hand over the cash.”

  The analyst made a face. “That’s directorate-level access. Everybody of that pay grade is asleep at this hour.”

  “As all God’s children.”

  8:45 A.M. Local Time

  A hotel

  Beirut, Lebanon

  “Who do you work for?”

  Harry looked up from the screen of his laptop, into the face of Achmed Asefi. “Does it matter?”

  “I like to know whom I am dealing with. Th
e SIS? CIA? Mossad? You cannot be SVR,” he finished, referring to the reconstituted former KGB. “They would not be running this type of bargain.”

  The hotel lobby was well-nigh deserted, save for a few early risers among the tourist traffic--and the employees. Harry made out the form of Tex Richards, ensconced near the coffee bar.

  “Keep guessing,” he replied shortly, his eyes returning to the screen. The window to stop the terrorists before they entered Israel was closing rapidly. A clandestine op into Syria was dubious enough, but Israel…

  “It is sad, this conflict, this terrorism that has engulfed our world. In another life, you and I could have been friends. Perhaps more. Companions, even?”

  Harry snorted. “Not likely. The companionship of women has always been good enough for me.”

  “You see shame in desire. As a warrior, perhaps, you view it as a weakness. Have you never read of the phalanx of lovers in the Sacred Band of Thebes? Bound to each other by loyalty and love, they performed feats of valor that live down through history. Am not I right?”

  The man was circling for an advantage, Harry realized. There was purpose to his words, a distraction, the hidden hand. Why?

  He raised his eyes, fixing Asefi with a cold, hard stare. “Perhaps. But look where it’s gotten you.”

  9:57 A.M. Tehran Time

  The Ayatollah’s Residence

  Qom, Iran

  “No, I have not contacted Asefi since your departure from Qom this morning. Why, is something wrong?” the Ayatollah Isfahani asked.

  He listened carefully, his face growing longer with concern as the man on the other end of the line went on. “Take every precaution you deem necessary, Major Hossein. Just make sure you reach Al Quds by sundown.”

  He terminated the call and walked onto the balcony, looking out over the desert in the glow of the morning sun. Something was going wrong.

  Asefi had served him faithfully for over a decade. The man’s body bore the scars of bullets, bullets that had been meant for him. Why would he betray him now?

  Hossein’s men must succeed, but now, if Asefi had defected, that very success was in jeopardy. He glanced down at the phone in his hand and began to dial. There was only one way to find out…

  8:57 A.M. Local Time

  The hotel

  Beirut, Lebanon

  “Listen carefully, Harry,” Carol Chambers began. “We’re ready to do this. Things on your side?”

  He cast a cautious look across the lobby to where Asefi sat, leafing through a fashion magazine. “Yeah, we’re good to go. What’s the plan?”

  “I tried a couple of ways, but we’re up against airtight security with the bank. We’re going to have to go ahead and transfer the money.”

  “You got authorization on that?”

  “Yes,” she replied impatiently. “Got my old man out of bed. Good times. This is what’s going down. I’ve remotely installed software on your laptop to capture his password and log-in information. After he’s confirmed the deposit and you’ve gotten the information, we’ll use it to withdraw the eight mil.”

  “Simple as that,” Harry observed. “In and out.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Harry tucked the phone back in his pocket and strode back across the lobby to where the bodyguard sat.

  “Everything all right?” Asefi enquired blandly, looking up into his eyes as he returned to his seat.

  “Yeah. The money’s being transferred into your account as we speak.”

  “You understand I must confirm this with my bank. Your word is simply not good enough. No offense intended.”

  “None taken.” Harry smiled. “I would count you the biggest sort of fool if you did not. Feel free to use my laptop to access your account.”

  It was the Iranian’s turn to smile, producing his cellphone from the pocket “And I ask myself in turn what sort of fool do you count me?”

  “Pardon?”

  “This phone is perfectly able to access my account through the mobile web. And infinitely more secure for my purposes than your laptop.”

  Disaster.

  “As you wish,” Harry responded, his face expressionless as his mind raced through the possibilities. The money was being transferred. Without password and log-in information, there was no way to retrieve it.

  He could have laughed at the irony of it all.

  At that moment, the phone in Asefi’s hand began to ring. The bodyguard glanced down at the display and the blood seemed to drain from his face, confidence melting away like the morning mist.

  “What is it?”

  He lifted the phone so that Harry could see the screen, his fingers trembling as he did so. “The Ayatollah Isfahani,” he whispered. “What do I do?”

  “Don’t answer it,” Harry responded. “Power down the phone and remove the SIM card. If you use the phone, he’ll be able to pin down your location.”

  Asefi hit the power button and watched anxiously as the screen went black. “He knows something or else he would not have called.”

  “Then we need to finish our business quickly,” Harry prompted, gesturing toward his laptop. “Shall we?”

  9:15 A.M.

  An Internet café

  Jerusalem, Israel

  “Salaam alaikum, my brother. The job is done,” Rashid announced, taking his place at the table across from al-Farouk. The terrorist looked around at the café before replying with a nod.

  It was no accident that the meeting had been arranged in such a public place. Due to the inherent ambient noise, public venues were notoriously difficult for enemy intelligence services to wire.

  He and Rashid had never frequented this café before, and when they parted ways in a few moments, they would never reenter it. That was as secure as it got.

  “Alaikum salaam,” he said at long last, stirring the hot cup of tea before him. “The arrangements have been made to get the devices inside?”

  “Nam,” Rashid replied. Yes. “But we have a problem. Our man—he wants something.”

  Farouk’s eyebrows went up in surprise, anger flickering across his face. “Money? The will of Allah need not be facilitated by hirelings. I thought you said he was a true believer.”

  “It is nothing of the sort,” the young man replied with an impatient gesture. “It is his sister. She has dishonored her family by sleeping with a khafir.” An unbeliever.

  “A Jew?”

  Rashid shook his head. “The son of a French contractor. She was caught in the very act.”

  “So many have strayed from the ways of purity and truth,” Farouk murmured, raising the cup of tea to his lips and blowing upon it. “How does this concern our mission?”

  “In order to remove this stain from her family, she has agreed to give her life in the holy jihad. In return for our help with this, he will help us get inside. What answer should I give him?”

  The terrorist leader took a sip of the tea and made a face. It was still boiling hot. “Anything can be arranged, inshallah. Are you capable of making another bomb?”

  9:20 A.M.

  The hotel

  Beirut, Lebanon

  “And good-day to you as well.”

  Asefi smiled as he turned off the TACSAT and handed it back to Harry. “The woman I just spoke with is my personal account manager, has handled my finances for years. Her voice—shall we say, it is unmistakable. I am satisfied. My apologies for doubting you.”

  “Nichevo,” Harry responded. It doesn’t matter. “Suspicion is the coin of our realm. Now, to whom much is given, much is required. The information you agreed to provide?”

  The Iranian took a cautious look around the lobby, then leaned forward, gazing intently into Harry’s eyes. “Hossein is on a mission from President Shirazi. His execution was staged to cover his role in this attack.”

  “And the target?”

  “Al Quds, or Jerusalem as you call it. The al-Aqsa mosque,” Asefi replied calmly. “During Friday prayers.”

  Harry sat ther
e for a moment, scarcely able to believe what he was hearing.

  “You’re sure?” he asked. “A biological attack on the Temple Mount will kill thousands of Muslims. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Asefi shrugged. “You can believe what you will, but it does not change what is true. The murder of Muslims at worship, in a place guarded by the Jews. It will be a pretext for war.”

  “Dear God,” Harry whispered. “He’s going to set the Middle East on fire.”

  A sigh escaped the Iranian’s lips as he glanced out the window. “ You mean the world…”

  1:26 A.M. Eastern Time

  NCS Operations Center

  Langley, Virginia

  She entered the log-in verification for the third time, then clicked OK on the screen that appeared. A moment later, the adjusted balance appeared, minus the eight million dollars. In and out. Everything according to plan.

  “It’s done,” Carol announced in a tired voice, looking over toward Carter’s workstation. “The Agency gives with one hand and takes with the other. Situation normal.”

  She rose and retrieved her purse. “Now, to home and to bed. Don’t try calling me again, Ron. My phone will be off.”

  “I’m headed home too,” he responded with a grin. “We’ve earned some sleep.” He looked at the dregs of coffee at the bottom of his mug and grimaced. “And a fresh brew of coffee in the morning.”

  A phone rang somewhere in the bowels of the op-center and they exchanged glances. A couple moments later, Daniel Lasker appeared, his face grim in the glow of the electronics.

  “Carol,” he announced without preamble, “I want you to call the DCIA and DCS. Get them out of bed and in here at once. Ron, get me a run-down of our assets in the East Mediterranean, focusing on support structure in Lebanon and Israel. I’ll see everyone in Conference Room #5 at 0200 hours for a complete mission briefing. Have your sitreps ready and with you.”