The Pandora Deception--A Novel

by David Bruns

  “You’re looking well,” Noam said. “Not fit for duty, but well.”

  “You look like a snowman in disguise,” Rachel shot back.

  The deep rumble of Noam’s laugh shook the small table between them. “I missed you.”

  “It’s only been a month, for God’s sake. I’m not your wife, after all.”

  Noam lit a cigarette as Rachel ordered coffee and a scone.

  “What happened to Pandora?”

  “The Americans took care of it,” Noam said.

  “They found the doctor?”

  “You were right. She was crazy and she had a crazy plan. Crazy enough to…” As his voice trailed off, he jerked his head to the east.

  Rachel gasped. She lowered her voice: “Iran?”

  Noam’s nod was barely perceptible.

  Rachel sat back as it all clicked into place. She could picture Talia’s rage at JP, the passion in her voice. That kind of anger always ended badly.

  “We weren’t part of the takedown?”

  “We tried,” Noam said. “We had all the known US assets under surveillance, but they sent in clean skins. Two of them, complete unknowns. From what we hear, they stopped the attack, but they didn’t get out.” Noam’s face had a sour expression, but whether from the fate of the American agents or the lack of Israeli success she couldn’t tell.

  Rachel’s coffee arrived and she sipped it. She shivered despite the warm sun. She knew what Iran did to spies. Some brave son of a bitch had done a very stupid, very noble thing. The world would go on, unknowing, uncaring, and those two agents would end up in a shallow grave in the desert—if they were lucky.

  “It was a close-run thing,” Noam continued. “They ran the op from their new Emerging Threats group. Took us completely by surprise. That won’t happen again.”

  “What about the funding?” Rachel asked. “The Saudi connection?”

  Noam watched the plaza, crowded with tourists. Rachel knew his mood. He would tell her when he was ready.

  She bit into the scone. It was buttery and flaky, just the way she liked it.

  “It was a good lead from the Americans,” Noam said finally. “We picked up Alyan al-Qahtamni and he sang like a canary. Told us everything we wanted to know. Four rich guys trying to get even richer.” His lips puckered like he wanted to spit something sour on the sidewalk.

  “Two Saudis and two Jews formed the Arab-Israeli Benevolence Coalition, a massive network of shell companies all over the Nile River basin worth close to two hundred billion dollars.”

  “And you shut them down? Permanently?”

  “Itzak Lehrmann will be going to jail for tax fraud. We turned al-Qahtamni over to the Saudis. They let him go. The rumor is he’s friends with the crown prince. I guess it’s all about who you know.”

  “The yacht owner?”

  Noam tapped out another cigarette. He allowed a ghost of a smile. “That one turned out a little better. Saleh bin Ghannam was the Saudi mastermind behind the plot. We dropped a word into the right royal ear and it seems the Al-Buraq suffered an accident at sea. The ship sank without a trace. Terrible tragedy.”

  Noam lit a celebratory cigarette.

  “That leaves one more,” Rachel said.

  “Haim Zarecki.” Noam said the name like a curse. “His nephew was the mole who stole Mossad’s cryptography. The nephew will stand trial for treason. Zarecki was the one who helped Manzul build the lab. He was the one who hatched the whole plan—him and bin Ghannam. A couple of old bastards who wanted to screw the world over before they left it.”

  “And?”

  Half of Noam’s cigarette disappeared in one drag. “We can’t get to him. We have a hands-off order, right from the very top.” He stabbed the cigarette into an ashtray. “Last I heard he was living out his days in Europe somewhere. Geneva, I think.”

  Rachel pushed the scone away, suddenly nauseous. News like this shouldn’t sting her, but it did. Politics was part and parcel of their business. Decisions about operations were swayed by relationships all the time. Facts were twisted and bent to the needs of the moment. It was just how the world worked.

  Zarecki was not a well man, she told herself. He would die soon. Problem solved.

  But Zarecki was also a traitor to his country. His actions had placed the lives of millions at risk. Rachel had a hole in her side that she could trace back to Zarecki as the proximate cause.

  That problem deserved a solution.

  Noam stood. “I just wanted to check in,” he said, handing her a slip of paper. “I thought you might like to take a vacation during your convalescent leave.”

  He lumbered away, his broad back disappearing into the crowds of people around them.

  Rachel unfolded the slip of paper. It was an address in Geneva.

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Haim Zarecki’s new home overlooked the Rhône River where it flowed out of Lake Geneva.

  From his third-floor apartment, he could look down on the marina, the park, and on a clear day, possibly even see Mont Blanc in the distance. In the weeks before Christmas, the fall colors had disappeared, leaving only bare branches and damp cold on the cobbled streets of the well-heeled neighborhood.

  Rachel used Airbnb to rent a small sailboat at the marina on the Quai du Mont-Blanc. The cabin was tiny, consisting only of a fold-down table, a narrow bunk, an ice chest that served as a refrigerator, and a single burner.

  But it offered an uninterrupted view into the panoramic windows of Haim Zarecki’s third-floor bedroom.

  For five days, she did nothing but eat prepackaged ramen noodles, drink coffee, and watch the comings and goings of the Zarecki household through a spotting scope.

  The old man was a shut-in. He never left the third-floor bedroom and never closed the curtains. All his meals were brought to him by round-the-clock skilled nursing care, and he wore oxygen all the time. The day nurse was a heavyset Germanic woman with a mole on her right cheek. She arrived promptly at seven and stayed until three. The evening nurse was a college-aged blonde who wore her hair in a ponytail and expertly fended off Zarecki’s gropings for most of her shift. At 11:00 P.M. every night, a black woman came on duty. She was fortyish and walked with a limp. She took frequent smoke breaks.

  Zarecki’s security staff consisted of an armed man behind a desk inside the first-floor street entrance. He buzzed people in, flirted with the blond nurse, and watched TV. Two men lived onsite, taking alternating twelve-hour shifts behind the desk.

  By the end of the week, Rachel had the outline of a plan. She followed the night nurse home for the next three days.

  The woman’s name was Angelique. She lived in a third-floor walk-up in an immigrant community on the outskirts of Annemasse, France. She had two children, a boy and a girl, aged fourteen and twelve, and no husband.

  It took two more days to secure the necessary items for the operation. At a medical supply store, she found a set of nursing scrubs similar to the ones Angelique wore, and she found a similar jacket at a secondhand store. A visit to a veterinarian and a wad of cash yielded the rest of the needed supplies.

  It was snowing the night Rachel followed Angelique from her bus stop a quarter mile from Zarecki’s apartment. Fat flakes of snow coated the empty streets, muffling all sounds.

  Angelique passed under pools of light cast by the streetlamps, her hood up, shoulders hunched against the weather.

  Rachel approached the woman from behind. “Excusez-moi?”

  When Angelique turned around, Rachel hammered a fist into her face. She was careful not to break any bones, but she wanted the woman to have a healthy bruise. Angelique fell to her knees, crying, and Rachel pinned her to the ground. She uncapped a loaded syringe with her teeth and stabbed a small dose of ketamine into the woman’s arm.

  Angelique’s body went limp.

  Rachel checked her breathing and pulse, then rifled through her purse, taking her cash, but leaving her ID. Then she called the local police.

  “There’s a
woman who has been assaulted.” She gave the street address. “Please hurry. She’s unconscious.”

  Rachel waited at the corner until she heard the police sirens, then continued on her way. Angelique wouldn’t wake up for a few hours with the sedative Rachel had given her. Her presence in the police station at the time of Zarecki’s death would be an airtight alibi.

  She climbed the steps of Zarecki’s house and waited to be buzzed into the main hallway. She stamped the snow from her boots on the mat inside the door.

  The young blonde was waiting for her. “Where have you been?”

  When Rachel peeled off her hat, the blonde stepped back. “Who are you? Where is Angelique?”

  “She called in sick.” Rachel kept her head angled away from the camera over her right shoulder. “The agency sent me. I’m new.”

  “Whatever.” The blonde threw on her coat. “Just don’t be late again. He’s in his room. Hopefully, for your sake, he’s asleep. He likes to grab your ass, so be careful.” She called in to the security man in the front room. “Henri, I’m going. She’s here.”

  Henri grunted a reply, the door slammed shut behind the departing nurse, and Rachel was alone.

  She climbed the steps to the third floor of the house. Zarecki’s room smelled like old man’s feet overlaid with the sharp tang of menthol. The room lights were dimmed to a dull yellow, just enough to illuminate the fat flakes of snow sifting past the panorama window.

  Rachel looked out into the dark, trying to see the tiny sailboat where she had spent the last ten days, but the snow was too thick. She studied Zarecki’s reflection in the darkened window.

  He lay in a hospital bed, his head elevated to a forty-five-degree angle. There was a full medical crash cart in the corner, ready to extend his miserable life, if needed. He wore an oxygen tube under his nose. His face looked like it was carved out of pale clay, and his skin had a clammy sheen of sweat.

  His eyes opened. “Angelique?”

  Rachel walked to his bedside. “No.”

  She snatched the call button away before he could reach it.

  “Angelique’s not here.”

  His yellowed eyes searched her face. “Do I know you?”

  Rachel nodded. “You saw me in Cairo,” she said, “if you were looking. Or maybe in Cyprus. I was with JP Manzul.”

  Zarecki’s eyes widened in fear. The oxygen tube fell away as he struggled to sit up in bed.

  “Who sent you?” he said.

  Rachel picked up a pillow from the foot of his bed and fluffed it in her hands, taking her time.

  “Who are you?” Zarecki demanded.

  Rachel smiled at him, and said in Hebrew, “My name is Death.”

  She pinned his face with the pillow. The old man thrashed wildly, but not for long.

  His body went still.

  Rachel lifted the pillow away, studied his face. His bared teeth were yellow and jagged, his rheumy eyes wide open, the pale skin blotchy and age-spotted.

  She felt nothing. No satisfaction, no remorse, no more emotion than if she’d stepped on a cockroach.

  Rachel stripped the pillowcase off the pillow and stuffed it into her pocket. She tidied up the corpse, replacing his oxygen tube and sitting Zarecki upright in bed. She wiped down anything she might have touched during her short stay, then donned her jacket and hat and hurried down the steps.

  “I’m going out for a smoke,” she said to Henri, who waved without looking up.

  Rachel rode the early bus to Annemasse. The snow stopped as she made her way to Angelique’s apartment.

  She knocked on the door and waited. “Who is it?” said a boy’s voice.

  “I’m a friend of your mother’s. She asked me to stop by.” Slowly, the boy unbolted the door and opened it a crack.

  Rachel smiled at him. “It’s okay. I don’t want to come in. I just came by to drop something off.” She took a sealed envelope out of her inner pocket containing €10,000 in cash. She passed it through the door to the boy.

  “Give this to your mother when she gets home,” Rachel said. “And tell her I’m sorry. Okay?”

  The boy nodded and closed the door.

  Rachel turned on her heel and walked away.

  CHAPTER 54

  Washington, DC

  SIX WEEKS LATER

  The dinner took place in a small French restaurant, located a few blocks outside of the Georgetown limits. The restaurant itself, sandwiched between a Mexican grill and a bakery, was not much to look at, but it had a reputation for excellent food.

  It also had a private dining room, easily accessed by an alley that ran behind the building.

  Dre waited in the dining room with Liz Soroush. It was the first time she had seen the older woman since they had been debriefed following their return from Iranian custody. Then, Liz had been in rough shape, with a case of severe bronchitis and a separated shoulder courtesy of her Iranian handlers.

  But they had stayed alive. That was all that mattered.

  Tonight, Liz was the picture of health. Her dark eyes flashed with laughter when she told Dre how her son, Ahmad, had responded to seeing his mother after her internment.

  “He’s so much like his father, it just kills me, Dre,” Liz said. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I said yes to Don.”

  “Well, you weren’t thinking about yourself, that’s for sure, Lizzie,” Don said from the doorway. “And Brendan would have kicked my ass for calling you in the first place.”

  “Don.” Liz crossed the room and hugged him hard.

  Dre gave him a wave. They saw each other every day at work.

  In the intervening six weeks since their return from Iran, the world had returned to some semblance of normality. The bioweapons lab had been stripped of all useful intel, destroyed in place, and all US military personnel withdrawn. The State Department worked overtime to calm tensions in the Nile River basin and get the water-management talks between Egypt and the other countries in the basin back on track.

  Lastly, tensions with Iran had eased for the moment. There were rumors about restarting nuclear talks, but Dre had her doubts.

  Liz poured Don a glass of wine. “Well, can you tell us what’s behind this mysterious meeting now, Don?” she teased.

  Don looked at a text that popped up on his phone and smiled. “Yes, I can.” He strode to the dining room door.

  A trim man with gray hair and a neatly groomed goatee waited in the hallway. He wore a charcoal-gray suit and carried a slim attaché case.

  “May I present Davoud Rashemi, the foreign minister of the Islamic Republic of Iran,” Don said.

  Dre saw Liz’s posture stiffen. Rashemi approached Liz and bowed to her before extending his hand. Liz shook his hand reluctantly, the good humor from a few moments ago drained from her expression.

  As Rashemi moved to Dre, Liz shot a glance of undisguised fury at Don.

  “Miss Ramirez, it is a great honor to make your acquaintance.” His voice was low, and he spoke perfect English with a slight British accent.

  Rashemi placed the attaché case on the table and opened it. Inside were two medals, a teardrop-shaped golden flame suspended by a blue-and-red ribbon. He plucked one from the case and held it in his palm for them to see it more closely.

  “This is the Iranian Order of Courage. It has been awarded only twenty times in our nation’s history. It is our nation’s highest honor, equivalent to your Medal of Honor, and is only awarded to Iranian citizens.” He looked directly at Liz.

  “Until tonight. By direction of the president of the Islamic Republic of Iran, it is my honor to award you both the Iranian Order of Courage for your bravery and for saving the lives of countless Iranian citizens.”

  He handed a medal to Dre. The insignia was the size of her palm, and heavy. Rashemi placed the second medal in Liz’s hand and pressed his palm over hers. He leaned in and spoke softly to her. Liz nodded in response.

  Rashemi stepped back and bowed again. He offered a wry smile. “As you Ame
ricans like to say in the movies: I was never here.”

  He turned on his heel and left the room.

  Don cleared his throat. “I’m sure you two have already figured this out, but you can’t keep the medals. They’ll go into storage at the CIA. Someday, when this whole affair is declassified, you’ll get them.”

  “Well, we can enjoy them during dinner, right?” Liz said. “Let’s eat.”

  “What did Rashemi say to you?” Dre asked, as Liz leaned over to refill her wineglass.

  Liz touched the golden insignia. “He said Qom is where he grew up. His family still lives there. Even though the world may never know the story of what happened, he is eternally grateful we were there.”

  “We made a difference,” Dre said, raising her wineglass for a toast. “That’s what matters.”

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS

  We ended The Pandora Deception on a happy note.

  In a world where tensions between Iran and the US are as high as they’ve been in our lifetimes, we thought having an FBI agent save the world on Iranian soil might be just the ticket. For the record, the ending to The Pandora Deception was written a year before the killing of Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps general Qassem Soleimani by a US drone strike or the COVID-19 outbreak in Qom.

  David Bruns and J. R. Olson make up the Two Navy Guys writing team. We’re both US Naval Academy grads and former naval officers. David was a submarine officer and J. R. was a career naval intelligence officer.

  Our brand of thriller is the kind of books we grew up reading, but adapted for our modern era. We call our novels “national security thrillers” because today’s threats are no longer just military in nature. If that thought keeps you up at night, then welcome to our world.

  We populate our work with characters from the CIA, NSA, FBI, and any of the other alphabet soup of agencies and allies that work together to protect our world and our values from harm.

  Many of our readers have been with us since Weapons of Mass Deception, our first novel, in 2015. If that describes you, then know that your support has meant everything to us.