Pandora's Grave (19 page)

Then a second figure appeared, slightly to one side of the first. And a third.

“EAGLE SIX, contacts hostile.” Tex’s voice over the radio. “I repeat, contacts hostile. Another pair converging on the area from southwest.”

“I copy,” Harry replied. “Hold tight.” He laid his Kalishnikov to the side and drew the Beretta from his belt, racking a cartridge into the chamber of the silenced pistol.

The five men spread out across the plateau, moving like shadows in the dusk. Harry adjusted his NVGs, illuminating them as green shapes, clearly silhouetted. One of them passed nearby and Harry held his breath. The hides were well camouflaged, but there was always the risk.

Should one of them step on the “roof” of a hide…

7:30 P.M.

Seven kilometers south of the PJAK camp

The indicator light on his GPS told him that he had arrived. Thomas shut down the instrument and stepped toward the shelter of a rocky outcropping, his pistol drawn in his hand.

Where were the Kurds?

The question answered itself in the next moment as a figure of an older man materialized out of the shadows.

“Mr. Patterson?” a voice enquired in English. The man was attired in a western-style shirt and jeans. In his hands he carried a Kalishnikov-style assault rifle similar to the one slung over Thomas’ back.

“Yes?” Thomas replied, half-turning toward him. Two more men appeared over the rise, surrounding him. Their rifles were leveled at his chest.

“ ‘Strange,” the man began, “ is it not? That of the myriads who before us passed the door of darkness through…’”

“ ‘Not one returns to tell us of the Road, which to discover we must travel too,’” Thomas responded with a smile, finishing the ancient Khayyam proverb and completing the countersign.

“Very good,” the man replied, still in the same smooth, cultured English. “We were told to expect you. Your weapons, please, Mr. Patterson?”

Thomas turned, looking him full in the face. “How do I know I can trust you?”

10:49 A.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“Can we trust him?” Director Lay asked, glancing up from the photo on his desk.

Ron Carter shrugged. “He’s been on the Agency’s payroll off and on ever since EAGLE CLAW,” the analyst replied, referring to the botched hostage rescue operation launched by the Carter administration.

The DCIA’s eyebrows went up. “Really? An old-timer. Motivation?”

“Hatred.”

Lay nodded. “Good. Reliable intel?”

“All of it, sir. We have no indication that he’s ever lied to us.”

“He’s never had an American in his possession either.”

“Sir?”

The director leaned back in his chair. “Devil’s advocate, Carter. Let’s worst-case this. Assume we
can’t
trust Badir. What happens now?”

Ron closed his eyes, his mind running through the possible scenarios. “Worst-case? He tries to use Parker as a bargaining chip with the Iranian government—to gain political recognition for the Kurds, to secure the release of imprisoned compatriots, anything, really. They just might concede in order to secure an American prisoner and the proof that we violated their borders with a spec-ops team.”

“Anything in his profile to indicate this might be a possibility?”

The analyst’s face was grim as he replied. “His services have always come at a high price, sir. In our every negotiation, he has sought to secure something to aid the cause of his people. Never in a duplicitous manner, but certainly self-serving.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s a patriot, sir, but not ours. His people come first and his attitude toward us is that of a businessman. He earned the nickname “The Horse Trader of Tabriz” from the intel boys a couple decades ago. In summation, I would say that he views the United States government as a tool to be used.”

“Precisely as we view him.”

“A cynical person might say that.”

8:00 P.M. Tehran Time

The base camp

“Two patrols have converged on the ridgeline—here, and set up overwatch,” Colonel Larijani noted, tapping the map with his finger.

Hossein nodded approvingly. “I know the place. Have them stay there–from that position they can cover the surrounding territory for some kilometers. Do they have night-vision?”

“Yes. I sent them the first sets that came in. From that position they should be able to pick out almost anything that moves. Even in the darkness. And, major…”

Hossein turned to look the young man in the eye. “Yes?”

“I am in command here. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

8:24 P.M.

LZ Oscar

“FULLBACK to EAGLE SIX. Looks like they’re settlin’ in.” Hamid’s voice over the radio.

“Concur,” Harry retorted. “We’ve got an hour and a half before the Pave Low arrives. Do you have clear LOS on the group?”

“Roger that. About ten meters to my front.”

“If they don’t move, we’re going to have to take ‘em out, hard and fast. JSOC won’t send the chopper into another hot LZ.”

“Copy.”

A low moan at his feet and Harry turned, bending down to clasp a hand over Rachel Eliot’s mouth as she awakened. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Quiet,” Harry whispered. “Just keep quiet.”

“What’s going on?” she asked, still bewildered. It seemed to take a few moments for her to remember where she was.

“Awaiting extraction,” Harry replied, his voice patient. “You’re safe. Just keep your voice down.”

“Why?”

“The Iranians are close, very close. Just stay quiet and we’ll be okay.”

Harry rose from her side and peered over the lip of the hide, down the ridge to where the Iranian soldiers were patrolling.

“EAGLE SIX to GUNHAND. It looks like our friends have NVGs. Do you copy?”

A moment’s pause, then the Texan’s voice came on in a burst of static. “Affirmative, boss.”

“Hold your position for the moment. When we strike I will need you to alert Davood on your way in. The loss of his radio has made coordination problematic.”

“Roger.”

7:51 P.M. Baghdad Time

Q-West Airfield

Northern Iraq

The MH-53J Pave Low lifted off from the helipad at Q-West as dusk fell, its twin General Electric T64 turboshafts whining as they propelled the twenty-one-ton helicopter skyward.

The dull-black sides of the helo were innocent of any identifying markings. Its six-man crew were clad in equally nondescript grey flight suits, making the red scarf wrapped around the neck of their pilot shocking by contrast.

Major Dominic Padilla’s fingers caressed the flight controls gently, correcting the helicopter’s pitch as it shot suddenly forward.

“This is Cowboy three-niner to tower. Go-mission clearance?”

“Copy that, Cowboy three-niner. You have go-mission. Bring the boys home, Dom.”

“You got it,” was the major’s reply as he reached upward to toggle the comm switch, turning it to intercom.

“Let’s rock and roll.”

12:20 P.M. Eastern Time

NCS Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“Kranemeyer speaking.”

“Please hold for the DCIA.”

Lay’s voice came over the line a moment later, its tone decidedly chilly. “Kranemeyer, a memo just crossed my desk.”

“Sir?”

“You apparently cut a deal with Azad Badir. The safe extraction of Agent Parker in return for a shipment of Stinger SAMs. Am I to assume that I have this information correct?”

“That is correct, sir,” the DCS replied, taking a deep breath. “The deal had my authorization.”

“Are you out of your mind, Mr. Kranemeyer?”

“Not that I am aware of, director.”

“In case you’ve not been here long enough to find out—people have long memories in this town! And a lot of people in high places remember the last time we supplied dissident forces with shoulder-launched SAMs. Do you?”

“Afghanistan, sir. 1989.”

“And twelve years later, we were fighting the selfsame people we had given weapons to. American servicemen died because of those weapons’ deployment. And PJAK is a
Communist
rebel group. Now, I’m going to ask again, what were you thinking about when you gave this deal your authorization?”

“The face of an American operative on the front page of the
Tehran Times
. A trial and execution broadcast to the world. This was the only
quid pro quo
I could get Badir to agree to. Heaven knows the Revolutionary Guard would reward him generously to hand over Parker. And all due respect, David, but we no longer have the luxury of living in a world where Marxist guerillas are this agency’s top priority. The red star was eclipsed by a crescent moon a long time ago.”

A long moment passed, and then, on the other end of the line, Director Lay cleared his throat. “I will have to kick this upstairs to the DNI. Probably need Hancock’s signature on the project. My apologies, Barney.”

“None necessary, sir.”

“Any further word on Nichols and the rest of the tactical team?”

“I just received go-mission confirmation from General Benet. His Pave Low is in the air and should rendevous with the team in approximately forty minutes.”

“Any further word from the ground?”

“Negative. Nichols’ last message was to the effect that he was going dark to avoid the chance of the Iranians picking up his transmissions.”

“Get back to me when you have something,” Lay said finally.

“Of course, director,” Kranemeyer said, replacing the phone on its cradle. The screen above his head displayed steadily-updated satellite imagery of the ridgeline above LZ OSCAR.

“Do we have the infrared on that, Michelle?”

“One moment, sir. Interfacing the frames.”

“All right, do that, then…” The next moment, the infrared flashed on-screen and whatever Kranemeyer had been about to say died in his throat.

“Run the heat signatures again,” he demanded, sure that his eyes were deceiving him. There were too many signatures on the ridgeline. Too many to comprise merely the tac team and the rescued hostages.

The screen flashed again with the updated data and the DCS shook his head. He hadn’t been wrong. Not in the least.

Nichols had company.

He turned to the comm specialist at his side. “Get Nichols on the line. Now.”

9:35 P.M. Tehran Time

The PJAK camp

The light flashed on again with almost blinding force as Thomas’s blindfold was removed, leaving him blinking like an owl in the noonday sun.

“Mr. Patterson.” Thomas turned toward the voice, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light. He stood in a small, windowless room fashioned from concrete blocks. The light was coming a single bulb hanging just above his head.

The speaker was the same man who had met him at the rendevous, older than Thomas had realized at first, perhaps mid-sixties if appearance could be judged.

Two other guerillas flanked him, both younger, the one a bearded man in his early twenties, the other a young woman around the same age or younger. Perhaps brother and sister, Thomas couldn’t tell.

He caught her gaze for a moment, dark eyes staring back defiantly into his own. Her presence didn’t surprise the CIA man. He was well aware of the intelligence reports indicating one-third of PJAK fighters were women.

“Welcome to my camp.” Thomas turned his attention back to the older man and acknowledged his greeting with a nod. The guerilla extended a hand. “My name is Azad Badir.”

“It has been a pleasure,” Thomas grinned wryly.

“My apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Patterson, but you understand the precautions we must needs take, I trust?”

“Of course.”

“Sirvan, untie his hands,” Badir ordered, speaking to the young man. “Mr. Patterson, I would like you to meet my grandchildren, Sirvan and Estere. They will see you to your quarters.”

Thomas flashed a smile in Estere’s direction, a smile she pretended not to notice, turning away and examining the clip of the AK-47 she carried.

“My quarters?” he asked, turning back to Badir. “Wouldn’t it be safer to start for the border at once, under the cover of darkness?”

The PJAK leader replied with a smile and a nod. “You are my guest, Mr. Patterson. It would be most inconsiderate to have you travel farther this night.”

Thomas chuckled. “Hey, they push us a lot harder than this at Quantico. I can do it, no sweat.”

The smile vanished from Azad Badir’s face almost as quick as it had come. “Your capabilities are not in question. However, you would do well to remember that I am in command here. And I say that you are my guest. Estere, do you have his satphone?”

The girl held up the TACSAT-10 by way of acknowledgment. “Do we understand each other?” Badir continued.

Thomas looked from one to the other, realizing the implications of his words. A grim smile crossed his face. “I believe we do, Mr. Badir. I believe we do…”

9:40 P.M.

The ridgeline

For the fourth time in fifteen minutes, Harry ignored the buzzing of the TACSAT on his belt. He couldn’t afford to have his concentration broken by a call from Langley. Not now.

The five Iranian soldiers were still moving around on the ridgeline, restless now, it seemed. As though they sensed something, perhaps the tension in the air.

“Stay here,” he whispered to the young woman. “Don’t move, no matter what happens.”

Taking the silenced Beretta from his hip, Harry laid it on the lip of the hide and briefly toggled the comm switch on his radio.

“EAGLE SIX to Alpha Team. Take ‘em out.”

Ordering the archaeologists to stay where they were, Hamid rose from their hiding place, flipping his NVGs down over his eyes.

Five targets glowed luminescent in his line of sight. Not human beings, not fellow believers. Targets.