Pandora's Grave (3 page)

Two of the men had been killed on landing, one of them apparently dragged over a cliff by the wind. The rest had been scattered—scattered to the winds. Three of them were never heard from again. He and the four survivors managed to regroup and head for the bridge where they were to intercept the convoy. By the time they got there, the convoy was long gone, only tire tracks in the snow indicating its passage. They had been too late. And then the Azeri military had started looking for them.

The journey to the extraction zone was a memory he wanted to forget. The harsh winter winds tearing into them. The snows. The caves he and the others took shelter in to hide from the helicopters searching for them.

The hunger. The thirst only barely assuaged by eating the snow. The bitter cold. The brief firefight with an Azeri patrol as the Pave Low pulled them from a hot LZ. The names of the men who had perished. Oh, he remembered, all right.

“Yes,” he replied, his tone cold. Emotionless.

“These bio-war trailers were part of that shipment.”

“I see.”

2:19 P.M.

A CIA helicopter

Crossing the Potomac River

“What’s it all about, sir?”

“We’ll find out when we get there,” Jack Richards replied sharply, turning away from his companion and looking out the window, his signature Stetson pulled down low over coal-black eyes. His face was tanned and leathery, his swarthy complexion due in part to his maternal grandfather, a Mescalero Apache. He had grown up on his family’s ranch in Texas, part of the reason his friends called him “Tex.”

A former Marine Force Recon demolitions specialist, the Texan had joined the Clandestine Service five years before, at the age of twenty-nine.

Naturally silent, few people understood him, fewer still could be considered his friends—to say he was bad at making conversation would have been a polite understatement.

He rarely opened his mouth unless he had something important to say, and when he did, people listened. Listened to his experience.

But he was unusual, all the same. He even looked at buildings differently from others. Other men looked at them and admired their architectural beauty or the lack thereof, thought of the people inside, or ignored them entirely. Not Richards. He mentally calculated the pounds of high explosive needed to bring them down. It was good practice.

He was currently teaching a course on demolitions to the new recruits at the Farm, which was why the call of a few hours earlier had surprised him. Deployment orders. Where, he knew not. Looking at the young man at his side, though, he had some idea.

The agent was of Middle-Eastern descent. What country, he had never asked. He had never needed to know…

Davood Sarami finally decided he wasn’t likely to get any more answers from the big Texan, so he copied the older man’s example by staring out the window of the helicopter, staring down at his adopted land.

The nation he had taken an oath to protect. The son of Iranian-American immigrants, he and the rest of his community had received a rude awakening on the morning of September 11th, 2001. They and the rest of the world.

He had sat in his father’s living room, watching as America’s might came toppling to the ground. Watching—and for the first time questioning the faith he had known all his life. Questioning how terrorists could cling to the same holy scriptures that he did, the sacred words of Allah.

And he no longer knew what he believed…

2:23 P.M.

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“As you already know, if you’ve been following the news,” Lay began, picking up the briefing where Carter had left off, “the situation in Iran has changed dramatically over the last few years. With the rise to power of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps following the death of Khamenei two years ago we’ve seen Iran morph into a true praetorian state under the leadership of former Guards’ commander Mahmoud F’azel Shirazi. The clerical oligarchy of the mullahs is still intact, but exists largely at the good grace of the IRGC.”

He passed a photo across the desk to Harry before continuing. “That’s Shirazi. We had initially hoped that this transition might curb some of the evangelical fervor that had characterized the leadership of Khamenei, but we were mistaken. If anything, Shirazi makes Khamenei’s disciple and successor, the Ayatollah Youssef Mohaymen Isfahani, almost look like a moderate.”

Harry nodded. “That’s a significant statement.”

“Under Shirazi’s leadership, Iran has reached an uneasy détente with the West, but most believe it to be the calm before the storm. They’ve expanded their influence over Iraq, with Iranian-backed Shiite candidates gaining a majority in parliament during the last elections. Much of the same thing is happening all across the Stans,” Lay added, referring to the small Muslim countries north and east of Iran, most of them former members of the Soviet bloc and whose names all ended in “stan”.

“IRGC-owned companies now control between sixty and seventy percent of the Iranian economy, which is not to say they allow any real competition in the remaining percentage. The ranks of the
Basij
militia have swelled in the last year and it’s believed they have resumed covert negotiations with North Korea. Trouble is coming—it’s only a question of when and where.”

A knock came at that moment. “Come in,” Director Lay called as his secretary entered the room.

“Mr. Richards’ helicopter is landing, sir.”

The CIA director smiled briefly. “Thank you, Margaret.” She disappeared and he turned his attention back to the men in front of him. “Why don’t we go down to the Operations Center and meet up with Richards?”

Kranemeyer took a folder from under his arm and handed it to Harry. “A recruit from the Farm is coming in with Jack. He’s of Iranian descent and speaks fluent Farsi. As of right now, he’s assigned to your team. Things go well on this op, we may make the transfer permanent. This will tell you what you need to know.”

“Right, sir.”

Speed-reading had always been one of Harry’s talents, and he’d read the folders before the elevator reached the level of the Operations Center. By that time he knew just about as much as the Agency was willing to tell him about Davood Sarami, a second-generation immigrant in his mid-twenties. He would know more once he had been able to observe him personally. As to how he would perform—he wouldn’t know about that until they were in the field, past the point of no return. Committed. He hated that.

He preferred to work with men he knew—with men whose abilities were a known quantity to him. Men he could rely upon to do their job.

Men like Thomas, Tex, and Hamid Zakiri, themselves survivors of the Azeri mission as well as many other missions in the years before and since. He knew them all and trusted them. Counted them his friends. But only Hamid, an Iraqi-American Shiite, spoke Farsi.

Harry did, but they needed another who could pass more easily as a native. Hopefully this man would fit the bill…

“So, gentlemen, that is the situation as we have it.” Director Lay looked up from his briefing papers. “Any questions?”

Harry hadn’t been listening. He had heard it all before, all of it explained to him back on the seventh floor. So, he had spent his time watching.

Watching the young Iranian, watching
his
reaction to the briefing. Trying to read his thoughts. Trying to assess them. After a moment, Sarami’s hand went up.

“How many Iranian troops are at the campsite?”

It was a good question.
One you should have asked
, a little voice reminded Harry. So far, so good.

Lay glanced over to Ron Carter for the answer.

“Initially, our satellite overpasses were only able to catch a few men, perhaps twelve or thirteen soldiers,” Carter replied, stepping forward, his laptop in hand. “However, the last scan, made twelve hours ago, showed at least platoon strength, approximately fifty men, all heavily armed. There are also an undeterminate number of scientists. I believe we can assume that some of them have military training.”

“Triple-A?”

“Negative—satellite shows no formal anti-aircraft capability. Small arms fire could be intense, though, so a direct air assault is inadvisable. We’ll have to set you down a few klicks out.”

“Do we have any idea why the Iranian military decided to set up a bio-war facility
there
of all places?”

David Lay shook his head. “None of this makes sense. That’s why we’re sending you in. To figure out exactly what they’re doing.”

“Alpha Team is being reconstituted?” Hamid Zakiri asked, speaking up for the first time. Heads swiveled to where the Iraqi agent stood a few feet away, calmly sipping a Pepsi. At five-nine, Zakiri was far from the tallest team member, but he was light and fast. Back in his Army days, he’d set records on the Ranger’s “Q Course”.

“Yes,” Harry replied, in answer to his old friend’s question. Alpha Team as a whole hadn’t officially been mission-ready in over a year, with one or another of its members deployed separately. His own mission south of the border had only been the latest in a string.

“Almost like old times,” Hamid smiled, white teeth showing against his deeply tanned skin. “All that’s left to do is get Sammy back.”

Harry nodded. The departure of Samuel Han after the Azeri mission had left a hole in the teams, a hole they hadn’t permanently filled even these years later. No one could fault him, though. After the losses that winter, he quite simply hadn’t been able to take it anymore. Leaving the Agency forever behind him, he had retreated into the mountains of West Virginia. Rumor had it that he’d become something of a hermit. The stresses of combat did that to people. The loss of friends…

Davood Sarami had been studying the map on the far wall. When he turned back, his tanned face was strangely pale.

“What is it, Davood?” Kranemeyer asked, noting his odd expression.

“Where were these—these archaeologists working? What was it that they were excavating?”

“Does it matter?”

Davood nodded quietly. “It may. It may very much.”

“Ron?”

The analyst turned back to his computer and hit a couple of keys. “Just a moment…let’s see.” He looked up. “The ruins of Rhodaspes. An ancient Persian trade city.”

“
Ya Allah
,” the Iranian whispered. Oh, God.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, watching the man closely. There was something going on here. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew he didn’t like it…

“Do you know the area?”

Davood looked up, glancing first at the DCS and then at Harry. “No,” he said, answering Kranemeyer’s question first, “I don’t know the area. My parents were born a hundred kilometers away. But Rhodaspes…”

“What about it?”

“The Iranians, they call it the place of the jinn. The city of spirits…”

11:49 P.M. Tehran Time

The campsite

Back and forth, the guard paced across the camp, his sweaty hands firmly grasping his Kalishnikov assault rifle, his eyes peering nervously into the darkness.

A cool night breeze came sweeping over the plateau, startling him. There was something evil about this place. He knew it. He could feel it in the very air.

It was too silent. Nothing, not even the night sounds of animals to break the stillness. Not even the birds came to this place, or so it seemed.

He glanced back at the trailers behind him. What they were used for, he had no idea. And he didn’t really
want
to know. For there was evil there too. Evil in the hearts of men, as dark as the night surrounding him.

He turned and began his patrol back, his AK-47 still held at the ready, its barrel probing the night ahead of him. It was the only power he still held over this place.

He felt a cough coming and he brought his hand up to cover his mouth.

The cough seemed to tear at his throat and when he pulled his hand away, it was covered with blood.

He dropped the assault rifle in panic and began to run, running toward the light of the camp, running toward the trailers. Running and knowing he might be too late. Knowing that the evil had already overtaken him…

2:51 P.M. Eastern Time

NCS Operations Center

Langley, Virginia

“Spirits?”

Davood nodded, a flush growing across his face. “It sounds stupid, I know. But my ancestors believed it.”

“That’s not to the point, Davood,” Director Lay interjected. “Do
you
believe that it’s true?”

There was a moment of dead silence. “Well?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It is probably nothing more than myth, but when a myth persists…”

Harry crossed the room to the map, gazing up at it. “When did this legend originate, Davood? According to what Ron says, this was a prosperous city at one time.”

“Allah knows. Certainly no one on this earth.”

“I see.” Harry turned back to the directors. “I think we’ll have enough to concern ourselves handling the guards around the site. As for the supernatural,” he smiled, “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Right,” Director Lay nodded with a grim smile of his own. “You leave on the 22nd.”

7:14 P.M.

Grove Manor

Cypress, Virginia

Harry parked his car in the small garage he had built on one edge of the property, locking it securely behind him.

His Colt was in his right hand as he strode quickly toward the house, glancing around him in the gathering darkness. The huge oak trees that had given the house its name cast long shadows over him, as did the house itself.

Moving along the cobble-stoned walkway, between waist-high boxwood hedges, he looked up at the tall Civil War-era mansion he had inherited from his mother’s side of the family. It could be seen for miles, a landmark in the small community of Cypress, Virginia. Which was exactly why he was being cautious.