Pandora's Grave (4 page)

There was no evidence that any of the many enemies he had made over the years even knew who he really was, let alone where to find him. But the absence of evidence wasn’t proof to the contrary. He had lived long enough to know that much, and was only still alive
because
he knew it.

At the door he slid his hand into the fingerprint scanner, waiting a moment before hearing a faint metallic
click
that told him the door was open.

If he died on a mission, they were going to have a devil of a time getting inside his house. But if that happened, he would be past worrying about it. And if he lived—well, things could go on as they always had.

He entered the house and slipped through the entrance hall, listening before flicking on the light. Everything was still.

Pausing at the base of the spiral mahogany staircase that led to the mansion’s second floor, he bent low to examine the hair-thin string stretched across the step. It was still intact. No one had been upstairs in his absence.

Harry slipped the Colt back into its holster and took off his jacket, laying it across the back of one of the kitchen chairs. The Iranian mission was bothering him. There were just too many unknowns. The fact that the new member of the strike team was an unknown quantity himself only made Harry feel worse.

He took a coffee grinder from one of his upper cabinets and poured a handful of beans into it, beginning to make his coffee.

Davood’s comment about the place being cursed, he couldn’t shake that, despite how easily he had seemed to dismiss it at the meeting. He had worked in the Middle East long enough to know that much of their mythology had some root in fact. Long enough to know that they should not be rejected out of hand.

He had no idea what they were headed into. He only knew he didn’t like it…

6:45 A.M. Tehran Time, September 20th

The Iranian base camp

“You sent for me?”

“Yes, major, I did,” the scientist replied, looking up as Major Farshid Hossein entered the laboratory trailer. “It’s your guard.”

“Malik?” Came the question as the base commander closed the door behind him. He was a tall man, perhaps in his mid-forties. Wilting under Hossein’s hard stare, it occurred to the scientist that he bore an unsettling resemblance to a falcon, light blue eyes staring out on either side of a hooked nose, above a closely-cropped black beard.

“Follow me.”

He turned and led the way, his feet clicking against the metal floor. He paused outside a sealed metal door and handed a face mask and gloves to the military man. An apologetic smile.

“It’s not enough, but it is the best I can do.”

“The bodies—they are sealed?”

“
Baleh
,” the scientist nodded. Yes. He turned, typing in a short code on the keypad beside the door. “This way.”

Cold air washed over the major as he stepped inside, almost taking his breath away. It was a severe contrast to the heat already building in the sun outside. Specially sealed containers lined the room, almost like a row of caskets in a mortuary. They might as well have been.

All of their occupants were either dead or soon to be. Another chill prickled the skin on the back of his neck, but it wasn’t from the air surrounding him.

Something else.

The scientist was pointing down into one of the caskets, its top transparent. Major Hossein stepped over to him. Malik.

It was all he could do not to look away. He had known the man for years. They had fought together against the imperialist forces in Iraq, after the invasion, when his country had started funneling arms and money to the insurgency. The man had saved his life.

And now this…

Malik lay naked under the bright lights, his whole body exposed. There was no place for modesty here. Nor any need for it. His body had swelled, grotesquely so, until he was almost twice his normal size. Every vein was outlined, as though someone had used a dirty-black pencil to highlight them.

But it wasn’t that, it was his very
blood
that had turned black. He turned, apparently sensing their presence, his bloodshot eyes blinking in the light.

His lips opened, as though he was trying to speak to them. Instead, he coughed and bloody spittle gathered at the corner of his lip.

“How long?” Hossein asked, turning away.

“Twenty-four hours.”

The major shook his head. “Have you any idea what it is?”

“Dr. Ansari will be here from Tehran within two days. I would prefer to reserve my judgement till then.”

Farshid stepped closer, towering over the young scientist. “I don’t have two days. I need to know how to protect my men! What do I need to do?”

“Major, I would rather—”

He never got to finish his sentence. “I don’t have time for what you’d ‘rather’!” Hossein bellowed, picking up the scientist by the collar and slamming him against the side of the trailer. “I want to know what you think this
is. Now
!”

The young man gulped nervously. “All right. I’ll show you.”

“Good.” Farshid released him, following him down the corridor. The scientist adjusted his glasses and bent over a laptop at one of the workstations.

Another moment and he found the database he was looking for, scrolling down the page. “There.”

Hossein looked where he was pointing and his eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

The young man nodded.

“Allah preserve us…”

12:17 A.M., September 21st

A small Baptist church

The outskirts of Cypress, Virginia

“…so, good-day and God bless you all. You’re dismissed.” The pastor closed his Bible and came down off the podium.

“A good sermon this morning,” Harry said quietly, stepping up to him and gripping his hand in a firm handshake.

Pastor Scott smiled. A tall man, he was one of the few in the church who could look Harry in the eye. He was in his early fifties, his hair prematurely gray, his face lined and worn with the struggle of the years. Nothing about him indicated a man who had an easy time of it. And he hadn’t.

“It’s good to have you back, Harry,” he replied, his voice somehow soft and powerful at the same time. “I was meaning to ask you—I need another man to help serve communion next Sunday. Can you help?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry, pastor. I won’t be here next week.”

“Off again?”

“Yes,” he nodded. Most people at the church knew he worked for the CIA. They just didn’t know what he did there.

He thought Pastor Scott suspected, but the older man was wise enough to keep his suspicions to himself. And he didn’t press.

“Then, may God protect you wherever you go, my son.” He laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“He does, pastor. Trust me, He does.”

“You know, Harry, I knew your parents—before they died. I—well, just take care of yourself.” There was a wealth of meaning in his eyes, some of it hard to interpret. Harry stared into them for a moment, then turned away, giving it up.

“Thanks.” A final handshake and Harry was out the door, heading to his car. His parents. That’s where it had all started, hadn’t it. The murder of his parents, both of them gunned down at the little gas station on the edge of town. Shot by a crazed teenager with nothing more than a .22, a
target
rifle, for heaven’s sake!

He had been overseas when it happened, running a diamond interdiction operation in South Africa, trying to stop a flow of diamonds that were being used to fund terrorism. He’d succeeded. And returned to find both of his parents dead. The teenager that had shot them put away in prison for thirty years. Out of his reach.

He hadn’t bought gas there since. It had been nine years ago. Perhaps if he had been home, perhaps if he had been
there
…

He shook his head. His life was filled with
perhaps, what if, maybe
, the unanswered questions of his past like gaping holes in the trail behind him. Regrets. And he couldn’t turn back. Because there was nothing there for him to go back to. It was all gone.

He could only move forward, fighting his battles one at a time, praying for survival, for
victory
. He slipped the car into gear, pulling out of the church’s parking lot.

In two days, he would be in Iraq. From there they would launch their operation. Elements of AFSOC, the Air Force’s spec-ops unit, were already being pre-positioned to support them. Two days…

1:07 A.M. Baghdad Time, September 22nd

A C-5 Galaxy transport

In the skies over Iraq

Thomas laid down his book with a weary sigh. He had been reading for hours. Frankly, it bored him. He could enjoy many things, a night out on the town with friends, music, the laughter of a woman. And he could enjoy the heat, the tension of combat, the visceral thrill of the hunter and the hunted.

But the interval in between—that irritated him. His parting with Julie had not been one of the high points of the last few days. She wouldn’t be there for him when he came back. She had told him as much. He was leaving no one behind him. No one. Perhaps that was best. If he came back—
when
he came back, there would be other girls for him.

He plucked absently at the wings on his shirt, the khaki uniform that identified him as an Air Force lieutenant. It was a lie, like so much else in his life. But there was no sense in letting that worry him. He glanced around him at his fellow passengers, the members of his team. They were all asleep—with one exception. Nichols.

That was no surprise. Their Team Lead sat up front, dressed in the clothes of a full-bird colonel. He had spent most of the flight either bent over his laptop, planning out the mission as it would go down, or staring out the window. Nichols was doing the latter now.

He looked back at Thomas, almost as though warned by some inner sense that someone was watching him. His blue eyes glowed briefly with the intensity that Thomas had long associated with him, then he looked away.

He had worked with Nichols for years and that intensity was always present. Off-mission he was a friendly guy, the type of man you would appreciate having as a neighbor. And despite the occasional debate over Thomas’s agnostic worldview, they were as close as brothers.

Once a mission began, all that disappeared, vanishing like mist under a hot summer sun. A mission face. A transformation.

If anyone had ever succeeded in pinning down who he really was, Thomas wasn’t aware it. Which facet of his character was the real person, which was his inner nature. Few had dared even try.

No matter. Thomas started to turn back to his book, just as their pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Buckle up, people. We’re coming into Q-West.”

Thomas reached for his seatbelt, glancing out the window. The lights of the airfield twinkled below them, like bright stars in the night. They were almost there.

He could feel his heart begin to beat faster, the adrenalin start to flow through his veins. They would be in battle soon. It was a good feeling.

“Wheels down,” the pilot announced.

Harry closed his laptop computer and put it back in its carrying case. It wouldn’t be going into the field with them. There were too many things that could go wrong with a piece of electronic equipment. They would be back to the tried and trusty stubby pencil and notepad, each member of the team memorizing the role he was to play, learning it like some actor in a movie—except for them it was serious, the stakes incredibly high, the price for failure equally so. To fail, was to die. There was no middle ground.

If something went wrong out in the desolate mountains of Iran, that was the end. No one would be coming to rescue them.

Their country would refuse to acknowledge that they even existed—that they ever had been her citizens, much less her warriors. That was the whole idea. Deniability.

Even if the mission was a success, if they made it back to the extraction zone with the missing archaeologists, they would receive none of the credit for it. They would slip away like wraiths into the night, going back to their jobs until the call came again. Glory was dangerous.

There was no one waiting for him back in the States, no one to inquire into the circumstances of his death. He had a brother—but he lived in Montana. They saw each other only a few times a year, and all too often Harry was gone when his brother came calling. A brother, a sister-in-law, a nephew, they were all the family he had left. Little enough.

He had known brief relationships with women in the past, sometimes with women he had known in Cypress, other times with female analysts at the Agency. Never anything of a lasting nature—as much as he had tried. The girls from Cypress couldn’t be told what he did for a living. The analysts knew all
too
well, and the skills that enabled him to survive in one world barred him from the other.

“Roger, Charlie-Bravo-Six-Papa-Niner, taxi to Runway Three.” The air traffic controller switched his headset off and turned to the man at his side.

“They’ve arrived, sir.”

Colonel Luke Tancretti nodded. “I’m going out to meet them.” He pushed the tower door open and strode out into the darkness. Qayyarah-West Airfield looked a lot different than it had when he had first been deployed four years ago. Then the runway had been pocked with huge craters, craters made by American bombers during both Gulf Wars. This was his first visit since his transfer to AFSOC. In truth, he had never expected to return.

But this was where he was needed, and so this was where he was. It was as simple as that.

By the time he got to the back of the huge transport, the five men he had been expecting were already descending the ramp, spread out, moving as though they were already on the battlefield, their stance belying the uniforms they wore.

“Colonel Henderson, I presume,” Tancretti said, looking to the man nearest to him.

The tall man nodded. “That’s right. Here are my identification papers.”