Pandora's Grave (42 page)

“
I want the biological agent. Do not allow it to fall into the hands of the infidel
.”

Then why, he had asked, are we going to all this bother?

“
Allah has not given us this gift that it might be squandered by madmen
,” the Ayatollah had replied. “
It is ours to seize and hold. For His glory. Fear not, He will aid our cause.
”

Hossein’s fingers stroked the dome of the model absently as he stood there, lost in thought. Somehow, pragmatist that he was, the promise of divine intervention seemed less than helpful. Semantics aside, it did nothing to conceal the truth.

This was a suicide mission…

8:57 A.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“Nichols,” Lay acknowledged Harry’s arrival with a brief greeting. “We’re almost ready to begin.”

Carter looked up from the laptop in front of him. “All due respect, sir, but I would like to point out that Director Haskel did not agree to read Nichols in on the FBI’s mission.”

“Haskel is not in charge here,” Lay announced, turning to glare at his top analyst. “I am. He got caught with his pants down and I’ll be hanged if he’s going to dictate terms. If you will, Harry, sit at that end of the conference table. You’ll be out of camera range, but able to hear what goes on.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Lay adjusted his tie, a nervous tic Harry had seen many times before. Putting on his battle face.

The phone in front of Lay buzzed. “Director Haskel is waiting for you to start, sir.”

“Good.” Lay reached for the remote and powered up the LCD monitor on the opposite wall. After a couple seconds, the visage of the FBI director appeared on-screen.

“Good morning, Director Lay. Shall we get started?”

Lay’s face didn’t change. “That would be a good idea, Eric. I’m meeting with Colonel Mueller of GSG-9 at eleven, so don’t waste my time.”

“I don’t intend to. A week ago, director, your agency put this country in the peril of great embarrassment with the poor execution of Operation TALON.”

Harry could see the surprise written in the DCIA’s eyes, but he made no expression of it. “Following the revelation that someone was responsible for leaking mission-sensitive intelligence to the Iranians,” Haskel continued, “the President asked my Bureau to run a covert investigation of your Agency.”

“Redundant,” Lay objected. “We had already launched our own investigation of the incident through Lucas Ellsworth and the inspector general’s office.”

“Perhaps. Have you traced the source of the leak?”

“That information is classified,” came Lay’s sharp retort.

“Which is another way of saying you haven’t.” An irritatingly superior expression spread across the face of the FBI chief.

The DCIA leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished wood of the conference table. “And you have?”

“Our investigation was unfortunately interrupted this morning by the actions of one of the men under scrutiny, but we had already identified a person of interest in the matter.”

“Indeed?”

On-screen, Haskel could be seen to open a folder laying on his desk. “Our investigation came to focus upon one man. He is a paramilitary operations officer in your Clandestine Service. A man with the motive, the access, and the opportunity to betray your mission.”

“Go on.”

“The man’s name is Davood Sarami.”

Harry’s face froze at the declaration. Davood? It couldn’t be. No. There was no way he could have betrayed the team.

“And may I ask what caused your investigation to center on Officer Sarami?” Lay asked, his posture stiff, unmistakably hostile.

“Our investigation of the field team was thorough. Our focus turned to Sarami after we delved into the financial records of the mosque he attends in Falls Church. The imam there, Abdul Faisal Shabaz, a naturalized citizen of this country, has given large sums of money, ostensibly from his congregation, to a charity based out of Amman, Jordan.”

“Get to your point,” Lay ordered irritably when the FBI director paused for effect.

“The charity has close ties to Hezbollah and Hamas. In 2009, Shabaz was photographed with this man.” A picture came flashing up on screen, momentarily blocking their view of Haskel’s face. “Fayood Hamza al-Farouk. Thirty-two years of age, one of the bright young men of Hezbollah. He’s led field operations for the past three years following his successful assassination of a member of the Knesset.”

“So he was not a leader of their organization at the time of this photograph?”

“That is correct. However, he was on his way up. As you can confirm, he’s been on our watchlists for the better part of the last decade.”

“I recognize the name. Do you have any direct connections between Sarami and al-Farouk?”

“Not as of yet. As stated, our operation was blown this morning when one of your other paramilitary operations officers, one Harold Nichols, took it upon himself to pull a gun on Agent Caruso. I am still awaiting word of his release.”

“Wait away, it’s no skin off my nose. So, let me get this straight, your only tie between Sarami and Hezbollah is this imam?”

“That is correct. Undercover agents in the Muslim community in Virginia report that Sarami is seen as being very close to Shabaz, apparently regarding him as a spiritual mentor. Another point of concern is the activities of Sarami’s parents. His father is a partner in a legal firm based in Dayton, which took upon itself
pro bono
work for several notable Guantanamo detainees back in 2011.”

“As did every fashionably liberal law firm in the country,” Lay responded with forced humor. “We knew that when Sarami entered training. If you have nothing more to offer, director, I believe we will bring this conversation to a close.”

“I want my agent. Under the provisions of the CIA’s charter, your detention of him is illegal, and I want him released immediately unless you want action to be taken.”

The DCIA seemed unperturbed. “He was processed out five minutes ago. Sorry, Eric, but you need to get your act together before you start making threats. Good day.”

The screen went black and a heavy, awkward silence fell over the conference room. Lay sighed heavily. “What do we have, Ron?”

The analyst’s face was pained as he looked up from his computer. “It’s not good, boss. The Israelis have fingered al-Farouk as being responsible for the attack on our field team at Eilat, based on security footage showing him in the hotel forty-five minutes before the blast.”

Harry sat there in stunned disbelief. It wasn’t possible. That Davood had betrayed the team, betrayed their brotherhood…

He heard Lay ask, “Was Sarami cleared for the Eilat mission?”

“Yes,” Carter replied. “He was fully aware of operational details.”

Through the swirling fog of emotion, Harry heard his name called and looked up to see Lay staring at him. “I will need you to contact Hamid Zakiri and alert him to the new intelligence.”

“Sir,” Harry began, “with all due respect, I would like to protest this. I have served with Davood, I’ve fought side by side with him, for heaven’s sake! I don’t want to see him hung out to dry on evidence this circumstantial.”

The DCIA seemed to ponder his words. “Not before TALON, right?”

“Sir?”

“You had not served with Sarami prior to TALON, had you?”

“That is correct.”

“Your loyalty to your men is commendable,” Lay began slowly. “And I believe we need to work circumspectly here. We have thousands of dollars of training invested in Sarami. Should he be in fact innocent of the suspicion now fixed upon him, we do not want that money to go to waste. But we need to be careful. Sarami will continue to serve in the field—but I will be counting on you to keep an eye on him. You
and
your team, so I want you to contact Zakiri ASAP. Are we running the same play?”

“Yes, sir.”

5:35 P.M. Baghdad Time

Station Baghdad

Iraq

Memories. Hot water cascaded down Thomas’s body as he stood beneath the pulsating showerhead, his thoughts wandering unbidden.

I’m never gonna leave you
. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her shattered body, lying there crumpled on the ground. Abandoned. He had lied. Even as he had held her in his arms, he had lied, knowing she was dying, knowing he must leave her.

He pushed the knob to turn the water off and slowly sank to the rough tile of the shower floor, feeling sick, like someone was twisting a knife inside him.

Her face rose before him, eyes full of recrimination and unanswered pleas. Calling out his name, a haunting entreaty. There was no help for it. How long he sat there, the water dripping down upon him from the showerhead, he would never know.

At long last, the silence was broken by the sound of his name being called. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming, then it came again. “Parker? Are you still in here?”

He hadn’t heard the door to the showers open or close, but it was Davood’s voice. “Yeah?”

“Petras is setting up for mission debrief. Are you ready?”

“Is there such a thing?” Thomas asked. Pain shot through his side as he rose and staggered to the door of the shower, peering through the evaporating steam. “Hand me a towel, will you?”

Davood handed him an old towel, averting his eyes as Thomas dried off, the body modesty characteristic of his Middle Eastern background coming to the fore.

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“The death of your guide—the Kurdish woman. Such a waste.”

Thomas looked away, his face stiff and drawn. “Yeah. Could you throw my pants over here?”

“Sure thing. Petras is going to start wondering where we are.”

“Let’s go back to the events of the morning,” Rebecca Petras instructed, typing something into her laptop. Hamid shifted in his chair, the TACSAT buzzing suddenly in his ribs.

“Excuse me,” he said, smiling across the table at the assistant station chief. “I need to take this.”

“Can’t it wait?”

He rose from his seat, the TACSAT in his hand. “Afraid not.”

“I owe you one, Harry,” he announced with a laugh as the door closed behind him. “You just got me out of debrief with Petras.”

Harry wasn’t laughing. When he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. “Other business, Hamid. What went wrong?”

“The Iranians were tracking Parker—
how
I don’t know. Finding him in those mountains would have been like picking the proverbial needle out of the haystack.”

“Unless they had a source,” Harry replied.

“That could explain it, I suppose. Last I heard Langley hadn’t found the leak that blew TALON.”

“As of this morning they did.”

“Who?”

“Davood.”

Hamid’s mouth fell open. “
Ya Allah
,” he whispered in Arabic. Oh God. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I wish I was,” Harry responded grimly. “That’s the opinion of the seventh floor. Could he have compromised Parker?”

“Harry, he’s one of us, he wouldn’t—”

“That’s not what I asked and you know it.” Harry’s voice was detached. Clinical. Cold as ice. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, I asked if he had the opportunity.”

“I suppose so. We weren’t together the whole time.” Hamid paused. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Neither can I. I suppose we’ll know for certain in a few hours. The boys from Intel are scouring Davood’s phone logs.”

The thought struck Hamid with the force of a slug. “Harry, tell them to check mine as well.”

“What?”

“A couple hours before extraction, Davood asked to borrow my TACSAT. Said his was charging in the Humvee.”

“Who’d he need to call?”

“I had asked him to coordinate satellite resources with CENTCOM so that we could keep an eye out for Iranian reinforcements. He was back at the vehicle for thirty minutes or more.”

Silence from the other end of the line. Then Harry spoke, slowly and reluctantly. “I’ll pass it on. Remember, nothing of this to Davood or anyone else. Just keep an eye on him and get back Stateside.”

“Yeah. I’ll do that.”

5:23 P.M. Local Time

Gaza

A stainless steel bottle about the size of a liter of soda sat on the kitchen table of the small apartment. So small, yet so deadly.

Fayood Hamza al-Farouk took another sip from the cup of tea in front of him and regarded the man sitting across from him with an appraising glance.

“Will it work?”

“To be sure,” the young man he knew only as “Rashid” replied, sounding offended. “The device can be armed forty-eight hours in advance—once the internal timer reaches zero, the bacteria will be dispersed in an aerosol cloud.”

“And if the infidels manage to find the canisters before that time?” Farouk demanded, his voice taking on a peculiar intensity.

The young man responded with an expansive shrug. A pair of packets lay on the table between them and he shoved one of them across to the Hezbollah terrorist. “Plastique,” he replied simply. “Manufactured in the 1980s.”

Both men knew what that meant. In the early ‘90s, Europe’s explosive manufacturers had started adding a detection taggant to their plastic explosives, a volatile chemical which slowly evaporated from the explosive and could be detected by bomb-sniffing dogs. Explosives made before then did not have such a chemical agent, although then one had to deal with explosives that were well past their guaranteed shelf life of ten years. In cases like this, the trade-off was worth it.

“I will use these to render each device tamper-proof,” he said. “There is only one concern. Would the bacteria be then rendered impotent in the heat of the explosion?”

“You believe that we would not have thought of this?” Farouk asked, glaring across the table. Frankly, having to explain details to a subordinate nettled him. “This strain of
y. pestis
is more heat-resistant than anything we have ever seen before. It will survive the explosion. Just make sure they cannot be disarmed.”