Pandora's Grave (26 page)

Director Lay cut her off before she could ask any questions. “There was a further component to your diagnosis, doctor. Perhaps you could elaborate for the president.”

“Of course. If you will look at the photograph, you will see that every blood vessel in the man’s body is outlined in black. That would indicate that the plague entered the man’s bloodstream before death–we’ve seen that before. However, I have never seen it to such an extent, which leads me to the following conclusion, which is purely speculative. Which is that this man was exposed to a more virulent strain of bacteria than any we’ve ever seen. Far more virulent…”

8:35 P.M.

Parker and Zakiri’s apartment

Manassas, Virginia

“Agent Zakiri just left Langley,” the voice in his headset informed him. “You’ll want to be moving out of there.”

The man nodded his head, toggling the headset mike as he looked around the small apartment. “We’re almost done. Thanks for the heads-up.”

He switched the radio off and walked over to a man standing in front of Hamid’s computer. “Find anything?”

“I’m through his firewall without any trouble,” the tech replied. “Mirroring is almost finalized.”

“All the data is on there?” The leader asked, gesturing to the small thumb drive inserted in the front USB port of the computer’s tower. After all the trouble they had experienced tailing the CIA team earlier in the day, he had expected Zakiri’s computer to be a harder task than it had proved.

“Yes. We can go through it later.”

A man in a black sweatshirt and jeans emerged from the bedroom holding a camera in his hands.

“Everything photographed?”

A quick nod was the only reply. The leader glanced around the room. “Everything back in place?”

Both of his men answered in the affirmative and he smiled grimly. “Then let’s move it out.”

9:04 A.M. Tehran Time, September 28th

The Ayatollah’s Residence

Qom, Iran

The dining room of the Supreme Ayatollah’s house was spartan in its furnishings, which was as it should have been. The centuries of Persian decadence had been swept away by the rising tide of the Islamic Republic, and the rich ornamentation once considered traditional had gone with it.

Isfahani sighed, sipping his cup of coffee slowly. Their deception had survived the night, at the very least. And there was no reason why it shouldn’t have. His servants were loyal to him and him alone.

Those that had not been were no longer. They were in Allah’s hands now…

“You slept well, Major?” he asked, without turning to face the man who had just entered the room.

Farshid Hossein responded with a short laugh. “As well as could be expected. For a man supposed to be dead.”

“To be sure. Coffee?”

Hossein nodded. After the events of the preceding twenty-four hours, he would have preferred something stronger–but he had the suspicion that alcohol was not to be found on Isfahani’s premises. And his greatest safety lay in being the best Muslim possible.

The Ayatollah spoke again after pouring Hossein’s coffee into a plain earthenware cup. “You will be leaving today,” he said, calmly announcing the major’s fate as though giving the time of day. “I will provide you with the clothes we give out to supplicants and send you to my home town of Isfahan.”

“And I’m to do what?” Hossein asked, once again surprising the older man with his boldness.

“That will be explained presently. Do you play chess, major?”

An affirmative nod answered the question and the Ayatollah continued, “It is Shirazi’s move. My spies will tell me when he makes it. And then I will know how to instruct you.”

“I will not be acting alone?”

“No. Even in these days, Allah has ordained that I should have my followers. And they will support us when the time comes.”

Hossein shot a skeptical look across the table. “I don’t need religious zealots. I served with enough of them in Iraq to know their limitations. I need trained soldiers, men with experience carrying out this type of operation if we’re to have a prayer of stopping them. A detachment of your bodyguards would be most desirable.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible—my bodyguards are known to Shirazi and under surveillance themselves.” Isfahani pursed his lips together tightly. “Allah will guide our hands, major. We need not fear that he would side with those who would desecrate his shrine.”

He held up a hand for silence as Hossein started to interrupt him. “Howbeit, I did not recruit you with the intention of blithely disregarding your advice. You shall have your soldiers. Do you have any other questions?”

There was a long, awkward pause, then the major spoke. “In 2006, my men and I planted explosives in the Askariya shrine of Samarra, Iraq. Six separate bombs planted in one of the holiest of all Shiite shrines. Yet you sanctioned my operation.”

For a moment, the expression on the old man’s face was as if he had been struck a physical blow. “Times change,” he replied, recovering at long last, “times change, and we are shown the more perfect will of Allah.”

9:25 A.M.

The foot of the Alborz Mountains

The Russian-built Mi-8 transport was in its fiftieth year of service as it swept over the foothills of the Alborz, its engines rattling as though threatening to fall apart.

Colonel Harun Larijani glanced out the door of the chopper, a strut clutched tightly in his white-knuckled grasp as the ground flew by beneath them. Twenty men squatted on the metal deck of the Mi-8, all of them dressed in Iranian army fatigues.

He flashed them a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but his gaze flickered back to the two stainless-steel canisters secured in the back of the aircraft and the smile vanished as quickly as it had come. Memories of the previous night’s audience with his uncle flashed back through his mind and he dropped to his knees there by the door, nearly overcome by a wave of nausea. Bile rose in his throat and he choked it back, pale with the effort.

He could not, no, he
would not
, vomit in front of his men.

Forcing his mind back to the practicalities of their mission, he bent over his map. They couldn’t be far now. Larijani reached for the biological mask at his side and faced his men.

“You have been instructed in the proper use of these masks. Make sure you follow those instructions to the letter. The bacteria is ingested through the lungs—breathing in even the smallest amount may result in your death. Am I understood?”

He could see in their eyes that they did—several of the men looked well-nigh as sick as he, but he was too far gone to take pleasure in the fact.

He took a deep breath in an effort to stabilize himself before going on. “Secure your masks now. We’re coming up on the target.”

1:19 A.M. Eastern Time

Cypress, Virginia

The jarring vibration of the TACSAT in his ribs woke Harry from a sound sleep. “Nichols,” he answered, awake in an instant. He had trained himself that way.

“Harry, it’s Hamid.”

“Do you know what time it is?” Harry demanded, glancing at the luminous display of his digital clock to assure himself he wasn’t dreaming.

“Yeah, I do. I just got in.”

“What kept you?” Harry asked, feeling unusually sarcastic. “A hot date?”

“You might call it that,” came the unamused reply. “The usual fence-mending after deployment. You know the drill. That’s not why I called.”

“It better not be. There are few things I hate worse than hearing about another man’s love life at oh-one hundred.”

“Could you be serious for a moment, Harry? Someone burgled my apartment.”

“Seriously?” Harry responded, suddenly alert. He swung his feet out of bed and reached for his pants. “Have you called the police?”

“Negative. Nothing was taken, Harry. Nothing at all. But someone was here, maybe more than one person—and they tossed the place good. A pro job–everything just about back where I left it.”

Harry didn’t bother asking what had triggered his suspicions. Every agent had his “tells,” little objects left in places where they would certainly be moved by a searcher—a paper-clip at right angles to the edge of a desk, a piece of thin string near an entrance, an electric cord coiled haphazardly at the foot of a bed, it could have been anything.

“Whoever they were,” Hamid continued, “they had some computer experience. They got through the Level-3 Omega firewall—probably mirrored my drives.”

“Anything critical?”

“I know better than that. Thomas left his laptop in the locker at Langley, so they didn’t get that.”

Harry nodded. “Good. Tell you what—I’ll be over at seven hundred hours and have a look around myself. Not much we can do tonight.”

“Agreed.”

Harry thumbed the kill-button on the TACSAT, laying it on the nightstand as he buckled his pants. It wouldn’t hurt to have a look around, he reflected, reaching under the pillow for his Colt…

7:25 A.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

Over the years since becoming the DCIA, David Lay had begun organizing his workdays into three categories. There were “bed” days, “garage” days, and “office” days. On a “bed” day, fresh trouble started brewing before he had even awoken. A “garage” day started off with one or more of his analysts meeting him the moment he stepped out of his car in the parking garage. So far, today was shaping up to be an “office” day, in that he had been seated at his desk for twenty minutes with no further issues rearing their ugly heads. Knock on wood.

Not that the issues of the previous day weren’t sufficiently worrisome. And not that Saturday was s
upposed
to be his day off. He had been at the office till eleven o’clock last night, videoconferencing with FBI director Eric Haskel on protocols for a biological attack.

There were no other constructions that could be placed upon what Nichols and the field team had located. The Iranians were prepping for something. Something big. With the known fragility of
y. pestis
there was the hope that the demolition of the base camp had blown their biological project to kingdom come, but Lay was too old a hand to be willing to count on it.

The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up. “Lay speaking.”

“Sir,” came the voice of his secretary, “I have General Avi ben Shoham on Line Four.”

What does the chief of Mossad want at this time of morning?
Lay asked himself. He sighed. So much for a better day. “Put him through, Margaret.”

2:27 P.M. Local Time

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

“Hold one for the DCIA.” Shoham acknowledged the information briefly, drumming his fingers on the wooden desktop as he waited for the scrambler to connect. It was moments like this he hated—moments of painful indecision. Mercifully, he hadn’t long to wait.

“Good afternoon, Avi.” Shoham smiled at the familiar voice of the CIA director.

“Good morning, David,” he replied, hesitating before he went on. The two men went back a long way—back to the ‘90s when Lay had been CIA chief of station in Tel Aviv and Shoham had been a liaison between their two intelligence agencies. The friendship had become steadily more distant over the years, as the two men climbed the ladder in their respective countries and the number of secrets to be kept grew.

But he was still a man Shoham called “friend”, and there were few of those. Precious few.

“How are things in Israel, Avi?” Lay asked, an innocent pleasantry designed to fill the suddenly awkward silence.

“As usual, David. Challenging. That’s not why I called. There’s been a matter which has come up in the last few days—a matter I believe you could shed some light upon.”

“I’ll do what I can, Avi. You know that.” The general smiled grimly, hearing the edge of reserve come into his friend’s voice.

“It’s not the kind of thing that can truly be discussed over the phone. I would like to set up a face-to-face meeting.”

He could almost hear the American flip open a schedule. “I’m sorry, Avi, but I don’t know when I could do that. My schedule is pretty much set for the next month, and that doesn’t allow for the crises that might demand my presence here.”

“I understand, and anticipated your dilemma. Neither can I leave Israel at this point in time. What I would instead propose is a meeting between our subordinates. In Eilat.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Let me check with Shapiro, my Deputy Director, and I will get back to you.”

“No,” Shoham interjected, abrupt as usual. “I have no interest in a meeting with Shapiro. Here in Israel we prefer to work with people we’ve worked with before, people with an understanding of the situation in the field. People we trust.”

“Who then?”

“Harold Nichols.”

“An NCS team leader? Why?”

“He will be meeting with Lieutenant Gideon Laner, one of my leading operators. A meeting of equals, you might say. He and Nichols worked together in the Bekaa Valley four years ago. I believe you remember the particulars.”

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line. “Tell me, Avi. Why should I accede to your request?”

“We are like children, David. Each holding pieces of the other’s puzzle. To give the picture meaning we must put our pieces together. Need I say more?”

“No. I will have to determine Nichols’ status, but we will arrange a meeting.”

“Thank you, David. And a good day to you.”

General Shoham hung up the phone with a heavy sigh, glancing across the room and out the window at the deep blue of the Mediterranean. The die had been cast…

7:38 A.M. Eastern Time

A mosque

Falls Church, Virginia