Pandora's grave

It had taken over an hour to ride the final three kilometers to the ford. The horses were tiring, as were they. The wind was lessening, but the rain still beat down upon their soaked, weary bodies.

She urged the grey up the slope ahead, and over the thunder of the ebbing storm Thomas heard the sharp gasp that broke from her lips.

“What is it?” he asked, reining in his horse abreast of her. Before she could respond, his own eyes had given him the answer.

The ford could be seen below them, through a screen of trees. A ford? Swollen by the rain, it looked more like a raging torrent. They had lost their race with the storm.

Thomas looked over into her eyes, reading the exhaustion written there. Knowing it was mirrored in his own.

There was no time for indecision. They both knew it. After a long moment, Estere spoke. “We’ve got to go through.”

“What?” Thomas exclaimed. “Cross that?”

“I’ve seen it higher,” she asserted. She turned toward him, a stubborn look on her face. “It’s a ride of over a hundred kilometers to go around.”

“How long would it take to subside?”

“Days, if it stops raining.” She sat there in the rain for a moment or two longer, then announced her decision. “We need to find shelter-we’ll rest the horses till morning and then make the attempt.”

6:49 A.M. Central Time

A residential development

Outside Dayton, Ohio

“I have target clear, Vic. Subjects have left the residence.”

“Separately or together?”

“Separately. They were dressed for work.”

“Good.” Vic stuck the cellphone back in his pocket and exited the rental car, pulling a packet of tracts from his pocket as he moved up the sidewalk. The pamphlets bore the logo of the Watchtower Society and he smiled at the irony.

He left tracts at two of the houses on his way up the cul-de-sac, then approached the Sarami’s house. Kazem Sarami served as a lawyer in a prominent Dayton firm and was handling a case before the Ohio State Supreme Court this day. The house sat off the cul-de-sac, connected by a stone driveway.

Approaching to the front door of the imposing residence, he knocked loudly on the door, holding the tracts in his right hand, only inches away from his concealed automatic. A couple minutes, and no one came. Another knock. Still silence.

“I’m going in,” he whispered into his lip mike. “Cover me.”

“Roger that. The alarm has been disabled. You’re clear to move.”

Five minutes later, he had picked the lock on the back door of the Sarami residence and was standing in the mudroom, examining the alarm system. Sure enough, it was off-line. Never hurt to double-check, he thought, running a gloved finger over the unit.

A brief check of the living room and kitchen revealed nothing. Time to head upstairs…

5:30 P.M. Baghdad Time

The foothills of the Qandil

Iraq

“What’s the good word, sir?” Hamid turned to find Sergeant Jose Obregon standing at his side.

“It isn’t,” he replied, shoving the TACSAT back into the pocket of his Kevlar vest. “We’ve got some problems.”

Hamid turned without another word and walked back to the Humvee, the Army Ranger sergeant following in his wake, M-4 held at the ready.

The Humvee was of Iraq War vintage, additional armor plates bolted onto the sides. A.50-caliber Browning was mounted to the roof, manned by a nineteen-year-old technical from Kennesaw, Georgia.

“Everybody listen up.” Hamid called out as he stopped a few feet away from the vehicle. It had been years since his own days in the Army Rangers, but he remembered the command voice well.

“Everyone dismount and set up bivouac here for the night. We just received comm from Sergeant Brown,” Hamid continued. Due to the clandestine nature of their operation, they were using pseudonyms in front of the Rangers. Thomas was Sergeant Brown. “He and his guide are trapped on the other side of a rain-swollen mountain stream. To detour around would involve well over a hundred kilometers and several days of travel. They’re going to make an effort to cross in the morning. Then we will meet at the border as planned.”

“Why not keep pressing forward?” Obregon asked.

Hamid cast a critical glance in the sergeant’s direction. “I grew up in this part of the world, sergeant. I don’t want to spend any more time in Kurd-controlled territory than I have to. Comprende?” he asked, switching into Spanish for the sheer fun of it. He had enjoyed language school.

Obregon nodded, a temporary flash of annoyance crossing his face before the iron mask of discipline once again asserted itself. The CIA was in control of this mission, whether he liked it or not.

“Take your men and start setting up a defensive perimeter. Sergeant Black!” Hamid called. “I need to talk with you.”

Davood appeared from the other side of the Humvee, an anxious look on his face. “Yes, Sergeant White?”

Hamid motioned for him to follow, then walked away from the path, until they were out of earshot of the Rangers. “Is Thomas all right?”