Pandora's grave

Asefi coughed, a bloody froth flecking his lips as he struggled to breathe. A smile twisted his features as he met Harry’s gaze. “You’re too late,” he replied, chuckling at the irony of the situation. His laughter was cut short by another fit of coughing and Harry was forced to lean closer to hear his next words.

“You thought you could play me, didn’t you? The terrorists are already in Al Quds…”

“Where?” Harry demanded, realizing that the man’s strength was ebbing fast. With a critical eye, he assessed and then rejected the possibility of stabilizing the bodyguard. He had aimed to kill.

A curse was Asefi’s only response. His body shuddered and then collapsed over the corpse of his lover, the two of them entwined in death…

Tex looked up as Harry returned to the courtyard, but with his characteristic reticence, he asked no questions. To his eyes the team leader looked worn, exhausted.

“We were rolled,” Harry said finally, his tone weary. Bitter. “The bacteria isn’t here. Never was.”

Tex accepted the statement without challenge. “Where to next?”

“We clear the building,” Harry replied, a grim determination creeping into his voice. “Maybe he was lying once again.”

Even as he spoke, he knew the fallacy of that argument. No, Asefi had been telling the truth this time. He had seen it in the dying man’s eyes. Still, there was no harm in checking. “Back me up,” he instructed. “I’ve got point.”

The two men took up positions outside the door of the safehouse and Harry tried the door handle. Unlocked.

He pushed the door open with the barrel of his rifle, following it in. They were in a long, dark hallway, their only illumination coming from a ceiling light in the room at the end.

A room to the left. Locked. Tex kicked it open and Harry entered, sweeping the bedroom with the muzzle of his rifle. All clear.

Two more rooms down the hallway were also cleared without incident. The place seemed deserted. Still leading the way, Harry entered the kitchen at the end of hall. And he stopped stock-still.

Farshid Hossein was seated calmly at a table in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the two of them without a flicker of fear or surprise on his countenance. An empty semiautomatic pistol lay on the table before him, pulled back to slide-lock. A satellite phone rested beside it.

His right hand was pressed to the base of his throat, his fingers holding down the spoon of a fragmentation grenade. The pin was gone.

One slip, one tremor of his fingers and he would blow them all to kingdom come. That much was clear. His motivation was not.

After a moment, his face cracked into a smile and he gestured with his free hand. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”

8:54 P.M. Tehran Time

The Ayatollah’s Residence

Qom, Iran

The phone on Isfahani’s desk vibrated for the second time in twenty minutes and he glanced briefly at the screen before answering it. He sighed and the sound seemed to fill the small, austere bedchamber of the Ayatollah.

Seldom had he seen things go more completely awry and his mind searched for answers to the chaos. Had Allah rejected him as an instrument of his will?

“Hello?”

It was Hossein’s number that had been displayed on-screen, but the voice that responded was not that of the major.

“Am I speaking with the Ayatollah Isfahani?” a voice asked in perfect Arabic. If Isfahani had not known better, he might have thought the man was a native speaker.

“You are,” he replied evenly, in the same language. “There is a certain irony in speaking with the man who killed my soldiers.”

“We all must make our deals with the devil,” came the ready retort. “I find myself in the same position.”

Isfahani was too surprised at his boldness to be angry. “Faustian bargains are not a part of my day-to-day life,” he replied. “But Goethe has been a favorite of mine ever since my days in Germany. I ask myself, have you not cast the wrong player in the role of Mephistopheles?”

Harry cleared his throat. “We’re wasting time with semantics, sir. Would you cut to the quick?”

“As you wish, of course. The biological agent is in the hands of a Hezbollah field commander named Fayood Hamza al-Farouk. I am prepared to give you their plan of attack, their strength, and most importantly, a way to stop them.”

“And you ask in return?”

“I beg pardon?”

Harry glanced over at Tex before turning his attention back to the phone on the table. It was on speaker, ensuring that all three men could hear the conversation.

“What’s the trade-off? What do you hope to gain?”

“I hope to gain the lives of the faithful, of the thousands of my fellow Muslims who will be butchered by this madman. The destruction of the Zionist state is not worth this folly.”

“I appreciate your sentiments. Hopefully with your help, that can be avoided.”

“And I would like safe passage to a country of my choosing, which I’m sure your government can arrange.”

Harry hesitated a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I will have to discuss this with my principals.”