Pandora's grave

“Good morning, Carol,” Kranemeyer greeted, rounding the corner of her cubicle, a manila folder in his hand. It was her first morning back on the job-the op-center staff had been given a few days off in the aftermath of their marathon shift leading up to the 4th of October.

“Any word from Nichols?” he asked, handing her the folder.

She nodded. “The field team is to touch down at Dover Air Force Base within the hour. Danny’s meeting them with transportation.”

“I want you and Ron to work this up,” he continued, gesturing to the folder. “It’s important to get it done before we have to notify the family.”

Carol opened the folder to see Davood’s dossier inside. Attached to the top of the cover sheet, above his photo, was a sticky note bearing the scrawled words “Directive No. 19.”

Her throat felt suddenly dry. She barely heard Kranemeyer ask, “What can you tell me about his death?”

“Two days ago,” she began, taking a deep breath as the story unfolded in her mind, “Davood Sarami was skiing with Swiss counterterrorism forces in Bern as part of a routine NATO paramilitary exercise when he fell to his death in an Alpine crevasse. His body was recovered by the Swiss, but had been rendered nearly unrecognizable by the fall…”

“Run it,” the DCS interrupted quietly. Carol nodded, turning back to her computer. Truth, that ever-elusive quality of the Clandestine Service.

Even in death, it was nowhere to be found…

5:21 P.M.

The men of the strike teams had a place to call their own in the sprawling complex that was CIA-Langley, an old storage room that had been converted into a combination rec room/lounge. Tex and Thomas were already there when Harry walked in, his debriefing with Kranemeyer over.

A game of football was on the television and Harry noted it absently as he made his way to the refrigerator, opening the door to look inside. “Who’s winning?”

“College ball. Penn State’s getting their butt handed to them by Notre Dame.”

“Any idea where my Pepsi went?”

“I think Nakamura stuffed it behind his case of Jack Daniel’s,” Thomas replied, making an oblique reference to the Bravo Team leader. “Toss one of those over here, will you?”

There was something different in the tone and Harry straightened up, looking over at his friend. “Getting yourself drunk isn’t going to solve anything, Thomas.”

Their eyes met and Harry could see his own hurt reflected there. Hamid had been more than a friend-he’d been a brother. “That’s what they tell me,” Thomas replied, no humor in his voice as he rose from the couch. “The operative point being that I won’t remember what it didn’t solve.”

At that moment, a wave of sound erupted from the TV screen, men collapsing in a heap near the goal line. “Touchdown! And Penn State has pulled it off once again, with a come-from-behind victory!”

Without a word between them, Harry and Thomas looked toward the door of the refrigerator, the sheet of paper held there by magnets. Under a rakish heading of “HAMID’S PIGSKIN PICKS” was scrawled a list of dates, games and predictions. Written down at the bottom were the words, Oct. 9th, Penn State vs. Notre Dame. Penn by one.

It felt as though he had reached back from the grave. Thomas swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as he tore down the sheet and crumpled it up, throwing it into a nearby trash can. “Excuse me,” he whispered brusquely, pushing past Harry to open the refrigerator.

Harry sighed, putting out a hand as he went by. “Give me your car keys…”

12:03 P.M., October 16th

A cemetery

Falls Church, Virginia

The funeral for Davood was held on a Wednesday, nearly two weeks after the attacks he had given his life to prevent. His fellow team members did not attend, under orders from Bernard Kranemeyer. Too many questions would be asked.

It was only after the graveside service was over, after the family and the gravediggers had left, that a lone figure crossed the street and entered the cemetery.

There was no stone to mark the spot of the burial, not yet-mounded earth and trampled grass the only memorial. A simple marker in the shape of the ancient crescent moon with the dates of his birth and death. The date Langley had given.

Harry knelt at the grave of his friend, smoothing the dirt with a careful hand. Dust to dust. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should never have doubted you. You were a better man than any of us, the old hands-torn apart by suspicion and fear. Forgive me…”

There was no answer, and in his mind’s eye, Harry could see Davood as he had lain there in the corridors of the Masjid al-Aqsa, bleeding to death on the cold stone. There never would be an answer, none save that his own conscience could give him. To assuage the guilt.