Pandora's grave

“Of course, director,” Kranemeyer said, replacing the phone on its cradle. The screen above his head displayed steadily-updated satellite imagery of the ridgeline above LZ OSCAR.

“Do we have the infrared on that, Michelle?”

“One moment, sir. Interfacing the frames.”

“All right, do that, then…” The next moment, the infrared flashed on-screen and whatever Kranemeyer had been about to say died in his throat.

“Run the heat signatures again,” he demanded, sure that his eyes were deceiving him. There were too many signatures on the ridgeline. Too many to comprise merely the tac team and the rescued hostages.

The screen flashed again with the updated data and the DCS shook his head. He hadn’t been wrong. Not in the least.

Nichols had company.

He turned to the comm specialist at his side. “Get Nichols on the line. Now.”

9:35 P.M. Tehran Time

The PJAK camp

The light flashed on again with almost blinding force as Thomas’s blindfold was removed, leaving him blinking like an owl in the noonday sun.

“Mr. Patterson.” Thomas turned toward the voice, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light. He stood in a small, windowless room fashioned from concrete blocks. The light was coming a single bulb hanging just above his head.

The speaker was the same man who had met him at the rendevous, older than Thomas had realized at first, perhaps mid-sixties if appearance could be judged.

Two other guerillas flanked him, both younger, the one a bearded man in his early twenties, the other a young woman around the same age or younger. Perhaps brother and sister, Thomas couldn’t tell.

He caught her gaze for a moment, dark eyes staring back defiantly into his own. Her presence didn’t surprise the CIA man. He was well aware of the intelligence reports indicating one-third of PJAK fighters were women.

“Welcome to my camp.” Thomas turned his attention back to the older man and acknowledged his greeting with a nod. The guerilla extended a hand. “My name is Azad Badir.”

“It has been a pleasure,” Thomas grinned wryly.

“My apologies for the inconvenience, Mr. Patterson, but you understand the precautions we must needs take, I trust?”

“Of course.”

“Sirvan, untie his hands,” Badir ordered, speaking to the young man. “Mr. Patterson, I would like you to meet my grandchildren, Sirvan and Estere. They will see you to your quarters.”

Thomas flashed a smile in Estere’s direction, a smile she pretended not to notice, turning away and examining the clip of the AK-47 she carried.

“My quarters?” he asked, turning back to Badir. “Wouldn’t it be safer to start for the border at once, under the cover of darkness?”

The PJAK leader replied with a smile and a nod. “You are my guest, Mr. Patterson. It would be most inconsiderate to have you travel farther this night.”

Thomas chuckled. “Hey, they push us a lot harder than this at Quantico. I can do it, no sweat.”

The smile vanished from Azad Badir’s face almost as quick as it had come. “Your capabilities are not in question. However, you would do well to remember that I am in command here. And I say that you are my guest. Estere, do you have his satphone?”

The girl held up the TACSAT-10 by way of acknowledgment. “Do we understand each other?” Badir continued.

Thomas looked from one to the other, realizing the implications of his words. A grim smile crossed his face. “I believe we do, Mr. Badir. I believe we do…”

9:40 P.M.

The ridgeline

For the fourth time in fifteen minutes, Harry ignored the buzzing of the TACSAT on his belt. He couldn’t afford to have his concentration broken by a call from Langley. Not now.

The five Iranian soldiers were still moving around on the ridgeline, restless now, it seemed. As though they sensed something, perhaps the tension in the air.

“Stay here,” he whispered to the young woman. “Don’t move, no matter what happens.”

Taking the silenced Beretta from his hip, Harry laid it on the lip of the hide and briefly toggled the comm switch on his radio.

“EAGLE SIX to Alpha Team. Take ‘em out.”

Ordering the archaeologists to stay where they were, Hamid rose from their hiding place, flipping his NVGs down over his eyes.

Five targets glowed luminescent in his line of sight. Not human beings, not fellow believers. Targets.

His boots moved noiselessly over the terrain, his movements those of a ghost. Out of one corner of his eye he glimpsed Harry moving forward, the two of them closing in.

He brought the suppressed pistol up to eye level, aiming down the sightless barrel at the nearest target. And squeezed the trigger…

One of the soldiers cried out suddenly, a small red hole opening between his eyes as he crumpled to the ground. His comrades reached for their weapons just as another man went down.

Then there were three, Harry thought grimly, turning to engage the next target. The Beretta coughed softly and another man went down.

A shooting gallery.

He saw a guardsman reach toward the small tactical radio on his hip and pulled the pistol around, double-tapping the man. Center-of-mass.