Pandora's grave

A line of Marines was drawn up about fifty feet from the chopper and a tall woman stepped from among them at the team’s approach. She looked to be in her mid-forties, perhaps a touch older, dressed in a business-like blue pantsuit that seemed strangely incongruous there on the desert airbase. Her gaze never wavered as the rotor wash continued to swirl around her, kicking up a veritable sandstorm.

“As I live and breathe,” Harry murmured, recognizing the CIA’s Chief of Station(Baghdad). “It’s Rebecca Petras.”

“Mr. Nichols!” she greeted, shouting to make herself heard as the Pave Low shut down behind them. “You will please turn over your weapons, gentlemen. Leave them with the Marines.”

She moved past Harry toward the hostages, but he turned to face her. “What’s going on here, Petras?”

Their eyes locked together and he felt her gaze wash over him. “Your team is being isolated, Nichols. Langley needs answers for what happened out there. Do we have a problem with that?”

“No, ma’am,” Harry replied, biting his tongue to suppress the retort that sprang to his lips. No matter the folly being perpetrated here, angering her wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

He turned away, unclipping his holster to hand the Beretta over to a fresh-faced Marine corporal.

“Briefing room, Mr. Nichols,” Petras ordered as she moved back past him after ensuring that the hostages’ needs were being seen to by Navy corpsmen. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Roger that.”

Harry felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to find the newly disarmed Hamid standing there, his gaze following the retreating form of the CIA official.

“Any idea what’s going on?”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “But they sent her, and we both know what that means.”

A faint spark of humor glinted in the Iraqi agent’s eyes as he nodded. “Brace for storms.”

2:43 P.M. Eastern Time

NCS Operations Center

Langley, Virginia

“Uplink completed. Time to briefing-four minutes.” Kranemeyer acknowledged the message with a nod. This, the debriefing, the after-action report, was nearly as important as the mission itself. Particularly when as many things had gone wrong as had on this particular mission.

“Boss.” Kranemeyer turned to find his communications officer standing in the doorway of his cubicle.

“What is it, Michelle?”

“I just received the status update on Parker.” He could tell from the look on her face that the news was not good.

“And?”

“Both trackers we were using to pinpoint his location stopped transmitting twenty minutes ago.” There was a distinct look of worry on her face and for a moment the DCS wondered if there wasn’t a touch more than professional concern for Thomas’ well-being in play here.

If there was, there wasn’t time to worry about it. “Do we have a fix on his last location? Or shall I say, the last location of the trackers.”

She nodded. “It’s a cave about eighteen kilometers north of the PJAK camp that Azad Badir has made his headquarters.”

“Clearly,” Kranemeyer stated, his tone insufferably calm, “Badir doesn’t want us to know our man’s exact whereabouts.”

“But we’re on his side,” Michelle replied.

He shook his head, a grim smile crossing his face. “Azad Badir is a canny old goat-hasn’t survived this long in that region by trusting anyone. Which, incidentally, is a good example to follow. Back-time the satellite to see if you have anything from the timeframe. He’s more than likely covered his tracks, but…” Kranemeyer shrugged. “See what you can find.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned back to his terminal just as the video uplink went live and the face of Harold Nichols filled the screen.

“Mr. Nichols,” the disembodied voice of Rebecca Petras began, “you’re on with Director Lay and Director Kranemeyer. I have been requested by Director Lay to oversee the debriefing from Operation TALON. Shall we begin at the beginning?”

The devil danced in the agent’s eyes, a faint sardonic smile flickering across his face. “That sounds logical.”

Four hours later, it was the face of Jack Richards before the camera as the debriefing continued.

Director Lay’s brow furrowed as the agent answered a question posed by Petras, and he toggled the voice-over-internet mike.

“Let’s go back, Richards,” he interjected. “You and Agent Sarami were tasked with blowing the base camp’s fuel supplies. Correct?”

A nod was the only reply.

“Yet, one of the tankers escaped. How did that happen?”

Richards hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the direct question. “It was parked at some distance from the others-too far to rely on chain ignition. We had to blow it separately, and something went wrong with the charges. Simply put, we fouled up.”

Kranemeyer broke onto the live feed. “I am going to assume that in the interests of time, the tactical responsibility for the tankers was split between the two of you. Is that an accurate assumption?”

Another nod.

“Then, the tanker that failed to ignite, in whose area of responsibility did it lie?”