Pandora's grave

The hunger. The thirst only barely assuaged by eating the snow. The bitter cold. The brief firefight with an Azeri patrol as the Pave Low pulled them from a hot LZ. The names of the men who had perished. Oh, he remembered, all right.

“Yes,” he replied, his tone cold. Emotionless.

“These bio-war trailers were part of that shipment.”

“I see.”

2:19 P.M.

A CIA helicopter

Crossing the Potomac River

“What’s it all about, sir?”

“We’ll find out when we get there,” Jack Richards replied sharply, turning away from his companion and looking out the window, his signature Stetson pulled down low over coal-black eyes. His face was tanned and leathery, his swarthy complexion due in part to his maternal grandfather, a Mescalero Apache. He had grown up on his family’s ranch in Texas, part of the reason his friends called him “Tex.”

A former Marine Force Recon demolitions specialist, the Texan had joined the Clandestine Service five years before, at the age of twenty-nine.

Naturally silent, few people understood him, fewer still could be considered his friends-to say he was bad at making conversation would have been a polite understatement.

He rarely opened his mouth unless he had something important to say, and when he did, people listened. Listened to his experience.

But he was unusual, all the same. He even looked at buildings differently from others. Other men looked at them and admired their architectural beauty or the lack thereof, thought of the people inside, or ignored them entirely. Not Richards. He mentally calculated the pounds of high explosive needed to bring them down. It was good practice.

He was currently teaching a course on demolitions to the new recruits at the Farm, which was why the call of a few hours earlier had surprised him. Deployment orders. Where, he knew not. Looking at the young man at his side, though, he had some idea.

The agent was of Middle-Eastern descent. What country, he had never asked. He had never needed to know…

Davood Sarami finally decided he wasn’t likely to get any more answers from the big Texan, so he copied the older man’s example by staring out the window of the helicopter, staring down at his adopted land.

The nation he had taken an oath to protect. The son of Iranian-American immigrants, he and the rest of his community had received a rude awakening on the morning of September 11th, 2001. They and the rest of the world.

He had sat in his father’s living room, watching as America’s might came toppling to the ground. Watching-and for the first time questioning the faith he had known all his life. Questioning how terrorists could cling to the same holy scriptures that he did, the sacred words of Allah.

And he no longer knew what he believed…

2:23 P.M.

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“As you already know, if you’ve been following the news,” Lay began, picking up the briefing where Carter had left off, “the situation in Iran has changed dramatically over the last few years. With the rise to power of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps following the death of Khamenei two years ago we’ve seen Iran morph into a true praetorian state under the leadership of former Guards’ commander Mahmoud F’azel Shirazi. The clerical oligarchy of the mullahs is still intact, but exists largely at the good grace of the IRGC.”

He passed a photo across the desk to Harry before continuing. “That’s Shirazi. We had initially hoped that this transition might curb some of the evangelical fervor that had characterized the leadership of Khamenei, but we were mistaken. If anything, Shirazi makes Khamenei’s disciple and successor, the Ayatollah Youssef Mohaymen Isfahani, almost look like a moderate.”

Harry nodded. “That’s a significant statement.”

“Under Shirazi’s leadership, Iran has reached an uneasy detente with the West, but most believe it to be the calm before the storm. They’ve expanded their influence over Iraq, with Iranian-backed Shiite candidates gaining a majority in parliament during the last elections. Much of the same thing is happening all across the Stans,” Lay added, referring to the small Muslim countries north and east of Iran, most of them former members of the Soviet bloc and whose names all ended in “stan”.

“IRGC-owned companies now control between sixty and seventy percent of the Iranian economy, which is not to say they allow any real competition in the remaining percentage. The ranks of the Basij militia have swelled in the last year and it’s believed they have resumed covert negotiations with North Korea. Trouble is coming-it’s only a question of when and where.”

A knock came at that moment. “Come in,” Director Lay called as his secretary entered the room.

“Mr. Richards’ helicopter is landing, sir.”

The CIA director smiled briefly. “Thank you, Margaret.” She disappeared and he turned his attention back to the men in front of him. “Why don’t we go down to the Operations Center and meet up with Richards?”