Pandora's grave

Kranemeyer took a folder from under his arm and handed it to Harry. “A recruit from the Farm is coming in with Jack. He’s of Iranian descent and speaks fluent Farsi. As of right now, he’s assigned to your team. Things go well on this op, we may make the transfer permanent. This will tell you what you need to know.”

“Right, sir.”

Speed-reading had always been one of Harry’s talents, and he’d read the folders before the elevator reached the level of the Operations Center. By that time he knew just about as much as the Agency was willing to tell him about Davood Sarami, a second-generation immigrant in his mid-twenties. He would know more once he had been able to observe him personally. As to how he would perform-he wouldn’t know about that until they were in the field, past the point of no return. Committed. He hated that.

He preferred to work with men he knew-with men whose abilities were a known quantity to him. Men he could rely upon to do their job.

Men like Thomas, Tex, and Hamid Zakiri, themselves survivors of the Azeri mission as well as many other missions in the years before and since. He knew them all and trusted them. Counted them his friends. But only Hamid, an Iraqi-American Shiite, spoke Farsi.

Harry did, but they needed another who could pass more easily as a native. Hopefully this man would fit the bill…

“So, gentlemen, that is the situation as we have it.” Director Lay looked up from his briefing papers. “Any questions?”

Harry hadn’t been listening. He had heard it all before, all of it explained to him back on the seventh floor. So, he had spent his time watching.

Watching the young Iranian, watching his reaction to the briefing. Trying to read his thoughts. Trying to assess them. After a moment, Sarami’s hand went up.

“How many Iranian troops are at the campsite?”

It was a good question. One you should have asked, a little voice reminded Harry. So far, so good.

Lay glanced over to Ron Carter for the answer.

“Initially, our satellite overpasses were only able to catch a few men, perhaps twelve or thirteen soldiers,” Carter replied, stepping forward, his laptop in hand. “However, the last scan, made twelve hours ago, showed at least platoon strength, approximately fifty men, all heavily armed. There are also an undeterminate number of scientists. I believe we can assume that some of them have military training.”

“Triple-A?”

“Negative-satellite shows no formal anti-aircraft capability. Small arms fire could be intense, though, so a direct air assault is inadvisable. We’ll have to set you down a few klicks out.”

“Do we have any idea why the Iranian military decided to set up a bio-war facility there of all places?”

David Lay shook his head. “None of this makes sense. That’s why we’re sending you in. To figure out exactly what they’re doing.”

“Alpha Team is being reconstituted?” Hamid Zakiri asked, speaking up for the first time. Heads swiveled to where the Iraqi agent stood a few feet away, calmly sipping a Pepsi. At five-nine, Zakiri was far from the tallest team member, but he was light and fast. Back in his Army days, he’d set records on the Ranger’s “Q Course”.

“Yes,” Harry replied, in answer to his old friend’s question. Alpha Team as a whole hadn’t officially been mission-ready in over a year, with one or another of its members deployed separately. His own mission south of the border had only been the latest in a string.

“Almost like old times,” Hamid smiled, white teeth showing against his deeply tanned skin. “All that’s left to do is get Sammy back.”

Harry nodded. The departure of Samuel Han after the Azeri mission had left a hole in the teams, a hole they hadn’t permanently filled even these years later. No one could fault him, though. After the losses that winter, he quite simply hadn’t been able to take it anymore. Leaving the Agency forever behind him, he had retreated into the mountains of West Virginia. Rumor had it that he’d become something of a hermit. The stresses of combat did that to people. The loss of friends…

Davood Sarami had been studying the map on the far wall. When he turned back, his tanned face was strangely pale.

“What is it, Davood?” Kranemeyer asked, noting his odd expression.

“Where were these-these archaeologists working? What was it that they were excavating?”

“Does it matter?”

Davood nodded quietly. “It may. It may very much.”

“Ron?”

The analyst turned back to his computer and hit a couple of keys. “Just a moment…let’s see.” He looked up. “The ruins of Rhodaspes. An ancient Persian trade city.”

“ Ya Allah,” the Iranian whispered. Oh, God.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, watching the man closely. There was something going on here. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew he didn’t like it…

“Do you know the area?”

Davood looked up, glancing first at the DCS and then at Harry. “No,” he said, answering Kranemeyer’s question first, “I don’t know the area. My parents were born a hundred kilometers away. But Rhodaspes…”

“What about it?”