Pandora's grave

Forcing his mind back to the practicalities of their mission, he bent over his map. They couldn’t be far now. Larijani reached for the biological mask at his side and faced his men.

“You have been instructed in the proper use of these masks. Make sure you follow those instructions to the letter. The bacteria is ingested through the lungs-breathing in even the smallest amount may result in your death. Am I understood?”

He could see in their eyes that they did-several of the men looked well-nigh as sick as he, but he was too far gone to take pleasure in the fact.

He took a deep breath in an effort to stabilize himself before going on. “Secure your masks now. We’re coming up on the target.”

1:19 A.M. Eastern Time

Cypress, Virginia

The jarring vibration of the TACSAT in his ribs woke Harry from a sound sleep. “Nichols,” he answered, awake in an instant. He had trained himself that way.

“Harry, it’s Hamid.”

“Do you know what time it is?” Harry demanded, glancing at the luminous display of his digital clock to assure himself he wasn’t dreaming.

“Yeah, I do. I just got in.”

“What kept you?” Harry asked, feeling unusually sarcastic. “A hot date?”

“You might call it that,” came the unamused reply. “The usual fence-mending after deployment. You know the drill. That’s not why I called.”

“It better not be. There are few things I hate worse than hearing about another man’s love life at oh-one hundred.”

“Could you be serious for a moment, Harry? Someone burgled my apartment.”

“Seriously?” Harry responded, suddenly alert. He swung his feet out of bed and reached for his pants. “Have you called the police?”

“Negative. Nothing was taken, Harry. Nothing at all. But someone was here, maybe more than one person-and they tossed the place good. A pro job-everything just about back where I left it.”

Harry didn’t bother asking what had triggered his suspicions. Every agent had his “tells,” little objects left in places where they would certainly be moved by a searcher-a paper-clip at right angles to the edge of a desk, a piece of thin string near an entrance, an electric cord coiled haphazardly at the foot of a bed, it could have been anything.

“Whoever they were,” Hamid continued, “they had some computer experience. They got through the Level-3 Omega firewall-probably mirrored my drives.”

“Anything critical?”

“I know better than that. Thomas left his laptop in the locker at Langley, so they didn’t get that.”

Harry nodded. “Good. Tell you what-I’ll be over at seven hundred hours and have a look around myself. Not much we can do tonight.”

“Agreed.”

Harry thumbed the kill-button on the TACSAT, laying it on the nightstand as he buckled his pants. It wouldn’t hurt to have a look around, he reflected, reaching under the pillow for his Colt…

7:25 A.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

Over the years since becoming the DCIA, David Lay had begun organizing his workdays into three categories. There were “bed” days, “garage” days, and “office” days. On a “bed” day, fresh trouble started brewing before he had even awoken. A “garage” day started off with one or more of his analysts meeting him the moment he stepped out of his car in the parking garage. So far, today was shaping up to be an “office” day, in that he had been seated at his desk for twenty minutes with no further issues rearing their ugly heads. Knock on wood.

Not that the issues of the previous day weren’t sufficiently worrisome. And not that Saturday was supposed to be his day off. He had been at the office till eleven o’clock last night, videoconferencing with FBI director Eric Haskel on protocols for a biological attack.

There were no other constructions that could be placed upon what Nichols and the field team had located. The Iranians were prepping for something. Something big. With the known fragility of y. pestis there was the hope that the demolition of the base camp had blown their biological project to kingdom come, but Lay was too old a hand to be willing to count on it.

The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up. “Lay speaking.”

“Sir,” came the voice of his secretary, “I have General Avi ben Shoham on Line Four.”

What does the chief of Mossad want at this time of morning? Lay asked himself. He sighed. So much for a better day. “Put him through, Margaret.”

2:27 P.M. Local Time

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

“Hold one for the DCIA.” Shoham acknowledged the information briefly, drumming his fingers on the wooden desktop as he waited for the scrambler to connect. It was moments like this he hated-moments of painful indecision. Mercifully, he hadn’t long to wait.

“Good afternoon, Avi.” Shoham smiled at the familiar voice of the CIA director.