Pandora's grave

She knelt down to retrieve her pack. “We have to see what we can do for them.”

Thomas stood there, his mind racing back to the briefings he and the team had gone through before launching TALON. Specifically, the Russian-made laboratory trailers that had dotted the Iranian base camp. An experiment?

9:06 P.M.

A compound

Isfahan, Iran

The two-and-a-half-ton truck rolled to a gentle halt in front of a chain-link and barbed-wire fence, the driver handing his papers to an armed sentry who materialized out of the small guard shack. Smoke rose idly from the guard’s glowing cigarette as he looked through the papers, then handed them back. He turned and began barking orders.

The driver glanced over as the gate swung open. “We’re here, Major.”

Hossein nodded tensely. The drive from Qom had been nerve-wracking, security forces a larger presence than normal on the roads. Almost as though they were preparing for something. And the smell of the guard’s cigarette had done nothing to ease his nicotine craving.

He thought of the nearly-full carton of Marlboros back in his quarters at the base camp and nearly groaned aloud-no doubt that stupid Larijani had helped himself to them by now. He found the thought sickening.

Houses lined both sides of the dusty street they drove down. The buildings were similar if not uniform, reminding him of barracks. The street broadened into a plaza, flanked on one side by the imposing structure of a mosque. Men were drawn up before the mosque, standing like soldiers at attention.

He exited the truck and walked toward them, casting a critical glance at their ranks as he approached. Fifty men in all, the chosen of the Ayatollah.

None of that mattered. Within the week, they would be his chosen. Or fail, as he had no doubt many would.

Hossein reached the center of the line and wheeled, clearing his throat as he prepared to address his men for the first time. He watched their faces in the harsh artificial light of the street lamps as he spoke, searching for the early signs. Who would fail. Who would survive.

And as he continued, the question continued to ring in his head.

Who?

6:37 P.M. Eastern Time

Dulles International Airport

“Identification, please?”

Tex watched the face of the TSA security guard as he casually scanned over the passport and ID. The perusal took thirty seconds, maybe forty, no longer. The expression in the man’s eyes was one of boredom.

The CIA paramilitary had seen it before. Prohibited from actively scanning for threats by an anti-discrimination manual thicker than the concrete of the presidential bunker, the man had become a drone, concerned with nothing more than getting through the monotony of the day. Clock in, clock out.

No way he was going to stop a potential terrorist with that attitude. Tex accepted his papers back with a forced smile and a murmured “Good day” as the line moved forward, resisting the temptation to rudely wake the security officer by slamming him against the wall. Locking down the terminal was not going to get him anywhere.

Things would be different on the other end of the line. Israeli airport security was among the best in the world, and with good reason. As the country at the top of every raghead’s hit list, they had been born of fire and learned their lessons in that crucible.

Still, he had no fears. He had spent the entire afternoon memorizing his new identity. And his papers were solid, put together by some of the best forgers in the world. His legend was firmly back-stopped by Langley. No reason to think things shouldn’t go as planned-except that they never did.

The Texan looked at his watch as he boarded the plane along with his fellow passengers. Time was going to be critical from the moment he landed in Israel. He would have just over twenty-four hours…

Chapter Ten

1:18 A.M. Eastern Time, September 29th

NCS Operations Center

Langley, Virginia

The operations center was kept in a state of operational readiness twenty-four hours a day, which was why there was a full shift on duty when the call came.

“We’ve got a call coming in on an Agency TACSAT,” one of the analysts announced, lifting his gaze from the bank of screens in front of him.

Daniel Lasker looked over toward him. As the duty officer, everything that transpired during the 11-7 shift was his responsibility. “Transfer it to my workstation and run system ID check.”

“Roger.” The analyst paused for a moment, then announced, “It’s a TACSAT-8, locator code #4507-43, one of the phones we supplied to PJAK back in ‘08.”

“Right before the Obama administration watchlisted them,” Lasker said thoughtfully, reaching for the phone on his desk.

“Lasker speaking.”

“Danny, is that you?” a familiar voice demanded.

“Parker! What’s going on?”

“I want this call to be recorded, Danny,” Thomas continued. “Are you set up for that?”