Pandora's grave

It had been a productive night. With the first identity that had gained him access into the country stashed securely in the false bottom of his briefcase, he had rented a car under a second, using a credit card registered to that person. Twenty years ago, such a practice would have been forbidden, but times had changed. Anymore, people got very suspicious of someone willing to pay in large sums in cash, and nowhere was that more true than the country of Israel.

That first ID would not be used again until he needed to exit the country, if everything went well. If things progressed poorly, the suitcase contained two more sets of identification, to be used in case of necessity.

With the car parked two blocks down from his motel, his plans were almost complete. Just a few more things…

The TACSAT on his hip hummed silently and he answered after a quick glance at the screen. “Wondering when I would hear from you.”

“Mr. Richards, it was a pleasure to receive your call last night,” the voice replied. “As always. You are in country?”

“Yes.”

“It has been awhile.”

“I don’t travel any more than I can help,” was the Texan’s curt reply. “We need to meet.”

“To be sure, Mr. Richards. When and where?”

“As soon as possible at your place. You open?”

“For my friends, I am always open. Shall we say, thirty minutes? Come to the rear entrance as usual.”

“Of course.”

2:08 A.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“…sure the area’s clear. But there’s bodies everywhere.”

“Any signs of life?”

“No.”

Lasker pressed STOP on the audio recording and looked up at his superiors. “Substantively, that’s it.”

Lay and Kranemeyer exchanged glances. “It’s started,” was the DCIA’s solemn pronouncement.

“Someone has a sense of irony,” Kranemeyer observed, glancing down the transcript of the call once more. “Saddam Hussein also enjoyed using the Kurds as test subjects. Ah, the joys of being a minority in the Middle East.”

“Hancock will need to see this,” David Lay stated, turning to address the man at his side. “Make sure you get it in the briefing, Ron.”

Ron Carter looked up from polishing his glasses. “Sure thing, boss.”

“I think this is our chance,” Kranemeyer announced without preamble, looking up from the transcript before him.

Lay glanced over, puzzled by the look of excitement that had lit up the unshaven face of the DCS. “What do you mean, Barney?”

“If we can get blood samples from the bodies of the infected Kurds, the bio-war department over at Bethesda might be able to better diagnose what we’re dealing with here.”

“You’re not suggesting…”

“Send Parker in, of course. Why not, for heaven’s sake?” Kranemeyer demanded, looking up in surprise. “He’s within a mile of the target as it is-you don’t get more on-scene than this.”

“He’ll be exposed to the bacteria,” Lay interjected. “You know we can’t extract him fast enough to administer antibiotics in time.”

“Then that’s the price we pay.” The expression in Kranemeyer’s eyes was cold and distant. “Unless you can come up with a better idea, Parker goes in at dusk.”

The DCIA swallowed hard. “He was a good man. Place the call…”

9:32 A.M. Local Time

Ashqelon, Israel

Avraham Najeri’s fingers slid over the receiver of the Galil assault rifle with the intimate touch of a lover. He sighed. Guns were such beautiful things. Instruments of death to be sure, but beautiful nonetheless. There was a certain poetry to them.

The closing of a car door broke upon his reverie and his eyes flickered upwards, above the workbench, across the statue of the Virgin Mary that sat in a niche of the wall, to the small security monitor. There, in the fourth frame of the split-screen, was the figure of his visitor.

He frowned in annoyance. The American stood in unwelcome contrast to the very trait Najeri loved about most of the man’s fellow countrymen. They talked too much and it was very easy to figure out what they were thinking, if they didn’t tell you first. Not this one.

With a heavy sigh, Najeri turned, picking up a Beretta 92 from his workbench. He slammed a full magazine into the butt of the pistol and racked the slide to chamber a round. Time to answer the door.

Tex glanced up and down the alley, unsure whether to knock again, or leave. The Agency had maintained a professional relationship with Avraham Najeri for the better part of two decades, but it was a relationship of mutual suspicion.

While the Maronite Christian Arab maintained a clothing store at the front of his establishment, his real money was made in the basement. Dealing with his passion: black market firearms.

The Texan considered dealing with him an unpleasant necessity. He and the Arab merchant of death had never hit it off. The little man talked too much, and it offended his sensibilities deeply.

“Mr. Richards!” the door opened just as Tex had lifted his hand to knock once more. A wide smile was plastered across the face of the weapons dealer. “Come in, come in, it’s been too long.”