Pandora's grave

“I said, ‘I can’,” the President repeated, anger creeping into his voice. “His government has made nothing but trouble for me and my plans for peace in the Middle East. You study the intelligence reports, Lawrence. I’m sure you’ve noticed how oil spikes every time that blamed Jew makes a move. Here in the States, gas hit nine dollars a gallon last week and my poll numbers have fallen off proportionally.”

A brief nod from the DNI indicated that he had noticed. “I’m afraid, Mr. President, that your reelection campaign does not fall within my purview. Probably something you should take up with Ian.”

Bell looked up to find the President staring at him, a cold, steady gaze. It was a moment before Hancock spoke. “Don’t patronize me, Lawrence. Don’t ever make that mistake. Just do your job and make sure the Israelis don’t learn about the bio-weapon from the CIA.”

3:47 P.M. Tehran Time

The Alborz Mountains

Shielding the lens with a careful hand, Thomas swept the valley once again with his binoculars. Nothing. As empty and desolate as it had been ever since their arrival.

The young men of the peshmerga had been straining at their leash for hours, begging Badir for permission to go down into the village.

The old Kurd remained implacable. He knew his enemy far too well to give into the emotion-the despair of seeing their kinsmen lay unburied.

Still nothing. Thomas lowered the binoculars, only too aware that he would be going into that valley soon. He bit his lip, steeling himself against the terror within. The job must be done.

Estere stirred at his side, looking up at him from her prone position by the sniper rifle. “You’re going, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice curiously brittle.

Unable to speak, he nodded, glancing over into her dark eyes.

“It scares you, does it not?”

“What does?” Thomas asked, once more taken off-guard by her bluntness.

“Death.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Doesn’t it everybody?”

She seemed to take the question seriously. “The wise men say that to be a Kurd is to look Death in the eye. It has been that way since the days of my fathers. As Allah has willed it.”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re going anyway?”

“Don’t seem to have many other options,” Thomas sighed, reaching for the rifle that lay at his side.

“I once heard that courage is being scared, but saddling up anyway.”

Her words brought a smile to his face as he recognized the quote.

“Too many American movies,” he exclaimed, laughing as he punched her lightly in the shoulder. “I needed that. The good old Duke.”

Her eyes softened and she reached over, putting her hand in his. “I wish you weren’t going.”

Thomas looked away across the mountains, towering stark and wild against the afternoon sky. There seemed to be nothing to say. Words could not express the emotions roiling through his heart. Life seemed so sweet, so precious, here at it’s end.

He looked back to see her angrily wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. His arms opened to her and she fell against him, her body shaking with noiseless sobs as the long-dammed tears broke forth.

“It’s okay,” Thomas whispered, hugging her to him as he repeated the meaningless lie. “It’s all gonna be okay.”

She looked into his eyes and her upturned face was wet with tears. She seemed about to speak, but the words never came.

Her face was only inches from his own and it seemed so natural. He bent down and kissed her, tasting the salt of tears on her lips. She responded with a desperate passion, her arms circling around his neck and holding him close.

Someone cleared his throat behind the couple and Thomas extricated himself from her embrace to find Sirvan standing about five paces off, a distinctly uncomfortable look on his face.

“I will accompany you into the village tonight,” her brother remarked stiffly. “Two men can work faster than one.”

Then he was gone, disappearing back up the mountain path.

Thomas leaped to his feet, the rifle in his hand as he hurried after him. He caught up with Sirvan before the young Kurd could rejoin the main body of fighters.

“Look,” Thomas began, feeling suddenly awkward. “I didn’t mean-I know what you must think-”

Sirvan cut him off before he could even figure out what to say. “I am not an Arab, Thomas. It is none of my concern. If Estere finds your advances unwelcome, she will kill you herself. Anything I might feel inclined to do would be entirely superfluous…”

8:43 A.M. Eastern Time

Freedom Baptist Church

Cypress, Virginia

There were few places in the earth where Harry felt truly at peace. The church he had attended ever since boyhood was one of them.

As he drove in, he found himself marveling once more at the atmosphere of the old church. The building had started life as the church of a Methodist circuit-rider back in the 1800s, a marvelously simple structure.

A single car sat in the parking lot, in the pastor’s space. That was to be expected-the service didn’t start for over an hour.