Pandora's grave

Harry walked into the auditorium, finding it empty, as he had figured it would be. The lights were off, a single shaft of sunlight streaming in from the eastern window to fall directly upon the altar.

He smiled. It might have been by design of the architect, but in that moment it seemed remarkably providential.

Walking forward, he fell to his knees before the altar. He was so very, very tired, the stress of the Iranian mission and the guilt of losing a team member weighing upon his shoulders.

“Dear Lord,” he began simply, his voice trailing off into silent prayer. Here in the quiet, kneeling in the sunlight, it all came pouring out.

How long he knelt there, he never would know, but when he rose, it was as though a weight had been removed from his shoulders. A reassurance, perhaps.

His beliefs had never been a hindrance to his mission-not in the way some might have thought. Rather they strengthened his resolve. Some might have called his worldview simplistic, but not anyone that truly knew him. In the perpetually clouded world of espionage, he clung to one fundamental truth: Evil existed to be destroyed.

Knowing that, everything else became clear.

There in the stillness, he suddenly felt a presence behind him, the knowledge that someone was there striking home with the certainty of death.

He turned quickly, his hand flickering inside his suit toward the Colt secured in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

“Good morning. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

Harry withdrew his hand, his face relaxing into a smile as he recognized the figure in the back of the auditorium. “No problem, pastor. I had just finished.”

Pastor Scott emerged from the shadows, still in his shirtsleeves, adjusting a microphone to his lapel. “You’ve noticed.”

“Noticed what?” Harry asked.

“The peace. This old church has seen many a battle over the years, but it’s still as peaceful as the first time I walked through the doors. ‘The peace of God, which passeth all understanding.’”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I had.”

“I’m glad you could join us,” the older man remarked, laying a hand on Harry’s shoulder. If he could feel the straps of the holster, he gave no sign.

“Plans changed,” Harry replied simply. “I’m flying out again tonight.”

“I’ll be praying for you.”

Harry turned, looking the pastor in the eye. They both fought evil, in their own way. Both had seen the dark side of battle. And they regarded each other with the respect of comrades-in-arms. “And I for you…”

9:02 A.M.

Langley, Virginia

The slippery slope. In better times, during his college days at Princeton, Michael Shapiro had dismissed the concept as archaic, a throw-back to the old notions of moral absolutes-right and wrong.

They had been good days, heady times. Looking back he realized he had been just like every other young man. The world on a string. Before the climb to power.

Before his own feet had hit that legendary slope. The Deputy Director’s Suburban slowed to a stop at the first checkpoint of the complex that was the Central Intelligence Agency, and Shapiro sighed, leaning against the back seat of the SUV as his driver handed out their identification.

If a man could see the end of the road, he would never be tempted to sin. The DD(I) passed a hand over his eyes, remembering the words of a priest from his childhood in Boston. The simple life he had left behind in search of power.

His phone rang and his body tensed, dread coursing through his veins. A look at the screen confirmed his worst fears.

That was just the trouble. No man could see the end of the road.

“Hello.”

“Where are you?”

“Just arriving at Langley,” Shapiro replied, wiping a sweaty palm against the knee of his suit pants. “Unfinished business to sort out before I join my family for mass.”

“God will have to wait,” the voice replied with a short, barking laugh. “The Iranian ambassador to the United Nations is in D.C. You need to arrange a meeting with him.”

“When?”

“Today. Within the next two hours, if possible.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Make it happen, Shapiro.”

5:47 P.M. Local Time

Eilat Airport

Eilat, Israel

The Gulfstream IV taxied to a stop behind a large hangar, the steps folding down out of the business jet almost before the engines had shut down.

A tall, dark-haired man in the slacks and a sports jacket of a vacationing businessman emerged, striding down the stairs with the air of a conqueror.

The mechanic working underneath the Learjet in an adjacent hangar paused to stare appreciatively at the young woman on the businessman’s arm, watching as she turned to her companion, laughing artlessly at his joke.

A vision of beauty. With an envious sigh, the mechanic reached for his wrench and went back to work. The girl in the sundress. Tourists…

The girl’s laughter faded as they turned ‘round the corner of the hangar. “We’re clear,” she whispered to her companion.