Pandora's grave

Ten minutes passed as the young Kurd waited, leaning forward against the ledge of rock he had propped his rifle upon. His side was numb, and he was weakening, weakening by the moment as the wound in his side continued to bleed. He had taken off his gloves and shoved them into the bullet hole, as a rude bandage. It wouldn’t last long, but it didn’t need to.

Everything seemed plain and crisp, as though the hastening approach of death had served to clear his mind. A stone dislodged on the path below him, its rattle warning him of the approach of his enemy. He picked up the assault rifle and held it tightly, his knuckles whitening around the pistol grip, the folding stock extended fully against his shoulder.

It couldn’t be much longer. He prayed that it would not be-that the Iranians would come while he still possessed the strength to fight them.

Another rocket slammed into the mountain above him, the explosion lighting up the night sky. There-a flash of movement on the path, silhouetted so briefly. He dug into the rucksack at his waist and brought out a grenade.

He waited, listening, then pulled the pin with his teeth, rolling the grenade ever so gently over the ledge.

It bounced once on the rock below him, then exploded. Screams. Sirvan smiled, his cheek pressed against the folding stock of his Kalishnikov as he aimed down the path.

A head appeared in his line of vision and he swung the rifle to cover it, triggering off a short burst. The man moaned and collapsed, his body sprawling on the ground.

He should have moved after the first shots. He knew that. But his body was drained of its strength. So weak. So he stayed where he was.

He saw an Iranian soldier dragging a wounded comrade off the path, to the shelter of the rocks. Both of them were dead a moment later, as he calmly took aim and fired, killing first the helper, then the wounded man.

And still he stayed.

A movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him to danger and he threw himself against the rock, bringing the AK to bear on the threat. Knowing even as he did so that he was too late.

His mind barely registered the man standing there among the rocks before the pistol in the man’s hand exploded in fire…

Harun lowered the Makarov semiautomatic and walked forward, to where the body of the intruder lay crumpled against the mountainside. The mask of the biosuit was half-off and he could clearly see the man’s face. He was a Kurd.

And he was still living. As Harun moved closer, the intruder turned his head and spat in contempt, a filthy stream of phlegm and blood.

Harun raised his pistol and shot the man once more, between the eyes.

1:57 A.M. Local Time

The marina

Eilat, Israel

The marina at night was not a quiet place, light splashing across the water from a thousand boats filled with tourists.

Everyone seemed to be playing their own brand of music, and the ocean itself seemed to move to the discordant beat.

Chaim Berkowitz walked along the pier, a deliberately insolent swagger to his step as he moved in and out of the crowd of tourists. An FN Five-SeveN pistol was tucked into his waistband, covered by the loose Hawaiian shirt he wore. The suitcase in his left hand held a field-stripped Remington M24 sniper rifle.

A few moments later, the GPS unit in his cellphone beeped and he paused, looking left and right. Ahead of him, in the alcove of a boathouse, was where he would set up his hide.

Time to move…

3:57 A.M. Tehran Time

Alborz Mountains

Iran

Thomas didn’t need to look back. The brief bursts of gunfire and abrupt silence following immediately thereafter told him the whole story.

His friend was dead.

He moved more quickly now, his bio-suit discarded in the swift-flowing mountain stream a hundred meters back, a crude procedure Langley had recommended for cleansing himself of the toxin. Heavy as his clothes now were with water, he could move freely.

Voices sounded ahead of him, a body of Kurdish fighters moving down the mountain. Another moment and Azad Badir appeared, at the head of a score of rebels. At the sight of Thomas he held up a hand to halt his men.

“Did you retrieve the samples?” the guerrilla leader asked, seeming only then to realize that Thomas was alone.

Estere appeared behind him, her face pale as she stared into his eyes.

Thomas saw her lips form the question, and in that instant it felt as though his heart would break.

“He’s gone,” he whispered, unable to say more.

“No,” she responded, shooting him a look of fragile defiance as she shook her head. She placed a hand against the trunk of a nearby tree to steady herself. “No.”

Badir stepped forward, placing a hand on his granddaughter’s shoulder. “Allah has appointed unto us a time for mourning,” he began, his own voice trembling with emotion, “but it is not now. Mr. Patterson, I trust that you were successful in your mission?”

Thomas nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “I was.”