Pandora's grave

“Yes, major, I did,” the scientist replied, looking up as Major Farshid Hossein entered the laboratory trailer. “It’s your guard.”

“Malik?” Came the question as the base commander closed the door behind him. He was a tall man, perhaps in his mid-forties. Wilting under Hossein’s hard stare, it occurred to the scientist that he bore an unsettling resemblance to a falcon, light blue eyes staring out on either side of a hooked nose, above a closely-cropped black beard.

“Follow me.”

He turned and led the way, his feet clicking against the metal floor. He paused outside a sealed metal door and handed a face mask and gloves to the military man. An apologetic smile.

“It’s not enough, but it is the best I can do.”

“The bodies-they are sealed?”

“ Baleh,” the scientist nodded. Yes. He turned, typing in a short code on the keypad beside the door. “This way.”

Cold air washed over the major as he stepped inside, almost taking his breath away. It was a severe contrast to the heat already building in the sun outside. Specially sealed containers lined the room, almost like a row of caskets in a mortuary. They might as well have been.

All of their occupants were either dead or soon to be. Another chill prickled the skin on the back of his neck, but it wasn’t from the air surrounding him.

Something else.

The scientist was pointing down into one of the caskets, its top transparent. Major Hossein stepped over to him. Malik.

It was all he could do not to look away. He had known the man for years. They had fought together against the imperialist forces in Iraq, after the invasion, when his country had started funneling arms and money to the insurgency. The man had saved his life.

And now this…

Malik lay naked under the bright lights, his whole body exposed. There was no place for modesty here. Nor any need for it. His body had swelled, grotesquely so, until he was almost twice his normal size. Every vein was outlined, as though someone had used a dirty-black pencil to highlight them.

But it wasn’t that, it was his very blood that had turned black. He turned, apparently sensing their presence, his bloodshot eyes blinking in the light.

His lips opened, as though he was trying to speak to them. Instead, he coughed and bloody spittle gathered at the corner of his lip.

“How long?” Hossein asked, turning away.

“Twenty-four hours.”

The major shook his head. “Have you any idea what it is?”

“Dr. Ansari will be here from Tehran within two days. I would prefer to reserve my judgement till then.”

Farshid stepped closer, towering over the young scientist. “I don’t have two days. I need to know how to protect my men! What do I need to do?”

“Major, I would rather-”

He never got to finish his sentence. “I don’t have time for what you’d ‘rather’!” Hossein bellowed, picking up the scientist by the collar and slamming him against the side of the trailer. “I want to know what you think this is. Now!”

The young man gulped nervously. “All right. I’ll show you.”

“Good.” Farshid released him, following him down the corridor. The scientist adjusted his glasses and bent over a laptop at one of the workstations.

Another moment and he found the database he was looking for, scrolling down the page. “There.”

Hossein looked where he was pointing and his eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

The young man nodded.

“Allah preserve us…”

12:17 A.M., September 21st

A small Baptist church

The outskirts of Cypress, Virginia

“…so, good-day and God bless you all. You’re dismissed.” The pastor closed his Bible and came down off the podium.

“A good sermon this morning,” Harry said quietly, stepping up to him and gripping his hand in a firm handshake.

Pastor Scott smiled. A tall man, he was one of the few in the church who could look Harry in the eye. He was in his early fifties, his hair prematurely gray, his face lined and worn with the struggle of the years. Nothing about him indicated a man who had an easy time of it. And he hadn’t.

“It’s good to have you back, Harry,” he replied, his voice somehow soft and powerful at the same time. “I was meaning to ask you-I need another man to help serve communion next Sunday. Can you help?”

Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry, pastor. I won’t be here next week.”

“Off again?”

“Yes,” he nodded. Most people at the church knew he worked for the CIA. They just didn’t know what he did there.

He thought Pastor Scott suspected, but the older man was wise enough to keep his suspicions to himself. And he didn’t press.

“Then, may God protect you wherever you go, my son.” He laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“He does, pastor. Trust me, He does.”

“You know, Harry, I knew your parents-before they died. I-well, just take care of yourself.” There was a wealth of meaning in his eyes, some of it hard to interpret. Harry stared into them for a moment, then turned away, giving it up.