Pandora's grave

They had come far in these few days, Hossein thought, surveying his recruits with a critical eye. The constant training had served to harden their bodies, the incessant pressure quickening their minds.

Only twenty were left.

A helicopter came in low over the mountains. The former major watched with concern as it banked hard over the city of Isfahan and flew straight toward the small training camp. Concern that was only barely assuaged when a green flare burst from one of the rocket tubes on the pylons of the attack helicopter. It was the Ayatollah arriving from Qom.

Whatever the situation, it had to be serious to risk an unprecedented personal visit. Hossein turned over the command of training to a particularly apt pupil named Mustafa, and walked back toward the helipad in the center of the camp, tapping a baton nervously against the top of his jump boots. Trouble was coming. He could almost smell it…

“What is the condition of your readiness?” Isfahani asked later, in the headquarters building. He was sitting in Hossein’s chair, slicing a ripe peach with a jewel-encrusted Sassanid knife.

Hossein took a deep breath. “We’re not.”

“I sent you the best men I could find,” the Ayatollah replied, an accusative edge in his voice.

“You sent me your best religious scholars,” Hossein shot back, undeterred and defiant. “They were not fighters. They are now, but they have a long way to go.”

Isfahani took another slice of the peach, the razor-edge of the knife sliding easily through supple flesh. “We have a situation.”

The major remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

“The attack is to be launched within three days. Your men must be in position in Palestine to stop it.”

8:43 A.M. Local Time

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel

Harry looked down as the Jetranger circled over the nondescript cluster of buildings, heading for the helipad on the roof of the central office building.

Gideon sat beside him at the controls of the helicopter, a look of intense concentration on his face as he guided the chopper in. The bat leveyha sat in the back, her hands bandaged.

The familiar figure of General Avi ben Shoham was standing to one side of the roof as the helicopter came to rest, giving Harry some idea of how much this meant to the Israelis. He had worked with Shoham three years before, a joint American-Israeli operation to rescue missionaries in Lebanon, and been impressed by the man’s professionalism.

“We’re here,” Gideon announced tersely, glancing over at Harry. There was palpable tension between the two men, had been ever since the previous night. The restrained violence Harry knew so well. The Israeli didn’t like being bullied.

Harry shoved open the door of the Jetranger and slipped out, his leather jacket rippling in the breeze created by the rotor wash. “Good morning, general.”

Shoham smiled, shaking Harry’s extended hand. “And the same to you, my friend. Come inside.”

The Mossad commander paused at the door of the elevator, nodding to his bodyguards to remain behind.

“I give you a token of my trust, Mr. Nichols,” he stated as the doors closed. “We are alone and you are armed.”

Harry nodded, shooting a pointed glance toward the general’s waistband. “As are you.”

Shoham smiled. “Ah, well, trust goes only so far. I must apologize for Lt. Laner’s reticence. He did as he felt best.”

“And you feel differently?”

“Laner was following my orders-orders I doubted could be fulfilled. You are not a man to give something up without expecting something in return.”

Harry leaned against the wall of the elevator as it continued its descent, watching Shoham carefully. “You speak in riddles.”

A wry smile. “Plain speaking is ever a danger in our business, is it not? In short, the Iranians are moving.”

“You have information indicating a nuclear deployment?”

Shoham replied with an emphatic shake of the head. “We don’t know. Only Dr. Tal knows the true nature of this threat.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“He believes that we abandoned the rest of his team to their captors. Now you see why we contacted you.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Well done, Harry,” the general retorted, his face creasing into a smile. “Remind me never to play poker against you. You would deny that your government rescued the remaining hostages?”

The elevator shuddered to a halt, doors sliding open. Two guards stood across the corridor, Galil assault rifles in their hands.

Harry looked from Shoham to them and back again. “Let me see Tal,” he responded finally. “I will give you my answer then.”

9:57 A.M. Baghdad Time

Station Baghdad

Iraq

“Khebat Ahmedi. He’s the commander of PJAK in the Qandil,” Rebecca Petras informed them, tapping a finger on the screen of her laptop. “Khebat means ‘struggle’ in the Kurdish, and we suspect it to be a nom de guerre.”

“An alias?” Hamid asked, an amused smile crossing his face at her choice of words.