Pandora's grave

Tal’s eyes flickered up at his entrance, then back down, a furtive, almost hunted look. Harry had seen it before, the look of a man broken beyond his endurance. For a brief moment, he wondered how far Mossad might have gone in trying to wrest his secret from him. Then he dismissed it without another thought. It was irrelevant to the task at hand.

He drew up a chair and sat down wordlessly, across from the archaeologist. Another long, interminable moment passed before Harry spoke.

“The Iranians are planning something, aren’t they?”

Tal raised his head, a strange light coming into his eyes. It was such a contrast to his previous browbeaten demeanor that Harry wondered for a moment if he was facing the same man. “Yes,” he replied. “They are.”

“What?”

The archaeologist shook his head. “I’ll never tell you. You left my people behind. You left them to die.”

It was as though Harry’s first question had given him a feeling of control, a sense of being in charge. Harry grimaced inwardly. Time to take that away. With a careful motion, he opened his sports jacket, withdrawing his diplomatic passport and identification, placing them on the table beside them.

“I’m from the U.S. State Department. I didn’t leave anyone behind.”

Tal took the passport and ID, scrutinizing them carefully. “You’re no diplomat,” he announced, looking back up.

Harry smiled. “Let’s call it a polite fiction.”

“Who are you?”

“Joseph Isaac,” Harry replied, tapping the ID before tucking it back in his wallet. “You can call me Joe. I’m your salvation.”

The archaeologist settled back in his chair, an expression of disbelief on his face.

“You see, there were Americans among your crew. President Hancock authorized a CIA strike team to rescue them. Our people arrived in the dark of night, just hours after Mossad brought you back here. And we were able to extract some of your team.”

Tal leaned forward, an almost painful eagerness on his face. “Some?”

Harry nodded. “Unfortunately, not all. The Iranians were on alert. We lost some people as well.”

“How can I believe you?”

Reaching once more into his jacket, Harry laid a cellphone on the table between them. A wire stretched from it to an earbud microphone, which Harry promptly inserted.

“We’re going to place a call to one of your colleagues. I believe you know Grant Peterson?”

“Yes, yes.”

“I will give you the number to dial,” he continued, fixing the archaeologist in a cold gaze. “And you will speak directly to Grant. This is a token of good faith. Don’t abuse it.”

Tal nodded his assent and Harry gave him the number to dial.

4:02 A.M. Eastern Time

A CIA safe house

West Virginia

“You said he would call, Roberto,” Grant Peterson said, looking up into the eyes of the man he had been staying with for the past week.

“He will,” the man called “Roberto” replied, in one of his longer speeches. Whether he had a last name or not, Grant had no idea. Whatever his skills, conversation was not among them.

Almost at that moment, the man’s hand went to his pocket, withdrawing a vibrating cellphone. He cast a quick glance at the screen before handing it over to Peterson.

“Answer it.”

“Hello, this is Grant.”

“Grant!” It was Dr. Tal, nervous excitement in his voice. “Thank God you’re alive. Where are you?”

“Here in the US,” Grant replied, looking over at Roberto as though to ask if he should be more specific. Something in the man’s face told him he should not. “Are you okay, doctor?”

Tal seemed not to hear him, rushing on as if the question was irrelevant. “The rest of the team, Grant. Are the others all right?”

Grant opened his mouth to speak, but in that instant, the line went dead.

11:06 A.M. Local Time

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv, Israel

“Wrong move,” Harry stated calmly, replacing the phone on the table. “I told you not to abuse it.”

Tal stared at him, his eyes wide with sudden fear. “You’re sick.”

A shrug was the only reply Harry gave to the accusation. “You and I have business to discuss. You give me what I want, I’ll tell you who lived and who died. Not until.”

“How can I trust you?”

“You can’t. But you’re running out of options. You know Grant is alive and safe. Let’s work from that basis.”

“What do you want?”

“I think you know.”

The archaeologist looked away, towards the blank wall of the interrogation room. “All right,” he said at last, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ll talk.”

Rising from his chair, Harry moved across the darkened room, punching a gloved fist through the drywall. His fingers closed around a thin wire. Just where Carter said it would be, he thought before snapping it as he would a twig.

Circling the room, he came up against the opposite wall and retrieved the other parabolic mike, disabling it in similar fashion. The bugs were dead.

“What is he doing?” Shoham wondered aloud, watching the scene live on the TV screen in the Mossad operations room.

Gideon leaned forward. “I can take my team in.”