Pandora's grave

When the Iran mission had come up, Tal had been the first to volunteer, his liaison with the Ayatollah Isfahani forming the basis of their success.

And now all that was gone. The commandos of Sayeret Matkal had risked their lives to rescue him and he was refusing to help them in return. Somehow-some way, the Iranians had turned him. And Shoham didn’t know how.

The twisting, rhythmic thwap-thwap of approaching rotors caught his attention and he swiveled toward the sound, his eyes straining to pierce the enveloping darkness. Another few moments and the helicopter appeared, invisible until it was almost on top of the two men, its downwash tearing at their clothes.

It settled down upon the helipad and the side door flew open almost the minute the wheels touched down. Lieutenant Gideon Laner emerged first, his face tired and dirty in the harsh glare of the helipad lights. A Galil assault rifle was cradled loosely in the crook of his arm.

Shoham could feel his bodyguard stiffen, the man’s body instantly at attention at the sight of the weapon. Another occasion and it would have been a cause for humor. But the night was far too grim.

The rest of the Sayeret Matkal team exited the chopper behind him, and the general could recognize Dr. Tal flanked by Sergeant Eiland and Corporal Gur. Each of them had a purchase on one of his arms. It was price he paid for not cooperating. They had to be prepared for anything now.

“Moshe,” Shoham greeted familiarly, striding onto the platform and sticking out a hand from the folds of his poncho. The soldiers released their captive, leaving him standing in front of the Mossad chief.

“It’s good to have you home again, my dear friend,” Avi ben Shoham said, painfully aware of the reproachful look in Tal’s eyes. His hand hung there awkwardly, unaccepted. “We can take you in and start the debrief, if you so desire.”

There was no response, the only sound the helicopter’s engine shutting down, a dull roar in the background. Shoham could barely hear it as he focused in on his old friend’s face, the world shrinking to the two of them. Everything faded away as he searched for the man he had once known. He was gone, leaving a stranger standing before him.

“I am sorry, Moshe. We should have never used you. Others would have been more expendable.”

“Like those you abandoned tonight!” the archaeologist flared, anger flashing in his eyes before he fell silent once more. Smoldering.

Bewildered, Shoham turned toward Lieutenant Laner as though expecting an explanation. Dr. Tal provided it without him even asking, his cold glare piercing to the soul. “I will tell you nothing-you abandoned my people. You left them to die…”

6:32 A.M. Tehran Time

The ridge overlooking LZ Oscar

Sun had not yet dawned when the hides were finished. They had dug not one, but three, about twenty meters apart, laid out with interlocking fields of fire. Each one was just large enough for two people, overlooking the landing zone below. A gently sloping, grassy plateau, there was hardly an inch of cover anywhere within range of their rifles. Harry laid his entrenching tool to the side and stretched. “Digging doesn’t agree with my constitution, I’m afraid.”

Hamid grinned, his white teeth visible in the darkness. “Running around the mountains all night doesn’t agree with mine, either.”

Davood and the archaeologists just stood there looking on, as though not knowing what to make of the old friends’ jest. Harry cast another look at the horizon and all traces of good humor vanished without a trace.

“Let’s get under cover,” he said tersely. “Davood, take Professor Peterson. Hamid, Mullins. You’ll come with me, Miss Eliot.”

He could feel his friend grinning at him through the darkness, but he ignored it. It was quite simply the most logical arrangement.

He motioned for the girl to walk ahead of him, the twenty meters back to the southern hide. Arriving, he eased himself cautiously into the pit, then extended a hand to help her down. She took it wordlessly, watching as he reached back upward to camouflage the hide. When he was done, they were completely covered, a carefully camouflaged slit in the front providing their only view of the outside world. He propped his Kalishnikov against the front of the hide and aimed his binoculars down-range. Daylight would be coming soon.

He could feel her eyes on him, as though she was trying to assess him in the darkness. She hadn’t spoken since they had plucked her from the Iranian cell. Shock. Fear. He had seen it before.

No matter. His first priority was getting through the next twenty-four hours so that he could deliver her back to civilization in one piece. She could visit a shrink later.

“You speak English,” she announced, as though stating the most obvious fact she knew about him.

He nodded without hesitation. “Arabic, if you’d prefer. Half a dozen or so others. My hobby.”

“Who are you?”

“Colonel Smith, US Army Rangers,” he lied glibly. “Joshua Smith.”