Pandora's grave

Gideon nodded, sensing a crack. A chink in the armor. He leaned forward in his chair, only two feet away from the archaeologist as they sat within the confines of a small holding cell, their surroundings illuminated by a single lightbulb hanging the ceiling by its cord.

“Perhaps not, but you did,” he reasoned. “And their sacrifice will be in vain unless you give us some idea what the Iranians are planning.”

It was the wrong thing to say, Gideon realized a second later. The gap closed, the armor sealing over again. And the man’s face was just as impassive as before. “I will tell you nothing. You left them to die…”

1:45 P.M. Tehran Time

The base camp

“Any progress?” Hossein asked as he strode back into the trailer he and the colonel were using as a makeshift tactical operations center. About the only good thing of the colonel’s arrival was the fact that he had brought more sophisticated comm equipment with him. The only good thing.

Harun shook his head. “Patrols reporting in as we speak.”

“How often do you have them checking back in?”

“Every thirty minutes.”

The major shook his head. “Not good enough. After this, every ten minutes. If one of them is taken out, we need to know as soon as possible. You’re giving them twenty-nine minutes to take out a patrol and make good their escape over the hills.”

Harun glanced up from his work. “Who did Tehran entrust with the command here, major? Report-back will stay as is.”

Hossein smiled, leaning back in his chair, his eyes on the mountains outside. The young man knew nothing of this terrain. Knew not that it was as merciless an enemy as the American commandos. And did not care to learn. But that was the colonel’s responsibility now, not his.

Footsteps. Thomas pressed himself flat against the rocks as they came closer to his hiding place. The Kalishnikov was slung over his shoulder, his Beretta clutched tightly in both hands. The long grey cylinder of a suppressor extended from the pistol’s barrel.

Words, spoken in Farsi. He couldn’t understand what was said, but heard the familiar squawk of radio static. They were reporting in.

He glanced anxiously toward the heavens. The day was wearing on, and he had little to show for it. Was his team even still in the country? He had no idea. Back-up communications gear was cached at LZ RUMRUNNER-if he could reach it.

For the moment, that was a question. More footsteps, soldiers rounding the bend of the canyon wall, picking their way over the tortuous landscape.

Two of them. Both looked tired and dusty, young men in their twenties. The point man had his rifle in the crook of his arm, his bearing languid.

Another moment passed as Thomas waited, his body tensed. Waiting for the right moment. The right time.

The point man passed his position. The second soldier started to, then stopped short, spotting scuffed dirt where Thomas had run. His lips opened, starting to say something in Farsi. An inquiry, a cry of warning, an alarm, whatever it had been, he never had a chance to finish it.

Thomas moved from the shadows, the suppressed Beretta in his outstretched hands…

4:59 A.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“A busy morning, sir,” the guard said cheerfully, handing Lay’s identification back through the car window.

“How so?”

“The DD(I) arrived here almost an hour and a half ago.”

Lay’s brow furrowed in astonishment. “Shapiro?”

The guard grinned, his expression one of, He was DD(I) last time I checked. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, we all must keep unusual hours from time to time,” Lay replied, forcing a smile in return. “Drive on, Pete.” But the Banker?

Two bodyguards met the car as it arrived at the DCIA’s space in the parking garage. It was the only routine thing of Lay’s day. A different time every morning, a different time home every night, several different routes home. A decoy car. The experts said it was as fool-proof as it could get, that his route would be impossible to figure out, that he was safe from any would-be assassin.

Lay hadn’t lived to be as old as he was by trusting the experts. His bodyguard held the door for him as he exited the SUV. The man, a former Navy SEAL, lived with Lay, sleeping one door down the hallway from the DCIA’s bedroom.

Ron Carter met him at the elevator, a thick folder clutched beneath the analyst’s right arm.

“I hear the Banker’s already to work,” Lay stated as the elevator doors closed on the two men, his tones clipped. Shapiro had earned the derisive nickname for his habit of keeping minimal hours. He was a political appointment, like Lay, but from the Hancock administration, and they had crossed swords more than once.

Carter glanced at him across the top of his glasses. “Does it mean something?”

“Does it?”

“Perhaps,” the analyst shrugged, handing Lay the folder. “Here’s the update on Operation TALON.”

“Break it down for me.”