Pandora's grave

The young Australian was asleep, her knees drawn up to her chin as she leaned back against the earthen bank of the hide. It was just as well.

He didn’t want to talk. He had a man out there, somewhere in the gathering twilight. A man he was being forced to leave behind. Two hours.

Two hours before the spec-ops Pave Low would come in to pick them up. Two more hours in which Thomas might show up.

When his radio crackled with a burst of static, it startled him. “FULLBACK to EAGLE SIX, I have movement. A man coming in from the south-southwest.”

“Ident?”

“Unknown.”

“Hold your fire. It may be a friendly.” Let it be Thomas, Harry prayed briefly, his eyes never leaving the slit of the hide.

The figure moved into his line of vision and his posture shifted, tracking its movement with the barrel of his AK.

Then a second figure appeared, slightly to one side of the first. And a third.

“EAGLE SIX, contacts hostile.” Tex’s voice over the radio. “I repeat, contacts hostile. Another pair converging on the area from southwest.”

“I copy,” Harry replied. “Hold tight.” He laid his Kalishnikov to the side and drew the Beretta from his belt, racking a cartridge into the chamber of the silenced pistol.

The five men spread out across the plateau, moving like shadows in the dusk. Harry adjusted his NVGs, illuminating them as green shapes, clearly silhouetted. One of them passed nearby and Harry held his breath. The hides were well camouflaged, but there was always the risk.

Should one of them step on the “roof” of a hide…

7:30 P.M.

Seven kilometers south of the PJAK camp

The indicator light on his GPS told him that he had arrived. Thomas shut down the instrument and stepped toward the shelter of a rocky outcropping, his pistol drawn in his hand.

Where were the Kurds?

The question answered itself in the next moment as a figure of an older man materialized out of the shadows.

“Mr. Patterson?” a voice enquired in English. The man was attired in a western-style shirt and jeans. In his hands he carried a Kalishnikov-style assault rifle similar to the one slung over Thomas’ back.

“Yes?” Thomas replied, half-turning toward him. Two more men appeared over the rise, surrounding him. Their rifles were leveled at his chest.

“ ‘Strange,” the man began, “ is it not? That of the myriads who before us passed the door of darkness through…’”

“ ‘Not one returns to tell us of the Road, which to discover we must travel too,’” Thomas responded with a smile, finishing the ancient Khayyam proverb and completing the countersign.

“Very good,” the man replied, still in the same smooth, cultured English. “We were told to expect you. Your weapons, please, Mr. Patterson?”

Thomas turned, looking him full in the face. “How do I know I can trust you?”

10:49 A.M. Eastern Time

CIA Headquarters

Langley, Virginia

“Can we trust him?” Director Lay asked, glancing up from the photo on his desk.

Ron Carter shrugged. “He’s been on the Agency’s payroll off and on ever since EAGLE CLAW,” the analyst replied, referring to the botched hostage rescue operation launched by the Carter administration.

The DCIA’s eyebrows went up. “Really? An old-timer. Motivation?”

“Hatred.”

Lay nodded. “Good. Reliable intel?”

“All of it, sir. We have no indication that he’s ever lied to us.”

“He’s never had an American in his possession either.”

“Sir?”

The director leaned back in his chair. “Devil’s advocate, Carter. Let’s worst-case this. Assume we can’t trust Badir. What happens now?”

Ron closed his eyes, his mind running through the possible scenarios. “Worst-case? He tries to use Parker as a bargaining chip with the Iranian government-to gain political recognition for the Kurds, to secure the release of imprisoned compatriots, anything, really. They just might concede in order to secure an American prisoner and the proof that we violated their borders with a spec-ops team.”

“Anything in his profile to indicate this might be a possibility?”

The analyst’s face was grim as he replied. “His services have always come at a high price, sir. In our every negotiation, he has sought to secure something to aid the cause of his people. Never in a duplicitous manner, but certainly self-serving.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s a patriot, sir, but not ours. His people come first and his attitude toward us is that of a businessman. He earned the nickname “The Horse Trader of Tabriz” from the intel boys a couple decades ago. In summation, I would say that he views the United States government as a tool to be used.”

“Precisely as we view him.”

“A cynical person might say that.”

8:00 P.M. Tehran Time

The base camp

“Two patrols have converged on the ridgeline-here, and set up overwatch,” Colonel Larijani noted, tapping the map with his finger.

Hossein nodded approvingly. “I know the place. Have them stay there-from that position they can cover the surrounding territory for some kilometers. Do they have night-vision?”