Pandora's grave

“Such has always been our weakness,” Isfahani mused bitterly. “Ever since the days of the Prophet. So it will always be. Unity is more than we can hope for, major.”

“Then what is our objective?” Hossein asked, the military man rising to the surface as his confidence returned.

Isfahani turned, his steel gray eyes seeming to pierce to the very soul with the intensity of their stare. “To prevent desecration…”

2:11 P.M. Tehran Time

Northwestern Iran

They had seen the flames shortly after fording the stream. It had taken them two hours to reach this small Kurdish village-or rather what was left of it, Thomas thought, standing in the smoldering ruins. Beyond him lay the body of an aged grandmother, her skull crushed in by a rifle-butt. A couple of feet to her right, the corpse of a small child, face charred beyond recognition by the flames. The odor of burnt flesh hung in the air.

Butchery. The body of an aged man lay across the threshold of his house, a bolt-action Mosin-Nagant clutched in his stiff, lifeless hands. Thomas’s mind registered the futility of the old man’s resistance even as his heart moved in silent admiration of its raw courage.

An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, Thomas reflected. The old laws of vengeance had never died here in the East. He was standing amidst the fruits of it. The ashes of dreams.

Thomas saw several of the women among the PJAK group kneel among the rubble, weeping over the bodies of the dead. Estere was not among them. He turned to find her standing by a shell crater, looking out over the valley, the British-made sniper rifle still cradled in her arms.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, walking up to stand at her shoulder.

It was a long time before she even turned to look at him. “Sorry,” she murmured, almost spitting the word from her mouth. “We have been abandoned here.” Estere turned toward him, and a chill went down his spine at the look in her eyes. “They slay our people as they sleep, and when we strike back, your President calls us terrorists. We fight for our liberty,” she continued, her voice trembling, “nothing more. And nothing less.”

She fell silent once more as Sirvan came up to join them. “Regular army,” he announced grimly. “Likely in retaliation for our ambush two weeks ago.”

A shovel was in his left hand, and he tossed it to Thomas with the words, “Let us bury the dead.”

Thomas took it without a word and followed the young Kurd through the streets of the village. Yet even later, as they dug the graves, he could not get Estere’s face out of his mind. The look in her eyes. He had seen it, so many times before, in the eyes of his comrades through the years. The look of death.

Your President calls us terrorists…

6:04 A.M. Eastern Time

The Oval Office

Washington, D.C.

“So, we’re negotiating with terrorists, are we?”

David Lay lifted his eyes from the folder in front of him to meet President Hancock’s gaze. “PJAK’s status has been a matter of dispute over the years. Under the previous administration, they were removed from the US terrorism watch list.”

“A mistake I was quick to rectify,” Hancock interjected coldly, cutting the DCIA off. “Did you know about this, Lawrence?”

Lawrence Bell, the National Intelligence Director, shook his head slowly. “I was not briefed on the situation till late yesterday afternoon. By then PJAK had already sequestered our agent.”

The President turned back to Lay. “Is there a reason you did not send this through the appropriate channels, director?”

Lay sighed. This was going about the way he had expected. Not well. “With all due respect, Mr. President, the situation was moving very fast. Our man was in danger of being picked up by members of Iran’s Revolutionary Guards. Given that possibility and the difficulties intrinsic to conducting an E amp;E through northwestern Iran, I authorized Director Kranemeyer to work our contacts with PJAK in order to secure our agents’ safety. I believe the actions of my people were necessary to avoid compromising the mission and I signed off on every step,” the DCIA finished boldly, his eyes locking with those of the President.

Hancock traded an irritated glance with the DNI, then turned back to Lay. “One of our agents is in the hands of Kurdish terrorists and you believe the mission isn’t compromised?”

He glanced down at the dossier in front of him, then went on without waiting for Lay to answer. “Director Bell informs me that you established some sort of quid pro quo with Badir in order to secure the return of our agent. What were the terms of this agreement?”

“An agreement pending your authorization, Mr. President,” Lay replied, choosing his words carefully.

“Of course. What were the terms?”