Pandora's grave

“Sure thing,” Lasker replied, reaching across his workstation. “Just a sec. There, we’re on.”

“Nearly twelve hours ago, the rebel group I hooked up with was informed of a biological attack on a Kurdish village to our south. We quick-marched it through the night and just arrived on-scene about twenty minutes ago.”

“And?”

“It’s bad, Danny. We’re still in the heights overlooking the village at the moment-Badir’s a canny old fox-not going to move in until he’s sure the area’s clear. But there’s bodies everywhere.”

“Any signs of life?”

“No.”

Lasker cradled the phone between shoulder and ear, shuffling through the stack of intel reports on his desk. “Hold one, Thomas. We got a bio-tagged flash from the boys over at Intel earlier in the day. Just let me find it-yeah, here it is.”

His eyes tracked down the body of the report, an oath bursting from his lips as he reached the end of it. “Thomas, listen to me. Do not, I repeat, do not go into the village. Can I reach you at this number?”

“Yeah, Badir let me borrow his phone.”

“I’ll call you back within the hour. Hold tight.”

10:25 A.M. Tehran Time

The Presidential Palace

Tehran, Iran

“Any sign of the Kurds?” President Shirazi asked, shutting off the live video feed with the flick of a finger as he leaned back into his armchair.

“No, sir.” Harun Larijani replied, sitting stiffly in the chair in front of his uncle’s desk. “They must know by now.”

“To be sure.” Shirazi glanced at the now-dormant monitor and smiled. “It would appear as though our test was a resounding success.”

Larijani closed his eyes, remembering the carnage. His men had been forced to shoot three of the villagers when they had tried to break from the cordon. They had been the lucky ones. What had followed…

He had emptied his stomach upon the ground outside the village and even now, he felt that he might retch at the memory. The cries of the damned…

Ashamed by his own weakness, he summoned up a smile and faced his uncle. “It certainly was.”

Shirazi rose from his desk and walked across the small office to the far wall. “I am proud of you, Harun. I must confess my uncertainty as to whether you could carry out so difficult an assignment.”

“It was an honor to carry out the work of Allah, the most glorified, the most high,” the young man replied mechanically.

“It was,” Shirazi continued, “I must confess, a test. Not just of our new weapon, but of you.”

“Sir?”

“Fortunately, I may say, both passed the test in splendid form. Your father should be honored that Allah so smiled upon him at your birth.”

Harun sat there speechless, unsure what, if any, response was appropriate. At any rate, his uncle continued without waiting for one. “I have spoken in shadows of our plans, but the time for such ambiguities is past. The time has come to speak of these deeds in the light of day, to speak of the honor accorded to those who have been chosen to perform them.”

The Iranian president took hold of one of the hangings on the wall and tore it away with the dramatic flourish of unveiling a statue.

A picture lay beneath, a picture so familiar that Harun could have easily dismissed it, but for the light shining in his uncle’s eyes.

“Here,” Shirazi proclaimed, tapping the silver-domed structure in the right foreground of the picture, “here is where we strike.”

10:45 A.M.

Isfahan, Iran

Five of the fifty were gone already. A combination of ignorance, incompetence, and other shortcomings. Hossein was not surprised. Whatever else could be said about the shrewd old holy man, he was no soldier.

Rifle shots rippled into the morning breeze as the recruits fired their assault rifles into paper targets at one hundred meters. The major stalked back and forth behind the line, his critical gaze taking in their accuracy, their stance, the way they held their weapons. Noticing everything, missing nothing.

Half-way down the line, a nineteen-year-old boy clutched the Kalishnikov tightly, both eyes closed as he emptied the magazine down-range.

The major stepped in close as the last cartridge fired, striking the gun’s muzzle up with a mighty blow. “Fool!” he hissed, tearing the rifle from the boy’s grasp. “You are finished.”

Hot tears of shame started from the young man’s eyes as he turned to walk away. Hossein watched him go in silence. He, like the others Hossein had already dismissed, knew their Quran better than their Kalishnikov, no doubt something not to be despised, but less than desirable under these circumstances.

Hossein sighed. Promised soldiers, he had received fanatics. Just as he had expected…

8:59 A.M. Local Time

Ashquelon, Israel

The rays of early dawn were just beginning to spread over the Shephelah when Tex returned to his motel.