They were nearly to the center of the stream when it happened. One moment she was riding before him, the next he saw her horse stagger forward, its front legs flailing for traction.
Time seemed to slow down. He heard Estere scream, saw her clutch at the bridle as the current swirled around her, tearing her from the saddle in agonizing slow-motion.
“Estere!” he cried, an anguished cry torn from his lips as he urged Bahoz further into the stream, heedless of his own danger. One goal, a single purpose filling his mind.
Reach her.
His horse lurched to one side as he stepped into deep water, suddenly without footing and swimming for his life.
He could barely descry Estere in the darkness, a bit of flotsam tossed on the water. Out of reach.
Chaos. He felt Bahoz writhe beneath him, the stallion struggling against the current as it bore them both downstream.
And then she was gone. He pulled hard on the reins of the black, endeavoring to regain control, his eyes searching the night.
In vain…
The mountains were quiet. Unnaturally so, Hamid thought, making his way to the perimeter of camp. Perhaps it was nothing more than inbred prejudice against the traditional enemies of his ancestors, but he would be glad when they were safely back in Baghdad.
Sergeant Obregon was on watch and turned to confront Hamid as he approached. “Oh, it’s you, sir,” he acknowledged, lowering his carbine. Hamid chose to ignore the hostility simmering there under the veneer of civility. Some things had to be overlooked.
“Any sign of the Kurds?”
“That’s a negative,” Obregon replied, gesturing toward the NVGs that hung around his neck. “Everything’s quiet.”
“I had noticed. I was a Ranger, once.”
The sergeant turned toward him, a curious expression in his eyes. “You were? Where did you serve?”
“Afghanistan in the early days, up in the north with General Dostum. Tiger 02 of Task Force Dagger.” A grin spread across Hamid’s face as he continued. “Tasked with an Agency liaison in the spring of ‘03, just before I rotated out from my last tour. Most arrogant, irritating sonuvagun I’d ever met. So I know how you feel.”
He turned to see a look of surprise in Obregon’s eyes, protest and denial rising to the lips of the sergeant. “Sir — I don’t-”
Hamid put up a hand to stop the flow of words. “There’s no need, sergeant. I understand. Just don’t let it get in the way of our mission. Agreed?” he asked, extending his right hand.
The sergeant hesitated, then he reached out to take it, grinning as he did so. “Good enough…”
There. In the darkness. He saw her for a brief second in time, her upturned face white against the dark waters, close at hand. So close.
He pulled hard on the reins with a strength born of desperation, feeling the stallion fight the surging water.
An upthrown hand in the water and he reached out, the water tearing at him as he leaned from the saddle. Their fingers touched and then parted, her body drawn just out of reach by the torrent.
Again, and he leaned forward, seizing her hand in a frenzied grip. Her fingers felt cold and lifeless in his grasp. A dead weight. Dear God…
She wasn’t going to help him. He wrapped one arm around the thick neck of the swimming stallion for support, using the other to pull her toward him. Pain flowed through his veins as the current swirled around them, nearly pulling his arm from its socket.
He couldn’t remember having ever been so cold. Another hard jerk and she lay across the saddle in front of him, his numb fingers seizing the reins once again.
Whether she was dead or alive, he knew not.
“Now, Bahoz,” he whispered, urging the horse toward the side of the stream, out of the current. The stallion was tiring of the fight. Another few moments and they would be swept downstream, swept to destruction.
The impact jarred Thomas to the bone, the flailing hooves of Bahoz striking once more upon the rocky streambed. Almost.
The black shot from the water with a mighty lunge, bearing his double burden and coming down with a crash in the more torpid waters near shore.
Thomas buried his hands against the warm neck of the stallion as they splashed to shore, the body heat restoring his benumbed fingers.
Safety.
He slid down from the back of the horse, his legs seeming stiff and useless. He reached up and took her limp body in his arms, staggering toward a clump of bushes a few feet from the swollen stream.
So weak. So cold.
His legs gave out from under him half-way there and they crumpled to the ground, bodies entwined together. Tears fell from his eyes as he leaned over her, hands cradling her cold, lifeless face. The end of all dreams…
She coughed suddenly, an almost alien sound striking his ears. Water spewed from her mouth and he laughed, an almost giddy feeling overcoming him as he leaned back, placing both hands on her chest and pressing down to force the water from her lungs. She was alive…
It was a lot of information. Almost too much information to be compiled on one man. Certainly not in the last fifteen hours. Harry closed the dossier and handed it back to the waiting Carter. “May I ask why the Agency has taken such an interest in Asefi in the past?”
“The past?” Carter asked, as though he had no idea what Harry was talking about.
“Don’t give me that, Ron,” Harry shot back, rising from his chair. “You didn’t pull all this together since my call this morning. Even the timestamps on these photos — they’re five years old. What’s the history?”
The analyst sighed. “Asefi was involved in an assassination attempt of ours, back in the fall of 2011. You’ve read the file on Isfahani — he’s not always been the sort of cooperative peacenik who would work with the Israelis. He wasn’t the Supreme Leader at the time, but his status as the principal disciple of Khamenei made him one of the most influential clerics behind Iran’s nuclear program. And we tried to take him out.”
Harry stood with his hand on the door, listening. “Tried as in failed?”
“That would be correct. We lost our most important assets running the mission and we didn’t get Isfahani. Largely because of Asefi’s skill in protecting his principal. He may be queer as a three-dollar bill, but he’s a pretty formidable adversary all the same.”
“So then you went after him?” Harry asked, gesturing at the dossier on the table. Carter nodded.
“That’s right. Trying to find something we could exploit — a chink in the armor. And we found it. As they say, follow the money. We found that he had paid out large sums from a credit card over the course of two years to an Eastern European escort service specializing in male hookers. That gave us something to work with, and we planned to use it against him, either trying to get him to take out Isfahani, or give us a window in which to do so.”
“And then President Shirazi came to power, reducing the power of the clerics?” Harry guessed, glancing shrewdly at Carter.
“Exactly. All of a sudden, Isfahani was an unwilling moderate by comparison and we had no reason to target him.”
“Until now.” Nothing in the story surprised Harry — it was the type of thing that went on constantly. Bribery, back-stabbing and blackmail, the way the game was played. It went with the territory. He checked his watch and smiled. “It’s getting late and I’ve had quite a day. When do you plan to run the op on Asefi?”