He preferred to work with men he knew-with men whose abilities were a known quantity to him. Men he could rely upon to do their job.
Men like Thomas, Tex, and Hamid Zakiri, themselves survivors of the Azeri mission as well as many other missions in the years before and since. He knew them all and trusted them. Counted them his friends. But only Hamid, an Iraqi-American Shiite, spoke Farsi.
Harry did, but they needed another who could pass more easily as a native. Hopefully this man would fit the bill…
“So, gentlemen, that is the situation as we have it.” Director Lay looked up from his briefing papers. “Any questions?”
Harry hadn’t been listening. He had heard it all before, all of it explained to him back on the seventh floor. So, he had spent his time watching.
Watching the young Iranian, watching his reaction to the briefing. Trying to read his thoughts. Trying to assess them. After a moment, Sarami’s hand went up.
“How many Iranian troops are at the campsite?”
It was a good question. One you should have asked, a little voice reminded Harry. So far, so good.
Lay glanced over to Ron Carter for the answer.
“Initially, our satellite overpasses were only able to catch a few men, perhaps twelve or thirteen soldiers,” Carter replied, stepping forward, his laptop in hand. “However, the last scan, made twelve hours ago, showed at least platoon strength, approximately fifty men, all heavily armed. There are also an undeterminate number of scientists. I believe we can assume that some of them have military training.”
“Triple-A?”
“Negative-satellite shows no formal anti-aircraft capability. Small arms fire could be intense, though, so a direct air assault is inadvisable. We’ll have to set you down a few klicks out.”
“Do we have any idea why the Iranian military decided to set up a bio-war facility there of all places?”
David Lay shook his head. “None of this makes sense. That’s why we’re sending you in. To figure out exactly what they’re doing.”
“Alpha Team is being reconstituted?” Hamid Zakiri asked, speaking up for the first time. Heads swiveled to where the Iraqi agent stood a few feet away, calmly sipping a Pepsi. At five-nine, Zakiri was far from the tallest team member, but he was light and fast. Back in his Army days, he’d set records on the Ranger’s “Q Course”.
“Yes,” Harry replied, in answer to his old friend’s question. Alpha Team as a whole hadn’t officially been mission-ready in over a year, with one or another of its members deployed separately. His own mission south of the border had only been the latest in a string.
“Almost like old times,” Hamid smiled, white teeth showing against his deeply tanned skin. “All that’s left to do is get Sammy back.”
Harry nodded. The departure of Samuel Han after the Azeri mission had left a hole in the teams, a hole they hadn’t permanently filled even these years later. No one could fault him, though. After the losses that winter, he quite simply hadn’t been able to take it anymore. Leaving the Agency forever behind him, he had retreated into the mountains of West Virginia. Rumor had it that he’d become something of a hermit. The stresses of combat did that to people. The loss of friends…
Davood Sarami had been studying the map on the far wall. When he turned back, his tanned face was strangely pale.
“What is it, Davood?” Kranemeyer asked, noting his odd expression.
“Where were these-these archaeologists working? What was it that they were excavating?”
“Does it matter?”
Davood nodded quietly. “It may. It may very much.”
“Ron?”
The analyst turned back to his computer and hit a couple of keys. “Just a moment…let’s see.” He looked up. “The ruins of Rhodaspes. An ancient Persian trade city.”
“ Ya Allah,” the Iranian whispered. Oh, God.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, watching the man closely. There was something going on here. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew he didn’t like it…
“Do you know the area?”
Davood looked up, glancing first at the DCS and then at Harry. “No,” he said, answering Kranemeyer’s question first, “I don’t know the area. My parents were born a hundred kilometers away. But Rhodaspes…”
“What about it?”
“The Iranians, they call it the place of the jinn. The city of spirits…”
11:49 P.M. Tehran Time
The campsite
Back and forth, the guard paced across the camp, his sweaty hands firmly grasping his Kalishnikov assault rifle, his eyes peering nervously into the darkness.
A cool night breeze came sweeping over the plateau, startling him. There was something evil about this place. He knew it. He could feel it in the very air.
It was too silent. Nothing, not even the night sounds of animals to break the stillness. Not even the birds came to this place, or so it seemed.
He glanced back at the trailers behind him. What they were used for, he had no idea. And he didn’t really want to know. For there was evil there too. Evil in the hearts of men, as dark as the night surrounding him.
He turned and began his patrol back, his AK-47 still held at the ready, its barrel probing the night ahead of him. It was the only power he still held over this place.
He felt a cough coming and he brought his hand up to cover his mouth.
The cough seemed to tear at his throat and when he pulled his hand away, it was covered with blood.
He dropped the assault rifle in panic and began to run, running toward the light of the camp, running toward the trailers. Running and knowing he might be too late. Knowing that the evil had already overtaken him…
2:51 P.M. Eastern Time
NCS Operations Center
Langley, Virginia
“Spirits?”
Davood nodded, a flush growing across his face. “It sounds stupid, I know. But my ancestors believed it.”
“That’s not to the point, Davood,” Director Lay interjected. “Do you believe that it’s true?”
There was a moment of dead silence. “Well?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It is probably nothing more than myth, but when a myth persists…”
Harry crossed the room to the map, gazing up at it. “When did this legend originate, Davood? According to what Ron says, this was a prosperous city at one time.”
“Allah knows. Certainly no one on this earth.”
“I see.” Harry turned back to the directors. “I think we’ll have enough to concern ourselves handling the guards around the site. As for the supernatural,” he smiled, “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Right,” Director Lay nodded with a grim smile of his own. “You leave on the 22nd.”
7:14 P.M.
Grove Manor
Cypress, Virginia
Harry parked his car in the small garage he had built on one edge of the property, locking it securely behind him.
His Colt was in his right hand as he strode quickly toward the house, glancing around him in the gathering darkness. The huge oak trees that had given the house its name cast long shadows over him, as did the house itself.
Moving along the cobble-stoned walkway, between waist-high boxwood hedges, he looked up at the tall Civil War-era mansion he had inherited from his mother’s side of the family. It could be seen for miles, a landmark in the small community of Cypress, Virginia. Which was exactly why he was being cautious.