Read Online Pandora's Grave by Stephen England - Free Book Online

Experienced fighters, veterans of Afghanistan and Iraq, they knew the country. They were taking advantage of every bit of high ground, every rocky crag from behind which they could fire without exposing themselves.
    The radio at his side crackled loudly with static and he leaned over, grasping up the microphone. “Convoy to Base Camp, we are three kilometers out. Request instructions.”
    Praise Allah! Hossein thought in a rare moment of pious thanks. He spoke rapidly into the microphone, ordering them to the rocky outcropping he had picked out seven hours before. When he had received the message from Tehran.
    Yes, praise be to Allah. Now he only needed another half-hour for the missile battery to arrive and position themselves. Then they would be ready. Ready for the Americans.
     
    11:58 P.M. Local Time
    Sayeret Matkal Headquarters
    Israel
     
    Gideon Laner turned the faucet all the way to hot, cupping the water in his hands and splashing it over his face. It was refreshing to be clean once again, after the tedious strain of being undercover for the past two months. He reached into the drawer underneath the sink and pulled out a Gillette razor. He hadn’t shaved in that time either. But he had succeeded. Ibrahim Quasim was dead. Now Sayeret Matkal, the Israeli special-ops unit, would just have to see who Hamas replaced him with.
    For there would be a replacement, that was granted, but the new man would not be as experienced as the man whose body now lay back in the dust of a Gaza street. Not as skillful. And they would kill him too.
    Gideon pulled off his shirt, glancing in the mirror as he did so. A tired, worn face lined with worry stared back at him. The face of a man old before his time. He sighed and reached for the razor.
    At that moment a knock came at the door, startling him. “One moment,” he answered, pulling his shirt back over his head.
    He yanked open the bathroom door. “What’s going on?” he demanded, irritated at the interruption. A female corporal from Communications was standing before him.
    “I’m sorry,” he began, embarrassed by his outburst.
    She didn’t seem to notice, handing him a clipboard. “This arrived over the wire, lieutenant. You have to sign for it.”
    He took it from her, noticing the Mossad crest at the top of the cover sheet. What did they want?
     
    8:03 A.M. Eastern Time
    CIA Headquarters
    Langley, Virginia
     
    “I understand, Scott, I do understand. But tell Sorenson I want that satellite coverage ASAP—as Kranemeyer requested. Keep on him. Goodbye.” Director Lay hung up the phone, sighing heavily as he did so. The NRO still wasn’t providing the real-time sat coverage that had been requested. Their regional KH-13 was apparently tied up covering one of the interminable uprisings in Indonesia.
    Lay slammed his fist against the solid oak of his desk. To blazes with Indonesia! His teams weren’t there, weren’t headed into harms’ way in that godforsaken part of the globe. They were going to Iran. And something was giving him a bad feeling about all this. There was something wrong.
    He had become DCIA six years before with a clear mission from Hancock’s predecessor. Transform the Agency. And, as much as was possible, he had done so. He had successfully lobbied the Hill to increase the budget for human intelligence and special operations by over fifty percent, started running operations the like of which hadn’t been done for forty years. And there were people in this town that didn’t like that. They didn’t like it one bit. Which was why he had to be careful.
    He rose from his chair, going over to the window, his hands in his pockets as he gazed out over the city. From his office he could see the Washington monument, the tall granite obelisk that towered over the city, stone glistening in the autumn sun.
    They couldn’t understand, it seemed no one could anymore. The price of freedom. The sacrifices necessary to obtain it. Sacrifice. The politicos that