PROLOGUE

In a remote compound on an eastern slope of the Karkas Mountains, renowned physicist Hamid Saidi stepped outside into the blinding sunlight, quickly merging with the raucous crowd gathered by the entrance to building seven. To a spy satellite, the area appeared as little more than a few concrete buildings strewn over a vast expanse of dirt and rocks. Hidden from view were millions of square feet of heavily-fortified laboratories, burrowed so deep underground as to be impenetrable by anything short of a nuclear detonation.

Not wanting a front-row seat to the barbaric event purposely scheduled to coincide with the changing shifts, Hamid elbowed his way deep into the heart of the unruly mob. Bracing himself, he shoved his hands inside the pockets of his lab coat, fighting the impulse to cover his ears. At last, he turned toward the grisly scene, all too familiar within Iran.

“Help me!” the woman shrieked, her tortured plea barely rising above the din. “Don’t be such cowards!”

Though faint, her taunting accusation pierced Hamid’s soul. Disgusted with himself, he looked away, directly into the eyes of the man standing next to him.

“You fool,” the man hissed, leaning in close to his ear. “Do you want to join her?”

Near panic and desperate to avoid drawing attention to himself, Hamid reluctantly turned back and cupped his hands to his mouth but couldn’t bring himself to utter the words. The more vociferous of his colleagues were shouting, kill the jende, demanding death for the whore, but she wasn’t a whore, and she didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.

Goaded on by the crowd’s chants, a guard unleashed a fist-sized stone, aiming it at the helpless woman’s chest. The rock’s dull thud, like that of a bat hitting a bag of rice, nearly made Hamid vomit. Resisting the urge to flee, he stole a glance at his watch. Though he didn’t have much time, he had no choice but to observe the stoning to its completion.

As the first guard reloaded, a second one cocked his arm and threw a jagged hunk of granite at full velocity. The projectile’s sharp edges ripped into the woman’s left cheek, splattering blood and bits of flesh all over her face and opening a nasty gash that exposed several teeth. Despite her grotesque injuries, she managed to let out a chilling scream that burst forth with such force it echoed off of the concrete building.

She is a diversion, Hamid kept reminding himself. She is expendable.

The diversion’s name was Yasmine. She was a secretary and a colleague’s girlfriend. She was also his friend. And now she was lying in a pit, her body stuffed in a gunnysack that was tied around her neck. As a warning, Hamid and his colleagues were all being forced to watch as the guards punished the defenseless woman. She would be stoned to death for having sex out of wedlock, and he would escape.

A hand grabbed his arm. It was Yasmine’s boyfriend. His eyes were crazed, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. “You’ve got to help me,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “I can’t just let them murder her!”

Hamid dislodged his arm. “You should have gotten her out of the country while you had the chance,” he replied as he began to move away, despising himself for the harsh words. “Now we must all pay the price for your foolishness.”

Using his peripheral vision, he checked the locations of the other guards. Even the goons who were supposed to be blocking the gates had moved in to watch the kill.

Sensing the end was near, Hamid began in earnest to work his way to the rear of the crowd, knowing the guards would have orders to shoot anyone who tried to leave before she was officially pronounced dead. As the crowd’s vile epithets grew to a fever pitch, he joined in, fully aware that he was expendable, too.

Almost clear of the pack, he turned for a last glimpse just as a rock smashed into Yasmine’s forehead, mercifully knocking her unconscious and silencing her heart-wrenching pleas. It was then that the siren went off. The technicians in the control room had finally managed to pry their eyes away from viewing the stoning long enough to check their other monitors, discovering the disabled security cameras. It wouldn’t be long before they knew the full extent of what he had done.

With nothing left to lose, Hamid bolted from the crowd and sprinted across the barren grounds, racing for the parking lot and freedom. Unaccustomed to exercise, he was soon breathing hard but somehow found the strength to run faster.

Halfway to his goal, he reached down inside his pants and ripped his cell phone free from the duct-tape pouch he had strapped to his crotch, safe keeping during the guard’s perfunctory pat down. He had already attached the photos and selected the recipient—his email account. When he didn’t come home tonight, his brother would know what to do. He had risked everything for six photos that could change the course of history. He had no regrets.

Nearing the gates and the razor-wired chain-link fence surrounding the isolated compound, Hamid spotted the orange bumper sticker he had placed on his car this morning. He had taken great care to park the BMW exactly six rows back, marking the point just beyond the maximum range of the facility’s electronic jamming equipment.

Behind him, he heard a cavalcade of boots pounding the hard-packed earth. Just thirty more feet, and he could press send and the photos would be on their way. The guards were shouting for him to stop. Just a few more steps, and he would have a signal.

“Halt, or I’ll shoot,” a guard commanded, followed by the unmistakable metallic scrape of an AK-47 being readied to fire.

Although Hamid was a good two yards short of his car and clear reception, he planted his left foot and pushed off with all his remaining strength. Still airborne, his arm stretched out in front of him, he managed to press send just as a relentless stream of bullets stitched a bloody trail across his torso.

CHAPTER ONE

Heart pounding in her ears, Danika Stone barely heard the electronic latches as they slid into the jamb, allowing the thick door to swing open. In all her years with the CIA, she had never been inside the Director’s office and, until now, had never met her boss, although she had seen a number of his imposing performances before Congress. The memory of watching him verbally shred the powerful chairman of the Senate’s Select Committee on Intelligence gave her pause. George Sampson was definitely nobody’s fool.

As Danika approached his massive mahogany desk, she noted he was even more intimidating in person, a thickset man with blunt features and menacing eyes. She was certain he would have looked at home as a prison guard if he hadn’t been decked out in one of his trademark Savile Row suits.

“Agent Stone,” he said, not bothering to look up from a folder he was perusing, “take a seat, and let’s get started.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, flustered by the cool reception. Hesitant, she straightened her skirt then sat in one of the low-slung wingbacks, facing the Director but having to look up to make eye contact. She had already taken in the expansive room decorated in dark hardwoods, lots of leather and plush rugs. It reeked of power; past, present and future, adding to her distress.

After an uncomfortable interval, the Director tossed the folder on the desk. “I’ll get right to the point,” he said, eyeing her critically. “We’re about to undertake a delicate, highly-classified mission, and we need someone with your unique qualifications to pull it off.”

Danika couldn’t take her eyes off of the thick manila file now resting right in front of her. From where she was sitting, she could make out a name on the tab—hers! “Sir,” she nervously replied, “I just work in the Middle Eastern bureau, research and analysis mostly, so I can’t possibly imagine why you would ever consider me for such a thing.”

“I understand you’re fluent in Farsi,” he said, brushing her comment aside, “as well as a number of regional languages and dialects.”

Although Danika kept to herself within the Agency, finding comfort in history and statistics, she had heard the rumors about how the President was attempting to permanently diminish the CIA’s clout and the Director’s determination to prevent that fate from befalling the Agency, regardless of the consequences to himself. Legend had it that he knew where all of the bodies were buried for the past three administrations. Sitting here, now, she was putting her money on the Director. “It’s a part of my heritage,” she said, tentatively nodding, “in addition to being a part of my job.”

“As is your familiarity with your native country.”

Once again, she nodded. Her childhood in 1980’s mullah-controlled Iran was something she would rather forget, but there was no running away from the fact that she had been a female and a Jew in a country that had despised both. To make matters worse, there had been the relentless Iraqi bombing raids over her hometown of Tehran during the brutal eight-year war between the neighboring countries. And now, all these years later, she still suffered from horrific nightmares, a weakness in herself that she shared with no one.

“Of course,” he continued, “there’s also your proficiency in several of the martial arts.”

Danika was at a loss for words, uncomfortable with this bizarre conversation. Or was it an interrogation? She allowed herself a brief look out the rain-streaked window into an interior courtyard. June weather in Virginia was hit or miss. “I wouldn’t say I was proficient,” she managed to say.

“Then what would you call someone who has mastered both judo and taekwondo?”

Scared, she thought, a further reminder of those painful years. The Islamic Revolution that had deposed Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi and swept Ayatollah Khomeini into power had set the Westernization of Iran back at least fifty years. Thanks to harsh reforms implemented by Khomeini’s government, the city streets became a treacherous minefield for anyone who wasn’t male, Muslim and pro-Khomeini. Overnight, her family had become pariahs in their own country. “I was pushed into it by my parents,” she blurted out, immediately regretting the lie. At the tender age of nine, safely ensconced in Los Angeles, she had pleaded with her parents to enroll her in self-defense classes. Her mastery of martial arts was more a byproduct of her fear and her relentless dedication rather than a specific goal.

The Director leaned forward, his intense eyes cautioning her. It was clear he knew the truth. “Then there’s your appearance,” he said, suddenly changing direction again.

“My appearance?”

“I’ll be blunt. On top of everything else, you have the right look for the job.”

“The right look?” she asked, inwardly groaning. She had spent a lifetime proving her intellect, earning dual PhDs in history and archeology, along with cultivating a natural flare for the mathematics of writing and cracking codes, the latter talent being something she kept strictly to herself, but men never seemed to be able to get beyond her looks. One glimpse of her long black hair, full lips and doe eyes, and men became drooling idiots.

The Director frowned, not a man prone to beating around the bush. “Surely you’re aware you don’t go unnoticed?”

If only she weren’t, she thought, self-consciously crossing and then uncrossing her shapely legs. “Sir,” she frostily replied, feeling his words and demeanor were precipitously close to sexual harassment, “I refuse to accept any job that is based on my looks.”

“Perhaps this will help persuade you,” he said, pulling a thick stack of papers from her hefty file and placing it in front of her. “That document is the main reason you’re here. And it has nothing whatsoever to do with your looks.”

Pulling it closer, Danika spotted the title and the author’s name on the top page. “My dissertation!” she gasped, genuinely shocked and more than a bit concerned. She had received an A for her efforts, but her professor had cautioned her that some people would consider her conclusions to be radical and extreme, which was why she hadn’t listed it on her CIA application.

“It turned up in your background check,” he said, reading her thoughts, “but before we delve into it, there’s a little matter we need to attend to.”

Danika reached out and took the proffered form he pulled out of his desk drawer, familiar with it, having signed one years ago so that she could translate classified documents. “I already have top-secret clearance,” she explained, puzzled he didn’t already know.

He pursed his lips, contemplating. “Not only is the information I’m about to divulge explosive, it’s accurate to say that including the President and myself, there are no more than a dozen people who know about it. And this,” he added, indicating the form she was holding, “goes far beyond any clearance you currently possess, and the penalty for disobeying it is infinitely more severe.”

As the Director’s web began to take shape, Danika could see the predicament she was in. In one hand she held her dissertation, which could no doubt get her fired and perhaps prosecuted, and in the other hand was a far-reaching document that would basically require her to sign her life away. She locked eyes with her boss. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

He shook his head, drawing the noose a little tighter.

“But why me?”

He ignored her question and handed her a pen. “We don’t have much time.”

Not much time for what? she wondered, not even bothering to read the document. What was the point? This was a man who could forego prosecution and just throw her into a secret prison in some third-world country, never to be heard from again. She signed and initialed where indicated, then handed it back.

He grunted his approval then pulled out another file and slid a stack of five photos across the desk. “The man who shot these was murdered shortly afterwards. Take a look and tell me what you see.”

Danika quickly shuffled through the first four photos, looking at various components of some sort that were vaguely familiar and seemingly related to one another. It was the fifth glossy image that nearly stopped her heart. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked, praying she was wrong.

“If you think it’s an explosive device, then yes.”

She studied the photo again, looking closer. It showed an enormous oblong object with two very frightening decals on its metallic body—an Iranian flag and the international symbol for radiation.