OTHER TITLES BY BRIAN ANDREWS AND JEFFREY WILSON
Tier One Series
Tier One
War Shadows
Crusader One
WRITING AS ALEX RYAN
Nick Foley Thriller Series
Beijing Red
Hong Kong Black
OTHER TITLES BY BRIAN ANDREWS
The Calypso Directive
The Infiltration Game
Reset
OTHER TITLES BY JEFFREY WILSON
The Traiteur’s Ring
The Donors
Fade to Black
War Torn
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Brian Andrews and Jeffrey Wilson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503904422
ISBN-10: 1503904423
Cover design by Mike Heath | Magnus Creative
To the men and women of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
CONTENTS
PART I
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
PART II
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
PART III
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
EPILOGUE
AUTHORS’ NOTE
GLOSSARY
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
PART I
A good teacher is like a candle—it consumes itself to light the way for others.
—Mustafa Kemal Atatürk
CHAPTER 1
Ankara, Turkey
May 4
1330 Local Time
Amanda Allen had a secret.
Keeping it was exhausting.
So far, she’d kept it hidden from her boss, the US Ambassador to Turkey, and from her father—the two most important figures in her life. In the beginning, she’d reassured herself that with time, the burden would grow lighter. Now, four months into her assignment, she wasn’t so sure. I’ll give it a year and reassess, she thought, smiling and nodding while the men talked. Not everyone was cut out for this line of work. If her decision to lead a double life didn’t work out, there was always law school. One call from her father and she’d be in, wherever she wanted to go.
Nepotism . . . America’s safety net.
The afternoon sun hung high in a cloudless bright-blue sky. Ankara was bustling, almost as if the entire city had silently agreed on taking a late lunch today, and now everyone was hurrying back to work en masse. Since arriving in Turkey, she’d frequently heard people refer to Istanbul as the country’s beating heart. If that was true, then Ankara was its calculating mind. Ambassador Bailey had told her that a hundred years ago, the population of the city had numbered only seventy-five thousand. Today, Turkey’s capital was home to over five million people. The city didn’t feel like home yet to her, but hopefully that would come with time.
Give it a year . . .
She stood with her hands clasped behind her back as her two male companions spoke on the sidewalk outside the charming Aegean seafood restaurant they had just left, which was walking distance from both the US embassy and the Turkish Ministry of the Interior. It was a struggle to stand quietly, patiently—her father had raised her to be a strong woman and encouraged her to speak her mind—but she forced herself. Women’s rights had advanced further in Turkey than in many of its Middle Eastern neighbors, but that still put it a half century behind the West. And now, secularism was at risk as Muslim conservatives, led by President Erodan, sought to weave Islam back into law and erase the little bit of progress that had been made.
Amanda listened and tried desperately not to interject as her boss, Ambassador Charles Bailey, engaged in an animated conversation with Halil Demicri. As the acting Director of Migration Management for the Ministry of the Interior, Demicri oversaw Turkey’s immigration and asylum programs. The publicly stated mission of his office was to develop “people-oriented policies” for foreign victims of human trafficking who were trying to “harmonize” with the country. However, thus far there had been little discussion of human trafficking, or harmonizing, or even people-oriented policies. Instead, Demicri had spent the entire lunch talking about an entirely different kind of migration-management problem—the Kurds.
“If what you are saying is true, Mr. Ambassador, then why does your country continue to support Kurdish separatists in Syria?” Demicri said in his British-accented English. He had reminded them at least three times that he’d earned his degree in international relations in Britain.
“In America, we have an expression, Director Demicri, and maybe you’ve heard it,” Bailey said, “which is that you’re comparing apples and oranges. We concur that groups like YPG and PKK are pursuing a terrorist agenda inside Turkey, and we condemn this. However, Kurdish people pursuing cultural recognition, freedom from persecution, and a voice in their local governance are another matter altogether.”
Demicri snorted an incredulous laugh. “How can you say such a thing? They are one and the same people.”
“Now, Halil,” Bailey said, switching deftly to the familiar. “How can you say such a thing? Am I to interpret from your comment that you believe that every Kurd is a member of PKK? Take care with your words, or I might misconstrue your statement to mean that Turkey classifies all Kurds as terrorists.”
Demicri’s cheeks reddened. “Be careful with your words, Ambassador, or I might misconstrue your statement to mean that the United States is actively supporting the Kurdish terrorism agenda.”
Well, isn’t this going just wonderfully, Amanda thought. Probably time to play peacemaker.
“Gentlemen, if I could—” she started to say, but not only did Bailey interrupt her, he waved a hand at her to be quiet as if she were a child. Now her cheeks were the ones turning red. Just because
they were in Turkey did not mean she forfeited her rights and status as an equal, most especially when operating within their State Department roles. Later, when they were alone, she would tell him so.
The other Amanda Allen, however, the one supporting an entirely different American agenda, was delighted with this conversation. For all its divisiveness, the meeting had been incredibly productive. Demicri had dropped lots of names and been aggressive in trying to control the topics of conversation. Her brain was swimming with details she had not been able to write down but needed to remember for her report to her other boss—what was said and unsaid, her impressions of Demicri, and as much detail as she could collect about the security protocols employed to protect him. When it came to intelligence collection, no detail was insignificant. She was itching to wrap this meeting up; the sooner she could put her observations to paper, the better.
“Clearly this is a sensitive, but important, matter for Turkey,” Bailey was saying as Amanda tuned back in. “I think by both of us voicing our concerns today, we’ve made some headway.”
Demicri nodded, a political smile plastered on his face. “Honest dialogue, even when contentious, is an important part of any strategic partnership between our two countries. Please convey to the Secretary and President that my government draws a clear distinction between law-abiding Kurdish citizens and Kurdish separatists using terror to pursue an agenda of political unrest and murder. Turkey considers both its native Kurdish population and those seeking asylum from persecution in Syria important and valued minority populations. But we will not tolerate the United States backing any group bent on destabilizing Turkey.”
Bailey was gearing up to reply, but this time Amanda shot him a look as she began to speak, daring him to try cutting her off again. “Director Demicri, the United States recognizes that Turkey has opened its borders to more than two million Syrians over the past decade of fighting. We understand this has been a heavy burden, both politically and financially, and we thank you for your generosity and compassion when it comes to refugees.”
“That’s right,” Demicri said, nodding vigorously, his face lighting up for the first time. “You need more on your staff like her, Mr. Ambassador. She understands the sacrifice Turkey has made. It is important for the United States and NATO to understand that for Turkey to remain committed to this strategic partnership, we need financial support from the West. Otherwise, we will have no choice but to explore ways to strengthen our relationships with other regional partners.”
There’s that phrase again, she thought. Strategic partnership.
The subtext in Demicri’s message was impossible to miss. Either the US stepped up its financial commitment to help Turkey crush the Kurdish separatist movement, or Turkey would start looking to Moscow instead of Washington for support. Amanda would argue that the process had already begun when Erodan met with Russian President Petrov back in April.
“I understand,” Bailey said, his tone now placating rather than hard. “I promise you that Turkey’s security and stability are of the utmost importance to the State Department and the Warner administration. I’ll pass along your concerns and express the financial hardship Turkey faces.”
“Please see that you do, Mr. Ambassador,” Demicri said, then turned to smile at Amanda. “Ms. Allen, your observations were very insightful. I look forward to our next meeting,” he said, shamelessly looking her up and down.
She ignored his lecherous gaze and forced a smile. “It would be wonderful if Azur Basar from the Ministry could attend our next meeting. Her reputation as a champion for women’s—”
She stopped midsentence.
Something was wrong.
Her stomach was tight—a feeling she’d come to depend on during her training at the Farm. She shifted her gaze beyond Demicri, aware that he was asking her if something was the matter. Across the street, amid a row of taxis, a black Mercedes sat idling, its driver behind the wheel.
“Is everything okay?” the Ambassador asked.
She ignored Bailey and looked left, her gaze flicking toward the intersection.
The man with the magazine looked out of place. The street was crowded and moving, but this guy was standing perfectly still—not reading, just staring at her. Behind him, parked on the northwest corner, sat a white high-top van with no windows in the rear compartment. The magazine man glanced over his shoulder at the van and then fished a phone from his pocket.
“Oh shit,” she said and grabbed Ambassador Bailey by the sleeve of his suit coat.
Her intention was to run, but a massive pressure wave sent her airborne. The heat hit her a heartbeat later, like she’d opened an oven door while her face was too close to it. She never heard the boom. She didn’t remember flying through the air or hitting the ground. Somebody closed the oven door, but the right side of her face still felt hot. And wet maybe. Her face hurt, but not nearly as bad as the throbbing pain in her head. When she opened her eyes, the imagery was nonsensical. The white van parked in front of her was pointing toward the sky, climbing a perfectly vertical hill. Booted feet approached, belonging to men running on a wall, their bodies clinging impossibly at a ninety-degree angle. Nothing made sense. Then, something clicked and her proprioception came back. She was lying on her side; that’s why the world was askew. She coughed, and the right side of her chest exploded with pain; it felt like someone had just driven a flaming sword between her ribs.
She blinked.
I have to get up.
She tried to push herself onto her knees, but it was as if the earth had somehow turned up the power of gravity. No, not gravity. Something was driving her down, a weight from above, not a tug from below. She saw a black boot beside her and realized that it must belong to a man pressing his other foot into the small of her back. With great effort, she turned her head the other way and gazed into the face of her make-believe boss—Ambassador Bailey. His body lay only inches from her.
At first she thought he was dead, but then he blinked, and a tear spilled from his eye, traveled over the bridge of his nose, and dropped to the dirty sidewalk. She saw there was a boot on his neck. Then she saw the muzzle of the rifle against his temple. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a flash. The accompanying crack was barely audible—muffled, like a gunshot a thousand yards away. She watched in horror as Bailey’s head deflated, his face a balloon squished between two elevator doors, its contents evacuating in a dark pool of blood. Yet he still stared at her—his right eye open, the pupil dilated. A spent casing bounced off the pavement between them, spun in slow motion, and then came to rest by the tip of her nose. A 7.62 rifle-round casing. Was it weird that she knew that detail?
Other muffled gunshots reverberated.
A voice screamed inside her head, Get up! Run! Escape! She agreed with the voice. She wanted to do all these things, but she was pinned to the sidewalk by the boot. A boot that pressed with the weight of an F-150 parked on her back. If only she’d been carrying a weapon. Why didn’t they let her kind carry weapons on assignment? A voice laughed at this. Would it have made a difference?
Don’t be ridiculous, Amanda.
As she waited for the terrorist’s bullet to come smashing into her temple, a deep and profound sadness engulfed her.
I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry I let you down.
This would devastate him. He wouldn’t understand. And worse, he’d never know the truth. She knew how the CIA operated. Despite his prominent status, they would keep him in the dark about what she had really been doing for the United States. They would paint another picture: a selfless young diplomat murdered while trying to make the world a better place.
I guess I don’t have to worry about keeping my secret anymore.
The ground began to shake.
At first she thought it was her—her body shaking uncontrollably—but then she smelled the dust and sulfur. The ground shook a second time. Then a third.
More bombs . . . The evil bastards weren’t finished yet.
CHAPTER 2
Sun Gardens Resort on the Adriatic Sea
Dubrovnik, Croatia
May 5
0040 Local Time
Spotter scope raised to his right eye, John Dempsey watched the inbound luxury yacht La Traviata—barely visible on the western horizon of the Adriatic Sea. The air smelled clean tonight, and he could taste a salty tang on the cool, lazy sea breeze. On the balcony, he stood tall, proud, and motionless—an orarian sentinel. He wore a full beard—four months’ growth—and his dark hair was as long as he’d ever kept it, long enough to gather into a ponytail, but he preferred to manage the unruly mop with a backward-facing ball cap. His body was strong, rested, and energized. His impending fortieth birthday seemed ten years removed, rather than ten days. His mind operated with a clarity of thought and purpose he could not remember since the day he had decided to become a Navy SEAL two decades ago.
Despite the new life he lived now, he was still doing what he’d been trained to do as a Tier One SEAL. As the head of the Special Activities Division of the covert task force known as Ember, Dempsey’s job was to find and dispatch the world’s most dangerous criminals, spies, and jihadists. He was a terrorist hunter, a clandestine warrior, a shadow soldier.
He was an American operator.
His current tasking was to disappear Moammar al-Fahkoury—a rising piece of shit in the terrorist underground who seemed to have fashioned himself as an entrepreneur. Although Ember had been watching al-Fahkoury for some time now, they didn’t fully understand his operation. For lack of a better description, they’d branded him a “maven” of terrorism. al-Fahkoury was the business equivalent of a savvy and deeply connected information broker—someone keenly aware of trends, new methodologies, and opportunities—hired by death dealers wanting to tap his knowledge and connections. The Director of National Intelligence—and former head of Ember—Kelso Jarvis, had decided al-Fahkoury had been in play long enough.
American Operator Page 1