War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2)

by Jeffrey Wilson

  Emek Kahve was crowded.

  Behrouz Rostami scanned the patrons at the café, looking for an Arab or a Turk who resembled Rafiq al-Mahajer. He had never met the man in person, but he was intimately familiar with his face, having studied every photograph in the VEVAK case file ad nauseam. Finding no matching faces, Rostami walked to the last open table and took the seat facing the entrance.

  As he waited, he stroked his freshly shaved chin. For hard-line Muslims, shortening the beard to less than one fist’s length was haram; for zealots like al-Mahajer, to go clean-shaven was to be a hermaphrodite. But Rostami was Persian, and with the exception of the clerics and the devoutly pious, most Iranian men did not wear long beards. For the duration of his previous assignment in Frankfurt, he had not worn a beard at all. This decision had been a great boon to his sex life. Allah had blessed him with a strong, square jaw and chiseled, masculine chin. To hide a face as handsome as his under a tangled mass of whiskers was a travesty. Also, the beard aged him a decade, especially now that it was showing hints of gray around the mouth. If Allah had wished him to look like some old, wizened cleric, he would have made him ugly.

  Fuck the beard.

  Since returning to Persia, Rostami had grudgingly kept a basiji beard—three weeks’ unkempt growth. In Iran, this particular style was recognized as a military beard, although Rostami had done it for two reasons: first, to facilitate growing a longer beard should his next assignment require one, and second, to distance himself from his German legend—energy-sector venture capitalist Reinhold Ahmadi. It had taken him months to admit it, but the truth was that he had lost himself in his legend. He missed being Ahmadi, with his Italian suits, bottomless expense account, and international élan. But most of all, he missed the women, especially wealthy, naive Western girls. He had loved humiliating them. Hurting them . . .

  He had discovered the little waterfront café nestled along the shores of the Bosphorus three years ago, while sleeping with a Turkish girl in Yeniköy, an affluent neighborhood in northern Istanbul. Emek was one of his favorite spots to have breakfast with a lover after a night of passionate sex. The setting was intimate, traditional, and free of tourists. He had specifically selected it for today’s meeting with al-Mahajer because the atmosphere would give him a psychological advantage over the Syrian. Al-Mahajer was former Mujahideen—radical, unsophisticated, and more experienced in barbarism than tradecraft. Meeting in a place like this would undoubtedly unnerve the Islamic State commander, even more so because, to Rostami’s knowledge, this meeting would be al-Mahajer’s first foray outside of jihadi-controlled territory in years.

  A Turkish waiter approached the table and asked to take his order. Rostami decided not to wait for al-Mahajer and ordered a coffee and a serving of menemen with pastirma. Ten minutes later, the waiter delivered his coffee and eggs with chopped beef—steaming hot and served in a traditional double-handled steel dish. Rostami wolfed down the food, never pausing between bites. When he was finished, he raised the little porcelain cup to his lips, tilted back his head, and drained the sweet black coffee in two gulps. When he lowered his eyes, Rafiq al-Mahajer was standing across the table from him, dressed in gray trousers, a gray linen shirt, and a black suit coat.

  One point, al-Mahajer, Rostami thought, chastising himself.

  “Salam,” said al-Mahajer, his voice flat and emotionless.

  “Wa Alaikum as-Salam,” Rostami replied, and gestured to the seat across from him.

  The Syrian pulled out the chair and sat down. His manner was collected and confident; he did not appear nervous at all. Rostami immediately took note that the man’s beard was shorter, blacker, and more neatly groomed than in any of the photographs he’d seen. Trimmed to exactly one fist in length and freshly dyed; Rostami could tell because of the deep onyx color and uniform shine.

  “You’ve eaten,” al-Mahajer said in Arabic, his tone oozing judgment.

  Rostami flashed an easy smile. “Only the first course. Please forgive my impatience.”

  “You thought I would not come?”

  Rostami gave a little shrug. “Given recent circumstances, your absence today would be both understandable and forgivable.”

  “You are not Syrian,” al-Mahajer said, switching from Arabic to passable Farsi.

  Rostami’s pulse quickened. Two points, al-Mahajer.

  “No, I’m not,” he said, sticking with Arabic. “But I am a true believer.”

  Al-Mahajer scratched his beard with his right index finger. “What is your message from Tehran?”

  “Consider me an emissary of good will,” Rostami said, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Here to make an offer of support.”

  “Your government has publically denounced our efforts.”

  Rostami smiled. The inevitable chess game, the thrust and parry to massage away the half-truths and find their way to an uneasy trust, had begun. “Words can be written in blood, and words can be spoken in the wind. One is Allah’s will, the other is vapor.”

  “Your government cooperates with America. Your military is working with the Iraqis against us.”

  “You have slaughtered hundreds of devout Shia Muslims and destroyed Shiite mosques in Syria, and yet we are not your enemy.”

  The ISIS commander paused for a beat, and then said, “You are Rafidah. We do not require your support.”

  The jihadist’s insult was a slap to the face, and Rostami felt blood rush to his cheeks. He’d expected al-Mahajer to be nervous, gullible, possibly even desperate, given the Americans’ surprise raid and the meeting here, without his bodyguards. But this man was none of those things. Rafiq al-Mahajer was like a granite pillar—hard, cold, and firmly grounded by the gravity of his own mass.

  Time to change strategies.

  “But you do need our support, or else you would not be here,” Rostami said, clasping his fingers together and resting his hands on the table. “You need our support, because you’re losing.”

  The Syrian stared at him with black-hole eyes—pulling, extracting, consuming. Rostami felt a great void growing inside his chest, as if he were being hollowed out from the inside. This is the moment, he told himself. Falter now, and you’ll lose him. He fought the urge to blink and held the other man’s gaze, refusing to look away.

  “What can Persia offer the cause that Allah has not already provided?” al-Mahajer said after an excruciatingly long pause.

  “A new opportunity. An opportunity which your organization lacks infrastructure abroad to exploit.”

  “What do you propose, Persian?”

  “A way inside. A way beneath the armor of the enemy, so you can strike at his heart.”

  “Many have tried this. Only one man has succeeded and that man is dead.”

  “True, but the others who have tried and failed have not had the resources of Persia behind them. We have already demonstrated what we are capable of when pious Muslims put aside petty, sectarian differences between Shia and Sunni and cooperate for a higher purpose.”

  The Syrian raised an eyebrow. “What cooperation do you speak of?”

  “Six months ago, a great blow was dealt to the enemy.”

  For the first time since sitting down, al-Mahajer grinned. “You speak of Yemen?”

  Rostami nodded.

  “An impressive operation, yes, but one that came at a great cost.”

  “Great victories require great sacrifice.”

  “I do not recall Persia suffering any losses that night.”

  “Don’t be foolish, my friend—Persia risked everything that night. And would again, should you choose to cooperate.”

  “Why should I trust you?” al-Mahajer asked.

  “Because what I’m offering is better than your best alternative, my friend.”

  Al-Mahajer scowled. “Who are you to pretend you know me? Who are you to make such bold claims?”

  Rostami savored the moment. It had been a challenge, but he’d finally found a chink in the Syrian’s armor. Now, it was time to
execute a reversal and appeal to the man’s ego.

  “We’ve had our eyes on you for a long time,” he said. “Despite all the secrecy and seclusion you’ve been forced to endure, your reputation as a shrewd tactician and a pious warrior has spread throughout the region. I understand and respect the sacrifices you’ve made. The path you’ve chosen has not been an easy one. You’ve spent the past decade on the move, living in insufferable conditions, always wondering if the next drone strike will be your last. These sacrifices were necessary as you helped transform the Islamic State from a small, isolated faction into the global face of jihad. But now, the time has come for you to leave a mark on history. You know it, I know it, and Allah knows it. You are destined for greatness, and as a fellow true believer, you have my pledge that I will help you achieve that destiny.”

  Al-Mahajer stared at him for a long moment, taking a measure of his sincerity. Finally, the Syrian said, “Maybe you do know me, Persian . . . maybe we have something to discuss after all.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Hampton Roads Bridge-Tunnel

  Interstate 64 Westbound, Norfolk, Virginia

  October 18, 1715 Local Time

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Dempsey grumbled. “Just fucking go.”

  He resisted the urge to pop his horn.

  Being shot at in Iraq or sitting in Norfolk traffic . . . hard to say which he resented more.

  The car in front of him sped up and then suddenly slammed on the brakes, forcing Dempsey to hit his brakes. He watched in his rearview mirror as the chain reaction rippled through dozens of vehicles behind him. This was exactly the sort of crap that caused traffic jams in the first place. He returned his gaze straight ahead; he could tell from the tilt of the driver’s head and the mobile phone propped in his hand that the dude was texting.

  If only I had an RPG for that guy.

  He turned on SiriusXM radio.

  After five minutes of scanning through crap, he turned it off.

  He’d moved maybe a hundred yards.

  He groaned his irritation at the universe, and the universe laughed in his face—the lane next to him started moving while his stayed put.

  Had he flown back to the United States on one of Ember’s planes, he would have landed at the small Newport News/Williamsburg International Airport and avoided all this bullshit. But since he’d flown commercial on the way out and left his Yukon parked at Norfolk International, he’d offered to fly back commercial and pick up his ride. Apparently, this was his penance for being nice.

  His phone chirped, and he tapped the button on the steering wheel to activate the hands-free Bluetooth link. “Dempsey.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Sitting in the idiot parade trying to get to the tunnel.”

  Smith laughed. “Rush-hour arrival, very nice. Sounds like you should fire your travel agent.”

  “Okay, you’re fired.”

  “In that case, congratulations on your promotion. You’re now the Operations Director at Ember.”

  Dempsey laughed. “Christ, no. You think I want your job? No fucking way.”

  “Well, then as your boss, I must be the bearer of bad news.”

  “No beers at the house?”

  “Nope.”

  “No nap on the sofa after beers at the house?”

  “’Fraid not. Jarvis wants you to come in.”

  Dempsey let out a long sigh. “Sure, why not?” he said.

  I’ve been back in the United States for, oh, less than an hour. What else would I possibly want to do?

  “Thanks, brother,” Smith said. “See you when you get here.”

  The line went dead.

  He shifted in his seat, trying to find a position where the nerve pain shooting down his left leg was bearable. The helo crash had aggravated his back, and the cramped coach seat on the transatlantic flight hadn’t done him any favors. A trip to the chiropractor was probably in order.

  As the traffic snaked slowly forward on the bridge, he looked out at the moored ships that made up the balance of the Atlantic Naval fleet—those not deployed at sea. Between him and the hazy outline of aircraft carriers and destroyers, gray Navy helicopters practiced touch-and-go approaches. He watched them flaring, touching down, and then nosing over and screaming past the creeping traffic on the bridge.

  Aerial fucking abominations. God, he hated helicopters.

  A few minutes later, the tunnel came into view. Halfway through, he knew the pace would magically pick up and traffic would accelerate to highway speed all the way to the exit for Langley Air Force Base. Then, just as inexplicably, traffic would slow back to a crawl until he reached the exit for the Newport News Airport. Ember Corporation—the white-side corporate security company that served as a non-official cover for his black ops unit—had their own hangar at the airport. Beneath that hangar, hidden in a concrete vault, was the operations center for the most covert counterterrorism activity in the world. And right now, the entire team was waiting for him to explain what, if anything, he had to show for two firefights and one helicopter crash that had nearly resulted in the capture of three Americans by the Islamic State.

  The proxy’s laptop and Blackberry had arrived safely at Ember hours earlier by “another means of transit,” that much he knew. Hopefully Ember’s crypto weenies had already uncovered something of value. For Dempsey, finding al-Mahajer was not just about settling a blood debt for Romeo’s murder a decade earlier. The voice in his head was screaming that something else was coming. Something unexpected. Something nasty. Something no one was prepared for.

  It was up to Ember to stop it.

  His phone chimed. He glanced at the screen and saw a Facebook notification: Kate Kemper has updated her status. The potency of the urge to pick up his mobile and read the post took him by surprise. He’d not told anyone in Ember—not even Smith—that he was following Kate’s Facebook feed. Reading her posts was more than a guilty pleasure; it was more than voyeurism. It was a static line for his soul.

  When he’d been with the Teams, he’d despised social media. As far as he was concerned, the only social network a SEAL needed was his teammates. And the only social network a wife of a SEAL needed was that comprised of other SEALs’ wives. Not all of the wives shared this opinion, but ultimately, OPSEC ruled the day. The need to protect the secrecy and anonymity of the unit trumped all other considerations, and that had been enough to keep Kate off Facebook.

  Everything changed the day he died.

  Within forty-eight hours of his death she had created a Facebook memorial page for him. The number of tribute posts and condolences the page received had surprised him. He’d read every single entry, torturing and mollifying his broken heart in the process. Activity on Jack Kemper’s memorial page had long since plateaued and tapered off. Now, the only person continuing to post was Kate. Most of the pictures she posted were candid shots celebrating memorable events in the life they’d built together: A picture of them as newlyweds on their honeymoon. Him holding a tightly swaddled, three-hour-old Jacob in the hospital. Him dressed as Blackbeard on Halloween with five-year-old Jake dressed as Captain Hook. Every image made him smile like a kid on Christmas. Every image burned like the Grim Reaper putting his cigarette butts out on his heart. But the existence of the Jack Kemper memorial account had given him something else besides a place to wallow in the past—it had given him a key to the present.

  Jack Kemper’s memorial page was “friends” with Kate’s Facebook page. It had been easy enough to guess the login and password she’d used to create the memorial page, and now he used it to access her personal feed. Unlike the memorial page, on her personal feed she posted about her and Jake’s life in real time. In an odd, perverse way, he felt closer to her now than he had when they were newly divorced and living apart. Had it not been for Facebook, he would not have known that she’d sold the house in Tampa and moved to Atlanta to be closer to her parents. Or that she’d enrolled in a painting class at the local community college just
to try something new. He liked knowing that she was reading All the Light We Cannot See. He’d even picked up a copy with the intention of reading it at the same time. He liked knowing what she was thinking and how she was feeling. And he especially liked hearing about Jake. Most of Kate’s posts were about their son. From her last post, Dempsey had learned that Jake, the X-box-playing couch potato, had inexplicably decided to join the swim team.

  “Shit,” he barked, as he registered his exit drifting by in his peripheral vision.

  He swerved across the yellow line to join the exit ramp just before running off the road into the grassy median. He waved politely at the well-heeled woman in an Infiniti sedan who was giving him the finger as he weaved into the line of traffic ahead of her. Five minutes later, he was on the access road for the corporate hangars. He drove to the south side of the airport, across the runway from the commercial terminal, and pulled into a parking spot next to Smith’s identical black GMC. He stepped out of his SUV, locked the door with his key fob, and walked to the secure entrance. He punched his five-digit code into a generic twelve-button keypad mounted beside the door, and waited as the entire panel slid upward to reveal a black glass surface. He pressed his left hand against the glass until the system acknowledged with a beep and a green LED flash. A half second later, the magnetic door lock released and he pulled open the reinforced security door.

  “Evening, Mr. Dempsey.”

  A man dressed in gray coveralls had the engine cover pulled off the port-side engine of the smallest of Ember’s three corporate jets—a Cessna Citation X. The midsize bizjet, a Falcon 900DX, sat across from the Citation, the access door open and the pull-down steps on the floor. Beside it was nothing but an enormous expanse of vacant hangar floor where the third jet usually sat.

  “Hey, Tom,” Dempsey answered. “Where’s the yacht?” he asked, referring to the 787-9 corporate conversion jet that served as their airborne TOC.

  “Up for its annual,” the maintenance man said. “Back tomorrow, I think.”

  Dempsey nodded and wondered if that was true or if the Boeing had been tasked for a mission he had yet to hear about. Even here, within the group, there were secrets within secrets.