War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2)

by Jeffrey Wilson

  At the threshold of the tent, he stopped and listened, hoping to eavesdrop a little before making his presence known. To his surprise, the Hezbollah base commander, Abdel Hijjar, and Rafiq al-Mahajer had bonded immediately, leaving him feeling the odd man out. But now, inside the tent, he heard heated words being exchanged. He smirked, pulled back the flap, and ducked inside.

  “I’m sorry, but it is too big of a risk,” Hijjar said in Arabic. “The answer is no.”

  Al-Mahajer turned and fixed Rostami with a caustic, accusatory gaze.

  “What is the problem?” Rostami said, glancing back and forth between the two terrorists.

  “The problem, Persian, is that despite your promises to the contrary, Hijjar has refused to escort us through the tunnels.”

  Rostami looked at Hijjar. “Is this true?”

  The seasoned Lebanese militant nodded. “An escort into the United States was never part of the agreement.”

  Rostami balled up his fists as a surge of anger coursed through him. “Iran has given Hezbollah over one hundred million dollars of aid so far this year. Two hundred million last year. And this is how you repay us?”

  “Your government has always been a loyal supporter of our cause, and for that we are grateful,” Hijjar said, bowing his head ever so slightly, “but our North American operation has been in existence for fifteen years. I will not be the man who breaks time-tested protocols and risks destroying all the groundwork that has been laid.”

  Rostami dismissed Hijjar’s reply with a wave. “Your instructions were to provide us with the training, logistical support, transportation, and arms to complete our mission. Tell me, how does abandoning us in Mexico qualify as fulfilling your obligation?”

  “We were very clear about what assistance Hezbollah would provide: local currency; a safe place to conduct operational planning, indoctrination, and rudimentary Spanish-language training for your men; transportation across the border into Mexico; and ground transportation to Mexico City. VEVAK is responsible for chartering a plane from Mexico City to Mexicali. VEVAK is responsible for your passports and US visas. Our relationship with Cartel del Norte is tenuous at best. They do not share our vision; they are business partners. But they have agreed to provide you with weapons, tunnel access, and an escort into the United States.” Hijjar paused for a beat before adding, “As a concession, I am willing to provide a driver to pick you up at the airport and take you to the safe house.”

  “Unacceptable,” al-Mahajer growled. “I refuse to put my fate, and the fate of this mission, in the hands of apostates. Los Zetas are not true believers. They are not even Muslims. These men are not men of principle. They trade in the drugs of the Great Satan, they worship the God of the Great Satan, and they do not believe in our cause. They are not worthy to stand in our company.”

  Rostami was about to speak when one of Hijjar’s lieutenants—a man with a jagged scar running down the side of his face—abruptly stood and began addressing Hijjar heatedly in Spanish. Taken aback, Rostami watched the two men argue. At one point, the scarred fighter shifted his hand to the butt of a chrome-plated .45-caliber pistol tucked in his waistband. This prompted an immediate conciliatory response from Hijjar, followed by what Rostami could only conclude was a joke, because the scarred man began to laugh and the tension was broken. Two more sentences were spoken, and the scarred fighter walked out of the tent, but not before giving al-Mahajer the evil eye.

  “Who was that?” al-Mahajer said, reviving the discussion in Arabic.

  Hijjar’s jaw tightened. “His name is Arturo Garcia. He is my counterpart in Cartel del Norte. He’s picked up quite a bit of Arabic over the years, and he did not appreciate what you had to say. The price to cross the border, it seems, has just gone up.”

  The look of murder in al-Mahajer’s eyes sent an electric charge down Rostami’s spine. For a moment, he thought he was about to witness a jungle machete battle between the highest-ranking Hezbollah and ISIS commanders on the North American continent. His eyes darted back and forth between the two warlords ready for blood. It had been months since he’d killed—months since he’d plunged his knife into the back of Effie Vogel’s neck after making love to her that fateful afternoon in Frankfurt. The German girl’s blood had sprayed hot all over him; the memory was so palpable he could almost taste it. His skin tingled. His pulse pounded, a primal rhythm in his ears.

  Do it. Carve each other to pieces, you fools, so I can leave this fucking jungle and go home.

  The call to prayer reverberated from a speaker hanging outside the tent—a referee’s whistle ending the standoff between two heavyweights about to go twelve rounds.

  Al-Mahajer whirled and headed out of the tent. As he passed Rostami, he said, “This is the last time I’ll trust a Persian to see Allah’s will done.”

  Rostami sniffed and turned his back on the terrorist without a word.

  “Your friend is naïve and rash—a dangerous combination when you’re operating in the enemy’s backyard,” Hijjar said once they were alone.

  “He does not understand our foe like you and I do. He is blinded by his beliefs and deaf to any words not his own.”

  “We serve the same God, but different masters,” Hijjar said. “Al-Mahajer’s jihad is not the same as mine, and while I applaud his zeal and understand his desire to strike at the heart of those who serve the Zionists, my mission is to remove the Jewish cancer from my homeland. I leave the work of dismantling America to others. My loyalty is to Allah first, my mission second, and my brothers in arms third. Do you understand?”

  Rostami nodded.

  Hijjar’s gaze suddenly flicked to Rostami’s right hand. “Which of us did you mean to stab first?”

  Rostami glanced down and was surprised to see his six-inch Damascus stiletto clutched in his fingers. With an easy smile, he slipped the knife back into its sheath. “Neither, unless of course you turned on me.”

  Hijjar laughed, but it was forced. “Allah knows my heart. And yours,” he added with a hint of judgment. “In any case, I would like more assurance from you that your friend will not allow his passion to tear down everything Hezbollah has built here . . . built with Persia’s generous assistance, of course.”

  “You need not worry about the Syrian,” Rostami said, realizing he was too angry to call the imbecile by his Muslim name. “He needs us far more than we need him.”

  He cursed silently as the reality of what he must do set in. He had intended for Hezbollah to escort the ISIS team into America, then let VEVAK’s sleeper agents handle the logistics on the other side of the border. His plan had always been to book the first available flight from Mexico City to Tehran and watch the carnage on TV from the comfort of his flat in Tehran. Now, thanks to Hijjar’s obstinacy, that was no longer possible. There was no question that Modiri would hold him responsible for the outcome of this operation. Amir had not been the same since his elder brother was executed in the tunnels beneath the United Nations six months ago. Since then, Modiri’s quest for retribution had been all consuming. What’s more, Rostami sensed that Amir held him personally accountable for his brother’s death. If this operation failed, he was certain that his boss would task him in operations against the Americans over and over again until the law of averages triumphed and he met his mortal demise.

  Rostami smiled at the Hezbollah commander. “I will escort al-Mahajer and his team through the tunnels with the Zetas. And I’ll arrange for a team to meet us and transport us to a safe house on the American side.”

  Hijjar’s eyes narrowed. “This is something you can do?”

  Rostami understood. If Iran had a network of resources embedded in the United States, why had greater assistance not been rendered to Hijjar’s operations already?

  “It will be dangerous, but what choice do you leave me?” he said. “VEVAK has just begun an effort to build a network in America,” he lied. “It will be risky for my agents, but if that’s what is necessary to protect Hezbollah’s anonymity, then it is a
risk I’m willing to take.”

  Rostami watched Hijjar carefully, hopeful that he had appeased the man. Hijjar stared hard at him for a moment, but then his bearded face broke into a smile.

  “Thank you,” Hijjar said. “If Hezbollah fighters were to be captured alongside ISIS operators, it would not only draw new scrutiny to the US border, but it would create incentive for the Americans to shut down our operations in Central America.”

  “I understand,” Rostami said.

  “Even without our presence, if you are captured using the cartel’s tunnel network, you destroy our single greatest asset for accessing the United States . . . you understand?”

  “I understand,” Rostami said. “It will not happen, for Allah will blind our enemies and put the wind at our backs.”

  Hijjar nodded.

  In the background, Rostami noted that the muezzin was nearing the final verse of the adhan. Time to step outside and serve his body as an all-you-can-eat buffet to the mosquitoes.

  “Come,” he said, clasping a hand on Hijjar’s shoulder. “It’s time to pray.”

  “And after Maghrib,” Hijjar said, “we have a serious talk with our Syrian friend. Otherwise, I’m afraid this might end badly . . . for all of us.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Dassault Falcon 900 DX, Tail Number N103M

  Over the Eastern Atlantic Ocean

  October 21, 2130 Local Time

  The Falcon was comfortable, but it was no yacht like the Boeing.

  Ember’s 787 was trimmed out like a luxury New York apartment, complete with sleeping quarters and a marble-tiled shower, whereas the Falcon had a single cabin with leather seats and a couch. According to the mechanic, the Dreamliner was still out for maintenance, so they were flying the little bird. Dempsey didn’t care about the creature comforts, but he sure as hell wished they had more speed. The Falcon had a great range for a jet of its size—more than four thousand nautical miles—but it crept along at only 470 knots. It would take forever to get to Poland . . . at least it seemed like forever. The original flight plan called for a fuel stop in the UK, but favorable winds headed east meant they could do it in one hop. But that still meant seven hours in the air.

  “Two hours till we land,” Smith said, dropping a hand onto Dempsey’s shoulder. “Wanna brief?”

  “Not really.”

  “You’re going to have to talk to him eventually,” Smith said, shifting his eyes in the direction of their new addition.

  Dempsey looked back over his shoulder at the CIA liaison. Simon Adamo looked nothing like an operator. He was dressed in slacks and an open-collar shirt and had his sports coat draped over the seat beside him. The stylish, rectangular-frame eyeglasses he wore had slipped down his nose, and Dempsey watched him push them up with an extended index finger in a strange gesture that resembled him pointing a finger pistol at his forehead. He kept his dark brown hair longer than the operators in Ember, but neater and shorter than Baldwin and the boys. The CIA man had a runner’s physique—lean and sinewy—and his face was all angles, as if his skin had been stretched taut over his bones. But he wasn’t unattractive. Dempsey had even noticed Grimes sneaking a glance or two in the spook’s direction after initial introductions.

  At the moment, Adamo was focused intently on his laptop, looking at God knew what—hopefully not the classified bios of the Ember SAD members. Across the aisle, Grimes looked up from her laptop and caught Dempsey’s eye. She mouthed the word relax and smiled at him.

  Dempsey sighed and looked back at Smith. “Fine, let’s do it. I don’t suppose we can order him to stay on the plane while we do our jobs?”

  Smith chuckled. “Afraid not,” he said and strolled to the back. Dempsey gestured to Grimes with his head, and she unbuckled and followed Smith aft.

  Smith had insisted that Dempsey give the CIA agent a fair chance to prove whether he would or would not be of value to Special Activities. Dempsey had agreed diplomatically, not that he had a choice in the matter. He reminded himself that Grimes was now an integral and indispensable part of his team, and he had deplored her initially. Maybe Adamo would surprise him, too.

  Once everyone was assembled around the workstation-size table at the rear of the cabin, Dempsey began. “I have three objectives for this trip. Figure out who this crow is, who he works for, and why he was meeting with Rafiq al-Mahajer’s proxy in Qa’im. When we get on-site, first order of business is to get updated by local CIA on any new developments or breakthroughs since our last check-in. Then, we take our turn in the room with him.”

  “I’d like to be the lead examiner,” Grimes said.

  Dempsey turned to her. He was about to ask her why, but the fire in her eyes erased all doubts. He reminded himself that she had a personal stake in this, too. Her brother had been one of Dempsey’s Tier One brothers and a casualty of the Crusader massacre. Elizabeth was sharp, a closet ubergenius like Jarvis. Over beers one night, Smith had shared a few details from her “real life” CV. Before becoming Elizabeth Grimes at Ember, she was Kelsey Clarke, a rising star at the Office of Science and Technology Policy for the White House. Before that, she’d been a senior analyst at the Brookings Institute, and before that she’d earned a master’s from the Kennedy School. So as far as he was concerned, if Grimes wanted first dibs questioning the jihadi, then Grimes got first dibs.

  “And what qualifies Ms. Grimes to interrogate a known terrorist?” Adamo inserted before Dempsey had a chance to respond.

  Dempsey watched her cheeks flush as she immediately started to defend herself: “My background is—”

  “None of his fucking business,” Dempsey said to Adamo, cutting her off. “What is important to understand, Simon, is that every member of this team brings a diverse set of skills and experiences to the table. The vetting process for Ember takes place at the highest level. Every single person at this table is more than qualified to conduct investigative interrogation.”

  “I disagree. Interrogation is a learned skill. Say the wrong thing, overstep a boundary, and you jeopardize all the progress made to date. From what I can glean of your respective backgrounds, the person best suited to lead the questioning is me, and that’s a cold fact.”

  “Thanks for your opinion, but consider yourself overruled. Grimes will be taking the lead.”

  Now it was Adamo’s turn to flush. Dempsey watched the veins pop out on his neck, but the CIA man held his tongue.

  “So, Elizabeth,” Dempsey continued. “What’s your plan and how can we support you?”

  “From an outside perspective, my approach might appear to be unorthodox. It is imperative that you guys keep the CIA off my back during the session. Adamo, you speak their language,” she said. “Think you can handle that?”

  “It depends on what exactly you have in mind,” Adamo replied, pushing his eyeglasses up. “I’d feel much better about this if you outlined your strategy. I hope you’re not planning on violating the Administration’s moratorium on enhanced interrogation methods.”

  Grimes glanced at Dempsey.

  “It’s certainly not our intention, but if this guy was an easy crack, CIA would have already extracted actionable intel, and we wouldn’t be on this airplane,” Dempsey said. “Unfortunately, we don’t have days and weeks to hang out with our new friend, so I’d prefer to keep things fluid.”

  “That’s not how interrogation works,” Adamo said, tapping the tip of his index finger hard on the table. “We had to sit on Khalid Sheikh Mohammed for months to get anything real. We eventually got actionable intelligence and used it to abort an attack, but you can’t just breeze in, break a guy’s thumb, and think you’re mining gold when he starts spewing whatever crap he can think of to stop the pain.”

  “We have twenty-four hours,” Dempsey said with his best condescending-asshole smile. “What will be the most helpful is if the OGA guys on the ground get this shithead prepped like we asked.”

  Smith leaned in. “I spoke with the detail lead on site before we went wheels up. They
were already in a deprivation set, and I had them shorten the interval from four hours’ rest to two hours’ and then keep him in intermittent distress until we arrive. He’ll be about as raw as we can get him.”

  “And less reliable,” Adamo chided. “The intel you get will be a mess, if you get anything at all. The protocols used by these interrogators are carefully designed and very thoroughly researched.”

  “Look, Adamo,” Dempsey said, finally getting frustrated, “I appreciate what you’re saying, but we’re looking for a bread crumb here. We trust your guys will continue methodically, using your protocols, after we leave, but the point is—”

  “The point is,” Grimes interjected, “we’re not building a case here. We’re not prosecutors. None of this has to stand up in court. Rafiq al-Mahajer is prepping his next move, that I guarantee. We don’t care what the CIA does with this guy when we’re done—you can dress him up and take him out to dinner or you can dump his body in the Oder. I don’t care—what I do care about is stopping the next suicide bomber from blowing himself up in a park and obliterating a hundred innocent children and their parents in the process. So let’s try to get our priorities straight, shall we?”

  Adamo and Grimes locked eyes.

  “You’re just going to have to trust us,” Dempsey said. “This isn’t our first rodeo and our results so far speak for themselves.”

  “What results? I’d never even heard of you guys until three days ago.”

  “That should tell you something right there,” Smith said sharply. His patience was wearing thin, too. “Maybe it would be best for you to wait with the plane.”

  Dempsey sighed. Adamo’s presence was already undermining the cohesiveness they’d built these past few months. He couldn’t afford to let that happen. “Sounds like we’ve got a plan. Any questions? No. Good.”