Crusader One

by Brian Andrews

  “It doesn’t fit their modus operandi. This was no lone-wolf attack against a civilian target. An operation like this requires prior intelligence collection and a level of operational sophistication the Islamic State simply does not possess,” the President said.

  “If not ISIS, then who?” asked Safavid.

  “That is what I want you to find out, Minister.”

  “Yes, sir. I will make it the top priority.”

  Esfahani’s expression darkened, and he let his gaze arc across all the faces in the room.

  “I want to make something perfectly clear. The American President will not view this as an act of terror. He will pronounce this an act of war and respond accordingly. The American response will be brutal. And don’t fool yourselves into thinking our innocence will shield us from retribution. Innocence did not shield Iraq; innocence did not protect Saddam Hussein. The Americans have been waiting for an excuse to invade Persia since the fall of the Shah. The CIA’s charter is to manufacture evidence and spread falsehoods to advance American hegemony. If the Warner Administration desires to turn global opinion against us, then we can expect to soon find our fingerprints on this attack.”

  Heads nodded in agreement around the room, but no one dared speak. It was clear from his body language that Esfahani was not finished.

  “However, despite everything I just said, the Americans are not my first concern. We have enough allies and assets in the West that any move against us by Washington will be telegraphed. We will have time to pursue a diplomatic solution. No, my immediate concern is Israel. The Zionists will seek retribution, and they will do it swiftly. I expect condemnation out of Tel Aviv by the end of the day, and rest assured, brothers, they will blame us. I’ve already met with the Supreme Leader and the Joint Staff, and we agreed to raise the defense condition and put the Artesh on alert. Khatam al-Anbia Air Defense Base has been placed on high alert, and I’ve instructed the Air Force to begin flying security sorties around Tehran. Chief of Staff Major General Bagherdi briefed me on what he considers to be the top five scenarios for Zionist aggression and the targets he believes they would strike. In addition to preparing our conventional military defenses, I met with Major Generals Jafi and Solemnani—of the IRGC and Quds Force respectively—to ready a counteroffensive inside Israel. If the Zionists hit us, we will hit them back within the hour.”

  Modiri’s stomach went into knots. He had not anticipated that Esfahani would take such dramatic action without incriminating evidence or overt accusation and condemnation from the United States or Israel. Esfahani was preemptively mobilizing for war, a decision that, while tactically advantageous, was strategically imprudent. Of all people, Esfahani knew better. Like Ahmadinejad before him, Esfahani’s road to the Iranian presidency had taken a detour through VEVAK. As the former Minister of Intelligence, he was known to possess foresight that bordered on prescience, and unlike Ahmadinejad, his decisions were not guided by prideful obduracy or paranoia. He was a clever fox with a serpent’s tongue and a venomous bite. He knew the mind of the Zionist better than anyone. How could Esfahani not know that Prime Minister Shamone would interpret the change in the Persian defense condition as an admission of guilt?

  Modiri felt a cold bead of sweat roll from his armpit down across his ribs. He had dreadfully miscalculated the probability of his operation leading to conventional war between Persia and her enemies. The dialogue around him faded to background noise. It didn’t matter that the bombing was the most brilliant, brazen, effective strike against their enemy’s leadership in the history of VEVAK. If Esfahani discovered what he’d done, Modiri would either find himself in Section 209 of Evin Prison with a car battery hooked up to his scrotum or hanging from his neck in a public square.

  Fortunately, he had taken great care to compartmentalize the operation and eliminate loose ends. The only person in the world who knew he was behind the attack was his nephew, Cyrus. The operation’s success was all the proof Modiri needed to assure himself of Cyrus’s capabilities. Safavid did not possess the resources to identify Cyrus as his black operator and tie him to the attack. But the Americans did . . .

  His nephew’s fate, as well as his own, was in Allah’s hands now.

  “. . . we are in an extremely delicate position right now,” Esfahani continued. “Western sanctions have been lifted. Persian oil is once again trading on the open market. The oil refinery optimization project in Esfahan is well under way with the South Koreans. We recently closed a monthly export agreement with the Philippines, and we have a commercial jet contract with Boeing. A prosperous Iran is a strong Iran, and we can ill afford to jeopardize everything we have accomplished over the past two years. I refuse to turn back the clock. I refuse to go back! While our military prepares for war, it is up to VEVAK to prevent it. The party responsible for this bombing in America must be found and revealed to the world. Succeed, and Iran will continue to flourish. Fail, and the Persian caliphate will go up in flames. We are not ready yet. This is not a war we can win, but it is a war I will fight down to every last able-bodied Persian if I must. And know this, gentlemen—if Persia burns, then I will raze Israel to the ground.”

  Esfahani stood, signaling that the meeting was over. There would be no debate. There would be no further discussion. The message was simple and clear: find him a sacrificial lamb to offer the Americans and redirect the Israelis, and do it now. Right now.

  Modiri disconnected the cable from the display port on the side of his laptop, closed the screen, and got up to leave with the others. He did not make it five paces.

  “Director Modiri,” the President said, “a word before you go.”

  He stopped and turned. “Yes, sir.”

  Esfahani then looked at Safavid with eyes that said, You, too. Safavid would not have dreamed of leaving him alone with Esfahani, so it mattered not, but Safavid nodded piously and approached the President.

  Esfahani began with a sigh—a sigh that said everything: The timing of this debacle could not be worse. Why hasn’t VEVAK identified the responsible actor already? When he finally did speak, what he actually said was, “Don’t forget, I’ve been in your shoes. And it was not so long ago that I’ve forgotten what it is like to walk in them. Is there something either of you are not telling me? I’ve dismissed the room. It’s only us now.”

  “I can assure you, sir,” Safavid replied, “that the Ministry will do everything in its power to identify the party responsible for the attack. You have my grave and humblest apologies that we don’t have answers for you already.”

  Esfahani nodded dismissively at the Minister of Intelligence. Modiri knew that Safavid had not been Esfahani’s first choice for his successor, but in Iran, even the President didn’t always get his way. “What about you, Director Modiri—is there something you’re holding back?” Esfahani asked.

  “No, sir,” Modiri said, resisting the impulse to scratch his nose. “I have nothing else to report.”

  Esfahani eyed him from behind his trademark silver-rimmed glasses. After a long beat, the President said, “You seem nervous, Amir.”

  “I am nervous,” Modiri said. “You’ve just raised the defense condition and mobilized our military. The Jews will perceive this as an admission of guilt, and so too might the Americans.”

  “What other choice do I have? Do your job and find me the people responsible for this attack so I can stop this war before it’s too late. You’re dismissed,” Esfahani shouted. Then, turning to Safavid, he said, “Not you, Minister. I want a word in private.”

  Modiri nodded with deference at Esfahani, tucked his laptop under his arm, and walked out of the briefing theater. As he strode through the halls of the Ministry back to his office, he had no regrets. He’d assassinated the American DNI and the Head of Mossad in a swift, single blow, and only two people in the entire world knew—except deep down in the pit of his stomach, he knew there was another. His mind went to the grainy color photograph he kept in his top desk drawer of the American operator who
had single-handedly foiled his previous two operations on American soil. His nameless nemesis, the devil’s Lieutenant with the serpentine scar around his forearm, also knew. That was the nature of blood feuds; that was the nature of spiritual adversaries. A blow such as this would not go unpunished. This time, the American assassin would come for him personally, and when he did, Modiri would be ready.

  PART II

  The problem with revenge is that when adversaries seek parity, escalation is inescapable—even when it leads to their mutual undoing.

  —Levi Harel

  CHAPTER 15

  Tehran, Iran

  May 6

  0615 Local Time

  Cyrus sat cross-legged at the base of his mother’s tombstone, his eyes closed. To a passerby, he might have appeared to be asleep, but nothing could be further from the truth. His mind was active, contemplating both past—the events that had led him to this purgatory he now resided in—and future—the events that he intended to manifest. If Arkady could see him now, his Russian teacher would be angry.

  And disappointed.

  “A clandestine operator must live in the present and only the present. A spy must be mindful. Do you know the meaning of this word, mindful?”

  “To think and reflect?” Cyrus had replied.

  “No, that is wrong. To be mindful is to be an observer—an observer without prejudice or preconception. The mindful spy does not pass judgment. The mindful spy does not wallow in regret or preoccupy himself with revenge for past wrongs. The mindful spy resides only in the present. The present is the only thing that matters, because it is the only place where a spy can collect information and exert influence. Forget the past. Worry not about events unsung. Only by conquering the present can you reach your true potential.”

  Maybe the meditative philosophy worked for the old Russian because he was old and jaded, or maybe it was that the fire in his soul had long since been extinguished, or maybe it was because the man had never loved or been loved . . . Whatever the reason, Cyrus didn’t care. He would never forget the sacrifices of his family, nor would he deprive himself of the joy of plotting his enemy’s demise. Without the past, without the future, he was nothing.

  He inhaled deeply through his nose and then blew the air out of pursed lips. The waiting was difficult for him. He was like a loaded weapon, ready to be fired, ready to roar and unleash murder on his adversaries, but cruelly holstered, waiting on the whim of his master. His uncle had promised that he would have new tasking soon, but for now there was nothing to do but wait.

  He let his mind wander, until an approaching presence jerked him from his fugue. His eyes snapped open, and to his surprise, he spied his aunt several meters away. He moved to get up, but she waved at him to stay seated.

  “How did you know I was here?” he asked.

  “I didn’t,” she said, taking a seat cross-legged beside him.

  “You came here on your own?”

  She nodded. “Why? Does that surprise you?”

  “To be honest, yes, it does.”

  She smiled at him without judgment and said, “Coming here keeps me grounded; it reminds me of what is important in life.”

  “And what is that?”

  She didn’t answer for a beat, and when she did, her answer was not what he’d expected. “Relationships.”

  “Interesting,” he said, considering her response.

  “You disagree?”

  “No, actually not. I just thought you were going to say family.”

  She nodded, her gaze going to the middle distance. “In my opinion, family is only meaningful in terms of the relationships we keep. Your mother and I were not sisters, but I loved her as sisters should love. The relationship we nurtured over the years was stronger and closer than the one I have with my own flesh-and-blood sister. I miss not having Fatemeh in my life.”

  “So do I.”

  She turned to look at him. “There’s still time.”

  “Still time for what?” he asked, confused by the non sequitur.

  “To change paths. I know that you think what you’re doing is noble and strong, and that if you spill enough American blood it will ease your grief and fill the void in your heart, but take it from someone who knows that the only true salve for a vengeful heart is forgiveness.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “You should not be saying such things, Aunt Maheen.”

  “Amir drafted you into his order of spies,” she continued, unperturbed. “But it is not a world for souls like ours. It is a dark place, one where you will quickly lose your way and find yourself alone with only shadows to keep you company.”

  “What do you know of it?” he growled.

  “More than you might think,” she said, placing her hand on his knee.

  He hesitated. “Are you . . . one of us?”

  “Yes.”

  “But then, why did Uncle Amir say . . .” He let the rest of the question go unsaid.

  “First of all, because it is not his place to speak for me, and second, because I specifically asked him not to tell you.”

  A knot formed in Cyrus’s stomach. The revelation that his aunt—the aunt whom he had adored his entire life—worked for VEVAK upset him in a way he could not articulate. It made him angry. It made him feel foolish. It made him feel naive. “Don’t tell me he works for you?”

  “No, no, no,” she said with a wan smile. “Amir is the Director of Foreign Operations, whereas my department, let’s just say, focuses on domestic affairs.”

  “But there are no female department heads in VEVAK,” he stammered, suddenly wondering if this was some sort of operational security drill his uncle had put her up to.

  “Is that so? And how do you know this? Have you met all thirty-nine thousand of us during your indoctrination and training?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you think the Ministry recruits only men?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I see,” she continued, her voice ripe with sarcasm. “You think all the women in VEVAK work in secretarial roles.”

  “No, I didn’t say that.”

  Suddenly, her face returned to the mischievous visage he was accustomed to. “I’m just playing with you, Cyrus. Relax.”

  “So, you don’t actually work for VEVAK?”

  “No, I do work at VEVAK. I was just having a little fun at your expense playing the wounded feminist. Believe me when I say this is not a business for a woman with thin skin. I know the names they call me behind my back. Maheen Bee, the Queen Mother, Bitch in Heels—none of it bothers me anymore.”

  “And for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve worked for VEVAK?” he asked, incredulous.

  She nodded. “They recruited us as a couple before we were married for a special clandestine program that is above your clearance level, but Amir and I had grander aspirations and grander talents. Our place is in Tehran—in the melee of politics and propaganda, espionage and indoctrination. We have no children of our own, but we have fathered and mothered hundreds.”

  Cyrus stared at her. She was not trying to speak in riddles, but he contemplated her words as such. Perhaps his aunt was a talent spotter, a recruiter, or a handler—or possibly all three rolled into one. Given what he calculated to be at least twenty years of agency service, she probably started in one of those roles and had worked her way up to become a department head overseeing a small army of people doing what she had once done. She was not a field agent; she was Uncle Amir’s analog on the domestic side.

  “I see I’ve left you speechless,” she said with a wry grin. “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time with a younger man.” She then leaned in and gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Think about what I said. There’s still time. I can get you out.”

  He glared at her, angered by her misplaced maternal counsel. “I don’t want out. What I want is vengeance.”

  She got to her feet and looked down at him. “The game you’re playing, Cyrus, is very, very dangerous. Take it from someone who
knows—some choices cannot be undone; some paths cannot be retraced. Be careful, or you might find yourself standing on a chair with a noose around your neck of your own making.”

  “I could say the same to you,” he said, fixing her with a cold stare. “What would Uncle think about this conversation? I can’t imagine he’d be too pleased to know you’re meeting with me behind his back and counseling me to quit.”

  She met his gaze with unbridled confidence, completely unfazed by his thinly veiled threat.

  “Oh, my dear, dear nephew, there is so much your male tutors failed to teach you. Your competence as an agent is not a function of how well you can threaten, blackmail, and murder—it is a function of how well you develop and manage relationships. In life, in all things professional and personal, the only thing that matters is relationships. My relationship with Amir is a citadel. Feel free to test it by throwing as many stones as you wish, but I warn you, don’t be surprised when the wrath you imagined he would rain down on me is directed at you instead. Amir has killed for me, and he would die for me. Never underestimate the power of true love.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Ember’s Executive Boeing 787-9, N103XL

  Government Hangar #3

  Sde Dov Airport, Tel Aviv, Israel

  May 6

  0620 Local Time

  Dempsey sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows pressed into his thighs, and massaged his aching temples. He hadn’t slept on the flight from Newport News to Tel Aviv, and now he’d squandered his first full night in Israel, too. Sleep was a valuable weapon, but his inner monologue simply wouldn’t shut up.

  He’d done it to himself, of course, by checking Facebook when no one had been looking. He’d promised Smith and Jarvis after the terror attack in Atlanta, when his personal connection with his ex-wife and son had hurt his objectivity, that he would stay off social media, and he’d kept that promise . . . for two months. But then one night, after drinking a couple of lonely beers at home, he’d given in to the temptation. Kate and Jake were his family, damn it, and it was his right to know how they were doing. He might be dead on paper, but the heart pounding in his chest proved he was still very much alive. Smith and Jarvis had never married. Hell, if either one of them had fathered a child, they’d understand—they would empathize instead of judging him. But right now, he wished he’d listened to them. Right now, his heart was bleeding and his soul was smoldering . . .