Crusader One

by Brian Andrews

  Cyrus took the weapon and studied his uncle’s face. This was the first time he’d seen Amir since the Israeli attack. Given his uncle’s position at VEVAK, this did not come as a surprise, but he’d not even heard him come home the last two nights to sleep. The man was so haggard, he looked like he had one foot in the grave. It was insulting to ask after his uncle’s condition, so instead he simply said, “I presume you’re here because you have tasking for me?”

  The Director of Foreign Operations nodded at him and said, “He’s here.”

  Cyrus felt an immediate surge of adrenaline. “The American operator you’ve been hunting?”

  “Yes,” Amir said.

  “In Iran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me where he is, and I will find him and put a bullet in his head.”

  “That is not the plan anymore, Nephew,” Modiri said, the corners of his mouth curling up into a malevolent grin.

  “But you said—”

  “I’ve changed my mind. This man is much more valuable to me alive than he is dead. We’re going to take him, and once he’s in my possession, I will break his body, his mind, and his soul. Only after he has betrayed his country, his friends, and his principles will I permit him to die. And I promise, that honor I will gift to you.”

  Cyrus cringed; he didn’t like what he was hearing. The American was a highly trained operator and assassin. Men like this needed to be dispatched as soon as the opportunity presented itself. When you’re hunting a lion, better to take the shot from a distance while the beast is unaware than when it’s charging straight for you. He smiled tightly at Arkady’s voice in his head, trying to remember if his teacher had actually spoken these words or if his mind had forfeited his internal monologue to the Russian.

  “What is the venue?” Cyrus asked.

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “The venue for the operation to trap the American?”

  “The Grand Bazaar.”

  “And how are you going to lure him there?”

  “I’m going to tempt him with something he can’t resist . . . me.”

  Cyrus made his face a blank slate, not wanting to anger his uncle with the skepticism he felt inside.

  “Why are you asking all these questions?”

  “I’m concerned, Uncle. This American is crafty. How is this information going to be communicated to the American without betraying the plan?”

  “I have an agent inside the enemy ranks close to the situation.”

  Cyrus perked up at this. “Who?”

  Amir scowled. “You know better than to ask such things.”

  “I apologize, Uncle,” Cyrus said, seeing the pronounced displeasure on Amir’s face. “It was presumptuous of me to ask, but I would feel much better if you permitted me to be part of the capture team. Let me help, please.”

  Amir shook his head. “You will get your moment with the American, I promise, but for right now I need you to lead a mission critical to Persian national security. Make no mistake, Nephew; history will judge this as the moment when Persia triumphed over Israel or begged surrender at the Zionists’ feet. We have the means to turn the tide and win this war, but only VEVAK can deliver the victory, and I trust only you to see it done. The brief is in two hours in the SCIF. Don’t be late.”

  “Yes, Uncle,” he said, nodding his head deferentially.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Amir said before he turned to take his leave. “Maheen says you expressed interest in resuming your university studies. Is that true?”

  Cyrus squeezed the grip of the Strizh 9 mm he still clutched in his hand while forcing a smile. She was actually doing it—trying to force him out of VEVAK and back into civilian life. Unbelievable.

  “I might have mentioned that I enjoyed my time at Moscow State University, but I never meant to imply—”

  “You don’t have to apologize. You’re young and, well, I remember being young. I also remember what it was like at university,” Amir said with a wan smile. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Your profession and your education need not be mutually exclusive. I will look for an opportunity for you to become a student resident abroad in a place where I can put all your skills to work.”

  “Thank you, Uncle. That is very generous of you.”

  “Two hours. Don’t be late,” Amir said and then spun on a heel and left.

  Cyrus turned back to the range. He retrieved the paper target, hung a new one, and sent it down range to the ten-meter mark. He reloaded his Strizh, chambered a round, and stepped into his firing stance. Then, as he leveled the weapon at the target, a very strange thing happened—instead of imagining he was taking aim at the American agent, his subconscious superimposed his aunt’s face on the target. He hesitated a beat . . .

  Then, he squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER 32

  Sheykh Hadi Neighborhood

  Tehran, Iran

  June 1

  2345 Local Time

  Dempsey’s head bobbed with microsleep in the passenger seat of their little Toyota sedan as Farvad piloted the car through the city streets of Tehran. He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. His brain knew that technically they weren’t out of the woods yet, but his body apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. Now that they were minutes from their destination, all his willpower and adrenaline spent, he was losing the war to remain conscious.

  The drive from Sanandaj had been long and nerve-racking. They’d been stopped twice, but both times Farvad—who had filled the role of driver and escort—had expertly talked them out of the jam. Most surprising of all was that Elinor had kept quiet during both encounters. Maybe this was because of Persian gender norms, or maybe Farvad was just that good. Dempsey’s pitiful grasp of Farsi was insufficient for him to do anything but guess the reason. It didn’t matter now, he supposed; they’d made it.

  “This is it,” Elinor said, tapping Farvad on the shoulder and pointing to an apartment complex off to the right.

  “Okay,” Farvad said and pulled the Toyota along the curb.

  Dempsey groggily turned to look at Elinor.

  She looked nervous, more nervous than she’d been anytime in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem, more nervous than when everything went to hell on their INFIL across the border. He noted her respiration rate was elevated and she was fidgeting—something he’d never seen her do before.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, her nerves sending a fresh shot of adrenaline into his veins, perking him up. “Do we have a tail?”

  “No,” she said, shutting him down. She looked at Farvad. “Thank you, Farvad. Your performance today was excellent.”

  “You’re welcome,” the Persian said with a nod. “Now both of you need to get some sleep. I will pick you up tomorrow at the scheduled time.”

  “Were you able to procure the weapons and communication gear I requested?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Farvad said, flashing her a weary and placating smile. “Besides, without them, what would be the point of any of this?”

  Farvad turned and nodded at Dempsey, who climbed out of the car and then opened the door for Elinor. They stood on the sidewalk, backpacks hanging from their shoulders, and watched Farvad pull away.

  When the Toyota was gone, Dempsey turned to her. “Is there a problem I need to know about?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s going on with you?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said, scanning the street and sidewalk in front of the apartment building.

  “Hey, look at me,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “Look at me . . . We’re partners, remember? My life is in your hands, and vice versa. If something has your antennae up, you need to tell me.”

  She exhaled and met his gaze. “I’m nervous. That’s all.”

  “I thought you said this place was solid.”

  “It is . . .”

  “Then what?”

  “Trust me. You’ll understand soon enough.” She leaned in toward him. “Kiss me.”
>
  “Excuse me?”

  “Kiss me,” she breathed, “like you mean it.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s watching. There’s nobody—”

  Before he could finish his protest, her lips were on his. He tensed and tried to pull away, but she leaned into him, not taking no for an answer. The kiss, for all its awkward beginnings, quickly turned passionate. In the embrace, he felt a complex mixture of emotions from her—yearning and desperation, lust and apology. Before long, the tide had shifted, and when she broke for air, he was the one who chased her lips, hungry for more. They kissed until their chests were heaving and kissing was no longer enough.

  Twenty years in the Teams, surviving countless impossible missions, gunshots, explosions, even a helicopter crash, and in the end, it’s my dick that’s going to get me killed, the voice inside his head scolded . . . and that was when he got angry.

  “What are we doing?” he said, suddenly clutching her by the shoulders. “We’re on a mission, for Christ’s sake. This sort of bullshit is going to get us killed.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re newlyweds. It’s a critical part of our legends for this operation.”

  “Then stop keeping me in the dark. Who are we meeting now? More doctors? Another Persian asset like Farvad? I don’t like being surprised, so tell me, who are we trying to convince this time? Who?”

  “The man in this house,” she said, imploring him to trust her with her eyes.

  “Fine. Be that way.” He sighed. “But I’m only playing your little game for one more night.”

  “Thank you.” She gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Are you ready to go?” she said with an impish grin, glancing down at the pronounced bulge in his pants. “Or do you need a minute?”

  “You did this to me,” he growled, readjusting himself. “And it’s not funny.”

  “It’s a little funny,” she said. “It is.”

  Three minutes later, they were standing in front of a second-story apartment door. She took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips. Then, she knocked. With her free hand she quickly found and clutched his. Her nerves were making him anxious, and he instinctively slipped his right hand to the small of his back to search for the grip of the subcompact pistol that wasn’t there.

  A beat later he heard footsteps inside and then the door lock being unlatched.

  “Smile,” she whispered.

  Grudgingly, he managed to force a smile as the door swung open.

  The man standing in the doorway was in his midsixties, and gaunt. He stood about six feet tall, was balding with salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard—both neatly kempt. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes ticked from Elinor to Dempsey then back to Elinor, and his expression went from suspicion to elation in a heartbeat.

  “Adina?” he said. “Is it really you?”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, releasing Dempsey’s hand and throwing her arms around the man. “It’s me, Papa, it’s really me.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Sheykh Hadi Neighborhood

  Tehran, Iran

  The emotion Dempsey witnessed in the tearful father-daughter embrace at the threshold was not something that could be faked. Nor were the unbridled joy and adoration he saw in the man’s eyes every time he looked at Elinor. And as Dempsey studied their host’s features, he saw reflections of Elinor only possible by paternity. This man was indeed Elinor’s father.

  She’d brought him home . . . home to meet her father in Iran.

  “Papa, I’d like you to meet someone very special,” she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve and then taking Dempsey by the hand. “This is my husband, Corbin. He’s from Ireland.”

  Thank God she’d added the Ireland prompt at the end, or he would have completely blanked on his accent. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. Even though we’ve never met, I feel like I practically know you. El . . . I mean Adina is always talking about you.”

  “This is quite a surprise, but a good surprise,” the man said in accented English, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young man. And you don’t need to call me sir. Ciamek will do nicely.”

  Elinor squeezed his hand, but he wasn’t sure whether it was meant to compliment or chastise his performance.

  “Come in, come in, please,” Ciamek said and ushered them inside the modest but tastefully maintained apartment. He directed them to a sofa in the living room and then scurried into the adjoining kitchenette. “Can I offer you refreshments? Tea and cakes? Fruit? Water?”

  “Whatever you have. Thank you, Papa,” she said as they took a seat on her father’s sofa. She sat snug up against him and rested her hand on his left knee.

  When her father’s back was turned, Dempsey glared at her for subjecting him to this incomprehensible blindside. She responded with the happiest, most painful smile he’d ever seen. In that moment, he saw her differently, and the profundity of what had just transpired hit him. Puzzle pieces clicked together in his brain. Their newlywed legend had been wholly Elinor’s idea. From the day of Ember’s arrival in Tel Aviv, Dempsey guessed it had been Elinor who had primed Jarvis that this mission needed to be a two-person operation. She’d planned to visit her father from the beginning. How long had it been since their last father-daughter reunion? Years? A decade? For the two of them to see each other would be nearly impossible. After all, she was an Israeli and he was a Persian . . .

  His stomach suddenly went sour as the paradigm of what he thought he knew shattered like a glass temple and came crashing down all around him. Elinor wasn’t an Israeli Jew; she was a Persian Jew, just like her father. Elinor Jordan, acting Director of the Seventh Order, was Iranian.

  “Were you born here?” he whispered.

  She swallowed and smiled. “Yes.”

  “Does Harel know?”

  She turned to him, her dark eyes both piercing and pained.

  “Of course.”

  A surge of anger welled up inside him, just as Ciamek returned with a tray holding three teacups and a plate of what looked like walnut cookies. Dempsey forced a smile.

  “So, tell me,” Ciamek said, setting the tray on the coffee table and taking a seat opposite them, “how did you meet, and why have you kept this big secret from your papa, Adina?”

  “We met six months ago in Dublin,” she said, rubbing Dempsey’s knee. “I was there on business for the firm, and he was the project lead for our client.”

  “So was it love at first sight?”

  “For her, most definitely,” Dempsey said with Irish bravado. “I made her work to win me over.”

  “Oh, that’s not how I remember it.” She laughed, playing it up. “He practically begged me to go out to dinner with him.”

  “It’s true. In Ireland it’s proper custom to get down on one knee and beg when you ask a girl out on the first date.”

  “Is it really?” Ciamek asked, chuckling.

  “No,” she said, playfully slapping his knee. “This is how he always is, Papa. I think sarcasm was invented by the Irish.”

  Ciamek nodded at this and took a sip of tea. “Well, I’m very happy for both of you. I just wish you would have told me. I am sure the Zionists are watching everything you do; they spy on everyone. And now with them launching this war against Persia . . . Well, don’t get me started.”

  “Papa,” she said, her gaze imploring, “I want you to know we eloped. There was no wedding ceremony. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  Dempsey saw tears rim Ciamek’s eyes. “Maybe we can have it here. How long can you stay?”

  “Not long,” she said, her voice cracking. “They don’t know we’re here. No one knows.”

  Upon hearing that statement, Dempsey actually began to feel nauseous. What the fuck is going on here?

  Ciamek nodded, but his already pale face managed to somehow grow paler. “This is a very dangerous time. You should not have come here.”

  “I had to, Papa,” she said. “I had to see you.”

/>   Ciamek looked at Dempsey. “I can see from your face she hasn’t told you.”

  Whatever expression he was wearing, Dempsey erased it and made his face a blank slate. “Told me what?”

  Ciamek smiled wanly. “That I’m dying.” He shifted his gaze back to Elinor. “That’s why you came, I presume. You got my last letter?”

  She nodded and then turned to Dempsey. “My father has stage-four liver cancer. He announced this out of the blue in his last letter to me. He also told me he had two months to live. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

  Dempsey’s mind was racing now, working out the only lie that could possibly salvage this ruse these two strangers were depending on him to tell.

  “I always suspected as much,” Dempsey said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “Why else do you think I agreed to make this crazy trip in the middle of a war?”

  She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” Dempsey said. “And please know that I mean no offense in asking . . .”

  “By all means,” Ciamek replied. “Ask.”

  “How can you, an openly Jewish man, live here in Tehran?”

  Ciamek laughed. “There are ten thousand Jews living in Iran, maybe more. Many of us live in Tehran.”

  “But you aren’t afraid of persecution?”

  “No, no. As a foreigner, you don’t understand. The world doesn’t understand. Persian Jews are a protected minority in the Islamic Republic of Iran. This was officially proclaimed by the Supreme Leader himself.”

  “But this is the same man who also has publicly decried Israel as a scourge that must be wiped off the face of the earth.”

  “It is a paradox, I know, but the Iranian government makes a clear distinction between Israeli and Persian Jews. The Israeli Jews are Zionists—champions of a Jewish state—and seen as a threat to Islamic hegemony. Persian Jews are a law-abiding minority, an important community in Iran contributing to the country’s diversity and commerce. Persian Jews are business owners and taxpayers. We even have a representative in the Iranian parliament. There are five Jewish schools and thirteen synagogues in Tehran. The doors are open; people are free to come and go without need for security. In fact, I would argue that my synagogue is one of the safest places in the city . . . Of course, with this Zionist attack, that could change. I would not be surprised to see an upwelling of anti-Semitism in the coming days. And this is the problem for Persian Jews and something you need to understand—the greatest threat to our community is not persecution from the Persian regime; it is Zionist aggression.”