Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  During his brief tenure as ambassador, he had already accomplished great things. Brokering the JCPOA with the West and politicking for the partial lifting of sanctions had won him respect from Esfahani. More important, it proved that he, Masoud Modiri, was a pivotal disciple in fulfilling Allah’s will for his people. Yet despite all his accomplishments, there was still much to be done. The $60 billion in unfrozen assets were but a pittance of the funds necessary to rebuild the Iranian economy. He needed direct investment in the Persian oil infrastructure by the West, and direct investment was still forbidden by the remaining sanctions. He needed to secure unrestricted trade, both import and export, or else the Persian economy would stall and his detractors in Tehran would call for his replacement. He would not let that happen. His rhetoric, his relationship building, his negotiating skills were the only reason Iran had risen so far so fast in the eyes of the world.

  He was startled from his thoughts by movement around him, and glanced up from where he had been tapping his mechanical pencil absently on the edge of his laptop. Around him, his fellow diplomats were gathering their things to leave. The Zionist’s ranting rhetoric was predictable and redundant, but he wondered if others in the assembly had marveled as he did at the US ambassador’s response. He prayed silently to Allah that Ambassador Long’s words bespoke an official US policy shift, and were not just the bravado of a new ambassador—not unlike himself—trying to win the attention of the council. He would read the transcripts, of course, but he had a gift for finding the true but oftentimes obscured meaning behind a person’s words. Long’s gaze was earnest, her mannerisms telling.

  “We have much in common,” a woman’s voice said.

  Surprised, he turned to see Ambassador Long approaching him from the semicircular row behind him. Unlike the two scowling brutes flanking her, she was smiling at him.

  Modiri swallowed his revulsion at the sight of this woman behaving as Allah intended a man to carry himself. She was even dressed like a man. He wondered if she lusted after women, as men do—an abomination rightfully punishable by death in sharia. He smiled back with great effort, then took her hand and shook it firmly, swallowing his disgust and the other, more disturbing feeling that surprised him at the touch of her soft, warm hand.

  “Ambassador,” he said, and released her hand quickly under the guise of trying to gather his things. “Your support of Iran and rebuttal of Ambassador Arnon’s misguided fears is appreciated.”

  Her smile tightened. “I’m not sure support is the right word,” she cautioned. “But I do believe that your government is on the right path. And I believe in your sincerity, Ambassador. I’m hopeful that together, we can take the necessary steps to lift all remaining sanctions.”

  Modiri nodded—almost a bow. His pulse quickened with shame and anger. The feeling of humbling himself before this woman—an ambassador of the Great Satan—was unbearable. “I look forward to that as well,” he said, forcing himself to look her in the eyes. “As you said, we have much in common.”

  She shifted her red-leather handbag on her shoulder. “Not only do we both bring a fresh perspective to the council but I believe we also represent a growing and sincere belief that a lasting peace can only come from diplomacy. Past administrations have confused peace with compliance. Compliance through force and violence is, of course, not peace at all. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said, nodding. With the pleasantries out of the way, now it was his time to push. He could not afford to waste this critical opportunity. The UN Security Council sanctions were not the problem keeping President Esfahani and the Supreme Leader up at night. The remaining economic sanctions were. Time was of the essence. They had momentum, but another administration change was around the corner in the United States, and the rise of ISIL and its so-called caliphate had made the American people nervous. A new administration could undo much of what he had accomplished. He could ill afford to let that happen. The prize was in sight; he needed to push hard to win the game before someone decided to change the rules. “But I caution you that there can be no peace without cooperation, and as you Americans are fond of saying, cooperation is a two-way street. For the citizens of Iran, time is of the essence. By your own admittance, Iran has eagerly cooperated with the IAEA requests for transparency, and we have just as eagerly complied with the additional concessions demanded under the new treaty. While we appreciate the partial lifting of sanctions under the JCPOA, there are still economic sanctions levied against Iran. Over the past year, we have suffered a ten percent devaluation of our currency—this on top of an already devastating sixty percent fall over the past four years. Your government states the remaining sanctions are designed to cripple Iran’s nuclear development, but the truth is they are designed to cripple the Persian economy. Iran is cooperating fully in the pursuit of peace; do you not think it is time for America to do the same?”

  Long nodded. “I understand,” she said, still wearing the noncommittal smile to match her noncommittal words. “You have my word that I will communicate your concerns to the White House and Congress, but please communicate to President Esfahani that the National Security Council is particularly impressed with his administration’s recent efforts to help crack down on terrorist activity in the Middle East. Continued cooperation in this arena will go a long way toward helping the members of the National Security Council build a case to convince the president that economic sanctions of any kind are no longer needed.”

  Modiri suppressed a scowl and held her gaze with strength and confidence, despite the fact that he had no idea what she was talking about. There was important subtext to her statement, but the true message was veiled to him.

  “The West has a perception that all Iranians are radicals and terrorists,” he said at last. “But this is not true. We are a proud people, maybe sometimes too proud, but it is peace and progress that we seek, not war and terror.”

  “Of course, I know that,” the ambassador replied quickly.

  Despite the damage done by the fanatics in ISIL, Islamophobia was taboo in the Western media. The Americans’ penchant for guilt was a weakness he could exploit. By subtly playing the victim, he had ended the dialogue with her by gaining the upper hand.

  “You may call upon me anytime,” he said.

  “Likewise.”

  With a victorious smile, he nodded to her and her stone-faced companions. Feeling decidedly less subjugated than he had at the beginning of the conversation, he strolled confidently out of the General Assembly Hall. Ambassador Long might indeed represent the country with the greater power, but he felt that in this exchange, Iran had gained ground—proof that women should not occupy roles that Allah deemed the right of men. As he walked to the secure parking area, he thought about what he would say in his report to President Esfahani. Today, real progress had been made, but not progress that was measurable. Not progress that was concrete. The shift in sentiment was a real victory, but it was victory felt in the soul, not in the text on a computer screen. Would Esfahani be convinced?

  Modiri felt a headache coming on as he approached the black Mercedes sedan idling in his assigned parking spot. As a delegate from a Permanent Mission at UNOG, he was afforded the privilege of a parking permit at the Palais des Nations. That did not mean he drove himself, however. He detested driving automobiles—a menial activity best performed by a menial mind. His driver, an IRCG brute trained in the methods of tactical driving and killing people, opened the rear passenger door for him. He nodded at the man, ducked his head, and slipped into the leather-appointed backseat. The driver returned to his seat, put the transmission into gear, and piloted the Benz out onto Avenue de la Paix. After a few minutes, Modiri noticed that instead of taking him south, into the heart of Geneva toward his hotel, the driver had merged onto Route de Lausanne and was driving north along the western perimeter of Lake Geneva.

  “What are you doing?” he asked in Farsi. “You were supposed to take me to my hotel.”

  �
��I have other instructions, Ambassador Modiri,” said the driver.

  “You work for me,” he said, seething. “Do you understand? Now turn this vehicle around and take me to my hotel.”

  The young Persian ignored the order.

  “You work for me,” Modiri said again, harshly.

  “I drive for you, but I work for General Ghorbani,” said the driver, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror. “And the General instructed me to drive you to a meeting. An old friend is in town and has asked to see you. It won’t be much longer, sir. I apologize for not informing you in advance, but my instructions were explicit.”

  Modiri turned and stared out the window at the steel-blue water of Lake Geneva and the snow-draped French Alps in the background. The driver had spoken one of seven acceptable code phrases used to communicate covert instructions when traveling outside Iran. There was no point in trying to guess who was waiting to speak to him or what the subject matter concerned. Whatever the reason for this impromptu meeting, he had no doubt it was important.

  Fifteen minutes later, the driver slowed, signaled a turn, and pulled off Route de Lausanne into the gated driveway of a lake house. Modiri stepped out of the backseat, not waiting for the driver to open his door. The front door of the modest two-story house swung open before he could knock.

  “Amir?” Masoud said with surprise, seeing the man in the doorway.

  “Masoud,” said his younger brother, embracing him. “It is good to see you. Come inside. We have much to discuss.”

  The driver tried to follow him inside, but Amir stopped him with a hand on the chest. “No. You wait outside.”

  “But it’s freezing,” the young man said.

  “You have a Mercedes. Turn on the seat heater.”

  Masoud heard the door slam behind him as he surveyed the modern, utilitarian decor. The owners of this property were definitely not Persian. “What is this place?” he asked his brother.

  “A rental house. It was the best I could do on such short notice. Booked over the Internet,” Amir said, gesturing for him to have a seat on the sofa. “Don’t worry, it’s clean.”

  Masoud sat and exhaled slowly through pursed lips. Amir worked in the upper echelon of Vezarat-e Ettela’at va Amniat-e Keshvar, also known as the Ministry of Intelligence and Security. VEVAK functioned as Iran’s equivalent of the American CIA, the Russian FSB, or the Mossad in Israel. For Amir to travel personally to Geneva for a face-to-face meeting meant that something was wrong.

  “Tell me, brother. What is going on?”

  Amir sat down in an armchair opposite him. He said nothing for several seconds, then reached across and took Masoud’s hand. “Kamal is dead—martyred in service of Allah. I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

  Masoud had known this day would come. He had tried to prepare himself, but now that it had come to pass, he was overwhelmed with emotion. His knees began to shake. “How . . . how did it happen?”

  Amir let go of his hand, stood, and began to pace. “Do you know what I do at VEVAK?”

  “Yes, of course. You’re the Director of Foreign Operations.”

  “And do you understand the duties that position entails?”

  He shook his head. “I have an idea, but we should not be talking about it here. This conversation is dangerous.”

  Amir straightened his posture, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply. “I am the reason Kamal is dead.”

  “What are you talking about?” Masoud said, staring at his brother.

  “Two days ago, twenty-four Sayyad-2 anti-aircraft missiles were loaded onto the Darya-ye Noor, bound for Aden. American drone activity in Yemen has increased threefold over the past eighteen months, resulting in some regrettable losses in midlevel Al Qaeda leadership. The Sayyad-2 was specifically designed to take down the American drones. This operation was to be a critical demonstration of the missile’s capability.”

  “I understand,” Masoud answered. “The American drones are a problem. But how is this connected to Kamal?”

  “Kamal, as a member of Quds Force, was assigned to train the Yemenis how to mobilize and operate the missiles. But last night, while the ship was crossing the Arabian Sea, the Americans ordered a strike. We don’t know all the details, but we do know it was a SEAL team that hit us. The missiles were destroyed and we lost twelve operatives.”

  A hard lump formed in Masoud’s throat as he asked the question he already knew the answer to. “And Kamal was one of them?”

  Amir nodded. “Your son fought bravely and in service of Allah. Do not worry, my brother. The reward of Paradise is his.”

  Masoud slid from the sofa to his knees and began to pray. Tears blurred his vision and sobs choked his lungs, but he prayed until he’d made his peace with Allah. Then he looked up and met his brother’s eyes. Rivulets of tears glistened on Amir’s cheeks, disappearing into his thick black beard. “Is this the first time the Americans have deployed the SEALs against our operations?”

  “The first time?” Amir laughed, his tone obscene and incredulous. “In Damascus, their Tier One operators raided our covert operations safe house. In Lebanon, they intercepted a crucial weapons shipment and killed an elite Hezbollah unit in the process. And beyond my comprehension, they somehow managed to sabotage one of our Kilo class submarines—while it was docked in Bandar Abbas no less—preventing it from completing a highly classified surveillance mission against the US Navy’s Fifth Fleet.”

  Masoud clenched his fists. “If the American military is a viper, then their Special Forces are the fangs. Pull out the fangs and a viper becomes just a worm.”

  “An interesting metaphor, but impossible to follow through,” said Amir.

  “Why is it impossible?”

  “They are ghosts. We never know where they are, when they are coming, or what they are going to do. I even told Kamal to expect a raid. He prepared a trap on the cargo deck in case the SEALs came, but it made no difference. Like I said, they are ghosts.”

  Masoud shook his head vehemently. “No. They are men—men with superior training, information, and tactical support. The rest is mythos, perpetuated by their success.” He stood and began to pace. Not thirty minutes ago, he had been smiling and discussing the path to peace with Felicity Long. What a fool he’d been. She was the Great Satan’s ambassador, practiced in the art of deception. All her talk of cooperation was nothing but lies. Her words of support in front of the assembly, nothing but a diversion to buy America time to continue its attacks on Iran. Did she know about his son’s murder? Is that why she had sought him out—to mock him to his face? Competing emotions—vengeful rage and debilitating sorrow—made it difficult for him to think clearly. He looked at Amir. “Will you help me, brother? Help me to avenge my firstborn son’s death?”

  Amir looked down at his feet. After a painfully long pause, he said, “I will not lie to you, brother. A terrible mistake was made. By presidential order, we have been providing their American military commanders with leaked information—real information—in order to establish trust. Until now, we have only leaked intelligence pertaining to affiliate activities in Lebanon, Syria, the Arabian Peninsula, and North Africa. The Americans were supposed to be tipped off about a Libyan ship smuggling the last cache of chemical weapons out of Syria. There is great demand for sarin on the black market, especially now that Assad’s stockpile has been extradited by the Russians. But one of my analysts mixed up the shipping manifests and mistakenly leaked information about our ship smuggling the Sayyad-2 missiles. We did not learn about the error until after the SEALs hit the ship. My heart is broken to have to tell you this, Masoud, but you deserve to know the truth.”

  Instead of hot rage, an icy calm washed over Masoud. Now Ambassador Long’s National Security Council comment suddenly made sense. This was the cooperation she was alluding to, not Iran bowing to IAEA pressure for transparency and nuclear-site inspections. Amir’s secret program was what had grabbed the American president’s attention. A terrible epiphany occurred to
him as he put the second piece of the puzzle together. He felt light-headed and braced himself against a chair. “So this program is responsible for my son’s death?”

  His brother shook his head softly. “I know the pain of losing a son must be terrible. But we cannot put our personal need for revenge above the needs of our country and Islam. We cannot destroy the bridge of trust we have built with the Americans until the time is strategically right to do so.”

  “A mistake was made, but the mistake did not kill my son. The Americans did. Kamal’s blood is on the hands of the Navy SEALs who assaulted the ship. We must avenge my son’s death, Amir. Defang the serpent that you yourself said is the bane of your existence,” Masoud said, shaking his fist, “and avenge Kamal’s death.”

  Amir rubbed his beard in silence for a very long time. Finally, he spoke. “I will only agree if we can devise a trap that has plausible deniability and keeps my source in play with the Americans.”

  Masoud nodded. “The losses on their side must be commensurate with the losses on our side.”

  “That will be difficult.”

  “And dangerous.”

  “It will require many martyrs. Men of consequence and importance.”

  “Allah rewards the faithful and the brave.”

  Amir stood, walked to Masoud, and embraced him. “I will try to do this thing you ask of me, my brother,” Amir whispered. “For Kamal.”