“Yes, sir.”
He walked to the front door, turned the handle, and stepped into the entryway of the ambassador’s residence, the residence he now called home. Echoing from the kitchen was a howling sound so terrible it made his stomach drop. Fatemeh was wailing. Without bothering to shut the front door behind him, he dropped his attaché case and ran to the kitchen. He stopped abruptly at the threshold to the kitchen, gazing open-mouthed at the scene before him. Not wailing, but laughing—she was laughing—a sound so alien to him that his mind had mistaken it for suffering. Sitting next to her was his brother, Amir, a wry grin snaked across his face. They both looked up at Masoud in unison.
“Oh good, you’re home. Come have tea with us,” Fatemah said, smiling, and standing to greet him. “Amir was just telling me the funniest story about an argument he and Maheen had over a pomegranate. I haven’t laughed that hard in months.”
Emotion in triplicate washed over Masoud—relief, gratitude, and a pang of jealousy, all at once. In twenty-six years of marriage, he could not recall ever making Fatemeh laugh like that. And for Amir to pull Fatemeh from her well of sorrow made the feat all the more impressive.
As boys, Amir had always played the comedian, charming their parents and winning favor with the teenage girls. But comedy, especially at the expense of other testosterone-charged boys, often led to balled fists and puffed chests, and that was where Masoud, the young diplomat, had first exercised his special gift. How many broken noses had he rescued Amir from? How many faculty warnings had he staved off to preserve his younger brother’s golden status in the Modiri household? Was this Amir’s repayment of those debts, or was it some secret revenge? Don’t be absurd, he told himself. This is only Amir being Amir. You should be grateful for this kindness. You should be happy to see your wife’s smile after so long an absence. A diplomat’s words, no matter how pragmatic and empathetic, are a poor substitute for humor in moments when the soul needs a jump start.
Diplomacy was cerebral.
Amir poured a fresh cup of tea in a lonely third cup waiting on the table. “You look tired, brother. Come, sit, have some tea.”
Masoud nodded and forced a smile. Looking at Fatemeh, he said, “The pomegranate story is a good one. It always makes me laugh, too.”
“I had not heard it before,” said Fatemeh, wiping her checks with a paper napkin. “I will never look at pomegranates the same way again.”
Masoud accepted a white ceramic teacup from his brother’s outstretched hand. “How is Maheen, brother? We have not seen her since . . . well, you know.”
“Maheen is Maheen, very busy. Even when all the work is done, she finds six more chores to do. Always buzzing, my little Maheen.”
“Yes, that is Maheen. The queen bee of the Modiri hive,” agreed Fatemeh. After a brief pause, she added, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner? I promise it is no intrusion. Besides, when I cook, I can’t help but make extra portions. Conditioning from raising a household of hungry boys, I suppose.”
“Thank you for the kind offer, but no. A few words with Masoud, then I must fly straight home to the hive. I don’t want the queen bee buzzing at me.”
Masoud took a sip of his tea and said, “We can talk in the garden.”
Leaving Fatemeh behind in the kitchen, he led his brother to a tiny, walled courtyard behind the town house. Groutless sandstone tiles covered the dirt, and no fewer than ten potted exotic plants flourished in the corners—a surrogate flock for a mother with no children to tend. Two aluminum benches—painted to look like aged cast iron—sat two meters apart, facing each other. Masoud gestured to one of the benches and took a seat in the other. Before sitting, Amir removed his mobile phone from his pocket and powered it off. Masoud followed his brother’s lead and did the same.
“How were the cabinet meetings today?” Amir asked.
“Stressful,” Masoud answered, rubbing his beard.
“Tell me.”
“Esfahani wants to know why discussions have stalled with the Americans on lifting the remaining economic sanctions.”
“Have the discussions stalled?”
“What do you think? Of course they have.”
“When was the last time you spoke with Ambassador Long?”
“Three days ago, before I came back to Tehran.”
“How were things?”
“Cold as ice.”
Amir blew air through his teeth. “We expected this.”
Masoud nodded. “It is only a matter of time until Esfahani finds out what happened. And when he does, he will come after us.”
Amir smiled. “That’s why you’re going to tell him before that happens.”
Masoud stood up. “Are you mad?”
“Not mad, brother. Just pragmatic. What we did may never make the news, but glorious whispers will circulate through the back channels, eventually reaching Esfahani’s ears. It is best that you take credit for bringing the intelligence to him first.”
Masoud began to pace. “You want me to admit to the president that we subverted his plans to win the Americans’ trust at the most pivotal time by conducting a strike against their SEALs without his permission or knowledge?”
“No, Masoud, I want you to tell the president that you have learned through a reliable source that our Sunni cousins on the Arabian Peninsula have done this remarkably brazen thing and dealt a serious blow to the Americans. I want you to tell him that since the strike, the Americans have suspended all special warfare operations. Did you hear me? All operations have been suspended until they can figure out what happened. The Minister of Intelligence and Security has already informed the Supreme Leader of this development. This is a golden opportunity for VEVAK, and we are going to be very, very busy for the next few weeks taking advantage of the situation.”
Masoud shook his head. “How did you manage to hide our involvement?”
Amir laughed—a loud, condescending laugh. “This is what I do, and I am very good at it. All planning for this operation was conducted in face-to-face meetings. Zero electronic communication. Since I became chief of the Foreign Operations Directorate, this is the way I do things. The NSA is always listening. GCHQ is always listening. Unit 8200 is always listening. Only four people in the entire world know what we’ve done, and two of those people are in this garden.”
Masoud sat back down on the bench, folded his arms across his chest, and said nothing. In retrospect, their plan had been so ambitious it bordered on insanity. Had he not been blinded by grief and rage over the loss of his son, he would have never partaken. The fact that the plan had worked still boggled his mind. “There is something I don’t understand, Amir. How did you know the Americans would send in their SEALs, rather than simply blow up the compound with a missile from one of their drones?”
A shadow washed over Amir’s face, and he seemed reluctant to answer the question. Finally, he said. “That was always a risk, but risks can be managed. What I’m about to tell you, we will never speak of again. Understood?”
Masoud nodded.
“I have an American ally, someone plugged into the highest levels of US military command and control. The confirming information I needed to make the operation a success was communicated to me.”
Masoud smiled and shook his head. “Even now, as grown men, you never stop amazing me, little brother.”
“Now, do you trust me?”
“Trust has never been the problem,” said Masoud. “My trust in you is absolute. It is everyone else I worry about. Common sense tells me it is only a matter of time until someone discovers what we have done.”
Sensing his doubt, Amir tacked. “Don’t lose sight, Masoud, that we serve the Supreme Leader, not President Esfahani. Esfahani is a wise man, but he is a strategic figurehead meant to lure the West into complacent cooperation. The American people are tired of war. They don’t want another one with Iran. The Pentagon needs a scapegoat, and you’re going to give them one. I will provide you with intelligence proving that
Al Qaeda was responsible for the ambush. Then, I want you to present the documentation to Esfahani and encourage him to share the information with the Americans. The sharing of intelligence will be perceived as an olive branch. It will help improve relations between Tehran and the White House, and also create opportunities for dialogue between you and Ambassador Long.”
Masoud sniffed. “This proof you give me better be indisputable.”
Amir smiled. “Leave the details to me. All you need to do is what you do best—use your diplomat’s tongue to keep everyone distracted and oblivious.”
CHAPTER 16
Virginia Beach Convention Center
Virginia Beach, Virginia
April 14, 1511 EDT
Jarvis blinked, but the legendary Mossad spymaster did not disappear.
“Levi?” Jarvis said, trying to hide the incredulity in his voice and failing. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you,” Levi Harel said with his hallmark rapid-fire cadence and heavy Israeli accent. “Why else would I come?” Then Harel embraced him like a brother. The hug was very strong and very brief. “There are no words for a tragedy like this. I know you loved them like brothers. I’m sorry, Kelso. Truly.”
Jarvis inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, centering himself. “Yeah, me, too.”
“Walk with me.”
They walked side by side in silence to the main entrance of the convention center. Once they’d stepped outside, Harel immediately lit a cigarette.
“I’d offer you one, but you always say no.”
“Last time I was in Tel Aviv, you told me you’d quit.”
“I’m a spy. We lie and we smoke—what can I say?”
“When did you arrive stateside?”
“This morning.”
“When do you leave?”
“This afternoon.”
Jarvis nodded.
“I came only for this, Kelso. We need to talk.”
“I know,” Jarvis acknowledged, but when Harel didn’t respond, guilt compelled him to say, “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the op, but . . .”
“Pssffssst. I don’t give a shit about that. It was your party, and I would have done the same in your shoes. Besides, even if you had tipped us off, it wouldn’t have changed anything. We saw the comms traffic and put the puzzle pieces together. Like you, we came to the same erroneous conclusion.”
Harel’s admission that he and the Mossad had also been duped made Jarvis feel a little better. It shouldn’t have, but he was human, and misery loves a party. Instead of forcing his friend to ask the next question, Jarvis answered it preemptively. “No, I haven’t found the bastards who are responsible yet.”
Harel took a long, last drag from his cigarette, flicked the butt onto the sidewalk, and stomped it out with a twist of his black-leather loafer. He turned and looked at Jarvis with angry, weary eyes. “You’re not the only one with problems, my friend. Things are changing. The cowboy days are over. The enemy is getting smarter. Worse, he has become more patient and more careful. In the past six months, we’ve lost two informants, one field operative, and three deep-cover assets. All murdered. And two weeks before your tragedy in Yemen, S-13 lost three guys during a raid because Hamas knew we were coming. I’m telling you, Kelso, I don’t like what I’m seeing.”
“Maybe you have a mole problem.”
“No, that’s not it. It’s fucking VEVAK. I’m certain of it. There’s been a policy shift; they’ve gone on the offensive. Do you remember April 2012?”
“When MOIS announced they’d busted up your spy network in central Iran?”
“That was no bullshit, Kelso. We lost a lot of good people, and we still haven’t fully recovered. Iran was a difficult environment to place assets in before, but now it’s almost impossible.”
“Do you think VEVAK was behind the hit on our Tier One SEALs?”
“I’m telling you that I think Tehran is a good place to focus your attention.”
Jarvis sniffed.
“What’s that sniff supposed to mean? You disagree?” Harel scowled. “Don’t tell me you’re one of the converted. Maybe your president has invited you and his new best friend Hassan Esfahani to Camp David for beers and pretzels? What—you think Prime Minister Shimon hasn’t noticed the shift in White House sentiment? Warren is making a lot of people in Givat Ram very nervous. Me included. What is the expression you Americans like to say? ‘You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.’ Iran will never be a friend to the United States. Never. And I’m not just saying it because I’m an old, cranky Jew from Tel Aviv.”
“Look, Levi, I don’t trust Esfahani, either, but Oval Office policy is way outside my area of influence. Besides, we both know that political rhetoric and black-ops policy are two very different animals.”
“Well, in Israel we have a saying, too: ‘Better a slap from a wise man than a kiss from a fool.’ I think your president needs a good slap, or one year from now, you and I are going to have a lot of blood on our hands.”
A raindrop hit Harel in the middle of his forehead. Both men instinctively looked skyward. A second later, an FA-18D Superhornet screamed past at low altitude, racing ahead of the spring thunderstorm growling in from the Atlantic Ocean. Jarvis watched the jet break steeply overhead—condensation trails spiraling off the wingtips in a tight, high-G turn—as it circled on approach to Oceana Naval Air Station only a few miles away. Jarvis pulled his officer’s cover lower over his eyes as more raindrops began to fall, breaking against the brim.
“A storm is brewing,” Harel said, lighting another cigarette.
“A storm always is,” Jarvis replied, regarding the Israeli as they walked. Harel was a man who had weathered a thousand storms and had the mettle to weather a thousand more. He’d be a fool not to use this opportunity to tap the former Mossad Operations Director’s vast network of managed assets—especially now that his source in Tehran had gone completely dark. “What if I told you I had a friend in Tehran and, hypothetically speaking, I’d lost touch with this friend? Given recent events, I’m worried my friend has gone missing, which is unfortunate, because I very much need to talk with him.”
“In that case, I would tell you that there is a girl in Frankfurt who knows a Persian man who might know what has happened to your friend. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
Jarvis nodded. “Good to know.” He paused a moment, looking at the streams in his mind, the ones that never faded. “Is that Persian in the energy business perchance?”
Levi Harel smiled and nodded. “Of course you would know of him.”
Jarvis shrugged. “We lost interest in him, but perhaps that was a mistake.”
“Perhaps. I can arrange for you to speak with friends of mine who still find him interesting.”
“I appreciate any help you can give, old friend.”
Harel stopped walking and turned to face Jarvis. “I would not normally say this, because it should not need to be said—but if there is anything at all you need.”
Jarvis extended his hand to the man from Tel Aviv.
Harel shook it.
“Thank you, Levi. It means a lot that you came today.”
“They were good men. The world is a darker place without them.” With that, Levi Harel turned on a heel and headed to a long black car waiting at the curb.
Jarvis checked his watch. He had one hour until his flight to DC left the private side of Oceana Naval Air Station. In his peripheral vision, he saw a black Lincoln pull away from the curb farther down the block just as Harel’s limo pulled away. He had instructed the driver that delivered him to the memorial to wait. As the Town Car crept toward him, Jarvis raised his hand and stepped toward the curb. The rain was coming down harder now, and his dress blues were beginning to soak through. But when the car pulled up next to him and he squinted through the tinted, rain-spattered glass, he didn’t recognize the driver. A pulse of adrenaline set his senses on fire.
Someone
had been watching him talking with Harel. With an annoyed expression, Jarvis waved the driver off and pretended to signal another car farther down the block. He moved away from the car at an angle, keeping his peripheral vision fixed on the rear passenger window as he reached through the faux pocket in his coat. His fingers found the butt of the compact Sig Sauer P239 in the holster snug in the small of his back.
The rear passenger window of the Town Car rolled down.
Jarvis slipped the weapon from the holster, keeping it concealed inside his coat. He twisted his torso toward the vehicle and repositioned his feet for what was about to come next.
“Captain Jarvis,” a voice called from the backseat.
It took a second for the face to register: Robert Kittinger, President Warren’s chief of staff. Jarvis felt his blood pressure plummet as the threat evaporated. What the hell was Kittinger doing following him?
“Yes, sir.”
“A moment of your time, Captain,” Kittinger said, his tone indicating this was not a request.
“Now?”
“Yes, now. For Christ’s sake, get in. I’m getting wet.”
Jarvis reached for the door handle with his left hand, while subtly slipping the Sig back into the holster with his right. He climbed into the plush leather backseat beside Kittinger and slammed the door.
The bureaucrat slid as far away from Jarvis as the cabin and his considerable girth would permit, while wiping beads of water off the fabric of his expensive suit. Jarvis looked down at his own drenched uniform coat. Afraid of a little rain? The thought of this guy in the mountains of Afghanistan or the back alleys of Mogadishu made him smirk.
Kittinger tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Around the block a couple of times,” he said. He pressed a rocker switch to raise a soundproof, bulletproof glass panel between the front and rear compartments. Kittinger straightened his tie and jutted his chin—a mannerism Jarvis loathed—and then smoothed his jacket with flittering, pudgy fingers. “Horrible thing, this SEAL tragedy,” he said. “Just horrible. The worst disaster in military history.” He paused. “Well, obviously Pearl Harbor was a terrible loss, but in terms of irreplaceable assets—you know, human assets—this is horrifying. The whole team. Maybe the most important weapon in the war on terror the country has ever had. Gone.” He shook his head again. Then at last he met Jarvis’s eyes. “I know these men were your friends . . . I’m truly sorry.”
Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1) Page 14