Ironic. Levi Harel had said almost the same words to him not five minutes ago, but when Harel offered his condolences, the words had actually meant something. Not that Kittinger’s sympathy wasn’t genuine—Jarvis didn’t know the man—but empathy without friendship or fraternity felt unctuous to him. Robert Kittinger had never spent a minute in a uniform, much less combat, and patriotism without sacrifice, well . . .
“Thank you,” Jarvis said at last. “What can I do for the White House?”
Kittinger sniffed. “I know that your task force was involved in the operational planning for Yemen. I’m sure that hurts like hell.” The jab was less than subtle—something between a dig and a threat. The investigation into Yemen was still open—plenty of time for bureaucrats like Kittinger to spin stories and assign blame. Jarvis held Kittinger’s gaze but said nothing, wondering if his neck was on the proverbial chopping block.
Kittinger shrugged off the silence. “Do you have any new intelligence indicating who’s responsible for this?”
“No, sir, but we are working around the clock to find out.”
“Of course.”
Jarvis couldn’t decide if the tone was meant to be smug, or if Kittinger was just toying with him. Feeling compelled to say something else, he added, “We’re pursuing several leads. As soon as I have something concrete, I promise—”
“Do you think it was the Iranians?” Kittinger interrupted.
“As I said, we’re working on it, but the last thing I want to do is speculate with so little concrete data. We’re looking at every angle and every possibility, I assure you.”
Kittinger glanced out the window. “It was those Iranian lunatics,” he said, nearly spitting the words. “I’m certain of it. They’re the next Third Reich, Jarvis. Make no mistake about it. We can’t be fooled by this new asshole, Esfahani, spouting rhetoric and lies about cooperation and treaty compliance. They’re all closet Twelvers—radical Islamic zealots—every last one of them. And with the feckless IAEA rolling over on compliance, the Iranian regime is more emboldened than ever before. The minute we lifted sanctions, I swear they started executing dormant plans to slit our throats in the name of destiny. They can’t be trusted.”
Jarvis blinked. Had he really just heard the president’s chief of staff rail against the Iranians? And it wasn’t just the words, but the venom in Kittinger’s voice that shocked him. A logic bomb went off in his brain, scrambling all the equations he’d worked so hard to balance.
“Well?” Kittinger said, turning to face him. “Say something.”
“I didn’t realize this was the White House’s position on the matter,” Jarvis said, treading lightly, waiting for the trap to spring. “Especially given President Warner’s recent speech praising Iran’s progress in dismantling their centrifuges, and innuendo about Persia rejoining the international trade community.”
Kittinger shook his head in disgust. “They told me you were a genius, but Jesus fucking Christ, you’re no different than the others.”
“Excuse me?”
Kittinger rapped on the glass window, and a half second later, it opened six inches. “Pull over. Captain Jarvis is getting out.”
“Wait,” Jarvis said, surprised at the urgency in his own voice.
Kittinger turned his head just enough to make eye contact.
“We’re on the same page,” Jarvis said with a little nod.
The chief of staff smiled and rapped on the window again. “Never mind. Two more times around.” When the window was up, he said, “Do you think the president of the United States is a moron? Hmm?”
“The thought has crossed my mind.”
Kittinger howled at this and reached over to squeeze Jarvis’s shoulder. Jarvis tensed. Now that was where he drew the fucking line. He took a deep, cleansing breath, and swallowed his repugnance at the gesture. “That’s the first genuine thing you’ve said since your eulogy.”
Jarvis feigned a fraternal laugh.
“The president is not a moron, Captain Jarvis, but sometimes he plays one on TV. That’s how it works. That’s how the game is played.”
“So you’re saying the nuclear cooperation agreement with Iran is all a ruse for the sake of bolstering White House public opinion?”
“Hell no. Nothing could be further from the truth. Iran was at the economic breaking point. Something had to be done or the Middle East was going to spiral out of control. If we didn’t act, France, Russia, or China would have, undermining our authority. The United States leads, never follows, and so the president decided to act. The agreement buys us time. It gives IAEA inspectors access to facilities we haven’t been able to penetrate for years. Nobody believes Tehran’ll come into compliance with all the tenets of the agreement. The Supreme Leader will make certain of that, but politically we are obligated to give him the rope he needs to hang himself.”
Jarvis narrowed his eyes at the president’s right-hand man. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Either Kittinger was the best bullshitter he’d ever crossed paths with, or the Warner Administration was not the administration he thought it was.
Kittinger plowed ahead without missing a beat. “Is it possible that the Iranians were behind the hit in Yemen?”
“Anything is possible,” he answered, guardedly.
Kittinger narrowed his eyes. “I know you have an asset inside VEVAK you’ve been running. I want to shake that tree and see what falls out.”
Jarvis felt his chest tighten. How the hell did Kittinger know about his VEVAK source, and why was he discussing it outside of a SCIF? The Director of National Intelligence was the only person Jarvis had told. “We’re shaking lots of trees, sir. That’s all I’m prepared to discuss at the moment.”
Kittinger sighed. “I’m beginning to lose my patience now. This is not a fucking poker game, Jarvis. When your boss asks you a question, you answer him. I would have thought that after twenty years of decorated military service, you would have a solid fucking grasp on the concept of chain of command.”
Jarvis stared, dumbfounded, at the man. What the hell was he talking about? In principle Kittinger was right—everyone under the DoD umbrella worked for the Commander in Chief—but as far as chain of command, his boss was the Defense Intelligence Agency Director. Since the beginning, his direct line of communication was with the DIA Director and no one else.
Kittinger smirked. “You didn’t know, did you?”
“That I work for you?” Jarvis said. “No, I was not aware of that detail, especially given the fact this is the first time you and I have spoken.”
“Well, that was by design, of course. But the JIRG was my idea. As soon as the president was elected, and we were read into this dysfunctional disaster known as the Intelligence Community, I realized we had big problems. It didn’t take me long to convince the president that we needed an intelligence activity immune to Congressional oversight. He snapped his fingers, and the Joint Intelligence Research Group was born. I handed the JIRG over to the DIA and said, ‘Congratulations, Dad. Don’t drop the baby.’”
Jarvis raced through the timeline of JIRG’s genesis. The data points matched. The DIA Director, a Marine Corps General with MARSOC roots, had approached him almost three years ago to the day, during the first one hundred days of Warner’s first term. Jarvis knew that all the intelligence the JIRG collected was funneled to the president and the National Security Council, but he’d never contemplated that President Warner—the man he’d written off as a witless puppet—was the JIRG’s maker and greatest ally.
“The problem is,” Kittinger continued, “the DIA did drop the baby—well, actually, you did—and now somebody’s got to take the blame. So, Captain Jarvis, you’re fired. As of this moment, the Joint Intelligence Research Group is shut down.”
Kittinger’s words were a blow to his gut. Jarvis’s mind shifted immediately into damage-control mode. “We suffered a setback, yes, but I don’t see how shutting us down solves anything. In fact, scuttling the JIRG now will only h
inder the country’s ability to collect the kind of actionable intelligence the president needs . . .”
While Jarvis pleaded his case, the president’s chief of staff opened his briefcase and retrieved an envelope. Instead of handing it over, he set the envelope on the seat between them and began tapping it impatiently with his index finger. When Jarvis kept talking, Kittinger interrupted. “Let me stop you right there. This isn’t complicated. Everything you were doing before doesn’t matter now. What does matter is finding the bastards who hit our Tier One SEALs. That is the president’s number one priority. Captain Jarvis, look me in the eye and tell me if you’re the right man for that job.”
Jarvis locked eyes with Kittinger. “Yes, sir, I am.”
“Good. Consider yourself retasked. The Joint Intelligence Research Group was the most successful intelligence-gathering team in the history of the war on terror, but now it’s tainted. The JIRG is dead. Long live the JIRG. Congratulations, Captain Jarvis, you now have a new team.”
Jarvis took a slow, deep breath. This conversation was getting more interesting and insane by the minute. “A new team?”
Kittinger tossed the bulky envelope into Jarvis’s lap. “Say hello to Task Force Ember.” There was a fire in Kittinger’s eyes that seemed out of place. The bureaucrat began to laugh, his double chins jiggling. “Poetic name when you’re in the black, don’t you think?”
Jarvis nodded, only half listening, as he fought the urge to tear open the envelope.
“I expect you to run Ember with the same tenacity and spirit with which you ran the JIRG. And I expect the same results—no, I expect better results. This is more than just a rebranding. Now, you work directly for the president of the United States. You will communicate with me and only me, and I will safeguard your group’s secrecy and autonomy. You will work only on tasks I assign, and you answer to no one but the president. The knowledge of Ember’s existence will be limited to the president’s inner circle, and the White House will provide you with blanket protection from prying eyes.”
Jarvis gritted his teeth. The idea of operating outside the Pentagon and the greater Intelligence Community was a covert-operation paragon—no paralyzing administrative red tape, no decision making by committee, no political pissing matches over conflicting agendas, and no fighting for resources and autonomy. But the reality of being “untethered” was sobering. When the proverbial shit hit the fan, which it invariably did, he and his team would be on their own. The moment it was politically profitable to do so, Kittinger would smile and deny any connection to, and knowledge of, Task Force Ember.
Still . . .
“I understand. Please, go on.”
“You’re the Director, and I’m giving you the flexibility to manage the operation as you best see fit. You can continue with a hands-on leadership role like you had in JIRG, or you can assume an oversight position and appoint an Operations Director to manage day-to-day minutiae. You can keep any of your existing analysts, but every team member needs to be screened as if a new hire. Polygraph and the works.”
Jarvis raised an eyebrow.
“If you had any leaks in JIRG, this is our opportunity to close those holes without raising anyone’s suspicion in the group.”
“Understood,” Jarvis said. “What about poaching?”
“If there are assets within any other agencies you want, I will secure them for your team. And”—Kittinger paused for effect—“I want you to expand your operational capability. We can’t have you relying on other agencies to execute the president’s orders. Which means you’ll need to grow that side of your house quickly.”
Jarvis smiled. He had never intended to tell anyone his plans for using Kemper as an operator, but this change played perfectly into his vision.
“Inside the packet you’ll find everything you need to get started. I want you close—arm’s-length distance—so set up shop here, in Virginia. I have people already working on the secure server drops, and by the time you assemble your team, the facility will be ready to occupy. I’ve arranged for space and blocked time at the Farm for any training your people might need—the details are in the files on the encrypted thumb drives in your packet, as are the details of the new facility. You’re responsible for the internal and external security, but a nonofficial cover is detailed in your packet. You have air assets for travel, which will be ready within forty-eight hours. Both aircraft have the ability to function as covered medical and covered air, and both are licensed through established, real-world companies to provide optimal cover. The parent companies are patriots, but they’re blind as to the use of the assets they provide. Your packet also details a dozen or so nonofficial cover identities to use through those same companies if you like, though you are free to establish whatever NOCs you need.”
Jarvis felt his head spinning. His dream task force had just been dropped into his lap, but things were moving too fast. He hadn’t even started and already felt out of control. “Wait—the OPSEC is all over the place. Who is the curator for those assets and identities?”
Kittinger shrugged. “Don’t worry. I ran them by the National Security Advisor. You’re a resourceful guy, Jarvis. Use them, or manufacture your own instead. I don’t care.” Kittinger handed him a business card. EMBER CORPORATION was printed at the top in clean, block font. Beneath it, Jarvis saw his own name and the title CEO. There were phone numbers in Arlington, London, and Dubai, as well as a company website and an e-mail address.
Jarvis looked at the card, then at Kittinger, and nodded.
“You have your tasking—connect this massacre to Iran. Give the president the ammunition he needs to punish Tehran and expose the regime for what it really is. Once that’s done, you will hunt down the parties responsible for Yemen and Djibouti and eliminate them. Make sure there is no connection to the US government or our allies.”
“Simple enough,” Jarvis said, smiling.
“You have six months and forty million dollars to do it.” Kittinger held out a hand.
Jarvis gripped Kittinger’s hand. The bureaucrat’s hand was so soft and mushy; he was afraid he’d turn it to pulp if he squeezed.
Kittinger tapped the glass behind the driver and they pulled to the curb, right in front of the convention center again. “My secure mobile number is in the packet. But as a general rule, don’t call me. I’ll call you.”
Jarvis nodded and reached for the door latch.
“Oh, one more thing, Captain. There’s a plane ticket to DC in your packet for tomorrow. You have an appointment at Anacostia.”
“Excuse me?”
Kittinger smiled wryly. “Go throw yourself on your sword, and make a convincing spectacle of it. You will recommend that the Joint Intelligence Research Group be disbanded. You will state that you believe the task force may be compromised. An internal leak may have contributed to the breach in OPSEC that led to the massacre of the entire Tier One SEAL force. Don’t put up a fight. Take full responsibility. Let the General save face. I’ll mop up afterward.”
Jarvis swallowed the revolting bile that had refluxed up into the back of his throat. “Yes, sir.”
Envelope in hand, he opened the rear passenger door.
“Good luck in the private sector, Captain Jarvis,” Kittinger said as Jarvis stepped out of the car. “Thank you for your service.”
“Thank you for this opportunity. Please let the president know I won’t let him down.”
The chief of staff flashed him an odd, crooked smile. “I’m counting on that.”
CHAPTER 17
St. Petersburg, Florida
May 2, 2045 EDT
Kemper stared at the ocean, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargo shorts. Cool water lapped against his shins as the gentle tide surged and receded. Surged and receded. He breathed in the salt air and the quiet. This was his favorite place in the world at his favorite time of day. Eventide, his bookish wife had called it once. Ex-wife, he reminded himself. Eventide on St. Pete Beach, the time after sunset w
hen the sunbathers were long gone, but before the rowdy bar- hopping crowd spilled onto the shore to party barefoot in the sand and do other things in the darkness.
A memory of Kate skinny-dipping in the moonlight invaded his mind; he chased it away, the voice in his head a snarling, rabid dog. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and lament the waterfront condo that was no longer his. Jarvis had told him not to come here. Told him that even after the surgery that peeled away his burns and altered his appearance just enough to fuck with facial-recognition software, there was still a chance someone could recognize him. Kemper doubted that was true. The only people who knew him well enough to look past this new face and see Kemper were his dead brothers.
And Kate and his boy.
They would certainly know him. By his gait, by his shape . . . by the love in his eyes. But they were miles away across the bridge in the small house Kate had bought in South Tampa. He wondered if there was someone filling the void he’d left—an impostor—catching a baseball with his son and keeping Kate warm at night. The thought turned his stomach to acid. A sudden desire to hop in his rental car and drive to Kate’s house welled up inside. When she answered the door, he would sweep her up in his arms, kiss her again and again, and tell her the nightmare was finally over. He was alive. He was home. And this time, he would never leave her and Jacob again . . .
I’m not ready to let go.
Not yet.
He had always believed that when he finished his Tier One obligation, he would reclaim his old life. He would retire and dedicate all his time to winning Kate back and being a proper father to Jacob. In his heart, he was certain they’d understand why he’d made the sacrifices he had. It was because of that understanding that they would be able to start again—this time as a real family. It was this dream that kept him going, no matter how difficult, how dark, or how dangerous the mission. Ironic, because now that dream was dashed, and the mission he was about to embark on was the most difficult, darkest, and most dangerous of his career.
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