“Yeah, a million. I’ll start with the obvious one. Why build this for me? A double-wide with a couple of oversize gun safes would have suited me fine.”
Smith shook his head. “Ember is not like the teams. You’ll be working from here at least thirty percent of the time.”
“I don’t understand. I thought we all worked at the hangar?”
“Nope. We can’t have thirty people showing up to work every day at a small, quiet hangar at the airport. It would compromise everything we’re trying to do.”
“I thought . . .”
“That Ember was just comprised of the people you met today? No. We have a staff of thirty-one, but those thirty-one are highly compartmentalized. Only ten of us are authorized to enter the hangar at will. However, the number of folks with hangar access will undoubtedly grow as we bring more people onboard.”
“Does everyone in Ember have a house like this?”
“Only the principals, but the other members all have black rooms. When we’re not in the field, most of our work is done virtually from black rooms.”
Dempsey nodded, but he didn’t like what he was hearing. Teams should work as teams, together, face-to-face, shoulder-to-shoulder. This felt cold.
Alien.
Smith tapped the space bar on one of the keyboards, and all three monitors woke from hibernation. “This is your homework assignment. The first file is a detailed history of John Patrick Dempsey. I want you to study it tonight and start getting all this shit in your head. Dempsey can’t be someone you’re pretending to be. You have to be him all day, every day, until the day comes you can’t even remember that other name.”
Smith tapped the screen again. “When you meet your neighbors, you’re John Dempsey, military veteran and security specialist for Ember Corporation. You work long hours and travel frequently overseas. It’s all in here—family background, romantic history, the first car you owned, where you went to school, yada, yada, yada.”
“I went to Virginia Tech?” Dempsey said, speed-reading the file.
“Yeah. We were roommates there, by the way, so we still hang out a lot. Everything you need to know about yourself is in that file. You have two days to know it cold. Beginning tomorrow we’ll challenge you on your history during training. Stress and distraction will blow holes in your memory, so instead of memorizing facts, John Dempsey’s life should be a narrative. Imagine living his life, from high school to the present. Celebrate his victories, and suffer his failures. Emotional bonding is the key to becoming someone else. If you don’t care about John Dempsey, you’ll never convince anyone that he’s real.”
Dempsey nodded. The passion in Smith’s advice resonated with him, and he felt a strange gravity pulling him—almost against his will—toward the desk.
Smith put a hand on his shoulder. “Later,” he said softly with a smile. “The other file you need to pay attention to is the one the CI guys put together about the Ember NOC, detailing all of the company’s business activities. Thomas will be pimping you on that file first thing tomorrow morning. Also, sometime, I need you to take a crack at the retrospective data we have on Yemen. Our policy is that all eyes scan the data. You never know whose eyeballs will see something the others have been blind to.”
“Oh, is that all?”
Smith laughed. “Not hardly, but that will get you started. Tomorrow afternoon we have a block of time at the Farm for some scenario-based training to get you up to speed on clandestine operating protocols. Kicking in doors and clearing the room with flash-bangs and rifle fire is your old life. Your new life is about finesse.”
Dempsey glanced at the computer—at his new life.
“You’re gonna do great,” Smith said. “Let’s go grab some dinner.”
“I would, except my boss gave me all this work to do.”
“Oh, c’mon, Dempsey. There’s a Bonefish Grill five minutes from here, and they have killer shrimp tacos. I’m buying.”
Dempsey pulled out the task chair and planted himself in it. Then, while scanning the text of his bio, he said, “Sorry, dude, but John Dempsey hates shrimp tacos.”
CHAPTER 22
Geneva, Switzerland
May 6, 0844 Local Time
Masoud Modiri stood at the shore of Lake Geneva watching the eastern sky.
In his experience, the greatest beauty was most often born in the moments of greatest transition. At the junctions where opposites collide, the contrast is rich and profound. It is the battle for dominance over the sky between day and night that paints the sky brilliant—retreating indigo and fading purple make the oranges and reds of the waking sun all the more magnificent. Spring’s color parade is all the more striking set against the gloomy backdrop of winter’s dearth. This morning, Switzerland was ablaze with the color of transition, and he did not want to look away.
His brother was waiting for him inside—waiting to finish the breakfast conversation that Masoud had walked out on. He crossed his arms, not ready to go back inside the rented lake house on Route de Lausanne—a house he had come to despise. With its brown wooden cabinets, brown wooden floors, brown furniture, and brown carpet, the house was suffocating. Brown, brown, brown, everywhere he looked. He felt the brown seeping into him, soiling his soul. He remembered learning to mix acrylic paints as a schoolboy to make different colors. Mix yellow and blue to get green. Red and blue for purple. Yellow and red yield orange. But mix every color together and the result is brown. The color of digestion, of decomposition, of homogenization, of—
“Your mind is somewhere else today, brother,” said Amir, from somewhere behind him. “Talk to me.”
“My mind is here, but my heart is in Tehran,” Masoud said at last. “With Fatemeh and Cyrus, and the ghost of my dead son, Kamal.”
“I understand. You’ve been through a great ordeal the past two months, but look at how much we’ve accomplished. US Special Forces are still grounded, and you are engaging in regular, productive dialogue with the West.”
“Yes, but sanctions are still in place. My intelligence-sharing through back channels with Ambassador Long did not ingratiate us with the White House as you had hoped. And the rest of the world still does not trust Iran. Despite all of your covert victories, from a political perspective, nothing has changed for Persia.”
“Which is why it is time to take this next step. Just like before, we will secretly use Al Qaeda to inflict a terrible blow on America. And just like before, we will pretend to be America’s ally in the aftermath of the carnage.”
Masoud did not look at his brother. His pride wouldn’t permit it. “What you’re asking of me is too dangerous, Amir. I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”
Instead of getting angry, which is what Masoud expected would happen, Amir took up a position beside him to watch the sky. After a long moment of silence, he said, “Do you know the story of how I met Maheen?”
Surprised by the question and the change of topic, Masoud glanced at his brother, but Amir kept his eyes straight ahead, looking at the sunrise. “You met her while you were at university. You told me that the first time you saw her, you knew she was going to be your wife.”
“You have a good memory, but that is not the whole story. There is a part I’ve never shared with anyone before.”
Masoud wondered what this secret could be, and he was intrigued. “You can trust me with the secret.”
“Of this, I hold no doubts,” said Amir. “When I first saw Maheen, the voice of Allah spoke inside my head. He told me that this girl was destined to be my wife, and that I would have a son and a daughter. At first I was afraid, because the Lord had never spoken to me before. I was afraid that I was losing my mind, but at that moment, Maheen, who was then still a complete stranger, turned and looked in my direction. We made eye contact, and she smiled at me. Immediately, all the fear subsided, because clearly this was Allah’s will. She was so very beautiful, and the young lover in me wanted to possess her in every way a man can possess a woman. But after a moment, she
looked away, and the fear returned. Now, instead of fearing Allah’s voice, I was afraid of losing this girl. I was afraid of losing my destiny.”
“What did you do?”
“I walked over to her and told her the truth. I told her that Allah had spoken to me, and that we were destined to be married and have a family together.”
“What did she do?”
“She laughed at me—she literally laughed in my face.”
Masoud tried to imagine the scene. His brother had always been the smooth talker when they were young men. All the girls had swooned over Amir because of his good looks and brash confidence. The thought of Maheen laughing in Amir’s face was unimaginable to him, and yet immensely satisfying. It gave Masoud a perverse sense of pleasure to know that Amir had not won Maheen’s heart without effort and a few bruises to his ego along the way.
“What happened after that?” Masoud asked.
“I asked her to have lunch with me, and she said no. I offered to walk her to class, and she said no.” He smiled. “Thankfully, on my third attempt, she finally said yes.”
“Allah has never spoken to me directly,” Masoud said, aghast as the words flowed from his mouth. He felt his chest tighten with fear. What would his brother think of him after such an admission? Would Amir judge him a faithless Muslim, or worse, an apostate? “I should not have said that,” he said quickly.
Amir turned to him, his dark espresso eyes full of compassion. “Are you afraid that I would judge you for telling me the truth? You have no reason to fear me, and more important, you have no reason to fear Allah. I did not tell you this story to advertise my piety or question yours. I told you because that day marked a transformation in my life. From that moment, I was no longer Amir Modiri, the boy. In my soul, a transition had occurred. I became Amir Modiri—husband, father, and devout disciple of Allah. While none of those things had yet come to pass, I knew with absolute certainty that they would. It was not a question of if—only a question of when. This shift in perception may sound subtle, but it is not, I assure you. Do you understand what I’m talking about?”
“Destiny,” Masoud said, slowly nodding. “You’re speaking of destiny.”
Amir flashed him a bright smile. “Yes, exactly. Just because a man has not fulfilled his destiny does not mean he cannot recognize it and pursue it. For Allah does not distinguish between the past, the present, and the future. He sees a man’s life in its entirety, from birth to death, and this is why he can know a man’s soul.”
Masoud took a step back. He had never heard his brother talk this way before. Amir sounded so . . . enlightened. “Has Allah continued speaking to you since that day?”
“No. Over the years, while I strove to fulfill his will, He has been silent—that is, until today.”
Masoud turned to face his brother, eyes wide. “Our Holy Lord spoke to you today?”
Amir nodded. “He told me I should share with you my experience to give you the reassurance you need to serve him faithfully and trust in his will.”
“Why does he talk to you about my destiny, instead of talking to me directly?”
Amir put a hand on his shoulder. “It is not my place to question Allah’s will or his methods. I am his vessel, not his critic. What I can tell you is that I will see his will done, whether you accept this mission or not.”
“If the world discovers that Iran is responsible for what you’re planning, the consequences will be unimaginable.”
“Where is your faith, brother? This is my plan, but it is Allah’s will. We succeeded in Yemen and Djibouti, why not this?”
“But it’s the UN, Amir,” Masoud protested. “Must this be done?”
“The ethos of the United Nations mirrors the ethos of the world it represents, but the inverse is also true. To summon al-Mahdi, we must first destroy the temple of the Great Satan. Destroy the sanctity of the UN, and the world will fall into chaos. Only when chaos and civil war have consumed the world will Allah send Imam al-Mahdi to usher in a new era of peace. When the Guided One arrives, Persia will be ready to light the way and take its rightful place at the head of the new caliphate.”
“The plan seems a contradiction of goals.”
Amir smiled. “That is because you still do not grasp its beautiful simplicity. Our faith demands that we do everything in our power to hasten the Twelfth Imam’s arrival . . . but until that time comes, we must also take action to further Iran’s global standing and influence. Behind closed doors, we are the architects of the West’s destruction. But in front of the Western media cameras, we are a beacon of cooperation and hope in an Islamic world gone mad. All war is deception, big brother. Surely you have realized this by now.”
Masoud took a deep breath. The greatest beauty is born in the moments of greatest transition, he reminded himself. A future where the Twelfth Imam rules supreme, dispensing the peace and justice of Islam to all the world’s people, would be a beautiful future indeed. “Okay, what do you want me to do?”
“I’m proud of you, Masoud. I knew we could count on you,” Amir said, gripping Masoud’s shoulder. “You’re not a soldier. I realize that, but you must learn. I’m sending a man from Frankfurt to train you. He will teach you everything you need to know to complete your mission.”
CHAPTER 23
Roanoke Regional Airport
Western Virginia
May 17, 1930 EDT
Dempsey was furious.
Jarvis had promised that after the team completed a two-week intensive training module at the Farm, he would turn them loose to do the job Ember was chartered to do. But graduation was two days ago, and were they hunting down the bastards responsible for blowing up his friends? No, they were not. Instead of pursuing Al Qaeda in the Middle East, they had been tasked with some domestic bullshit operation right out of the gate. To Dempsey’s dismay, Jarvis had toed the party line, making the typical excuses with carefully curated managerial buzzwords. Now, Dempsey was forced to face the hard truth. Ember’s charter was fantasy. They were no different from any other OGA task force—a tool for the bureaucrats in Washington to use for crisis management. This operation should have been assigned to the FBI, but because some senator’s reputation was on the line, the tasking found its way to Ember.
Keep it quiet. Keep it black.
Dempsey exhaled and unclenched his jaw. The mission was on, and now it was time to get his head in the game. He tried not to look at Grimes and Smith as they strolled past, walking hand in hand and laughing like lovers on a weekend getaway. According to the instructors at the Farm, “The most common mistake a field agent can make is trying to look like someone trying not to look.” Keeping this in mind, Dempsey fumbled with his wallet as he headed toward the Alamo Rental Car counter.
Nothing to see here, folks—just a harried businessman running late.
No subterfuge, no false identity, no semiautomatic weapon in the roller bag.
The two-week stint at the Farm had been a real eye-opener for him. The simulations had been so real and convoluted that even after debriefing he still wasn’t sure which people were agents and which were ordinary citizens. He’d heard rumors of spooky shit going on in Williamsburg—a town famous for its colonial life reenactments—but now he joined the select few who knew the truth. Williamsburg regularly served as an unwitting extension of the nearby Armed Forces Experimental Training Activity. During his Tier One days, Dempsey had participated in a few joint training exercises with his CIA counterparts, but none of those experiences had prepared him for the intensive, scenario-based training he’d endured over the past two weeks. Now, here he was on a real domestic operation, and his mind was still swirling with subterfuge and scenarios.
“Welcome to Alamo,” the desk attendant said with a forced smile. “Your name?”
“Jason Worth,” Dempsey said, laying a printed reservation on the rental-car counter. On top, he placed a driver’s license and credit card bearing the same name.
“Thank you,” the attendant said, colle
cting the cards. After a fair bit of clacking on his keyboard, the man looked up. “Here we are, sir. A one-day rental of a full-size SUV. Will that work for you?”
“Yes,” Dempsey said, resisting the urge to fidget. He was not accustomed to wearing tailored suit jackets, and he found this one borderline claustrophobic.
“Would you like the insurance, sir?” the attendant asked.
“No, thank you.”
Dempsey noticed the attendant glance at his watch.
Must be close to the end of his shift or coming up on a break.
He was working hard to employ techniques from the “detail drills” he’d learned—a system for observing and cataloging details around him. He already, unconsciously, took mental notes about exits, allies, and potential threats—an occupational habit from his years on the black side of the teams. Now, he was training himself to notice other, less overt details, critical for surveillance and detection.
He signed the rental agreement and then initialed beside all the Xs—JW and not JD or, God forbid, JK. With his keys and rental contract in hand, he boarded the blue-and-yellow shuttle bus for a ride to the rental-car lot. After waiting the requisite five minutes for other customers who never came, the driver took his seat and piloted the clumsy shuttle bus away from the curb. Dempsey flipped through a copy of the Wall Street Journal, forcing himself to actually read the articles. Apparently a trained observer could tell the difference—thank God he was alone on the bus.
He practiced multitasking, rehearsing his memorized schedule with one part of his brain while reading an article about the housing-market correction with the other.
Phase One: Pick up the rental car, drive to the target location and survey, then check in with the TOC. Phase Two: Swing by the Sheraton to pick up Wang, then back to the target for a SIGINT collection. Phase Three: Back to the Sheraton to pick up Mendez, swing by the Lucinda House Bed & Breakfast to grab Smith and Her Highness Elizabeth Grimes, then drive the crew to a strategic location to prep for the mission and wait for the green light from Jarvis.
Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1) Page 20