Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  “What are you saying?” Jarvis asked when Smith paused for a breath. “That he’s a liability to the team? Do you think we made a mistake bringing him on board?”

  “No, no, that’s not what I’m saying,” said Smith, running all ten fingers through his sandy-blond hair. “Just that he’s still so raw. He’s driven by emotion and his sense of duty. He still views himself as a protector. An avenging angel. As long as he’s part of Ember, we can never lose sight of that, and we must deploy him accordingly.”

  Jarvis clasped his hands together, propped his elbows on the table, and stared at his prodigy.

  “What?” Smith said

  “Sit down.”

  “I can’t. I’m too wound up.”

  “Sit,” Jarvis said. “Please.”

  Smith collapsed into one of the two leather chairs facing the desk.

  “Now take a deep breath.”

  Smith scowled but did as instructed.

  “Better,” Jarvis said, without condescension. He had put his team through the wringer the last three weeks, and even Smith’s nerves of steel were starting to getting frayed. “I know it seemed that way, but the truth is that Dempsey did show restraint. For all his blustering and threats, he followed orders this time. That was him standing down.”

  Smith cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “Don’t give me that look. If Dempsey had wanted out of the car, do you think a door lock could have stopped him? Hell no. What you witnessed was Dempsey battling himself. That was Dempsey falling in line, contemplating the bigger picture. Your presence helped him find the self-control to walk away from a young woman in mortal danger.”

  Smith nodded his head slowly.

  “I view it as a positive,” Jarvis said decisively. “Dempsey made progress today.”

  “Yeah, I suppose I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Smith said. He exhaled long and slow, then asked, “Do we know what happened? Did Vogel check in with her handler?”

  Grim-faced, Jarvis shook his head. “Rostami killed her. Mossad went in after he left. They found her body in the bedroom. Stab wound between C1 and the base of the skull.”

  “Jesus.” Smith ran his fingers through his hair again. “Dempsey was fucking right.”

  “Yeah, he was.”

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “Yes, but not today. I need him focused. And I need you focused, too. You gotta put it out of your head, Shane. Can you do that?”

  Smith nodded, worry lines streaking his forehead. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “Good. Now go gather the troops. I need to bring everyone up to speed on why I scrubbed the op and what I want out of Geneva.”

  Three minutes later, the team was assembled in the conference room. Instead of standing at the bank of flat-screens at the head of the table and lecturing, Jarvis took a more relaxed tack and sat himself in a plush chair next to Mendez. Grimes, who was seated between Dempsey and Smith, whispered something under her breath that made Dempsey roll his eyes, but at least he smiled. He whispered something back, and she shook her head and flipped him the bird, but this time without the fury he was accustomed to seeing in her eyes. Did he just witness the beginning of budding respect between Dempsey and Lady Grimes? It was too early to call today a turning point for the team, but he was encouraged by the subtle shifts he’d witnessed in Ember’s two most volatile members.

  “I know you’re all curious about the short fuse change in tasking,” Jarvis began, “so let me fill you in. But first, let me say thank you for trusting the judgment of those of us in the TOC.” He looked specifically at Dempsey and nodded.

  His Special Activities Director nodded back and forced a tight smile.

  Jarvis gave pause—just enough to give Dempsey an opening to ask about Vogel—but Dempsey let the opportunity pass.

  “As you all know, our analyst team back home has been working 24-7 processing SIGINT collected on Rostami. This morning Baldwin had a breakthrough, which he reported to me during our op. When I combine Baldwin’s findings with the break in routine we observed today, it all points to something big.” He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the conference table, his hand folded under his chin. “As Dempsey adamantly and correctly deduced, Rostami is leaving Frankfurt, permanently. We are ninety-five percent confident he has new tasking in Geneva, and I intend to find out what it is. That is why I made the call to leave Rostami in play. Period.”

  Jarvis saw Dempsey fidget, but the SEAL did not interrupt. “You have a question, John?”

  Dempsey looked at Smith and then Grimes. They both gave him encouraging nods.

  “Yes, sir,” Dempsey said. “The three of us were wondering if we aren’t wandering off task here. How is what Rostami does in Geneva related to our mission? In fact, what does a midlevel VEVAK operative in Frankfurt have to do with the massacres in Yemen and Djibouti at all? We know those hits were orchestrated by Al Qaeda and their affiliates, right? Shouldn’t we be passing all of this Rostami intel on to other fine agencies with three-letter names so we can stay focused on our mission?”

  “All fair questions,” Jarvis said, and took a deep breath. “Sometimes I forget that half of the people seated at this table were not with us in the JIRG. To understand my thought processes, the first thing you have to do is ditch the paradigm that Al Qaeda is the terrorist equivalent of CIA or FSB. Al Qaeda is not an umbrella organization with hierarchical staff marching in sync under a Westernized command-and-control architecture. Al Qaeda is a tangled affiliation of sects, with power struggles, ideological differences, and local political agendas. Al Qaeda has money problems. Al Qaeda has leadership problems. These problems have always been present, but with the rise of ISIS and its ability to conduct acts of terror on a global stage, these problems have multiplied for Al Qaeda. Subsequently, they are an organization ripe for exploitation. So I ask you, what if state-sponsored terrorism is being planned and executed using regional Al Qaeda affiliates as puppets? What if Al Qaeda is being supported by someone with money, weapons, and counterintelligence that Al Qaeda would not otherwise have access to?”

  “What do you mean by state-sponsored terrorism?” Mendez asked.

  “Hypothetically speaking, let’s suppose Iran wants to wipe out the Tier One SEALs because the SEALs are a royal pain in their ass. They plan the mission at VEVAK. Then, they use Al Qaeda to do their dirty work. It’s the terrorist equivalent of a false-flag operation.”

  “Wait. Are you saying Iran, and not Al Qaeda, was responsible for what happened in Yemen and Djibouti?” Dempsey said, leaning forward.

  Jarvis could see the rage growing in the SEAL’s eyes. He chose his next words carefully. “I’m saying it has become my leading theory, which is why I care very much about where Mr. Behrouz Rostami goes and who he talks to next.”

  “Jesus,” Dempsey growled. “If what you’re saying is true, we’re talking about an act of fucking war by Iran.”

  Jarvis nodded.

  Dempsey was on the edge of his seat now, his hands balled into fists. “We need to sort this out now, right now, because I’m ready to take the fight to the Iranian bastards responsible.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to do, John,” Jarvis said, watching his former Lead Chief Petty Officer closely. He thought briefly about the concerns Shane had voiced earlier. He reminded himself that Dempsey was at the very ragged edge here. “But we have to keep our heads. Methodical intelligence collection is our first priority. Before we can act, we need proof.”

  Dempsey looked at Grimes, as if to say, Did you know about all this?

  She shook her head.

  Jarvis dimmed the lights using a remote control on the table. He pressed a button, and a picture appeared on the middle screen. The dark-skinned, bearded man in the picture looked familiar to Dempsey, but he couldn’t place him. The official-looking headshot was anything but candid. “Does anyone recognize this man?” Jarvis asked.

  “Masoud Modiri,” Grimes said softly.

  Dempsey glanced
at her and raised an eyebrow, impressed.

  “He’s the Iranian ambassador to the UN,” she said.

  “He’s more than that,” Smith interjected. “Masoud Modiri is the brother of Amir Modiri, who we believe is the Director of the Foreign Operations Directorate for VEVAK.”

  Jarvis waited to see if anyone else would chime in, but when they all turned to him for an answer, he said, “The JIRG had a source inside VEVAK providing solid actionable intelligence prior to Yemen. That source provided confirming evidence that Al Qaeda was gathering in Yemen. That source went dark after the Yemen massacre. So if nothing else, we know at a minimum that VEVAK was tied into the Al Qaeda chatter. We also know Rostami is VEVAK. Rostami gets unexpectedly pulled from Frankfurt and ordered to Geneva. At the same time, Baldwin starts scouring the intelligence data streams for other high-level Iranian operatives and diplomats also traveling to central Europe. That pooled data indicates Masoud Modiri is already in Geneva, and Amir Modiri may have left Tehran for Geneva today.”

  “Pooled data?” Grimes asked.

  Jarvis smiled. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Data I borrowed from the NSA,” Wang chimed in, garnering chuckles around the table.

  “So Rostami and both Modiri brothers are going to be in Geneva at the same time?” Dempsey said.

  Jarvis nodded. “And if these guys are meeting, then I want to know everything they have to say.”

  “There is one additional development to mention,” Smith added. “Chip and Dale have been picking up increased chatter throughout the Al Qaeda networks from SIGINT. Could be coincidence, or it could mean that VEVAK is sponsoring another operation.”

  “Shit, that’s not good,” Mendez said.

  Jarvis had a flash of déjà vu. He was back with the JIRG briefing the JSOC Commander on events that would ultimately set in motion the massacre of the Tier One SEALs. “Following Rostami to Geneva may be our best shot at determining whether VEVAK is conducting state-sponsored terrorism against the US and our allies. If Iran is using Al Qaeda to do its dirty work, and if VEVAK is planning another attack, we are the only US intelligence asset in a position to ascertain what the target is and when the attack is going to happen. We cannot screw this up, people. Understood?”

  “Do you think the target could be the UN itself?” Smith asked. “Helluva coincidence that they’re meeting in Geneva.”

  “Impossible to say,” Jarvis said. “Which is why no matter what happens, we can’t lose Rostami. If and when Rostami meets with Amir Modiri, we’re going to be there—listening to their every word.”

  Dempsey slapped his palm down on the table. “Then what the hell are we waiting for? You heard the boss—we have an op to plan.”

  Jarvis stood, and then so did the others. “This is a short hop, people. We’ll be on the ground in less than twenty minutes. As soon as we land, the number one priority is to locate and track Rostami. We adjust our game plan from there.”

  Nods all around.

  “All right, then, let’s get to work.”

  He watched them file out. Smith lingered for a second, but Jarvis waved him off, and he hustled to catch up to Mendez, Grimes, and Dempsey. Jarvis returned to his private office, locking the door behind him. He flipped open his laptop screen and logged on to the high-side server. He had three status-update requests from Kittinger in his inbox. He glanced at the draft message he had been working on before the brief.

  “Ahhhh, hell,” he muttered to himself. He enlarged the window and started rereading what he’d drafted so far.

  A moment later the screen flickered and Ian Baldwin’s face appeared in a pop-up window. Baldwin’s face was so huge in the window that Jarvis could have counted nose hairs, but then his chief analyst settled back in his chair.

  “Hey, boss,” Baldwin said, looking more like an MIT professor than the spook analyst that he had become.

  “Ian, you look surprisingly chipper,” Jarvis said. “How are things coming on our special project?”

  “Big news,” Baldwin said, grinning like a kindergartner with a secret. “The program works—I mean the software. It’s a much more powerful tool than I originally anticipated.”

  “Wait—are you saying you found my missing asset in Tehran?”

  “I think so.”

  “How? He was very careful never to call from the same location twice. You spent days trying to reconstruct this after he went dark. What changed?”

  “Remember the variables I told you about—the pings on the burner phones, the episodic activation of local Wi-Fi by the smartphones themselves, the triangulation of the tower signals?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, that was all data based on calls made from his burner phone to your burner. That wasn’t enough to give me anything concrete. But, when I reran the program with the new list of burner phone numbers that Mossad turned over to us—Rostami’s phone and seventeen other possibles—then things got busy. It was just as you suspected: your contact used that same burner to make other calls before he started interfacing with you. The thing is, we didn’t have that data before, so thank you, Levi Harel. Anyway, the point is that even smart, careful people develop certain habits, and they are constrained by the clock, geography, traffic, personality preferences, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m with you, Ian. Just give me the punch line.”

  Ian smiled broadly. “It was a blind—a fiction from the start. Your asset never existed, boss.”

  Jarvis screwed up his face. “What do you mean?”

  “The communications from that burner phone form three clouds when you plot them on a map of Tehran. Think Venn diagram. The biggest cloud is floating around VEVAK, no surprise. A second cloud is floating around influential residential areas of the city where government employees live—again, no surprise. We assumed your guy worked for VEVAK. But the last cloud floats around an address I would never have thought to plot if you hadn’t mentioned the name Masoud Modiri as part of the Iranian traffic in Geneva. Lo and behold—in the middle of that third cloud is the ambassador’s residence. Once I realized that, I had my boys start digging and, bam, Amir Modiri’s address is located smack-dab in the middle of the second cloud. With eighty percent confidence, I predict your asset was Amir Modiri, Director of Clandestine Operations for VEVAK.”

  Jarvis leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. He did not want Ian to see the anger burning inside him—anger at Amir Modiri, of course, but mostly at himself. He couldn’t believe it. Not only had he been played, but he had been played by VEVAK. It made so much sense now. Amir Modiri had been fishing for years and finally caught a whale. “It was my fault,” he muttered.

  “What’s that, boss?”

  “Nothing,” Jarvis said, and refocused his gaze on the monitor. “Great work, Ian. Excellent, excellent job.”

  “Wait, there’s more,” Ian said. “For fun I ran the program again on the other end of the comms. Just trying to be complete.”

  “And you found me?” Jarvis said, unable to keep the condescension from his voice.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” Ian said, and his hand got huge on the screen as he flapped it around as if shooing away an annoying insect. “Only, not just you.”

  It took a moment for what Ian had said to sink in. Jarvis raised an eyebrow.

  “There were two of you,” Baldwin said, dragging him along.

  “Modiri was sending information to someone else in the States?”

  “Not sending,” Ian said. “Receiving. Eleven encounters with another burner phone stateside.”

  “Voice or data?”

  “Both. Someone else was communicating with Modiri during the mission-planning phase for the Yemen operation. The last communication was after you and Smith had left for Djibouti.”

  “Who?” Jarvis asked, anger now rising to displace the shock and disbelief.

  Ian pursed his lips. “Don’t know yet,” he said. “I’m really damn close, though. The calls
were made from the DC metro and Virginia area. If you could give me a list that’s shorter than the federal employee directory to feed into my program, it would help a ton. If the list is less than fifty names, I can play some What-if games. I’m certain the second phone is a burner, but if you give me authorization, I can call the phone, see if the bastard answers, and get a voice ID.”

  Jarvis leaned forward and tapped the keyboard, Ian now shrinking into a small box in the upper-right corner. He opened the high-side e-mail and began typing.

  “I’m sending you a list of ten numbers. Start with the first one,” Jarvis said, and clicked “Send.” It was almost impossible to believe, but what if it was true?

  Ian looked away, reading the e-mail he had just received, and his eyebrows arched. “Can I try to get a voice ID?”

  Jarvis was about to say yes, but he stopped himself. He needed to be smart. He needed to tread lightly; he couldn’t afford to spook any of the players just yet. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  “Understood,” Baldwin said. “Anything else?”

  “No,” said Jarvis, his mind already onto the problem. “Just keep up the good work, and keep me informed.”

  “Roger that,” said Baldwin, and the chat window disappeared.

  Jarvis stared at his distorted reflection in the glossy computer screen.

  You got played, he said to himself, this time.

  But never again . . .

  CHAPTER 30

  Céligny, Switzerland, North of Geneva

  May 22, 0701 Local Time

  Dempsey rolled out of the Mercedes GL 350 SUV like he was rolling off the side of a RIB during a water INFIL with the SEALs. He moved quickly, leading Grimes, Wang, Smith, and Mendez from the Route de Suisse highway into the tree line. Once they were deep enough to be invisible from the road, he dropped to one knee. Smith tossed their gear bag onto the pine-needle-carpeted ground in front of Dempsey, and they all fell into a tight circle around it. Dempsey took out a handheld GPS and located their position. Smith handed out pistols, leaving the assault rifles, NVGs, and grenades in the duffel. It was daylight. The woods were much thinner than Dempsey had hoped, and they were patrolling along the residential shoreline of Lake Geneva. The risk of counterdetection was off the charts, which meant kitting up now was out of the question.