Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  “The lake house is just over half a kilometer in that direction,” he said, chopping a hand to his right. “There is one estate between us and the target, so we’ll drift a little west and give ourselves a wide berth before we close.”

  Everyone nodded.

  A bird shrieked and took off from a low branch nearby, causing Wang to jump and spin around, scanning the woods behind them.

  “It’s all right, dude,” Dempsey said with a smirk. “It’s just a bird.”

  He slipped a Sig pistol into the holster at the small of his back, stood, and set off deeper into the woods. Wang hung annoyingly close to his left side, Smith fell in behind him, hauling the duffel backpack-style, and Grimes brought up the rear. Dempsey scanned the woods in sixty-degree sectors as they walked. They moved swiftly and quietly, except for Wang’s unbelievably loud breathing.

  “Wang, bro,” Dempsey whispered, “quit breathing like a horse. Use your nose.”

  “Sorry,” Wang whispered back.

  As they closed on the rented lake house, Dempsey marveled at how quickly Ember had pinpointed Rostami’s whereabouts. With DHS co-managing the INTERPOL Washington bureau, getting expedient access to the INTERPOL facial-recognition database had been a cinch. Video streams at Geneva customs had picked up Rostami, and the Swiss customs records showed that Rostami had used his German NOC for the trip. This was useful information for two reasons: First, it meant the Iranian was not running scared, and Ember had retained the tactical advantage; second, it made it easy to track his rental-car transaction. Wang had hacked the Eurocar database in less than fifteen minutes; a minute later he had the VIN number, plate number, and LoJack codes for Rostami’s rental car, which he fed to Baldwin stateside. Baldwin “borrowed” some satellite time and picked up the vehicle from the LoJack GPS signal just as it arrived at an estate property on Lac Leman, presumably rented. None of Jarvis’s “friends” had ears inside the property, which meant they needed to get Wang as close to the house as possible. There was no telling how long the meeting would last, and Ember’s next move would rely heavily on whatever dialogue Wang could snoop.

  A rustle at his ten o’clock pricked Dempsey’s ears. He held a fist over his head, took a knee, and was pleasantly surprised when Wang did not bump into him. He listened, waited, and watched for movement. After a few seconds, a red deer crept cautiously into view and then froze. The doe’s right ear turned toward them. They made eye contact. She gave a snort and dashed away into the woods.

  Dempsey gave the signal, and his four-person team was on the move again. After another fifty meters, he noticed the woods were thinning, so he drifted farther east, trying to keep to the denser cover as long as possible. God, how he wished he had an overflight drone to mark security along the perimeter of the lake house. Ideally, he wanted to position Wang at the southern corner of the estate so if they got ambushed, they had two egress options: back into the woods or a sprint to the lake. Dempsey had insisted that Mendez rent a motorboat to give his team a water EXFIL option in case of emergency. The Malibu Wakesetter 23 LSV Mendez had found wasn’t a RIB, but the 555-horsepower engine would definitely get the job done. At this time of year, the famous lake in the Alps would be frigid, but that was the least of his worries.

  They closed another fifty meters, and the dark-blue water of Lake Geneva came into view through the gaps in the trees. The forest extended all the way to the shore, but the trees had been cleared on the estate property to make an immense, manicured lawn. This was as close as he dared go. Dempsey knelt again and leaned back toward Wang.

  “Is this close enough?”

  Wang nodded, slipped his backpack off his shoulders, and squatted. He opened his laptop, plugged one of his magic boxes into a USB port, and then donned a pair of noise-canceling headphones. In moments Wang was lost in another world, his fingers dancing on the keyboard and touchpad. Twisting, multicolored lines marched across his laptop, and Dempsey noticed that Wang was manipulating and adjusting them with his keystrokes. Like a cowboy corralling a herd of rowdy steers, Wang coaxed and nudged the unruly colored strands into an organized, cooperative pattern.

  Wang turned to Dempsey, grinned, and gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Zero,” Dempsey whispered, his left hand subconsciously feeling for that old familiar boom mike on his cheek, but finding none. “Data coming in a moment.”

  “Copy,” Jarvis’s voice answered in his wireless earbud. “We’ll try and clean it up and stream it back to you with minimal delay so you can listen in if you like.”

  “Copy.”

  “Keep sending until we pull you out.”

  “Roger.”

  Dempsey felt a tap on his shoulder and turned his head.

  “Rifles?” whispered Smith.

  Dempsey weighed the pros and cons and decided to err on the side of firepower. As long as they were stationary, the team was vulnerable. He nodded, and Smith pulled three Sig516 rifles from the duffel—one for each of the operators. Dempsey surveyed the woods, the lake, and what he could see of the lake-house property through his binoculars. He was no stranger to the waiting game. As a SEAL, his team would often stake out a target for hours—sometimes days—at a time.

  “Triangle perimeter around Wang,” he said, and motioned Grimes to reposition left and Smith right. He took point.

  Now, all they had to do was wait, listen, and not get caught.

  CHAPTER 31

  Lake Home Estate

  Céligny, Switzerland

  May 22, 0932 Local Time

  Amir Modiri put his hand on Rostami’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my brother can do it.”

  Rostami glanced at the bathroom door, still closed with the light streaming out beneath the gap at the floor. “He’s been in there a long time,” he said, his expression doubtful.

  “Have faith.”

  “I have faith in Allah, I have faith in Iran, and I have faith in you,” said Rostami. “But I do not have faith in him.”

  “My brother is strong, but not in the same ways that you and I are strong. Words are his weapon, not guns and explosives. He has no training or experience in the ways of war. I’m counting on you, Behrouz, to guide and protect him.”

  Rostami grunted disapprovingly.

  Amir grabbed Rostami by the arm with such speed and force that it surprised his lieutenant. “You are trying my patience. I will not tolerate your insolence a moment longer. Maybe you’ve been in the West too long? Maybe I should take you off this operation and send Turan Al-Abid in your place? You can go to Pakistan—or maybe Iraq—for a two-year tour to recalibrate your faith and commitment.”

  “I apologize, sir. I was disrespectful and have forgotten my place,” Rostami said through gritted teeth.

  Amir released him with a shove. “I kept you in Europe too long. You’ve become infected with the same presumptive arrogance as the Germans.”

  Rostami bowed his head. “Forgive me. I swear to do all that you ask of me and more.”

  Amir stared at Rostami.

  The truth was that he dare not substitute Turan Al-Abid for Rostami on this mission. Rostami was a sadist and a sociopath, but he was unflappable under pressure. Without question, Rostami was his best field operative, and the plan would likely fail without him. This dressing-down was a much-needed recalibration, but both men knew it was nothing more than posturing. “Very well,” said Amir, his voice low and hard.

  Rostami looked up and met his eyes. “Once your brother sets off the charges, I can handle the rest, but Masoud is the trigger for the entire operation. He cannot fail on this task.”

  “I understand. He won’t fail,” Amir said with conviction.

  “How many Al Qaeda men will I have under my command?”

  “Assuming everything goes according to plan, which never happens, but assuming it does, you’ll have six men inside the UN—two suicide bombers and three snipers in buildings across the street. The ranking AQ operative for the mission is Mohamed Assaf. He was just informed that you’d be r
unning the operation. He was not happy with this development. By the way, how is your Arabic these days? Your accent needs to sound Saudi, not German.”

  “Maybe I should be asking you, where is your faith?” Rostami said, and then rattled off the same sentence with perfect Saudi Arabian MSA.

  “Good,” said Amir. “When is the last time you saw Assaf?”

  “Three years ago in Dubai. To be honest, I’m surprised he volunteered for this mission. He has risen high in the ranks since then.”

  Amir smiled. “An unexpected development from the victory in Yemen. Most of the men in the compound were respected veterans in their sects. Their martyrdom has shamed their peers who abstained. Now, Assaf feels compelled to make his mark, as much for Allah’s will as his own pride.”

  Rostami nodded. “In a sense, I can relate.”

  “Let us review the plan together: After the first detonation, there will be much death and confusion, but do not lose sight of the fact that our mission is not the same as Al Qaeda’s. Iran must be perceived as much a victim of this tragedy as the other nations. Your only priority is to separate my brother and the American and British ambassadors from the rest of the group in the Assembly Hall. Move them at gunpoint to the emergency-egress tunnel system. All the ambassadors have received terrorism-event and emergency-evacuation training; Masoud knows the way. Once you are in the tunnels, Masoud will resist and make an attempt to fight back. Have you instructed him how and when he is to disarm our Al Qaeda brother?”

  “Yes,” Rostami said. “I will scout ahead, leaving him alone with the brother who is prepared to martyr himself. I thought it was best to lie, otherwise he might hesitate in the moment.”

  “That was a wise decision,” said Amir.

  Amir met Rostami’s eyes. “It is imperative this part of the plan is carried out. Masoud’s heroism must be noted by the American and British ambassadors. For the plan to succeed, Persia must be perceived as a victim of terror, and also as a hero in the fight against it.”

  “I understand. It will be done.”

  “Most of the infidels will be executed in the main chamber, but we have a safe house on Long Island where you will hold the British and American ambassadors for the hostage negotiation.”

  “You realize that the NYPD will close down all roads around the UN Complex. It will be impossible to get off the grounds, let alone Manhattan Island.”

  “No, not impossible,” Amir said with a wry grin. “During the renovations, the UN built secret evacuation tunnels. One of these tunnels leads to a maintenance and ventilation access door inside the Queens Midtown Tunnel. When the NYPD shuts down the entrance, we will already have a car waiting inside that encounters ‘mechanical problems’ at the access point.”

  Rostami eyed him suspiciously but said, “I understand.”

  “Once you reach the safe house, you will hold the ambassadors for the duration of the ‘hostage negotiation.’ Ultimately, Tehran will negotiate their release, and Masoud will be praised by his Western colleagues as a hero. The US president will be pressured by the international community and the media to lift all remaining sanctions on Iran as a gesture of goodwill, and the UN Security Council will follow suit. Iran will gain new standing in the international community while simultaneously gaining more freedom to continue our work paving the way for the caliphate.”

  Rostami nodded.

  “You look skeptical,” said Amir.

  “If you had asked me four months ago, I would have said it cannot be done,” Rostami replied, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “But after what you pulled off in Yemen and Djibouti, it is clear that you are Allah’s chosen general.”

  Amir nodded. It was time to give his soldier his pride back. “There is no one I trust more with this task than you, Behrouz. Your service will be greatly rewarded.”

  Rostami bowed his head deferentially.

  The bathroom door latch clicked. Both men turned and looked as Masoud pushed open the door and stepped out in the hallway. His brow was dappled with sweat, and his hands were trembling. “I can’t do it,” he said, looking down at his shoes.

  Amir smiled and walked to his brother. “Of course you can.”

  “No, I can’t,” said Masoud, shaking his head. “What you ask of me is wrong. It is unclean. As a man . . . as a Muslim . . . I cannot.”

  Amir laid his right hand on Masoud’s shoulder. “It is the only way.”

  Masoud looked up, his eyes pleading. “Why can’t I just swallow it? Put the explosive in capsules, and I can vomit into the toilet when it’s time.”

  “No, Masoud,” said Amir, shaking his head. “The stomach empties into the small intestine within hours. Once the material moves into your small intestine, it cannot be regurgitated. Then, we are stuck waiting for an indeterminate amount of time until it reaches your colon—anywhere from twelve to twenty-four hours. This is not acceptable. You need to be able to access the material at will. Also, the explosive material is highly toxic. Our scientists have worked very hard to find methods to concentrate the compound and enhance yields. If the latex were to leak or rupture inside your intestine, it would poison you. I’m sorry, Masoud, but it must be the other way.”

  Masoud took a deep, defeated breath. “I can’t.”

  Amir sighed. He had anticipated this. A demonstration would be necessary to convince his brother, so he had taken laxatives the night before in preparation. No matter the challenge, if he crossed the bridge first, Masoud would eventually follow. It had always been that way. He was the leader, his big brother a reluctant disciple.

  Amir walked into the bathroom, turned to face Masoud and Rostami, and then unbuckled his trousers. He let them fall to the floor and then dropped his underwear. Standing naked from the waist down, he picked up the tied-off latex condom packed with eight one-inch balls of concentrated plastic explosive. Grabbing the tube of lubricant from where it sat untouched next to the sink basin, he liberally applied the clear, viscous gel to the upper half of the condom. Gripping the base of the condom with his right hand, he bent at the waist and reached around behind his buttocks. Without a grunt or a grimace, he pushed the fully packed condom inside himself. After an inch, the sensation was so repugnant he wanted to gag, but he kept going with stoic determination. When the deed was done, he took a deep breath, dressed himself, and walked out of the bathroom. Amir could feel that his face was flushed, but he was proud that he had not even broken a sweat. Standing face-to-face with his brother, he said, “You see, Masoud, it can be done.”

  Masoud nodded penitently.

  “Now, we change the condom and you try.”

  Masoud returned to the bathroom, and this time was gone but a few minutes. When he returned, his face was pale and his shirt collar soaked with sweat, but it was clear from the look in his eyes that he had succeeded—yet again—in matching his younger brother. It was like playing soccer in their youth, or the climb over the nine-foot wall into the neighbor’s courtyard, only this time Masoud had not broken a bone, just his pride.

  They sat together in the sunroom, and he allowed Masoud to collect himself. Amir crossed his legs at the knees and sipped his tea, feeling sympathy for his older brother.

  “Do you wish to review the plan and your mission again?” he asked.

  His brother nodded softly and smiled tightly. His color was returning.

  “He is ready,” Rostami replied for him. “He is truly a warrior in the service of Allah. He brings much credit to your family and Persia. You should be proud of his role in fighting the Great Satan.”

  Amir tried not to be annoyed with his lieutenant, who no doubt wished to bolster his image after their earlier misunderstanding. He set his tea aside and looked at his brother. “I have faith in you, Masoud. You alone can provide the access we need to the UN. You will use your gift—the gift of discourse that Allah has blessed you with—to engage the American and British ambassadors in conversation in the far corner of the room. This is crucial.” He leaned forward to be sure that Masoud
was paying attention.

  “I understand,” his brother said. “I must direct the ambassadors to the corner so that our brothers in jihad will be able to isolate us quickly.”

  “Correct,” Amir said, satisfied. “This will allow us to gain control of the General Assembly Hall quickly. From there, you will be marched at gunpoint to the tunnels. Rostami does not know the way, so you must lead him while making it appear that he is leading you. At the same time, you must resist him. You will be defiant, condemning his actions. You must put your gifts as an orator to work and convince the world that Persia is a victim, too.”

  Masoud nodded.

  “Do you remember your lesson from last night—how to disarm a man and how to fire a weapon?”

  Again the nod, but this time his brother looked up with uncertain eyes. “There is no way around shooting this man—my fellow Muslim?”

  “No,” Amir said. “This will make you the hero. There will be heroes and there will be martyrs. It is an honor to be martyred for Allah, and the brother’s reward in Paradise will be great.”

  A final nod.

  “You are ready, Masoud,” Amir pronounced rather than asked. “Do not fear. It is a blessing to have been chosen to serve Persia and Allah on this mission. You will not fail.”

  “Will I be in the tunnels with Rostami before . . . before the executions of the other diplomats begin?”

  “You will,” Amir promised, feeling annoyed that his brother did not have the stomach to witness the judgment of infidels. “The world must see that those who serve as the pawns of America and the Zionists will be judged and punished in the name of Allah.”

  “After it is done, how long will I be held hostage?” Masoud asked.