Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

  He waited for Jarvis to return. He waited to ask the question that had been bothering him for the past twelve hours, but he had been too afraid to ask.

  Jarvis chimed back into the call. “I’m back up,” he said. “We’re the only ones with intel on this, but I have the CIA station chief coordinating—”

  “Sir, I have a question,” Dempsey interrupted. “What is the status of Effi Vogel?”

  “I don’t see what Effi Vogel has to do with the situation at hand, John,” said Jarvis. “Let’s not lose focus here.”

  “Well, that’s where you and I differ, I guess. Because in my mind, Effi Vogel has everything to do with the situation at hand. You’re about to launch a full tactical intervention based on a computer’s interpretation of a conversation between the Iranian UN ambassador, the VEVAK’s Ops O, and Behrouz Rostami. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d rather make my decision based on empirical evidence of character.”

  An uncomfortable silence hung on the line for several seconds. “He killed her. I’m sorry, John.”

  Mendez glanced at Dempsey.

  Dempsey asked the question with his eyes: Did you know?

  Mendez shook his head and whispered, “I swear, I didn’t know.”

  Dempsey looked down at his lap and noticed that both his fists were clenched. “All right,” he said. “I’m convinced.”

  “Hey, guys,” Grimes interjected. “On page five, there’s a line where Modiri is talking about gaining ‘the access we need to the UN and the US and British ambassadors,’ and then there is something about isolating them in a room.”

  “There is also reference to a hostage negotiation on page three,” Dempsey added, scrolling back to a reference he’d remembered seeing.

  “What do you think Masoud Modiri means when he asks, ‘How long will I be held hostage?’ That doesn’t make any sense,” Grimes said.

  “Then after that, someone, presumably Amir, says, ‘I promise. I will look after your wife and your affairs while you are away,’” Smith added.

  “Does anyone else feel like the US and British ambassadors are to be targeted for kidnapping by Masoud Modiri?” Grimes asked, her voice hesitant with conjecture. “I know it sounds crazy, but . . . hold on, I want to check something.”

  “What’s your theory, Elizabeth?” Jarvis asked.

  “Call it off,” she said, her voice now strong and confident. “They’re not targeting the Palais de Nations! Call off the response teams or we’ll spook them.”

  “If they’re not targeting the UN, then what is the target?” Smith asked.

  “They’re targeting the UN, just not the UN in Geneva,” she said. “Are we still tracking the LoJack on Rostami’s rental?”

  “Yes,” Jarvis answered. “They’re well ahead of you on Route de Lausanne.”

  “Are they past Route des Romelles?” Grimes asked.

  “Still a couple of kilometers north. Coming up on it in a minute. Why?”

  “Give me a minute,” Grimes said. “I’m looking something up.” Dempsey could hear the tapping of her fingers on a keyboard in the background.

  “You think they’re going to the airport?” Jarvis asked.

  “Just a second.”

  There was an agonizing pause, during which Dempsey looked furiously at the broken transcript, trying to see just what the hell Grimes saw that he didn’t. When she came back, she sounded excited but still a little unsure.

  “Why do we think the attack is today?” Grimes asked, leading them.

  Smith chimed in. “Because the transcript shows Amir saying, ‘You are ready. It’s time to go. The schedule is tight . . . for Allah . . . for Persia.’ That’s it, then they leave.”

  “Yes, but according to the UNOG online calendar, the only noteworthy meeting today in Geneva is the Committee on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights in Sub-Saharan Africa,” Grimes said. “The US and British ambassadors are not going to be at that committee meeting. Because . . .” Dempsey heard more tapping on her laptop. “The Nuclear Nonproliferation Conference is scheduled for tomorrow at the UN Headquarters in New York.”

  “The attack is in New York City,” Dempsey said.

  “Rostami just took the exit to the airport,” Jarvis said. “Good work, Elizabeth.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “All right, everybody, you heard the lady. Change of plans. Wheels up as soon as we get runway clearance. We’re heading home.”

  CHAPTER 34

  United Nations Headquarters

  New York City

  May 22, 1250 EDT

  Masoud Modiri wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to pay attention to the conversation he was having with the Jordanian ambassador. While this sounded simple in theory, the fear and the discomfort he was suffering made the task nearly impossible. He had been carrying a condom filled with plastic explosives inside his rectum for hours, and he was terrified that at any moment he might lose control. As they approached the security checkpoint inside the new South Screening Building, it was all he could do to smile, squeeze, and walk with a normal gait.

  While he waited in the short security queue, Modiri noticed a bronze bust of Wallace K. Harrison prominently displayed on a nearby marble pillar. The irony of locating the bust in this South Screening Building was not lost on Modiri. Harrison had served as the lead architect of a multinational coalition of architects responsible for the design of the United Nations Complex in Midtown Manhattan. The coalition’s design had represented the hope and idealism of a world freed from the terror of Nazism and war. Openness and transparency had served as guiding design principles, resulting in a facility that—by modern standards—was easily accessible and vulnerable to attack. In light of the events on 9/11, the safety shortcomings and strategic vulnerabilities of the aged complex were an impetus for a massive internal renovation. The renovation team had the dubious task of trying to preserve the spirit of the coalition’s design while implementing modern, antiterrorism defenses. As one of the renovation architects had explained to Modiri during the “reopening” cocktail party: “Our job was to create the illusion of transparency and accessibility while simultaneously turning the UN headquarters into a citadel.” When Modiri had recounted this to his brother, Amir had laughed and said, “The two visions are mutually exclusive. Remember this man’s name, so later you can tell him that his glass citadel cost the lives of many.”

  After seven years, and hundreds of millions of dollars in budget overruns, the internal renovation was now complete. In the weeks preceding the grand reopening event, all the ambassadors and their staffers had been forced to sit through an hour of training summarizing the improvements to the complex. The renovation had included systematic upgrades to the safety and security of the UN headquarters, including the installation of biochemical airborne samplers in the ventilation system, upgrades to the video-surveillance systems, and the replacement of all exterior and observation windows with explosion-resistant ceramic glass. It also introduced the new South Screening Building—reminiscent of TSA security checkpoints in airports—as well as a major upgrade to the underground tunnel complex linking the Secretariat, the General Assembly, the Conference & Visitor’s Center, and the Dag Hammarskjöld Library buildings. In addition to the training, all representatives had been asked to participate in a series of emergency-evacuation drills, utilizing the upgraded tunnel system. Modiri had taken detailed notes during these sessions and turned the information over to his brother for the planning of the attack.

  Modiri had suggested the grand reopening ceremony itself as the focus of the attack, but Amir had deemed the risk too great. With an unprecedented number of Secret Service, FBI, NYPD, and UN security personnel swarming the complex, VEVAK had calculated the odds of success in the single digits. Now, one month later, it was a perfect time to strike. With the euphoria and the paranoia of the reopening all but forgotten, the UN was back to business as usual.

  “Mr. Ambassador, sir,” a young security officer said, interrupting his thou
ghts. “Can you please swipe your badge, empty your pockets, and place your personal belongings on the X-ray conveyer? You do not need to remove your shoes or your belt.”

  “Why is the Delegates’ Entrance closed today?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I only do what they tell me,” the guard said without humor. “They also closed the Visitors’ Entrance at Forty-Sixth Street. All traffic in and out of the complex must come through this gate today.”

  Modiri could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Something was wrong. They knew something, or why else would they close the Delegates’ Entrance?

  “Sir, if you could please swipe your badge and place your belongings on the belt,” the guard prompted again.

  Modiri did as instructed, emptying his pockets and placing his mobile phone and briefcase in a plastic bin on the conveyor. Next, he swiped his security badge through the card reader. The card reader beeped, and an LED flashed green.

  “Do you have any medical implants—such as a pacemaker or insulin pump—on or inside your person?” the guard asked.

  “No,” Modiri said.

  “Do you have a prosthesis—such as an artificial leg or hip-replacement joint—that might preclude you from passing through the scanner?” the guard asked, reciting the words with the practiced efficiency and boredom of a veteran.

  “No.”

  “Very well,” said the guard. “Please walk normally through the tunnel. Do not stop. You may pick up your belongings on the other side.”

  “Is this really necessary?” Modiri said, gesturing at the latest and greatest whole-body-scanning monstrosity the Americans had dreamed up. “I am an ambassador. Don’t you see the badge clipped to my jacket?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Ambassador,” the guard said without a trace of humor or intimidation, “but these procedures are in place for your protection.”

  Modiri sighed and walked into the tube. This new scanner was supposed to be less intimidating and intrusive by allowing you to keep your belt and shoes on during the walk-through. He said a silent prayer to Allah and clenched his sphincter muscle with all his might as the machine bombarded him with backscatter X-rays, giving the guard the ability to peer beneath his clothes like Superman. Amir had assured him that the waves bounced off his skin, and the device could not see anything inside his body.

  A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

  He hoped his brother was right.

  “Clear,” said a guard holding a tablet computer at the exit. “Next.”

  Modiri stepped out of the scanner tunnel, turned left, and walked over to the baggage conveyor to retrieve his briefcase and belongings. The belt was stopped, and the guard sitting at the computer screen had summoned another guard over to his workstation. Modiri could not hear what they were saying but he saw the first guard pointing at the screen. The second guard spoke, and then the first guard turned and pointed at him. Modiri felt his breath catch in this throat. The detonator was disguised as an MP3 player and a pair of earbuds. Amir had assured him the device would be indistinguishable from the real thing. The pressure in his rectum was building in step with his fear.

  The second guard said something to the first, and the conveyer started moving. Then, the second guard—apparently a supervisor—approached Modiri. “Sir, is this your briefcase?”

  “Yes,” said Modiri.

  “Can you open it please, sir?”

  Modiri pressed the right and left latch-release mechanisms with his thumbs, and the lid to the briefcase popped open. Inside were a stack of folders, several ink pens, a notebook computer, and the MP3 player with headphones.

  “Sir, I need to run your computer through the scanner separately.”

  “Very well,” Modiri said, trying to sound astonished at the request.

  “Thank you,” said the guard, taking the computer.

  Modiri’s heart skipped a beat when he saw the guard swiping the computer with a round, white paper disc. He had been careful to handle the explosives only wearing nitrile gloves, but if a trace chemical signature had somehow . . .

  “Sorry to trouble you,” said the guard, returning with his computer. “You’re free to go, Mr. Ambassador.”

  Modiri nodded, repacked the laptop, and closed his briefcase.

  In the time it had taken to screen the case, Modiri’s three staffers had cleared security and were hovering around him in a semicircle. He ignored them, gathered his things, and headed as quickly as he could toward the General Assembly building. The day’s conference on nuclear nonproliferation included forty of the delegates and their staffers, which made the General Assembly Hall the only space large enough to accommodate the session.

  The plan was for the first suicide bomber to lay waste to the South Screening Building entrance, giving access for the attack team to enter the facility while AQ snipers outside provided cover fire. In the ensuing calamity, he would detonate his explosive in the bathroom located on the perimeter wall of the General Assembly building, blowing a gaping hole in the side of the building. This would give a second assault squad access to the north side of the building, even with the building on lockdown. For that to happen, however, he had to pull off the most dangerous task of his entire life, and do so without detection.

  By the time Modiri reached the lobby of the General Assembly building, he felt like he was going to burst. He walked to the men’s restroom at the north end of the building. “Wait outside,” he barked to the three young men accompanying him—none of whom were read into his brother’s plans for this day. In fact, one or more of them would likely die today, a thought he pushed from his mind as an irrelevant distraction. They nodded and waited obediently.

  Inside the bathroom, Modiri selected the end stall and latched the door shut. Extracting the packet of explosives was not a problem; his body wanted it out. Retrieving the thin yellow bag coated with his own excrement from the toilet, however, proved far more difficult for him. An angry self-reminder of the price his dead son, Kamal, had paid gave him the willpower to accomplish the disgusting task. Three minutes later he was cleaned up, with the empty condom flushed down the toilet.

  Modiri retrieved a pair of nitrile gloves from a hidden pocket in his jacket and proceeded to knead the plastic explosive into a flat, rectangular lump. With great care, he pressed the explosive clay against the concrete wall behind the base of the toilet, obscuring it from view. Next, he retrieved the MP3 player and headphones. Each earbud unscrewed at the base to reveal a bare copper lead. He plugged the auxiliary jack into the MP3 player, then pressed the MP3 player’s power button, and the LCD screen came to life with a menu screen. Buried seven menu levels deep, he found the setting to activate the player’s embedded cellular chip and antennae, turning the device into a fully functional 4G-enabled detonator. On his mobile phone he pressed the preprogramed phone number for the detonator listed under a false name in his contact list. The detonator received the call and activated without complication. Using the menu function, he reset the device. Modiri dropped to his knees, and with shaking fingers he pressed the copper leads from the MP3 detonator deep into the clay.

  The world did not explode.

  Modiri exhaled, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and took a seat on the toilet. He took several deep breaths to center himself. His mind went to young Reza Pashaei—the boy who had called himself “June” in Djibouti. A wave of nausea washed over him as he imagined the awful courage and abject terror required to detonate explosives inside one’s own body. During every second of every minute of every hour he carried the bomb inside him, all he could think about was getting it out. Now that it was out, the sense of relief was unlike anything he’d ever known. Poor Reza had been given no such luxury—the explosive had been surgically implanted in his abdomen. The only solace to temper Modiri’s guilt and pity over what Reza had been forced to experience was knowing that the Mahdi had gotten Reza’s final request at the well of the Jamkaran Mosque.

  Reza, like all the martyred brothers before him, was baski
ng in Paradise now.

  Before leaving the stall, Modiri repacked his briefcase and said a prayer to the Mahdi. He asked the Twelfth Imam to bless Reza, to bless Persia, and to bless the act of jihad he was about to commit. In prayer, he found both the affirmation and courage he needed. He stripped off his gloves, unlatched the stall door, and stepped out. To his surprise, he was alone in the bathroom. He buried the nitrile gloves at the bottom of a wastebasket under layers of refuse. Then he walked over to the sink, and after washing his hands, splashed cold water on his face. He patted his cheeks and forehead dry with paper towels and checked his suit in the mirror.

  He could not look himself in the eye.

  Gripping his briefcase in his right hand, he marched out of the restroom and toward the General Assembly Hall, his staffers in tow. Now, all he had to do was figure out what to tell the American and British ambassadors so they would talk exclusively and privately with him for the next twenty minutes.

  CHAPTER 35

  Newark Airport, Corporate Terminal, FBI Hangar

  May 22, 1315 EDT

  Dempsey fell in behind Jarvis as the Ember Director took the lead.

  Smith and Mendez followed on Jarvis’s left, while he and Grimes stayed right. The Ember Special Activities Unit ran five abreast from their “borrowed” VIP 787 to the figure waiting across the tarmac for them. A refueling problem at the Geneva airport had delayed their departure by seventy minutes. Even pushing the speedy Boeing Dreamliner to the limits, they couldn’t catch the Iranians in their Gulfstream 650, which held the title of the world’s fastest corporate jet. Now, every second wasted mattered.

  “Are you Captain Jarvis?” asked the man behind the Ray-Ban shades.

  “Call me Kelso,” Jarvis said. “You must be Special Agent Hansen.”

  “Get in,” Hansen said, nodding at the GMC Yukon Denali XL parked behind him. “We’ll do introductions en route.”