Tier One (Tier One Series Book 1)

by Brian Andrews

CHAPTER 45

  Tehran, Iran

  May 28, 1040 Local Time

  Amir Modiri gently stroked Fatemeh’s hair as she wept. He’d expected this visit to be difficult, but he had not imagined it would be this difficult.

  For both of them.

  He had known his brother’s wife for as long as he could remember. They had played together as children—he, Masoud, Fatemeh, and her younger brother in the streets of their neighborhood in Mashhad. In adolescence, Masoud had claimed Fatemeh as the object of his affection, and Amir had respected that claim. In the forty years since, he had loved her as a brother loves a sister. Now, in the same kitchen where they had shared tea and laughed about trivial things just weeks ago, he broke the news of Masoud’s valiant death during the terrorist attack at the UN in New York City. The tale he told her was the same one being broadcast on the government-controlled Iranian news programs:

  Ambassador Masoud Modiri, of the Islamic Republic of Iran, died a hero, defending the lives of his brave Muslim staffers and fellow ambassadors during an unsanctioned attack on the United Nations by a radical splinter cell of Al Qaeda.

  Flowers lined the sidewalk along the perimeter fence of the ambassador’s official residence—a residence from which Fatemeh would soon be evicted to make room for her husband’s replacement. Amir had selected the choicest bouquets and brought them inside with him, but she would not look at them. For ten minutes, her face had been pressed into his chest, and he wondered if he would ever be able to let her go. After Kamal’s death, she had unloaded all her anger and grief onto Masoud. His brother had taken her burden and added it to his own. That was the type of man he was. With Masoud gone now, Fatemeh had only her youngest son, Cyrus, to lean on. But Cyrus was eighteen, enrolled in university, and living away from home. Thankfully, Cyrus had come to the ambassador’s residence this evening at Amir’s request. He had decided it would be best if both mother and son heard the story directly from him. Also, he felt better knowing his nephew would spend the night in the same house with his grieving mother.

  Just in case she . . .

  Amir looked over at the boy, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table, looking lost. He had always liked Cyrus, and Cyrus had worshiped him as the uncle who brought tales of adventure and comedy into the reserved Masoud Modiri home at holiday gatherings. Unlike Kamal, Cyrus showed great intellectual promise. Where Kamal had been the hot-tempered warrior, Cyrus showed the cool acumen of a tactician. The boy’s handsome face, affable nature, and mind for mischief had always reminded Amir of himself. The youngest Modiri male would make a perfect candidate—when the time was right.

  Amir gently disengaged from Fatemeh, scooting his chair back so that she could not lean against him without falling out of her chair. She sensed this and pulled away, hugging herself while she tried to control her sobs. In this state, she looked so very childlike, not the proud matriarch he had become accustomed to in recent years.

  “I don’t understand,” she murmured. “I don’t understand people whose only mission in life is to spread death and fear around the world. These jihadists claim to be loyal servants of Allah, but Allah is the God of Peace. The murder of innocents is not the way of Islam, but that is what Al Qaeda signals to the world. No wonder the Christian West fears Islam.”

  “The jihadists are misguided—”

  She talked over his comment, lost deep in her own thoughts. “That is why Masoud dreamed of being ambassador. He wanted to be the voice of a rational, peaceful Islam. He wanted to represent the real Iran—a learned country with noble people and a noble past. We are not a people of hate and aggression, as portrayed in the Western media. He wanted to spread that message to all the nations of the world.” She paused and looked down while wringing her hands. “I cannot tell you, Amir, how many nights Masoud and I lay awake in bed, talking about the UN and the path to global peace. My husband was a dreamer. Did you know that about him? He was a pious man, a brilliant philosopher, and a rare candle of hope in a world so bent on snuffing all candles out.”

  Amir reached out and squeezed her hand. “Masoud was the wisest man I’ve ever known. I am proud to have called him my brother,” he said, his voice cracking at the end.

  She gave the back of his hand a pat. “Thank you, Amir. I know Masoud is watching us from Paradise, and he is grateful to you for coming to comfort me. The road of sorrow ahead is long, but knowing that you and Maheen will walk beside me gives me the strength and courage to make the journey.”

  He hugged her one last time, and she began to weep once more. He stood, and looked at Cyrus. The boy looked up at him with wet, angry eyes.

  “Before I go, Cyrus, I would like to talk with you as men,” Amir said.

  Cyrus nodded and followed him to the stone courtyard. Amir gestured to one of the two aluminum benches and took a seat on the other, while experiencing a terrible sense of déjà vu.

  “I expect you to watch after your mother,” he said, his tone compassionate but firm. “The coming weeks will be difficult for her, and you are the man of the household now. Do you understand what that means?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” said Cyrus.

  “I also expect you to honor your father. Do you know what that means?”

  Cyrus crossed his arms across his chest. “You want me to speak at his funeral?”

  “No, that honor falls to me,” said Amir. “I’m talking about what you must do after the funeral.”

  Cyrus’s mouth twitched at the corner. “In that case, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s all right,” said Amir, nodding his head slowly. “I will teach you.”

  EPILOGUE

  J&G Steakhouse

  515 15th Street NW, Washington, DC

  May 28, 2115 EDT

  Jarvis swirled the full-bodied red wine around in his glass—a 2011 Justin Isosceles, a wine he loved for the name as much as for its long finish. The triangle and the wine were congruent—both all about symmetry. He took a long, slow swallow and pretended not to feel the other man’s eyes on him. The Director of National Intelligence was waiting patiently for him to answer, and the DNI was not the type of man who was accustomed to waiting.

  “I appreciate the compliment, Director Philips,” he said at last, meeting the other man’s eyes. “There was, as is so often the case, a lot of luck involved.”

  “Call me Ed,” the DNI said. “And luck had nothing to do with it, Kelso. We’re both Annapolis grads; you don’t have to kowtow for me.”

  “Okay, Ed, but I’m guessing you didn’t ask me to this dinner meeting to reminisce about the good ol’ days on the yard,” Jarvis said. He set down his wineglass and leaned back in his chair.

  “Quite right,” Philips agreed. He held Jarvis’s eyes with a hard stare, looking very much the ex-fighter jock Naval aviator that he was.

  Jarvis had read once that Philips had earned a Distinguished Flying Cross for action at the tail end of Vietnam, and another for a mission twenty years later in Gulf War I. He was a true warrior and a kindred spirit . . . so Jarvis hoped.

  “Too bad about Kittinger,” Philips said, casually taking a sip of wine.

  “Tragic,” Jarvis agreed, without blinking. “So senseless,” he added. “Does metro PD or the Secret Service have any leads? Bob didn’t seem the suicidal type.”

  “No leads,” Philips said, setting down his glass but watching Jarvis closely. “I don’t believe he even left a note.”

  “That’s what I heard. His sudden death must be quite a loss to your office, I’m sure.”

  At that, Philips chuckled and shook his head. “No,” he said, leaning in as if to confide a secret. “Bob’s heart may have been in the right place, but clearly he harbored some misguided ideas about how to safeguard our great nation. The president will be well served to replace him with someone who will provide more sound advice to the administration.”

  “Clearly,” Jarvis agreed.

  “It was time for him to go, I’m sure we agree.”


  “We do,” Jarvis said, unable to resist this arrogant last step in the waltz of words they were dancing. He carved off a hunk of his Wagyu strip steak with the razor-sharp serrated knife.

  The moment gone, Philips now cut into his own enormous, twenty-ounce bone-in ribeye. “So, Kelso, where would you like to go from here?” the DNI asked.

  “After the failure of the JIRG and my resignation, there aren’t a lot of places left for me to go,” Jarvis said, engaged but cautious. “And without a sponsor, I suppose it’s probably time to shut down Ember.”

  Something flashed across the DNI’s face and then disappeared. “Have you fulfilled your charter?”

  “Technically, we’re mission complete,” Jarvis said, watching for another hint in the DNI’s expression. He got none.

  The DNI took another generous bite of steak and made Jarvis wait an excruciatingly long two minutes while he chewed before finally speaking. “There will be no more inappropriate short chains within the White House, I assure you. The obvious illegality of it aside, it is an unsound way to get things done.”

  Jarvis nodded and said nothing.

  “In your report, you wrote that Behrouz Rostami avoided capture and is still at large.”

  “Correct, sir,” he said.

  “And that the mastermind of these latest offensives, Amir Modiri, is still serving as the Director of the Foreign Operations Directorate at the Ministry of Intelligence and Security.”

  “Yes, sir, he is.”

  The DNI wiped his mouth with his napkin. “In that case, I don’t see how you’re mission complete on your charter. It seems to me that you still have work to do, Director.”

  “Yes, sir. I suppose I do,” Jarvis said, forcing himself not to smile.

  “You work for me now, but Ember will continue to have the autonomy you earned when you ran the JIRG. I’ve spoken with the president and made him aware of what your people did at the UN. I have his full support for this arrangement.” Philips took a sip of wine. “How do you like your team?”

  “They’re the best I’ve ever had,” Jarvis said.

  “Good,” the DNI said. He reached down into the briefcase on the floor beside him and retrieved a sealed yellow envelope. He set the envelope on the table but rested his hand on top of it. “While Ember focuses on satisfying its long-term charter, there is something else pressing that I could use your assistance with.”

  “We would be happy to help, sir.”

  Philips smiled and slid the envelope over to him. “You will report only to me, understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “In that case, please get to work.” Philips stood up from the table. He extended his hand to Jarvis.

  The dinner was apparently over, at least for him. Jarvis gave one last glance at the balance of his fifty-eight-dollar steak, stood, and shook his new boss’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I’ll get the team right on this.”

  “See that you do,” Philips said, returning to his dinner. “There’s a car waiting for you outside.”

  Envelope in hand, Kelso Jarvis, former Navy SEAL Commander, now Director of the nation’s best-kept Tier One secret, headed out into the early summer rain.

  GLOSSARY

  AQ—Al Qaeda

  BDU—Battle Dress Uniform

  BUD/S—Basic Underwater Demolition School

  BZ—Bravo Zulu (military accolade)

  CASEVAC—Casualty Evacuation

  CENTCOM—Central Command

  CIA—Central Intelligence Agency

  CO—Commanding Officer

  CONUS—Continental United States

  CSO—Chief Staff Officer

  DNI—Director of National Intelligence

  Ember—American black-ops OGA unit led by Kelso Jarvis

  EXFIL—Exfiltrate

  FARP—Forward Area Refueling/Rearming Point

  FOB—Forward Operating Base

  HALO—High Altitude Low Opening (parachute jump)

  HRT—Hostage Rescue Team (FBI)

  HUMINT—Human Intelligence

  IAEA—International Atomic Energy Agency

  IC—Intelligence Community

  INFIL—Infiltrate

  IRISL—Islamic Republic of Iran Shipping Lines

  IS—Islamic State

  ISIL—Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant

  ISIS—Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham

  JCPOA—Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action (Iran treaty)

  JCS—Joint Chiefs of Staff

  JIRG—Joint Intelligence Research Group

  JMAU—Joint Medical Augmentation Unit

  JO—Junior Officer

  JSOC—Joint Special Operations Command

  JSOTF—Joint Special Operations Task Force

  JTF—Joint Task Force

  LCPO—Lead Chief Petty Officer

  MARSOC—Marine Corps Special Operations Command

  MBITR—Multiband Inter/Intra Team Radio

  MEDEVAC—Medical Evacuation

  MIC—Military Incendiary Compound

  MOIS—Iranian Ministry of Intelligence, aka VAJA / VEVAK

  MOSSAD—Israeli Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations

  NAVSPECWAR—Naval Special Warfare Command

  NCDU—Naval Combat Demolition Unit

  NCO—Noncommissioned Officer

  NSA—National Security Administration

  NSA—National Security Advisor

  NVGs—Night Vision Goggles

  OGA—Other Government Agency

  OPSEC—Operational Security

  OSTP—Office of Science and Technology Policy

  OTC—Officer in Tactical Command

  PD—Police Department

  PJ—Parajumper/Air Force Rescue

  QRF—Quick Reaction Force

  RIB—Rigid Inflatable Boat

  SAPI—Small Arms Protective Insert

  SCIF—Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility

  SEAL—Sea, Air and Land Teams, Naval Special Warfare

  SECDEF—Secretary of Defense

  SIGINT—Signals Intelligence

  SITREP—Situation Report

  SOAR—Special Operations Aviation Regiment

  SOCOM—Special Operations Command

  SOG—Special Operations Group

  SOPMOD—Special Operations Modification

  SQT—Seal Qualification Training

  TOC—Tactical Operations Center

  UNOG—United Nations Geneva

  USN—US Navy

  VEVAK—Iranian Ministry of Intelligence, analog of the CIA

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Photo © 2012 Jennifer Hensley

  Photo © 2015 Wendy Wilson

  Brian Andrews is a US Navy veteran who served as an officer on a 688-class fast attack submarine in the Pacific. He is a Park Leadership Fellow and holds a master’s degree from Cornell University. He is the author of The Calypso Directive, the first book in the Think Tank series of thrillers. Born and raised in the Midwest, Andrews lives in Tornado Alley with his wife and three daughters.

  Jeffrey Wilson has worked as an actor, firefighter, paramedic, jet pilot, and diving instructor, as well as a vascular and trauma surgeon. He served in the US Navy for fourteen years and made multiple deployments as a combat surgeon. He is the author of three award-winning supernatural thrillers: The Traiteur’s Ring, The Donors, and Fade to Black. He and his wife, Wendy, live in Southwest Florida with their four children.

  Andrews and Wilson are also the coauthors of the Nick Foley Thriller series.

 

 

 
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