“What has this man done?” Cyrus asks, taking the weapon.
“That is not your concern,” the teacher answers. “All that matters is that I am ordering you to kill him.”
He squeezes the trigger. The bullet finds its mark and the hooded man shudders. Blood pools on the floor, expanding and expanding until he is standing in it. How can so much blood come from one man? Someone is screaming, with rage and pain the likes of which he’s never heard before. At first he thinks it is the hooded man . . . but he is the one screaming. The scream fades, and his teacher takes the pistol from him, flashing him a malevolent smile.
“Who was he?” Cyrus asks.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I need to know,” he says and walks toward the slumped figure. He swallows . . . reaches out . . . and lifts the hood.
The dead man’s eyes flick open. The face is his own.
“You did this to me,” his doppelganger hisses. And then with astounding speed, it grabs him by the throat and screams, “You did this to me!”
Choking and gagging, Cyrus leaped out of bed. He scanned the room for threats, sweat pouring from his brow. “Gde ya?” he muttered, in Russian, not remembering where the hell he was. A beat later, adrenaline burned off the fog of sleep and his wits returned. He was in Tehran, at his uncle’s house. Exhaling through pursed lips, he sat down on the edge of the mattress. Having completed his training with Arkady in Crimea, today was his official indoctrination into VEVAK. Beginning today, Cyrus Modiri was no more. Beginning today, he would be whoever his uncle told him to be.
The anemic hue around the drawn curtains told him it was still early. He checked his wrist, and the digital display on his watch read 05:25. Not enough time to go back to sleep and yet not enough time to do anything productive. He rolled off the bed and banged out a set of fifty push-ups. When he finished, he flipped onto his back and did one hundred crunches. He followed that with planks and squats and then repeated the body-weight circuit three more times. After that, he showered, shaved, and dressed. With a growling stomach, he made his way to the kitchen, where he found his aunt Maheen making coffee.
“Good morning, Cyrus,” she said, keeping her back to him while she filled two porcelain cups with steaming brew.
“Good morning, Aunt Maheen,” he replied, studying her from behind. To his uncle’s great disappointment, she had been unable to conceive children. This had undoubtedly contributed to his aunt keeping—what looked to Cyrus like—the body of a teenager.
She turned, greeted him with a warm smile, and handed him a coffee. “And how did you sleep?”
“I slept fine,” he said, and then accepting the cup, added, “Thank you for this.”
He was not a coffee drinker, but this morning he would make an exception. Despite being twenty-five years his senior, his aunt’s beauty was distracting. In her presence, he reverted back to his awkward twelve-year-old self. Little boys were not supposed to have crushes on their aunts, but Maheen was impossible not to covet. On more than one occasion while making love to some girl, he’d closed his eyes and imagined his aunt was the one beneath him. It was wrong. So wrong, and yet—
“Nightmares already?” she asked, her nonchalant tenor at odds with her steely, penetrating gaze.
He felt his cheeks flush with confirmation, which angered him and made them flush all the more.
“I know it’s difficult, Cyrus, but you need to find a coping strategy.”
He stared at her. Was this another twisted dream? Was he still asleep? Or was this yet another test . . . something his uncle had put his aunt up to in order to validate Cyrus’s ability to compartmentalize and keep secrets, even from trusted family members? Had Amir told her that he’d recruited Cyrus to work for VEVAK? How much did she know about her husband’s professional life? Did the wife of VEVAK’s Director of Foreign Operations get read into the program out of necessity? These were questions he had not contemplated before and unfortunately had not had an opportunity to discuss with his uncle.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Aunt Maheen.”
“I think you do,” she said, taking another sip of coffee. “And so let me offer you a little advice, favorite aunt to favorite nephew. When you’re forced to sleep with demons, it’s best to keep your wits about you at all times. Just don’t become too reliant on sleeping pills. It’s the coward’s antidote.”
Suddenly, he understood. She wasn’t talking about VEVAK and wet work. She was afraid he was going to end up like his mother, who met her end with a bottle of sleeping pills in her hand.
“This is the first time I’ve been back home since she—” He choked on the words and couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I know,” she said and reached out as if to touch his cheek but stopped short. “We all miss her very much.”
He dropped his gaze into the brown abyss inside his coffee cup.
“So,” she said, her voice suddenly upbeat, “how was your semester abroad at Lomonosov? I want to hear all about it. Amir tells me you’ve fallen in love with Moscow.”
He looked up at her, and her face was transformed, suddenly aglow with enthusiasm. This was the Aunt Maheen he remembered. This was the Aunt Maheen he’d expected to meet this morning. As he fumbled for words, he heard footsteps behind him. “Moscow is—”
“Cold as hell,” his uncle interrupted, his face all smiles. “I don’t know why any warm-blooded Persian would want to go there.”
Cyrus forced a polite chuckle.
Maheen poured Amir a cup of coffee. She sidled up next to him and wrapped an arm around Amir’s waist. In that instant, he saw his aunt and uncle as a duo of demigods—a charming, beautiful, brilliant power couple virtually unrivaled in Tehran. With Amir’s rank and wit, and Maheen’s wealth and beauty, they were practically Persian royalty—untouchables plugged in to the highest circles of power and influence.
“Come on, Cyrus, you must have at least one story to tell,” Maheen coaxed with an easy smile.
In his mind, Arkady spoke to him: At its core, a proper legend is nothing more than a life story. And what is a life story but a patchwork of short stories stitched together? These stories are your parachute when you’re falling, a life preserver when you’re drowning, and a fire extinguisher when you’re burning. Use unbalanced dichotomy—humor to mask vulnerability, accomplishment despite pain—to make yourself relatable, admirable, and interesting. Master this and you will pass every social test.
And so Cyrus told her one of seven scripted narratives he had crafted under Arkady’s tutelage. The story was about a wild night out in Moscow with two crazy Russian boys he befriended despite being a Persian Muslim. By the end, he had both his aunt and his uncle laughing and seemingly enraptured in the tale.
“Well, that is quite a story,” Maheen said.
“It certainly is,” Amir added. “I’ve never been to Moscow, but after hearing that, maybe I should take a semester abroad at Moscow State.”
Maheen playfully wagged a finger at her husband. “Over my dead body,” she said and chuckled. “Not with all those tall Russian fashion models walking around.”
“I’m joking, I’m joking,” Amir said and then leaned over to kiss his wife. “I’ve always had, and always will have, eyes for only one woman in this life, and that woman is you.”
“Ah, so sweet,” she said, put a hand on his cheek, and kissed him back. But as she did, she snuck a glance at Cyrus.
After the kiss, Amir looked down at his watch. “Well, it’s time for me to go to work,” he said. Then, as if an afterthought, he added, “You’re welcome to stay here at the house, Cyrus, or if there is somewhere you’d like me to drop you in town, then you can ride along.”
“I think I’ll take you up on that offer,” he replied. Then, turning to his aunt, he said, “Thank you for the coffee, Aunt Maheen. I’m normally not a coffee drinker, but this was very good.”
“It was nothing,” she said. “Will you be joining us for dinner tonight
, or do you have plans?”
He glanced at his uncle, looking for nonverbal instruction.
“Of course he will join us,” Amir said. “He can catch up with friends another day.”
“Then it’s settled. Dinner will be at seven thirty. Don’t be late, boys.”
Five minutes later, Cyrus was sitting in the passenger seat of his uncle’s Mercedes Benz en route to the VEVAK complex in Tehran. His uncle had canceled his driver this morning, claiming he wished to practice his driving skills lest he forget them. Privacy, however, was the real objective.
“You seem very nervous this morning,” Amir said, kicking off the conversation.
“I am, or at least I was.”
“Does my beautiful wife still make you uncomfortable? Since you were a little boy, you’ve always been shy around her.”
Cyrus decided honesty was prudent; he was not a skilled enough liar yet to fool his uncle, and besides, what was the point? “Very uncomfortable,” he said. “Does she know about me? I mean, does she know that you recruited me for VEVAK? Does she know why I was in Russia?”
“If you’re asking me if I told her these things, the answer is no. If you’re asking me if that matters, the answer is also no,” he said with a chuckle. “Maheen sees all.”
Cyrus exhaled with relief, which made Amir laugh out loud.
“Maheen is the best training I can possibly give you for developing your social skills. Fool her, and you can fool anyone.”
Cyrus hesitated. His next question was critical, but he was afraid to ask it.
“Go on. Ask. It’s okay,” his uncle said.
He swallowed. “Is she . . . one of us?”
“No.” His uncle’s reply came quick and hard, but there was something, some undercurrent in his tone, that made Cyrus wonder if the answer was not that simple.
“But she is read into what you do?”
“No, she’s not.”
“Then I don’t understand. How does it work between you?”
Amir smiled. “You have to understand, Cyrus, before VEVAK there was Maheen. Since the moment I first saw her, it has always been Maheen. There is no me without her. She’s all that matters. I would do anything for her. Make any sacrifice. Rise to any challenge. Slaughter any foe who tried to hurt her . . .”
“I understand that, Uncle, but isn’t it dangerous for her to know too much? Arkady taught me that the best Russian spies are able to lead two, three, sometimes four different lives simultaneously, often with different wives and children while maintaining their legends.”
Amir snorted. “Yes, maybe, but these men are not married to Maheen. She is like . . . she is like an X-ray machine. She sees under the skin; she sees you to your bones. To pretend otherwise would be self-delusion and irresponsible tradecraft.”
“So how do you do it? How do you keep our secrets?”
“I don’t sing the lyrics to our songs.”
Cyrus considered this for a moment. “But she hears the music nonetheless?”
Amir nodded. “The music, I can’t turn off. So we waltz to the melody, and the words I keep to myself.”
Cyrus nodded. He’d asked Arkady if he was married, and the Russian had said wistfully, Once, his answer a thousand words crammed into one.
“Speaking of our mutual friend, Arkady and I spoke yesterday. He wanted to give me his assessment. You are the first Persian and first Muslim he’s trained.”
“And?”
“He said if I have any more like you in the pipeline, he would be willing to train them, too. I would say that is the ultimate praise, coming from this particular Russian.”
“So are you going to send him more students?”
His uncle shook his head. “No.”
“Oh,” Cyrus said, a little surprised. “Why is that? I assure you he is a very good instructor.”
“Because,” Amir said, laughing ruefully, “I don’t have anyone else in the pipeline like you.”
“I find that hard to believe, Uncle. There must be dozens of candidates out there with credentials superior to mine.”
“On paper, maybe. But this is not a paper business. I know your mind. I know your heart. We are bound by the same God, the same blood, the same pain. Most importantly, we are bound by the same debt of vengeance. Do you remember the conversation we had in the courtyard of your father’s house almost one year ago?”
“Yes.”
“Then you understand the Modiri family blood debt must be settled.”
“Yes.”
“I sent you to Arkady because I needed you to be trained for an operation that no one in the ranks of VEVAK could possibly execute.”
“Not even Rostami?”
Amir frowned. “Rostami has grown to be more of a liability than an asset these days. No, I would not trust Rostami to do this alone. I conceived this mission with another in mind, and according to Arkady, you’re ready.”
“What is it?” Cyrus asked, his heart rate amping up with anticipation and pride.
“In three weeks, the Zionists and the Americans are holding an intelligence summit in Washington, DC. The new Israeli head of the Mossad will be meeting the US Director of National Intelligence face-to-face for the first time. We’ve gained intelligence that the DNI will be hosting a private party at his estate. Security will be tight, but you will work on a plan to gain access. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Cyrus. Never again will we have an opportunity such as this to decapitate two serpents with a single stroke of the blade.”
“You’re trusting me to lead this operation?”
“Are you prepared to give your life in the service of Persia?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Cyrus said, nodding.
“Then the honor and the privilege will be yours.”
CHAPTER 4
Galway Bay Irish Bar
Annapolis, Maryland
May 3
1745 Local Time
“How many fried oysters can one SEAL eat?” Shane Smith asked as the server set another half-dozen in front of Dempsey.
Dempsey grinned and stared down at the steaming plate of heaven. “What’s this make?”
“Two dozen,” said Elizabeth Grimes. “Give or take,” she added with a sly grin as she poached an oyster and popped it into her mouth.
Dempsey shot her a sour look.
Smith took advantage of the moment and swiped a golden breaded nugget from the opposite side of the plate. “Make that twenty-two,” the Ember Operations Officer said.
“Twenty-one,” Richard Wang chimed in, his right hand shooting in and out like a serpent strike and swiping a third.
“Correction, it’s actually twenty,” said former CIA agent Simon Adamo.
“Make that nineteen,” Dan Munn said, his voice low and gruff as he reached over and took the larger of the two remaining oysters.
“What the hell is this?” Dempsey grumbled with a playful scowl.
“It’s called teamwork, JD,” Smith said, taking a swig of his beer. “We’re helping you complete your mission objective.”
“I don’t see the logic. How does your filching my oysters help me fill my belly?”
Smith laughed. “No, see, that’s the problem right there. You don’t understand the mission objective. Operation Cholesterol is not about you breaking the pub’s single sitting fried oyster record; it’s about us trying to prevent you from going into cardiac arrest tonight.”
“Is that so?” Dempsey said, shaking his head.
“Yeah, John. Why else would we have invited your doctor to come along?” Grimes said, winking at Munn.
“Man, get a few beers in this crew and you’re all comedians,” he said, picking up the last oyster between his thumb and index finger and holding it up for inspection. Then, instead of tossing it in his mouth, he offered it to Jarvis, who was sitting across the table from him. “I think this one has your name on it, Skipper.”
The former SEAL Captain and now Director of Ember shook his head. “I wouldn’t want to spoil m
y appetite. Gotta save room for caviar and goose liver pâté at tonight’s soirée.”
Groans of disapproval reverberated around the wooden table.
“Wouldn’t you rather hang with us, boss?” Wang said, his speech beginning to slur. “You don’t want to hang out with those Israeli dudes. They’re way too uptight.”
Dempsey watched Jarvis’s eyes narrow at the IT genius.
“I wonder if perhaps you could learn something from their discipline, Mr. Wang?”
Wang’s smile disappeared and the younger man blushed. “I just meant—”
Jarvis held up a hand. “I know, you were just talking smack. The joint training we just conducted at the Farm was as much for you as for them. Try to remember that.”
Wang nodded, sufficiently cowed in front of the group.
“You gonna eat that last oyster, JD?” Smith asked after an awkward beat, trying to revive the withering party atmosphere before it died.
Dempsey popped the golden nugget into his mouth. Then, with a grin on his face, he snapped his fingers in the air. “Waiter, waiter, another plate of fried oysters for me and a glass of Chabliss for my friend.”
Everyone laughed, even Jarvis, but Grimes cracked up most of all.
“It wasn’t that funny, Lizzy,” Dempsey said, looking at her.
“I know,” she said. “I’m laughing because you’re a total redneck and you don’t even know it.”
“What’d I say?”
“It’s Chablis, not Chabliss. You don’t pronounce the s.”
“Really?” he said, looking at Smith.
Smith nodded.
“Did you know that?” he asked, turning to Munn.
Munn nodded, doing his best to suppress a grin.
“Wang?” he said, searching for an ally.
“Sorry, Dempsey. Everybody knows that,” the techno kid-wonder said with a snicker.
“Ah, damn,” he said, grabbing his beer. “So, I’m the dumbest guy at the table?”
Smiles and nods all around.
“Well, I guess I can drink to that.” He raised his glass for a toast.
“To the dumbest guy at the table,” Grimes said, but then leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “What would we do without you?”
Crusader One (Tier One Thrillers Book 3) Page 5