“State your business?” a voice said.
“I am Hamza Samak, from Quaid-i-Azam University. I’m supposed to meet Mr. Nasir, who is in residence here. He’s expecting me, but I’m late in arriving. Please inform him that I have important news from my visit to Amsterdam.”
The message contained coded information that only Rostami would understand. Had Cyrus declared a European city other than Amsterdam, it would have meant he was under surveillance. Had he said Dubai, it would have meant he was under duress and needed help. This protocol had been established during the planning stage of the operation and was known only to the two of them.
“Wait there while I call him,” the guard said, and the speaker went silent.
Cyrus felt naked and vulnerable standing under the white light at the gate. He shifted his posture to appear confident and casual, but inside he was counting off the seconds. After what felt like an eternity, he heard a double-beep, and the heavy iron gate rolled to the right, slipping behind the fence line. Cyrus stepped onto the grounds and was met by an approaching guard.
“Good evening,” he said in Urdu.
“Good evening,” the guard answered in heavily accented English, his eyes going straight to Cyrus’s backpack. “What is in the bag?”
“Just a change of clothes and some personal items.”
“Come with me,” the guard said, making a U-turn and leading Cyrus to the small administrative wing at the front of the embassy. The guard led him inside to the security checkpoint and gestured to the bag. “Open it.”
Cyrus unzipped the main compartment and tilted the mouth toward the man. The guard made a cursory check, rummaging through the contents and saying nothing about the oversize, empty plastic bag inside. Then, the guard pulled out a handheld metal detector. Cyrus stepped his legs apart and held out his arms for scanning. The guard ran the wand quickly but expertly over his body.
“Okay,” the guard said, stowing the wand and gesturing to a paper log. “Sign here.”
Cyrus signed in to the access log under his assumed name, after which the guard escorted him past the administrative building to the lobby of the embassy proper, where he was greeted by a middle-aged Pakistani wearing a finely tailored suit.
“Welcome, Mr. Samak,” the man said, greeting him with a wide plastic smile. “Mr. Nasir asked that I meet you here in the lobby.” They shook hands and then the smiling Pakistani said, “You must be exhausted from your trip. Do you require any refreshment? Water or tea perhaps?”
Cyrus immediately recognized this for what it was—secondary vetting now that he was inside the safety of the embassy walls.
“I’m feeling rested and require no refreshments, thank you,” Cyrus said, indicating that he was neither injured nor in need of urgent assistance.
“Wonderful,” the Pakistani said, but this time his smile was genuine. He gave a curt nod to the guard. Officially dismissed now, the guard promptly turned and left.
“Follow me, please. Mr. Nasir is ready to receive you.”
They walked briskly to a set of marble stairs, and Cyrus trailed his escort by a body length up to the third floor. The Pakistani had neglected to provide Cyrus with his name or title, but Cyrus knew exactly what role this handsome, well-dressed attendant fulfilled for the embassy; he was a human German shepherd, trained to greet, impress, and if circumstances demanded, intimidate. Cyrus was 100 percent certain that none of the staff at the Pakistani embassy or the Iranian “cultural mission” had been read into either their operation or their legends. Which made what was about to happen all the more diabolical.
Cyrus followed his escort through the embassy to another wing of the building secured with its own guard station. A tired-looking Persian in a gray security uniform sat behind a built-in desk. A banner hung across the front with print in Arabic and English: “Interests Section of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”
“Sign in. Mr. Nasir is waiting for you,” the guard said and rubbed the corner of his left eye.
“Thank you,” Cyrus said with a young man’s eager smile. He signed the open book with “H. Samak” and noted the time of 10:05 p.m. on his watch.
“This is where I leave you,” said the Pakistani in the suit.
Cyrus thanked him, then turned and walked toward a heavy wooden door in the hallway beyond, but it swung open before he could reach for the knob. Rostami greeted him, smiling broadly. “Hamza, my friend. Come in, come in. I can’t wait to hear all about your trip.”
Despite the playacting, Rostami appeared relaxed. Cyrus knew better than to read a seasoned agent’s body language as scripture. If his former mentor meant to turn the tables on Cyrus, the privacy and security afforded to Rostami in this facility were second to none. If his uncle no longer trusted Rostami, then for certain he should be careful, too.
Time is my enemy. I must act first, Cyrus reminded himself.
Rostami nodded to the guard and then closed the door behind them. The instant the heavy wooden door shut, Rostami’s warm smile disappeared. “You’re not supposed to be here unless something has gone terribly wrong. You coming here puts both of us at risk.”
“I know, but I was not followed.”
“In our final communication, I was very clear,” Rostami said, wagging a finger at him. “No contact until after exfiltration.”
“No,” Cyrus said, shaking his head. “In our last communication, you ordered me to ‘go black’ and then severed the circuit before I had a chance to finish my report. I have a problem, and it’s something I have to deal with before exfiltration.”
Rostami sighed. “And what is the problem?”
“The problem, my friend,” Cyrus said, shrugging off his backpack as a diversion while he slipped his blade from its sheath, “is you.”
CHAPTER 10
Ember SUV
University Parking Lot Adjacent to the Pakistani Embassy
Washington, DC
May 3
2345 Local Time
Dempsey put the Tahoe’s transmission into park and killed the SUV’s engine. His own motor, however, was revved up to redline, and he was ready to go. “We’re here, Baldwin. No time for fucking around. Is Rostami in the embassy or not?” he said on the open circuit.
“We have a seventy-five percent confidence match on a local security camera aimed at the embassy’s main gate. At 1655, Rostami arrived on foot, cleared security, and entered the building via the main lobby.” In the background, Dempsey heard what sounded like multiple hands typing furiously on multiple keyboards.
“That was nearly five hours ago,” Munn said. “He could be anywhere now.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Baldwin replied. “I don’t have him leaving.”
“What about secret exits? He could have left through an underground tunnel,” Munn countered.
“This is the Pakistani embassy,” Baldwin replied with a hint of sarcasm. “Not the White House.”
Dempsey cocked a c’mon, bro eyebrow at Munn.
“What?” Munn said.
“Munn has a valid point,” Jarvis said on the line. “We need to entertain all scenarios. What about internal camera footage, Ian? Surely the embassy has a network security-camera system you can hack?”
“They do have a system. It’s a terribly old legacy system, however, which paradoxically makes penetrating it harder rather than easier, but we’re online with a colleague at the NSA trying to gain access as we speak,” Baldwin said.
“What’s your position, Skipper?” Dempsey asked, imagining that Jarvis couldn’t be that far out.
“I’m parallel parked on International Court between the Pakistani and Nigerian embassies,” Jarvis said.
“Perfect,” Dempsey said. “We EXFIL in your vehicle?”
“That’s the plan.”
“So we’re really going to do this?” Munn asked, looking at Dempsey with incredulous eyes. “We’re going to hit the Pakistani embassy?”
Dempsey wanted to answer, but this call was above his pay grad
e. “Skipper?” he said. “What’s the call?”
“We’re going in,” came the Ember Director’s reply. “Can you give us some night, Ian?”
“Yes, but it’s complicated,” Baldwin said. “Just the embassy or everywhere?”
“Total night,” Jarvis said. “For several blocks. I don’t want to make it blatantly obvious the Pakistani embassy was targeted, or even Embassy Row for that matter. I want some bleed on the blackout.”
“Okay, but people are going to notice. Phone calls are going to be made,” Baldwin said. “I cannot guarantee how long before the power company figures out the exploit we’re going to use.”
“I understand. Your best guess—how long?” Jarvis asked. In the background, Dempsey heard the familiar sound of a pistol slide release and a round being chambered. Jarvis was kitting up.
“Ten minutes, plus or minus two,” came the reply. “Also, I should make you aware that the embassy is equipped with standby electric power generators—” Baldwin abruptly stopped talking, and Dempsey heard one of Ember’s junior analysts, Chip or Dale, interrupt him. After a frustratingly long delay during which the two tech geniuses argued, Baldwin said, “We’re into the embassy’s control system now. Dale says the generator has a wireless monitoring system. The genny will start automatically on loss of grid power, but we can shut it down immediately thereafter on low oil pressure.”
“Just make it happen,” Jarvis said. “Do I have eyes in the air?”
“Yes, we have an RQ-7B in orbit that Shane, despite inebriation, launched successfully from the airport when the rest of the team got back to the jet.”
“Can you pull up the thermal on the drone? We need to know where the warm bodies are.”
The infotainment screen on Dempsey’s console refreshed and the drone feed from orbit appeared.
“This building is a problem. Lots of structure, and do you see those dishes on the roof? Those are active jammers; it’s wreaking havoc with the drone feed, forcing me to keep a long-distance setback to prevent interference with our control of the bird.”
“Shit,” Jarvis grumbled.
“It’s okay. For obvious reasons this building has always been of particular interest to our spooky friends. We’ve managed to cobble together a pretty comprehensive floor plan for you from prior collection activities. I’m uploading a file to your console displays and mobile devices as we speak,” Baldwin said. “Notwithstanding recent internal modifications, of course, the layout should be accurate. As soon as we get access to internal security feeds, which I hope to have any minute, we’ll compare video images against the plans to give you a heads-up on any discrepancies . . .”
While Baldwin prattled on, Dempsey looked over at Munn. “Time to kit up, Dan. Big-boy rules, so if you’re not game—”
“I’m all in,” Munn said, cutting him off. “I was just pointing shit out and making sure we know what we’re getting into before we go.”
“All right,” Dempsey said, watching Munn’s face as he grabbed the duffel bag from the back seat. He pulled out the long guns and slipped a sling over his head. “Somewhere inside that building is the asshole who has led five attacks on US soil in the past year.” He paused while he checked a round in the chamber of his assault rifle and then did the same for his Sig, which he slipped into a drop holster on his right thigh. Then he pulled out three extra magazines for the rifle and two for his pistol. “Behrouz Rostami is one slippery, tricky bastard, Dan. The information about VEVAK’s operations in that fucker’s brain is gold. Shoot to wound. We cannot let him die, and we cannot let him get away.”
“I understand,” Munn said, passing Dempsey his vest.
Dempsey slipped the vest over his head and secured it around his waist with the large Velcro panels while Munn did the same. Next, the doc grabbed their helmets, with NVGs still intact from their tromp through the woods. Both men checked the batteries and then they were ready. Dempsey looked at the building plans for the embassy on his console display. He used the touchscreen to scroll through all three levels, committing the layout to memory.
“Just to be clear, the Iranian cultural mission is on the third floor, southwest corner, correct?” Dempsey asked.
“That is correct, John,” Baldwin said.
“Call signs?”
“Dempsey is One, Munn Two, and I’m Three,” Jarvis replied. “Baldwin stays Zero.”
“Roger that, Three,” Dempsey said.
“We’re split now,” Jarvis said, “but we’ll merge during the western approach after you cross International Court behind the embassy. We go in as a three-man team. Dempsey is point with a standard fan. Zero, you need to get that front gate open before you cut power. Otherwise it will fail in a locked-shut setting.”
“Understood,” Baldwin replied. “Also, I should point out the embassy is likely using fail-secure magnetic locks. However, by code, emergency egresses must use ‘fail-safe’ models that unlock in the event of a power outage. You will be safe to use any doors designated as emergency exits for INFIL and EXFIL, but the others I cannot guarantee.”
“Roger. Thank you, Ian,” Jarvis said. “The secure entrance is located in the admin wing, which juts out from the main building on the southwest corner of the property about thirty yards away from the iron gate at the street. We’re going to attempt to avoid that entrance and make a covert pass across the north side of the courtyard and down the ramp into the underground parking garage. We will enter on the basement level via emergency exit. Once inside, we take the north fire-escape stairwell to the third level. I don’t expect interference or resistance until we reach the third level, but navigating the third floor to the Iranian mission could get hairy. Lots of opportunities for civilian interference en route, and I anticipate we’ll encounter security at the Iranian mission. Stay nonlethal if possible, but lethal force is authorized inside the Iranian spaces. Anyone with Rostami is likely a lethal hostile and so we operate accordingly, but we must take Rostami alive. EXFIL is a retrace—down the fire-escape stairwell to the garage, up the ramp, sweep north, down the hill, and back to my vehicle on International Court. Any questions?”
“No sir. One and Two are set,” Dempsey said, not giving Munn a chance to lob another “what if” grenade.
“Zero, call the approach,” Jarvis said.
“You’re clear. Not a soul out and about,” Baldwin said.
“One is set,” Dempsey said.
“Zero, open the gate and give us the night,” Jarvis said.
Dempsey was out of the car now, adjusting his rifle across his chest in a tactical carry. As if there were a giant light switch somewhere, the entire world went dark. Baldwin had, as promised, cut power across a swath of city blocks. Dempsey flipped down the NVGs on his helmet and entered the familiar green-gray world of night vision. They crossed the commuter parking lot, hopped a fence, and bolted across International Court into the shadowy pass between the Pakistani and Nigerian embassies. With expert precision, Jarvis fell into formation, and now they were a three-man team moving up the hill and toward the embassy’s main gate.
“I have you on IR and thermal from the drone,” Baldwin said. “The gate is open. The courtyard is clear. You’re good to cross.”
A beat later, they swept south and were crouched outside the gate, scanning for threats. Dempsey trusted Baldwin’s eyes in the sky, but he trusted his own more. After quickly confirming the approach was clear, Dempsey pushed the gate open on its rollers just enough for them to squeeze through in single file. Weapon up, Dempsey dashed through the opening then twisted right to scan the administrative building for emerging security personnel. He chopped a hand at the ramp leading to the underground garage fifty feet ahead.
“Movement at the admin building,” Baldwin reported. “Someone is stepping out.”
Dempsey picked up the pace as Jarvis and Munn followed behind him. Twenty more feet and they would be clear, obscured from view by the concrete wall on the south side of the ramp. He looked right as he moved
and saw two guards emerge from the admin building. He noted they were not wearing NVGs, and their native night eyes were probably still adjusting to the dark after the power cut.
Almost there—just ten more feet.
Dempsey’s left foot hit the downward-sloping concrete of the ramp just as one of the guards clicked on a flashlight. He crouched lower and ducked behind the sloping wall of the ramp. Munn and Jarvis fell in behind him, all whirling and taking knees behind the wall. The wall blocked Dempsey’s view of the guards to the south, but he could see the flash beam moving along the iron spindles of the front gate. When the beam reached the gap at the end, it stopped.
Shit.
He glanced at Jarvis, who shook his head; Dempsey got the implied message: We’ll deal with the gate on the way out.
“One, Zero, both guards are walking to the gate,” said Baldwin’s voice in his ear. “They’ll be able to see you in six . . . five . . .”
Dempsey double-clicked acknowledgment, chopped a hand toward the garage, and set off down the ramp. They moved swiftly and silently into the pitch-black subterranean parking structure, which without night vision would have been impossible to navigate. Dempsey led Munn and Jarvis between a row of parked cars toward an elevator bank on the far wall. Beside the elevator, he spied a steel door, which he figured must lead to a stairwell. As he reached for the handle, he prayed Baldwin was right about fail-safe locks on emergency exits. They had breacher charges, but using breachers on this op was an option of last resort. Tonight they needed to be ghosts, not leaving a single trace of their presence behind. He depressed the lever and, to his great relief, pulled the door open easily.
Munn held the door open while Dempsey stepped into the stairwell, clearing the bottom landing first and then sighting up. Seeing no one, he paused a beat and listened, but the three-story stairwell was dead quiet. Dempsey waved Munn and Jarvis in behind him and moved toward the first flight of stairs. His first footfall on the metal steps echoed in the cavernous cement stair tower, making Dempsey cringe. A perfect stealth ascent to the top would be impossible; on the plus side, the instant anyone else entered or moved in the stairwell, they’d know. His next step was more deliberate and quieter, but time was their nemesis. He glanced back at Jarvis, who gave him a shit happens shrug. Jaw clenched, Dempsey led the controlled ascent as quietly and expeditiously as possible—the metal staircase thrumming and echoing to the cadence of three pairs of footfalls all the way up.
Crusader One (Tier One Thrillers Book 3) Page 10