Crusader One (Tier One Thrillers Book 3)

by Brian Andrews

  “I’m flattered, Mr. President, but—”

  “Let me stop you right there, Kelso. The job is not yours to refuse. I’m simply informing you that your name is being considered.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But, that being said, I would expect that if the time comes that you are called upon to do your duty for your country, you will shoulder that ox yoke and pull the damn cart no matter what your personal feelings might be on the matter. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the meantime, I expect you and Ms. Morgan to find me the person responsible for this disaster. Do you hear me, Kelso? I want a name.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. If it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I will find you that name.”

  “Oh, and one last thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “Remember that you and Director Morgan are on the same team. Try and act like it.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but the line was already dead. Without setting down the receiver, Jarvis dialed Levi Harel’s encrypted mobile phone from memory. The line rang, and rang, and instead of going to voice mail, continued to ring. Only when he was just about to end the call did the legendary Israeli spymaster pick up.

  “This should go without saying, but I’m kind of busy right now,” Harel said with his trademark sarcasm and rapid-fire cadence.

  “We need to talk, my friend,” Jarvis said, cutting right to the point.

  “Yes, we do, but I can’t leave. You’ll have to come to me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Tel Aviv, of course.”

  “What’s the mood there?”

  “Fucking terrible. What do you think?”

  “I just got off the phone with the President.”

  “What a coincidence; I just got off the phone with the Prime Minister.”

  “What did he say?” Jarvis asked.

  “He offered me my old job back.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said the only thing I could say . . . yes.”

  “Congratulations,” Jarvis said, and they both knew he didn’t mean it. Harel undoubtedly felt the same as Jarvis about such a “promotion.”

  “Fuck you,” Harel growled.

  Jarvis chuckled and heard a rustling and then a match strike as Harel lit himself a cigarette. Then, the once and future Chief of the Mossad said, “Don’t keep me in suspense. What did Warner say to you?”

  “He told me I’m on the short list to replace Philips.”

  Now it was Harel’s turn to laugh. “Now that is funny. And I suppose you were stubborn and self-righteous enough to turn him down?”

  “I tried, but he cut me off.”

  Harel started to laugh again, but this time it morphed into a coughing fit. The cough was dry, deep, and unproductive. Jarvis could practically hear the old man’s ribs rattling in his chest.

  “You all right, Levi?”

  “I’m fine,” Harel barked, his voice taking on a hoarse timbre now. “We don’t have much time, Kelso.”

  Jarvis looked down at his tingling right fingers and sighed. “I know.”

  “Shamone tasked me with finding the responsible party so Israel can retaliate. The bombings, the stabbings, the constant incursions by our enemies—I’m telling you, Kelso, he’s had enough. And so have I. We all have, for that matter. Israel is not going to be used for target practice anymore.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that a policy shift is coming. Israel is switching from playing defense to offense.”

  “Well, it is the fifty-year anniversary,” Jarvis said, referring to the famed 1967 Israeli offensive—the Six Days War—in which Israel surprised its Arab neighbors with preemptive strikes, laying claim to the Sinai Peninsula, the West Bank, and the Gaza Strip.

  “It’s not a joke, Kelso.”

  “I know,” Jarvis said. “Believe me, I know.”

  “How is the investigation going on the attack? Any progress?”

  “We have a body.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s headless,” Jarvis said with a snort. “We’re still trying for a positive ID.”

  “Did you run DNA?”

  “Of course. Nothing popped in our database, but my team is convinced it is Behrouz Rostami.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Which brings me to one of the reasons for my call. I assume you guys collected DNA samples on Rostami in Frankfurt when you were running Effie Vogel?”

  “Of course. Send me a sample and we’ll run it.”

  “I might do one better and just bring the body with me. If my suspicions are right and this attack was VEVAK, then we have much to discuss.”

  Silence hung in the air between them for a long minute. Finally, Harel said, “When can you leave?”

  “Today.”

  “Very good.”

  “Also, Levi, I’m going to bring my team along,” Jarvis said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ll explain everything when I see you in person.”

  “Fine, fine. Bring them.”

  “One last thing. The acting DNI, Catherine Morgan, well, let’s just say she isn’t a supporter of Ember. Which means this visit is off the books.”

  “No problem. We’ll keep it low profile. You can stay with the Seventh Order.”

  “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

  “All right, my friend. Be safe and Godspeed.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Ember Tactical Operations Center

  Ember Hangar

  Newport News, Virginia

  May 4

  0900 Local Time

  Dempsey twisted his shoulders right and then left, cracking his spine. Then he rolled his neck and wrists and straightened each elbow, getting satisfying pops and clicks from all.

  “Jesus, dude,” Munn said, standing in the doorway holding a cardboard carrier with four coffees. “You sound like a bowl of fucking Rice Krispies.”

  “Snap, crackle, pop. Hooyah.”

  Munn walked over and collapsed in the chair next him. “Jarvis finally gonna debrief this thing?”

  Dempsey nodded. “You think forensics found anything?”

  “If they did, I suspect we’d know by now.” Munn sighed and handed Dempsey one of the coffees.

  “Doesn’t matter. The headless fucker is Rostami,” Dempsey said.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I just know it,” he grumbled. “I can feel it in my bones. This is Modiri, and we know Rostami worked for him. Nobody else has the balls and the resources to pull something like this off.”

  “That’s the same guy behind the massacre that killed our brothers in Yemen and Djibouti?”

  Dempsey nodded. “And the same bastard behind the ISIS attacks six months ago in Seattle, Omaha, and Atlanta. He’s the prince of global false-flag terrorism—getting others to do his killing and achieve Iran’s goals, with all evidence pointing away from Iran. It’s his MO, and he’s fucking good at it.”

  “So what’s next on his list?”

  Dempsey gritted his teeth. “God only knows, but I’ll tell you one thing, I have no intention of waiting around to find out. I don’t know what Jarvis is thinking, but as far as I’m concerned it’s time we take this sick bastard out. And if that means I have to go to Tehran and do it my fucking self, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

  The door opened and a grim Shane Smith walked through, with Grimes and Adamo in tow. Smith stopped and asked the former CIA agent a hushed question, and Adamo leaned in to answer him. While Dempsey strained to figure out what they were whispering about, Grimes dropped in the chair beside him, looked at her lap, and sighed.

  “Look, JD,” she began. “About last night . . .”

  He held up a hand, stopping her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said with a warm smile.

  She smiled back, all the angst in her face gone. “Thanks. And I’m sorry.”

  “
Still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, taking the lid off his coffee and breathing in the pleasant, burned aroma.

  She nodded and her shoulders dropped down to a more comfortable position. “Wish I could have been there with you guys last night.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but I’m not sure the forensics guys would have appreciated you puking tequila all over the scene—contaminates the samples, I hear.”

  She flipped him the bird while Smith and Adamo took their seats. A beat later, Baldwin strolled in with Chip and Dale, carrying open laptops with them. They stopped at the workstation beside the door and began plugging in their devices. Just as conversations renewed around the room, the door burst open and Jarvis strode to the podium. The lights dimmed, and a collage of photos of dead bodies filled the screens behind him—two burned beyond recognition and one headless corpse with missing hands.

  “I just got off the phone with forensics,” Jarvis said, grim-faced, “and I’m sorry to report they didn’t get a hit. On any of these guys.”

  In the corner of his eye, Dempsey saw Grimes slam her fist down on the table in anger.

  “I feel your frustration, believe me,” Jarvis said. “Which is why we are not going to take a ‘wait and see’ tack. Everyone here is thinking it, so let’s just address the elephant in the room right now. There is only one man brazen and motivated enough to hit the DNI and Mossad Director on American soil, and that man is Amir Modiri.”

  Dempsey silently exhaled with relief. This was exactly the speech he’d prayed the boss would deliver. He couldn’t help but flash a tight and satisfied grin at Smith, who acknowledged the mutual sentiment with a nod. Dempsey would follow Jarvis to the gates of hell if the man asked—now, he simply had to ask.

  “But we still need proof,” Jarvis continued. “I’ve spoken with the President. It is his position that false-flag terrorism perpetrated against the United States by a nation-state will be considered an act of war. The Israelis are taking the same position, with one key difference. What constitutes proof for the Israeli PM and what constitutes proof for the White House could be very different animals. It’s no secret that Prime Minister Shamone has been waiting for any excuse to hit Iranian nuclear sites. He believes the Iranian nuclear treaty is feckless and President Esfahani is using smoke and mirrors to dupe the world—feigning compliance while doubling down on their R&D efforts in secret. Everyone in this room knows firsthand the duplicitousness of the Iranian regime and the clear and present danger that a nuclear-armed Iran poses to both Israel and the United States.”

  “An IDF first strike against Iran could have disastrous consequences,” Adamo said, using an index finger to push his glasses back up his thin nose. “The tactical picture today is not the same as it was ten, or even five, years ago. Iran has already received its first shipment of Russian S-300 missiles—fully integrated interceptors with capabilities on par with the Patriot missile system. They can target incoming missiles, fighters, and high-altitude bombers. They also have developed their own indigenous S-300 clone. The new base in Abadeh is operational now, giving the Artesh a fully integrated command and control over all their air-defense assets and facilities. An IDF air strike against Iran is not the walk in the park it once was. Israel will suffer casualties and that’s a cold fact.”

  Dempsey nodded and smiled. This was just the kind of thing the former CIA man was brought to the team for. He was an encyclopedia of intelligence information with the analysis built right in.

  “On top of that,” Smith added, “Tehran has been steadily arming Hezbollah and Hamas with rockets, and not just the little stuff anymore. The agency estimates that Hezbollah and Hamas could possess upward of one hundred thousand rockets. Israel’s Iron Dome is good, but it was never designed to protect against thousands of rockets fired simultaneously. If Iran is attacked, you can bet that they will engage their proxies to retaliate. The civilian casualties could be significant.”

  “Agreed,” Jarvis replied. “Escalation is my primary concern. Assuming our theory is correct, then Amir Modiri has given Israel justification to go to war with Iran—a war that could rapidly spiral out of control and engulf the entire Middle East. If America and Russia are both drawn in—God help us; we could be looking at World War Three.” Jarvis paused, momentarily closed his eyes, and took a deep breath before continuing. “Until now, our focus has been finding a way to stop Modiri and hold VEVAK accountable for the Operation Crusader massacre. But the stakes have just gone up, and the clock is ticking. As of today, our charter has expanded. Not only are we going to take out Modiri, but we’re going to find a way to stop this war before it starts. Are you with me?”

  A flood of emotions washed over Dempsey. On the one hand, he wasn’t sure how taking out Modiri could possibly stop a war, but on the other hand, Jarvis had just given them the green light he’d been waiting for since the day he joined Ember. They were finally going after the man responsible for wiping out his brothers and wrecking the life he once cherished. Dempsey met Jarvis’s eyes and saw both fire and ice—the heat of ire and the cool dispassion of calculation. Jarvis had a plan, a plan that he would reveal to them when he was ready. He did not know what god Jarvis communed with, or how all the puzzle pieces fit together, but what he did know was that he trusted the algorithms running in the computer Jarvis called a brain.

  “Get packed,” Jarvis said. “We’re leaving in an hour.”

  “Where are we going?” Dempsey asked, unable to contain himself.

  “Tel Aviv,” Jarvis said. “What we’re about to do, we can’t do alone. Our fate and Israel’s fate are joined.”

  “And the President is okay with this?” Smith asked with an incredulous look on his face.

  Jarvis flashed his second-in-command an ironic smile. “The President has instructed us to deliver him proof of the party responsible for the DNI’s murder,” Jarvis said, his voice suddenly taking on the swagger of the SEAL commander from days of old. “And that is exactly what I plan to do. He did not ask for details, Shane, just results.”

  Translation: Ember was, as usual, on its own, giving the White House plausible deniability if things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to.

  “And what about the acting DNI?” Smith asked, ever the mother hen.

  “I have decided not to inform Catherine Morgan of our plans at this time. I don’t believe that Ms. Morgan’s oversight will facilitate our success in this operation. What do you think, Ops O?”

  Dempsey immediately recognized the question for what it was—a test of leadership. The message was clear: Jarvis intended to keep the new DNI in the dark and assume all risks and consequences of sidestepping the chain of command. Ember had always been black, but Director Philips had functioned as a backstop as well as a champion for the organization’s charter. With Philips dead and Morgan at the helm, Jarvis was betting everything that—if forced to choose—President Warner would back him over Morgan. Unlike Jarvis, Smith was more consensus builder than lone ranger. Were Smith the Director of Ember, Dempsey suspected that the former Delta operator would have tried to build a bulletproof case for the operation and then argued for permission to act. Unfortunately, things like consensus, permission, and bridge building took time, and time was not something Ember had in unlimited supply.

  All eyes went to Smith, who met his boss’s steel-gray gaze. After a long beat, the corner of Smith’s mouth curled up. “I think that’s a question best left to worry about when we get back.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Ministry of Intelligence (VEVAK)

  Tehran, Iran

  May 5

  1130 Local Time

  Esfahani swept into the briefing theater like a thunderstorm, electric and full of bluster.

  Amir Modiri checked his watch, noting that the President’s motorcade must have made the trip from Sa’dabad to the Ministry of Intelligence complex in record time because not even all the principals had arrived yet. They sure as hell were scrambling now.

 
; “Are the reports true?” the President barked before he’d even made it around the table to his seat.

  “Yes, it’s true,” answered Mahmoud Safavid, Minister of Intelligence and Modiri’s boss. “An attack was carried out against the American intelligence Chief at his private residence during a dinner party with senior Israeli officials in attendance.”

  Esfahani cursed under his breath, making no effort to conceal his anxiety. Modiri had never seen the President like this before. The Esfahani he knew, both through interaction and by reputation, was unflappable. From a self-preservation perspective, Modiri took this to be a good sign. The President was still trying to get his bearings and make sense of the situation. The likelihood that Esfahani had learned anything tying the bombing to VEVAK was slim to none.

  “Who is responsible for this?” the President said, staring at the satellite imagery on the flat-screen monitors—where the charred remains of what was once DNI Philips’s estate lay smoldering on the bank of the Chesapeake.

  Safavid shook his head. “We’re working on that, sir.”

  Behind his glasses, Esfahani narrowed his eyes. “Please assure me that we had nothing to do with this.”

  “I assure you, Mr. President, that VEVAK was not responsible,” said the Minister.

  “And what about our affiliates? From what I understand you’ve been actively and aggressively facilitating operations with our affiliates against both the United States and the Zionists,” Esfahani said, but instead of looking at Safavid, this time he shifted his gaze squarely to Modiri.

  The hair on the back of Modiri’s neck stood up, but his expression did not waver when he said, “Against the Zionists, yes, but even the most brazen of our regional partners would never dream of doing something like this without first getting our buy-in.”

  “Has the Islamic State claimed credit?”

  “No, sir, not yet.”