Crusader One (Tier One Thrillers Book 3)

by Brian Andrews

  “Three of you?” Smith said. “That’s it?”

  “Seventh Order is a clandestine field unit, and as such, the majority of our members are embedded. We have a small support staff for analysis, cyber, and communications, but seventy percent of our members live behind enemy lines, some occupying NOCs for years. Our operations are not the kind that can be turned on and off. When the time comes, we will have people positioned to help us, no matter the mission, but until then, we are your team.”

  She looked at Jarvis with the weary eyes of a babysitter exhausted from a night of corralling a gang of unruly children.

  “All right, folks,” he said, taking the hint. “You heard the lady. Pack your gear and go play at the range. When the tactical picture comes into focus, I promise you, you’ll be the first ones to know.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Seventh Order Break Room

  “The City That Never Sleeps”

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  May 6

  2338 Local Time

  The stink of cigarette smoke roused him.

  Jarvis opened his eyes to find the former and current head of Mossad sitting in the chair across from him. He didn’t remember falling asleep. Harel’s expression was reminiscent of a parent gazing wryly at his toddler passed out from playing too long and hard on the living room floor.

  “Sorry,” Jarvis said as the blurry figure came into focus. “Must have dozed off.”

  Harel tilted his head back and blew a stream of smoke up at the ceiling. “When was the last time you got some sleep?”

  “Apparently, just now,” Jarvis said, straightening up in his chair.

  “Before that?”

  Jarvis shook his head. “I don’t know . . . couple of days.”

  “I know the feeling, my friend. Believe me.”

  “How long have you known about Rostami?” Jarvis asked, shifting gears.

  “Since yesterday,” the Israeli spymaster said. “I could lie, but what would be the point?”

  Jarvis shook his head and sighed. “You could have told us.”

  “The PM instructed me not to. He wanted time to think. Don’t be mad, Kelso.”

  “I’m not mad. Just frustrated.”

  “I know, and so am I. We are men of action. There is nothing more aggravating for men like us than idle hands. But again, sometimes that’s the game.”

  “Modiri needs to pay,” Jarvis said, meeting the Israeli’s gaze. “You realize that.”

  “He’s a menace, Kelso, and so is the rest of VEVAK,” Harel said, his expression darkening. “But if your government is so certain that VEVAK is responsible for this attack, then why has your President’s big mouth suddenly gone mute? Why are your jets not dropping precision weapons? Where are the cruise missiles that you so readily fired at Syria? Where is the American response?” Harel’s voice was tight with condemnation, and Jarvis understood his friend’s frustration.

  “Yes, we share common enemies, as you’ve preached for years, but our nations are fundamentally different. The President would never commit to a course of action that might lead to World War Three on intuition alone. While Rostami’s body is an undeniable fingerprint of VEVAK’s guilt to you and me, one headless corpse is not sufficient evidence for the American government to justify military intervention on the world stage. Don’t pretend like you don’t know this. Rostami was a loose end that was severed by Modiri, one he assumed he could discreetly dispose of by staging his execution inside the Pakistani embassy—sovereign territory on which US law enforcement has no jurisdiction.”

  “You think I don’t know these things. But unlike Warner, Shamone doesn’t give a shit about the circus you call the world stage. What he cares about is a future where Iran—emboldened by the brazen execution of Mossad leadership without consequence—escalates its agenda of terrorism, regional destabilization, and anti-Semitism. If we let this stand, if we do nothing, more Jewish blood will flow.”

  “I understand, but Persia’s punishment must equal the crime. It is up to us to ensure the men we work for don’t antagonize each other to action driven by pride and desperation rather than prudence.”

  “Contrary to what you might think, old friend, Israel is not interested in starting World War Three.”

  “I know,” Jarvis said, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees. “Which is why I’ve come. I have a plan.”

  “Of course you do,” Harel said, putting out his Noblest in an ashtray and shaking a new one from a pack he pulled from his inside jacket breast pocket. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “It’s a joint operation, Ember and the Seventh Order. We send a team into Tehran and we disappear Modiri. Capture/kill. If fate smiles on us, we EXFIL him to a black site and harvest everything we can. If not, then Davy Jones’s locker. Either way, life for Amir Modiri is over.”

  “That’s your plan?” Harel said, the corner of his mouth curling into something resembling a smile. Then came the sarcasm, laid on thick and ironic like only a self-proclaimed “cranky old Jew from Tel Aviv” could manage. “It’s brilliant, Kelso. Why haven’t we thought of this before? Whose credit card do you want to use to buy the airline tickets? I hear the Hilton in Tehran is running a great special: fifty percent off room rates for Zionist and American operators.” He paused for dramatic effect and then, shaking his head, said, “I think you need to go back to sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

  “I’m serious, Levi. It’s time we take this bastard out of the game.”

  “It’s not so easy as that,” Harel said with a snort. “Even before Crusader happened, I’ve been dreaming up ways to take out Amir Modiri. But in five years, he’s only left Tehran twice. Both times, he went to Switzerland. He’s paranoid. He’s smart. He knows he’s a marked man and he behaves accordingly.”

  “That’s why we have to take him in Tehran.”

  Harel laughed and scratched the two days’ worth of stubble on his neck. “Do you hear what you’re saying? Do you know how many agents and assets I’ve lost in that fucking country chasing much smaller fish than Modiri? For a Jewish spy, Tehran is quite simply the most dangerous place on Earth. If there was a way to get at Modiri, I would have done it already. In Tehran, Modiri is untouchable.”

  Jarvis stood and began to pace. “And two days ago, I would have said the same about the DNI at his home in Annapolis. But VEVAK somehow managed to pull off the impossible. Now it’s our turn.”

  Harel took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly. “First of all, let me make something clear. Your tactical team is good, maybe the best in the world right now, but they wouldn’t survive the mission. Maybe we get them in. Maybe they’d even get Modiri. But we wouldn’t get them out. We’ve run all the scenarios. In my opinion, there’s only one viable operation.”

  “Which is?”

  “Single operative supported by my existing illegals network. Modiri is assassinated in his home. No guarantee of extraction.”

  Jarvis nodded. He’d run the scenarios, too, and he knew Harel was right. “Okay, we do it your way.”

  “You sound like you’ve already decided who you want to send.”

  “I have,” Jarvis said. “John Dempsey.”

  Harel laughed, which triggered a coughing fit. When he finally caught his breath, he said, “I did not know this was comedy hour. You should have warned me.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You want to send your bullheaded American SEAL into Iran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, we’re done here,” Harel said, getting to his feet. “You really do need to get some sleep, my friend. We can talk tomorrow.”

  Jarvis grabbed Harel by the arm. “He’s ready. He can do this.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He does not speak Farsi. His Arabic is dreadful. He knows nothing about Persian culture and politics. His spycraft is a work in progress. Don’t get me wrong; as an operator Dempsey has no equal, but Iran is no place for a man like him. He wouldn’t last
a day.”

  “Then he needs a partner. We pair him up with one of your people. Who is your best? Who on your team could pull this off?”

  “There’s only one person I would trust, but I would never force a mission like this on her.”

  “Elinor?” Jarvis said.

  Harel nodded. “She understands the proud, conflicted Iranian psyche better than anyone. Sometimes, I think she knows them better than they know themselves.”

  “Okay, perfect. She’ll be the brains and he’ll be the brawn. Let’s call them in and tell them the good news.”

  “Kelso, even if I agreed with this ludicrous plan, which I haven’t, but even if I did, the timing is terrible. Do you know why I’m late meeting you? Do you know what I did all day?”

  “No, but I have a pretty good idea,” Jarvis said, making his way back to his armchair.

  “I sat in a briefing theater with the Prime Minister and a bunch of IDF Generals planning our retaliatory strike. We’re going to hit Iran, and we’re going to hit them hard.”

  “When?”

  “Seventy-two hours.”

  “You can’t do it, Levi,” Jarvis said, shaking his head.

  “The laundry list of reasons for hitting Iran has been building for over a decade. Unlike America, we do not have the luxury of waiting for incontrovertible evidence. The military buildup on Iran’s border right now is alone sufficient provocation. My people are at risk long before Persia would ever turn their weapons on you. We must act—at a very minimum conduct strikes against strategic Persian nuclear targets. The pundits and the politicians will squawk and shout, but the world will have no choice but to accept our right to defend ourselves, just as the world gave the United States a free pass after 9/11 to invade Afghanistan and Iraq. Israel simply cannot afford to let this provocation pass unrequited.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. The world is done with free passes. The pundits and politicians will rebrand your retaliatory strike as a first strike. Which will morph into an offensive. Which will in turn morph into an act of war, at which point Iran will play the victim and rally regional Arab support. Then, the counterattacks will begin, kicking off a war of escalation that will result in the US being dragged into the conflict.”

  Harel mashed his cigarette into the ashtray with a scowl, but he did not argue.

  “You once gave me advice I’ll never forget, but it seems you’ve forgotten your own counsel,” Jarvis said.

  “What did I say?”

  “You said, ‘The problem with revenge is that when adversaries seek parity, escalation is inescapable—even when it leads to their mutual undoing.’ Is Israel ready to go down that road? Are you ready to launch a military campaign that in all likelihood could lead to World War Three?”

  “It’s not my call, Kelso. I’m the Chief of the Mossad, not the PM, remember?”

  “But as the head of Mossad, your job is to give the PM covert action alternatives to conventional war. What I’m suggesting is such an alternative.”

  “How does disappearing Modiri address Iran’s nuclear weapons program? Hmmm? Because that’s what this is really all about. While the world has been lauding Tehran for opening their borders to IAEA inspectors, Esfahani has been funneling millions of dollars—dollars unlocked because of easing of sanctions—into secret programs to reinvigorate the nuclear weapons program. Esfahani is the ultimate sleight-of-hand magician, distracting you with a bouquet of flowers in his left hand while the right hand is pointing a pistol at your chest.”

  “How much do you really know about the current state of Tehran’s nuclear program? We have the same concerns as you, but so far we’ve been unable to find any definitive proof that what we suspect is happening is really happening.”

  Harel made a pffft sound. “You sound like the rest of them.”

  “Taking Modiri could change that,” Jarvis continued without missing a beat. “Don’t get me wrong; he needs to die, but imagine if we were able to take him alive. Break his mind, and imagine the treasure trove of information we’ll have access to.”

  Harel laughed and collapsed back into the armchair across from Jarvis. “What is the expression you use—never bullshit a bullshitter. Did I get it right?”

  Jarvis nodded.

  “You don’t have to sell me on the merits of grabbing Modiri, Kelso. I want that bastard, too. But it’s impossible. And Israel is going to hit Iranian nuclear targets regardless of whether we go after Modiri. It is not an either-or scenario.”

  Jarvis looked down at his hands, which at the moment felt completely normal. Maybe Harel was right, but maybe he wasn’t. If he could get the old spymaster’s help, maybe he could pull off the impossible and kidnap VEVAK’s Foreign Operations Director. With Modiri alive, he could use the man as both a bargaining chip and scapegoat. “By making Modiri the fall guy for the DNI bombing, Esfahani can save face, and Warner and Shamone get their pound of flesh.”

  Harel snorted. “You have more faith in Esfahani’s judgment than I have the luxury of presuming.”

  Jarvis nodded. “I understand, Levi, but do not underestimate the power of self-preservation. Even a blind man will eventually find a way out of a burning house. We have to give Esfahani a way out of his burning house. This plan might be the only thing that saves us from world war, and if not, we lose nothing by trying.”

  “I’m sorry, Kelso, but preparations for the strike are already under way.”

  “Okay,” Jarvis said after a long beat.

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay, I accept that I can’t stop Israel from attacking Iran, but it still benefits both of us if we disappear Modiri. Will you support the mission?”

  “Not until after the attack.”

  “No,” Jarvis snapped. “It has to be before.”

  “Impossible,” Harel said. “First of all, there’s not enough time to prep. Second, we might be walking into a trap: covert retaliation is exactly what Modiri will be anticipating. It’s what I would expect in his shoes. And third, the mission will have a much greater chance of success after the strike, because Tehran will be in chaos.”

  Jarvis’s heart sank; he shook his head but said nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Kelso, but this is the way it has to be.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’re putting the fate of the world in Israel’s hands.”

  “It’s better than the opposite—putting Israel’s fate in the hands of the world. That is something we are simply no longer willing to do.”

  CHAPTER 19

  West Wing of the White House

  May 6

  1535 Local Time

  Catherine Morgan rotated an ink pen between her thumb and index finger and tried not to fidget. She had met the President before, briefing him on three separate occasions, but she’d always been with Admiral Philips. In those engagements, she had really just been delivering talking points on plans the DNI would assume ultimate responsibility for. Now, however, she felt the pressure of being the last link in the chain carrying the full burden and weight of national security. The safety net she had unconsciously enjoyed was gone. She was the boss now, and along with Philips’s title, she also inherited the portfolio of assets and liabilities he had accumulated during his tenure.

  The most beguiling of which was Task Force Ember.

  Was Ember an asset, or was it a liability? She saw them as the latter for a number of reasons, but she had no idea how President Warner felt on the matter. Regardless, she planned to make the case that Ember was a loose cannon. Philips had been close to Kelso Jarvis, too close for reasonable oversight, she would argue, the repercussion of this arrangement being the Wild West culture that Philips had tolerated, possibly even encouraged, in Ember. Were he alive, Philips would certainly maintain that Ember’s structure was by design—a semi-autonomous off-the-books entity that provided the President with plausible deniability in case some operation went sideways. In such a scenario, Philips had been prepared to fall on his sword to protect the President from fal
lout.

  Well, I’m not falling on someone else’s sword to protect the President from a bunch of door-kicking, tobacco-chewing good ole boys who think they can make up the rules as they go along.

  “Ms. Morgan, the President will see you now,” said the woman behind the oak desk, a stale smile plastered across her face. She dropped a hand out of sight and released a magnetic lock with a button press beneath her desk.

  “Thank you,” Morgan said and pushed through the door into the Oval Office.

  Warner rose from his desk and strode toward her, leaving the two younger staffers beside his desk talking in hushed tones. He met her by the door, always the gentleman—or maybe just always campaigning for more votes. He extended an athletic hand and she shook it firmly, but his face was grim.

  “Thanks for your patience, Catherine.”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” she said. “I know there is a lot going on.”

  The President snorted and shook his head. “You have no idea.”

  She stiffened, wondering if this was just a euphemism or if he meant it as a slight to her competence as acting DNI.

  Warner gestured to the two sofas facing each other in the center of the room.

  “Please, have a seat,” he said, indicating one while taking a seat on the other. “I’m afraid I’m pressed for time, but you said this was urgent.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, her stomach tightening. Suddenly, she wondered if calling this meeting had been a mistake. Too late for second thoughts now, she decided, and so she dove right in. “I want to talk to you about Task Force Ember, Mr. President.”

  Warner screwed up his face and raised a palm, cutting her off and irritating her immensely. He turned and called out to his staffers over his shoulder, “Peter . . . Claire . . . Give us the room.” The two staffers disappeared quickly through a door at the far side of the room.

  With the office to themselves, the President leaned forward. His gaze hardened, all courtesy and chivalry noticeably gone. “I just want to make sure I heard you correctly, Catherine,” he said. “Did you say you called this meeting to discuss Task Force Ember?”