“Sounds good,” Malegam said.
Brian opened the doors for them. Malegam took the front passenger seat while Davari, Mondegari and Mariwala crammed in the rear.
“If you want, I can take your backpacks and put them in the trunk.”
“We’re fine, but thanks anyway,” Davari said.
Brian shrugged and got behind the wheel.
Davari smiled at the thought of Brian carrying the backpacks in the trunk. He would have found them heftier than normal. Stun grenades, C-4 explosives, combat knives, MP5K sub-machine guns and a few spare magazines weren’t the usual items carried by travelers out for a fun day-trip.
It didn’t take long for Brian to get on Davari’s nerves.
“You guys booked the nicest package we have,” Brian said, looking in his rearview mirror. “You know that, right? As long as you stay within your allocated flight time, you can modify your itinerary.”
“Only the best for our buddy,” Davari said, tapping Malegam’s shoulder.
“Seriously, how cool is that? I mean, not everyone gets picked up in a fancy black car. You know what I mean?”
Davari would have liked to slice Brian’s throat and be done with it. Like most special forces soldiers, Davari needed some quiet time prior to an operation. This was his time to reflect on the mission, his family and his team. And sometimes, when he felt like it, he prayed to Allah to give him the strength to lead his men in combat without failing them. But today, Brian’s nonstop chatter didn’t allow him, or his men, to concentrate and focus on the events that were about to unfold.
Mercifully, it was a short ride to the heliport.
“I’ll see you in about an hour, guys,” Brian said as Davari and his team walked to the terminal.
Waiting for them behind a long white counter was a tall blond lady with huge blue eyes. Married or not, no man could remain indifferent to this natural beauty. She was the most beautiful woman Davari had ever seen.
“Good day, gentlemen, I’m Jennifer,” she said. She had a very pleasant, slightly goofy smile. “I’m your pilot for today’s tour. I trust my husband Brian took good care of you?”
What? Davari hadn’t expected that. One of the greatest mysteries of the world, if you ask me.
“He was very nice,” Sergeant Malegam replied. “We were fortunate to have him as our chauffeur.”
Jennifer looked at him strangely, as if she was wondering if her leg was being pulled.
“When are we leaving?” Davari asked.
“Safety briefing starts in ten minutes,” Jennifer replied, still looking at Malegam. “It’s only eight minutes long, then we’ll be on our way.”
“Fantastic.”
CHAPTER 84
IMSI Headquarters, New York
Mike was on his way back to see Lisa in the medical bay when his smartphone vibrated in his pocket. It was a text from Sanchez.
We’ve IDed the pilot.
If the IMSI had identified the pilot using their database, it wasn’t a good sign. Good guys usually didn’t end up in the database. Mike hurried back to the control room.
“Who is he?” he asked Sanchez.
Sanchez handed him a printout. “Meet Captain Piran Mondegari from the Quds Force.”
Mike studied the picture. It was hard to say how tall the man was, but he was medium-built with thinning black hair combed to the back. He was dressed in a dark business suit over a white shirt with no tie.
“Where was this taken?”
Sanchez hit a few keys on his keyboard. “This is a recent photo, Mike. The DIA took it six months ago.”
“Why?”
“Gimme a sec. I need to read the transcript.”
The DIA—Defense Intelligence Agency—was one of the external intelligence services of the United States. It specialized in the collection—overt and clandestine—of human-source intelligence. The organization didn’t belong to a single military element but answered directly to the secretary of defense. Most of the employees were civilians, although half of them had past military service. Its main objective was to inform policymakers about the military intentions and capabilities of foreign governments, friendly or not.
“Got it,” Sanchez said. “The short report that came with the photo says, I quote, “DIA Counter-Surveillance Unit, Congress Heights Metro Station. Believed to be Captain Piran Mondegari. Quds Force. Iran. Entered the continental US with a Canadian passport.”
“Why wasn’t he arrested? Ain’t the Quds Force a terror organization?”
“I have no idea, buddy. I’m sure the guys over at the DIA had their reasons.”
Mike remembered that the DIA didn’t have law enforcement authority. So it was entirely possible that they had passed along the intelligence they’d gathered on Mondegari to the FBI.
Quds Force. Mike had never dealt with them before this week. He didn’t believe that Captain Mondegari’s presence near the IMSI was a coincidence. Very few people knew of their existence. Somehow the Iranians knew. It was almost impossible to comprehend. How?
Shit! Meir Yatom.
“Come with me, Jonathan,” Mike said. “I have a feeling we’re being played.”
CHAPTER 85
Manhattan Heliport, New York
The AS350 was a single-engine light utility helicopter, perfect for chartering tourists around New York City. This specific configuration offered space for six passengers, all of them with their own cushy leather seat. Everyone wore a noise-reduction headset that also facilitated communication with the pilot.
“Where are you guys from?” Jennifer asked.
“We’re from Canada, and it’s our first time in New York City.”
“How do you like it so far?”
“It’s fabulous. I didn’t expect it to be so special,” Davari said truthfully.
“There’s no other place in the world like New York City,” Jennifer said. She turned around and flashed him a warm smile.
Davari responded in kind.
“You guys okay if we start with the Statue of Liberty?”
“Absolutely,” Malegam replied. “Let’s go.”
........
FBI Special Agent Jennifer Jordan’s heart was beating so fast she couldn’t count the beats.
Calm down. You got this.
It was her first undercover operation. Last week, to congratulate her for surviving her first twelve months with the FBI, her colleagues had thrown a party in her honor at a small local pub. A lot of wine and too many chicken wings had given her heartburn, but it had been worth it. Her father, a thirty-two-years veteran of the FBI, had always told her how important it was to bond with your teammates.
One day, baby girl, you might need them to risk their lives for yours, and yours for theirs.
She had learned to fly choppers in the air force. She’d served one tour in Iraq flying VIPs around. One tour was enough for her. She wasn’t built for a career in the military. But she’d learned to trust her gut and to recognize the threats. And, right now, her threat meter was in overdrive.
The initial intelligence report had come from the DIA. Their counter-surveillance unit had come in contact with a possible foreign operative. When they ran his photo in their powerful facial-recognition software, they realized they were dealing with an officer of the elite Iranian Quds Force. This had been confirmed by one of the DIA contacts within the INIS—the Iraqi National Intelligence Service. The DIA dug deeper and successfully retrieved his credit card information from a ticket booth located in a subway station.
His name was Captain Piran Mondegari.
And he was seated right behind her.
Six hours ago, Mondegari had used his credit card to book a last-minute private helicopter tour for four adults. All kinds of alarms had gone off within the FBI field office. The SAC—Special Agent in Charge—had ordered her and
agent Brian Olson to keep an eye on them. Since a chopper couldn’t do the damage an airliner was capable of, the SAC was confident this was a reconnaissance mission with very little risk. And, so far, he’d been right. Brian had done a fantastic job boring them to death in the car, allowing the surveillance team to remain undetected. Numerous pictures were taken and were presently being analyzed. Her job was to keep them happy and to listen to what they were saying since her Farsi was excellent.
So far, she hadn’t much to report. They were polite and didn’t ask any questions. In fact, they were very quiet.
Maybe too quiet.
CHAPTER 86
IMSI Headquarters, New York
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Mike said to Mapother. Mike and Sanchez were in the director’s office to share with him what they had found out about Captain Piran Mondegari. Mike continued, “I know you’re against me talking to Sassani, but, frankly, sir, I don’t think we can wait any longer.”
Mapother raised his eyes from the report he was reading and said, “Mike, I have four ongoing operations. Be specific. What changed in the last thirty minutes?”
“The drone pilot, he’s Quds Force.”
That got Mapother’s attention. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Sanchez handed him all the intelligence he’d gathered about Mondegari. “I know this isn’t much, Charles, but Mike’s right. We need to talk with Sassani. Now.”
Mapother read the sheet. “Shit.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Mike said.
Mapother slammed his fist on his desk, spilling hot coffee all over his files. Then, in a calm voice, he said to Mike and Sanchez. “I don’t know how long we have, gentlemen, but we’re not safe here anymore. Our organization has been compromised.”
“Could Meir Yatom be the source?”
Mapother shook his head. “If he is, I don’t blame him. I can’t imagine what these savages have done to him.”
“Zima and Eitan will get him back,” Mike said. Zima and Eitan were two of the finest operators he knew. If anyone could rescue the Israeli spy, it was these two.
“I took the liberty of sending them extra help,” Mapother said. “You remember Captain Burke?”
“Of course. He saved our lives in Syria. You sent him and his team to back her and Eitan up?”
“I couldn’t do otherwise. Zima’s family.”
Mike nodded. Mapother was a good man.
“I’m sorry, Charles,” Mike said. He knew the IMSI was Mapother’s baby. If there was one thing that could shut down the IMSI almost instantly, it was its discovery by a foreign power.
“Go talk to Sassani. See what you can extract from her. In the meantime, I’ll call DNI Phillips to share our concerns about the IMSI.”
“Can’t you wait a bit longer? At least until we figure out exactly what’s going on?”
“I appreciate your thoughts, Mike, but waiting isn’t an option. There’s too much at risk. It wouldn’t be fair for those whose necks are hanging by a thread because of us.”
“You know as well as I do that Phillips will go to Muller and ask that we be shut down,” Mike said,
“There’s no doubt about it, but, ultimately, and like it should be, it will be the president who’ll decide if we close shop or not.”
Mike had heard enough. There was nothing else he could do. If Mapother wanted to commit hara-kiri, so be it. But, until then, he had a job to do.
........
Charles Mapother knew this day would come. The IMSI had done a lot of good since its inception. Stopping the Sheik had been Mapother’s crowning achievement. They had saved countless lives. Because of the IMSI, the world was a bit safer.
He looked at Sanchez. “Go help him, Jonathan. I’ll handle the DNI.”
Sanchez walked out of his office without another word.
Mapother dialed Phillips’s number. The DNI answered on the first ring.
“Charles?”
“Where are you, Richard?”
“In my office. I’m meeting with the president in two hours. What can I do for you?”
Mapother thought about his options. Maybe he could give Mike and the rest of his team a few hours to figure out exactly how much they were compromised? If he could meet with President Muller, he’d be able to control the narrative.
“Can you wait for me?” Mapother asked. “I need to speak with the president.”
“What is it about?” Phillips replied. He was protective of his access to President Muller and he wouldn’t let Mapother in if he didn’t know in advance what subjects Mapother wanted to discuss.
“It’s about a possible breach in the IMSI’s cover.”
DNI Phillips remained silent for ten seconds. “I see,” he said. “All right, be here in ninety minutes. We’ll leave together.”
Mapother hung up and hurried to the interior-parking garage where his driver Russ Schneider was waiting.
He climbed in the Yukon. “Taylor Field Heliport, Russ. We’re going to DC.”
CHAPTER 87
Over the East River, New York
Colonel Asad Davari checked his watch. They’d been in the air for approximately fifty minutes. They had seen the Empire State Building, Central Park and had flown right next to the Statue of Liberty. Their pilot Jennifer, who also acted as their private guide, had provided excellent narration throughout the tour. For a few minutes, Davari had even forgotten that he was about to embark on one of the most perilous missions of his career.
They were now heading northeast over the Manhattan Bridge, putting them less than one mile away from their target. Davari hand signaled Mariwala and Mondegari.
It was time.
........
Special Agent Jennifer Jordan had to admit she was confused. Were these four men really whom the FBI thought they were? If this was indeed a reconnaissance mission in advance of a new strike against one of New York’s landmarks, Jordan expected them to ask more questions and enquire further about individual sights or even demand more flight time over certain areas. But they didn’t.
Strange.
“The Manhattan Bridge is a suspension bridge and its main span is four thousand seventy feet. It’s one of the four toll-free—”
The cold barrel of a pistol pushed into her neck made her stop mid-sentence. Her heart—which had miraculously slowed down—started pumping blood frantically again. A cold sweat formed on her back as she recognized what was happening.
They had been wrong all along. That wasn’t a reconnaissance mission.
This was an attack.
........
“What is—” Jennifer started, but Davari pistol-whipped her just above her right eye. Not hard enough to knock her out, but hard enough to break the skin and show her who was in charge.
“Jennifer,” Davari said, “do as I say and you’ll be fine. You’re about to help us rob a medical warehouse. You’re our way in, but also our way out. Understood?”
Jennifer nodded. Blood dripped from the gash on her forehead.
“Variyan, why don’t you show our friend Jennifer where we need to go?”
While Sergeant Malegam showed her where she was to land the helicopter, Mariwala passed the MP5Ks around with extra magazines and stun grenades. Next were the SRX 2200 combat radios they would use to communicate with each other.
By the time everyone was geared up, they were on final approach.
........
Jordan knew the FBI and NYPD were en route to her location. They had bugged the helicopter and could listen in even though she couldn’t hear them. The NYPD had boats in the water. They’d be there in less than five minutes. She just had to keep it together until then.
The building they wanted her to land on was large enough to accommodate the AS350, but she had to be careful with the antennas. There was a multitude of
them but they were all cluttered in the same spot.
“Unidentified aircraft with number November-One-Four-Oscar-Romeo-Alpha, you’re entering a restricted airspace.” The voice in her headset startled her. By now the FBI should have alerted all the local authorities and asked them not to interfere. So why was she receiving this?”
“Hmm . . . This is Big Apple Tour November-One-Four-Oscar-Romeo-Alpha, I’m calling an emergency. We’re landing—” she said, following the script the terrorists had given her.
“Negative Big Apple Tour. This is restricted airspace. I repeat, this is a restricted airspace.”
Jordan turned her comms off. “This isn’t a medical facility. What is it?” she asked the man seated next to her.
“Just land the helicopter, and watch those antennas.”
CHAPTER 88
IMSI Headquarters, New York City
Mike jumped at the sudden shrill of the alarm. What now?
He had heard it three or four times in the past but they’d been mandatory security practice runs publicized forty-eight hours in advance. He didn’t remember reading anything regarding a security drill today. That could only mean one thing.
They were under attack.
Mike sprinted down the hall toward the medical bay. He rushed into Sassani’s room where Dr. Doocy and Lisa were arguing. Sassani was asleep in her bed. Attached to the back of her left hand was an intravenous pump. His wife had positioned herself between Sassani and Dr. Doocy.
“Lisa, what’s going on?” Mike asked, his eyes on Dr. Doocy.
“He wants to medicate Sassani some more. If he does, you won’t be able to speak to her for another five hours. We need to wake her up, not give her more morphine.”
Dr. Doocy held a syringe in his right hand.
“What’s wrong with you, Doocy?” Mike asked, unable to hide his contempt. “You’re a real pain in the ass.”
“This is my patient, not yours.”
A Thick Crimson Line (Mike Walton Book 3) Page 23