Crusader One (Tier One Thrillers Book 3) Page 19

  She paused and looked out across the room, locking eyes with Dempsey again. She continued, as if now speaking directly to him.

  “This is where we need your help. By coordinating with your partner agencies and Special Operations contingent inside Iraq, you can ensure our assets make it to the border and into Iran. Once inside, our assets on the other side will handle the rest.”

  “Okay, just to be clear, our only job is to assist with security and transportation to the border? Infiltration . . . that’s it?” asked Munn.

  “And if everything goes according to plan, exfiltration, too,” she said with a wan smile. “God willing.”

  “How big is the crossing party?” the doc continued.

  “The plan is to insert a single agent—the smaller the footprint the better.” She folded her arms across her chest as she let the words sink in.

  “A single agent,” Dempsey parroted back. “And just who the hell is this superman?”

  On that cue, Jarvis stood and walked to the podium next to Elinor.

  “Elinor has the necessary language skills, experience, and network of assets inside Iran to make this mission a success,” he said, looking directly at Dempsey.

  Unable to control himself, Dempsey popped to his feet, his neck hot. “With all due respect—”

  Jarvis held up his hand, cutting him off. “Any sentence beginning ‘With all due respect’ never includes the respect it implies,” he said. “This mission has been planned at the highest levels, John. We’re confident this approach lends the highest chance of success.”

  Dempsey balked. No, no, this is unacceptable. He understood what Jarvis was saying—and on a purely intellectual level he agreed—but the answer was no. Fuck hierarchy. This was his mission. Fate had made this decision long ago. It had to be him.

  “I am not questioning Elinor’s abilities, or the capabilities of the Seventh Order. But taking Amir Modiri is not a solo job. A two-person team would increase the likelihood of success many times over—a second set of eyes, a second set of ears, a second gun, a second set of ideas. She needs someone to watch her back, and if things go to shit—a second operator means a second chance at turning things around.”

  Elinor flashed him a peculiar smile. Then, she turned to Jarvis and said, “Okay.”

  Jarvis rubbed his chin and after a beat said, “Am I to assume this outburst means you are volunteering your service, John?”

  “Yes, sir. I am,” Dempsey said, his eyes darting back and forth between Jarvis and Elinor for signs the wind had just shifted.

  Jarvis nodded. “A two-person team is a scenario we contemplated. However, this is not a mission that I can, in good conscience, make compulsory. Quite frankly, I’m inclined to agree with Adamo’s assessment. In all likelihood, this is a suicide mission. Ember is not the Teams, John. I needed you to volunteer.”

  “Does that mean I’m going?” Dempsey said, fighting back a victory grin.

  Jarvis nodded and looked back and forth between him and Elinor. “Godspeed to you both.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” the Israeli called Rouvin said, getting to his feet now. “How can a man who speaks no Farsi, no Hebrew, and not even passable Arabic be allowed to go? It is absurd! If there is to be a second agent, it should be me or Daniel. We have trained for this very scenario. The idea that he could pose as Persian, or even as an Arab, is categorically absurd.”

  “Hey, my Arabic is pretty damn good. And I also speak some Pashto, which is very similar to Farsi,” Dempsey fired back. “I’ve logged hundreds of missions in this region. Hell, I’ve practically lived half my adult life in the Middle East.”

  “As an American operator, yes, but that doesn’t mean you can pass for an Iranian,” Daniel chimed in now, clearly angry. “Look at you. You might as well be wearing a Navy SEAL T-shirt and ball cap. The very idea of you accompanying Elinor is madness. You will blow the cover before you make it ten kilometers.”

  “Enough,” Elinor snapped. “This is not a democracy. We are sending one volunteer from each team. That is the decision.”

  “Then let me go,” Rouvin said. “You are the acting Director of the Seventh Order. Harel put you in charge, which means your place is here, in Tel Aviv, running the show.”

  “The decision has been made. Agent Dempsey will be accompanying me; you and Daniel will work closely with the rest of the Ember team to plan the mission. Without all of you, we have zero chance of success. The mission, and our lives, will depend on you.”

  Dempsey nodded at Elinor and then Jarvis and then forced himself back into his seat. The Skipper didn’t reciprocate the gesture, but his eyes told Dempsey everything he needed to know. This was the outcome Jarvis had wanted, but the Skipper couldn’t advertise as much. To do so would be disrespectful to Rouvin and Daniel.

  He felt a hand on his forearm. “You sure you wanna do this, bro?” Munn whispered.

  He considered his friend’s question and all its implications: Was he sure that Amir Modiri was one of America’s greatest clandestine threats? Yes. Was he sure that somebody needed to take the bastard out? Yes. Was he sure that justice needed to be meted out for the murder of his entire Tier One unit? Yes. Was he the most experienced and capable operator available for the mission? Yes. And most importantly, was he willing to die to see it done? Yes . . . In a fiery explosion in Djibouti one year ago, he had been spared for a purpose and one purpose alone . . . This was his destiny. This was the mission Jarvis had remade him for. He would bring back Amir Modiri, or he would die trying.

  He looked at Munn, finally ready to answer his friend’s question. “Yeah, Dan, I’m sure.” Then, feeling Grimes’s eyes on him, he looked at her. The fiery look he got back from her required no words: You’re a fucking idiot, JD, and if you make it back alive, I promise I’m gonna kill you.

  “When?” Smith asked the command duo at the podium, shaking Dempsey back to the brief. “When do they go?”

  “There are a lot of variables in play here. Seventh Order needs to get word to their embedded assets in Iran and start prepping safe houses and movements. Elinor and Dempsey’s NOCs need to be solidified. Ember needs to start coordinating with American Special Forces in Iraq to support the INFIL. We need to collect intelligence on Modiri’s schedule and routine and then plan the grab. Exfiltration scenarios and backup contingency plans in the event of capture need to be worked out. Once all of that is done, then Seventh Order can request the green light from the PM.”

  “And what about the President?” Smith asked.

  Jarvis narrowed his eyes at Smith. “That’s a discussion you and I can have offline.”

  Smith nodded, taking the hint.

  “Any more questions from Ember?” Jarvis asked. Dempsey had a hundred questions flying around in his head, as undoubtedly did all his teammates, but no one dared speak. “Very well,” he said. “I have some calls to make, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to leave the rest of the brief to Elinor.” With that, he turned and left the briefing theater. But for a split second, Dempsey could have sworn he saw the Skipper’s right hand trembling, an instant before the legendary SEAL commander balled his fingers into a tight fist.

  Strange, he’d never seen Jarvis suffer from nerves before.

  Elinor picked up the presentation remote and resumed indexing through the slides—the current sequence displaying aerial views of truck convoys carrying surface-to-air missiles. “The redistribution of Iranian military forces and the changing threat level will dramatically impact our plans. As the tactical picture evolves, so must our operation. It is imperative that we closely monitor all observable Artesh and IRGC activity in the coming days . . .”

  Dempsey leaned right and whispered around Munn to Smith. “We need to find out if Lieutenant Redman is in Irbil right now. With this buildup, I wouldn’t be surprised if his team is here.”

  Smith smiled and nodded. “Good idea. Chunk and his SEALs are perfect for this. I’ll get on it.”

  While he stared at the latest Israe
li satellite imagery, Dempsey couldn’t help but wonder if Chunk, aka Lieutenant Redman, would be glad to see him. Most likely, the junior SEAL officer would run the other way. They’d worked hand in glove together on two missions six months ago, but both had been a real kick to the balls. He wouldn’t blame the SEAL for bugging out when he heard that John Dempsey was dropping by the neighborhood. He smiled to himself and hoped that wasn’t the case. It sure would be nice to share a big fat lipper of wintergreen snuff with his brother SEAL . . .

  One last time.

  CHAPTER 21

  Seventh Order Covert Facility

  Basement of the Nechushtan Pavilion at the Eretz Israel Museum

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  May 10

  1320 Local Time

  “So, uh, we’re supposed to be married?” Dempsey said, looking at Elinor but shoving his hands in his pockets.

  Elinor smiled demurely and stepped into him, pressing her chest against his and bringing her lips within inches of his. “We’re newlyweds,” she said, with a coy smile. “There’s a difference.”

  He took an awkward step backward, reclaiming his personal space. He glanced out the conference room–door window to see if anyone was watching them. The Seventh Order TOC was buzzing with activity like a war room. The sheer volume of logistical preparations necessary for their INFIL into Iran was mind-numbing. He should be out there right now, helping, not cooped up in some conference room playing Truth or Dare with Elinor.

  The yearning in her eyes suddenly evaporated. “This isn’t working for you?”

  “No, it’s . . . it’s fine,” he stammered. “It’s just, this isn’t normally what I do . . . I’m more of a—”

  “Door kicker,” she said, cutting him off. “I know. And that’s okay.” She sighed and made a show of surveying their surroundings. “I think it’s this place. Too many distractions. Let’s go for a walk.”

  “All right,” he said and stared at her hand, wondering if he was supposed to take it.

  “Not yet,” she said, reading his mind. “When it’s time, it will feel right.”

  Dempsey exhaled with relief and let her lead him through the conference room and out the vault door that secured the Seventh Order facility. He followed her quietly through the acquisitions and research lab and then up the concrete stairs and into the exhibit area of the Nechushtan Pavilion. A moment later they pushed through the glass doors and he caught up, walking beside her as they strode out onto the museum grounds. He squinted into the bright, sunny Tel Aviv afternoon.

  “Why here?” he asked. “Why locate the Seventh Order at a museum?”

  “Why not?” she replied.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “For a NOC, it’s all right, I guess, but you’ve got tourists and kids running around all over this place. Seems like a pain in the ass to operate out of here.”

  “I think you just summed up the difference between the American and the Israeli psyches,” she said. “Levi was very intentional about selecting this location.”

  “I don’t understand?”

  “Walk with me,” she said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  “Okay,” he said and walked beside her to what looked like an active excavation site—brown earthen pits subdivided by rectangular stacked-stone walls.

  “This place is called Tell Qasile,” she said, stopping to look at it, fists pressed against her hips, the same way Kate liked to stand.

  “What is it?”

  “It is an excavation of an ancient port city, built in the twelfth century BC by the Philistines. The layout is indicative of thoughtful city planning, with intersecting streets, living quarters, a city temple, and a market,” she explained. “Can you feel the energy?”

  Dempsey chuckled. “Not really. Just looks like a bunch of rocks.”

  She smiled at this and then said, “Close your eyes . . . Now imagine the hustle and bustle of city life . . . people haggling in the market over prices; children laughing and playing in the streets; livestock braying, squawking, and grunting; and the salty Mediterranean breeze blowing and flapping fabric awnings overhead. This place, built over three thousand years ago and unearthed in the heart of Tel Aviv, is so much more than just a bunch of rocks. It’s like looking at a baby picture. Do you know what I mean?”

  He stared at her with wonderment. The metaphor was powerful and beautiful and something he could never have thought of. He wasn’t creative and lyrical that way, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate artistic expression.

  “We operate here because of the cultural exhibits, because of Tell Qasile, and yes, even because of the tourists and children running around. This place,” she said, gesturing to the grounds, “reminds us of our charge. We do our jobs not in spite of these things, but rather because of them. If we stop, or if we fail, then the Tel Aviv that nearly a half-million people call home will disappear.” Elinor looked around slowly, shifting her gaze from the excavation to the skyline in the background. “She has grown up and has become so lovely. We can’t let anything happen to her.”

  “I understand,” he said, staring at her in profile. My God, this woman is so beautiful, he thought and then immediately chastised himself for thinking it.

  “Come on,” she said cheerfully, snapping him out of the moment.

  “Where to?” he asked. “Another exhibit?”

  “No, now we go get some lunch. I want to take you to one of my favorite places. It’s only a short cab ride; then we can walk around for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “The rest of the afternoon?” he said, cocking an eyebrow at her. “You do realize we have a lot of work to do to prepare for this mission.”

  “Believe me, I know,” she said and looked up to heaven as if asking God to give her patience to manage the obdurately untrainable man-child she’d been saddled with.

  It took him a beat, but her innuendo finally registered.

  “No need to get melodramatic on me,” he said.

  “You need to trust your team with the preparations for the INFIL. That’s not your job anymore. I’m your job. We are about to attempt the most dangerous covert operation that either of us will ever know. We cannot afford to be undone by sloppy tradecraft before we complete our objective. Do you know what they will do to us if they catch us?”

  “I have a pretty good idea.”

  “Unimaginable horrors,” she said, fixing him with her hazel-green eyes. “I know this from experience. Mossad does not have a perfect track record. Operating in Iran is incredibly difficult. I already don’t like the idea of operating with a partner who doesn’t speak Farsi. But I refuse to work with a man who either won’t or is unable to embrace his NOC with everything in his being. Do you understand me?”

  He nodded. “Don’t worry. I’ll get a handle on this whole newlywed thing. I promise.”

  “First we practice, then we promise,” she said.

  “Okay, then let’s practice.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were walking down tree-lined Dizengoff Street in the Old North district of Tel Aviv. They had a simple lunch at a sidewalk café, where she coaxed childhood stories out of him. He used real-life instances, just like he’d been taught to do at the Farm during one of Jarvis’s many off-site training days, while working them into the framework of his NOC—an Irish Catholic named Corbin Odell. Her energy and enthusiasm helped him knock the rust off his role-playing skills, and then without even being aware of it, he slipped into character.

  After lunch came shopping. Jack Kemper—the SEAL he had been before Ember—had abhorred shopping, even shopping with Kate and Jake. At the mall, his MO had always been to simply agree with whatever Kate said so as not to prolong the torture. Leopard-print yoga pants? Sure, honey, absolutely. Noooo, they’re not too much. Of course they’ll look great. No, you don’t need to try them on. They’re stretch pants, so size is irrelevant; you can count on them fitting like a glove. John Dempsey—the man he was now, the man Jarvis had created at Ember—was anot
her matter altogether. Without a wife to goad him, he simply didn’t shop. Period. All the clothes he owned had been provided to him by Ember. Shit just showed up in his locker from time to time in the right size. Hell, this was the first time he’d even contemplated the fact that, since moving from Tampa to Virginia a year ago, he could not recall shopping for anything other than food.

  Strange.

  According to his young bride, Corbin Odell loved shopping. And according to that same young bride, Corbin was generous with his wallet. She led him in and out of various shops, just window-shopping at first. But after spending real Ember expense-account dollars on imaginary apartment wares, his irritation began to spike.

  She sensed this, put an arm around his waist, and whispered in his ear, “Relax. This is supposed to be fun. It’s okay to let yourself have fun once in a while.”

  “I don’t like shopping,” he grumbled, trying on Corbin Odell’s Belfast accent. “It’s boring.”

  “In that case,” she said, her lips curling up at the corners, “let’s spice things up a bit.”

  Her next stop was a lingerie store.

  “I’ll wait outside,” he said, planting his feet at the threshold.

  “You said shopping was boring,” she said. “Well, I promise this won’t be.”

  He screwed up his face and narrowed his eyes at her. “You can’t be serious.”

  “It’s just a body,” she said, gesturing at herself with coy nonchalance. But when he didn’t budge, she laughed and acquiesced. “All right, fine, we’ll skip the lingerie store, but I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”

  He was about to ask her what the hell that comment was supposed to mean when she leaned in and kissed him. Not aggressively, but not tentatively, either. It was a hopeful kiss, a loving kiss, a beautiful kiss—and despite not wanting to, he liked it. He let himself kiss her back. No, he let Corbin Odell kiss his hopeful, loving, and beautiful young bride back.

  When it was over, she looked almost apologetic. “Now see?” she whispered. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”