Crusader One (Tier One Thrillers Book 3) Page 20

  “No, I don’t suppose it was.”

  She led him south on Dizengoff Street. As he began to relax and slip into his role, he couldn’t help stealing glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Once, she caught him staring at her, and this seemed to please her. As they walked, conversation came easier. She told a story. He told a joke. She shared a fact about Tel Aviv. He asked her about tensions in the West Bank. They talked and laughed, and eventually a silence lingered between them, but without the awkwardness from before. A block later, he spied a gelato stand, took her by the arm, and executed a detour. He let her pick the flavor, and they shared a scoop of gianduia in a cone. When they reached the intersection of Ester ha-Malka Street and Dizengoff, she stopped.

  “What is it?” he asked, noting the abrupt change in her demeanor.

  “This is one of the places I wanted to show you,” she said. She led him to an angular metal memorial next to a tree on the sidewalk inscribed with a series of names in Hebrew. “On October 19, 1994, a Hamas suicide bomber wearing a land mine and twenty kilos of TNT blew himself up on the Number Five bus. Saleh Abdel Rahim al-Souwi killed twenty-two people and wounded fifty more. All civilians. It was horrendous.”

  As they shared a moment of solemn silence, his thoughts drifted to the TOC in Djibouti, where he’d watched his Tier One brothers get incinerated by suicide bombers. The American death toll from Crusader was about the same, more when you included the lives lost in Djibouti from the second suicide bomber. He felt his jaw tighten and the old familiar knot return to his stomach. Elinor’s eyes were on him, and he wondered if she could read his thoughts. She had implied she knew his story, but just how much had Jarvis allowed Seventh Order to know?

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” was all he said.

  “I’m not asking you to,” she replied.

  They left the place side by side, but both very much alone. A half a block later, their hands found each other, and a curious something washed over him. Her long fingers felt delicate but warm in his hand. He felt something with this woman he’d not felt with Kate or Grimes, or any other woman for that matter. There seemed to be no single English word to describe it. With Kate, he’d felt a powerful, almost magnetic attraction. Like positive and negative poles drawn together by an invisible force, yearning to join and be complete. Soul mates in the truest sense. But in the joining there was also a nullification, and therein lay the problem. As opposite spirits, there were parts of him that Kate recognized but could never truly understand. Just like there were needs and desires in Kate that he recognized but could never satisfy while still being true to his operator self.

  With Grimes he shared an intimate connection from their time working together at Ember, and that bond drew him to her. Yet he was reluctant to explore the possibility of physical romance. While she was technically not a blood relative, she was Spaz’s sister, and a part of him felt obligated to step into his former SEAL teammate’s shoes and fulfill that big-brother role. On top of that, if they attempted a romance only to fail, it could rip Ember apart. And then there was Shane . . . Even a door kicker like Dempsey was observant enough to see that Smith had an unspoken thing for Ember’s fiery redhead. He shook his head. With Grimes, it’s just too damn complicated.

  Elinor, however, was one step removed from “the family.” She was an operator but came from outside his world. Elinor was an amalgam of Kate and Grimes, which made her allure even more powerful. And yet, he couldn’t help but wonder if any of the emotions he was feeling were even real. This was all a grand charade—two spooks playing newlyweds for the sake of the mission. No matter what happened between them, to lose sight of that truth would be a painful mistake, and he didn’t know if his heart could take another scar.

  “There’s something on your mind,” she said with a sideways glance. “Tell me.”

  “I was just wondering . . . What is the significance behind the name of your organization? Seventh Order—what does it mean?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Mishnah?”

  “No,” he said simply.

  “The Mishnah is the written compilation of what is commonly known as the Oral Torah. It was recorded over two millennia ago to document rabbinic oral traditions and Jewish cultural knowledge during a period of Jewish persecution. The Mishnah consists of six orders, each order outlining a series of laws and practices. Zeraim, which concerns prayers; Moed, which pertains to the Sabbath and festivals; Nashim, which deals with marriage vows; Nezikin, which explores criminal and civil law; Kodashim, which outlines death and burial rites; and finally, Tohorot, which codifies the laws of cleanliness and food safety.”

  “So let me guess,” Dempsey said, nodding. “The Seventh Order is the missing order, something the rabbis could not have possibly imagined thousands of years ago to safeguard the Jewish people—clandestine defense.”

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  They walked hand in hand to Goocha, a foodie favorite on Dizengoff Street where they dined on seafood. She ordered mussels in garlic butter, Mediterranean snapper, and white wine. While they ate, she told him about Corbin Odell, his cover identity, a NOC that he did not realize until that moment she had authored. Odell, she explained, was born in Belfast, but his mother and father hailed from Derry. His father had been a protestor in the Bloody Sunday massacre and had been running alongside William McKinney when McKinney was shot in the back by British paratroopers while fleeing through the Glenfada Park courtyard. Young Corbin was raised and socialized by his working-class parents to have a strong distrust and animosity for the British government. Although not IRA members, his parents were fervent nationalists, sympathizing with the IRA’s agenda and regularly participating in Republican protests and marches. They believed in a free and independent Ireland where Catholics were not second-class citizens.

  As she spoke, he could not help but notice the passion in her eyes, and he was struck by an epiphany.

  “Did you construct my Irish NOC as a Palestinian metaphor?”

  She nodded. “In Ireland, the IRA perceived violence and terrorism as the tools of last resort for political activism, just as the Palestinian Liberation Organization once did and Hamas still does today. Faith and religion are so deeply entwined in the culture here that any attempt to secularize ‘right to exist’ negotiations always fails miserably. In my opinion, that’s the root of all the trouble—using scriptural rhetoric to both incite and justify violence. After all, you can argue with me, but who are you to argue with my God?”

  He pursed his lips. Getting inside Corbin’s head was important, but going twelve rounds with her on Middle Eastern politics and religion was simply not something he had the energy for right now. He raised his wine glass to her.

  “A toast?” she said, lifting an eyebrow and then her glass.

  “To my bride, Mrs. Odell,” he said in an Irish brogue.

  “To my groom,” she said and clinked her glass gently against his.

  Despite his glass being over a third full, he drained it. Then, he looked at her. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, maybe the lighting, or maybe the alcohol, but Elinor looked more radiant now than the first time he’d laid eyes on her. His mind went to the kiss outside the lingerie boutique.

  Get your head together, John, he chastised himself. It’s all an act. This isn’t real. None of it is real.

  She smiled at him.

  “Don’t,” he said, suddenly too weary to worry about his Irish accent anymore.

  “Don’t what?” She laughed. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You smiled at me . . .”

  “It’s just a smile,” she said with the same coy, flirtatious tone she’d used before.

  Just a smile . . . yeah, right.

  “C’mon,” he said after a beat, laying down sufficient cash to cover the tab. “Let’s go.”

  “Oh, so you’re in charge now, huh?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “So where are we going?
”

  “Back,” he said. “I need to get some sleep.”

  “By ‘back’ you mean back to our hotel room, I hope,” she said, taking his hand in hers.

  “I don’t think I’m ready for that,” he whispered in her ear.

  “To be honest, neither am I,” she whispered back, and then with a mischievous smile she added, “You can sleep on the sofa.”

  Dempsey breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Tomorrow is a busy day,” she said, still in a hushed voice. “We travel to Jerusalem.”

  “Jerusalem? Why Jerusalem?”

  “To put our NOCs to the test with observers and conduct a dry run of our mission with the Midrachov standing in for the Grand Bazaar.”

  “Who’s the lucky target we get to rough up?” he asked.

  She shrugged.

  “I thought you were the boss?” he said, eying her with playful suspicion.

  “Yeah, well, even the boss needs a good surprise . . . from time to time.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Tel Aviv

  May 10

  1145 Local Time

  “We’re going the wrong way,” Jarvis said to the driver, a heavily muscled Mossad operative who had introduced himself simply as Beck. “The restaurant is south.”

  “The Director picked a different location for your lunch meeting,” Beck replied, intent on trying to maintain the ruse that Jarvis had already seen through.

  As they drove north through Tel Aviv on Namir Road, Jarvis deduced that he was being driven to Mossad headquarters. This change in plans was not necessarily a good sign. He wondered if something had gone wrong. Had the operation to capture Modiri been scrubbed? Or was it something even more ominous? Was an attack on Tel Aviv imminent and Harel was bringing him in before the rockets started to fall? He angled his head to look at the driver’s face in profile, checking for physical clues indicating anxiety, fear, or nervousness, but Beck was a statue.

  They took the Glilot Ma’arav Interchange and looped around what appeared to be a regular office park, but Jarvis knew otherwise. They proceeded to the rear of the complex and then through two heavy automated gates that opened on approach without any apparent action on Beck’s part. An armed security detail stopped them partway into a funnel-shaped concrete tunnel that, on cursory inspection, looked like it was designed to survive a sizable blast by directing all the explosive energy back out the flume. Beck turned over his ID card while a second guard walked around to the passenger side; Jarvis fetched his passport from the inside flap pocket of his sport coat, lowered the window, and handed it to him. Three minutes later, they were inside. Before being delivered to Harel, Jarvis had to be scanned at a formal checkpoint and loiter in a lobby while Mossad security ran the requisite background checks. Just when his patience was finally beginning to wane, Beck led him to an elevator bank that descended seven stories beneath the lobby level. When the doors opened, Harel was standing in the hallway tapping his foot.

  “What the hell took so long?” the Mossad Director said to Jarvis’s companion, his voice ripe with irritation.

  “Everyone is being extra careful today, Chief,” Beck replied.

  “Okay, okay, thanks for playing chauffeur, Beck. That will be all,” Harel said with clipped impatience, turned, and waved for Jarvis to follow him. With the handoff complete, the Israeli spymaster led him down the underground hallway to a security door flanked by two guards kitted up for battle. Beside the door was a sign in Hebrew that Jarvis translated to Combat Operations Center. The senior-ranking guard nodded at Harel and greeted him with a simple “Chief.”

  “How are the kids?” Harel said, pausing at the threshold.

  “Good, sir,” came the guard’s reply.

  “And Greta?”

  “She’s as busy as ever.”

  “Mothers of three usually are. Make sure you head straight home after your shift,” Harel said, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It could be a crazy night.”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said with a nod. “And thank you, sir.”

  Harel led Jarvis into a facility not unlike the dozens of TOCs Jarvis had worked in over the years, but this was at the high end of the spectrum, like the CTC nerve center in McLean. The dimly lit room was expansive, with a two-story ceiling in the center and a modern industrial design aesthetic—metal staircases with gleaming railings, graphite-colored workstations, exposed ducts painted black, and a tile floor the color of fog. A curved “jumbotron”-style monitor served as the entire north wall and was subdivided into a myriad of different-size windows displaying live feeds from various video streaming sources—satellite, drone, and aircraft, as well as a few ground-based feeds Jarvis presumed were hidden cameras set up by Mossad assets inside Iran. Instead of heading for the frenetic main floor—packed with analysts, programmers, and operators—Harel took a set of stairs leading to a second-story office with floor-to-ceiling windows and an elevated view of everything below. He held the door open for Jarvis.

  “If I had known we were lunching in a skybox, I would have worn a suit,” Jarvis quipped as the heavy glass door shut behind him.

  Harel’s mouth curled up into an amused grin as he tapped a Noblest from a pack sitting on a desk.

  “This is your office?”

  “It is now,” Harel said, pleased with himself. “It used to be the COC Director’s office, but I kicked him out. This is where the action is; why would I want to be above ground like some bureaucrat?”

  Jarvis looked up and surveyed the ventilation system. “And it has nothing to do with the recirculating HEPA filtration equipment?”

  “All right, you got me, Kelso,” he said, lighting his cigarette and taking a long pull. “Apparently, this is now the only place I can smoke in the entire fucking building,” he growled. “This new generation—they’re so healthy and sensitive. As soon as they start asking for softer toilet paper, I’m going to quit.”

  “You already quit,” Jarvis said with a laugh.

  “Well, I’m going to quit and not come back next time.”

  After a beat, Jarvis said, “So, why am I here?”

  Harel waved him over to the wall of windows and said, “I thought you might like a front-row seat for the show.”

  Jarvis felt the blood drain from his face. “It’s today?”

  “It’s going to start any minute.”

  “Did Shamone notify the President?”

  “Of course not,” Harel said. “Unlike America, we don’t announce our plans before we launch a surprise attack. It is self-defeating.”

  “Does that mean I’m the first American to know?”

  Harel nodded solemnly. “As far as we’re concerned, the White House can find out from CNN like the rest of the world.”

  Jarvis folded his arms across his chest. He respected the hell out of Israel for having the balls and the discipline to operate like they did, but Jarvis didn’t work for the Israeli PM. He worked for the Commander in Chief of the United States. If there was a way to get a message to the White House, then he was duty bound to try.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Harel laughed. “Impossible. Your phone is a brick in here. That’s why we let you keep it.”

  Jarvis smiled. “That’s not what I was thinking.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  The Israeli spymaster nodded, but the grin never left his face.

  “So what’s the plan?” Jarvis asked, scanning the jumbotron tactical display on the far wall.

  “I could tell you,” Harel said, “but what fun would that be? Tell me, if you were in charge, what would you do?”

  Jarvis flipped a switch and the whiteboard in his mind began to populate with color-coded information. He spoke as his mind’s eye surveyed one of the very conflict scenarios he’d considered earlier: “Lead with a cyber offensive, Unit 8200 crippling Persian comms and the kids in Beersheba take down their networks. Next you hit Khatam al-Anbia Air Defense Base with Popeye SLCMs fired from Dolphins pos
itioned in the Persian Gulf, and you follow up with an air sortie, your new F-35s in first to assess the kinetic environment, take out their S-300 batteries, and mop up at Khatam. Once you have control of the battle space, you’re free to run sorties with your 15s and 16s and bring your 707s in for aerial refueling. You’ll hit Emad intermediate-range ballistic missile sites and probably their Shahab-3 MRBM sites, too, eliminating a counter–missile strike. Next, you’ll hit their nuclear sites—Fordow and Natanz—with HTMs and drop conventional ordnance on Parchin, Arak, and Isfahan. Simultaneously, IAF southern command will launch sorties into Gaza and southern Lebanon to take out known Hamas and Hezbollah rocket caches, mobile missile launchers, and command-and-control nodes to greatly diminish the severity of Iranian proxy retaliatory strikes in the aftermath. You could stop there, or if you’re slitting throats today, you might also take out Mehrabad Tactical Air Base in Tehran and the submarine base in Bandar Abbas.”

  Harel took a final drag from his Noblest and then mashed it out in an ashtray.

  “How’d I do?” Jarvis asked when Harel said nothing.

  “The cyber barrage is under way,” the Mossad Director said. “What happens next, you’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Jarvis watched and waited while Harel fielded a flurry of phone calls as the IDF operation kicked into high gear. The attack unfolded almost exactly as Jarvis had foreseen, and as it did, an unfamiliar sensation washed over him. As a Tier One Navy SEAL, he had either participated in or overseen from the TOC dozens and dozens of covert action missions, but this was something different. How he felt now was probably similar to how his grandfather had felt when World War Two began in Europe—that a seemingly uncrossable geopolitical chasm had just been crossed. Think tanks and policy wonks had contemplated and debated the implications and aftermath of an Israeli preemptive strike on Iran for over a decade, but now it was actually happening. There was no going back, and for the first time in his career, Jarvis did not like the imagery the crystal ball in his mind was showing him. Israel, and the rest of the world for that matter, was about to find out what Persia was made of. Yes, Iran had publicly flaunted its acquisition of the advanced Russian S-300 surface-to-air missile system, but what other weapons technology had Esfahani brokered from Moscow in the dark? And what about Iran’s other disturbing military trading partner in the East? With China cutting off coal from cash-strapped North Korea, had the lunatic in Pyongyang sold nuclear-warhead technology to Tehran? Did Iran have the atomic bomb, and if so, would a badly antagonized Supreme Leader order Esfahani to wipe Israel off the map once and for all?