War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2)

by Jeffrey Wilson

  Her hand felt small in his. Not fragile, just small. Dempsey hadn’t walked hand-in-hand with a woman in a long time. The last time would have been with Kate, but the exact memory was lost to him.

  It felt nice, he mused. Only problem was, this was the wrong woman.

  Grimes squeezed his hand. “One o’clock. The couple sitting in the far corner.”

  Les Brassins was impossible to miss, with its fire engine–red facade and oversize plate glass windows. The white privacy curtains were pulled back, and the brightly lit Belgian brasserie was packed with people. Levi Harel and a companion were sitting at a table at the far left side of the restaurant. “Check,” he said.

  “I wonder what he’s like?”

  “Who, Harel?”

  “Yeah. The man is a legend . . . he’s like the Bruce Springsteen of the spook world.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dempsey said, looking at her.

  She rolled her eyes. “You know, the Boss.”

  “Yeah, I know the Boss, but what does Springsteen have to do with spies?”

  “Seriously? Springsteen is the Boss of rock ’n’ roll, as Levi Harel is the Boss of clandestine operations. It’s an analogy, JD. What, they didn’t teach you about analogies in SEAL school?”

  “Oh, they taught us plenty of analogies,” he said with a wry smile. “Just not the kind a guy discusses with a nice girl like you.”

  She laughed. “Nice girl? So that’s how you think of me?”

  “Actually, you curse like a sailor, you shoot like a SEAL, and you interrogate terrorists like a motherfucker . . . so you’re right, nice girl is one helluva stretch.” Then, with a smile he added, “To use an analogy, you’re like the Madonna of spies.”

  “Look who’s talking, Mick Jagger.”

  “Jagger? The dude weighs a hundred pounds and struts around like a peacock. We have absolutely nothing in common.”

  “Not true. You’re both geriatric and you both have egos big enough to fill a stadium.”

  They were both genuinely laughing as they entered Les Brassins—filling the role of happy lovers on holiday in Brussels without looking like they were trying. Dempsey surveyed the restaurant before looking in Harel’s direction. Nothing unusual caught his attention in the restaurant. Elizabeth gave his hand a double-squeeze, signaling the all-clear, and they walked over to the Israeli spymaster’s table. Harel sat facing them, smoking a cigarette and talking quietly to a woman with her back to them. He was a small man. The gray wool overcoat, which he wore inside, did not manage to conceal his slight build and narrow shoulders. His face was clean-shaven, his expression contemplative, and to Dempsey, his skin looked weathered beyond his years. He’d seen men with such countenances before, men who shouldered burdens too heavy for a single soul. The spymaster made casual eye contact, put out his cigarette, and stood to greet them.

  “Bonsoir,” Harel said, extending his hand. “How was your flight?”

  “Short and sweet,” Dempsey said, shaking the Israeli’s hand and uttering the prearranged response confirming that they had not been followed.

  “Very good,” Harel said and fixed his gaze on Grimes. “You must be Elizabeth.”

  Grimes smiled. “Yes, nice to meet you.”

  “This is my daughter, Elinor,” Harel said, gesturing to the raven-haired beauty seated across the table from him. Dempsey saw no resemblance . . . except maybe in the eyes.

  It’s her NOC, you moron, he chastised himself, annoyed that he’d even briefly considered that this woman might actually be Harel’s daughter. It was the Mossad man’s perfect delivery and adoring fatherly gaze that sucked him into the lie.

  Elinor smiled at Grimes and then shifted her gaze to Dempsey. “Bonsoir.”

  “Bonsoir,” they replied in unison, Elizabeth with a decent French accent and him, not so much.

  Dempsey stared unapologetically at the Israeli female agent. She was an archetypal beauty—with a perfect Grecian nose, arched eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a deep olive complexion. Elinor had the type of face that belonged on the cover of Vogue, the type of face that made men temporarily forget their own name. The last woman who’d had that effect on him was Kate.

  “Elizabeth, why don’t you take my seat,” Harel said. “You and Elinor can catch up while I take a walk with John.”

  Dempsey watched a flicker of irritation flash across Elizabeth’s face, but she smiled and said, “What a wonderful idea.”

  Dempsey met her gaze, and they reached silent communion on the breach of protocol. If Levi Harel wanted to take a walk, they were going to take a walk. He followed the former Mossad chief out of the brasserie and into the brisk Brussels night. The cobblestone sidewalk was still damp from the rain a few hours earlier. The air felt heavy and tired.

  Harel lit a cigarette.

  Dempsey ran his tongue along the inside of his lower lip as the craving for wintergreen snuff kicked when the scent of Harel’s Noblesse filled his nostrils.

  “Show me the scar,” Harel said.

  “Excuse me?” Dempsey said, confused.

  “I don’t recognize your face.”

  “That’s because we’ve never met.”

  “No, it’s because Kelso’s plastic surgeon did a very good job, so show me the scar.”

  Dempsey pulled up his left sleeve. The old knife wound wrapped his forearm like a serpent, pearly white and smooth.

  Harel blew a long stream of smoke out the corner of his mouth. “Okay.”

  Dempsey rolled his sleeve back down and continued to walk beside the legend down narrow Rue Keyenveld, not sure what to say next. The meeting had been arranged by Jarvis—a little detour on the way home from Poland so Dempsey could “pick the brain of an old friend.” The clues Grimes had uncovered during her interrogation session with the VEVAK operative were important, but how important they weren’t sure. When Dempsey asked Jarvis why he didn’t simply ask for Harel’s opinion over the phone, his boss had said, “Two reasons: One, because Levi is old school. If you want a favor, you have to ask for it face-to-face, and two, because he said he wants to meet you.” Thankfully the former Mossad chief was in nearby Brussels, helping the Belgians with their ISIS problems, rather than in his home base of Tel Aviv.

  “They call you Dempsey now?” Harel said, breaking the silence.

  “Yeah.”

  “Homage to the boxer or the general?”

  “The boxer.”

  “Hmm. Suits you.”

  “You’ve worked with Captain Jarvis awhile now,” Dempsey said, his intonation part question, part statement.

  Harel grinned. “Not as long as some, but longer than most. Allies like Kelso are hard to find in this world.”

  Dempsey nodded.

  “I came to the memorial at Virginia Beach.”

  “He told me.”

  “I’m sorry about your brothers. We have the highest respect for your old unit.”

  “Thank you,” Dempsey said, choking down an unexpected upwelling of emotion.

  “When I was a boy in Tel Aviv, I was small for my age. There was this one boy in my class, Ephraim, who was much bigger. He loved to cause trouble for me. He’d steal my lunch. He’d copy my work, take my pencils. Make fun of me in front of the girls. Ephraim was always goading me for a fight, but I would never take the first swing. Then, one day a new boy, David, arrived in class. Ephraim had grown bored with me, and now he had a new plaything. I watched as he tormented David, I empathized, but I did nothing. I was just glad to get a reprieve. Eventually, Ephraim renewed his old ways, splitting his time harassing both of us. One day, on the walk home from school, David pulled me aside. He told me he had a plan. He’d been following Ephraim; he knew where Ephraim lived. He convinced me that if we aligned together, we could challenge our tormenter. In a fight, one-on-one with Ephraim, individually we would always lose. But together, we could teach him a lesson he’d never forget. So, a week later, on a rainy Thursday afternoon, we ambushed Ephraim. We traded punches�
�four fists against two—and succeeded in pounding the bully into the mud. In that moment, David and I were allies. But, fast-forward one year, and David had taken over Ephraim’s role as chief bully. He’d drafted three boys into his posse, and their favorite target was me.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dempsey said. “Why would he turn on you like that?”

  “The why is irrelevant; all that matters is the lesson.”

  “Which is?”

  “That the old adage ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ is broken logic. Israel knows this. America has never been able to learn the lesson. Your government makes the same mistake over and over—partnering with evil men to defeat other evil men, only to later find itself targeted by the enemy of your enemy.”

  Dempsey nodded. “You’re talking about Iran?”

  “Of course. The White House is making a grave mistake thinking that Tehran can be a strategic partner in the War on Terror.”

  “Ember is not the White House,” Dempsey said. “We don’t share the Administration’s illogic.”

  Harel took a last, long drag from his cigarette and flicked it into a storm drain. “I know. That’s why we’re talking.”

  “Does the name Rafiq al-Mahajer mean anything to you?”

  “Number eight on our ISIS most-wanted list. Kelso told me you ran a capture/kill operation on him a few days ago.”

  “Yeah, but al-Mahajer sent a proxy to the meet, who unfortunately did not survive long enough to provide us with any actionable intelligence. However, one of the other guys we grabbed has proved to be interesting.”

  “Do you have an ID?”

  “We have hits in the facial-rec database, but no positive ID. He’s young and he’s a pro. Resilient and evasive under interrogation. Fluent in Arabic, Farsi, and English. They tell me he speaks with a unique Palestinian dialect.”

  Harel tapped a fresh cigarette out of his pack and lit it. “Is that all?”

  “No, we have him in Palestine with Hezbollah leadership just before the apartment attack in the West Bank last year. CIA pegged him as midlevel Hezbollah, but Elizabeth is convinced he’s actually a VEVAK liaison to Hezbollah.”

  “I’m happy to run him through our database and see if we can get an ID.”

  “Thanks,” Dempsey said, and handed Harel a USB drive he’d prepped for this very reason.

  “What else?” Harel asked, slipping the thumb drive into his pocket.

  Dempsey rubbed his chin. “There is one other thing, but it may be nothing.”

  Harel shot him a look, the kind a father gives his son when the son has just disappointed him. “Let me give you a piece of advice, John. It’s the little things in our business that matter. If something gets your antennae up, it’s never nothing.”

  “All right,” Dempsey said, nodding. “Does the Arabic expression bawwaba šamāliyy mean anything to you?”

  “What context?”

  “When Elizabeth took a turn interrogating our new friend, bawwaba šamāliyy was something she caught him mumbling after a period of sleep deprivation.”

  Harel stopped walking and stared straight ahead. “I think we have a big problem.”

  Dempsey’s stomach sank. “I’m listening.”

  “It’s no mystery that tunneling has been the cornerstone of Hamas’s incursion strategy into Gaza. Israeli Defense Forces destroyed dozens of tunnels in 2014, and we learned a lot in the process. The sophistication of Hamas’s underground network and the number of previously undetected tunnels took the National Security Council by surprise and got people asking, ‘What about Hezbollah? If Hamas can tunnel into Israel from the south, why not Hezbollah from the north?’ So, we started looking at the Lebanese border. We started asking questions and working our network. This has been one of Elinor’s projects during the past year. She has been searching for evidence of bawwaba šamāliyy. The Northern Gateway. The mother of all tunnels into Israel. If your man is in any way affiliated with Hezbollah and he is mumbling about the Northern Gateway in his sleep, then I want a turn with him.”

  “I’m certain that can be arranged,” Dempsey said. “What else can we do to help?”

  “Keep looking for al-Mahajer. Try to figure out why the Islamic State, VEVAK, and Hezbollah are having secret meetings in the desert. My greatest fear is that the day comes when Sunni and Shia put aside their differences and the terrorist factions of the world finally unite to launch an End of Days assault on Israel. Amir Modiri was able to unify the factions of Al Qaeda on the Arabian Peninsula to wipe out the Tier One SEALs. Can you imagine the carnage if he can unite Al Qaeda, Hezbollah, Hamas, and the Islamic State under VEVAK’s umbrella? God help us.”

  “I’ll talk with Jarvis. We’ll give you all the support we can. It’s the least we can do after everything you did for us in Frankfurt. We wouldn’t have stopped those bastards in New York if it hadn’t been for you and your team.”

  Harel offered his hand. “That’s what allies are for.”

  “And don’t worry,” Dempsey said, shaking the spymaster’s hand. “I’ll find Rafiq al-Mahajer. Failure is not an option.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Covert Hezbollah Training Camp

  Cuchumatanes Mountains, Guatemala

  October 24, 1840 Local Time

  Rostami watched intently as the six dead Muslim men gathered around the table.

  He watched them sweat. He watched them fidget. He watched them try to look brave and pious as al-Mahajer used a marker to draw red circles around three American cities where these young, brainwashed radicals would martyr themselves.

  “Since our arrival, you have honed your tactical skills—firing hundreds of practice rounds and learning how to handle and proficiently reload pistols and AK-47s. You have been trained how to interact with the enemy and how to avoid drawing attention to yourself. Tonight, we enter the final phase of your preparation. I know that each of you has been patiently waiting for your assignment, and now you are anxious to know the details of how you will make your sacrifice for Allah. I will not make you wait any longer. Three coordinated attacks will be unleashed on America, hitting the Great Satan in the east, the middle, and the west simultaneously. With Allah’s guidance, I have personally selected these assignments.”

  Al-Mahajer squatted, retrieved a suicide vest from inside a box under the table, and set it on top of the map.

  “Each of you will be wearing one of these vests. It was designed and built by our Hezbollah brothers here at this camp. The vest is constructed in layers: the inner layer is made of Kevlar, fitted with antiballistic ceramic plates to protect you from enemy gunfire while you complete your mission; the intermediate layer is fitted with a band of high-yield plastic explosive; and the outside layer is loaded with sleeves of twenty-millimeter steel ball bearings. When you wear the vest, you are in Allah’s hands; know that He will guide you and comfort you on your mission.”

  The young jihadists all stared at the instrument of their undoing, pale-faced and speechless.

  “You look conflicted, Nabil. Is there a problem?” Al-Mahajer asked, his dark eyes boring into the consternating youth.

  “Yes, er, I mean, no,” Nabil stammered. “No problem.”

  Al-Mahajer smiled. “We are all warriors here, sons of Allah, and servants of the Caliphate. Speak your heart, because if you have doubts, it is certain that at least one of your five brothers harbors the same thoughts.”

  Nabil glanced nervously from al-Mahajer to the young man standing to his right, Faruq. Rostami had seen these two together frequently. Faruq gave an encouraging nod to Nabil.

  Nabil swallowed. “I did not realize we would be wearing suicide vests. I thought the plan was to use assault rifles.”

  “The plan is to use assault rifles, but the vest ensures you cannot be arrested and taken into custody. This is a mission of martyrdom.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “How a soldier dies in service of Allah is irrelevant. Your path to Paradise will be paved with the bodies of infidel
s. The more Americans you kill, the greater your reward will be.”

  Nabil nodded, but Rostami saw lingering doubt in the young man’s eyes.

  Al-Mahajer must have seen it, too, because he drew his pistol, pointed the muzzle at Nabil’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

  The gunshot roared. Blood splattered. Faruq screamed.

  Rostami simply shook his head.

  Nabil’s body hit the ground with a thud. The five young jihadists—none of whom had witnessed cold-blooded murder before—watched in horror as the body spasmed for a few seconds before going limp.

  A heartbeat later, Hijjar and two of his men burst into the command tent, their weapons at the ready. “What in Allah’s name is going on?” He surveyed the scene and then fixed his gaze on al-Mahajer. “Why did you kill Nabil?”

  “Nabil was not committed to his destiny; he was not prepared to martyr himself for Allah.”

  “But now you’re a man down, and we don’t have time to bring in someone new.”

  Al-Mahajer holstered his pistol and locked eyes with Hijjar. “I am the sixth man,” he said coolly. “I will take Nabil’s place.”

  The five stunned young jihadists stared at al-Mahajer with expressions of incredulity, fear, and awe.

  After a long, uncomfortable beat, Hijjar addressed al-Mahajer. “We need to talk. Alone.”

  “Leave us,” the ISIS commander barked at his disciples. “And take Nabil’s body with you.”

  Hijjar ordered his two men out as well, leaving the three of them alone.

  “What was that?” Hijjar said, gesturing to the bloody mess.

  “That was leadership,” the Syrian replied. “It was part of the plan from the beginning. I wasn’t positive who would be the sacrificial lamb, but Nabil made the decision easy.”

  Hijjar shook his head and then looked to Rostami.

  “I knew nothing of this,” Rostami said.

  “You intend to martyr yourself in America?” Hijjar asked.

  “It’s my time,” al-Mahajer said. “I’m tired of hiding in the shadows. I’m weary of living like a coward, always moving, always underground. I’m done wondering when an American drone is going to deal death from above before I’ve had a chance to serve my purpose. This mission will be the culmination of my life’s work. It will strike more terror into the hearts of America than 9/11, because this attack will show them that no one is safe—not at work, not at a restaurant, not at a shopping mall, not at a museum. We can hit them anywhere, anytime, and nobody can stop us.”