“Are you a student? I mean, like, oh my God—of course you’re a student. I meant what department are you in?” Grimes giggled and Dempsey could picture Smith rolling his eyes.
“I’m a grad student. Finishing my PhD in cognitive neuroscience,” Farhad said.
“Good Lord, I don’t even know what that is.”
“It is the study of the biological mechanisms of cognition. Simply put, how the human brain interprets, processes, and stores data.”
“Whoa, sounds complicated,” she said. “I’m getting my master’s degree in business administration. I’m going to work in pharma—that’s where the big bucks are—but I hear it’s tough to break into.”
He shrugged. “I think you’ll do just fine. You don’t strike me as a woman who has trouble opening doors for herself.”
“Thanks, no one’s ever told me that before.”
“Have you always been interested in the field of health and medicine? We’re you premed in college?”
“Premed—Are you kidding?” she said with a laugh. “I majored in French.”
“French, why French?”
“My parents made me go to college, but what I really wanted to do was be a model and live in Paris. I actually landed some swimsuit work, but the agencies all said I didn’t have the right body type for runway. It was a stupid dream,” she said, looking down at her feet. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“No dreams are stupid,” Adar said. “And I, for one, think you have a beautiful body type. Those agencies don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“You really think so?” she said, playing coy.
“Of course. Take it from someone who knows. Don’t let anyone tell you what you can or can’t do with your future . . .”
Dempsey watched and listened as the duo headed down the long steps past the corner of the Biomedical Sciences building, making their way west toward Oxford Street. He had to hand it to her, Grimes was good at this stuff. She’d set the hook and was steadily reeling in the shark. Suddenly, his mind drifted back to something that Jarvis had said to him just before the team had stepped on the plane to fly out here: To stop al-Mahajer, we need to leverage everyone’s skills, insights, and network. And right now, Adamo brings more to the table in those categories than any of us. I’m not saying he has all the answers, but I can promise you that if the two of you don’t work together, there’s no chance we’ll find al-Mahajer in time. Maybe Jarvis was right. Maybe Simon Adamo wasn’t the problem—John Dempsey was. It didn’t matter how they stopped al-Mahajer; all that mattered was the end result. The truth was, Dempsey had absolutely no idea how to find the snake, and it terrified him. If Adamo brought that capability to the team, then it was time for Dempsey to check his ego and put his personal feelings about the guy aside.
“Farhad just got a text message,” Wang announced, snapping Dempsey back to the moment. “The message reads, ‘Wanna meet for beers later?’ The number doesn’t show up in his contact list.”
“Phone’s in his pocket,” Dempsey whispered.
“Roger that,” Wang said.
“Run the number,” Adamo said in his ear.
“No shit, Sherlock. This ain’t my first rodeo,” Wang said.
Dempsey caught himself grinning as he tried to assess every morsel of information from the event and ascribe tactical or strategic relevance, just like the instructors had trained him to do at the Farm:
Farhad received a text but didn’t check it. Possible meanings: (1) Grimes has won his full and undivided attention; (2) he’s not expecting anyone to contact him with anything important; (3) he’s not on a tight leash . . . no domineering boss or girlfriend?
Dempsey continued trailing Grimes and Farhad, while keeping his distance and looking for ticks. As they reached the Starbucks, Farhad was explaining his plan to use the insights gained from his brain research to form a start-up focused on artificial intelligence and deep learning.
“. . . in my opinion, artificial intelligence is the final frontier in tech. We’re talking about a trillion-dollar market in a decade’s time. My father is a venture capitalist, and he’s already secured seed funding for my company. I’m putting my team together right now. I could use someone like you—someone friendly and highly motivated with an MBA.”
“In that case,” Grimes said, “maybe I should be buying you dinner instead of coffee.”
“Seated and waiting,” Smith said, confirming he was inside the coffeehouse and had taken a table in the back. If there were no open tables when Grimes and Farhad were ready to sit, he’d give up his table just in time for her to take it.
A beat later, Dempsey watched Grimes and Farhad disappear inside. He cleared his six and both sides of the street under the guise of checking traffic. After crossing to the west side of Oxford, he put his phone to his ear to make another fake call.
“Hey, it’s me again. Decided to grab a coffee before I head home. Let me know if you want something?”
“Dempsey reporting—All clear outside, coming in. Ready for Adamo on your mark.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not crowded. The wait’s only a few minutes,” Smith said, pretending to have a conversation of his own.
“Starbucks clear inside. Ready for Adamo three mikes.”
Dempsey entered the Starbucks and found a place in line, just as Grimes was paying the tab for two caramel macchiatos. He heard her tell Farhad to wait at the pickup counter while she grabbed a table. In his peripheral vision, Dempsey watched their little game of musical chairs play out with subtle precision as Smith evacuated his table just in time for Grimes to take his seat, a mere thirty seconds before Farhad appeared with their coffees.
Smith cleared his throat.
A moment later the entrance door swung open and Adamo strolled in. Dempsey watched the CIA man scan the crowd, find Grimes, and then casually approach her table in the back. When Adamo stopped beside the table, Grimes looked up and smiled. “Adar, I’d like you to meet my friend, Scott,” she said with the enthusiasm of someone who had just run into a long-lost friend.
This was the critical phase of the operation. Worst-case scenario, Adar was in play or under surveillance. If so, they could expect company any moment. Best-case scenario, the young Persian made a scene drawing attention to himself and them. Either way, the dude was a flight risk as far as Dempsey was concerned. Managing all of these contingencies was his job now.
“What the hell is going on?” Adar said, his voice taking on a timbre of terror.
“Hello, Adar,” Adamo said. “Mind if I join you?”
“No . . . no, absolutely not,” Farhad said, shifting in his seat.
“Don’t be silly,” Grimes said. “Here, take my seat, Scott. I’ll leave you two alone to chat about boy stuff.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Farhad stammered, realizing he’d just fallen victim to a honey trap. “This is bullshit. If both of you don’t leave right now, I’m going to call the cops.”
“Sit your ass back down in that chair,” Adamo said, taking Grimes’s seat. “The cops take orders from me, remember? Or have you forgotten what happens when you try to go to the police?”
After an awkward beat, Farhad said, “No, I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good, then let’s talk.”
“Back then you told me your name was Brad.”
“My name is whatever I say it is,” Adamo said and inspected his fingers as if bored.
“Okay, Scott, in that case, there’s nothing to talk about. I’m clean now. I’m getting my PhD for God’s sake. You have to believe me when I say I’m not involved in that stuff anymore.”
“I know, and I’m proud of you for that,” Adamo said with what to Dempsey almost sounded like a hint of fatherly pride. Then Adamo’s tone turned hard and cold. “Now lower your fucking voice.”
Dempsey stepped up to the register; it was his turn to order.
“May I help you, sir?” the pimple-faced girl manning the cash register asked.
“Medium coffee, black,” Dempsey said.
“Hot or iced?”
“Hot, and keep the change.” He handed her a five and then moved to the pickup area.
“There is nothing I can do for you,” Adar was saying—desperation and fear in his voice. “I told you I’m clean. I’ve moved on.”
“Sit still, smile, drink your coffee, you moron. You’re drawing attention to us,” Adamo said. “Play by the rules and this all goes easy. Make things hard, and I start scheduling meetings with your department chair and the dean. It’s not my desire to ruin your life, but I will if I have to, and I won’t lose sleep over it.”
Grimes left Adamo and Farhad alone, and settled into a lounge chair next to Smith. She made a show of pulling out her phone and surfing the web. Just two strangers, a foot apart and separated by miles of Internet world.
“What do you want?” Farhad asked, defeated.
“I need your help, just one last time.”
“Why? I don’t know anything. I don’t know anyone.”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
Farhad shook his head. “I’m not going back down that hole.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Adar. Because the last thing I wanted to see was you detained and questioned for your role in aiding and abetting terrorists.”
“But, I’m not a terrorist,” the young man said, his voice now tight with genuine fear.
“I know,” Adamo said softly. “Which would make your imprisonment all the more tragic, but no less inevitable if you don’t help me. You still have sins left to atone for, I’m afraid. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes,” Farhad said, his voice cracking. “If I agree to help you this one last time, will you promise to leave me alone forever?”
“We both know that’s a promise I can’t make. I work for the United States of America, not Adar Farhad. But what I can promise you is that if you help me I’ll protect you. If you get me the information that I need, I’ll make sure that everything in your case file disappears. If something happens to me, the guy who takes my place won’t find any skeletons in your closet.”
After a long silence, Farhad said, “Okay. What next?”
“I’ll meet you at your apartment at six p.m. No guests, no surprises. Between now and then, you go about your day as if nothing has happened. If you call anyone, if you try to run, I’ll know and the deal is off. Do we understand each other?”
Farhad nodded. “Six p.m. I’ll be there.”
Adamo stood and walked swiftly toward the exit. Grimes joined him en route. On her way out the door, she turned and blew Farhad a kiss. An interested bystander, Dempsey turned just in time to see Farhad flip her the middle finger. He wandered to a seat across from Smith, who was tapping furiously on his phone. Dempsey eased himself into the chair and sipped at his coffee. He glanced at Farhad, who was still sitting at the table dazed and lost in thought. A few minutes passed, and he suddenly popped to his feet and stomped past with balled-up fists. He flung open the glass door and stepped outside onto the sidewalk. Dempsey watched him scan the street both directions before turning right to leave—shoulders slumped, head down in defeat.
“Status on Farhad’s phone?” Adamo asked over the comms channel.
“Tracking,” came Wang’s happy reply. “He’s moving south on Oxford. So far, he’s being a good boy. No calls, no texts.”
“You have the mike turned on?”
“Oh please. If he farts, we’ll know it,” Wang said. “And as soon as he gets back to his apartment and on his Wi-Fi, we own this bitch. I’m all over his keychains.”
“Roger.”
On cue, Smith departed.
Dempsey lingered behind, leisurely finishing his coffee until he was satisfied no one in the coffeehouse was of concern. Five minutes later, the entire team was gathered in the back of a Mercedes-Benz Sprinter van—a mobile office conversion unit—parked within walking distance of Farhad’s apartment. This had been Adamo’s show, and Dempsey grudgingly had to acknowledge that the CIA man had run a good op. Although, truth be told, most of the kudos went to Grimes for her performance.
“That dude wanted you bad,” Wang said as Grimes shrugged on a sweatshirt, covering up her flimsy tank top and hard nipples in the back of the chilly van. “He was a walking, talking hard-on until Adamo showed up, then . . . shrinkage.” Wang made the whistling sound of a deflating balloon and curled his index finger.
“As much as it pains me to admit it, you’re not the first person to say I have that effect on people,” Adamo said, with a self-deprecating smile.
“Don’t sweat it, Simon,” Grimes said jumping into the fray. “When your name is Dick Wang, you simply can’t help yourself from talking about other men’s erections.”
Everyone laughed, including Adamo, with Wang howling the loudest of all. It felt damn good to laugh, Dempsey thought. There hadn’t been much to warrant levity lately, but they all needed something to break the tension. The clock was ticking, and they all felt it. The hours waiting until their 1800 interrogation with Farhad would be absolute torture for all of them. They needed something to fill the time. Something to keep their focus, so Dempsey looked at Adamo.
“What’s on your mind, John?” Adamo said, without missing a beat.
“I was hoping that maybe now was a good time for you to fill us in on everything you know about Adar Farhad and his connection to the Suren Circle,” Dempsey said, and for the first time since they’d met, he swore he saw something resembling respect in the other man’s eyes.
“I started watching Farhad five years ago when he was a spoiled rich kid with a drug habit. I never believed that he was Suren, but I strongly suspected his parents. They fit the profile I was screening for: immigrated from Iran between 1990 and 2005, married, financially sound, well educated, with occasional travel to visit family in Tehran.”
“So you ran him as a CI?” Grimes asked.
“No, nothing that clean. We worked him for four years, but he was never cooperative. It was very much an antagonistic relationship. Besides the drug habit, he was hotheaded and always rebelling against his parents—parents who he viewed as sellouts and puppets of the West. At that time, Adar was disenfranchised and became enamored with Ahmadinejad.”
“Is he a devout Muslim?” Smith asked.
Adamo laughed. “Never. His respect for Ahmadinejad had nothing to do with Islam. He loved the way Ahmadinejad talked shit against the West and got away with it. He loved the audacity and the spectacle of it all. I think in one sense he was modeling his rebellion against his parents after Ahmadinejad’s rogue persona on the international stage.”
“So what happened?” Dempsey asked.
“He spiraled out of control. Drug use eventually led to drug dealing. At the same time, he began experimenting with radical Islam. Again, not for ideological reasons, but to upset his parents. When he began communicating via social media with domestic extremists, he popped on another task force’s radar. Things got a little messy then, because I didn’t want to risk spooking the parents. I escalated and that pissed some folks off. Turned out to be all for nothing, however, because the parents staged an intervention and enrolled him in rehab. Six months later, Adar was clean, we had an administration change, and my group was shut down for lack of progress.”
“So you never had anything on the parents?” Dempsey asked.
“Nothing actionable,” Adamo said, shaking his head. “I was never in a position to force them to break protocol or communicate with other members of the Circle.”
“Well,” Dempsey said, rubbing his chin, “maybe it’s time we change that.”
CHAPTER 31
Ember Surveillance Van
Walking Distance to Adar Farhad’s Parents’ Residence
November 1, 1950 Local Time
“What’s the sour face for?” Grimes asked Dempsey.
“The leftover Chinese stinks,” he said, nudging the trash bag of leftovers with his foot. “I don�
��t understand how something that tastes so good can smell so bad. Either it goes, or I do.”
“I’d love to see that report to Jarvis,” she said with a laugh. “Operation blown on account of counterdetection from stinky Chinese takeout.”
“Hey, guys, I’m trying to concentrate over here,” Wang said, admonishing them despite the gigantic set of noise-canceling over-ear headphones he was wearing. “Do you mind?”
Adamo, who also was wearing headphones, scowled at them.
Dempsey and Grimes traded impish glances. Clearly, they weren’t stakeout material. Dempsey leaned back in his seat and wondered if taking a little nap would rub Adamo the wrong way. Because if so, the SEAL in him could fall asleep on command.
“Put it on speaker. I promise we’ll be quiet,” Grimes said.
Wang looked at Adamo, who nodded, and then he switched on the cabin speakers. Dempsey heard a rustling as Farhad’s phone swished in his pocket as he got out of his car and walked toward his parents’ house. So far, he had proved to be compliant, but nothing else. From the time he left Starbucks, to the 1800 follow-up meeting, the kid had done exactly as he’d been told. No phone calls, no text messages, no non-work-related e-mails. The observation and waiting period had been critical to determining his credibility. Everyone, including Adamo, was convinced that Farhad was not being run or monitored by another entity, but only time and vigilance would prove that supposition.
It had taken thirty minutes, but Adamo had expertly and successfully bullied Farhad into conducting one final task for him. Acting as a human Trojan horse, Adar would go to his parents’ house with the mission of instigating a chain of events that would force the two suspected sleeper agents to communicate with their VEVAK handler, with Tehran, or within the Circle itself.
“He’s on the front porch,” Wang reported.
Dempsey heard a knock, and then a beat later, Adar’s mother greeted him at the front door. Mr. Farhad soon arrived and invited the once-prodigal son, now PhD candidate, inside to visit.
War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2) Page 24
