War Shadows (Tier One Thrillers Book 2)

by Jeffrey Wilson

  “Adar sounds nervous,” Dempsey whispered to Grimes.

  “Yeah, he does.”

  “I think they’re in the kitchen now,” Smith said.

  “Audio gain just changed,” Wang said. “Phone’s out of his pocket. I’m turning on the camera.”

  Dempsey watched a new video feed populate one of the monitors in the van; it was the streaming video from Adar’s front-facing mobile-phone camera. The image was of the kitchen ceiling.

  “That’s my boy,” Adamo said, pleased that Adar had remembered to take the phone out of his pocket. “Now ask for Dad’s phone . . .”

  On cue, they heard Adar say, “Hey, Dad, do you have any photos from the anniversary celebration? I’m sorry again to have missed the dinner.”

  “Of course. I have an entire album saved on my phone.”

  “Can I see them?”

  “Sure.”

  At that, Adamo made a silent, celebratory fist pump.

  Two minutes later, Wang announced, “All right, I own the dad’s phone.”

  “Check audio and video feeds,” Adamo said.

  “Dude, you gotta knock that shit off,” Wang growled. “I know how to do my job.”

  “Sorry,” Adamo said. “Bad habit.”

  They listened as the Farhads made small talk. When the conversation hit a lull, Adar’s father said, “Adar, you know how much your mother and I love when you visit, but I have to ask—Is something wrong? I can’t remember the last time you showed up after dinner unannounced.”

  Dempsey locked eyes with Adamo and mouthed the word showtime.

  Adamo nodded.

  The tension in the van was palpable as they waited for Adar to drop the bomb.

  “Actually, yes,” the younger Farhad said. “I hope it’s nothing, but something happened I want to talk to you about.”

  “Does it involve a girl?” Adar’s mother asked.

  “No, nothing like that,” he said. “It actually has to do with the two of you.”

  “With us?” his father said with a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’ve run out of money.”

  “No, Dad. I’m not here for money. I’m here to ask you about the Suren Circle.”

  Adar’s father replied first. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of the Suren Circle.”

  “Is it a charity you want us to donate to?” the mother added.

  “Please, Mom and Dad. Please don’t make this any harder than it already is. I’m really scared and I need to know what the hell is going on.” Adar’s voice shook. “Two federal agents approached me today. They told me that you guys were both members of an Iranian spy ring. They said it’s some sleeper program and that you have been secretly working for the Iranian government for two decades.”

  There was a pause, and Dempsey wished like hell he had video other than the ceiling. He wanted to see the elder Farhad’s face—see his real reaction.

  After a beat, the father said, “Adar, this is a safe place. You know that your mother and I won’t judge you, so it’s okay to tell us the truth . . . Have you started using again?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me? I tell you federal agents are investigating you and you ask me if I’m using!” He fired back with enough emotion that Dempsey knew the switch had just flipped in the grad student’s head. The kid wasn’t compulsory role-playing anymore. The conversation had taken on a gut-wrenching oh shit, my parents might actually be spies undertone now.

  “Maybe we should call Dr. Magnus,” his mother said. “Schedule a session for all three of us to sit down and talk.”

  “No. Absolutely not.” When Adar spoke again, the ire in his voice was gone, replaced by the same dispassionate tone his mother had used. “Actually, maybe that’s not a bad idea. Maybe we should talk with a neutral third party. I can invite the two special agents to come to the session, too. It would be a delight to watch Dr. Magnus question them about their psychosis and drug-induced delusions as they lay out their case records.”

  A long, uncomfortable silence hung on the line, while Wang solicited high fives from every member of the Ember team in sequence. “Fuckin’ A, way to go, Adar,” Wang said while laughing.

  “What else did these men say?” Adar’s father asked, his voice suddenly grave. “The US media is stoking the flames of Islamaphobia in this country. If we are being unjustly targeted by Homeland Security, I need to know. This could be very serious, Son.”

  “They told me that you and Mom were recruited by something called VEVAK when you were in your twenties. You were given false identities, money, and the visas needed to emigrate to the US. You became naturalized citizens, but all the while continued working as part of a secret ring of sleeper agents created to infiltrate American business and government and gather trade secrets.”

  “Adar, we love you, Son, but this sounds crazy and paranoid. After all you put us through, you can see why we would worry. If any of this were true, then why didn’t the US government arrest us years ago? Why contact you now after leaving us alone for twenty years? It doesn’t make any sense,” Farhad senior said.

  “I asked the exact same question, and do you want to know what their answer was? Because until now, you were only gathering intelligence. But in the last few days, they said they have reason to believe that your spy ring is planning a terrorist attack.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Adar’s father scoffed.

  “What’s ridiculous? That you and Mom are career spies and you’ve hidden this fact from me for my entire life, or that you’re helping launch a terrorist attack inside the US?”

  “Both!” the father shouted.

  Someone started crying.

  “Who’s crying?” Dempsey asked.

  “Mrs. Farhad,” Grimes answered, narrowing her eyes. “Call it woman’s intuition, but I call bullshit. I know it sounds legit, but crying is a great redirect. It’s what I’d do if I were her.”

  “Don’t cry, Mom,” Adar said. “Please don’t cry, I’m not trying to accuse you of anything.”

  “Shit,” Dempsey growled. “We’re losing him.”

  “It’s okay,” Adamo said, looking at Dempsey and Grimes. “Adar did exactly what we needed him to do. He forced their hand. In the next five minutes, one of two things is going to happen. Either they kick him out of the house, or they read him in, but no matter what happens we need to get Baldwin and the boys up and monitoring ASAP because we’re about to learn the truth.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Ember Surveillance Van

  Parked near the Farhad Residence

  Dempsey watched Wang’s fingers fly across a workstation keyboard as he messaged with Baldwin back in Virginia. Over Wang’s shoulder, Dempsey read the string, only then realizing that the Professor had been tied into the op the entire time. Apparently, from the moment that Wang commandeered Adar’s father’s mobile phone, Baldwin and the boys back at Ember had been busy requisitioning historical data to start mining.

  “Sounds like they’re wrapping up in there,” Grimes said, talking over the audio feed.

  Adamo nodded, but held a finger to his lips.

  “Adar, can we please just agree to drop all of this your parents are spies lunacy and focus on what really matters?” Farhad senior said.

  “And what is that, Dad?”

  “Completing your PhD and building a team for your start-up.”

  “Sure, that all sounds great, until the federal agents show up at the lab and haul me away for questioning. What the hell am I supposed to do then?”

  “You tell them the same thing I’m telling you now, that they must be mistaken with their information, and that if they have any more questions, they need to come talk to me directly.”

  After a beat, Adar said, “Fine, but when they throw you and Mom in the back of a black van and haul you away for interrogation, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I think you’re being a little melodramatic now, Son. Why don’t you head back to your apartment? Relax. Have some dinn
er. Watch a movie. Better yet, why don’t you go to bed early and get some sleep? If what you say is true, then I’m sure it’s just one big misunderstanding. Give it some time, and I promise everything will be fine.”

  Dempsey listened to the awkward good-bye that followed as the Farhads ushered their son out the front door. To his surprise, Adar drove away in his car, parked out of sight, then walked back to the van, just as Adamo had told him to do. Dempsey had been surprised by the instruction. It felt wrong letting the kid into their inner circle, but Adamo had been adamant about wanting Adar to listen to the parents’ post-op discussion—a discussion the Farhads were just beginning to conduct as Grimes closed the slider door behind the kid. Adar shot daggers at Grimes as he climbed into a seat, but she pretended not to notice, instead focusing her attention on the conversation being retransmitted by the father’s hacked phone:

  “Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Mrs. Farhad said.

  “Yes, unfortunately,” Adar’s father said.

  “What do we do?”

  “Hush,” he said, his voice low and agitated.

  When he spoke again, it was in Farsi. Dempsey groaned his irritation at the language change. Now he’d have to rely on Adamo and Grimes to reconstruct the conversation.

  The sounds of running water and a kitchen ventilation hood fan being turned on suddenly drowned out their voices.

  Adamo looked at Wang. “Is there anything you can do about this?”

  “Yeah sure. Hey, Adar, can you run back in there and ask your parents to turn that shit off and talk clearly into the microphone?” Wang said.

  Adamo glowered at Wang. “Cut the crap. I’m being serious.”

  “So am I. There’s nothing I can do, man,” Wang said. “I have some tech for this situation, but it requires line-of-sight video surveillance. In the meantime, I’m recording everything and streaming it back to the TOC. Hopefully, they’ll be able to work some magic and pull dialogue out of all that interference.”

  Dempsey shifted his attention to Adar.

  The kid looked dazed. “I can’t believe it,” he mumbled. “I . . . I just don’t understand.”

  “Sorry, dude,” Wang said with a pitying smile, “but your parents are fucking spies.”

  “For my whole life, they’ve been lying to me.” Adar looked at Adamo. “While you, someone I despised all these years, were telling me the truth.”

  Adamo exhaled through his nose. “Do you remember what I said to you the very first time we met?”

  Adar nodded, and his gaze went to the middle distance. “You told me that I wouldn’t like what you had to say, but the one thing you’d never do was lie to me.”

  “That’s right. And I’ve kept that promise.”

  “And what about me? What am I supposed to do now?”

  Adamo placed a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “You’re going to do exactly what your father said. Go home, relax, and work on your PhD. Tomorrow you’ll have a new handler, someone to help you manage this situation and answer all your questions, but until then you’re on your own. Do you think you can handle that, Adar?”

  “My parents are spies. That’s not something you can simply pretend away.”

  “Sure you can,” Dempsey said. “My parents were Democrats, but I found a way to manage.”

  “This isn’t a joke.”

  “I know,” Dempsey said, meeting the young man’s eyes. “Yes, your parents are spies, but that doesn’t make you one. You’re an American—a first-generation Persian American with a brilliant mind and a bright future. This is your country, just like it’s mine, and his, and hers, and his, and his,” he said pointing at each of his teammates in turn. “Our job is to safeguard the lives of all Americans. We’re always out there, operating in the shadows. And now you see us. Now you know what we do, and why we do it. As much as you might like to go back to your old life of blissful ignorance, you can’t, Adar. You’re one of us now—a shadow warrior—and you have a job to do. And if you don’t do your job, thousands of people are going to die. So I ask you, can you rise above the fear and uncertainty? Can you cage your personal demons and become a protector of innocent men, women, and children?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so, or you will?”

  “I will,” Adar said, tightening his jaw and nodding slowly. “You can count on me, sir.”

  Dempsey looked at Adamo. “Time for Adar to head home; we have work to do.”

  Adamo nodded and escorted the kid back to his car. On his return to the van, Smith asked, “Are we good?”

  “Yeah. As soon as we finish here, I’ll assign him a handler. Someone we can trust.” Then, looking at Dempsey, Adamo added, “Thanks for the pep talk, John. Adar needed to hear that.”

  “No problem,” Dempsey said. “Sometimes all it takes is marching orders and a kick in the ass. Adar knows the stakes; he’s a smart kid.”

  “Hey, guys, heads up,” Wang said, his voice amping up a notch. “We’ve got an outbound call.”

  “Dad’s phone?” Adamo asked.

  “Nope,” Wang said. “Probably a burner. Baldwin’s on it.”

  “Where’s the call to?”

  “Hang on . . . looks like the Chicago area code . . . ringing, ringing, three rings, no answer. Call disconnected.”

  “Can you get us an address?” Adamo said, tension in his voice.

  “They’re working on it . . . it’s a mobile phone. Shit, another outgoing. Fifty bucks says he’s working down the hierarchy. This one is an Omaha area code . . . the call picked up.”

  “Put it on speaker, for Christ’s sake,” Adamo barked.

  “I can’t. This is Baldwin’s show,” Wang said, messaging back and forth at the terminal. “But he’s dictating. I’ll read it to you guys:

  “Hello, this is Keyvan Shirazi . . .”

  “Hello, Keyvan, this is Sharzeh Farhad in California.”

  “Oh, Sharzeh, so good to hear from you. Tell me, how is the family?”

  “Fine, fine, no news to report.”

  “Good to hear. And work, how is work? Any new or interesting projects?”

  “Work is fine. No new projects. The only new and interesting thing I have to report are some new people who just moved into the neighborhood. They’re very loud and intrusive. I hope we don’t have to relocate to a different neighborhood to find peace and quiet.”

  “That is unfortunate. Please, keep me informed of what happens.”

  “Of course . . . So, tell me, Keyvan, how is your family?”

  “The family is fine, thanks for asking. Nothing new to report with the children.”

  “And your work?”

  “Work is stressful at the moment. I’ve taken on some new, temporary responsibilities.”

  “Is that so? What kind of responsibilities, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Nothing I want to bore you with. I’m simply looking forward to wrapping up the project as soon as possible.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No. This is local business, that’s all.”

  “Okay, it was nice speaking with you, Keyvan. Give Delilah my love, and please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything―anything at all.”

  “Yes, of course. Thanks for calling, Sharzeh. Good-bye.”

  “Holy shit,” Grimes said, grinning like a schoolgirl. “We got ’em.”

  “Are you all right, Simon?” Smith eyed the CIA man. “You look a little green.”

  “Yeah,” Adamo said, shaking his head and smiling. “It’s just surreal . . . to be finally vindicated, after all these years. It’s hard to explain the feeling.”

  “Congratulations, Simon. Seriously, bro, nice work,” Dempsey said. Then after a beat, he asked, “Now what?”

  “Now,” Adamo said, pushing his eyeglasses up on his nose, “we head to Omaha and pay Keyvan Shirazi a visit.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Omaha, Nebraska

  November 2, 1930 Local Time

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sp; Somehow, the Americans had found him.

  Keyvan’s hands were still shaking, no matter how tight he clutched the steering wheel. In broad daylight, in the middle of a campus parking lot, they’d grabbed him, forced him into a black SUV at gunpoint, and given him a shakedown, all without anyone noticing.

  A car horn sounded behind him.

  With a start, he looked in his rearview mirror and saw a middle-aged man in a Buick throwing his hands up in the universal gesture for What the hell are you waiting for? Behind the Buick, he noted the roofline of the black SUV. The American agents were following him, keeping pressure on to make sure he followed through.

  The choice they’d given him was simple: cooperate or lose everything in his life that mattered. Just one look into their leader’s eyes—the brute with the spiral scar on his muscular forearm—was enough to convince Keyvan this was no idle threat. The people who’d taken him weren’t local law enforcement, nor were they FBI. They hadn’t even bothered to identify themselves as federal agents or flashed him ID. They were black ops. They were the type of people who made problems disappear. They were ghost warriors fighting America’s real War on Terror. If he failed, they would make him pay, and pay dearly. And so in exchange for immunity, he’d told them everything, including how the Suren Circle had been activated; how he and Delilah had driven to Douglas, Arizona, to pick up and assist two jihadists who had crossed the border; and that two other Suren sleeper-agent couples were fulfilling similar tasking in different locations. In exchange for a promise of a new identity and a new life with Delilah, he’d agreed to become their double agent and discover the target locations for the other two attacks. Now, it was time to make good on his end of the bargain.

  He lifted his foot off the brake pedal and transferred it to the accelerator. His BMW sped forward and through the intersection just as the traffic light overhead changed to yellow. He drove the speed limit all the way home. Somewhere along the way, the black SUV disappeared, but it didn’t matter. They were still watching. They were still listening.

  He pressed a button on the remote control garage-door opener clipped to the passenger sun visor and waited for the door to roll open. After parking, he pushed the same button on the remote and watched the door lower in his rearview mirror until the last bit of fading daylight disappeared. He loitered in the dark, paralyzed with fear and dread and uncertainty.