Smith nodded.
“I considered that possibility. But the communication styles and methodology have remained unique to each principal from the beginning, which tells me that it’s unlikely one puppet master could be pulling all the strings.”
“What was the data source for the hit on the Iranian ship in the Gulf last month?” Smith asked.
Jarvis met the other man’s gaze. His first reaction to Smith’s probe was to fire back a “need to know” dodge, but it was becoming clear that criterion had already been met. “Original data or confirming?” he asked, buying time as he decided how much he should share.
“I know the confirming data. Hell, I developed half of those assets, and I run the cell in Hindu Kush. No, I mean the original data.”
Jarvis split the difference between full disclosure and a lie. When in doubt, only go halfway. “I have a very reliable asset with close connections to the Deputy Director of Clandestine Operations in VEVAK.”
“Why don’t I know about this asset?”
“Why did you need to know before now?”
Smith didn’t say anything for a moment. “I suppose I didn’t,” he finally agreed. “That was the source for the hit on the Darya-ye Noor?”
Jarvis nodded. It was more complicated than that, of course, but that was basically the truth.
“Who works that asset?” Smith asked.
“I do,” Jarvis said, watching Smith’s response, partially interested, partially amused.
“Personally?”
“Yes. Me and me alone,” he answered, sipping his endocrine-disrupting, styrene oligomer–free coffee.
Smith looked impressed, but less surprised than he would have expected. Then, he asked the next obvious question. “And the source data for this meeting in Yemen?”
Jarvis cocked an eyebrow. “You want to know if it is the same source point? It is not.” The answer, again, not a complete lie, but the shades of truth here were pretty spectral.
Smith sat back and took a sip of his poisoned coffee, then rolled his head in a slow circle, cracking vertebrae in a sign of visible relief. He looked past Jarvis and out the oval window into the black. “Do you think the Darya-ye Noor was a trap?”
“If it was, then it was a pretty shitty trap. No RPGs, no anti-air fire support of any kind. Amateur effort at best. Sometimes in our line of work, shit just happens,” he said, in full badass SEAL mode now. “Look, Shane, the shitheads are learning how we operate. Most likely, the shitstorm on the mission was just a shipboard security–driven effort trying to prepare for a number of What-if scenarios. There’s nothing to suggest they knew specifically that we were coming.”
“I don’t like it,” Smith murmured, still staring out the window.
“Neither do I,” Jarvis said. “Our enemies are always learning and adapting, never forget that.”
He wondered if there was anything to Smith’s data-stream concern. If there was, why didn’t he perceive the problem? Based on his assessment of the data, his trusted source in VEVAK, and his track record of sound judgment, Jarvis had gotten presidential authority to mobilize heaven and earth to spring a trap in Yemen and break Al Qaeda’s back. God forbid he was actually wrong.
That seemed pretty unlikely.
He was a details guy. He didn’t make those kinds of mistakes.
CHAPTER 10
Joint Special Operations Task Force
Camp Lemonnier
Djibouti, Africa
April 4, 1745 Local Time
Reza Pashaei said a silent prayer—perhaps the two hundredth of the day—for Allah to give him strength. He asked Allah to make his face a stone mask, concealing the anxiety in his heart, the fear in his mind, and the pain in his abdomen. The burden was so heavy, each step was a trial, and he felt so very, very ill. They’d told him he would be nauseated, and the doctor had given him medication that was supposed to help, but his unit commander had cautioned him. “If you take the pills, do so sparingly, as they will make you drowsy and dull your wits.” Reza had dumped the pills down the toilet. He’d made a promise to the Mahdi on a slip of paper at the Jamkaran Mosque. To fulfill that promise, he needed to be clear of mind and strong of heart.
He tried to walk normally as he approached the gate to the Joint Special Operations Task Force compound. When the gate guard smiled at him, he returned the gesture with great effort.
“Hey, June,” said the young American soldier, as he unlocked the gate. “How’s your mom, dude?”
“She is well, thank you,” Reza said.
A sick mother in Pakistan was the excuse he’d given for the short absence from his duties on the sprawling base in Djibouti. Best known for housing the Combined Joint Task Force—Horn of Africa, the base was home to a number of much less advertised commands, including the small and unassuming compound where he’d worked for several years. The hard plastic ID around his neck—worn and scratched from years of service on the filthy base—said his name was Junaid Ahmad. But nobody called him that. The Americans wasted no effort trying to pronounce his Pakistani pseudonym, and by the end of his first day on the job he had been forever dubbed “June.”
“You back for good?” asked the American, an Army intelligence specialist named David. It was no coincidence that so many Americans were named for Jews.
“Yes,” he said, as the specialist closed and locked the gate behind him. “Maybe we play backgammon tonight?”
David flashed him a sly grin. “If you think I’m gonna let you whup my ass again, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Okay. Then this time, I will let you win,” Reza said, returning the gibe.
He liked David. After four years working at the base, he found it impossible not to like many of the young men he’d met. Over time, his perception of the Americans had changed. How they led their infidel lives was just as offensive to him today as it was the day he started his assignment, but now he viewed men like David as victims, rather than the true enemy. Yes, they were part of the West’s attempt to subjugate Muslims—the true heirs of the earth—but as individuals they were oblivious to this fact. They were blind servants of the Zionists—puppets unable to perceive the strings controlling their every move. A part of him was sad that these men served a cause obscured from them, and worse, that they would die in a war they were preordained to lose.
He watched as David searched his worn leather shoulder bag, riffling through the contents with both hands. Not that it mattered. He carried nothing of consequence in the bag, just his books and mobile phone, no incriminating items. His mobile phone was just a mobile phone, with no special technology or spy components. While his mission would surely fail without it, he was not worried. His phone had been cleared for use on the base. The real danger was hidden inside him, packed in sealed, sterile bags deep inside his abdomen.
The inspection was quick and cursory. David trusted “June.”
“See ya, buddy,” David said, handing the bag back to him. “Come by the hooch if you want to make some of that badass coffee and get a game on. I’ll be off duty in another hour or so.”
Reza smiled broadly and nodded but didn’t answer for fear that if he did, he might vomit or, worse, soil his pants.
The American gave a small wave and they parted company.
He had shared many meals with David over the last few months, and the American had told him all about the girl he hoped to marry “back in the States” and the job waiting for him at his father’s company if he ever left the Rangers. The girlfriend apparently wanted him to stay at home. Always the Americans shared the details of their private lives with such uncomfortable abandon. As instructed by his Quds commander, Reza had shared invented stories in return—humorous tales of his fictitious family back in Islamabad and aspirations both vulnerable and hopeful of going to England to study computers. Much of June’s backstory was based on Reza’s real-life dreams as a teenager—a technique taught to him to help avoid inconsistencies. He had dreamed of going to England, having heard amazi
ng stories about life in the UK from his cousin, Ahmed, who had actually attended King’s College London. But those foolish dreams were before he had learned the truth about the West. Before he understood how the Jews and Christians used money, sex, and drugs to woo good Muslims from their faith. His cousin was dead now, at the hands of Reza’s uncle; with justice served, at least Ahmed’s soul had a chance for salvation.
“You okay, June?” said a voice, baritone and close.
Reza started and looked up. The man wore no markings on his uniform. The dirty brown cargo pants and a black T-shirt were not really a uniform, but Reza knew, from scraps of conversations, that this man was a Navy SEAL assigned to the intelligence unit on the base.
“Yes, I’m fine,” Reza said. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. The achy heaviness inside him was getting worse, and so was the constant feeling that he had to defecate. “I am quite tired from my trip.”
“Right,” the man said and scratched the short beard on his face. “Sorry, I forgot. How’s your mom?”
“She is well, thank you.” Reza felt sweat beading on his forehead. He glanced nervously at the now-setting sun and said a silent prayer that the coming darkness would better conceal his condition.
“Good to hear. I hope she stays healthy, because I’d hate to lose our best ’terp,” said the SEAL. “Take it easy, June.”
Reza exhaled with relief and wiped his brow with the back of his hand as the SEAL departed. He looked beyond the row of trailers housing the showers and toilets and spied his target: the brown stucco building, unremarkable by all accounts, with no windows and a flat, green door. It looked like the other four buildings in the small compound, the only differentiating features being the thick bundle of cables snaking into the east wall and a cluster of antennae and satellite dishes fixed to the roof. Reza had never been in this building, which he knew to be the Operations Center for the Special Forces soldiers. It was a restricted compound, a base within a base, where the SEALs launched their strikes at his brothers in the region. No foreigners were permitted near this building. The building was surrounded by a row of waist-high concrete barriers, and always had a small group of Army Rangers shuffling about, trying to appear casual despite their loaded weapons and body armor. Thanks to the hard work of his brothers in Iran and their tireless research on enhancing explosive yields, he would not need to be inside the building for the mission to succeed. He would not even need to be close to it. His commander had told him that anything inside thirty meters was likely to achieve success. Within twenty meters, success was guaranteed. Twenty meters would not be a problem. The row of trailers where the enemy relieved himself was not much farther than that.
He forced his eyes away from the target.
In his mind, a warning played like a song: If you want to keep your job, Reza, never approach the Special Forces operations center. Never let the Americans catch you looking at it. Pretend it does not exist. This had been the advice from the “cousin” who had arranged his transfer from working as a menial laborer at the main barracks to his current coveted position as a “cultural interpreter” for the intelligence specialists. He regularly volunteered as an interpreter for the Special Forces teams, and over the past three years he had worked hard for the Americans, building relationships and earning trust.
His VEVAK handler had pressured Reza to seek embedded assignments with the SEAL teams so that one day he would have the opportunity to inflict damage to the infidels’ most prized soldiers. But his small size, and the affection many of the older soldiers had developed for him, had kept him from such assignments. This lost opportunity had made him feel like a failure, and more than once caused him to question his faith. Now that Allah had unveiled his true purpose, it all made sense. He, Reza Pashaei, the eldest son of Aftab Ali Pashaei, devoted disciple of his holiness the Twelfth Imam, servant of Allah, had been chosen for the greatest and most esteemed honor a soldier of jihad could ask for.
His prayers had been answered.
A spasm of pain shot through his pelvis and back, so sharp it made his man parts burn and his eyes fill with tears. He clenched his buttocks, fighting the powerful urge to defecate. He considered for a moment going to the toilet in search of relief, but his last four efforts to relieve himself had resulted in pain but nothing else. Sweat streamed down his forehead, mixing with the tears. His face felt flushed. They had told him he would most certainly develop a fever. What if the Americans sent him home ill? Or worse, what if they thought he appeared anxious and might be a threat? He bent at the waist to wipe his face with his shirt, and a nauseous spasm caused him to stumble to the left and crash into something hard.
Or someone.
The impact sent pain through his lower belly and knocked him off balance. He was falling—a vision of his belly tearing open and his insides spilling out onto the dirt flashed in his mind. He would not survive a fall; the mission would fail.
A powerful hand gripped his left arm, keeping him on his feet. He looked down at the muscular forearm. A thin white scar twisted around the golden flesh, like a snake coiled around the trunk of a tree. Reza shrank in the cold shadow of fear. The mark of the devil—this man was a demon lieutenant of Great Satan, sent to kill him in the moment before triumph. Reza tilted his head up, expecting to find the muzzle of a pistol pointed at his forehead.
Instead, he found a square-jawed, bearded scowl.
“Shit, dude. What are you doing?” said the demon soldier.
“I’m so sorry,” Reza said, steadying himself. “I was not paying attention.”
The soldier released his vise grip on Reza’s wrist. “No problem,” said the American, but he didn’t smile.
Reza recognized this man: he was a Navy SEAL like the last one, but this operator was older, and the most revered by the other soldiers. This man was a decorated servant of the devil and, Reza realized, his final test. The SEAL’s gaze seemed to go through him, probing and diagnosing, like an X-ray scanning his insides. Fear surged through him, and a putrid foulness roiled up from his stomach into his throat. He swallowed down the vomit, took a breath, and steeled himself for the delicate battle of words and wits he had no choice but fight.
“You’re the ’terp from the intel shop, right?” the SEAL asked in a voice that was more interrogating than social.
“Yes,” Reza said, extending his hand in the easy, American style. “I’m called June.”
At that, the man’s face softened a bit. “I remember you from last year.”
“Yes, the problem in Somalia.”
The American demon nodded thoughtfully. Then he spoke. “You okay? You look green, son.”
“Green?” Reza asked, panicking inside. “Funny, I’ve always considered myself brown.”
The SEAL stared at him for an awkward moment, then burst into laughter and clapped him on the back. The blow, which normally he would have found offensive but only mildly physically irritating, sent a fresh wave of nausea rippling through his body.
“Next time, June, try to watch where you’re going.”
“Yes, of course. My apologies.”
Trembling, Reza watched the SEAL marked with the sign of the serpent walk away. Once he was certain the man would not turn around, he closed his eyes and exhaled. He had won; he had passed his final test. The devil has sent his most lethal and discerning lieutenant to stop him, and Reza had disguised himself in the mannerisms and humor of the enemy to make himself invisible. Deception, not soldiering, had always been Reza’s greatest talent. Allah had seen this in him, which was why he had been chosen for this task.
He pressed firmly into his abdomen, which made the pain ebb, giving him a few seconds of much-needed relief. A small reward for his victory over the devil’s disciple. He glanced at his wristwatch—a Casio G-Shock given to him by a SEAL called Pablo after working forty-eight hours without sleep to support a difficult operation last year. He smiled at the irony as he wiped the sweat from his burning forehead. All the symbols, all the clues, all the enemy
’s deceptions, were so obvious to him now. He had never experienced such clarity of mind. This was Allah’s work. This was Allah’s will. This was Allah’s gift to him before his death and resurrection in Paradise.
He turned to look upon the plain brown building that, Insha’Allah, would soon be a flaming temple of victory.
He took a step toward it.
Then another.
The pain was back.
It didn’t matter . . . the time for suffering was almost over.
CHAPTER 11
Tactical Operations Center
JSOTF-HOA
Djibouti, Africa
April 4, 2330 Local Time
The cheap, wobbly roller chair was the most uncomfortable thing Kemper had ever had the misfortune to sit on. He couldn’t decide which was more painful: the emotional toil of being confined to this particular chair while the rest of his team deployed on the greatest counterterrorism mission of all time, or the physical toil of occupying a chair whose only design criteria was to inflict agony on persons recovering from spine trauma. He pressed the adjustment lever, hoping to find some relief for his hunched and aching back by raising the seat height. With a long, slow hiss, the chair sank to the lowest setting. He tugged upward on the seat, but the pneumatic cylinder refused to budge, stubbornly keeping the seat cushion fourteen inches off the ground.
He stood and kicked the chair aside. “Stupid piece of shit.”
A couple of team support guys sitting at computer terminals nearby turned to look at him. Beside him, Spaz chuckled from his wheelchair.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Having a disagreement with an inanimate object over here.”
He started pacing.
He glanced at the mission clock mounted among six giant flat-screen monitors on the east wall. Only two minutes had passed since he last checked the time. The waiting was killing him. He needed a task to keep his mind occupied, but every one in need of doing was already being handled by someone in the TOC infinitely more qualified in operational oversight than he was. He had already checked in with both squadrons twelve minutes ago. He fought the urge to check in again, not wanting to be that guy. Why was he so wound up? Everything was progressing according to plan. Nothing to worry about.
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