Clark shook his head. “All men with young families. All men who have served decades already. Ops is a twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five job, and the guys up on deck aren’t the right fit.”
Jack agreed with Clark’s assessment — they needed new blood, and they had to look outside The Campus to find it. Clark had retired from operational status a couple years back, and Dominic Caruso’s brother, Brian, had been on the team before that, but he was killed on an op in Libya. He’d been replaced by Sam Driscoll, who then died in Mexico. Since then, it had been just the three operators.
Jack decided he’d think long and hard this weekend about who he would like to bring into the unit to help out, because the hot spots of the world weren’t getting any cooler, and it was clear that with the depleted numbers, The Campus wasn’t as strong as it needed to be.
Ten minutes later Jack was back on deck. He’d apologized to Gerry again, and again Gerry waved off the young man’s concern, except now he did it covered in bandages with a cold bottle of Heineken in his hand.
Jack wanted to throw up. Gerry Hendley had just recently allowed Jack to return to The Campus after spending six months on probation for disobeying orders.
And now this.
Jack knew this wasn’t exactly the best way to thank Gerry for showing his trust in him.
4
It should come as no great surprise to anyone that Tehran Imam Khomeini International isn’t the most welcoming airport in the world for foreigners, but after nearly five hours in the air, the passengers of Alitalia flight 756 were happy to deplane and stretch their legs. Sure, this wasn’t such a long hop for many of the business travelers walking down the jet bridge, but most of these people had been through the international arrivals terminal here before, and they knew the lengthy customs and immigration process ahead would ensure they weren’t getting out of this airport and to their hotels anytime soon.
With one exception. One man ambling out of the jet bridge and into the terminal was a regular guest of the Iranian government, and he knew his way through immigration would be easier than those of the other poor unfortunate travelers around him. He was a businessman working directly with various federal agencies of the Iranian government, and for this reason he was given his own minder the second he walked off the plane. His minder would be at his side the entire three days he was in country, serving as his translator and liaison with government agencies. In addition to this, the traveler knew a private driver would already be outside, parked in the tow-away zone in a government-flagged Mercedes, waiting to ferry the traveler and his minder wherever they wanted to go in the sprawling city for the length of his stay.
At the end of the jetway an Iranian man in his forties stood against the wall. The wide grin on the Iranian’s face grew when he recognized the tall, fair-haired man in his thirties stepping out of the line of passengers from Rome and waving to him.
The fair-haired man pulled along a roll-aboard and carried a briefcase. In English he said, “Faraj! Always great to see you, my friend.”
Faraj Ahmadi wore a bushy mustache, a head of thick black hair, and a dark blue suit with no tie. He touched his hand to his heart and bowed a little, then extended his hand for a strong handshake from the new arrival to his country. “Welcome back, Mr. Brooks. It is a pleasure to see you.”
The smile on the Westerner’s face turned into a mock frown. “Really? Are we gonna go through this again? Mr. Brooks was my dad. I’ve begged you to call me Ron.”
Faraj Ahmadi bowed politely again. The Iranian said, “Of course, Ron. I always forget. Your flights went smoothly?”
“Slept most of the way from Toronto to Rome. Worked all the way from Rome to here. Productive on both flights, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Excellent.” Faraj took the handle of the roll-aboard and motioned toward the immigration controls area. “By now you are well aware of our routine here at the airport.”
Brooks said, “I could do this in my sleep. In fact, I probably have, once or twice.”
Faraj grinned even wider. “You have been coming here quite regularly, haven’t you?”
Brooks walked along with his briefcase while Ahmadi pulled his luggage. He said, “I was just looking at my calendar the other day. This is my sixteenth visit in the past three years. Works out to more than five trips a year.”
Again the wide smile grew under the thick mustache of the Iranian. Ahmadi was Iranian government, but he had one of the brightest, most pleasant faces Brooks had ever seen. “We are always happy to see you. I know my colleagues are hopeful you will always be able to travel here from Canada so easily.”
“No kidding. All that talk about a travel ban on the news has got me worried.”
They made a turn to the left, and the massive lines in front of the immigration booths came into view. There were easily three hundred people waiting to have their documents checked. But the two men walked on, veering to the left of the crowd and continuing on down an empty lane.
Faraj said, “We are all hopeful businessmen like yourself will be allowed by the United Nations to continue operating as always.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” Brooks said. And then, “At least we know who to blame for the new bad blood between certain countries of the West and your nation.”
Faraj’s grin remained constant, but he nodded. “Too true. I’m just a liaison, not a politician or a diplomat, but I watch the news. Clearly the American President is once again shaking his fist at my peaceful country.”
Brooks said, “You don’t want to say his name in public. I get it. Well, I’ll say it. It’s all the fault of that son of a bitch Jack freakin’ Ryan.”
Faraj laughed now. “I think, when you say it like that, nobody around here minds.”
They passed a restroom, and Faraj, always the empathetic host, said, “Immigration will only take a few seconds, but traffic is bad on the Tehran — Saveh Road this morning.” He motioned to the men’s room. “If you would like to—”
“Not necessary, Faraj. I took care of business before we landed.” Brooks winked at his friend. “That’s why I’m called a businessman.”
Seconds later they stood at the immigration booth. Even the officer seated at the VIP immigration lane recognized the tall man with the light hair and blue eyes. In good English, but English not nearly as good of that of Ahmadi, the white-haired officer said, “Good morning, Mr. Brooks. Welcome back to the Islamic Republic of Iran.”
“Pleasure is mine, sir,” Brooks replied. He didn’t even set his briefcase down. He knew he’d be walking again to the car within seconds.
He handed over his Canadian passport with his visa inside, and he stood in front of the camera and smiled while his picture was taken. A green light glowed on the fingerprint reader on the ledge in front of him and he placed his thumb there, just as he’d done fifteen times before.
“How long are you visiting, Mr. Brooks?” the officer asked.
“Only three days, unfortunately. Just a short drop-in for some meetings.”
“Very good, sir.” The seated immigration officer clicked some buttons on his keyboard.
As he did this Ron Brooks looked to his chaperone. “What’s first on the agenda today, Faraj?”
Faraj Ahmadi had moved behind the immigration desk, familiar like an employee of the airport, so many times had he been here collecting businessmen working with his government. He placed his own paperwork down, and he glanced at the computer monitor as he prepared to shepherd the Canadian beyond the immigration bay. He said, “I thought we might grab a quick lunch at that restaurant you like on Malek-e-Ashtar Street before going to the hotel so you can relax. Dinner tonight will be with—”