Radu was referring to the Syrian officer he claimed to have recruited who had excellent contacts with Iranian intelligence. The agent was still meeting with the CIA’s Damascus station. Radu knew that Thérèse had her doubts about the credibility of the Syrian’s reporting and he resented it big time.
She had told him that the information seemed slanted in favor of Iran. “What are the chances that your guy is feeding us information that’s been prepared and precooked in Tehran?” she had asked. The final straw was when she had insisted on an addition to the source byline for every report from this agent, “This source could be providing the information to influence as much as to inform,” a cautionary formula usually reserved to information reports from foreign intelligence services.
Radu hoped she fell on her face over the handling of this new agent XYSENTINEL. Her departure would create headroom for his career advancement; with the Middle East always on the front burner, he thought he had a good chance to move up and replace her. He couldn’t figure out how Thérèse, as chief of the Africa Division, where nothing that happened was of any interest to the White House, had been promoted right past him. She had been lucky that Africa was a rich hunting ground and that both she and her officers had bagged several agents from hard target countries. Those agents had returned to their home ministries in Beijing, Moscow, and Havana to become reporting assets. Obviously, they were low-level. Otherwise, he knew that they wouldn’t have been assigned to Africa in the first place.
He also knew that Thérèse was recently divorced with two small children. Why wasn’t she home raising her kids? The corridor rumor at the time was that her husband had been taken hostage while on a business trip to Colombia and killed in crossfire during a rescue attempt by the Colombian army.
Radu’s mind returned to the present when Colchester, fingering his bow tie, said, “Well, I think I can outplay your boss. She can’t interfere with policy matters.”
As they parted, Radu smiled conspiratorially and said, “Khoda Hafez,” to flaunt his Farsi.
Before Colchester reached his car, he was on his cell phone. The automated reply identified itself as the “Washington Tribune.” He punched in the 115 extension and left a message, “Hi, David. This is Edward. You want to talk to me tonight?”
13. Shemīrān, Iran
Hashem Yazdi got into his car taking stock of the darkened street in this northernmost section of Tehran. He was a ranking member of al Quds, and he knew that if he didn’t have Ali Mousavi’s full trust he would already be dead. During his recruitment and preparation by Marshall and other CIA officers in a McLean, Virginia safe house, they had reviewed the operational security situation in Tehran and taught him standard precautions. However, as a senior officer of one of the world’s most powerful secret organizations, he felt above the CIA’s condescending caution. Nevertheless, a bit of paranoia was never a bad thing, and he self-consciously glanced at cars and pedestrians passing by his apartment building.
From the time he left for Dulles Airport to the time he landed in Tehran, his conflicting emotions had kept him on a roller coaster. He was relieved that he was allowed to leave the United States, apprehensive at the Faustian deal he had struck with the CIA, and was experiencing a sort of buyer’s remorse.
He was acutely conscious that his son and family were in the control of American authorities. He could help them in their American lives, or if he failed to carry out his part of the deal, the Americans would probably revoke their visas and ship them back to Iran. While his resettlement in the United States, financed with a substantial sum of money already earning interest, was also in the bargain, it was not of immediate relevance. He knew whether he ever returned to the United States was problematic, a situation he accepted fatalistically. Whatever Allah willed would take place. He felt confident he could take care of himself. Having gone to the United States could prove to have been an immense mistake or a wonderful opportunity.
As he analyzed the pros and cons of his situation, his biggest risk, the biggest unknown, was the professionalism or incompetence of the CIA officer who would meet with him in Tehran. Yazdi had asked for electronic communications, but the CIA experts had said that they first had to study the Iranian communication spectrum to choose a safe frequency; Iran’s electronic counter intelligence was presumed to be of high quality. Electronic communications would be introduced in a later phase, he had been told.
Neither had the CIA been able to produce the officer who would meet with him. It would have made more sense for the two of them to sit down and plan their operation in McLean than later in Tehran. The CIA was still looking for the “right” case officer when he headed back to Iran. Yazdi had asked Marshall to be that person and Marshall was willing.
For whatever reason, however, the CIA leadership didn’t choose Marshall. Not able to introduce him to the intelligence officer who would meet with him in Tehran had created uncertainty and tension in his mind. Was the CIA up to this? His life would be on the line. He trusted Marshall, but others seemed somehow too eager to get him on the plane and, as they phrased it, “In place.”
He had hesitated and reflected on the consequences of his actions before eventually making the call to the number in Basra, Iraq that the CIA had given him. His call had been the signal that he was back, not under suspicion or control, and therefore prepared to meet the following Wednesday evening at eight thirty, or any Wednesday evening for a month, until contacted.
* **
Since the Iranian energy sector was largely a government monopoly, Steve spent all of his days making calls on officials of the ministries of energy, of foreign trade and of commerce. He quickly formed a metric of the official’s role in the food chain by the length of the official’s stubble; the longer it was the more important its owner. A trim three-day stubble, kept at bay with an electric razor, conveyed an attempt at compromise between the modern and the traditional religious look. The mullahs with the greatest claim on wisdom had the longest beards, some dyed with henna. Those who wished to be perceived as moderates kept their beards from dominating their appearance. Non-clerics who wished to adopt the pious look had trimmed round beards.
Invariably, his Iranian interlocutors were confused and resistant to the idea of temperature-control technology, but Steve thought he was starting to get through. Maybe he had been talking to the wrong people. He was now trying to arrange a visit to an actual facility where he could explain his product to hands-on managers with challenging budget constraints.
He had been conscious of surveillance and didn’t think he had aroused any undue suspicions.
At five p.m. Wednesday, he stepped out of his hotel into the all-engulfing roar of rush hour traffic. The main avenues were de facto one way in the direction of the heaviest traffic flow at the time. Streets designed with one lane in each direction were now four lanes in one direction. Sidewalks provided additional opportunities to move ahead requiring pedestrians, lower forms of life in rush hour, to be nimble if not equipped with sufficient sense to fit into a higher, motorized, species. Horns and flashing lights were essential and in constant use.
Steve negotiated a price and got in a hotel cab. The driver plunged into the battle and within minutes was stuck in the middle of an intersection with car hoods pointing in all the directions of the compass. In English the driver asked, “You are from where?”
“Canada. Do all taxi drivers speak English?”
Seeing an opening, the driver headed around to the right and was able to move several car lengths before he was forced to stop.
“I know someone who went to Canada. He didn’t like it, too many Indians he said, you know with the turbans,” and he laughed.
In his limited time in Tehran, Steve found the city a monotony of flat boxy buildings. The exceptions were the older and elegant fin de siècle structures and their counterpoints, the new glitzy high rises. The unfortunate constant was the chaotic traffic and the crowds of pedestrians on the streets outside of rush hours. He wonde
red if that was due to the size of their apartments. He recalled from his days in Moldova, where he had set up a NATO office, that people liked to get out and used the parks and nearby woods of Chisinau for picnics and other social events. Unlike Tehran, the weather there was not conducive to outdoor activities much of the year.
Before Steve could reply, the driver was able to move again and, with his right wheels on the sidewalk, managed to reach a broader avenue. In half an hour, Steve had arrived at his first destination, a bookshop off Vali Asr, a main thoroughfare and the longest street in Tehran. After browsing for ten minutes and checking for surveillance he left and walked to another store fifteen minutes away. He again confirmed that no one had followed him inside and started walking north on the right side of Vali Asr. He checked his watch; he was on time.
After a few minutes, a cab slowed down but continued on its way when Steve ignored it. A private car stopped, and the driver asked where he was going but Steve waved him on. He had learned that many Iranians used their cars as taxis as a second job. Ten minutes later, a black coupe slowed. The driver glanced at Steve’s dark green windbreaker and the rolled up pink pages of the Financial Times in Steve’s left hand. He rolled down the passenger side window, leaned toward Steve and asked, “I’m going up to the Navārān Palace and could give you a ride.”
“Isn’t it closed by now?” Steve replied, looking at his watch. “Maybe, but take a chance.” Steve took a chance, thinking he recognized
XYSENTINEL from the file photo.
“Salaam,” he smiled as he got in the car.
Yazdi smiled back and revealed his gold tooth, the final recognition signal.
14. Tehran: Imam Khomeini International Airport
The lights in the passenger cabin of Emirates Flight 971 from Dubai went on, the overhead TV screens went out, and the purser read his laminated card over the loudspeaker system.
“We will be landing at Khomeini Airport in a few minutes. All female passengers are requested to cover themselves in keeping with the laws and customs of the Islamic Republic of Iran.”
Kella, who had flown from Paris and changed planes in Dubai, pulled out a scarf from her purse and put it on. An Iranian woman about five years older than Kella’s mid-thirties hid her fashionable Western clothes under a full black chador and covered her dark hair. She and Kella had chatted briefly during the flight.
The woman smiled across the aisle at Kella who wondered how this woman could look so good through the hassle of international travel. Good cheekbones, full lips, even white teeth, and big dark eyes underscored with eyeliner completed the perfect oval of her face. Beautiful, sad, and not quite at peace.
Wondering what was underneath the beauty, Kella turned to answering questions on her landing card. Name: Kella Hastings; Nationality: French; Occupation: Travel Writer; Reason for Visit: Business; Address in Country of Origin: 12 Rue Pierre Loti, Clermont Ferrand, France; Address in Iran: Hotel Esteghlal.
After the Boeing 777-200 landed, they were side by side in the middle aisle getting their hand-carry luggage together. They had met during the flight. It was Kella’s first real chance to live her cover. The woman said, “I was so happy to meet you. I don’t often get a chance to use my French. Would you like to share a cab into town?”
When Kella didn’t answer immediately, the woman added, “It is done frequently here, you know.”
“I would love that Farah. I could probably use help bargaining with the driver over the fare.”
The passengers disembarked into the modern Imam Khomeini International Airport under the watchful eyes of security guards patrolling in pairs. Kella, having been an intelligence officer with the DGSE (the French version of the CIA) for a short period, recognized their submachine guns as Takavas, the Iranian version of the Heckler & Koch MP5 used by over forty countries. They hung from their shoulders with barrels held parallel to the ground and were most often pointed at the arriving and departing passengers.
Kella and Farah waited in line to go through Customs. When it was her turn the official behind the glass asked Kella, “What is your business?”
“I write travel books.” When that reply didn’t seem to satisfy, she added, “I want to write about Iranian culture and history.”
She was rewarded with a nod and her stamped passport.
While waiting for their luggage in the baggage area, Kella said, “Farah, do you work? What do you do when you’re not shopping in Dubai?”
“Oh yes! I have a small bookshop. I also handle some paintings. I get them from families that used to be in better circumstances, you know,” she glanced around and lowered her voice. “During the Shah. I was worried for you at passport control. Writers are not above suspicion. Last week, a girl was sentenced to eight years in prison. She had been a writer and reporter for CNN and other news organizations. It didn’t matter that she was a dual citizen, an American-Iranian. On the contrary, the court did not recognize her American citizenship. An Iranian blogger is still in prison after a year, without charges. He wrote about the arts mostly, and movies, but the authorities said he was disloyal.”
They retrieved their luggage and continued their conversation in the taxi. Farah asked, “What do you hope to do while you are here?”
“I think there is a market in Europe for a book on Iran today, Iran since the revolution, the real Iran. At least I convinced my publisher there is. All we hear is about either centrifuges, or about the Holocaust, or about Israel and the Palestinians, or human rights and women.”
The luggage carousel was not turning, and no suitcases had appeared. Most passengers were waiting patiently although one man in a rumpled suit and gray shirt but no tie started speaking in a loud voice. With a half-suppressed laugh, Farah said, “He is saying that Iran is becoming more modern, like America and Europe; passengers are transported through the air as fast as a mullah accepts a bribe but suitcases on the ground are slower than the reforms promised at each election.”
Returning to Kella’s reason for coming to Iran, Farah said, “Are Europeans really interested?”
Kella half-expected the comedian to be arrested on the spot but most of the passengers laughed in agreement. She said, “I think that people are curious about real life. You’re scaring me with those stories of writers thrown in prison. I’m not interested in state secrets, only on how people live, what their concerns are, how foreigners would be received here if they came on vacation for example, about the art and the culture of the country in the last thirty years.”
“Human rights and women are real life. You sound like you need a guide. I would be happy to show you around. Maybe you would like to meet my friends.”
Kella was pleased. “You would be willing to do that? Wonderful! You are going to be my good luck charm.” Farah seemed bright and helpful. She could be a friend to help her with her cover. With luck, she could be helpful in other ways as well.
On their way into town, portraits of boys and young men, some with gentle gazes others with self-conscious grins, some but not all in uniform or in a military setting, all ordinary, like family pictures rather than the glossy and stylized photographs of famous men, gazed from large billboards. She asked, “Who are these men, Farah?”
“They are the dead soldiers, the martyrs, from the Iraq-Iran War. Senseless killing. More senseless killing.”
She paused and, looking out the window on Kella’s side, she added, “There has been much blood, much death. I was seven years old when the revolution... Well, I don’t know why I tell you all this. Too much.” She waved her hand in front of her face as if to cool herself.
Kella wondered if those men knew they were not coming back or if they knew and had accepted their roles as martyrs. Were they really resigned? Did they look forward to a more pleasant afterlife, as their leaders preached?
She wished she had had time to review Iran’s current politics before getting on the plane. However, her degree from France’s prestigious Ecole National d’Administration had given her
an appreciation for Iran’s history and culture.
After she checked into her hotel and reached her room, Kella’s thoughts turned from Farah to Steve. She looked forward to making contact with him, her next operational step, with excitement and anticipation. She sent a message to CIA headquarters that she had arrived, gave her room number, and asked for traces on Farah Khosrodad, daughter of General Nematollah Khosrodad, executed after the departure of the Shah from Iran.
15. Navārān, Iran
Hashem Yazdi drove north past the city and up a winding road into the hills. The farther north, the less pollution. His father Marshall had told him that revolutionary fervor and anger toward the West was found in inverse proportion to the altitude. The southern suburbs were the lowest. Yazdi stopped at a kebab restaurant and went into a parking lot with a view of the city on one side and of the Alborz Mountains on the other. It was dusk, and the city lights below were clicking on noiselessly. Light still reflected off the snowcaps on Mount Damavand, looking down at them from its eighteen thousand feet altitude.
Steve said, “Marshall sends his greetings.”
“Yes, Marshall. He is not here. You are here. Why?”
“You know how large organizations work. Too many bosses. I would not be here if Marshall and the others didn’t think I was the best.” Determined to move on from his qualifications, Steve said, “I have not been under surveillance since I’ve been here. Tell me about that. Are foreign businessmen often, or ever, under surveillance? Are they generally suspect?”
“Depends. Are you here as an American businessman?” “No, as a Canadian.”
“Canadian?” Yazdi grinned. “Years ago, it was the Canadian Embassy that helped get Americans out of Iran. With false Canadian passports. It made us look childish and was insulting. We are a proud people who remember. The Canadians, they are almost Americans.”
Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) Page 8