They found a place to sit. Speaking French, she asked, “Are you getting material for your travel book?”
Kella told Farah about the museums and monuments she had seen and asked, “Do you have a family? I haven’t met your husband.”
Farah looked to the side with a far-away stare. “Massoud? He is in prison, I think. I mean, I haven’t been allowed to see him for two years. I don’t know if…” She trailed off. Neither spoke for a moment. His eyes lowered, Farah spoke in a low voice. Kella moved closer. “They suspected him of being in the opposition. The police closed our bookstore for a year. Now, there is very little in the shop.”
“What about your parents? You started to tell me on the plane. Why didn’t you all leave Iran?”
“We wanted to, and we had a chance to leave. We had friends at the American Embassy. My father ... he was a general ... he decided that, regardless of regime, he owed his loyalty to his country. He felt that, regardless of regime change, he belonged here. He thought he would do the country more good inside than in Los Angeles or in Paris where many other families went. He stayed to make things better, to inject reason into the new leadership and their policies. He was head of a famous battalion of...” She was speaking French and searched for a word. “Parachutistes. He was very popular. Too popular, I think. The mullahs executed him and most of the senior ranks of the army, the Shah’s army. Then there was a struggle between the left and the religious. The Ayatollah killed more Iranians than the Shah. My mother died last year. My brother did leave.” She smiled and looked down. “I’ve had too much to drink.”
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“Our family had property here. Our bank accounts have been expropriated, but some of our properties are still in the family name. I was afraid that everything would be taken by the government if none of us remained in the country,”
“So, will you have more time in the next few days? Now that I’ve seen the basics, I could use some guidance. Lunch tomorrow?”
By the door, Farah gave Kella a tight hug, as if she was drowning and Kella was her life buoy.
Back in her hotel room, Kella instinctively weighed Farah’s operational potential although she realized that her only job for now was to support Steve, not to recruit for long term operations. Farah’s family background made her suspect in the government’s eyes. She definitely had no access to sensitive information. However, the same family background also made her a natural ally. Farah had ample reasons to feel no loyalty to the people who had executed her father and imprisoned, perhaps killed, her husband. She could provide many services that neither Kella nor Steve could provide for themselves. Farah, she thought, was the beautiful heroine in a long running tragedy whose end was yet to be written.
22. South Tehran
Sitting in the right-rear seat of the limousine and looking out the window at the busy scene of South Tehran, Elizabeth Crossley was thrilled. She had been in Iran for four months, having reluctantly left her position with the prestigious Breckenridge Institution in Washington at the demands of her husband Jeff’s diplomatic career. Both had chosen an alternative-education school for their graduate work and had met in college. He had joined the Foreign Service to become a diplomat, gone through the seven week A-100 course at the Foreign Service Institute in Arlington, studied Dari also at FSI, and been assigned to Afghanistan. Although recently married, his wife could not go with him due to the State Department’s policy barring dependents to war zones.
Elizabeth had been able to join him for the last three months of his tour when he was assigned temporarily to Islamabad. In that short period, she had grown close to her Pashtun maid and was appalled at her living conditions: several families, all from the southern town of Qetta, crammed into one small apartment. Elizabeth was even more shocked that the American Embassy would not be able to do something about that situation, all that American money in aid to the Pakistani military and not one penny to help the poor. She had also met the CIA Chief of Station at a party and concluded that he, rather than the ambassador, ran U.S. foreign policy in Pakistan. Her husband Jeff didn’t want to talk about it, but one day had come home furious at a CIA report that contradicted his own reporting.
Elizabeth was pleased with the Iran assignment. She relished the status: wife of the chief of the American Interests Section at the Swiss Embassy. It was rather awkward to say. “Wife to the de facto American ambassador” was easier, or more simply “the American Ambassador’s wife.” It gave her credentials to either go back to Breckenridge in an executive position, or perhaps she would be invited to join the Administration. She could already see herself at a state dinner at the White House.
As the ambassador’s spouse, she felt that she should undertake her own initiatives, her own programs—orphans perhaps, or refugees. Were there refugees in Iran she wondered? She would ask Jafar. Perhaps women’s rights. She glanced at the women on the sidewalk and was again surprised that many of them wore their chadors tight enough to reveal their curves. She sympathized that the women she saw were covered. She understood from Jafar that the culture demanded it for the women’s own good. She felt guilty since she learned how her country, or rather a rogue element of her country—the CIA—had overthrown the Iranian Government in 1953 to impose an authoritarian and cruel Shah as the lackey of oil interests.
She glanced at Jafar, her driver. She was so lucky because he had educated her in the atrocities of the Shah’s Secret Service, SAVAK, an instrument of the CIA, Jafar had told her, although sometimes he would say Mossad, Israel’s CIA. In Islamabad, the CIA ran the embassy, and the priorities were upside down, the tail wagged the dog. Here in Tehran, she again was learning of CIA interference.
Jafar had told her that Mossad helicopters had been responsible for his uncle’s death in 1978. There had been a major anti-Shah demonstration on Jaleh Square during the uprising that eventually forced the Shah to leave the country. He said that the helicopters had sprayed the crowd with machine gun fire and killed hundreds. She had read before coming to Iran that the Iranian troops deployed to control the crowd had done the shooting. Which proved that you couldn’t trust the American press, too often manipulated or controlled by special interests, although Jafar exaggerated when he said the Jews ran the American media. Elizabeth was ashamed of the horrors instigated on the long-suffering Iranian people. She was determined to help.
Jafar pulled over and said, “We cannot go further, Madame. It’s over there,” and he pointed at a street to their right. “Too narrow.” He turned around and gestured with his hands that the car was too big for the street.
He got out and opened the door for her. “Oh, Jafar, you don’t have to do that,” she said smiling girlishly at him.
Jafar called a boy, who was looking at them, gave him a coin, and told him to watch the car. Jafar, thin and martial-looking in his grey uniform, and Elizabeth, “Call me Elizabeth,” she told everyone benignly, walked to a gold shop on a street where there seemed to be nothing but gold shops with small frontage but deep interiors. Jafar, without his visored cap, which he had left in the car at Elizabeth’s urging, was about the same height as Elizabeth, and she was sorry that she had not worn her flats. She always tried to be sensitive to his male pride. She wore a flowery dress with a high collar and covered her arms with a yellow shawl that complemented her blonde hair half covered by a hijab. He was as dark skinned as she was light. They drew glances as they walked toward the side street.
South Tehran was seldom the shopping area for foreigners even when accompanied. Inside the shop, Jafar took over the bargaining although the middle-aged merchant spoke English. Elizabeth bought a bracelet of twenty-four-carat filigreed gold at an incredibly low price.
On the way back to the car, Elizabeth said, “What did you tell him? He looked scared to death.”
“I only said that we must do our best. Wait, you have an expression if I can remember it,” he paused a moment, “Yes, we must put our best foot forward when dealing with foreigners.
” He looked smug.
Jafar had seemed threatening, and the merchant had clearly given in to pressure. However, Elizabeth giggled. Jafar was amazing. They returned to the car and Jafar drove them north. The literally wall-to-wall car traffic in Ferdoosi Square—the few pedestrians on the sidewalk knew to stay close to the building surrounding the square-–held them in its grip for what seemed like an eternity. They finally reached the Crossley residence, a freestanding house with a pool, a large yard, and an atrium in the middle of the house that was higher than the roofline. A seven-foot stone wall laced with broken glass at the top surrounded the property.
A servant opened the gate, and Jafar parked in the uncovered driveway. Elizabeth sent the maid out for fresh bread. It was late afternoon, and the loaves would be coming out of the earthen ovens. Always delicious, the flat bread, one of the treats of living in Iran, would still be warm when the maid returned. As she left the house, the maid turned and gave Elizabeth a coy look.
Jafar had reached the spacious kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, pulled a carafe out, and took a long swig of fruit juice. When Elizabeth came into the kitchen, he was putting the carafe back, and Elizabeth gave him a disapproving look, which he disregarded with a grin. He walked by her, brushed her backside with his hand and pulled her with his gaze toward the bedroom. She smiled and followed him.
* **
Major Jafar Mansur closed the bedroom door behind them and looked at his watch. He would have to leave soon to pick up Jeff Crossley at the Swiss Embassy. However, the American could wait. Jafar glanced at Elizabeth unhooking her dress. He felt confident he would have new information for his daily report to Ali Mousavi.
23. Tehran: Canadian Embassy
Two days after the meeting with Mousavi, Ambassador Hill called Steve to his office.
“Mr. Breton, come in,” Hill said, waving him to a seat. “Mousavi’s assistant called to tell me that you’re off the hook. On the other hand, Mulcahy has a week to leave the country for being in touch with Baha’is. It wasn’t a law that we were aware of. How is your business going?”
“In fact, I did get a call, not from Mousavi’s office, but I’m sure that it was at his initiative. Seems that the National Computer Center wants me to visit them. Remember, I told him that my company’s devices could be useful especially for large computer centers.”
According to the CIA traces on Ali Pakravan, he was a low-level informer for several police and security services of the Islamic government. Pakravan had managed to bump into Steve several times, and Steve had decided that, although Mousavi seemed to be convinced of his credentials, letting Pakravan set up some of his appointments would also satisfy Pakravan’s current police contact. Even two-bit informants have to earn a living.
* **
In a restaurant in the hills north of Tehran, overlooking the city, Yazdi laughed as he said, “I heard that you played chess with Mousavi in his office. Incredible! And you’re still alive. Now that’s a record of some kind.”
Steve and Yazdi were dining on kebabs, grilled hamburgers and fries, and cream-filled chocolate pastries. Steve had left his hotel several hours ago before discreetly checking for surveillance. He had detected none and, therefore, had proceeded to the meeting. The first rule is always to protect your agent. If surveillance sees the agent anywhere near the case officer, the agent’s life is in danger.
Still building a personal connection with the agent, Steve asked Yazdi about his personal affairs and learned that Yazdi’s nephew Firuz Yazdi had recently arrived from the States.
“Really? What’s he doing here? Family visit?” Yazdi hesitated. “Yes, family visit.”
Steve first debriefed him on the information he had gleaned on the nuclear program: the number of centrifuges, their locations, and their production rate. With those facts, the CIA could figure out when Iran would have enough weaponized uranium for a bomb and how many bombs they could produce in any given period. That was the easy part. As the birthplace of chess, Iranian leaders presumably had to be looking several moves ahead. How did they believe the other players were going to react if the Supreme Leader put its newly created Queen, the nuclear option, in play?
“What is the decision making process Hashem? Who really makes the decisions? How can we learn their thinking, their planning?”
“According to Article 110 of our constitution, the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei establishes general policies after consultation with the Expediency Council,” Yazdi began. “Conveniently, he also appoints all the members of that council. Under his general policies, the Supreme National Security Council, which is chaired by the president, implements and fills in the details. Now that Mousavi is Minister for Intelligence, he sits on that council.”
Steve put a hand up to stop him. “Okay, Okay. How do things really get decided?”
Yazdi acknowledged Steve’s impatience with a nod. “In practice, Khamenei uses his office to bypass the system. Everyone knows that. For nuclear policy, there is another body, the Council of Heads, and there is also the Policy-making Committee.”
“Besides Mousavi, who do you know on any of these important committees? How about in Khamenei’s office?”
“I’ll have to see. Maybe I do. By the way, tonight I don’t have much time.
I’m waiting for a call from one of our mullahs in Southern Iraq.” “Well, we’re not done. Let’s meet again in two days.”
“Okay, let me give you some advice. With Mousavi, you’re playing with fire. It will be best, for both of us, if you stay away from him. He is a cobra.”
* **
Kella closed the drapes to her hotel room and sat at a small table. Leaning down, she opened the small refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water and handed one to Steve who was telling her about his meeting with SENTINEL.
“He has this American nephew visiting, and this is the first time it came up, by accident. It’s supposed to be a family visit, but the nephew is not living with him. I wonder what that’s about.” He sat on the bed in the sparsely furnished room.
“Don’t be so suspicious. He’s simply visiting.”
Steve gave her back the water, “Don’t you have a beer in there? Let’s ask Headquarters for traces anyway.”
She in turn told him about Farah’s party, the inconsistent enforcement of officially decreed virtues, and the preoccupation with the election. “They’re all going to vote for the opposition candidate, a former president who was far from liberal when he was in office. His primary attraction, I think, is that he stands for change.”
Steve smiled, “Sounds familiar,” he said and took a swig from his bottle. “Of course, the people I met were European-type liberals, many educated in Paris and London.” Kella continued, “I met several who had lost relatives in the Iraq War. It touched so many people. So many died. Farah told me about the thousands of children, yes children, who were used to clear the minefields. In any case, I feel that we connected. I like her, and I think she would be willing to help us. What do you think?”
“Keep her warm,” Steve advised. “Keep developing her. I want her to like you so much so that if you pitch her, but she feels that she can’t accept, it will be a ‘freebee,’ and she won’t run to the cops.”
“I think I’m there now. I think the last thing she wants is to attract the cops’ attention. It looks like SENTINEL is working out all right, don’t you think?”
“I thought so, too. I’m still curious to know more about his nephew. Just the way Yazdi reacted when I asked told me he was sorry that he had mentioned him. Why? My problem is that we know so little, and he has so much information. I have to prioritize. I have to focus him on the most important stuff, the nuclear issue.”
Kella prepared and sent her nightly message to Langley. Afterward, she joined Steve, who was sitting on the bed and leaning against the headboard.
“So far, so good, right?”
Steve seemed in his element. In Alexandria he had seemed frustrated. “I think you like this
better than living in Old Town,” she said. “Why?”
“Sometimes, that’s true. Although I’d rather be out of the line of fire. Who wouldn’t?”
“There are some who would rather be in battle, or in a war zone surrounded by their buds and not have to put up with the little drudgeries of civilization. For us, this is a war zone. I hope you’re not slipping into that psychotic group.”
“It’s more the absence of routine office chores, taking the car in for the five thousand mile check-up, taking care of monthly bills, no office meetings.” He repeated, “No constant staff meetings where people preen for attention and having the closest supervisor thousands of miles away. I won’t deny that I like that part of it.”
She sipped some water. “Do I hear that routine is a dirty word? What about the risk that we’re going to be arrested?” She wanted to say that this wasn’t really worth the risk, that policy makers didn’t give much priority to factual information, secret or not. But this was not the time.
“Routine is bad; change is good. So is independence. I have more sense of being alive here. I guess that risk is part of it. Plus, you’re here sharing everything with me. How good can it get?” He laughed.
Kella frowned, “You worry me. How about waking up each morning knowing that you won’t be arrested and put to death? I’d rather sit through a thousand meetings.”
“I’m here only because I was asked to be here. It was hard to say no. I frankly couldn’t believe that I was asked. I don’t know how big the National Clandestine Service is, but Thérèse LaFont made a convincing case that, on that day, she thought I was the best person to do what needed to be done,” he paused and looked at her. “Doesn’t everyone want to make a difference? We have purpose here. Other than making money, I’m not sure what my purpose is at West Gate. Getting this information back to Langley could avoid a war.”
Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) Page 12