Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2)

by André Le Gallo

  “Don’t say that,” she cringed. “What is your plan?”

  “First, we should be meeting in your room. You have a refrigerator, and I don’t. How did that happen? Second, I’m not done here. Third, you can get out on the next flight. No one is looking for a French woman. Let’s review the bidding.”

  Kella brought out a small bottle of juice from her pocketbook. “Here. I also brought you some peanuts. I’m leaving only when you leave.” She handed him a small can.

  She asked, “Did SENTINEL say where Mousavi is getting his information, about us, or rather you, I mean?”

  “That’s the sixty-four dollar question, isn’t it? Neither of us has been arrested, so Mousavi doesn’t know who he’s looking for. He has no name. The only people in Tehran who had knowledge of this operation are the two of us and SENTINEL. Now, it seems everybody knows. I frankly don’t know how much the U.S. Interests section knows. The Charge knows that LaFont wanted to place one of our officers in his section under diplomatic cover. He probably knows or assumes that we have an outside officer in the country.”

  Steve opened the can and put several nuts in his mouth. “Was Headquarters forced to give him my name? I don’t know.”

  He continued. “Could a local employee be working for Iranian security? Absolutely! How would he have obtained the information? Local employees don’t have access to the chancery, the classified area, of a diplomatic installation.”

  Kella asked, “Regardless of the source, the information is now out there. What about moving out of this hotel? I think that some of the staff suspects something. Remember, one of the maids asked me if I’m here with my husband. The guy at the desk, who used to be so helpful, now avoids eye contact.”

  “I still think that you should check out and take the first flight out. No one is looking for you.”

  “Listen to your reasoning. No one is looking for me, but I’m the one who should leave? Did you fail the course on Descartes? You’re the one who should leave, now!” He offered her the can of peanuts.

  “For the time being, I probably have a free pass, for a few days anyway. Remember, I met with Mousavi and we bonded. Me and the Persian butcher, imagine!” He laughed.

  “How about your friend Farah? What if you moved in with her? How would that work? I could join you later if I have to. Would she be up for that? Until it’s going to complicate communications. We could meet during the day, maybe even have lunch together. Two foreigners striking up a friendship? As long as neither of us is under suspicion, why not?”

  “I think that I would surprise her by asking, but she would probably welcome it,” Kella said. “I’ve been seeing more of her lately, and we get along. She has a tragic background. Her father was executed by the new regime, and she’s the only family member hanging on in Iran. I think its pride; she hates the thought of letting go of whatever family property that hasn’t already been confiscated. She said that she sometimes regrets not having left to go live in Paris or in Los Angeles long ago.”

  She walked to the TV set and changed the channel to a handball game. “This twenty-four hour soccer channel is driving me nuts,” she said.

  “Don’t even think about moving in with us,” she teased. “She’s a beautiful woman. I’m afraid you’ll be distracted and that your judgment will be clouded. Then, who knows, maybe you’ll decide to stay in Iran, too.”

  “You’re the one who needs to be careful. Haven’t you read about how the women in the harems would turn to each other when the sultan ignored them?”

  “Men’s fantasies,” she smiled, shaking her head. “For now, we better inform Headquarters of what’s happening.” She fished the make-up case out of her bag.

  After Kella left, Steve smiled at his life. He had tried so hard to have a different life than his father and yet, here he was, skating on the edge just as his father had done, in the same country doing the same thing but more than thirty years later. Steve still remembered saying goodbye to his father as he, his mother and sister got on the bus driven and guarded by bearded young men with guns who took embassy dependents to the airport. Congressional pressure from constituents had finally forced the ambassador to allow embassy families to leave Iran.

  When his father left the country a few months later after moving about the city to avoid capture, he brought back a large poster of the Ayatollah Khomeini in his suitcase. It replaced the dart game target when they moved back in their house in McLean.

  Would Mousavi interpret his move out of the hotel—and he would learn of it—as an admittance of guilt? There would be no looking back once he moved to Farah’s apartment.

  29. Washington: Tribune Building

  The Tribune’s editorial board walked out of Aaron Glick’s office. Glick didn’t mind confrontational meetings; they had their uses. They showed the members’ true colors, their weaknesses, their alliances, and their discords, all factors that Glick could use to his advantage.

  He relished being above the fray, able to observe the peons below bloody each other. It reminded him of a reality TV show. Without seeming to, he could usually sway the consensus opinion his way. Except today. Acrimonious discussion without a clear winner. He had counted on two of the board members to be vehement in wanting to print the story. However, they had not won the day, even after he brought Bonifacio in to testify. He liked that word, “testify.” It elevated him to a status above a mere reality show host. The decision was exactly back where it was an hour ago before the meeting, in his lap. His attempt to use his board to finally surface the Iran CIA story had gone nowhere.

  “Georgene?” he called loudly through his closed door, “get me Representative Langdon on the phone.”

  He had found in her an ally over the years. She shared his view that international terrorism was only a natural reaction to American militarism and unilateralism--chickens coming home to roost, as someone had said. Countries had their own set of values developed over thousands of years.

  Wasn’t the United States the junior member of the world community? By 1776, the civilizations of Europe, China, India, and the Middle East were already mature and had produced their own philosophers, religions, and political systems. Those who dated the origin of the word “assassin” to the Ismaili killers of eleventh-century Iran from “Hashshashin,” because they were drugged prior to their missions, just made no effort to understand Middle East culture. If America were only more respectful of those much older cultures, flexible, and benevolent, there would be peace in the world.

  Georgene knocked on his door before opening it. “Ms Langdon is not in her office.” She responded. “She’ll call you back.”

  He got up from his desk, his paunch sagging between resolute red suspenders, and looked out his window. He pondered the Bonifacio story, his unusual height making the ceiling appear too low. It was late, he looked at his jacket hanging from the portmanteau and was moving toward it when Georgene knocked again and stuck her head in his office.

  “Dorothea Langdon on the phone, sir.”

  He picked up his phone and Langdon’s secretary said, “The Representative will be with you in a minute.”

  How many times had he told Georgene to wait until the other party was on the phone? Let the other person hear those condescending words, “Mr. Glick will be with you in a minute.” He waited, tapping his nails on his desk to the rhythms of the William Tell Overture.

  “Aaron, how are you? I thought only the peoples’ representatives worked late on a Friday. You are lucky to catch me. I usually leave every Thursday night for California and come back on Monday afternoon. My constituents are very demanding and deserve all of my support, so I try to spend a few days each week at my San Francisco office. What’s up Aaron?”

  “There’s something we need to discuss, but as I think about it, I would prefer to see you in person. I know we’re into the weekend, but what does your day look like tomorrow?”

  “My schedule is wall-to-wall until Monday, unless we’re discussing the end of the world
as we know it, or my reelection, same thing,” she laughed shrilly at her own humor, and Glick knew she had started happy hour early on this Friday afternoon. “I stayed here over the weekend to prepare for hearings on Tuesday and I’ve got work to do over the weekend. How about breakfast on Monday? Whatever it is, I can’t do much until Monday anyway.”

  “Dorothea, this is urgent. I need to decide tomorrow. We have to coordinate a story.”

  “Aaron, what part of ‘no’ don’t you understand? Monday!”

  Hearing her tone, Glick decided not to quarrel with her. Before he could reply, she had hung up.

  Maybe she had more than alcohol on the brain. Did Dorothea Langdon have sexual needs? Maybe a weekend of wild abandon? He grinned at the flight of his imagination. Dorothea repressed anything not directly connected to politics. Well, maybe it was sexual after all. The thought provoked imagery that made him laugh out loud. He wanted her to be supportive when they met. Monday would have to do.

  It would be a stressful weekend. What if another paper or a goddamn blogger aired the story? He started sweating as soon as he left the office.

  30. Washington: White House Situation Room

  Adam Tremaine, the youthful and recently elected President of the United States, was finding it hard to believe his ears. As he listened to National Clandestine Service Director Thérèse LaFont’s briefing, he looked around the dark wood table to read the reactions of his key national security advisers to the startling NCS briefing.

  The product of a prestigious law school and a Midwest legislature, national security was not his strong suit. He was careful to keep a poker face aware that the “principals” at the table as well as their spear carriers on chairs lined against the wall would be watching him carefully to take his measure and to calibrate their own participation.

  All wore the access badges of their agencies and departments, representing the nerves, heart, and muscles of the National Security Establishment. The acronyms of their organizations might have baffled even some “inside-the-beltway” wonks. Men and women, civilians and military, they were all at the top of their career ladder. Some deserved to be there; others had been promoted beyond their abilities. Generally speaking, the civil servants and military were mission-oriented and totally devoted to serving their country and their president regardless of party. On the surface, so were the political appointees. However, when push came to shove, the latter were guided by a personal or political agenda that took precedence.

  None had reached this conference table without extraordinary capabilities, considerable ambition, and, not least, political acuity and connections. On the way, each had also collected enemies anxious for their demise and working hard to bring it about. For most, attending a meeting chaired by the president was, if not a unique event, infrequent enough for a notch on their gun. Each looked from the CIA briefer to the president and back with different expectations and objectives. Although most were not partisan, Tremaine knew that some at the table resented his relative youth and lack of experience.

  “To recap,” Thérèse said, “we have a new HUMINT source with high but indirect access who is reporting that Iran is close to initiating a powerful cyberattack on the United States. The drive behind the effort is from a group called the Iranian Cyber Army. We give the report above average credibility.”

  The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Jose Doredo, a slight man made more imposing by the four stars on his shoulders and a chest armor-plated with medals and decorations, spoke first. Scribbling on a pad of legal-sized yellow paper with insouciance, he said, “Aren’t we getting our knickers in a knot over nothing much?”

  His grin implied he had seen worse. The military service symbols mounted on the walls gave his words more weight. “What is new here? That Iran doesn’t like us? That it has some computers? A new source is also an untested source. We’ve been building up cyber defenses for some time. Their missiles can’t reach us yet. Not to worry, amigo.”

  He smiled reassuringly toward the president, “And you were briefed on our new Cyber Command shortly after the elections. We’re ahead of the game, sir.”

  As everyone observed closely, Tremaine didn’t flinch at being called “amigo.” He was getting used to Doredo’s unusual style, boorish for a civilian but extraordinarily disrespectful for a military man. Doredo’s manner reminded Tremaine he needed to look for a new Joint Chief.

  “What we should worry about,” the general continued, letting his gaze sweep around the table, “is that their fast boats don’t trigger another Gulf of Tonkin incident. They keep testing our ships’ responses in the Gulf. For you youngsters,” he smiled again, “that little incident started the Vietnam War.”

  “Actually, this potential threat falls on our plate,” said an elderly gentleman dressed like the country squire he was. “Critical infrastructure, sir, is Homeland Security’s as you know,” added Charlie Williams, who had grown up in the trenches of interagency intelligence. “We have created cyber SWAT teams and across-the-board training is ongoing.”

  The Department of State’s Assistant Secretary, George Orling, a white-haired man with black-rimmed glasses, had taken a sabbatical from his teaching job at Syracuse’s “Maxwell School” and never looked back. He had, however, brought the elbow patches of his prior profession with him to Washington.

  “I tend to agree that we should study the evidence before taking precipitous action,” he said looking over his reading glasses. I would like to send the report to our U.S. Interest Section in Tehran to get their analysis before proffering an opinion.”

  “George, we can’t wait,” the president said. “You can inform them, and their opinion will go in the hopper only if it’s timely.”

  “Secondly, sir, this event should remind us of the importance of establishing a new international agreement on limiting and punishing cyber attacks.”

  Tremaine had immense respect for his Secretary of State, a woman with a proven track record and always highly focused on the task at hand. Unfortunately, she was out of the country. With all of the intelligent and able professional foreign-service officers serving in the Department of State, why George Orling, an academic with no field experience? George was no Kissinger. He would have to talk to her about George Orling.

  “I’d like the Deputy Director for Intelligence Dr. Deborah Jamiston to give her analysis, Mr. President,” Walter Deuel said.

  With a nod from Tremaine, the CIA’s chief analyst stood. A woman in her fifties with sensible short brown hair, good walking shoes, and a Junoesque figure, she held a pencil in one hand.

  “The backdrop is Iran’s effort to expand through and beyond the American embargo of thirty plus years. It sees the United States as the primary supporter of several countries that it believes it could include in its own zone of influence, if it weren’t for American interference.”

  Not bothering to look down at her notes on the table in front of her, she continued, hanging on to her pencil.

  “In other words, Iran’s ambition is to establish hegemony over the Middle East. Iran’s leaders believe that, if it were not for the United States, Egypt’s military could be won over. They hold that Jordan is not a real state, just a colonial fabrication, which should be replaced by a Palestinian State that would include Israel, Jordan, Gaza, and the West Bank; that Lebanon is sure to fall to its client the Hizballah; and that Bahrain is already a part of Iran. It just needs to be made official.”

  George Orling interrupted, “That’s absurd. It would be a mass violation of the sovereignty of states, a total renunciation of the Peace of Westphalia!”

  Deborah Jamiston went on, “Maybe so. The Peace of Westphalia is not so high on Tehran’s list of priorities these days. The Iranian leadership believes that if the United States, occupied by problems elsewhere—at home for example—would only retrench from the Middle East, Iran would have an easier time reaching its expansionary goals in the region, of fulfilling its vision of the future. A cyberattack could create that di
version, that internal focus. As I understand it, it could take us months, if not years, to recover from a major cyberattack. Looking at the possibilities through Iranian glasses, the cyber option looks good.” Jamiston sat back in her chair and looked for a reaction from the president.

  “So the attack would be a feint,” Tremaine asked, “just to keep us busy at home?”

  “Not a feint exactly, although it would certainly divert our focus from the Middle East,” Jamiston said. “The resources to bring our economy back on line after what could be a cyber Pearl Harbor would probably force us to cut our military programs and expenditures several fold. It would mean decimating our presence in the Middle East, a vacuum that Iran would fill.”

  The Director of National Intelligence General Sid “Lefty” Killcut looked knowingly toward General Doredo, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who had one more star than “Lefty.”

  “What do you think, Admiral?” President Tremaine asked of his NSA chief. He took a sip of coffee from his Sèvres cup, a gift to a past American president from a past French president.

  Admiral Wynn, tall and thin with a boyish face and undisciplined hair falling over his forehead, stood.

  “I find the reference in the report that the probing has been concealed behind Chinese computers most significant. There is some history to this subject that we should all consider. In 1997, an unconvinced Department of Defense ran a test, Eligible Receiver, against its own computers. The attack, luckily it was only an exercise, was totally successful. In 2001, there was Code Red in which over three hundred thousand computers were remotely captured, to attack White House computer systems.”

  “What do you mean ‘captured’?” the president asked.

  “Sir, I mean these computers became zombies. They stayed in place in universities, labs, etc., but they were controlled remotely. We still don’t know who the attacker was. Right after 9/11, there was the Ninja virus that cost Wall Street several billion dollars. No one paid attention because we were too close to the al Qaeda strike. Then there was Moonlight Maze, the theft of naval codes and classified missile data. We traced the hacking to a Russian computer, but that may not be where the action actually originated.”