He sent the message directly to the Secretary of State, bypassing the lower echelons of the State Department hierarchy.
I will be able to use this incident to my advantage after all, he thought.
33. Tehran: Al Quds Safe House
Yazdi crossed his legs as he sat in an armchair of the fifth-floor safe house, avoiding from long habit pointing the soles of his shoes, an insult, toward Steve.
“We have over four thousand foreigners a month. Most come on tours that last from a few days to a few weeks. No one knows how many are tourists and how many are here on business. Mousavi is going crazy because he’s finding that the records are terrible.”
Yazdi leaned to the side to turn a stand-up lamp on. “He wants a methodical search for business visitors to Tehran in the last month, and he wants to focus on those still here. He thought the search could use a central database but it doesn’t exist. So now, he’s sending cops, soldiers, plain-clothes inspectors, everybody that he can get, to every hotel to get the information. They’ll get to your hotel soon or may already have done your hotel.” He leaned forward. “What are you going to do?”
“Well, Mousavi has given me a free pass as far as I can see.” Steve sat on a sofa near the wall and across a coffee table from Yazdi. “I’m hiding in plain sight. Should I move? What do you think? If I move but stay in the country, isn’t that going to look suspicious? Where do you think Mousavi is getting his information? Who knew about this operation here in Tehran? You and me.”
Yazdi smiled, showing his gold tooth, “I have no interest in getting myself arrested, so who else knew? How about your diplomats at the Swiss Embassy?” “Are you suggesting that one of them could be an Iranian agent?” He paused a moment. “I want you to know that your information reached the president. As a result the priority is now on the cyber center you told me about last time. Can you get more information? Targets, methods, timing?”
Yazdi looked toward a window for a moment and said, “My best source will be Firuz. Like you reminded me the other day, I’m his uncle. He’ll talk to me. Right thinking. Right doing. Right saying. I will remind him of those principles.”
“Right thinking? Where is that from?”
“That is an old Zoroastrian proverb.” Yazdi looked down an instant and then smiled at Steve. “My family has Zoroastrian roots.” He grinned and added, “Isn’t that in my file?” Not waiting for Steve’s answer, he became serious again. “I hope that my brother raised Firuz right and that he will know what I’m talking about.”
“Tell me, is the religion banned in Iran? Have you been open about your religion?”
“No, it’s not banned. It’s one of the official minorities, like the Jews and the Christians. Each minority has one representative in parliament. Of course, there is discrimination. Being a member of a minority is not good for a career if you want to climb. Since I always wanted to climb, I learned and practiced taqiyya. What would you call it? Concealment, maybe, or lying about your belief to save yourself from persecution. I will remind Firuz: Right thinking. Right doing. Right saying.”
34. Tehran: Grand Bazaar
Suri, Jafar’s wife, fixed her hijab to make sure it covered her hair to her forehead as she walked past two women stopped on the sidewalk near the entrance to the Grand Bazaar.
One was dressed in a full-length black chador. She addressed the other woman, who was not wearing any hijab and whose outer garment was tight enough to hint at a waist, “Are you not a member of our country? Do you think that you are dressed appropriately? Do you think that your way of dressing reflects the norms of our Islamic society?” A police officer stood swinging a baton ten feet away, pretending not to be involved.
Suri hurried past, trying to keep another woman in sight; obviously a European but covered adequately, whom she had been following now for over an hour. She confirmed that her letter was still in her handbag as she walked. An Iranian man, who seemed both bodyguard and driver, accompanied her quarry who so far had stayed close to the European.
They entered Tehran’s Grand Bazaar, and Suri closed the distance, afraid to lose sight of them. Partially covering the peeling beige paint, a religious inscription in black on a green background decorated the arched entrance. On one side, bunches of bananas swinging over assorted men’s shoes and sandals; on the other, white plastic hangers displayed pre-teen dresses moving with the breeze.
She walked past the bananas into the bazaar and instantly felt the energy and bustle. Although not new to the bazaar, her senses celebrated the colors of the displays, the lights overhead that reflected from the silver, and gold-plated trays, the movement of men and women, the carts bringing goods to the narrow store fronts, the men hustling between shops carrying rolled up rugs, the motor scooters and bicycles making their way through the throng, the smells of cumin, and cardamom assaulted the senses.
Suri had been fuming and mulling over her action for two weeks. She had raised her suspicions with Jafar that he was sleeping with the American whore. Jafar had ignored her at first. Not satisfied, Suri had continued her accusations but Jafar had ended her protests by hitting her.
“Stupid woman! That’s what I’m supposed to do. I’m a security officer. You know that. Major’s pay is what’s paying for all this,” and he waved an arm toward the modern appliances in the kitchen.
She brought it up again, without shouting at him this time. His reply, another blow, had set her on her course. She had given it serious thought, asking herself, how would Jafar do it?
The plan had come to her easily; she was proud of herself. She would not confront the blonde whore. She could not approach the American husband, the ambassador, without being seen by Iranian security, which most probably kept an eye on him, at least part of the time. She remembered what Jafar had told her. When the Americans arrived, their offices would be in the Swiss Embassy. She would use someone not important in the Swiss Embassy, someone who would not be worthy of security attention. She mulled some more, thinking her plan through during her shopping, during her cleaning, and especially in bed with Jafar who was not very demanding these days.
Success was more important than quick action she had learned from being married to a policeman. In time, she was able to learn the names of those assigned to the Swiss Embassy. When she saw the diplomatic list that Jafar kept at home, the solution was there in front of her eyes: the Swiss ambassador’s wife, Francine Klosters.
The presence of the driver complicated the implementation of her simple plan. Suri was still following Francine, and the driver and was beginning to think that she would never have the opportunity. However, when the couple approached the row where several stores had bolts of cloth stacked up as high as a grown man, the driver was hailed by one of the merchants. They spoke animatedly for a few minutes, and the driver, with a sign to his employer that he would be only a minute, disappeared in a back room behind a red curtain.
Suri moved quickly. With her paper in her hand, she closed the gap to Francine Klosters in a few seconds, keeping an anxious eye on the red curtain. She reached her and called her in a low but urgent tone as she had rehearsed in her mind many times over, as best as she could in English.
“Mrs. Klosters, Mrs. Klosters. For Ambassador Crossley. Crossley. Only Crossley.”
She looked into the European’s green eyes to force understanding. She squeezed the woman’s fingers around the sheet of paper, all the while staring into each eye in turn but only seeing confusion and fear. She then left quickly before the driver returned and didn’t look back.
35. Tehran: Farah’s Apartment
Steve checked out of the hotel, his senses alert for any unusual attention being given to him. The clerk was professional but not friendly. If anything, he seemed a bit tight, and inquisitive. Steve wondered if he was imagining things.
“Are you going back to Canada, Mr. Breton?” he asked.
“No, not yet. I thought that I would see a bit more of your country before I go home.”
�
�Where will you go?”
“Tabriz has been highly recommended.” Pointing to his suitcase, he said, “I want to travel light, and I won’t need all of my things. So I wonder if I could leave this suitcase here in safekeeping.”
“Of course. When will you be coming back?”
“In about ten days. Give or take a day or two. Can you hold a room for me?” Steve hoped that the suitcase and the reservation should allay any initial suspicions that he was going “black,” no longer depending on the fig leaf of his cover.
“Yes, Mr. Breton. Have a good trip.”
Steve gave him two hundred thousand rials, or a bit more than twenty dollars.
The clerk had warmed up a bit, or at least seemed less anxious after Steve said he was coming back. If the police had shown interest in him, the clerk was covered since Steve said he was coming back. The backshish had helped, too. It was with a certain amount of relief that he took a taxi to the Tehran Hotel and parked himself on one of the easy chairs in the lobby. Steve had expected that his departure might run into some sort of problem, and he had concocted his story that would help everyone relax. He looked at his watch wanting to telegraph a purpose to anyone interested. He read a paper and observed the comings and goings.
He then took a second taxi to the Ferdosi Grand Hotel, where he did the same thing; one repeat from his previous stop, a man about twenty-five years old dressed in jeans and Nikes. He now wore a Caterpillar baseball cap, but he was almost certain that he had seen him in the lobby of the Tehran Hotel wearing a Yankee cap. He hadn’t changed his Nikes, or the unusual brown laces.
Steve knew it was normally best to ignore surveillance to convince your tail that you are not aware of their presence, therefore not a trained intelligence officer and therefore not a threat. All done to persuade surveillance to give you a long leash or stop surveilling you. However, in this case, he could not lead the surveillance to Farah’s apartment, or to Farah herself by allowing “Brown Laces” to see her license plate. He was going “black”; he was going underground. He had twenty-five minutes before Farah and Kella picked him up near a shopping center. He thought that if “Brown Laces” was alone, he could shake him. If he was part of a larger team, he had a problem.
He got into another cab and saw that “Brown Laces” was now trying to find his own transportation. He apparently was alone and without vehicular support. Steve told the driver to head north. They crossed Talegani and, about ten blocks further, made a left on Karim Khan-e-Zand and another left by the St. Sarkis Church. Fifteen minutes later, they reached a shopping center on Hafez. Steve got out and knew that he had about three minutes on his shadow. He headed into the complex and entered the only large store. He knew that it had an entrance on the street where Kella would be waiting for him and hoped she was on time, not stuck in traffic five miles away.
He was well into the bowels of the store before he judged that “Brown Laces” must now be coming through the revolving doors he had used. Steve found the entrance he was looking for and went straight for it.
Once outside, no one was waiting for him; no Kella. He looked up the street but didn’t see Farah’s blue Saman that Kella had described. The Saman was the replacement for the old Paykhan, the Iranian version of East Germany’s Trabant. Suddenly he felt someone touch his shoulder from behind. It was Kella who said, “Come on, she’s around the corner. We had to go around. The street was blocked coming this way.”
Steve was not interested in the details of how she had come. He wanted to get out of sight before “Brown Laces” showed up. They walked quickly to the corner and got in Farah’s car. As they pulled away, he lowered his head until they were a block away.
In the car, Steve said little, not knowing exactly what Kella had told her friend. Once they reached the apartment, Farah played her role as hostess, showing the apartment quickly and offering Kella and Steve a fruit juice. The three of them sat in the kitchen at a small table.
“Kella has been your very able and very impressed public relations agent,” Steve said. “She has convinced me that you are smart, kind, and beautiful. I can tell already that she was right.”
Farah laughed and Kella rolled her eyes, “Easy, Romeo.”
“You are at home here,” Farah said. “Stay as long as you like. Kella also told me good things about you.”
Steve wanted to hold her hand to reassure her but restrained himself, realizing that he didn’t know how she would react to physical contact. As if she had read his mind, Kella reached for Farah’s hand and held it.
“You also need to know that associating with us could be dangerous,” Steve said.
He looked at Kella and she nodded. It was time to reveal the results of the trace request to CIA Headquarters. “Farah, when your father was in touch with the U.S. Embassy, he was acting on behalf of his country but also helping America by sharing what he knew. His purpose was to help Iran by making sure that the United States had a good understanding of the situation. Unfortunately, events moved too fast.
“I know about him. I know that he said that he was loyal to his country and would serve Iran no matter who was in charge. I know that he was held in Qasr prison and that he was executed on the rooftop of the Alavi #2 High School. He made the ultimate sacrifice out of loyalty, not to the Shah but to a greater call: his country.”
“How do...?” Farah stuttered.
“Don’t ask. No country could have had a more loyal citizen. I know you are proud of him. Because happenstance has put us together—maybe it wasn’t just luck—you need to know that your father had a Swiss bank account. And the interest, the magic of compound interest, grew the amount until his closest family relative could be found. You’re found. Here is the account number and the bank name.”
He handed her a three-by-five card, on which was printed: THE NPB NEUE PRIVAT BANK AG, LIMMATQUAI 122. On that back, she found, handwritten, “Balance $782,450.”
Farah was speechless for a moment. She looked at Steve and then at Kella. Farah clearly loved Kella’s outgoing personality, her confidence and her insights on the outside world—two smart career women connecting. She might have guessed there was something about Kella and her friend Christopher she did not know. If she had suspicions before, they had not influenced her decision regarding Kella.
Steve tried to interpret Farah’s stare at Kella. Obviously, she was trying to compute the new information. She probably wondered about the money, he thought. What had her father done to earn it? The ayatollahs had executed him for it.
Steve also knew from Kella that she disagreed with her government on many things. She considered its repression of women, of the entire population really, through the implementation of Sharia Law to be medieval. She had told Kella that she was afraid of its violent stand against Israel. What if, acting out of existential fear, Israel attacked preemptively? Steve knew she was faced with a conclusion she had been able to avoid earlier: Kella and her friend Christopher were probably spies, for the Americans, meaning the CIA. Could anything be worse than to be a CIA spy in Iran? The level of risk would now be the same for her as for them. Kella’s friend Christopher was forcing her to face reality. It wasn’t too late. She could tell them to get out. Steve wondered which way Farah was leaning.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Farah shared her memories of her father’s death. She was too young at the time to really understand, but she knew that he wasn’t coming back. She had been afraid for a while. It wasn’t until she was a teenager that she understood the politics, the unfairness, of her father’s death. She realized now that, all this time, something had been missing from her life.
“Did I really stay in Tehran to save our family property?” she asked. “It was my rationale. I realize now that it was about my father. I had to do something to finally close that chapter. I didn’t know what.”
Her lips tightened and her jaw became firm. She lifted her eyes and looked at her guests, now her allies. “I don’t care about the money. It’s time I acted to revenge
my father’s death. Thank you.”
She stood up and hugged Kella. Steve got up and patted her on the back. They stayed silent for a long moment. Farah’s eyes were wet but she held her tears.
They moved out of the kitchen into the living room. Farah took a bottle of wine from a cupboard and started pouring when Steve said, “You wouldn’t have a beer by any chance?”
Farah went to the kitchen and came back with a green bottle of Kingfisher beer from India. Steve thought that the distribution and sale and alcohol were the country’s best-kept secret.
Farah busied herself, turning the lights on and moving a magazine from a chair to a small table next to the sofa where both Steve and Kella were sitting. “I was very young when they killed my father,” she said standing.
She sat in an armchair across from Steve and Kella and continued. “I learned later he was in contact with someone from the American Embassy during the Revolution. I don’t know what they did together, but I know that it was important, and that it was a secret. So, I will help because I trust Kella, and I have a good feeling about you Christopher. I sense that, somehow, you are working for the same cause as my father, a better world and a better future for Iran. I appreciate your honesty in telling me of the danger. You’re honest and I respect you both. I’m glad. I’ve thought it through. I’m with you. It’s as if I had been holding my breath since my father’s death. You’re giving me a chance to finish what he started. I’m relieved.”
Then she got up, smiled, and said, “Okay, I’m going to make some dinner.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Kella said
36. Tehran: Friday-Saturday
Elizabeth and Jeff Crossley had spent Friday, the start of the Iranian weekend, playing tennis with the British First Secretary and his wife on the grounds of the British Embassy and, on Saturday, as dinner guests of the Swiss Ambassador Pierre Klosters and his wife Francine.
Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) Page 17