by Tom Clancy
“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—”
Ahmadi stopped speaking, and his ever-present smile faltered a bit as he looked at the computer monitor with mild confusion. He turned to the immigration officer and said something in Farsi.
The uniformed officer replied in Farsi, tapped a few more keys on his keyboard; his own expression morphed to one of puzzlement.
The men spoke back and forth softly, but Brooks didn’t understand Farsi, so he just checked his watch with a smile. He glanced back to his minder after a few more seconds of conversation, and he thought he detected some annoyance in Faraj Ahmadi’s expression now.
The Canadian businessman placed his briefcase on the floor. Clearly this was going to take a moment. “There a problem, Faraj?”
The wide smile returned instantly. “No, no. It’s nothing.” Faraj spoke again to the seated immigration officer, squeezed the man on the shoulder playfully, and made some sort of a joke. Both men smiled, but Brooks noticed the immigration officer was typing in his computer faster now, cocking his head, still looking at something on the screen.
Fifteen times through immigration here, and Brooks had never seen this before.
After another exchange between the two Iranians, the Canadian said, “What is it, Faraj? Did my ex-wife put out an all-points bulletin on me?”
Faraj scratched his head. “Just a problem with the fingerprint reader, I think. Would you mind trying again?”
Ron Brooks blew on his thumb dramatically and placed it back on the reader. “Tell me who sells you your scanners, and I’ll get you a better model from abroad, and undercut what you’re paying now.”
Faraj smiled, but his eyes remained locked on the computer monitor.
The immigration officer wasn’t laughing at all. His hand slipped under his desk, and Ahmadi snapped angrily at him. The reply came in an apologetic tone, but even though Ron couldn’t understand the language, he realized the seated officer had hit some sort of a button. Three more customs officers, one out of uniform and wearing a badge on the lapel of his suit, walked over immediately and looked at the monitor.
Brooks made a joke. “I knew I should have claimed that pocketful of pistachios I took out of Iran when I was here in May.”
Faraj wore no smile now, and he wasn’t even listening to the Canadian. Instead, the senior customs officer spoke calmly and professionally to the government minder, and Faraj responded in Farsi with more fervor than Brooks had ever seen from the normally calm and happy man.
The exchange ended with Faraj Ahmadi turning to Brooks. “I beg your pardon, Ron. There is some sort of a system issue with our computer today. Honestly this has never happened before. We will get everything in order, but your visa cannot be processed until we do. Will you come with me, please, to a waiting room? We can have some coffee while they sort everything out.”
Ron Brooks heaved his shoulders a bit and gave a little smile. “Sure, Faraj. Whatever.”
“I do apologize.”
“Don’t stress about it, my friend. You should see what I have to put up with when I visit the United States. Bunch of assholes.”
—
This didn’t look like a waiting room to Ron Brooks. He’d been led into a room no more than fifteen by fifteen feet, the windowless space adorned with just a simple table with three chairs around it, and on the wall an unframed poster of the Imam Khomeini airport and another of the current president of the nation.
A large mirror ran across one wall, and a camera was pointed down at the table from a high corner.
He knew what this was. It was a reconciliation room, a place where smugglers were taken to have their bags checked over carefully.
Three armed police officers in tactical gear and with automatic rifles across their chests stood in the doorway. They looked at Brooks with some curiosity, but they didn’t seem nervous or agitated. When Brooks turned to Faraj and pointed out the presence of the three men, the chaperone went pale with embarrassment. “It’s just the damn rules. They will all owe us a big apology in moments, Ron. In the meantime I will bring you a coffee. Just the way you like it. One sugar only.”
Brooks smiled at his friend, but his smile was getting harder to muster. “Look, I know this isn’t your fault, but I’m really tired, really hungry, and I’m not too crazy about this little reception committee watching over me like I’ve done something wrong. Perhaps you can call General Rastani and he can put some pressure on these guys. He is the one that insisted I come to Tehran this week for a meeting. He’ll be interested to know about what’s going on here.”
On the Iranian’s face came a glimmer of hope. “Yes, of course! I will do this right now. Coffee first, then I will call—”
“I had coffee on the plane. How about we just call the general’s office?”
Faraj bowed. “Certainly. We will be on our way in no time.”
—
Two hours and twenty minutes after his chaperone raced out of the small reconciliation room with a promise to resolve the matter and return in short order, Ron Brooks sat alone at the table. He’d not seen a hint of Faraj, nor a hint of any coffee, and even though the door to the hallway was not locked, the three armed guards outside had turned to eight armed guards, and every time Ron opened the door and asked for someone who spoke English, a stern young man in tactical gear with a gun on his chest merely waved him back inside the room and shut the door in his face.
Ron had stood, he had paced, and now he sat, looking at his watch. Furious, he even looked up at the camera high in the corner and pointed down to his crotch, making plain the fact he had to take a leak.
Seconds after doing this he was about to put his head down on the table when the door opened and three men in black suits entered. None of the men wore smiles, and they offered no greetings or introductions.
One by one, Brooks returned their steely gaze. He’d had enough of this, and he did not mask his irritation. “Where is Ahmadi? I need my translator.”
The oldest of the three men sat down; he wore a gray beard and a suit with a collarless shirt. Brooks knew neckties were considered Western and liberal here in conservative Iran, and there were regulations prohibiting them, although these rules were flouted by many.
&
nbsp; But not by this guy or his colleagues.
The man with the gray beard said, “You will not need a translator. We all speak English.”
“Good. So that means you will be able to tell me what the hell is going on.”
“Certainly, I can do this. There is a serious problem with your documentation.”
Brooks shook his head now. “No, buddy, there’s not. I’m not some dopey tourist. It’s not my first trip here.”
“It’s your sixteenth, in fact,” Gray Beard said, momentarily confusing Brooks.
“Yeah . . . that’s right. And it’s the same damn documentation I’ve used the last fifteen times I’ve visited Iran without a single problem.”
Gray Beard said, “Yes, I agree. But in contrast to this visit, sir, the last fifteen times, we were unaware that there were errors on several lines on your passport.”
Brooks recoiled at the accusation. “Errors on which lines?”
Gray Beard leaned forward a little. “To begin . . . the line with your name on it.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
Gray Beard turned his hands over, held them up apologetically. “Your name is not Ron Brooks.”
“The hell it’s not! You contact General Hossein Rastani and ask for—”
“Your name”—Gray Beard spoke right over the loud Westerner—“is Stuart Raymond Collier.”
Brooks cocked his head. “Who? Pal, I can promise you . . . I’ve never heard that name in my life.”
“And there is an error on your occupation. You are not the owner of your own international purchasing and exportation firm. You are, in fact, employed by the CIA.”
“The C. I .—are you for fucking real?” Brooks launched to his feet, startling the three men, but he turned away from them, began pacing the floor by the mirror. “What’s the game here? Are you guys shaking me down for money?”
The three men just looked at one another.
“Get me someone in charge. I work very closely with some extremely important men in your government.”
The man with the gray beard gave a heavy shrug. “And that is of great concern to us, obviously. Trust me when I say everyone you’ve come in contact with on your visits here will be collected, detained, and questioned at great length about their affiliation to you. General Rastani included.”
Ron pointed an accusatory finger at the seated man. “This is complete and utter bullshit. You have to show me proof. You can’t just—”
Gray Beard was shaking his head before Brooks finished speaking. “We don’t have to do anything, Mr. Collier. You, on the other hand, have to do exactly what we ask of you. And now I ask you to remain very still, for your own safety, of course.”
“Huh?”
One of the standing men opened the door to the hall. All eight of the men in tactical gear moved into the room now, converging on the man the Iranians called Stuart Collier, and they turned him around, pushed him against the mirrored wall. He didn’t resist, but he shouted loudly while they removed his suit coat, his belt, and his shoes, and they frisked him thoroughly.
“I’m not Stuart Collier! Hey! Listen to me, you sons of bitches! I’m not Stuart Collier! I’ve never even heard that name. And I’m not in the CIA!”
“Faraj! Where is Faraj Ahmadi? Somebody talk to Dr. Isfahani! And General Rastani. Tell them to let these guys know I’m not Stuart Collier, and I’m not CIA.”
He was surrounded by the tactical team as they moved through back hallways of the airport, no one speaking but him, though eight sets of polished black boots on the tile flooring made considerable noise.
The Westerner shouted over the footfalls: “This is a big mistake! Somebody call the Canadian embassy! I’m Ron Brooks! I’m Ronald Charles Brooks, of Toronto. I’m not Stuart Collier!”
He found himself in a parking garage, the door to an SUV was opened, and dozens of men stood around, all of them clearly police or security officials. Ron saw Faraj now, but he was being led into the backseat of another unmarked vehicle.
“Faraj! Tell them! Fucking tell them!” Once more before his head was pushed down and he was virtually body-checked into the side door of the SUV, he looked back and screamed, “My name is not Stuart Collier, and I’m not CIA!”
5
In the Oval Office, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency looked across the oaken desk into the worried eyes of the President of the United States and said, “His name is Stuart Collier. He’s CIA.”
Director Jay Canfield did not mask his frustration as he told President Jack Ryan about the arrest of a CIA officer in Tehran. “We have no clear answer on how he was blown.”
“He’s a NOC?” Ryan asked. Non-official cover operatives were the most secret of the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. They operated as private citizens abroad while serving as spies, and received none of the diplomatic immunity offered to “covered” diplomats.
Canfield nodded. “Yep. A damn fine one, too. He was operating under the name Ronald Brooks, a Canadian. He’d been working this cover for nearly four years. Been traipsing around inside Iranian tech firms for over three.”
The rain outside the thick windows of the Oval Office beat down in sheets, and the midafternoon skies were as dark as dusk. Ryan noted the bad weather matched the news from the CIA director.
The President took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How long ago?”
“Eight to ten hours. We just heard from the Canadians, who heard directly from the Iranians.”
“The Canadians knew we were running a NOC using a Canadian alias?”
“They did. They issued him a real passport, so there was no chance at all that the Iranians found forged documents on him and discovered his alias.”
“The work Brooks—I mean Collier—was doing. What kind of access did he have?”
“Not going to say he was the tip of the spear on what we know about Iran. His role to the Iranians was that of a procurer of dual-use equipment that was legal under current sanctions. Their military procurement people would give him a shopping list of tech items, and he’d go out into the West and secure suppliers, negotiate terms, arrange transport and paperwork. Nothing illegal, but we were expecting the Iranians to ask him to help them with more nefarious equipment sooner rather than later.”
Ryan reacted with surprise. “So the Agency was helping Iran’s military get what it needed from the West?”
“They were going to get it anyway and, like I said, it wasn’t equipment subject to sanctions. We put Collier in the mix because this way we’d know what they had, where they were procuring it, and how it was getting into the nation, in case we managed to get tougher sanctions in place. And when they started asking him to get sanctioned items, we’d know about it first, we’d be in a position to stop it, and we’d be able to provide evidence to the UN.”
Canfield rubbed his own face now. “But none of that matters anymore. That op is dead. The only issue is . . .”
“The only issue is,” President Jack Ryan said, “how the hell was Collier compromised?”
“Exactly, Mr. President. The total number of people who know about his operation is fewer than two dozen, myself included, and we are as vetted as anyone can be in the intelligence community. Electronic systems are stable, no compromise there. So far, this is a complete mystery. Obviously we are shaking the trees, trying to find out what happened.”
“What will they do to him?”
“He’s a NOC, so they can do whatever the hell they want. Still . . . With your permission we can quietly go to a third-party nation, the Swedes, for example, and let it be known Canadian businessman Ronald Brooks has value to us. Humanitarian concerns, something like that. They’ll know that’s a bunch of baloney, but they’ll keep him secure, something to trade down the road. Obviously it’s tacit admission by us that he’s Agency, but otherwise
they might hang him from a construction crane.”
Ryan nodded. “Approved. I want him out of there.”
“Yes, sir. But you know how this works. They’ll hold on to him for a while and turn the screws, on him and on us. The more precarious and miserable his situation is, the more the Iranians will get from us to let him out. If they agreed to go light on Collier at the outset, he’d become a weaker bargaining chip.
“Mr. President, be under no illusions. Stu Collier is going through hell right now, and he will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. Not a damn thing we can do about it.”
Ryan leaned back in his chair, looked off at the wall across the room with a gaze that made it appear as though he were searching a point a thousand yards distant. After a moment he turned back to Canfield. “Use back channels to test the waters. See what getting Collier back is going to cost us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do we expect the Iranians to bring him in front of the media?”
“You can bet on it, sir.”
Ryan sniffed. “Disavow publicly. We’ll get him home as quietly as we can.”
“Of course, sir.”
Ryan asked, “Why isn’t Mary Pat here?”
Mary Pat Foley, director of national intelligence, made a point of coming to the Oval whenever an intelligence community crisis anything like the magnitude of this had to be delivered to the President. Ryan and Foley had a long, tight bond, both professionally and personally.
Canfield said, “She’s on her way to Iraq, actually. She’s personally involved with an operation.”
“Personally? Why?”
“Apparently she didn’t want to lose touch with the HUMINT side of things. Said she was spending too many years in conference rooms and too much time staring at computer monitors.”
Ryan wasn’t happy about this. While he understood and appreciated the sentiment behind Mary Pat’s actions, the fact she wasn’t here during a debacle like the arrest of a CIA NOC in Tehran meant Ryan missed out on the immediate input of the most senior member of the U.S. intelligence community.