While on his cell, Steve confirmed the surveillance, one man near the entrance to the Metro and the other on the other side of the square.
***
Back in the apartment, Kella made coffee, while Steve went out to the roof garden for a moment. “I don’t want to sound paranoid,” he said when he came back, “But I had the feeling all afternoon we were being followed. Remember when I went outside to ask the driver to come and pick us up? There were two men out there loitering. And I’m sure I’d seen them as soon as we left that boy and his bike and reached Rue de Latour. Did you notice anything?”
“No. But don’t ask me. I’m on my honeymoon and am not looking for bad guys. All I want is one virile hombre, but if you’re not up to the task….”
“I think you’ve had too many oysters,” he said, smiling. “Virile? That’s my middle name—strong as an ox.” He laughed and, lifting her in his arms, carried her to the bedroom.
***
The next morning, Steve got up early. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go pick up a paper. Do we need anything?”
“Whatever you want for breakfast, Chérie. Croissants for me.”
Steve scanned the street as he emerged on Rue de Latour. He spotted two men in a blue sedan parked on the other side. Rue de Latour was one-way from his right to left and the men had a clear view of the gated street. Steve turned left and turned left again on Rue de la Pompe. He continued without turning around until he saw a bakery, which gave him the opportunity to cross the street and look both ways. He saw the same two men, one on each side of the street, fitting in well with the people going to their offices.
He spotted one of them through the large, plate-glass window after he entered the bakery. He guessed the other one was waiting for him on the left side of the bakery, assuming he would be going to the right.
Carrying half-a-dozen croissants in a paper bag, Steve turned left from the shop and almost ran into the man on his side of the street, who, fiercely avoiding eye contact, turned away to walk in front of him. Steve caught up with him and said, “If you had asked, I could have told you where I was going. I could even have bought you some croissants. Who the hell are you?”
“S’il vous plaît, do not be upset, Monsieur Church,” the man, in his late thirties and dressed for a chilly fall day, said with a frown. “I am on your side.”
“On my side? What about the other guy, your friend on the other side of the street?”
“Oui, Charles is with me. We were assigned to stay with you by Jean-Claude Clair, a friend of your father. He is concerned about your safety in Paris. I am Jean. We are both with the DST.”
Jean waved his friend over to cross the street.
“As far as I know,” Steve told the two of them, “I am in no danger here. You two were my only concern. So, from now on, let’s work together. No need to play hide and seek. I’ll tell you where I’m going and, hopefully, that will make your life easier, too. Right now, I’m going to go buy a newspaper and then return to the apartment on the Villa Guibert.”
“Yes,” Charles said. “General Joulet’s apartment. You can buy a paper about one-hundred meters farther on this side of the street. Just before you get to the police station.”
34. United Nations, New York
Two men dressed in pinstripes, ties, and polished, black leather shoes stepped off the tour bus with the rest of their group and entered the General Assembly Building through the North entrance. The four bas-relief doors, the guide explained, had been donated by Canada. The entrance hall was dominated by a large, colorful mural from Brazil and a large poster proclaiming “The Year of the Woman.”
As the guide, a young Chinese woman, discoursed on the funds disbursed by the U.N. to alleviate AIDS in Africa and led the group from one item of interest to another, Yosemani and his bodyguard kept their eyes peeled for their contact. “Why doesn’t the United Nations do something when a country breaks the principles of the U.N. Charter?” asked a high-school-age boy armed with a small electronic notepad. “On the contrary,” the guide replied, “the several committees of the General Assembly are aggressive in making statements condemning the guilty country. Last year alone, over a dozen such condemnations were issued.”
They entered the main General Assembly Hall from the rear. At the front, a massive green marble podium resembling an altar from which the Secretary General presides was dwarfed by a wide wooden panel reaching up to the ceiling. At its center was the U.N. seal. A huge television screen flanked each side of the panel like the wings of a predatory bird watching over the assembly.
“That mural,” the guide said, pointing to a side wall, “was designed by Fernand Leger, the famous French artist, and painted by Bruce Gregory, an American.” The slight question mark at the end of her statement seemed to imply she was surprised by her own statement that an American had the necessary skills.
In the same direction as the mural but much closer, Yosemani saw Khazaee step through a doorway and into the hall and look in their direction.
As the group moved toward the mural, the two men lagged behind and disappeared through the door Khazaee had left open. “Since the United Nations was created to maintain peace,” the high-school student asked, “what was its role in the search for Osama bin Laden, who had killed three-thousand people in New York? And, what did it do when Qaddafi started killing his own people? Oh, what about Syria? Isn’t the president of that country also killing his own citizens?” He looked at his electronic notepad and added, “a hundred-thousand, according to the media. Isn’t that genocide?”
Yosemani and his bodyguard followed Khazaee down the corridor before the startled guide could formulate a reply.
Khazaee brought them to a small conference room where they sat, exchanged greetings, and caught up. “It is an honor to be with you, General.” Khazaee said. “Your office in Tehran informed us you were on your way. How can we help you?”
“I have work for you. You are about to participate in a great blow against the American bully. America has insulted us and disrespected us long enough. We are on the verge of becoming a world power despite the West’s attempt to sabotage our efforts, both on the world stage and by degrading the technology in our nuclear centers such as Natanz.”
“Yes,” Khazaee replied. “The Americans are very active here at the U.N. They are trying to increase the sanctions against us.”
“So, I am here to direct our operations in the heart of the enemy’s homeland. Our retribution will be swift and effective. In diplomatic language, this would be called reciprocation.” He smiled at the prowess of his vocabulary. “I understand we have assets here, and they will be our platform. Tell me about them.”
“I do have two promising developmental cases,” Khazaee replied with a self-satisfied smile. “One is a second secretary at the Pakistani mission, and the other is the Indian Ambassador. Both are scheduled to return to their countries soon, and they will be very useful sources.”
“This is not a promotion interview,” the General said, tapping his fingers impatiently on the conference table. “Tell me about the assets, the fully recruited and responsive agents we have here. I know the Ministry of Intelligence has an officer somewhere on the West Coast. What is he doing?”
“Hayder Kazemi is focused on the Persian diaspora. In California, they are mostly thieves and traitors left over from the Shah’s era. Some are former military who stole enough money from our country to be able to settle here. But there are pockets of Iranians loyal to the Revolution who are here simply to study and who intend to return home. I am sure many of them are potential intelligence assets, and Kazemi has already identified several. He is doing a good job. But I sense he is unsatisfied, that he would like to do more.”
“I am going to give him that opportunity. What is his training? What else could he do?”
“He has the full one-year intelligence training, including the usual recruitment of foreign nationals, hand-to-hand combat, maritime, sabotage, et cetera.�
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“But I believe you have another asset, this one an American citizen?”
The door suddenly opened, and a fashionably dressed, middle-aged woman looked in. “Oh, I am so sorry Monsieur Khazaee.” The scent of her perfume stole into the room like a squad of Ninja warriors. . “I did not know this room was occupied. My boss needs a conference room. They seem to be hard to find today. I am sorry.” She disappeared and closed the door with an apologetic smile.
“That was the French Ambassador’s secretary, Mireille.” Khazaee said. “Not a problem.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” the General said, shooting an annoyed glance at the younger man and looking to his bodyguard. “Stand outside the door,” he ordered. The man instantly left the room.
“Tell me about the other one,” Yosemani demanded, sensing a change of tone was in order, his posture moving from relaxed to military.
“Yes, you are right. She is a naturalized American, born in Iraq. She studied in Beirut. A true Shiite, she met the Hizballah military leader in Cyprus. He was impressed with her. One of his men was assassinated right in front of her, and she remained cool.”
“And? And?”
Khazaee furtively ran a finger over his brow and said, “She works at the CIA—at the main headquarters in Langley. She has not been as productive as we had hoped, but she is a source of intelligence on various groups the Americans call terrorists. And, she told us about the CIA’s arm shipments from Libya to Turkey. She also reported Prince Bandar used his Saudi money to buy AK-47s from Croatia for the rebels in Syria.”
“How devout is she?” The general asked, now leaning forward.
“Although we do pay her, I do not believe it is her main motivation. Her mother still lives in Beirut, and we have promised to look after her. She tried bringing her here, but her mother is not interested. Instead of paying her here, we visit the mother once a month and give her cash. What the daughter does not yet know is her mother has cancer. I am keeping that information as a chip to be played when we need it.”
“We are about to need it. We will give her a chance to save her mother’s life with her own.”
Yosemani stood up and stretched. “Why is it smoking is not permitted in this city but that woman is allowed to permeate that odor?” He reached into his pocket for a Cuban cigar and lit it.
“Now here is what I want you to do. First, your role will be to set off a bomb inside the CIA building. You have the perfect agent to do it. I don’t care if she blows herself up at the same time. That is where you should start with her. She will feel grateful and pliant when you tell her she would be setting off an explosion without committing suicide. This would take place in either the director’s office or, if that is not possible, in the Counter Terrorism Center, which should be easy since that is where she works.” He puffed on his cigar and observed Khazaee, who seemed more concerned about violating the building’s non-smoking rule than about killing CIA officers.
“Second, I will need resources, men, and explosives. Vancouver and Mexico City have both. On the same day you blow up the CIA, I will destroy a national symbol on the other side of the country. I’ve not yet decided on the specific target, but I have a good idea. So, third, you must establish an operational headquarters for me somewhere close to San Francisco. It needs to be spacious, as well as fairly isolated. But get Vancouver and Mexico City moving as soon as possible while you look for this place. And, I will need a boat.”
“General, I already know of such a place. It’s a large estate owned by a movie star who is shooting a movie in Venezuela. He is a friend and has made it available while he is away for about a month. Tennis courts, two pools—one inside and another one outside—and many bedrooms. It’s about half an hour from San Francisco. A couple of phone calls and it will be yours.”
“I do not give a damn about the tennis courts or the swimming pools!” Yosemani said, forcefully. “I want to know it is secure. If not, it will be your failure.”
Khazaee felt the sweat soaking through his shirt.
35. Langley Redux
“What news of Gulick?” asked Tom Nortsen, the CIA division chief for the Near East, “If he makes it, it will be a miracle. Only a guy that size could survive two bullets in the chest.”
Nortsen and Bob Trent, the counterterrorism chief, were sitting in LaFont’s seventh floor office.
“The question is, what was he doing at that airport anyway?” LaFont asked.
“We’ll never know. He died this morning in a Belgian hospital,” Trent said. “Steve Church did tell me by phone Gulick went to the airport with V.A. Dalton, which raises more questions. Maybe Dalton asked him to travel with her, although I doubt it. She was pretty independent.”
“I just came from the White House,” LaFont said. “They are still in a tizzy over her death. Our Europe division was having a chief-of-station conference at Ramstein when Dalton’s plane landed, and so we have direct information about what happened. She shot herself with a Beretta as the plane was landing. The gun was a .38 caliber. The two bullets removed from Gulick’s chest were also .38 caliber. I don’t believe in coincidences. Remember, Dalton and Gulick were at the airport together. But I don’t know where Dalton’s gun is now. I assume Air Force Intelligence has it and is running tests.”
“The White House’s confusion is confusing to me,” Nortsen said. “The Nightingale correctly concluded she was caught because she was landing at an American Air Force Base. Rather than go through the humiliation of interrogation and a trial, she shot herself. It’s not rocket science.”
“Yes,” LaFont said, but since she was the president’s closest confidant, Tremaine feels politically vulnerable. His first instinct is to distance himself from this affair. So he passed it, like a hot potato, to Baxter. I just met with Baxter, and he told me Hank Maloney, the White House’s counterterrorism adviser, has been given the lead. Although the White House is in damage-control mode, we have to be in damage-assessment mode. The FBI also feels vulnerable because their background check, if there was one, is at the base of the problem.”
At that moment, Mary, LaFont’s always-poised secretary, stuck her head in the door and said, “Congressional Affairs wants to set you up for hearings with the oversight committees. Public Affairs is getting pressure from the media to schedule you for dozens of interviews and for the Sunday morning talk shows.” She looked at her notes for an instant and added, “And the FBI Director would like to meet with you. What should I tell them?”
“No TV talk shows,” LaFont replied with an annoyed shake of her head. “Closed-door hearings only for the oversight committees. Defer all media requests on the Dalton case to the White House.”
“There was also a call from your daughter, something about needing wheels or her college life will be a total shambles. She said she would call you tonight.”
While Mary stayed deadpan, the two men had to smile. Although LaFont was a formidable negotiating opponent, they were guessing Brittany would win that one.
“Give me an update on Yosemani’s whereabouts,” LaFont said, as she glanced at the single paper on her otherwise clean desk. “I have another meeting in ten minutes.”
“Yosemani,” Trent said, “was still in Brussels as of last report. Steve and Kella saw him at the airport, but they lost him. He could have taken off for any destination. If he had wanted to go to Tehran, he could’ve taken the Iran Air flight the day before. Steve said there was a flight to New York he also could have taken. We alerted the FBI, but they apparently did not pick him up at JFK. So, he could be in New York, or anywhere in the U.S. for that matter, under alias documentation.”
“Well, if nothing else, the guy has balls,” Nortsen said. “I don’t think I would want to go to Iran even in alias. But, if he is here, for what purpose? He’s not going to take this type of risk for a routine visit. It must be big.”
Mary opened the door again. “There is an urgent phone call for Mr. Trent,” she said. “You can take it out here.”
> When Trent came back, he said, “NSA has an intercept indicating Yosemani was on his way to Cyprus.”
“The Quds Force threat to the homeland has gone away. The FBI and Homeland Security can stop worrying,” Nortsen said.
36. Sausalito, California
The Sausalito waterfront was much larger than Kazemi had anticipated. Moreover, it was broken up into several smaller harbors, but he parked in the gravel lot, confident it was the right one. The order from New York had been urgent but not specific.
TOP PRIORITY: BUY OR RENT SEAWORTHY INBOARD LARGE ENOUGH FOR 6 TO 10 MEN. BE READY TO PILOT IN SF BAY WITHIN 10 DAYS.
His paramilitary maritime training off the Coast of Kharg Island in the Persian Gulf was some years behind. Furthermore, the training had been rather specialized: night infiltration and exfiltration, underwater demolition, and fast-boat orientation, the IRGC’s primary defense against American warships in the Persian Gulf and the Straits of Hormuz. But purchasing a civilian boat in California had not been part of the curriculum. He had therefore decided to go through an agent whom he was supposed to meet in front of The Mariners Catch restaurant, which backed onto the Marina.
He had never received such an order since his assignment to the United States. The purchase of a boat is quite a commitment, he thought. He understood the need for secrecy, but he also thought Tehran had overdone things. He would be much more ready to execute the assignment if they had given him more information. Nevertheless, he had bought maritime charts of San Francisco Bay and had studied them.
He allowed his mind to run through possible reasons for the boat, and he had concluded there were two: drugs, or the exfiltration of a high-value asset to a ship out at sea.
His speculation was interrupted when a pickup truck pulled in front of the restaurant, and his agent stepped out.
“In fact, Mr. Kazemi,” the agent said, as he and the Iranian walked around the restaurant toward the docks in back, “I’ve got exactly what you’re looking for: thirty-eight feet, twin one-twenty-horsepower Volvos, only five years old, used infrequently by the owner, who just passed away. His wife wants to sell it. The name of the boat is ‘Sufficient Grounds.’ I guess she’s wanted to sell it for a long time. You should be able to get a good deal.”
The Red Cell Page 17