by Jack Winnick
“Please, come have a seat in my office,” Col. Soroush said pleasantly, leading the little group down the hall to a tall wooden door with his name on it. They all took their seats, except for Mrs. Khorasani, who, after a quiet word with the colonel, excused herself and headed out the door, silently closing it behind her. The colonel seated himself behind the desk, with the civilian from G-6 sitting on his left. Lara waited patiently, very curious to see their reaction.
“I must say, Ms. Haddad, your translation was quite impressive,” the colonel began without prelude. Mr. Gharoub remained impassive. “I have to tell you that, with a few minor exceptions, yours was essentially the same as our own staff’s.” He looked over at Gharoub, who simply stared at Lara. “How were you able to translate the document so well, without reference to any decoding aids?”
Lara smiled knowingly. “Oh, you see, as I told you yesterday, I’ve had training at one of our secret bases outside Esfahan. I’m afraid I can’t disclose any details, as you must know, but we had access to the particular DCGS the Americans used here.” She gestured at the document on the desk. “Once you’ve transcribed a few of their communiqués, it comes easily.”
Gharoub listened intently; he seemed quite impressed, Lara was certain. He might even have an idea what particular base she was referring to—the one used by the notorious Sheikh Abidin responsible for the slaughter of so many Americans. But he said nothing; he simply sat there with just the hint of a smile crossing his lips. He then motioned to Col. Soroush, who beamed at Lara, rising from his chair and escorting her to the door.
“May we reach you by phone later today or tomorrow?” the colonel asked pleasantly.
“Yes, of course,” Lara replied, handing her temporary pass to a delighted Mrs. Khorasani, who was sitting at her desk. Lara felt almost giddy as she left the building. It was now past 1:00 p.m., and she was beyond hunger, having little to nothing for breakfast. She found another snack shop with kabobs broiling in the display case sat down and quickly devoured one as she considered what might happen next. There was another small park in the next block, out of sight of the office building. She found an empty bench and phoned Tom to report on the morning’s events, including the presence of Gharoub from G-6. Then, feeling relieved of immediate responsibility, she strolled around the park, scattering leavings of her lunch to the eager avian scavengers at her feet. Then it was time to head home; the afternoon smog had made itself known to her eyes in a major way.
It was just past 4:00 p.m. when she arrived at her dwelling, to the eager greetings of her hosts. “How was your day?” both women asked at once.
“Oh, fine,” she said calmly. “Just a bit tiring is all.” In fact, her late night and tense morning interview had taken their toll. She needed a short rest before any thoughts of dinner and conversation. With regrets, she asked the ladies if it would be all right if she showered and changed before dinner. Eager to please, they assured her that would be fine. Lara went upstairs, sat on the bed and kicked her shoes off. Then she checked her local mobile phone for any messages. There was, in fact, a brief one from Mrs. Khorasani: Mr. Gharoub from Military Intelligence, G-6, would very much like to see her in the morning at his office at another location. If she could return this call, she would receive further instructions. But it was made very clear they were going to make her an offer of a position with their section! Thoughts of rest vanished as she hurried to return Gharoub’s call before the end of the business day. The mysterious man answered on the first ring; there was not even a secretary.
Lara tried not to appear overly excited as she spoke to him but realized it was likely in vain. In any event, he was brief and to the point as he repeated his invitation. If she was interested in his offer, could she simply show up at the same office building tomorrow morning at, say, nine o’clock? There, a car would pick her up for transport to his offices. She noted that no names or addresses were transmitted in this open telephone conversation. She accepted the offer, hoping her heartbeat was not too evident. Then, breathing a sigh of relief and elation, she checked her agency phone.
There was indeed a message from Tom, received just minutes earlier. It was now around 4:00 a.m. in New York. Call at once, the message said. She took a deep breath, checked the hallway for visitors, then went into her bathroom. With the water running, she called in.
“Any news?” Tom asked without prelude.
“In fact, yes. I’ve been offered a job with their G-6! I’m getting the formal proposal tomorrow.”
“Outstanding,” he replied. “FYI, this Gharoub is one nasty customer. He’s high up in the Revolutionary Guard, been with them since the beginning. He’s a full general with their version of Black Ops. We’ve been trying to get him for years.” By this, Lara presumed Tom meant “trying to eliminate him.” “Do whatever you have to—within limits, of course—but get inside if you can. I don’t need to tell you this is a high-risk situation.”
“Any idea what’s going on? I mean, what sort of Black Ops are we talking about?”
“There’s word that their offices are not happy about how the Los Angeles affair turned out—if you get my drift.” She did; this was turning out to be just what they were after.
“I got it, and I’m on it. Any word from you know who ?”
“That’s a positive.” Her heart leaped. “Nothing certain yet, though. I’ll keep you informed. Let me know how tomorrow goes.”
Chapter 13
Lara was met the next morning in front of the office building she had been to the previous two days. A black Mercedes limousine with heavily tinted windows sat idling at the red curb, a uniformed man in mirrored sunglasses standing at the passenger door. He was carrying a leather briefcase and wearing a .45 caliber sidearm on his hip. Seeing her arrive from the bus stop, he stepped forward and, without smiling, asked quietly, “Ms. Haddad?” He was holding her photograph in his left hand. The guard from the front desk, whom Lara recognized, nodded subtly to both Lara and the man in sunglasses. Seeing her acceptance, the man opened the passenger door for her, then stepped to attention. The front desk guard smiled briefly at her, then saluted as she entered the limo. The passersby seemed unconcerned with this chain of events, moving on their way without any show of alarm.
She sat in a wonderfully comfortable seat, by herself, as the uniformed man at the curb entered the right-side front door, and the Mercedes slid silently away. The limo was delightfully air-conditioned; the smog that she had actually become used to suddenly vanished, much to her delight. The uniformed escort removed his cap, exposing a military-style haircut. He turned, opened a sliding-glass panel, and politely asked Lara if she would like some refreshments. The trip would take only about twenty minutes, but there was hot coffee and bottled water just below, right at her fingertips. “The general will be delighted to see you,” he added, referring of course to the mysterious Gharoub.
“Thank you, but I’m fine,” Lara responded as she watched the downtown area slowly change into more opulence. They were headed north into the higher elevation of the foothills of the Alborz mountains, the highest of which showed snow above the haze that enveloped the city. Just as the escort had promised, in less than twenty minutes, the limo glided gracefully toward a gate that blended into a high concrete wall, covered with barbed wire. There was no plaque, no sign of any kind identifying the drab, gray building that lay behind the grim walls. It could have been a prison or military compound; no way to tell.
The driver pulled up a circular driveway, the heavy limo crunching loudly on the pea gravel. Immediately upon their arrival, two uniformed guards sped to Lara’s door, as if propelled by a silent spring. One opened her door, the other offering a gloved hand to help her from the car. She accepted it gracefully, thinking, This must be what it’s like to be royalty. Both men tipped their caps, greeting her in Farsi.
“Welcome to the Ayatollah Khomeini Revolutionary Military Headquarters,” said the first.
“All glory to the Revolution,” offered the
second.
Taken somewhat aback by all this pomp, Lara simply muttered a thank you to both men, smiling at their courtesy. As they entered the building, Lara noticed that, for the first time, she did not have to show credentials or sign the log. The guard at the desk, dressed in a forest-green uniform rather than the standard brown of the men outside this fortress, rose and tipped his cap. He did not salute a civilian woman, Lara noted.
Her escorts led her swiftly down the hall to a tall bronze door, in front of which stood another officer dressed in forest green, his chest covered in medals and ribbons. As Lara approached, he slapped his right hand to his left chest in salutation. If all this ceremony was meant to impress her, it was certainly doing so.
One of her escorts knocked on the metal door, waited just a moment, then swung it open to reveal a room the size of the Oval Office, with a grand Persian carpet in front of a gleaming walnut desk. General Ali Gharoub rose, and with a show of shining, artificially white teeth, offered his hand as he strode around the desk to meet her.
“Ms. Haddad,” he exclaimed, “how wonderful of you to come!”
She noticed, in the stark light of the grand room, how painstakingly he had dyed his naturally gray hair to a shiny black. This was a glaringly egotistical man.
“It is my pleasure, General,” she replied, smiling indulgently.
“Come here, please, and be seated. Let me tell you why we are so obviously pleased to see you.” He gestured to a small table to the left of the bronze doors, waving his hand dismissively at the guards. She sat as the others left, closing the door behind them.
“I’ll get right to the point, Ms. Haddad. We were clearly impressed with your cryptological abilities.” The general paused for effect, but there was no need; Lara was overwhelmed if not downright intimidated. She struggled to keep her composure.
“Thank you, General, I’m happy to be of service to the Revolution.” She almost bit her tongue.
“To come right to the point: you must be aware of the humiliating exposure we suffered in Los Angeles . . . the water supply debacle.”
“Of course, General,” she offered demurely, lowering her eyes in acknowledgment of his embarrassment.
The general smiled at her courtesy; this was indeed a dignified, intelligent, and attractive woman. Perhaps even . . . he did not pursue his carnal thoughts further. “I have to tell you, it is incumbent on us to now recover from this disgrace in front of the world with a strike that will show them of what we are capable.” The precision of his little speech made it clear that he had given it much thought and preparation. She could scarcely wait to see what was in store.
“Of course, General,” she repeated.
“You can be of the utmost service in our next foray into the devil’s nest. I speak, of course, of our coming strike at the hive of American Jews that resides in the cesspool of California.”
“You . . . I mean, we are once again going to attack the waterworks of Los Angeles?!”
Gharoub smiled indulgently at the young woman. She was, quite clearly, as aware as she could be of the activities of his undercover team. The close call they’d had at the Los Angeles water plant had made news all over the world. There was, as yet, no official public knowledge of Iranian involvement, but the speculation was rampant. The Iranian Revolutionary Government was widely assumed to be fully ready and capable of carrying out such an attack.
The motivation was clear: recent attacks on maritime activities in the Persian Gulf left little doubt as to the perpetrators, official denials notwithstanding. Iran had been carrying out such Black Ops against its foes, both foreign and domestic, ever since the successful revolution of 1979. The bold, if totally illegitimate, takeover of the American embassy in Tehran was just the first of many such audacious attacks. Each such success led to more daring assaults on the enemies of the Revolutionary Government. Now Iran was showing its hold over the international waterway with more and more overt acts: holes appeared in the hulls of foreign vessels; crew members disappeared; cargo was sent to the bottom. There was little doubt of Iran’s seemingly de facto ownership of the international waterway. These acts, if responsibility could be proven, were technically acts of war. But who was to prove them? Or take any steps to stop them? The Western nations showed little interest in engaging in a conflict halfway around the world. In fact, recent history had provoked strong distaste for another Vietnam, Iraq, or Afghanistan. The dominance the West had enjoyed over emerging countries had disappeared since World War II. The image the United States and its allies now held was one of slave-masters, not aid-givers. Iran was using this image to its distinct advantage.
“No, my dear, not exactly,” he replied quietly, trying to sense her interest and nascent complicity. “But we do have a project just coming to fruition that will show how vulnerable the West is to the forces of Islam.”
Lara could scarcely contain her intense curiosity. She hoped her blazing inquisitiveness came across as appeal and not fear. Her body language spoke of growing attractiveness and not repulsion. In fact, she was hoping for a chance to participate in whatever this fiend had in store. She could sense that her compliance was making its mark. Her innate perception as a woman among male colleagues picked up more than professional interest from Gharoub. Even with her artificially darkened skin and deliberately unattractive facial implants, he showed lascivious interest. Well, she had dealt with this before; it was something she could handle, or even use to her advantage.
Gharoub did indeed perceive a positive inclination for what this attractive and apparently available young woman was hearing of these felonious activities. Criminal activities did often provoke sensuality, he had found. No harm if he could combine his favorite pursuits. With this in mind, he proceeded to describe the plans for the second assault on the California water supply.
He sketched out his plan for a commando-style strike against one of the reservoirs serving the San Francisco Peninsula in northern California. Her first assignment would be to carefully watch for civilian and military radio transmissions on this subject. She would be responsible, along with other staff, for capturing any warnings about the water supplies in the area, especially those in highly classified code. She agreed with Gharoub’s assessment of the importance of such messages toward the success of Iran’s goal: the public display of the impotence of the United States against the Revolutionary Government. They had a very friendly end to the meeting, with the general summoning one of his aides, Captain Maloof, to show her to the communications room and her new office.
The captain was a fortyish man in civilian dress with horn-rimmed glasses and a somewhat timid smile. It was clear from the first that she would now be his superior in matters dealing with the decoding of incoming and scrambling of outgoing messages to the United States and its allies, specifically those dealing with Project Neptune, the name assigned to the disruption of America’s drinking water infrastructure.
Lara was somewhat overwhelmed by this level of security. But she quickly realized that there no doubt was parallel infrastructure in place. Gharoub couldn’t be so foolish as to put all his eggs in one basket, so to speak.
The rest of the day was spent setting up her office, detailing the computer arrangements and her lines of communication. The space was set up in a manner similar to a large insurance firm. There was a large open area, two stories tall, in the center of the space filled with rows of desks and chairs; these were occupied by clerks and secretaries. The private offices lay along the walls, with the higher-ups having totally private rooms with wooden doors.
Medium-level workers, like Lara, occupied cubicles along the windows, with glass enclosures at eye level. She had a comparatively private space with a medium-size desk, computer, phone, filing cabinet, and a single window facing the parking lot. The partition facing the open area was glass from above eye level, so the privacy was not total. But the ceiling was covered with sound-absorbing tiles, so she was able to concentrate on her papers. There were two visitors�
� chairs in her space in addition to her swivel chair; she sat facing the opposite wall so as not to be distracted by the people in the rest of the open area.
Maloof immediately introduced her to her staff: two young women to help with office supplies and meals, and a young man, Mobin, who would take care of her transportation. She would be picked up and delivered between the downtown offices and her new base in this fortress in the foothills. She merely had to put in a request at any time. It was a lot to get used to; she was handed a stack of documents to peruse at her leisure. Some she could take with her; others had to remain under lock and key in her office. She put together those she could take home and stuffed them into her briefcase. These mostly had to do with office protocol. The others, mainly classified material, had to be left on her desk or in the file cabinets. All of the latter were marked with the usual blue bands on the edges or margins.
When all these details were taken care of, she had Mobin arrange for her transport downtown. She could have been driven home, but she said she had some errands to run and preferred to take the bus home when she finished. She did not want anyone to know precisely where she lived. In fact, she wanted to get home as quickly as possible in the hopes of speaking with Tom about the day’s events. It would be early morning in New York, but he would most likely call as soon as he could, certainly before 7:00 p.m. in Tehran.
That taken care of, she opened her briefcase for the guard and left. She noted that no one here had name tags. The military were all in uniform, and the civilians were known by the guards on sight.
The bus trip home from the downtown office building was uneventful, though her head was spinning. Each day, she decided, she would get off at a different stop so as not to set a pattern; she could use the walk for exercise. Lara had to resist the urge to put anything down on paper, so she focused instead on the late afternoon sunshine and diminished smog. The cool mountain breeze had begun early, and with it the sounds of the birds hunting for scraps of food left on the streets and sidewalks with which to feed their newly hatched young.