The Cobra Identity

by Frank Perry

the buoyancy tanks. There was a slight metallic ‘clunk’ when the two vessels separated. The ASDS was suspended a few feet above Connecticut when the sound of an electric motor whirred and the crew turned toward the coastline. The sixty-seven horsepower electric motor was moving the vessel toward shallower water. The air inside had a stale dry smell, based on the unique gas mixture, which replaced nitrogen with carbon dioxide and slightly more oxygen. This would prevent decompression sickness.

  They maneuvered using instruments for four hours before slowing for a periscope check. Two more checks were needed over the next twenty minutes before the petty officer at the helm pulled a lever, settling to the bottom.

  The SEAL team senior NCO instructed Peter, “Sir, we are about half a mile from shore in fifty feet of water. It’s after nightfall, so we should be okay when we break the surf. Are you set to go?”

  “Let’s go. I appreciate the ride men.”

  Peter entered the diving compartment aft of the crew through a small watertight pressure hatch. A waterproof sled with his clothing and gear was passed through before two of the SEALs entered. Their diving gear was already stowed in the chamber and they needed to help each other mount the scuba tanks in tight quarters. After checking air regulators, the hatch door was sealed shut and the chamber was flooded with icy water.

  It was eerie inside the metal box, jammed tightly with men and equipment in absolute darkness feeling the seawater rise around them fast. It was certainly no place for someone afraid of tight, pitch-black, watery spaces. Peter felt like a sardine. It took several seconds for the water entering their wetsuits to warm to body temperature. Once everything was equalized with the outside water pressure, one of the SEALS opened the hatch and they exited the tiny ship. The hatch was small, making it difficult to climb through with scuba gear. The sled was pulled by one of the SEALS who would take turns pulling it while swimming underwater to shore.

  In the blackness of night under water, the team could not communicate and had to stay very close together. The lead SEAL used a compass strapped to his arm with fluorescent readouts. Peter and the second SEAL followed his lead. They carried glow sticks that would only be used only if they got separated. It took half an hour to reach the surf line. All three swimmers raised slowly above the swells enough to check the beach. After a few seconds, they pulled their masks down and resumed swimming through the breakers, then crawled slowly onto the beach. Once on land, they removed their flippers and ran about fifty yards inland onto the dry sand. There was no cover if someone was guarding the beach. All remained quiet except for the sound of the breakers and smell of decaying seaweed.

  No words were spoken as one of the SEALS opened the sled and Peter began stripping out of his dive gear and into civilian clothes. Just as quickly, the SEALS stowed his gear back in the sled. After less than two minutes, through hand signals, the SEALS said farewell and disappeared again into the sea. Peter would be alone until he returned to this spot in a few days. He remembered Rachael’s words about being left alone without him.

  Tourist

  Peter had landed less than a mile south of the coastal town of Bushehr, and was traveling with a backpack. He had to avoid being discovered alone outside of the town. In the town, he could blend in with other people on the sidewalks during the traditionally late evening suppertime.

  Despite western impressions to the contrary, Iran is a country of legendary hospitality. Even as the holder of an American passport, he felt at ease. Americans were not looked upon favorably, but they could avoid confrontation by remaining docile and away from public gatherings. Once inside the city boundaries near the harbor, he walked a few blocks to the Delvar Hotel. He didn’t have a map or know anything about this hotel, except it was large and doing a robust business. Maintaining distance from other people to avoid dialogue, he approached a bellman, requesting a taxi. Fortunately, English was spoken universally and non-native Americans do not recognize dialects.

  Within seconds, an immaculate white Mercedes arrived, and the bellman opened the back door. Peter handed the man two one-thousand rial notes, about twenty cents in U.S. dollars. The man tipped his hat as Peter requested a ride to the train station. The station turned out to be only a few blocks away, which irritated the driver, but Peter paid more than the meter amount.

  At the station, he bought a ticket for Tehran using a local credit card provided in his package. There were police and a few military personnel in transit, but the security seemed far more relaxed than in the U.S.. Peter felt comfortable ordering tea from a vendor and sitting on a bench. He bought a German magazine. The next direct train to Tehran left in less than two hours, so he tried to sit inconspicuously, avoiding all conversation. After one hour, he was feeling calm when a stranger approached saying something in German. Peter looked up and smiled, signaling that he didn’t speak the language, whereupon the man switched to English. Peter could not avoid him.

  For the rest of the time waiting for the train, he spoke with the German. When Peter told him he was a theatrical producer, the German became enthralled. Fortunately, the discussion remained amicable and the German was sensitive enough to avoid discussing anything about America. Time passed quickly and no security police were present on the platform before the train arrived.

  The man insisted on sitting with Peter on the train ride north, which would take almost eight hours. The coach they were riding in was made in Italy and the engine was from Germany. The ride was fast and comfortable. Several minutes after departure, Peter excused himself and pretended to sleep, while the German read and listen to his portable CD player. Having the German accompany him gave Peter an additional measure of comfort. The ride to Tehran was uneventful.

  When they arrived, the German asked where Peter was staying and suggested the hotel where he had a reservation. Peter made an excuse and thanked the man for several hours of pleasant conversation, but before the German could extend the dialogue, Peter turned and was walking away from the station.

  Tehran is an enormous city of fourteen million people. Police or military personnel were very scarce. Traffic was as unruly as most Middle Eastern locations, and the pedestrians are very cautious. Cars produced tons of pollution, particularly in the Southern part of the city that was at a lower elevation than the North. It was extremely hot, but the dry air actually felt more comfortable than Washington.

  The city appeared prosperous. From experience, he knew it was divided between the wealthy northern part, and the poor southern sectors. Missing from the streets were the homeless citizens seen in U.S. cities.

  There was no overabundance of police. Illegal behaviors are severely punished under Islamic laws, so people were well behaved on the streets. Peter had been there before and felt at ease walking around public areas. Underlying the apparent tranquility was a system that would torture and kill him if his true identity were discovered. This sobering thought never left his mind.

  Outside Tehran’s central train station, there was a line of taxis. A dispatcher opened the rear door of an older Vauxall in pristine condition. Inside, Peter instructed the driver to take him to the Evin Hotel on the Vanak Expressway. The agency had made reservations for Tim Watts, the name on his passport. If anyone did a Google search using this name associated with theatrical productions, there would be many responses.

  The drive across the city in dense traffic took more than an hour. The advantage of the Evin was its location in the northern sector, closer to the Ministerial residences. Peter would have preferred a more obscure place, but the few Americans that went to Iran were expected to stay in the best hotels.

  He paid the driver a nice tip, American style. The Evin was a superior four-star hotel located near the International Trade Fair, 30 minutes from the airport, and 15 minutes from the city center. It was an ideal location.

  It was midday when Peter checked in. The hotel kept his passport in exchange for the room key as was customary throughout the Middle East. If the police questioned him, they would confirm
his credentials by contacting the hotel. The receptionist took an imprint of his credit card and Peter carried his own backpack to the room without bellhop assistance. Within minutes, Iranian authorities had received his registration information from the hotel. Many of the domestic workers were also employed by the government.

  Once in the room, he was pleased to find a DSL hookup for his computer. It was very slow by U.S. standards, but gave him some ability to communicate and search for information besides his cellphone. His body clock was confused, and he had no desire to sleep. It took almost thirty minutes to complete the search for email messages. There were none. He needed to kill some time, so he changed into swim trunks and went to the outdoor pool for some quick laps to help him relax and exercise his muscles. There was no one else at the pool during the hottest part of the day, so the scars on his body wouldn’t draw attention. The water was refreshing as he dove into the deep end. Thirty minutes later, he exited after swimming about a mile, toweled dry, and returned to his room.

  During the midafternoon, Peter took the metro train north to the Sa’ad Abad Museum complex, popular with tourists. It was also located near the Ministerial