False Flag

by F. W. Rustmann Jr.

MacMurphy briefed Kashmiri on what they had seen and described the apartment buildings in detail.

  “I know exactly what you’re talking about. I was just there. Actually, I am still here. I just pulled back onto Nassrallah Road and I’m heading north.”

  “Well, turn around,” said MacMurphy, “and check out those apartment buildings. We think they may be rentals for students and others affiliated with the university.”

  “You’re probably right. Makes sense . . .”

  “See if there’s a rental office someplace. Inquire about the availability of units. See if you can rent one with a view of the bungalow from its rear windows.”

  “I’m heading back there right now.”

  Kashmiri pulled an illegal U-turn in front of the university, scattering a bunch of students crossing the road with their noses in their phones, and headed back to the apartment complex. When he reached the complex, he drove past slowly and looked for a rental agency sign or a concierge apartment. Finding nothing, he parked his car and got out.

  He walked up the sidewalk in front of the apartments. There were eight buildings on each side of the street, all connected and numbered consecutively from the corner of Nassrallah to the end of the paved road. Buildings four through eight on the right side probably offered the best view of the target house, and he guessed the higher the number the better.

  Dressed in a black robe and turban, he could pass for a Shia Mullah. The moustache and goatee surrounded by several days’ growth of stubble rounded out his disguise. He lingered in the area, walking up and down the street in front of the buildings, scoping it out.

  He stopped two young students coming toward him and asked politely, “Excuse me. I am looking to rent an apartment in the vicinity. Is there a rental office nearby?”

  The gawky male student, dressed in black skinny jeans and a black tee shirt, gave the female student a vague look and shrugged. Dressed in a bright red hijab, the cute girl responded, “There’s a bulletin board in the student union building with a listing of available units here and elsewhere around the campus. You should try there first. Otherwise you will have to rent through one of the real estate agencies, and that will cost more.” She paused and added, “But I don’t think there are any apartments available at the moment.”

  “You are very kind. Very helpful,” said Kashmiri with a slight bow. “Do you live here?”

  The skinny kid started to respond but she answered first. “Yes, we both have flats here. He shares with three other boys and I share with two girls.” She waved her arm in the direction of the building behind them. “Most of the apartments along this street are occupied by students. It’s very convenient to the campus.” She nodded in the direction of the university at the end of the street.

  Kashmiri thought for a moment and added, “You said all of the apartments are probably rented. Do you think anyone would be willing to sublet an apartment? I would only need it for a few weeks. Just till the end of the summer.”

  The girl responded, “I guess that would be possible. The summer is almost over and a lot of the students are taking a break before the fall semester begins.”

  Kashmiri asked, “Okay, perhaps you can do me a favor and find something for me. I will pay double rent to the occupants and give you a handsome commission for your efforts. I only need the apartment until the fall semester begins, just a little less than a month. Could you do that?”

  The girl’s eyes grew wide, “How much would you pay for my flat?”

  “Where is it?” he said.

  “Building five, third floor. Right there.” She pointed at the building behind her.

  Kashmiri quickly calculated. It was three buildings from the end. An ideal observation post, as long as it didn’t look out on the street.

  “Is it in the front or rear of the building?” he said.

  She gave him a puzzled look. “What difference does it make?” She continued, “Actually, all the apartments go from the front to the back. The living-dining area is in the front, overlooking the street. The kitchen is in the middle and the two bedrooms are in the back. There are two apartments on each floor separated by the staircase.”

  “It doesn’t really matter. I’m just curious. May I see it?”

  The young woman glanced up at her companion, who shrugged again. “Sure, I’ll show it to you right now.” The boy waved goodbye and continued walking down the street in the direction of the campus while she led Kashmiri back in the direction of her apartment building.

  They walked together up the three floors and she opened the door to her apartment. He feigned interest while she showed him the sparsely furnished living-dining area and kitchen. When they got to the two small bedrooms at the rear, he walked directly to the window and looked out.

  The view across the junk-filled field looked down on the backside of the pea-green bungalow approximately one hundred meters away.

  He turned toward the young woman and said, “This will be fine, but I have a few conditions. If you accept my conditions, I will pay you ten million Lebanese Pounds to rent this flat from today until the first of September.”

  The girl’s eyes grew wide. That was more than five thousand dollars for a little over three weeks. She nodded excitedly.

  He continued, “But you and your flatmates will have to vacate the apartment tomorrow and not discuss the rental with anyone. You will simply give me the keys and disappear for the next three weeks. I will meet you, and only you, back here at six o’clock tomorrow evening and give you the money. What you tell your flatmates is your business, but no one can return to the apartment before September first. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, yes of course,” she sputtered. “I understand. We will not return. We will not bother you.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Maggie was sitting at a desk in her hotel room, reviewing notes, when Edwin Rothmann called her throwaway phone.

  Rothmann said, “You guys are definitely on to something. The State Department is furious. The meeting between our ambassador and the Syrian foreign minister was very closely held within the department. They want to know how we found out about it. It’s supposed to take place a week from today in—you nailed it—Aanjar.”

  Maggie said, “I don’t understand why they’re throwing such a hissy fit. The State Department never could keep secrets. Anyway, all they have to do is cancel the meeting.” She paused and then added, “We’re not going to tell them where we got the information, are we?”

  The DDO hesitated before responding. “Of course not, but . . . well, there’s a lot of pressure . . .”

  “Please, Ed, tell me this is going to be okay. They’re not thinking of doing anything stupid, are they? They won’t put our source in jeopardy . . .”

  “I’m doing everything I can, Maggie. But you know what I’m dealing with. This administration is like The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight. They’re a bunch of amateur morons and they really don’t understand our business.”

  “What’s the worst-case scenario?”

  “They’re talking about making a démarche to the Syrian government. They want to show the Syrians how smart we are. That we know everything going on in the region. They want to poke the Syrians in the eye . . .”

  Maggie almost shouted. “They can’t do that. That could mean the end of our source. How long will it take them to figure out who leaked the information?”

  “I don’t know. But my first priority is protecting our sources and methods. You know that and I know that. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. The man you guys recruited may not be at the highest level and he may not be aware that he’s working for us, but he’s still the first and only penetration of Hezbollah we have. I’m hoping we’ll be running him far into the future. Long after this job is history.”

  Maggie, Santos, and MacMurphy gathered in MacMurphy’s hotel room to plan their next steps.

  Santos said, “I can’t believe State is even considering a démarche to the Syrians. They must know what
that could do to our source.”

  “We live in different times,” said Maggie. “I wouldn’t put anything past this administration.”

  “The simple solution is obvious: cancel the meeting,” said MacMurphy. “I still don’t understand why they don’t just do that.”

  “Maybe they will,” said Maggie. “Cooler heads might prevail.”

  Santos shook his head. “Don’t count on it.”

  MacMurphy said, “Okay, let’s move on. If anyone can handle the State Department, the DDO can. Let’s let him work his magic while we work ours. Hadi Kashmiri has come through once again. He’ll be by later this afternoon to pick up another bundle of cash. I am planning to give him ten thousand dollars—five for the apartment and five as a bonus. What do you think?”

  They nodded in agreement.

  He continued, “The students will be out of there by six, so I suggest we go over there around nine tonight and set up shop. That’ll give us one night of observation and all day tomorrow. Then, depending on what we learn, I think we should plan to go in and get our gal tomorrow night.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Santos. Maggie nodded.

  “Culler and I will wait here for Hadi. Can I ask you, Maggie, to run out and get us some provisions for a couple of days?”

  “Sure,” said Maggie.

  “Don’t forget the wine and beer,” said Santos. “And cognac for Mac . . .”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” said MacMurphy, turning to Maggie. “Would you also pick up a couple of black man-dresses for Culler and me? Maybe a couple of those little black hats as well. They’ll be good camouflage for us while we’re crawling around out there in the junk yard.”

  “Two dishdasha robes and two kufi hats for my boys. Got it. No one will see you out there . . .”

  CHAPTER 50

  Things were not going well for Edwin Rothmann back in Washington. The Department of State had dug in it’s heals over the démarche. It showed little regard for the source of the information and felt it could gain leverage with the Syrian government by showing how omnipotent and well informed they were.

  The CIA’s objections, championed by the DDO, had brought the question to its boiling point with neither side willing to compromise. Eventually, it went all the way to the president for a decision.

  The president, the actual leader of The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight, ultimately sided with the Department of State. He thought sticking his finger in Syria’s eye was a great idea.

  For the first time in his thirty-plus years in the CIA, the legendary DDO was actually considering resigning in protest over the government’s handling of the matter.

  Pouri made it back to Tehran without arousing anyone’s suspicion, but she was not welcomed back with open arms. After all, she had ultimately failed to break Yasmin. They felt she had been too soft.

  The powers that be in the Ministry of Intelligence were absolutely certain Yasmin was developing, and perhaps even running, assets connected with the Iranian nuclear program. And since the results of Pouri’s interrogations did not fit this narrative, they considered the interrogations a failure. They planned to replace Bashir with a more aggressive interrogator, but his arrival had been delayed due to a bureaucratic kerfuffle within the ministry.

  The final insult came when Pouri was not even asked to meet and brief her replacement.

  Screw them.

  And that is exactly what she planned to do.

  CHAPTER 51

  Maggie watched as Santos and MacMurphy cleaned, checked, and loaded their weapons.

  “Boys and their toys,” she said to no one in particular.

  “Men and their tools,” said Santos without looking up.

  “Those assault rifles look heavy,” said Maggie.

  “Actually, the rifles are pretty light,” said MacMurphy. “It’s the suppressor, scope, and especially the ammunition drum that adds the weight.”

  Thinking Maggie was actually interested in such things, Santos added, “It’s a trade-off. These drums carry one hundred rounds of ammo. I’d much rather carry a little more weight than have to change thirty-round magazines in the middle of a firefight.”

  “Hmm, I guess that makes sense,” she said and returned her attention to CNN news on the TV.

  MacMurphy removed their communication gear from a box on the bed and flipped one of the cigarette-pack-sized units to Santos. “Let’s check these out before we leave. They’re fully charged. I don’t think we need call signs.”

  They slipped them into their shirt pockets, adjusted the earpieces and attached the mics to their lapels. “Let’s use channel two,” said MacMurphy. “Testing, testing. Do you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear,” said Santos.

  “Got you too,” said MacMurphy.

  They turned them off, removed the earpiece and lapel mics, and stuffed them back into the box. “I think we’re ready,” said MacMurphy.

  “Let’s go over the checklist one more time,” said Santos. “I’ll read. You stuff the duffel.”

  MacMurphy smiled and set a large, green duffle bag by the bed. “Shoot.”

  Santos read from their list. “POF assault rifles with full Beta C-Mags, suppressors, scopes with infrared lasers, night-vision gear with head mounts, commo gear, Spetsnaz ballistic knives, MK23 .45 caliber handguns with two extra mags each, leg holsters, binoculars with night vision, and Kevlar vests.”

  MacMurphy sounded off “check” as he placed each of the items in the bag and then said, “You forgot something.”

  Santos checked his list one more time. “What?” he said.

  “Our camouflage: the black beanies and black man-dresses Maggie bought for us.”

  “Of course. We don’t want to go out there without making a fashion statement.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Boys . . .”

  They pulled up in front of the apartment buildings at exactly nine o’clock in the evening and parked. The neighborhood was dark and quiet. Several dim street lamps illuminated the sidewalk in front of the buildings.

  They spotted Kashmiri’s car parked a few spaces in front of them. Kashmiri, still wearing his Mullah garb, drifted out of the shadows, and approached their vehicle.

  “Bless you, my sons.” He hesitated a moment after looking into the Land Cruiser and added, “And daughter.”

  “You frightened us for a moment there,” said MacMurphy. “We thought you were a member of the religious police.”

  Kashmiri quipped back, “If I were, you’d be busted. Cover up your head back there, woman.”

  Maggie scrambled for her hijab and wrapped it around her head. The men were wearing their black dishdasha robes and kufi hats. Maggie wore a black burqa.

  Kashmiri smiled. “Now that everyone is decent you can follow me. Things are pretty quiet right now but let’s try to get up there without being seen.”

  They scrambled out of the Land Cruiser and retrieved their bags from the back. Santos, the strongest of the bunch, carried the duffle bag. They followed Kashmiri up the walkway to building five. They took the stairs two at a time to the third-floor landing and stood there, huffing and puffing, while Kashmiri unlocked the door. Once inside they closed the door and dropped their bags on the floor. Santos and MacMurphy hurried to the rear of the apartment to check out the view.

  Both bedrooms were identical. They were small with two twin beds, a night table and a dresser with four drawers. Bright, flowered curtains covered the single window looking out over the field and junkyard.

  The apartment was clean and neat, albeit sparsely furnished. It smelled of disinfectant, an indication that the young women took pains to clean it thoroughly before their renters arrived.

  Santos looked over to MacMurphy. “Looks pretty good to me.”

  “Yeah, we couldn’t do much better than this. Looks like about one hundred meters to the back of the house. If we have to shoot from here it would be an easy shot with the Lapua and certainly doable with the POF.”

  Santos
looked at him quizzically. “You’re not thinking about a sniper op, are you? We didn’t bring the Lapua. We are not going to be shooting from these windows. We’re going to assault that rathole and kill those assholes up close and personal.”

  “Just thinking aloud. Alternatives . . . you know.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Abu Salah could not believe what he was hearing.

  He stood nervously at the end of a long conference table. He was not asked to take a seat. Sitting at the other end looking up at him menacingly was Sayyed Hassan Nasrallah, the much-feared secretary general of Hezbollah. His deputy, Sheikh Naim Qassem, and two other Hezbollah officials that Abu Salah did not recognize flanked Nasrallah. Another man, dressed in a brown, western-style business suit, sporting a scruffy, salt-and-pepper beard, rounded out the table. Abu Salah guessed the latter individual was Iranian, although he was not introduced.

  Nasrallah, dressed elegantly in a black turban and a dark gray robe, gazed over steel-rimmed glasses with an icy stare. “How could you let this happen? It is you who leaked the information. You are either in league with the Americans or incredibly stupid. Which is it?”

  Abu Salah’s knees shook. He wanted to sit or at least put his big hands on the table, but he did not dare. He did not understand what was happening. He sputtered, “I . . . I don’t know . . . I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” said Qassem. He spoke softly, although his dark, piercing eyes belied his mild tone. His well-manicured, white beard trembled as he spoke. “You have simply been careless. Think back. To whom did you reveal your mission?”

  “I would never . . . I never told anyone. I have been loyal for more than forty years. I . . .”

  “Enough,” said Nasrallah. “We believe you. You have proven your loyalty countless times. Nevertheless, the information came from you. You were the leak. Of that I am certain.”

  Qassem leaned back in his chair and fixed Abu Salah with a steely gaze. “There have been two related incidents. The first occurred a few days ago when we moved the hostage to the new location.”