Tier One Wild df-2

by Dalton Fury

  The four security men who’d placed themselves in the lobby came closer to the restaurant. Two wandered over to the gift shop and pretended to read magazines there, and two more came to the bar, sat at stools on Hawk’s right, and ordered fruit juice.

  Even though they were young men in their twenties, they took no interest in Cindy whatsoever.

  These characters were disciplined, Raynor noted. Plus, he figured, they probably got their share of ass when they weren’t on the job.

  Kolt still had his phone recording, though he wondered how much of Afifi’s conversation he’d managed to pick up with him and Hawk chatting so much closer to the mic. He reached to turn it off, but the two men at the bar started talking to one another while they scanned the lobby and the patrons of the restaurant.

  It was foreign, that’s all Kolt could tell. He hoped Cindy could understand some of their conversation. He looked at her for some sign that she was listening while she was talking, but immediately he saw something in her eyes.

  She stopped talking for a moment.

  Kolt took over the conversation, but even he stopped when she silently mouthed something to him with wide eyes. Kolt knew their every move was broadcast in the mirror behind the liquor bottles on the wall. The last thing they needed was for her to look suspicious to the security goons. Kolt tried to give her that look, a look that said, Don’t dick this up now.

  The look did not register. She started to mouth it a second time, but Kolt reached over, placed his hand behind her head, and pulled her close. He kissed her neck, then moved his lips toward her left ear.

  “Honey, whisper in my ear. Be cool.”

  Cindy knew right away she’d messed that up and faked a giggle to recover. She turned in to rub her cheek against Kolt’s and whispered.

  “Farsi.”

  Kolt showed no expression. He just nodded and smiled, and willed her to calm down. He placed his hand on hers on the bar, and then he asked for the check.

  Farsi, he thought.

  Iranians.

  Shit.

  He kept his smile as he paid cash for the drinks, and he reached for his glass to kill the rest of his beer. As he brought the drink to his lips he saw four men in gray suits enter the lobby, heading for the restaurant.

  Raynor recognized Aref Saleh from his photos, even though he could tell the man had had some work done on his face.

  Quickly Kolt turned to Cindy. “Shall we?”

  Her eyes were on Saleh, as well, but Kolt’s attention diverted hers before his goons noticed.

  Seconds later Frank and Carrie were heading out the door.

  * * *

  “Sorry about that,” Cindy said after the valet brought them their car and they headed off back to the safe house. “I lost my head for a second.”

  Kolt nodded. Getting excited like that was a rookie mistake. But she was, in fact, something of a rookie. He said, “You got away with it. Are you certain about the language?”

  “Yes. I didn’t understand what they were saying. But I recognized the sound of it.”

  Kolt saw that she was pretty agitated about this discovery and he understood why. If these seven men were Iranian, then that meant they were not some band of rogue freedom fighters or some terrorist outfit. No, the men at the Sofitel meeting with a personality from the JSO arms ring would be Iranian intelligence agents of some sort.

  It upped the scale of these proceedings.

  Cindy asked, “You are sure that was Saleh?”

  “Yep,” Kolt said. “Curtis is going to wet himself with excitement.”

  “But what do Iranians need with Saleh’s SAMs? They must have thousands of MANPADS.”

  Kolt nodded slowly while he drove. “Curtis can confirm it, but I suspect these guys are going to be with Quds Force. They are a special unit of the Iranian Republican Guard in charge of extraterritorial operations. They will pass the shoulder-fired missiles out to every asshole on the planet that wants to knock down an American or an Israeli plane.”

  “Wonderful,” Cindy said.

  * * *

  They made it back to the safe house just before nine, and Curtis and his men were waiting for them in the commo room.

  “Did you get anything?” Curtis asked.

  Kolt noticed that Curtis’s eyes were on Cindy in her dress, but he answered the question as if he were the one being addressed. “Yep. Positive ID on Saleh. Afifi, as well.”

  “Hot damn.” Curtis stood from his chair and high-fived Murphy and Wychowski. He then looked back to Raynor. “Who did he meet with?”

  Kolt reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He tossed it across the little room. “How’s your Farsi?”

  “Dammit. Iranian?”

  “’Fraid so. Got some conversation between a couple of them. Seven men in total. One VIP, along with a six-strong, exceptionally well-trained security detail.”

  Curtis thought over the implications. “These Iranians are going to be Quds Force of the Republican Guard. We’ve heard rumblings about them nosing around in Tripoli trying to get MANPADS. Dammit,” Curtis repeated. “I’ll need to let Langley know. We are not going to let a team of Quds operatives waltz out of Cairo with a trailer full of MANPADS. They want these SAMs so they can give them to third parties. They can bring down aircraft without it being tied back to Iran. They’ll pass them off to their proxy goons in the Sadr militia in Iraq or to Hezbollah in Lebanon, or to God knows who else, God knows where else.”

  Kolt said, “Spare us the lesson in geopolitics. Combating Iranian influence has been one of JSOC’s top priorities since ’06. Quds guys know how to fight, and those Libyans are going to know how to disappear. If the Egyptian Army tries this on their own it will be a mess. Plus, we’ve got to assume there are Egyptian government officials who will tip off Saleh.”

  Then Kolt added, “The Quds men are billeted at the Sofitel. That seemed pretty obvious.”

  Curtis thought this over. “Langley can easily find out which rooms were rented out by an entourage of seven men. I’ll see if I can get operations to send over an electronic surveillance/wire tap team to get in there and drop some bugs. This ought to warrant that level of attention from Langley.”

  Murphy said, “When we get that location bugged, we’ll need someone here in the commo room who can do real-time translations.”

  “We will need another terp,” confirmed Curtis. “Get a Farsi terp from Cairo Station, stat. If they have a guy vetted who speaks Arabic and Farsi, that would be ideal.”

  “I don’t recommend that,” Kolt said.

  “Don’t sweat it, Racer. Cairo Station will have someone that they’ve been using for years.”

  “Do it right and send tonight’s audio file to Langley. Maybe they can get someone who speaks Farsi here with the audio team. We start pulling support staff from the embassy … that’s going to get around.”

  Curtis shrugged. He seemed to reconsider.

  Feeling that his harsh comments about the unvetted Arabic terp may have sunk in, Kolt eased up. “Just be careful about who you bring into our operation. Think OPSEC first, okay?”

  Now Curtis smiled. “Don’t you worry, Racer. I’ll talk to Langley about getting a crew on the way, and you and yours can sleep safe and snug in your beds tonight.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Vezarat-e Ettela’at va Amniyat-e Keshvar, or VEVAK, is the Ministry of Intelligence and National Security of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Iran had long recruited agents in the U.S. Embassy in Cairo Egypt. Most of the day-to-day running of the assets was done by an Iranian officer working under diplomatic cover as a commercial affairs officer in the Iranian Embassy of Egypt at 12 Rifaa Street in Cairo. Majid Dalwan, the director of Egypt’s VEVAK office, spent his days recruiting new contacts as well as tending to established agents, each working in diplomatic offices across the city.

  By no means had Dalwan’s network of agents here managed to seriously compromise the American Embassy, but they had managed to achieve a toeho
ld on some sectors of operations.

  One of VEVAK network’s toeholds was a fifty-six-year-old Egyptian translation support officer in the U.S. Embassy named Hamdy el Nasr. The man had served as an English translator for years for the Mubarak government before taking his current position at the U.S. Embassy. Now, in his administrative role, he found himself in charge of organizing the translation needs of several departments of the embassy.

  Dalwan had made gentle contact with el Nasr a year earlier, and he’d found the man to be receptive to offers of small amounts of cash for small bits of intelligence. He had twice stolen documents from his embassy, and he had given the VEVAK officer at the Iranian Embassy information on Farsi speakers who worked with the Americans locally.

  His product had not been terribly useful to date, so months ago Majid Dalwan passed the embassy employee off to one of his underlings. He had not personally spoken to el Nasr since then, so he was surprised to find his underperforming agent on the other end of the line when his office phone rang just after nine in the morning.

  “Good morning, my friend,” said Majid. “It is not like you to contact me. Is there a problem?”

  “No. None at all. I wondered if we could have a chat in response to the e-mail I received from your office the other day.”

  Dalwan thought it over for just a moment. He had ordered his officers to put out feelers to local agents in the Iranian community. Dalwan had been notified by the Republican Guard that they would have Quds personnel operating in the city for a few days, and Dalwan had been instructed to keep an ear out for any uptick in chatter by American, Israeli, or Egyptian intelligence organizations that might indicate one of these agencies had knowledge of the Iranians in the city. So VEVAK had sent a general e-mail out to their contacts asking them to get in touch if there were any rumors or out-of-the-ordinary happenings.

  So this call from an administrative officer in the U.S. Embassy in relation to the e-mail filled Dalwan with instant curiosity.

  Dalwan made a decision. He had been doing this long enough, and he knew that this agent was solid enough, that he felt a face-to-face meeting was warranted.

  “Let’s meet at the usual place.”

  “Yes,” said el Nasr. “I think that would be in order.”

  * * *

  Majid Dalwan kept his expectations low as he and Hamdy el Nasr sipped tea at a nearly empty café a block east of Tahrir Square. He kept the conversation pleasant and light while he made sure el Nasr had not brought a tail. This took some time, but finally, when they were alone in the café, Dalwan leaned forward to his agent.

  “What news do you bring me?”

  “This morning I found out we have hired a Farsi translator on a one-week contract basis.”

  Dalwan looked at his agent. So much excitement in the older man’s eyes, yet this news meant nothing to the Iranian spy except that he had just wasted his morning on a fruitless trip to Tahrir Square.

  “Someone in the embassy needs a Farsi speaker. That is why I am here?”

  “There is more.”

  “I certainly hope there is. Who has requested the duties of this contract employee?”

  “I don’t have the ability to see who requisitioned him. I only know because I arrange payment of interpreters and translators, and this man, an old colleague, called me asking about an advance.”

  “Then what is it that you find so exciting?”

  “I have no record of him being hired for work this week. We have no need of a Farsi speaker at this time. Plus, the rate he claims to have been offered is very high. This indicated to me my old colleague is cleared for the highest security clearance.”

  Majid Dalwan ran his fingertips along his trim mustache. “Maybe he needed to translate love letters from the ambassador to his Persian girlfriend, and they will pay him in cash. Maybe he is — ”

  “I am certain he is working with the CIA.”

  Dalwan cocked his head. “How do you know?”

  “The local CIA station at the embassy has their own language experts. They do not need to contract them. So this man will not be working for the CIA at the local station. But this is an emergency contract at a very high rate of pay. To me it looks as if it entails overnight work, as well. Probably twenty-four hours a day on site at a location.”

  Now we are getting somewhere, thought Dalwan. He had no idea what the Quds Force men were doing in Cairo, and he did not care, unless it got in the way of one of his VEVAK ops. But if a group of American spies in town under nonofficial cover suddenly needed a Farsi translator for 24/7 on-site work … well, this sounded like a surveillance operation, and it sounded to Dalwan like his Quds colleagues were burned.

  This was definitely worth passing on to the Republican Guard to inform their Quds agents. It might even earn Dalwan some kudos with his nation’s military.

  “This man that they are hiring, what can you tell me about him?”

  “He is Egyptian, but he lived in Iran in the seventies. He is a university professor here in Cairo, and he has the required security clearances for intelligence work with Americans.”

  “And you have his home address?”

  El Nasr said, “I do. He called me personally about the advance. I told him I will look into it for him, and I am meeting him for lunch. From the conversation we had I assume he will be going to his contract job after this.”

  “Excellent, my friend. You have done well by bringing this to my attention.”

  “Would it be imprudent for me to ask how I will be rewarded?”

  “Not at all, I think you deserve double the usual rate for your product.”

  Majid Dalwan smiled.

  * * *

  At the AQAP village near Wadi Bana, Charles wiped sweat from his forehead and looked into his rearview mirror.

  “Charles” was a Saudi whose real name was Mustafa. He sat in the front seat of a Toyota pickup truck, his hands on the steering wheel. Next to him was “Nick,” a Pakistani named Nawaz. They sat silently, parked under an awning of one of the barracks.

  David Doyle walked up to the driver’s-side window and knocked on it with a radio.

  Charles rolled down the window and looked to the leader of the cell.

  “Afternoon,” said Doyle.

  “Hello, Officer.”

  “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

  “I am sorry. I do not know.”

  “You were doing forty-eight in a thirty-five.”

  “I am sorry.” Charles started to reach into his back pocket for his driver’s license.

  “Don’t you fucking move!” David screamed, and he pulled a pistol from the holster on his belt. “Show me your hands, motherfucker!”

  Charles raised his hands quickly. “I am sorry! I am sorry.”

  David pointed the loaded gun across Charles and at the chest of Nick now. “You, too, you piece of shit. Hands up!”

  Doyle then pulled both men out of the car and frisked them with their hands on the hood of the Toyota. As he did this the rest of the group stood around inside the building and watched the action under the awning through large open windows.

  When the frisking was finished, when Charles and Nick were allowed back in their vehicle and told to drive on, David ended the exercise. He turned to the group watching through the windows and said, “My brothers. Through it all you must remember to smile. People smile in America. It means nothing. They will still do you harm, but if you are not smiling at them all the time, then they will not trust you.”

  It went on like this for hours until, finally, every member of the force could obey all the commands and answer all the questions of a normal traffic stop by American law enforcement.

  After this protracted lesson of the day, David and his four subunit members joined him at the container for more practice getting down to the ground and ready to fire. He’d gotten their time down to thirty-nine seconds, more or less consistently, but he pushed his men even harder.

  They would only have a few mo
re days before it was time to begin their journey to America, and he needed them ready.

  * * *

  Iranian intelligence officer Majid Dalwan contacted his counterparts in the Republican Guard, and by noon the Quds security men at the Sofitel knew a potential compromise of their operation had occurred. They were waiting outside the restaurant where Dalwan lunched with the interpreter, and then followed him in three vehicles at a distance. With two men in a car, and two more men on two motorcycles, they followed him out of Garden City and then south.

  The interpreter parked his car in the garage at the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities and the surveillance team fanned out, expecting him to go inside.

  But as soon as he climbed out of his vehicle, a black Range Rover pulled out of a nearby space and rolled up next to him. The Iranian professor climbed into the SUV and they headed out of the parking garage while the Quds officers scrambled to reorganize their mobile coverage.

  The Range Rover headed south, and the Iranians backed off farther now, monitoring for any countersurveillance put up by the opposition. They called in two more motorcycles, bringing to five the number of vehicles tailing the interpreter now.

  Within minutes they felt confident they were tailing a vehicle operated by intelligence operatives. The black SUV turned down side streets, raced through intersections as the lights changed, and changed lanes over and over, searching for a tail.

  But the Quds men had been doing this sort of work for a long time, and they managed to keep one vehicle in sight of their target through all the countermeasures.

  After three in the afternoon the SUV rolled into the gates of a small fenced office building in eastern Maadi. The single biker with visual on the Range Rover rolled on by while the other vehicles backed off.

  Fifteen minutes later two Quds officers walked through the unfinished construction of a high-rise apartment building across the street from the safe house. They took stairs to the fourth floor, and then stood back in the shadows, looking over the building in front of them. Several cars were lined up behind the fence next to a single door to the lobby. There were neither signs nor security out front.