One Step Bac

by Luana Ehrlich

  “He’s a government scientist named Amir Madani. Farid introduced us, and I understand he’s also one of your father’s acquaintances.”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “I’m guessing you know him as well.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I know Amir, but if I owned Salami watches, I wouldn’t allow him to invest in my company.”

  “Really?” I said, trying to look surprised. “Why is that?”

  “Because Amir Madani isn’t the man he appears to be.”

  * * * *

  After commending Chaman for her honesty, I encouraged her to tell me what she knew about Amir. As it turned out, she knew very little, but that didn’t stop her from making some derogatory comments about him.

  “He’s completely disingenuous,” she said. “One day, he told my father he was against Russia’s involvement in our country, but a week later, when he had an opportunity to speak at Tehran University on the subject, he said something completely different.”

  “Perhaps he had simply changed his mind about the Russians.”

  “Well, that’s what he said, but if you believe strongly in something, you don’t change your mind that easily.”

  Chaman was typical of other young people I’d met in Iran who were born into wealthy families. Even though they lived in Iran’s repressed society, most of them didn’t think twice about expressing their opinion on controversial subjects. I suspected they weren’t afraid of speaking out because they knew their privileged position would shield them from being punished by the regime.

  On the other hand, the less fortunate Iranians—those poor souls who couldn’t afford to bribe someone should they be arrested for making contentious comments—seldom voiced their opinions, especially in public.

  “So you and Amir discussed his change of attitude?”

  She nodded. “After the seminar, I asked him why he’d chosen to lie about his beliefs.”

  “Was this a private conversation?”

  For a brief moment, I thought Chaman looked uncomfortable. “No, I confronted him during the public question-and-answer period following his lecture.”

  “I see.”

  “Look, Hammid,” she said, pointing her manicured finger at me, “I realize some people might think that was rude of me, but I’m an activist; that’s what I do.”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean by that, Chaman. What do you do as an activist?”

  She got out of her chair and walked over to a set of windows facing Maryam Street. “I confront people, especially if they’re not being true to their beliefs. I call attention to injustices, no matter what they are.”

  She turned around and motioned for me to join her. “Come here, Hammid. I’ll show you what I mean.”

  Even though I knew Chaman considered herself a “modern” Iranian woman and didn’t necessarily adhere to the strict Islamic teachings forbidding physical contact between an unmarried man and woman, I was careful not to stand too close to her when I walked over to the window, lest I accidently brush up against her.

  She pointed down at the street. “See that art gallery down there? The one on the corner by the restaurant?”

  “Yes, I noticed it when I was entering your building.”

  She turned away from the window and faced me. “When the gallery owners refused to display the works of the Saudi artist, Raja Abu, I had my father notify them he wouldn’t renew their lease if they weren’t willing to display his paintings.”

  “I’m sure that got their attention.”

  She nodded. “Exactly. That’s what I mean by being an activist. Many of Abu’s paintings are controversial because he depicts injustices in Islamic society, but I thought it was unfair for the gallery owners to censor him here in Tehran if art galleries in Riyadh were willing to exhibit his works.”

  “Perhaps the gallery owners were simply being cautious about featuring the Saudi artist because of the animosity between Riyadh and Tehran. Maybe it had nothing to do with the paintings themselves.”

  Chaman looked puzzled. “I’m not sure I know what you mean. Iran has always maintained close relations with all of our Arab neighbors, despite our differences.”

  I suddenly realized Chaman probably didn’t know about the tense standoff between Tehran and Riyadh regarding Iran’s role in the Syrian conflict; such information wasn’t usually broadcast on the evening news in Tehran.

  I said, “I’m referring to the conflict between the Sunni and Shiite sects of Islam. Perhaps the gallery owners didn’t want to display the works of a Sunni artist when the majority of Iranians are Shia.”

  Chaman laughed. “But don’t you see, Hammid? That too is an injustice. It’s the same thing I told Amir Madani. Don’t be afraid to go against the majority, especially if you feel strongly about something.”

  “Did Amir agree with you?”

  “No, I don’t believe he did. Or, if he did, he wasn’t willing to admit it.” She shook her head. “That’s what I mean. Amir Madani is too indecisive to be a good investor for your company.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right, Chaman.”

  I immediately turned away from the window and headed toward the door. “I should go inform Amir of my decision right away. Do you know where he works?”

  She seemed startled by my sudden departure. “Ah . . . I believe he works at the Energy Building across from the Defense Ministry, but you know you won’t be able to get in there without a security pass.”

  “You’re right. I’ll need to call Amir first and make an appointment to meet him somewhere.”

  Chaman followed me to the front door. When I reached the foyer, I placed my hand over my heart in an effort to display my sincerity.

  “I’m grateful for your help, Chaman. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Hammid.”

  When I turned to leave, I felt her fingers brush lightly across my back. “You can call me anytime, Hammid. 021-77424832.”

  I was smiling as I walked away.

  Chapter 4

  After my conversation with Chaman, I had mixed feelings about pursuing a friendship with Amir as a means of recruiting him as my asset.

  Although Chaman had verified Amir’s willingness to criticize the Iranian regime—at least on the question of its partnership with Russia—I questioned whether this was enough evidence to indicate the scientist would be a viable CIA asset.

  Perhaps, like Chaman, Amir wasn’t afraid to denounce certain government practices because he knew his wealth and position would protect him from any kind of hostile response from the Iranian regime.

  However, such outspokenness didn’t necessarily mean he would be open to an approach from a foreign entity.

  I also had my doubts about whether I could persuade him to betray his country by offering him large sums of cash. Apparently, Amir Madani was already a man of means.

  Amir’s wealth was a big concern to me—not the money itself, but where it came from.

  I wanted to know the source of his funds.

  Had he inherited his riches as Farid had suggested?

  Perhaps.

  But there were several other possibilities, and some of them could be hazardous to my health, not to mention my life.

  The most dangerous possibility was that Amir was on the payroll of VEVAK.

  If the secret police were paying him to spy on his fellow scientists—not an unusual practice in an authoritarian society—then, more than likely, he had been trained in basic espionage techniques.

  Such techniques included how to assess threat risks and spot suspicious behavior, which meant Amir might view someone who showed an interest in him a little differently than most people would.

  In that event, he might request VEVAK’s assistance in assessing my intentions, and while my legend could easily pass a superficial inspection, it might not hold up if VEVAK ordered a deep data dig into my background.

  Another possibility was th
at Amir was already on the payroll of a foreign government.

  The Israelis immediately came to mind.

  The North Koreans were another option, given their recent history with other nuclear scientists. However, since Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency, usually paid their informants in large sums of cash, the Israelis appeared to be the most likely candidate for recruiting Amir.

  While Mossad and the CIA played on the same team when it came to sharing intelligence with each other, when it came to recruiting assets, it was a different story.

  In that narrative, the two agencies often engaged in a fierce battle to win what had always been considered the highest prize in counterintelligence—a highly placed government source.

  At times, the competition between the two agencies had even gotten ugly.

  For years, I’d heard rumors Mossad had once blown a CIA operation wide open just to prevent one of their own Syrian assets from being recruited. While I doubted the story’s veracity in its entirety, if it turned out Amir was working for the Israelis, I would stay as far away from him as possible.

  My reluctance to mix it up with Mossad wasn’t based on my fear of what they could do to me.

  It was based on a promise I’d made several years ago when one of their operatives had helped me out of a tough spot in Lebanon. After that, I’d vowed to be as supportive of my Israeli counterparts as possible.

  As long as it didn’t jeopardize America’s interests, I planned to keep that promise.

  * * * *

  After spending several hours weighing all my options, I realized I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make a run at Amir.

  The Iranian nuclear scientist was just too big a prize.

  Eventually, I’d have to contact Carlton and get him to sign off on reworking the protocols of Operation Torchlight to include pursuing Amir Madani as my asset. But, before I did that, I needed to spend a few days running surveillance on him.

  That would be the first question Carlton would ask me if I sent him an emergency contact request. My operations officer considered running surveillance on a potential target as doing one’s homework, and not doing one’s homework was seen as incompetence.

  Carlton had a thing about incompetence—he didn’t tolerate it.

  Having learned from Chaman where Amir worked—at the Atomic Energy Building—and from Farid where Amir lived—in Shemiran—I immediately scouted out both neighborhoods.

  Of the two sites, the neighborhood around Shemiran proved to be the most desirable location for setting up surveillance on him. Parking was permitted on the street opposite his building, plus, within walking distance, there were several restaurants, a couple of coffee shops, and a grocery store.

  I was betting Amir frequented at least one of those establishments, and since they were all public places, if he was employed by VEVAK, then they would also be the most likely spots for him to meet up with a VEVAK agent, or hand off information to a courier without drawing anyone’s attention.

  Such contact was sometimes difficult to detect without using a team of watchers, but, unfortunately, I had no such resources in Tehran.

  My assignment was strictly deep cover. I had no partner, no embassy backup, no surveillance teams. Unlike other missions where I usually operated out of the American embassy or from a fully-staffed safe house, I was on my own in Iran.

  Operating solo had never bothered me that much.

  In fact, I actually preferred it. But, in this case, I wouldn’t have minded having a couple of Agency surveillance teams with me. That way, I would have been able to keep tabs on Amir 24/7.

  Since that wasn’t possible, I did an economized version of a full surveillance package.

  * * * *

  The day after I visited with Chaman, I arrived at Shemiran early enough in the afternoon to find a parking spot on the street outside the apartment complex.

  If nothing else, on my first day, I wanted to at least identify the kind of car he was driving when he returned home from work.

  Just before dusk, I saw Amir pull into the parking lot on the west side of the complex. The lot offered covered carports as well as enclosed garages, and, after making a call to the main office, I’d found out the garages were reserved for those fortunate tenants who own one of Shemiran’s higher-end apartments.

  It didn’t surprise me when I saw Amir drive his black Mercedes S-Class sedan into one of the garages. A few seconds later, he walked out of the unit and entered a code on the security panel on the outside wall. Once he saw the door descend, he walked around to the main entrance of Building B and went inside.

  For the next week, I followed Amir everywhere he went. He usually left Building B around eight o’clock in the morning and arrived at the Defense Ministry’s military compound around nine o’clock. It wasn’t unusual for him to take a two-hour lunch, but since several of his co-workers usually accompanied him to one of the nearby restaurants, I saw no opportunity for him to meet up with anyone who might be running him as an agent.

  One afternoon, I got a break as I was sitting in my car outside the military installation waiting for Amir to leave work for the day.

  I happened to notice one of his colleagues, a young guy who often joined him for lunch, had a flat tire on the left rear wheel of his older model Fiat.

  He’d just driven out of the main security gate, and I knew the guy couldn’t get very far down the road without having to pull over, so I decided to follow him and play the role of a Good Samaritan.

  Even though I had to abandon my surveillance of Amir, I knew if I was able to pick up some new intel about the scientist, it would be worth it.

  As expected, I spotted the Fiat on the side of the road about a mile down the highway.

  I pulled in directly behind him.

  “Hey,” I said to the Flat Tire Guy as we both got out of our vehicles, “I’ve been trying to get your attention. I was right behind you when you pulled out the front gate, and I couldn’t believe the security guy didn’t let you know you had a flat tire.”

  He shook his head as he looked down at the tire. “You know Farshid, he’s an idiot.”

  I added an appropriate disparaging comment about Farshid, and then I offered to help him remove the damaged tire.

  “Sure,” he said. “I could use your help.”

  He extended his hand toward me. “I’m Merza Zand.”

  “Yousef Navid,” I said. “I work in the Defense Ministry. Actually, I’m in Procurements.”

  Merza nodded. “I work over at the Energy Building next door.” He gestured toward my BMW. “With a car like that, I knew you had to work in Defense. Research scientists get paid next to nothing.”

  I tried to look embarrassed. “My father got me the job.”

  After we removed the flat tire, I said. “You work in atomic research, huh? You must be one smart guy.”

  He smiled. “I don’t work alone. There are several other guys on my team.”

  “It still sounds like interesting work.”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty interesting.” When he glanced up at me, he gave me a wary look. “You know I can’t talk about it, right?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I said with a smile. “I’m not even sure I’d want to know what goes on in the Energy Building.”

  He nodded. “Believe me. You don’t.”

  Having learned Amir Madani wasn’t just any nuclear scientist, but a nuclear scientist involved in atomic research, I executed a short fist pump once I got back in my car and headed toward Shemiran.

  Now, it was time to call Carlton.

  Chapter 5

  Tehran, Iran

  October 14, 2015

  Contacting my operations officer was easy. All I had to do was enter a three-digit code on my Agency sat phone.

  How soon Carlton got back with me would depend on the three numbers I decided to enter on the keypad. One set of numbers would let Carlton know I needed to speak with an entire operat
ions team in one of the Real Time Management (RTM) Centers located in the basement of CIA headquarters at Langley.

  The RTM Centers were collectively known as the Ops Center, which was where the day-to-day operations of the CIA took place.

  If I entered that code, I might not hear back from Carlton for an hour, maybe even two hours, depending on how long it took him to assemble the RTM team running Operation Torchlight.

  On the other hand, if I chose to punch in a different set of numbers, then Carlton would know I only wanted a one-on-one conversation with him. In that case, I’d probably get a call within fifteen minutes.

  Since my operations officer always preferred to be told about a matter before calling in the entire operations team, I entered the code alerting Carlton I wanted to have a chat with him without an operations team present.

  If Carlton followed his usual pattern when I gave him fresh intel, once I told him about Amir, he would ask my opinion about setting up a video call with the entire operations team to discuss the protocols for handling the new material.

  Then, if I followed my usual pattern, after pretending to think about it a second, I’d tell him that decision was entirely up to him.

  Carlton would never admit it, but he enjoyed making decisions, and I tried to indulge him as much as possible.

  * * * *

  Although my Agency satellite phone was a fully encrypted model, with added safeguards to prevent anyone listening in on my conversations or being able to capture my text messages, I took one extra precaution after sending Carlton the contact code.

  Next to the armchair in my living room, I placed what appeared to be an alarm clock. In reality, it was a sound distortion device or Acoustical Protection System (APS), which rendered all voices in the room as static and thwarted any listening devices in the area.

  Eleven minutes after I keyed in the three-digit code, my phone vibrated.

  “Is this official?” Carlton asked.

  “That depends.”

  According to Agency regulations, when an intelligence officer contacted his operations officer, that contact had to be recorded for the official log. Although Carlton wasn’t a rule-breaker, he sometimes defined the wording in Agency documents a little differently than the CIA’s Legal Division did.