Harry's Rules

by Michael R. Davidson

  “No, my friend,” continued Shurgin, becoming even more animated, “America was defeated in 1974 and will never recover from that calamity. Down deep they know they have lost their honor and their soul forever. For them, patriotism is today a dirty word. The Americans revile and distrust their own government. Yes, they remain a superpower, but their power is useless because they lack the will to employ it to their advantage, and they will always betray their allies, just as they did at the Bay of Pigs and just as they did in Vietnam.”

  Shurgin ceased his pacing directly in front of Hatimi. “How old is Persian civilization? How many conflicts have your people seen? How many centuries have you survived with your culture intact? The Americans have no such background. They are a mongrel nation of degraded races that becomes more divided every day, and they celebrate the centrifugal forces tearing them apart as ‘diversity.’ Their national passion is self-indulgence and immediate gratification, and their politicians pander to these weaknesses. They have no patience and no strategic vision. Most of their schoolchildren cannot even find their own country on a map.

  “We both know history, and we know the value of patience. The Persians invented chess, and the Russians mastered it. I think the time has come for us to play on the same side of the board.”

  Shurgin sat down again across the table from the Iranian and leaned forward. His voice resonated with conviction. “We will regain our power and influence. We will regain our hegemony over Eastern Europe, and eventually Western Europe, as well. It will take years, but we have a plan, and we have the means. The machinery is already in motion. Your people and ours may not be fond of one another, but we can at least work together against a common enemy.” Shurgin paused for effect, and then continued, “I have something to offer to you of great value to your country.”

  CHAPTER 16 – "Magic"

  Two days after signing Shurgin’s document, a nearly exhausted General Hatimi, gratefully debarked from the Qatar Airways jumbo jet after over 13 hours of flying. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning in Tehran. Carrying only a single small bag Hatimi wended his way through the terminal and found his car and driver waiting in the gloom outside. He flopped heavily into the rear seat and ordered the driver to take him home. He had just enough time for a shower and a change from the dark suit he now wore to his uniform. This would be a busy day. He rested his head against the seatback and closed his eyes.

  Shurgin’s offer to provide clandestine assistance to the Islamic Republic’s nuclear program was a welcome event, as was his parallel offer of advanced weapons systems, including anti-aircraft missile technology. Later in the year the Russian Minister of Atomic Energy would visit Tehran to formalize the agreement Hatimi had signed the day before yesterday with Shurgin. The overt portion of the agreement would engage the Russians to rebuild the Bushehr reactors. This was something Hatimi had been struggling to set up for some time. A year previously Shurgin had informed Hatimi that the Americans had agreed to an arrangement whereby the Russians would assist in rebuilding the Bushehr reactors. They did this in the vain hope of shoring up the flailing, increasingly erratic Yeltsin government. But the Americans would never know of the secret codicil of that same agreement that Hatimi carried now in his bag. Under cover of the overt Bushehr project, the Russians would provide Iran with much needed heavy water technology, including reactors. Eventually an entire heavy water facility would be set up where no one would ever find it. God is great, thought the General, the infidels will supply us the very means by which we will destroy them. Under Velayat-é Faqih, Islamic Rule, Persia would regain its ancient strength, and no enemy, not even the Great Satan, would dare smite her once she possessed nuclear weapons.

  Three hours later, somewhat refreshed and feeling better in his starched uniform, Hatimi again boarded his car for the drive across town to the modern low rise office building that housed the offices of the Tiara Electric Company. The Islamic Republic’s nuclear development program was still in its initial stages, but planning had begun not long after the Revolution of 1979 until put on hold after the Iraqis destroyed the Bushehr facility. The innocuously named Tiara Electric Company was the cover organization for the acquisition of nuclear technology and materials.

  Hatimi strode into the office building heading straight for the Director’s office. Bursting through the door he greeted the diminutive man behind the desk.

  “Salaam Aleikom, Peace be with you, Mansoor. Good morning.”

  “And with you. Welcome.” replied Doctor Mansoor Davedeh, surprised by Hatimi’s unexpected appearance. For the past seven years, under the cover of the small “electric company” Davedeh had headed Project Magush, the Islamic Republic’s nuclear weapons development program. “Magush” means “magic” in Old Persian, and Davedeh’s hard won successes thus far displayed the touch of a sorcerer.

  Davedeh turned to the black clad woman who had just finished pouring him a cup of hot, sweet, tea. “Giti, will you please bring a cup for the General?” The woman scurried out of the office.

  Davedeh turned back to Hatimi. “Back already, I see, from your foray into infidel territory. Do I detect excitement in your eyes?”

  “Are you still in the market for plutonium enrichment technology?” Hatimi sat in a chair opposite Davedeh.

  Davedeh sipped his hot sweet tea. “That’s the main idea,” he replied insouciantly. “Are you telling me The Russians would expand the Bushehr protocol?”

  There was a soft knock at the door and Giti scuttled back in with a cup of tea for Hatimi.

  “Mamoon, Giti, thank you,” said the General to her retreating back. The two men remained silent until she had closed the door.

  “The Bushehr protocol is only a façade,” replied Hatimi, “My visit to ‘infidel territory,’ as you put it, has yielded some sweet fruit. The Russians signed a secret protocol with me. They agreed to supply two heavy water reactors, and much more.”

  “Na bãbã, you must be kidding!” exclaimed Davedeh. “Do you realize what this means for Magush? If the Russians come through, we'll be able to pursue plutonium enrichment along two parallel lines. The Indians used heavy water reactors for their first weapons-grade plutonium, you know.” He rubbed his hands together. “We'll have to initiate another project. That will require another site, and lots of money,” Davedeh was excited. “Will we be able to come up with the funding?”

  “The Russian price is not cheap,” sighed Hatimi, “But that’s my job. We'll find the money somewhere. God will provide.”

  “Enshã’allãh. The Pakistanis weren’t cheap either. We'll have to find someone qualified to head up the project,” said Davedeh. “I’m fully occupied with acquiring the centrifuges. I think I can make some suggestions.”

  “Very well, Mansoor. Please draw up a list of prospects so I can begin the background checks.” He stood, preparing to leave. “They must be godly men, Mansoor.”

  Davedeh assumed a serious mien. “But of course, General. You can rest assured.” He stood to escort Hatimi out of his office.

  At the door, the two men embraced before Hatimi trotted down the steps toward his waiting Mercedes. The conversation with Davideh had renewed his energy. He looked back at Davedeh before entering the car and waved at the nuclear scientist.

  Hatimi instructed his driver to head for VEVAK headquarters. He had to brief his boss on developments and devise a presentation for the mullahs that would convince them to fund the new project. Hatimi harbored no doubts that he would be successful. He instructed the driver to take a route that would take them past the old American Embassy, now the headquarters for the Revolutionary Guard’s Quds Force. Hatimi’s heart swelled with pride every time he beheld the sight of the Great Satan's humiliation.

  CHAPTER 17 – Sasha, February 13

  I awoke from a sound sleep to the beep-beep of my wristwatch alarm. It was eight-thirty PM - time to go. I shrugged into my Burberry and creaked down the steps past the dozing desk clerk and back out onto Walfischgasse and navigate
d a winding path through the maze of small streets east of Kaernter Strasse. A half-hour’s walk brought me to one of the telephone booths lining the front wall of a post office. Using a plastic pre-paid phone card bought upon arrival at the train station, I rang the Paris number.

  Hélène answered and when she recognized my voice, she handed the receiver to Maurice. Yes, there was a message. He recited a telephone number with the 703 area code for Northern Virginia and a time to call. The contact with Jake Liebowitz was set for Saturday afternoon – two days from now.

  I would have preferred not to take the next step before talking to Jake again, but there was no remedy. The first contact with Volodya's collaborator was set for an hour from now in a coffeehouse on the other side of town.

  Coffee is a Viennese institution handed down since the brown beans were discovered in the deserted tents of the defeated Turks after the Battle of Vienna in 1683. The Viennese have since invented a unique terminology to describe every shade and combination of the liquid combined with milk or schlag, cream. Italian nomenclature pales in comparison to such Teutonic precision.

  My destination was a kaffeehaus typical of the genre, cozy, with dark paneled walls, wooden booths, and impossibly small tables. I found a place at the bar and nursed a kaffee mit schlag with an eye on the entrance. The room was cast in an amber glow from glass-chimneyed lamps affixed at intervals along the wood-paneled walls. There was a rack of the day's newspapers, each one fit onto a long, slotted wooden spindle that hung horizontally on the rack. Every morning the place would be packed with the eternally self-satisfied Viennese sipping their preferred varieties of coffee, savoring sweet rolls, and reading the papers.

  The door opened, and the woman who entered was tall and slender with an understated athleticism accentuated by an assured, erect carriage and confident stride, like an Olympic skier. She wore a long green Loden coat open to reveal a form-fitting charcoal gray knit wool dress with a modest Austrian hemline beneath which flashed a pair of stylish black boots. Her ash blonde hair was severely pulled back in a bun, and a small green Tyrolean-style hat complete with pheasant plume perched at a rakish angle on her head. She appeared to be in her mid to late twenties, and her ensemble was completed by the agreed upon pink copy of the “Financial Times” tucked under her left arm.

  I watched as she selected a table. She had arrived at precisely 9:45 PM. The newspaper was the recognition signal. I alternately cursed and praised Volodya for his taste in operational support personnel as I approached her.

  "Excuse me, but didn’t we meet at the home of a mutual friend in Paris."

  She raked me from head to toe with clear, hazel eyes that I judged capable of destroying male egos.

  "Indeed?" she responded coolly, "and who is this friend of yours?"

  "His name is Volodya."

  The parole complete, bona fides established, she motioned for me to sit beside her on the banquette against the wall. A white aproned waiter approached and I ordered a brandy. I couldn’t conceal the involuntary smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth.

  "Do you find something amusing?"

  Switching from German, she spoke in cultured, but accented, English. Her "th's" came out as soft "z's" and her "g's" were brittle.

  "I wasn't expecting a woman. Volodya only gave me the recognition signal and said to wait for ‘Sasha.’ Your name is Aleksandra?"

  "Volodya loves his little jokes." The eyes softened at the corners for just a second. "Yes, my name is Aleksandra Sergeyevna Turmarkina."

  I fought an atavistic urge to bend at the waist and brush my lips across the back of her extended hand.

  Her appraising gaze continued steadily, and I began to feel a bit foolish because I found myself hoping that I was making as favorable a first impression as she. This was entirely irrational. I wasn’t asking her to the prom.

  "Harry Connolly." A decidedly inadequate effort, like a short man trying to dunk a basket.

  "Volodya says I am to assist you in any way I can. He speaks highly of you. I will, of course, do whatever you and he wish of me. Please give me the details."

  She was young to be one of Volodya’s contacts. I trusted the old man’s judgment, but death had touched this operation. I had conducted many missions solo, sometimes out of choice, sometimes because there was no other way. It was like walking a tightrope with no safety net - thrilling in execution but a great relief when finished. But I needed back-up now. I didn’t want to conduct a clandestine meeting of this sort without counter-surveillance. Thackery’s murder demanded such precautions.

  Aleksandra compressed her lips into a tight smile. "Come, come, Connolly, do get on with it."

  I decided to give her something she could reasonably be expected to do with a minimum of danger to herself. I told her about the American Express office treffpunkt and asked her to position herself so she could observe the area beginning thirty minutes before the hoped for rendezvous with Stankov the following evening at 11:30 PM She was to walk past American Express at 11:20 PM if she had detected nothing untoward and then leave the area. If she spotted anything potentially hostile, she was to leave the area immediately without walking past American Express.

  She had no questions. When I was finished, she stood, made certain her tiny hat was firmly in place, and made a regal exit.

  I didn't think there was a snowball's chance in hell that this half-assed operation would flush out Stankov. I was bumping up against reality, and reality told me I was flying on a wing and a prayer and was about to crash.

  I ordered another brandy, lit a cigar, and sat there for another half-hour before heading back to my ratty hotel.

  *****

  The heavyset man who had been waiting in the shadows across the street observed Sasha’s departure from the coffee house and followed her for several blocks, keeping his distance. Finally, on a narrow side street, she stopped and waited for him to catch up to her. They walked on together, deep in conversation.

  *****

  When I awoke next morning I caught the fading image of ash blond hair and hazel eyes on the backs of my eyelids but couldn’t hold onto the rest of the dream.

  CHAPTER 18 – Drozhdov

  February 13-14

  Yevgeniy Drozhdov hurtled once again toward Vienna in a rented BMW.

  The Russian assassin had been busy. A little over a week earlier he had tracked the American intelligence officer to a ski resort in the Süd Tyrol. Yesterday he had been summoned to another meeting with Yudin.

  “The CIA believes the traitor is still in Vienna and is sending another officer to meet him.” Yudin passed him an envelope. “Your instructions are inside. They include the details of the meeting site they will use. It’s the best information the Center can provide for now.”

  Drozhdov opened the envelope and studied the document inside.

  “The site is a very public place. I could wait there for days and never catch them, and if I did, what could I do with a hundred witnesses standing around?”

  “The Center has a great deal of confidence in you. General Morozov said to be certain to tell you that. Read on. You’ve only looked at the first page. The Center also knows the signal site they will use to trigger a meeting and the prescribed times. All you have to do is check it until you see the signal. Then you set your trap.”

  Drozhdov checked the meeting times.

  “Yes, it can be done. At that time of night I should get them both at the same time with no witnesses.”

  “My instructions for you are very clear. The Center wants both the traitor and the CIA officer killed. No matter the consequences, neither of them is to leave that meeting alive.”

  Easy for you to say, you fat civilian pig, thought Drozhdov. You’ve never so much as strangled a chicken with your own hands.

  “I know what is to be done, and I will complete the mission,” he growled.

  “The CIA officer could arrive in Vienna any time,” said Yudin, “Unfortunately, we don’t know where he will be stayin
g. So you need to get there quickly. We can’t afford to miss this time.”

  Drozhdov snorted. “Hurry up, hurry up. Bystro, bystro. And so here I am in Madrid again when I should already be in Vienna!”

  “That’s not my fault,” said Yudin petulantly. “You know the communications protocols as well as I.”

  “Da, konechno, yes, of course, and the Center thinks I’m some sort of superman who can be in two places at the same time. OK, let’s finish up here so I can see if there’s a flight back to Munich tonight.”

  And now he was burning rubber. After Linz, his destination would lie just a few hours ahead. He cursed the circuitous communications the Center had mandated.

  Drozhdov pressed harder on the accelerator. He could not afford to arrive late and disappoint General Morozov again. His first task would be to check the signal site the American case officer would be using.

  *****

  The following night, February 14, the Russian stood well back in the shadows of a darkened alcove on Kaerntner Strasse. He had waited there, motionless, for well over an hour, his soldier’s training rendering him indifferent to the damp cold that seeped through his coat. He was positioned across the street within easy pistol shot of the American Express office.

  The street was all but deserted at this hour and a wet mist hung in the air. It slightly obscured his view but enhanced his invisibility, and he was pleased with his vantage point. With luck, he would be able to kill both of his targets quickly and cleanly with no witnesses.

  It was nearing 11:30 PM and a lone pedestrian, a woman, hurried down the street. She passed his concealment without noticing him and disappeared around a corner.