by Ed Baldwin
Dabney stood as the traditional ram’s horn was handed to her. As the honoree of the most recent toast, she was to fill the ram’s horn with wine, propose a toast to someone else, and drain it in one gulp. She was prepared with a toast, written for her by the embassy military attaché, who’d been in Tbilisi for a while.
“Two friends climbed a high mountain ...”
Some of the embassy personnel really are professional spies, Central Intelligence Agency covert operators. Embedded within the embassy staff, CIA operatives maintain cover identities, but they report to the CIA, which reports to the director of national intelligence, who reports directly to the president. They aren’t State Department employees, and they don’t answer to the ambassador. There can be, on occasion, friction.
“… and so we drink to friendship,” she concluded and drained the ram’s horn to laughter and appreciation, and she handed the horn to the Georgian minister of culture.
Dabney St. Clair’s career had stagnated at CIA headquarters at Langley, Va. No advancement to upper management without serving as a CIA station chief. She’d been a covert agent at embassies in Turkey and Uzbekistan but had been behind a desk for five years as an analyst. She pulled some strings, pointed out that she’d done good work as an analyst and suggested that if she’d been a man, she would have been promoted by now. It worked. They promised to send her someplace to fill that station chief square. On short notice, the only State Department position open for a Central Asian operative to fill was the deputy chief of mission at Tbilisi, not the usual spot for the CIA station chief. The ambassador shit a brick when Dabney was substituted for a rising young Foreign Service officer. So he had a deputy that didn’t work for him, and he had to keep that a secret.
The defense minister took advantage of a break in the action to stand and was recognized by the tamada, or toastmaster. He wasn’t drinking wine or beer; instead, he’d been served a carafe of vodka. He poured himself a generous shot and refilled Dabney’s glass. He rambled on in Georgian, breaking occasionally into Russian, before finishing with a great flourish that only a few of the guests understood, but all laughed. Dabney downed the shot.
The tamada called for dinner to be served, and the kitchen door opened with fanfare as waiters filed in burdened with plates of food, which they placed family style in the center of the table. Wine followed, as each guest’s glass was filled with heavy, red Georgian wine.
*******
“… outed herself the first week she was in town,” the ambassador said with disgust on the secure line back to Washington and State Department headquarters a few days later. “The defense minister got her drunk at the welcome party, and the deputy foreign minister invited her to the Presidential Palace for a nightcap with some of the others. She was flying high! Then she had to tell everyone what a coup it was when she was substituted for Ray Wagner at the last moment, how she had ‘pull.’ Then she named ‘her staff’ and outed the other two CIA covert agents.”
“Was she really covert? Don’t they usually figure out who the station chief is?”
“Well, you know, it takes a while. Most people had figured out who the last CIA station chief was. He was ex-Army, no prior State Department postings. But his replacement as regional security officer would have been assumed to be the new station chief. Dabney’s cover as deputy chief of mission was perfect!”
“How about the other two?”
“Deep cover, nobody knew, and they’re the ones who did the covert work. Now, nobody will talk to us. The CIA is gonna be out of business in Georgia for a year at least.”
“Do they know?”
“Not my job to tell them their girl stepped in it.”
“We’ll have to have a big, out of cycle staff turnover. Pull out nearly everyone and start over with three CIA imbeds.”
“That is gonna piss off a lot of people – household goods, schools, spouse jobs. All of it out of cycle.”
“I’ll call the CIA. I don’t know if they have any important sources there. Probably not. There might be another way to handle this.”
Chapter 4: Kartvelian National Bank, Tbilisi, Georgia
L
ado Chikovani greeted each of his guests with a warm smile and a handshake. Middle-age handsome, thin with long hands, he was impeccable in a dark three-piece suit and expensive Italian shoes. He didn’t feel the camaraderie he was trying to project. His guests circled the room like sharks, sizing each other up, keeping their backs to the wall, smiling.
This was the epicenter of a burgeoning worldwide trade to evade the United States’ embargo on Iran aimed at restricting its sale of oil to slow down its nuclear weapons program.
The United States may have been confident that its pronouncements and regulations were choking Iran into submission, but banned goods continued to move across borders around the world – hidden, disguised and misrepresented. Friends, allies, competitors and opponents all had reasons and the means to circumvent the embargo, and they did. An invisible, electronic current returned payment through a maze of legal entities and clearinghouses. Embargo creates wealth, and dangerous partnerships. Today, electrons would become cash.
Toghrul Bayramov was the deputy director of the Azerbaijan Railway. Zand Tehrani was the chief export officer of Mapna Locomotive Engineering and Manufacturing Co. in Tehran. Jamshid Khadem was the Tbilisi principal of the Azerbaijan-Georgia-Iran Trading Co., which had arranged the sale of 10 electric locomotives to be built in Karaj, Iran, under license from Siemens, the German engineering company, and financed by Kartvelian National Bank with a 10-year loan. Eskander Khorasani was president of the Tbilisi branch of the Petroleum Bank of Iran, and a frequent guest at Lado’s weekend retreat and ancestral home in Zugdidi. Davit Kvaratskhelia, senior loan officer of KNB and Lado’s cousin, was present to handle the papers.
“Gentlemen,” Lado said, motioning toward boardroom adjacent to his office. Papers were laid out on the table; it was time to strike a deal.
They walked into the boardroom and stood around the table, wary, each searching the room as if expecting cameras or recording devices.
Trade was in Lado’s very genes. Tbilisi is on the old Silk Road, the trade route joining Europe with Central Asia and China beyond. Silk, jewels, rugs, gold, art, relics, spices, and contraband of all types have crossed and re-crossed the steppes of Central Asia for 2,000 years. Georgia’s location on the Black Sea makes it a transit point for goods from the Caspian Sea, Russia, Iran, and points east into the world marketplace.
“Eskander has confirmed that his bank has received our transfer of $24 million to Petroleum Bank on behalf of the Azerbaijan Railway, and to the credit of Mapna Locomotive Engineering and Manufacturing Company,” Lado said in Farsi, then again in Russian.
Bayramov signed the 10-year note. Tehrani signed the contract to deliver the electric locomotives, and a $2 million check drawn on the Petroleum Bank to Khadem for arranging the transaction, which Khorasani countersigned. Afterward, tea and cakes were served, and conversation was cordial and lasted the necessary half hour before the meeting broke up. Electric locomotives are not part of the American embargo on Iran, so this was an entirely legal transaction.
But, it was a sham. There was no loan. The money came from the government of Greece in payment for a tanker loaded with 50,000 deadweight tons of Iranian Persian Gulf crude oil sold at a 15 percent discount from the spot price, a real bargain at $90 a barrel. A medium range tanker, registered in Dubai, had loaded the oil at the oil terminal at Batumi, Georgia, on the Black Sea, and it had made the short run through the Bosporus and Dardanelles strait into the Aegean Sea to Greece. Lado Chikovani’s Kartvelian National Bank made $1 million for moving the Greek payment through several shell trading companies and clearing banks in Switzerland and Germany, and for holding the fake loan on its books for a decade. The locomotives, though ordered and paid for, would never be built. Iran had just sold 321,000 barrels of crude oil for a net price of $77.88 per bar
rel.
Lado didn’t know the details of how a tanker load of Persian Gulf crude got into a storage tank for Caspian Sea crude at Batumi, for which AGI Trading had just been paid $2 million to accomplish. But he knew well that both the main railroad line and the Western Route Export Pipeline from the Caspian Sea at Baku to the Black Sea run through the ancient principality of Mingrelia, his home.
He saw each of his guests to the front door of his bank, wishing them well and making sure they had, in fact, left. He returned to his office and signed papers and made a few call-backs before telling his secretary he would be out until after lunch. He took his hat, a broad-brim fedora, from a hat rack and put it on, checking in the mirror that the brim was turned down ever so slightly. He left the building, checking carefully that he wasn’t being followed, and walked two blocks.
“It’s done,” Lado said, hands still shaking two hours after the closing. He was sitting in a quiet restaurant. His companion was a government minister.
“Bayramov signed?”
“First one.”
“Where is the note?”
“In the vault.”
“No copies?”
“No.”
“The risk is for him,” the government minister said, switching from Georgian to the Mingrelian dialect.
“Yes, but not so much. Azerbaijan will never see a bill, and we will credit principle and interest for the duration, every month,” Chikovani said, also in Mingrelian. “The note is legal, properly listed on our ledger and physically present if anyone wants to see it. One day, it will suddenly be ‘paid’ and disappear forever.”
“Good.”
They ate in silence.
“There’s another tanker next week,” the minister said.
“So soon?”
“We’ve improved our methods.”
“Yes.”
“Our friend, (Jamshid Kadem of AGI), will contact you with the details.”
Lado nodded but said nothing. He’d not gotten over making $1 million in one transaction, and now he’d been told he must do it again in a week. His cousin Davit was going to be burning some midnight oil with the papers. They ate in silence for several minutes before his companion spoke again.
“The Americans have sent a representative.”
“Oh?” Lado’s pulse began to pound again.
“They’re looking at Iranian deposits in Georgian banks.”
“They must think we’re stupid.” There were no significant Iranian deposits in his bank. Twenty-five million dollars had passed through it like fat through a goose and left no trace.
“They have their embargo to police.”
“Yes,” Lado said.
Beyond the Persian Gulf, where the American Fifth Fleet controlled the Straits of Hormuz, the embargo was a fantasy. Lado had just proved that and expected to do it again in a week. America could delude itself that it could force the Iranians to stop their nuclear program without violence, but people closer to Iran needed to contend with reality.
War would come. How and to whom were issues that might still be influenced.
Chapter 5: CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
D
id they know? Dabney St. Clair’s face burned as she checked through security on the first floor of the CIA Headquarters building. Her going-away party had been just a month before, with a cake and an appearance by the chief of the Office of Russian and European Analysis to send her off. Now she was in the Clandestine Service, and that was on a different floor. Maybe nobody would see her.
It was all a big misunderstanding. Part of her was really angry that they’d made such a big deal out of her slip-up. Summoning her back in person seemed a bit much. They wouldn’t even let her give her side of it over the scrambled secure line.
“Dabney St. Clair to see the director,” she said, after slinking down the hall from the elevator. She was angry at herself for being so afraid she’d run into somebody she knew. After all, this whole affair was classified, and they weren’t a part of it. She could have been called back so soon to work on some new project. Yeah, if she saw somebody, she’d act like she was right out on the leading edge of something big.
“Go right in, he’s expecting you. Would you like some coffee?”
“No.” She swept into the director’s office. “Sir, good to see you again.”
“Sit,” he motioned to a chair as he closed the door. “Good flight?”
“Long. Sir, we need to talk about my being ambushed before I even got my feet on the ground in Tbilisi.”
“OK.” He sat behind his desk, chin resting on both hands. He waited.
She gushed on about how rude the Georgians were and that she was sure nothing of importance had been given up.
“Stop,” he said, holding up his hand after a couple of minutes. “Do you remember our talk the day I personally briefed you on this assignment, not a month ago?”
“I do,” she said, feeling like the earth was slipping away beneath her feet and she was about to tumble into the abyss.
“I told you that your two covert agents manage one of our most important assets, did I not?”
She nodded.
“Do you remember his code name?”
She shook her head.
“It’s not in any of the classified documents I gave you to read, it isn’t in the computer, it’s not written on any sheet of paper, and we don’t say the name or even refer to it in any electronic or telephone communication, no matter how secure. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” she said meekly.
“I’m going to give you the code name again, and I’m going to outline in simple language exactly what your role is to be for the next year. Your career is damaged, but it will be summarily over if you violate any part of these instructions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Code name 'The Mingrelian' is our source for virtually everything we know about the Iranian nuclear program. When you blew your cover, you nearly blew his. He traveled to Armenia and sent an email from the library in Yerevan to a webmail account we maintain just for him. He did all that to tell us he doesn’t trust the CIA and won’t have any contact with anyone from the embassy in Tbilisi. We will make other arrangements to work with him. You will not be a part of those arrangements, and I tell you the code name and why he’s important only so someone in the embassy will know who he is if he has to come in for asylum. You will spend the next year functioning in the capacity of your cover job, deputy chief of mission. You will take day-to-day orders from the ambassador, not discuss or have contact with any – ANY – CIA personnel, and make no effort to learn about this contact and our efforts to work with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The two agents you exposed will be reassigned as soon as possible and not replaced until the next rotation, so there will be essentially no CIA presence in Tbilisi for a year.”
Chapter 6: Kennett, Missouri
M
ikki was chained to the wall in the master bedroom, nude, bruised, beautiful. She saw him and stood; the chains rattled. Her nipples puckered. That could only mean someone was about to die. Boyd had begun to turn before he heard a swish and ducked instead. The sword hit masonry just above his head with a metallic clank. Constantine’s bulk blocked the light from the other end of the hall. Boyd aimed a kick at the nearest knee, and Constantine shifted his weight to deflect it. Boyd fled headlong toward Mikki, who stood against the wall, lips curled back in an ecstatic grin.
Constantine dropped the sword and grabbed for Boyd, apparently deciding this killing needed to be done bare-handed. Constantine was on top, meaty hands around Boyd’s throat. His dark eyes bored into Boyd, his breath was hard and reeking of garlic and fish as his thumbs found Boyd’s windpipe. As Boyd struggled to draw his pistol, he glanced over Constantine’s shoulder and saw Mikki at the end of her chain, crouched, straining to get closer, to see him die.
“Ungghuh!” Boyd scre
amed, drawing his legs beneath him and leaping up with all his strength.
The leap sent him flying into the center of the room, where he came down on a coffee table, shattering it with a crash. He regained his feet in an instant and turned looking for Constantine, crouching, ready.
A light came on.
“Boyd! Wake up!” Betsy Rhoades, clutching a nightgown, stood in the door.
“It’s a dream, Boyd,” Narvel Rhoades said, stepping around Betsy to cautiously approach Boyd.
Mikki, Constantine and the fight to the death in the Azores faded, leaving Boyd panting, bathed in sweat, and standing in his boxer shorts in Narvel and Betsy Rhoades’ family room. He was in his hometown of Kennett, Mo.
“Uh, whew. That was tough,” Boyd said, noticing the shambles around him. He’d been sleeping on their couch.
“What happened?” Adele Rhoades, age 5, stood in the door.
“It’s OK, honey. Uncle Boyd had a bad dream,” Betsy said, going to the little girl, picking her up.
“He broke the table,” Adele observed.
“Yeah, he did,” Narvel said.
“Will he get a time-out?”
Chapter 7: Little Rock Air Force Base
The rated weight limit for Boyd's Chevy half-ton pickup truck was 1,200 pounds, including gas, driver and passengers. With Eight Ball in the passenger seat, and his big-screen TV, weight set, clothes, flight gear, books, dishes, pots and pans, and golf clubs in the back, Boyd was just there. Twelve years in the Air Force, counting the Academy, and he could put everything he had in a pickup truck. Was that good or bad? Passing through Tuckerman, Arkansas on his way to Little Rock Air Force Base, he pondered that question.
He was sunburned from splashing about in the Rhoades’ swimming pool with Adele and some other kids from the neighborhood, while Narvel barbecued a couple of pork butts. They’d listened to the Cardinals beat the Cincinnati Reds on the radio. A handful of his friends from school joined them later in the afternoon, and the eating and talking and beer drinking went on into the night. Sparklers and fireworks were set off, and someone brought a guitar. Two single women were there. It was perfect. Then, just when it looked like he was settling back into a normal life, he’d had that dream.