by Ethan Jones
Justin said, “Well, we know Egorov met with the bagman, terrorist leaders, and businessmen, but we don’t know the reason.”
“The reason is easy to guess.”
“Yes, the right word being ‘guess.’ We’ve guessed wrong in the past.”
Flavio folded his arms across his chest. “What are you saying, Justin? You believe Egorov and all of this intel?” He tapped the folder.
“No, sir. I’m saying I don’t want us to repeat the same mistakes. We can’t ignore this intel; we need to verify and confirm it, and take proper action.”
“I think we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves here,” Flavio said in a firm tone. “How convinced are you this intel is accurate?”
“Well, at first glance, it looks authentic. But, I wouldn’t bet on it. Even if the photos are real, along with the bank statements and other documents, we can’t prove the essence of those meetings. There are records of weapons shipped to Qatar and to Iraq. But we have no solid evidence these weapons actually ended up in terrorists’ hands.”
Flavio nodded.
Justin continued, “We’ve been duped before by single-source intel. So the first step would be to make sure this intel is accurate in itself; no doctoring of documents or other digital monkeying around—whatever is the exact term the cyber experts use these days.”
Flavio grinned. “Monkeying around conveys the idea.”
“Yes, so once our experts assess the integrity, or not, of the files, we can move on to the next step of finding another source to confirm the intel.”
Flavio nodded. “That’s going to be close to impossible. We have no sources on the ground. I’ll talk to my CIA counterparts, but they’re unlikely to cooperate. After the latest purge, everyone is ten times more paranoid than usual.”
Justin nodded. The US President had begun to clean house in all intelligence agencies, in a major effort to identify whistleblowers and stop leaks. Official channels of communications with foreign intelligence agencies had all but stopped. Unofficial intelligence sharing was considered a crime punishable as treason.
“SAS?” Justin asked.
Flavio nodded. “Yes, the British Special Air Service may be able to help. But from what I know, they’re not as active as they used to be. They’re still reeling from the latest scandal.”
Justin nodded. Two units of SAS operatives in northern Iraq and western Syria were suspected of killing innocent civilians they had mistaken for terrorists or their supporters. The SAS’s “shoot-to-kill” policy had backfired, and the service had shut down most of its operations on the ground.
“That doesn’t leave us many options.” Justin scratched his beard.
“Mossad?”
Justin frowned. “Mossad’s assistance comes with a steep price tag.”
“It’s worth a shot, if we’re to get to the bottom of this matter. And what about your Iranian contacts?”
Justin shrugged. “I may need to do some coercing, but I’d rather approach Reza first than our Israeli friends.”
Reza Ahmadi was one of Justin’s contacts in the Quds Force, the elite troops of the Pasdaran, the Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Guard. While not exactly a friend, Reza had proven to be a useful contact with a wide network of sources, and he was a man of honor. Justin and Reza had carried out a series of successful operations, and they had forged a strong bond.
“All right, once this intel has gone through our internal assessment process, contact Reza, and see if the Iranians know anything. I’ll get in touch with the CIA, but I don’t have much hope. Anything else?”
Justin hesitated for a moment and shifted in his seat. Then he said, “Is Carrie going to help with this assignment?”
Flavio held Justin’s gaze for a moment. “You heard about her Afghan op?”
“Yes.” Justin’s forehead creased into deep wrinkles. “She’s recovering quite well.”
Flavio shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d say ‘well.’ The doctor says she’s still struggling with her balance. Driving is a pain.”
“I’ll do all the driving.” Justin smiled.
“Or Vale. But going back to Carrie, yes, you and she will work together on this assignment. She’s already in the Gulf—Qatar of all places—working on an unrelated matter.”
“That’s perfect. I’ll give her a call—”
Flavio gave Justin a stern headshake. “You’re moving too fast. Wait until you receive the internal report, then talk to Reza. And Mossad, if you have to. After we have a plan of action, we’ll bring in Carrie.”
Justin nodded. “Good plan, sir. And what do I tell Egorov?”
“She’ll have to wait as well. The inquiry shouldn’t take long. I’ll put all resources we have on it, since this is time sensitive. Questions?”
“No, nothing, sir.” Justin shook his head.
“Great. Work with the eval team and let me know as soon as you have some results.” Flavio handed the folder to Justin.
“I will do that.” He picked up the folder, stood up, and left Flavio’s office.
Out in the hall, he glanced at the folder. We’ll find out soon if you’ve told me the truth, Egorov.
Chapter Eight
February 9
Canadian Intelligence Service Headquarters
Ottawa, Canada
The CIS Analysis and Evaluation Section had carried out a full assessment of the tablet’s content. All files had undergone a detailed and comprehensive review. Forensic examinations to determine whether any forgery or alteration had taken place had all come back negative. All documents were originals and intact. That analysis, of course, could offer no assessment about the truthfulness of the events described in the reports or shown in the pictures.
Justin and Flavio had another meeting before their separate flights to return to Vienna. They discussed the internal report’s findings. Flavio authorized Justin to seek the assistance of the Quds Force in gathering intelligence about Prince Al Khater’s weapons trade deals and any official or unofficial deliveries to Iraq or Syria. If actionable intelligence was not available, or if the Iranians were not forthcoming, Justin was to contact Mossad. However, he was to avoid any operations on the ground, since the objective of this mission, at this point, was only intelligence gathering.
He found it exceptionally hard to say goodbye to his father. Carter had not improved, and Justin wondered whether he would see his father alive again. But he was in the good hands of doctors and the hospital staff, who would do their best to take care of all Carter’s needs. Justin’s brother would also visit with their dad. Justin sighed and stepped outside the hospital room.
On the way to the Ottawa Macdonald–Cartier International Airport, he decided to call Reza. They had not talked for a few months, but had exchanged the occasional email. The last time they had met was back in August. At that time, they were both hunting a sheikh, who was a senior leader of an ISIS branch in Yemen. The sheikh had been plotting a terrorist attack against Canada, and Reza had proved instrumental in the operation to thwart the attack. Justin hoped Reza would deliver this time as well.
Justin scrolled through his phone contacts. He found Reza’s number and dialed it. Someone at the other end picked up right after the first ring. A thick voice spoke in a language Justin assumed was Farsi. He did not understand it, but he recognized Reza’s name among the other incomprehensible words.
“This is Justin,” he said in Arabic.
“Oh, Justin, good to hear from you,” Reza switched to Arabic as well.
Justin smiled. He enjoyed Reza’s cheerful tone every time they talked. The man was almost never in a bad mood.
“How’s Reza doing today?”
“Pretty well, pretty well. And my old friend?”
“I’m doing well too. Listen, I’d like to talk to you about an important matter.”
“Well, go ahead. I have a few minutes.
“No, this needs to be in person.”
“All right.”
A moment of pause,
then Reza said, “Can you come to Tehran?”
Justin shook his head. “I’d love to, Reza, but that’s not gonna be possible.”
He could not tell Reza the reason why Justin was barred from entering the Islamic Republic of Iran. But I should, or he’ll find out sooner or later. It’s better if he hears it from me. “Can you come to Europe? Vienna?”
“No, Justin. Not on such short notice and on a personal trip.”
Justin frowned. He had hoped to spend at least a few hours with Karolin before starting the intelligence-gathering operation. I’ll have to call and cancel our plans. She won’t be happy about that. “Turkey, then?”
“Sure, I can do Turkey. Istanbul? Tomorrow morning?”
“I’m back in Canada. Let’s do tomorrow evening. Or even better, the day after tomorrow, as I’m not sure about available flights.”
“Sure, phone me when you’re in the city, and we’ll set up a meeting place. Now, can you tell me what this is all about?”
“Eh . . . yes, I can give you a few details.” Justin thought about his reply for a moment. He was on a secure line, and he assumed the same was true for Reza, otherwise the Iranian operative would not ask for specifics. But Justin felt the need to ask. “This is a secure line, Reza?”
“Of course, Justin,” Reza’s voice rang with a bit of irritation at the question.
“All right. Ever heard of Prince Rashid bin Ahmad Al Khater?”
“Al Khater? Let me think about it for a second.”
A brief pause, then Reza said, “Nothing comes to mind, Justin, but the name sounds familiar.”
“He’s a Qatari prince. A very influential businessman, and a dear friend of the Emir.”
“And his business . . . Oh, let me guess, weapons, right?”
“Very good, Reza.”
“And the prince is selling weapons to some bad people?”
“The worst kind. At the moment, I have only suspicions and allegations. Perhaps you can give me a hand to figure out the truth.”
“I’ll see what I can do. We don’t have many resources in Qatar. Until recently, they’ve stayed under the radar.”
Justin nodded. Recently, a feud between Saudi Arabia and other Gulf countries on one side and Qatar on the other had flared up. Saudi Arabia had accused Qatar of supporting terrorist organizations, especially Hezbollah and the Muslim Brotherhood. Saudi Arabia and the Gulf countries had given Qatar a long list of demands, which the country had deemed “illegitimate” and a “violation of its sovereignty.” As a result, the Gulf countries had severed diplomatic relations with Qatar, and had placed a series of economic sanctions against the small country that had less than two and a half million people. But Qatar was an oil and gas giant, with an estimated 335 billion dollars of assets in its sovereign wealth fund. It had weathered the sanctions very well, finding, creating, and strengthening relations with other countries. Life and business in Qatar went on as if nothing had happened.
Justin said, “Anything you can find, I’m sure it would be helpful.”
“Do you have a timeline? Countries? Names of businesses, or types of weapons?”
“I’ll send you a short note. The regular email is fine?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’ll get that done in a moment. Now, what is this going to cost my agency?”
“Justin, are you confusing me with the CIA?” Reza sounded irritated. “It wouldn’t be a favor if I asked for something in return.”
“Well, yes, but this isn’t a personal favor. And depending on what you find, I might ask for a greater involvement of your agency.”
“I understand.” Reza’s voice turned warm. “But we can discuss that when we meet. My people may find nothing, so this may just be a non-issue.”
“At least we’ll have a cup of coffee and a chance to catch up.”
“Yes, about catching up, there’s something I’ve wanted to talk to you about for a while.”
Justin frowned. Does he know about the Tehran op? “Sure, what . . . eh, what is it?”
“Oh, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“You’re pulling my chain, Reza?”
“It’s not something you need to worry about, Justin. Anything else?”
“No, I think that’s all. Thanks for your help.”
“Thank me if I have something useful.”
“Well, thanks for trying anyway.”
“See you tomorrow, Justin.”
“Yes, be safe, Reza.”
He ended the call and sighed. He probably figured it out. Uh, I should have told him when I had the chance. He shrugged. Can’t change that now. But I’ll need to change my flight if I’m going straight to Turkey. And a new, clean passport, to avoid any surveillance, if at all possible.
Justin changed lanes and began to look for the next exit so he could return to the CIS headquarters.
Chapter Nine
February 11
Istanbul Atatürk Airport
Istanbul, Turkey
Justin had started to become a bit concerned as the officer—a young man in his early twenties—kept inspecting Justin’s passport, the electronic visa, and especially the other countries’ visas and stamps on the passport’s pages. The officer asked Justin many questions about the purpose of his visit to Turkey, who he was going to meet with, his occupation in Canada, and a number of other questions, none of which Justin could answer with the truth. But a crucial part of his training at The Plant—the training facility for CIS recruits—had been to beat the polygraph, and to offer lies, half-truths, and deception in the most convincing manner. Justin had mastered the process from early on, and had perfected it with years of practice.
However, many covert operatives had been burned by small, almost invisible flaws in the identification documents. While Justin’s passport and Turkish visa were authentic, issued by the competent authorities, the rest of the stamps and visas were not. If the officer found any irregularities or discrepancies between the times or the countries, that would raise a red flag, and ring the alarm bells. Further scrutiny might reveal the forgery and plunge Justin into deep trouble.
So he heaved a sigh of relief when the passport control officer handed Justin the stamped passport and nodded for him to continue through the security checkpoint. He thanked the young man and hurried toward the luggage carousel. Once he had found his mid-sized Samsonite wheeled suitcase, he headed toward the nearest exit.
Justin braved the intense pounding rain and dashed toward the first available taxi in the long line stretching outside the terminal. He dropped into the backseat and glanced at the cab driver, an old man perhaps in his late sixties or even early seventies, who was reading his paper. “Can we go to the Novotel?”
“Novotel, yes, yes, right now,” the man replied in English, but kept his eyes glued to the paper.
“Good, let’s go.”
The man glanced up and met Justin’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “You in hurry?” he asked in broken English and in a tense voice.
“No, no rush, take your time.”
The cab driver smiled and nodded, missing Justin’s sarcasm. “One minute, I finish good article for politics. You like politics?”
Justin shrugged. “I like coffee.”
“Turkey best coffee in world. Turkish coffee, famous, good, strong.”
“I love strong coffee.”
The cab driver put the paper away, then started the car, a newer model Fiat. “We now go.”
“Good, thank you.”
Justin glanced through the window at the heavy rain curtain. Thick gray clouds were looming over the terminal, threatening more downpour. Howling winds swirled around, and there was almost zero visibility. That’s good. If we can barely see anything, it will be difficult for others to see us.
He turned his head and looked at the exit. A couple of men were waiting just outside the doors, cowering under small umbrellas that did little to prevent a drenching. Another taxi slowly rolled behind the Fiat, but Jus
tin had not seen the people who had climbed in. He shrugged and sat back in his seat in such a way that he could gaze at the right-side mirror all the time. The rain and the fogged car window blurred the view, but it was better than nothing.
“Which way to take to hotel?” the cab driver asked.
“The fastest.”
“Fast, yes.”
The cab driver slowed down as they drove away from the terminal.
Justin thought the old man had misunderstood Justin’s words. He thought about repeating them or explaining himself in a better way, but then shrugged. He had at least two hours before the meeting time with Reza. And the rendezvous point was a few blocks away from the hotel. It’s probably better if we’re slow, considering the slippery roads. So, he rested his head on the backseat and decided to relax for a few minutes.
But when the taxi reached the gigantic circular sign welcoming them to Istanbul, the cab driver found the gas pedal. He stepped on it, and the Fiat roared to life. Justin reached for the seatbelt as the driver switched lanes. He almost crashed into a white airport shuttle, then swerved around another taxi. He passed very close to a white Jeep, then he seemed to slow down, but only for a moment. The driver veered back to the right lane and overtook an SUV, then he moved back to the fastest lane. He crossed the overpass, heading north, and settled in at about fifty miles an hour.
Justin leaned forward and said, “Do you mind slowing down a bit?”
“You said fast.” The driver sounded terribly disappointed.
Justin shook his head. “I said the fastest route, way to the hotel.”
“This fast, safe. You worry not.”
“No, I don’t worry.”
Justin shrugged and sat back. He was worried, but he was not about to tell an old taxi driver how to do his job. It seemed the man had been doing this for a long time, by the way he was handling the slick roads, the poor weather, and the lack of visibility. The Fiat did not show any sign of crashes. Besides, driving at a high speed would help to detect the presence of surveillance, since they would also have to match the speed of their target.