Crossfire

by David Hagberg

  “Exactly,” Murphy said.

  “But why take such a risk?” the President asked. “If they failed, the backlash would be horrendous. It could undo everything Gorbachev has tried to do. He’d lose all the way around.”

  “It’s the KGB,” Murphy said. “It needs hard Western currencies in order to operate its foreign stations. It’s as simple as that, and Didenko is the man for the job. He’s sent Kurshin into Iran to set up the hijacking and blame it on us.”

  “What about Abbas?” Haines asked.

  “His body will be proof that the United States was involved in the hijacking. We sent them the gold and now we’re taking it back.”

  “Then we must warn them,” Haines said, but Murphy shook his head.

  “I don’t think the Iranian government would believe us. It would just be one more nail in our coffin.”

  “We still have resources in the country, don’t we?” Haines asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Contact them.”

  “By handie-talkie?”

  “If there’s no other way, yes. The Iranians, even if they have got one of the machines, won’t monitor it every minute of the day, will they? Nor will they be able to monitor every single frequency.”

  “I don’t know. It would be a risk. The situation is explosive at the very least.”

  “I agree,” the President said. “What do you suggest?”

  “Fight fire with fire, Mr. President,” the DCI said. “Send an assassin to stop an assassin. Kirk McGarvey is on his way to Iran now. He knows Kurshin better than anyone and he has a vendetta against the man.”

  “God help us if he’s caught by the Iranians,” Haines said.

  “It doesn’t appear as if we have any other choice,” the President said. “But I agree with Tom: God help us.”

  40

  A DRY, DUSTY WIND raked Egypt’s capital city of Cairo as the Alitalia Airbus from Rome touched down at Alamaza Airport west of the city. The aircraft taxied ponderously to the main terminal, the setting sun casting long shadows behind it down the apron. A lot of people lined the rail of the observation deck, all of them brown-skinned Arabs.

  A tall, exceedingly thin Egyptian waited on the far side of customs until McGarvey’s passport was stamped and his single bag cleared, and then came over.

  “Kirk McGarvey, permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Anwar Jaziraf, and I am here to serve you in any way that I can.”

  No one streaming past them, or in the crowds that filled the terminal, paid them the slightest attention. But there was no reason for the opposition to be here. For the moment, all eyes would be directed toward the east.

  “When does my flight for Tehrn leave?” McGarvey asked.

  “In less than three hours, so you can see that we must shake a major leg to have the time to properly brief you,” Jaziraf said. “So you will please come with me.”

  He turned and headed off in a long, loping stride. McGarvey fell in behind him.

  “I’ll need papers.”

  “It is being taken care of even as we speak. You will be a Frenchman, naturally. They are expecting you.”

  “Where are we going now?”

  “We have secured an apartment very near this airport. It was felt that no time should be wasted in transportation. At times Cairo’s traffic can be impossible. At all times, that is,” he added, smiling broadly at his own little joke.

  “The apartment is safe?”

  “Oh, yes, very safe indeed. For tonight.”

  Jaziraf’s car was a noisy, battered, venerable Morris Minor that seemed on the verge of exploding, or at the very least falling apart in the middle of the highway. The Egyptian drove very fast and recklessly with one hand on the wheel, the other gesticulating out the open window at the sights of ancient Egypt that mingled with the slums of modern Cairo. The safe house was in a block of modern apartments directly across the highway from an Egyptian army barracks. As they pulled into the parking lot, a column of canvas-covered trucks, led by three Jeeps, roared out of the compound and headed at high speed into the city.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s only the Sadat Brigade. The army’s emergency readiness team. Their colonel loves to show off, so they run their little exercises into the city at all hours of the day or night. They’re not bad, actually, although in a real fight most of them would probably shoot their own foots … feet.”

  Inside, they took the elevator up to the sixteenth floor. As the door slid open Jaziraf motioned for McGarvey to hold back as he checked the corridor.

  “Clear,” he said. McGarvey followed him to one of the apartments.

  Jaziraf was the deputy chief of Cairo station. It was felt that McGarvey should be isolated from the COS on the off chance that the station, or McGarvey, had been compromised. Jaziraf, who was very good, was, however, expendable. It was the law of the jungle.

  He knocked on the door to 1607 and it was opened almost instantly by a very large man with well-muscled arms, a thick neck, and a beet-red complexion.

  “Bob Wills,” he said, introducing himself. “Langley.” He and McGarvey shook hands. “Did you have any trouble getting here?”

  “I can’t guarantee Lisbon, but I cleared Rome without a tail.”

  “Good,” Wills said. Jaziraf had gone to the window.

  “We’re clean,” the Egyptian said, turning back. “Anyone for a drink?”

  “Coffee,” Wills said.

  “Cognac?” McGarvey asked.

  Wills chuckled. “You owe me five bucks,” he told Jaziraf.

  “My drinking habits have preceded me,” McGarvey said. He put down his bag and took off his jacket.

  “I peeked at your file on the way over. You’ve done some credible work. But this one is going to be a tough son of a bitch. Problem is, we didn’t have enough time to put something together. I’m afraid you’re going to have to play it by ear over there.”

  “Did Phil Carrara send you?”

  “Actually, no,” Wills said. “I work for Mike Oreck. Office of Economic Research.”

  “Intelligence.”

  “Right,” Wills said. “We worked a co-op with Operations on the project. Tehrn station was supposed to watch for bad guys, and blow the whistle if and when they showed up.”

  “Has there been any further word on Abbas or Naisir?”

  Jaziraf came back with the coffee and cognac. “The number two is dead,” he said. “Shot in the head.”

  “We just learned that,” Wills said. “His body was apparently found in Dick Abbas’s apartment. By SAVAK.”

  “Which means they’ll be watching our front operation in Tehrn like hawks.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Wills agreed. He led McGarvey over to a large table that was filled with maps, reports, files, and dozens of photographs, some of them from satellites and others ground-surveillance shots.

  He picked up one of a slightly built, dark-skinned man coming out of a Scotland Yard building. “Hussain Peshadi. Trained with the Brits in the late seventies. He’s SAVAK’s chief investigator in Tehrn. A tough bastard. You’re going to have to watch out for him. He’s rabidly anti-West. Especially anti-American. And he’s sharp as nails.”

  McGarvey studied several other more recent photographs of Peshadi. “How does he get along with the Russians?”

  Wills shrugged. “Okay, I suppose. Just like most other Iranians. They’re neighbors.”

  “When does the gold arrive in Bushehr?”

  “Should be there within a few hours, if it’s on schedule. It’ll take them several hours to load it onto the convoy of trucks. We’re assuming the group will leave immediately. I’ve got the maps for you showing their route. It’s fairly straightforward stuff.”

  “How about my contact in Tehrn?”

  “Bijan Ghfari, the number three. He’ll be watching for you. He’ll arrange your transportation, communications equipment, and, of course, weapons. But it’s essential that you get out of Tehrn as quickly as possible. W
e’d like to salvage what we can of our operation.”

  “What about my passport and other papers?”

  “They will be ready within the hour,” Jaziraf said.

  “You mentioned my cover would be as a Frenchman?”

  “Anything wrong with that?” Wills asked.

  “Everything,” McGarvey said. “SAVAK found a body in Abbas’s apartment. It means they’re watching Picarde. Which also means they’re going to keep a watchful eye on any stray Frenchmen who show up just now.”

  “You’re right, dammit,” Wills said.

  “I want Russian papers,” McGarvey said.

  “Sir?” Jaziraf asked.

  “Internal and external passports, lots of visa stamps, lots of entry and exit marks. And I want a KGB identification booklet. Moscow office—” McGarvey had a thought. “Make that KGB out of Baku.”

  “Why there?”

  “It’s Azerbaidzhan.”

  “So?”

  “If the Russians are planning on snatching the gold, it’s the nearest border for them to run to.”

  “Right, but so what? Why do you want to pose as a KGB officer from Baku?”

  “Kurshin is going to try to steal the gold and blame it on us,” McGarvey said. “I think turnabout is fair play, don’t you?”

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “Let’s see that route map,” McGarvey said.

  Wills dug a large map from the pile and spread it out on top of everything else. “We don’t expect you to carry anything like this into Iran, of course. Ghfari will have everything you need.”

  The convoy’s route had been penciled in red. It went directly inland from Bushehr, not turning north until it reached the mountain city of Kazerun.

  “As you can see, they’ll be in the mountains and high elevations for ninety-five percent of the distance,” Wills said.

  “How far is it from Bushehr to Tehrn?” McGarvey asked, studying the map.

  “Nearly five hundred miles as the crow flies. But almost twice that by the route the convoy will be taking.”

  “A million places for an ambush to take place.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But not so many places for their transport planes to set down.”

  “Or ours,” Wills added.

  McGarvey looked up. “What are you talking about?”

  “We have a Delta Force strike team standing by in Turkey. If the Russians make a move, they will be inserted.”

  “Not until I give the signal,” McGarvey said.

  Wills just looked at him.

  “If you want me to go in there, I’ll have to have your word on it.”

  “I could tell you anything you wanted to hear …” Wills faltered at the look on McGarvey’s face.

  “I’d come looking for you afterward if you lied to me. I want your word that the Delta Force will not be called on scene unless or until I give the signal.”

  Wills nodded after a moment. McGarvey was left with the impression that it had been too easy. That the man had been told to expect the demand and to meet it.

  “Exactly how much gold are we talking about here?” McGarvey asked.

  “Four million ounces,” Wills said. “One hundred twenty-five tons.”

  “Three heavy transport aircraft, maybe four, just for the gold. Another one or two for the assault troops. My guess is that Kurshin will set up the ambush spot as near a secluded landing area as possible, and then lay out a beacon or beacons for them to home in on. They’ll be coming in at night. Low, to avoid radar detection, and because of the mountains their own onboard radar and navigation equipment will be practically useless.”

  “They’ve got the planes,” Wills said.

  “I’m surprised the Soviet air force is getting involved.”

  “Not the air force,” Wills said. “They’ll be KGB aircraft, with American markings, of course.”

  “Didenko,” McGarvey said.

  “That’s right.”

  “It means Dick Abbas is still alive, then.”

  “That’s not very likely, is it?” Jaziraf said.

  “Yes, it is,” McGarvey replied, looking up from the map. “The Russians will snatch the gold, and among the casualties, killed by the Iranians, will be Dick Abbas, chief of station for CIA activities in Iran. The proof SAVAK wants.”

  “The Delta Force—” Wills started.

  “No,” McGarvey said. “I intend to supply SAVAK with Kurshin’s body and Russian identification, along with at least one of their aircraft.”

  41

  MCGARVEY, TRAVELING UNDER THE name of Valeri Vasilevich Bayev, arrived in Iran a few minutes after midnight. His Russian passport had raised a few eyebrows on the Lufthansa flight, but he’d been treated no differently from any of the other passengers, many of whom were French or German.

  Coming into Mehrabad International Airport, he’d gotten a good look at the city. It was mostly in darkness, unlike the old days under the shah when Tehrn had been an open, reasonably westernized capital with an active night life.

  Just inside the terminal, everyone holding a French passport was shunted into a separate line where their papers were carefully scrutinized by a team of a half-dozen grim-faced men in civilian clothes. It was an examination McGarvey figured he would not have passed.

  When it was his turn in the normal line, McGarvey handed over his passport to the Iranian official. The man looked up sharply when he realized what nationality McGarvey was.

  “Do you speak Russian?” McGarvey asked in Russian.

  “I speak a little Russian. Do you speak English?” the official countered, his Russian poor.

  “Yes, I speak English,” McGarvey said in a broad Slavic accent.

  The official nodded. “What is the purpose of your visit to Iran?”

  “I am engineer. Industrial engineer. Heavy equipment. Motors for factories.”

  “Yes, I understand, but why have you come to Iran?”

  “To do engineering,” McGarvey said. “With Iranian businessmen, we will build factories. I am here to find out if it is”—he seemed to be groping for the right word—“possible.”

  “Do you have a sponsor here in Tehrn?”

  McGarvey shook his head, a look of consternation clouding his features. “Is necessary?”

  “No. How long will you be staying in Iran?”

  “One week, perhaps ten days, no more. Then I must return to home.”

  The Iranian official stamped the passport and handed it back. “Your luggage will come from the aircraft soon. When you have cleared customs you must take a bus or a taxi directly to your hotel. It is not permitted for you to be on the streets at this hour. Your hotel will advise you of our laws.”

  “Yes, I understand this,” McGarvey said, nodding.

  The official looked beyond him to the next person in line and McGarvey walked through the doorway into the customs area where the baggage from the flight was just coming in, a dozen nervous people waiting for it.

  As McGarvey took his place at the carousel, one of the Iranian officials in civilian clothes came in from the other room and said something to one of the customs men. They both looked pointedly at McGarvey. The civilian was a SAVAK officer; there was little doubt of it in McGarvey’s mind. A simple call to the Russian embassy would shatter his cover identity.

  He looked around the hall as if he were merely idly curious about his surroundings. The only way out that wouldn’t involve an immediate confrontation with an Iranian official would be through the luggage opening. But what was on the other side of the wall? In all likelihood there would be a couple of armed guards to watch the incoming baggage.

  He did not speak Farsi, he did not have a weapon, and he didn’t even have any Iranian money. If he had to run now, he would be in serious trouble. Ghfari was doubtless being closely watched by SAVAK. If McGarvey was on the run, making contact would be doubly difficult.

  Back in Cairo, while Wills had been finishing the briefing and awaiting McGarvey�
�s Russian identification papers, Jaziraf had somehow managed to dig up a cheap cardboard suitcase and several changes of clothing, all of Russian manufacture. He’d also found a couple of engineering texts, in Russian, and the names of six Iranian engineering firms, which were jotted down in a notebook in Russian and in English.

  The yellow cardboard suitcase came out onto the carousel. McGarvey grabbed it and went across to the three customs counters. The SAVAK officer stepped back but remained within earshot.

  “Do you have anything to declare?” the uniformed customs official asked. They’d been told about him.

  “Nyet,” McGarvey said.

  The official opened the suitcase and pulled everything out of it, checking the lining and the hinges before he turned to the clothes and finally the books and notebooks.

  “No cigarettes or liquor?”

  “Nyet.”

  “Pornographic magazines or photographs?”

  “Nyet.”

  “Weapons?” the customs official asked evenly.

  McGarvey shook his head. “I am engineer, here to help with building. I have no need of … weapons.”

  The customs official looked up as the SAVAK officer came over and held out his hand.

  “I would like to see that notebook,” he said, his voice stern. He also spoke English.

  The customs official handed it over, and the officer quickly thumbed through it. “Have you already spoken with these companies?”

  “No,” McGarvey said.

  “But you are hoping to begin tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  The SAVAK officer looked up coldly, his eyes large behind thick glasses. “I think Gorbachev is a very dangerous man. What do you think of that?”

  McGarvey shrugged. “I know people in Georgia and Azerbaidzhan who would agree.”

  “How about you, comrade?”

  Again McGarvey shrugged. “I am engineer, not politician.”

  The plainclothes officer looked at him for a moment or two before he returned the notebook. “Go directly to your hotel, comrade. The rules will be explained to you.”

  “Yes, thank you,” McGarvey replied.

  The SAVAK officer left, and the customs official went down the counter to inspect the next person’s luggage.