Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thrillers)

by Haggai Carmon

  Soon enough I’d have to tell Eric about my own findings regarding the unholy trinity of Monica, Chennault, and Shestakov.

  “There are still a lot of missing pieces in the puzzle,” said Eric, “and I don’t know yet what the connection is exactly, but assume there is one.”

  This time, I was more cautious than Eric. I remembered another Moscow Rule, which Alex, my Mossad instructor, rehearsed with us: “Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, and three times is a hostile action.” Once: Monica’s presence in my Paris cover apartment. Twice: the gun and multiple passports hidden underneath the floorboard. And third: Monica’s affiliation with Shestakov, “a person of interest” to many intelligence services for his trade with Iran.

  I didn’t need to go further, and count her fake address. I had to assume I was in active clandestine combat, and as usual in these wars, the identity and location of my enemy weren’t clear. Shestakov’s company? The Iranians? Some new kid on the block I hadn’t met yet?

  “So, now?” I asked Eric.

  “Return to Dubai, stay there for a while. We need to see how the opposition got on your tail, and why. Be alert, you’ll be a walking target once you return, but that’s the only way to smoke them out.”

  Thank you very much, whined my little inner devil, a walking target, what are you, a duck? Give Eric a piece of your mind! I didn’t listen, but soon I realized that I should have.

  I did fly back to Dubai, though not until the next day. First I found a small hotel nearby and slept through the early morning hours. Then I left my luggage there and waited in the café across the street from the apartment I shared with André. At 7:45 a.m. Monica and André exited the building. Monica took a cab and André rode a bicycle. I waited for fifteen minutes, and when I thought the coast was clear I entered the apartment. It was a bit embarrassing to sneak into my own apartment, fearing detection by my “son” and his dubious guest, but I returned to their bedroom.

  The arms stash underneath the bed was intact. I went through Monica’s clothing again, checking all her pockets. Then I turned to the coat closet in the vestibule, and searched the coats and bags. In a small woman’s bag, I found a folded piece of paper. It was a wire transfer confirmation from an account in Bank Sepah, via Barberini branch, Rome, Italy. The amount transferred was €110,000. The other details were too smudged to read.

  I put the receipt in my pocket, and continued with my search. In another purse, I found three Lufthansa boarding pass stubs and a half-empty pack of cigarettes. I checked it thoroughly; it contained only cigarettes. I copied the dates and the flight numbers on the stubs. I moved to the desk and searched André’s papers. Other than school materials, I found nothing of interest. I made sure I left everything intact and left the apartment.

  As I walked up the street, I saw Monica coming toward me. I turned quickly and entered a store. I didn’t want her to see me in the area when I’d told André that I was leaving Paris.

  From an Internet café, I notified Eric about the bank withdrawal slip, using preassigned code words and making the message short.

  I surfed the Internet for an hour, until Eric’s ciphered response arrived, but I couldn’t open it. Eric must have forgotten his order to stop using my computer until cleaned.

  I sent him another e-mail: Can’t read, I’m still in Paris. I’m going to Kingdom to call you.

  When the connection in the bubble was made, Eric went straight to business. “I thought you returned to Dubai. Why the delay?”

  “I decided to search the apartment again.” I told him about the withdrawal slip and the boarding passes.

  “What do you suggest, then?” asked Eric, catching me by surprise. Since when does Eric ask for advice? If he wants someone’s opinion, he gives it.

  “I think I should go back to Dubai.”

  “OK, go back,” he said. “As long as you are in the enemy’s sightline, you must exercise extra caution. Where is your laptop?”

  “Here with me. I left it outside the bubble.”

  “Good, have my IT experts check it out to make sure it wasn’t compromised. Leave it with them until you depart. Use Internet cafés to communicate using the designated code words. Report every day, or earlier as events develop. Continue using your legend as an electronics trader. Any change in your activity would signal that they were right to suspect you. Upon arrival in Dubai and before you’d pick up a tail, go to the consulate. There will be a package waiting for you with my Chief of Station.”

  Three hours later, I received my laptop back. Cleaned, said the attached note. They never said if they found anything hostile in it, and I didn’t ask.

  IX

  January 2007, Dubai

  I flew back to Dubai and returned to the Hyatt Regency. I went up to my room and opened the safe. Everything looked normal. I went downstairs, cancelled my earlier reservation for the extra room for my “business associate,” and asked for a new room for myself: “Please give me a room at the end of the corridor. I’d like to have an uninterrupted view of the Gulf.”

  The location of the new room would give me an opportunity to see who might be coming my way, because there were at least fifty feet between my door and the door of the next room.

  In my new room, I emptied my pockets. My entire legend spilled out, plus detritus from my mission. My European passport, one Visa card, one MasterCard, no American Express card—thank you very much, I’ve had too much hassle from them—a French driver’s license, three door keys on a metal ring, two taxi receipts, airline ticket stubs, used boarding cards, a copy of the service agreement with We Forward Unlimited, and a laminated photo of my “family.”

  I flipped through the passport pages. There was nothing irregular there to attract attention. My driver’s license had my photo and my Paris address.

  Leaving the hotel, I took a cab for some blocks; switched to another; and after a tour around the city, got out a block before the Dubai World Trade Center on Sheikh Zayed Road, next to the roundabout. I walked to the original tower. After going through security, as a habit I first took an elevator to the twenty-fourth floor, and then took another down to the twenty-first and entered the US Consulate. After I’d identified myself to the Marine guard, a young man came up and said, “Please follow me.”

  We entered a vacant office. He gave me a bulky box. “Please sign here,” he said, handing me a form and a pen. “If you intend to open the parcel here,” he said, “I suggest you give me the empty box for safe disposal.”

  I opened the box. Inside were an M4 polymer frame handgun, the Mil Tech 12x20mm, and ammo specifically designed for the gun. The Chief of Station had also given me an unregistered mobile phone.

  I returned to my hotel with the gun and the phone in my pocket.

  The man who had brushed against me next to the shawarma stand a few days earlier was sitting on a couch in the lobby. How did he know I was still around? When his eyes met mine, he nodded. I approached him. The marble floors in the lobby echoed. Airy, vaulted ceilings, money secreted everywhere—you could feel it. The lobby was fairly crowded; international clientele waited at the reception desk. On my way to sit I heard at least four languages.

  The man seemed to be alone, although you never know.

  “Mr. Van der Hoff, please join me,” he said.

  I sat opposite him, saying nothing. On the coffee table between us sat a vase, with an elegant stalk of dried desert flowers.

  He leaned forward across the table and spoke quietly. “I’m taking a significant risk in approaching you, but there’s no other way. The post office box mentioned in the letter was compromised by an Iranian VEVAK agent working out of Dubai.”

  I didn’t react, putting on my best poker face. He continued. “I’m the one who sent the letter to the consulate.”

  I kept looking at him.

  “I wrote it on behalf of my brother, a nuclear scientist. Can we talk now?”

  “What is there to talk about?” I kept playing the dumb fool. It was my on
ly available defense for a trap.

  “Can you help him get political asylum in the US and a job, in return for nonpublic information about his work?”

  “Sir,” I said, “I don’t know why you are approaching me.”

  He said immediately, “Because I know you work for the American government, and you came here in connection with the letter I sent. I know you opened an account with We Forward Unlimited; this is where I opened my box as well. I’ve just discovered that We Forward Unlimited works for VEVAK and, therefore, I wanted to stop you from responding to that box. Any incoming mail will be immediately read by VEVAK, and believe me when I say they are quite merciless.”

  “Well, I did open a box there for my electronic parts trading business. Is that how you found my name? Were you present at the office when I signed up?”

  “No. My wife’s sister’s fiancé works there; he’s the one who told me that the company is secretly controlled by VEVAK. He didn’t know anything about my brother’s plan to come to America. He told me about VEVAK over dinner, just making conversation, without realizing that the information was very relevant and important for my brother.”

  “How do I know you’re not trying to trick me into doing something I’m not supposed to do? I’m just a merchant here trying to do business. I’m not here with any government.”

  “I don’t know what else to tell you, I—”

  He stopped here as a family paused next to us: a well-dressed man in a suit—Brooks Brothers?—and his wife, veiled from head to toe. From what I could tell, she alone was pulling the bulk of the family luggage, all of it stacked on one suitcase roller. They had two young children, one of whom was crying. The mother knelt down right next to us, soothing the young girl, gently wiping her tears with the edge of her robe. Once the child was calmed, they moved on.

  “I already gave you details,” the man continued, “that only the sender of the letter would know.”

  “How about giving me the name of your brother?” I took a huge leap forward, by revealing my interest.

  He said without hesitation, “Professor Firouz Kamrani.”

  “Why does he want to leave Iran?” I asked.

  “He has stopped working on the nuclear program originally intended to produce electricity. When Mahmoud Ahmadinejad became president in August 2005, he pushed for nuclear armament instead. The level of activities was substantially increased, abandoning necessary precautions for the sake of expediency. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad wanted to have a bomb before the world would realize what was happening and try to stop him. My brother was sending his superiors warnings about the dangers of accidents at the nuclear reactor as a result of the rushed manner of work. He was ignored.

  “He also didn’t like the fact that under the guise of nuclear research for peaceful purposes, Iran was planning to build a bomb. He was brushed off and warned to shut up. He is a scientist, not a soldier, and felt intimidated and afraid for his family. He told me that he was being followed, and that his mail was opened.”

  I had a problem with parts of his story. I knew of Kamrani. He had received military awards—and that definitely did not jibe with his portrayal as a peace-loving scientist. On second thought, maybe Kamrani was telling the truth, that his brother’s troubles had started in 2005, when Ahmadinejad started pushing the nuclear program for military use.

  I got up. “Well, I have a friend who works in the US Consulate here, I can give him that information. But I’m doing it only because I have compassion for your brother. Once I relay the information, I can no longer be involved in this.”

  “Sure,” he said smoothly, and I could tell he thought he had me trapped.

  “How can I contact you?” I asked. “Do you have a card? I may call you for business purposes.”

  He gave me his card. On it was the name Ali Akbar Kamrani.

  “I’ll meet you here tomorrow evening at six o’clock,” he said and walked away. I continued sitting there, watching the exit doors, waiting to see if anyone was joining or following him—a partner or an FOE. I couldn’t identify anyone fitting either category.

  I returned to the Trade Center, and, after employing detection avoidance tactics, entered the consulate and wrote a detailed memo to Eric, describing my meeting and asking for a check on Professor Firouz Kamrani and Ali Akbar Kamrani. It concluded, I can’t estimate whether Ali Akbar Kamrani, the person I met, is bona fide or if he’s even really a brother.

  In the morning, I had a call from the consulate to come over. “Your request for information on customs regulations in the US is incomplete,” said the woman on the other end, in case we had a third person listening in. “Why don’t you come over and speak with the commercial attaché?”

  At the consulate, I was handed an incoming message from Eric:

  Dr. Firouz Kamrani, 49, an Iranian scientist, is a professor and an authority on electromagnetism, and deeply involved in the Iranian nuclear program in Isfahan. He is a tenured professor at the University of Shiraz, holding a degree in electronic engineering, and a PhD in Physics. He has published articles in reputable peer-reviewed scientific journals and is considered to be one of Iran’s top scientists. Kamrani was also a co-founder of the Iranian Centre for Atomic Research in Tehran. We need to be sure that Ali Akbar Kamrani didn’t use Firouz Kamrani’s name as bait without his knowledge. We need proof that Prof. Kamrani is in the loop and is in accord with the person purporting to be his brother. We are still checking on Ali Akbar, but couldn’t identify him yet. Therefore, continue contacts with him but make no promises that could expose you any further. Eric.

  The following day, I bought a Nikon D80 camera with a telephoto lens and waited on my balcony. At 5:45 p.m. I saw Ali Akbar Kamrani walking from the parking lot toward the hotel’s entrance. I shot twenty-four pictures in sequence and returned to my room to remove the memory card and lock the camera in my room safe. The card went into my pocket as I went downstairs to meet Ali Akbar Kamrani, who was patiently waiting.

  I sat opposite him. He nodded hello.

  “As I promised, I forwarded your request to a friend who works in the US Consulate. He told me to stay away. However, after I told him I was touched by your sincerity, he asked me to obtain proof that your brother agrees to what you are doing.”

  “How could he tell you that? I mean, my brother, he’s in Iran under a constant watch of VEVAK.”

  “OK. My friend thought of that, and suggested that you ask your brother next time you talk to him, to suggest to his students during class to read the article of Professor Krishna Patel published in Electromagnetic Radiation magazine, Volume VII, dated November 5, 2004.”

  My guest had a puzzled expression on his face, but he wrote down the information. That would tell us whether there’s a connection between my guest and the scientist, but obviously would not serve as exact proof that the scientist was in the loop. But, as a first step, that was enough.

  He then gave me a long look. “And the Americans will know that he did that?”

  “I have no idea,” I said, “I’m relaying to you what my friend said. By the way, I’m Jaap Van der Hoff.”

  “I already know that.” He smiled.

  “You never told me how you know.”

  He hesitated. I waited patiently. “You came to We Forward Unlimited to rent a postal box.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Mr. Van der Hoff, please forgive me, but I will tell you only when we move forward with getting my brother out of Iran.”

  I decided not to pressure him, but rather to ease his tension and talk about things he’d feel more comfortable with.

  “Do you live in Dubai?” I asked in a friendly tone. The business card he gave me earlier listed only his name and a telephone number.

  “Yes, for a few years now.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I work in a local representative office of a bank.”

  “Oh, which one?” I asked, thinking, Maybe there’s an opportunity her
e.

  “Sepah Bank.”

  “Is it a Dubai bank?” I asked, playing dumb again.

  “No, Iranian.”

  “Are you happy there?”

  “The wages are very good,” he said.

  “And what is your position?”

  “Assistant manager in charge of export document financing.”

  “Interesting,” I said, “I may need your services. How big is the bank?”

  “It employs 18,000 people, mostly in its 1,700 branches in Iran. The rest are in branches in Frankfurt, London, Paris, and Rome.”

  We chatted for another ten minutes.

  There was no question that he knew who I was. He called me by name; he knew I was working for the US government; he knew I came to Dubai in connection with the letters sent to the US Consulate, and I gave him answers to his questions and requested a verification to be performed by his brother in Iran. A reasonable assumption would be that the Agency would know if his brother got the message and told his students to read the particular article. Most probably the Agency had an insider at the university, perhaps even in Kamrani’s class. I couldn’t have been more stripped of any defenses if it turned out that the contact he made with me was a charade—a ploy by some intelligence service, most likely Iranian. And yet, I walked into it knowingly with open eyes.

  Why?

  Because I’m a risk taker. Not a paper pusher. Not a bean counter. Decisions had to be made; and if things turned ugly, I’d do my best to get the hell out; I’ve done it before, I can do it again. There’s also another reason: from underneath my jacket I had a gun pointed at Ali Akbar Kamrani. If he made any threatening moves, he’d be gone so fast he wouldn’t even know what hit him. I didn’t think it’d happen in a hotel lobby full of people, but I was ready. I wasn’t concerned with the Dubai police: I was sure that the Dutch consul could get me out of the local jail before I got used to the bad food and company.

  I returned to my room and ordered room service. I decided to limit my movements until the dust settled. Before the food arrived, I went downstairs and called the US Consulate from the lobby’s payphone, asking that I be met at the hotel. I couldn’t risk traveling to the consulate too often and I didn’t want to use the mobile phone, even though I was assured that it was unregistered, because a location could still be traced. An hour later, just as I finished my meal, a man from the consulate came over to the hotel. We met at the bar. After I identified him through an exchange of code words, we sat apart and kept to our drinks. Half an hour later, I left the bar while surreptitiously giving him my camera’s memory card with an encrypted report to Eric. Several hours later, he returned and, as agreed earlier during the exchange of code words, met me in the lobby’s men’s room.