That was bad news, because it could mean that Hammed was still on their radar.
“Why aren’t you drinking your coffee?” he asked suddenly.
“Sorry, coffee doesn’t agree with me, and the aftermath would be regrettable,” I replied, hoping that I wasn’t insulting him.
“Is tea all right?”
“Sure,” I said.
He snapped his fingers. A young boy came in, looking humble. Hammed said “jib chai”—bring tea—and moments later, the boy returned carrying a polished steel tray with a pot of sweet tea and an hourglass-shaped glass with a gold rim.
Hammed continued, “The Mukhabarat questioned me as to whether I was a member in KDP, the Kurdistan Democracy Party. I denied it. They took me away and detained me with common criminals at Adra Prison, near Damascus, where I was beaten and degraded. I was not allowed to meet privately with my lawyer. I was prevented from leaving my cell, watching TV, or listening to the radio. One day I was assaulted by a criminal detainee who stabbed me with a sharpened spoon. I nearly died of bleeding until the prison guards pulled me out. This is how I lost my arm. On another occasion I was severely beaten by prison guards who shaved my head and made me crawl on all fours.
“All that happened before I was brought before a judge for crimes I never committed. I didn’t even know what the charges against me were. I was sentenced by the Damascus Criminal Court to five years’ imprisonment on the charge of spreading false information harmful to the state under Article 286 of the Syrian Criminal Code.”
“Why? What had you done?”
“They brought a witness who said he’d heard me say that ‘Soon the Kurds will have a state of their own.’”
I knew that such political trials were heard by Syria’s Criminal, Military, and State Security Courts as part of their effort to suppress any hope of the Kurds for autonomy or independence.
“How long were you imprisoned?”
“Five years. The Mukhabarat promised me that I could be released sooner if I agreed to spy on my own people. I refused. They moved me to a prison cell in the basement floor, with no running water, no daylight. I was in solitary confinement. The Mukhabarat interrogators used electrical shocks on my genitals,” he said, gesturing at his crotch and then his feet. “They beat me on my back and legs and I still feel pain although it’s been seven years since my release.”
I saw the pain in his bloodshot, yellowish eyes. They reflected his intense anger. I got the messages he sent me, direct and subtle, and I was sure that our meeting had ended. As I was planning to leave and rush to the nearest restaurant to satisfy my hunger, Hammed snapped his fingers. His servant opened the door, and Hammed directed me to a dining room.
A long oblong table was laden with many small plates with various salads and dips. “Please, please,” he said, directing me to a chair opposite him. He broke pita bread and wiped it into a small plate with hummus. I followed suit, attempting to look ignorant of the custom of eating with your hands. This was strictly a case of need to know, and he didn’t need to know about my Israeli background and my lifelong lust for hummus.
It was close to 10:30 p.m. when I left Hammed’s home. The streets were empty. It was a cool night with a half moon. A sudden breeze chilled, or was it the steps I heard behind me? A professional would not look back. But, I was playing tourist, and I looked back. That was, of course, contrary to Rule Number Four of the Moscow Rules: Don’t look back; you are never completely alone. But, hey, I wasn’t supposed to be familiar with the Moscow Rules. I was just a businessman from Germany. Two men were behind staring at me. They didn’t even make an effort to hide or “shake off the dogs,” in old CIA lingo. I continued walking, hoping to catch a cab. Were they thugs looking for easy prey? Cops? I had no time or will to find out. Alas, there were no cabs.
I walked a bit faster, and they were still behind me. I passed by stores with their iron curtains down. The streetlights were sporadic and the cold wind was still blowing. We were still alone in the street. I finally made it to the main road. If they were to continue following me, it’d mean they were cops, not robbers who’d prefer a darker street. A cab cruised up, and I hailed it.
Before entering I looked back, the two men just stood there. Cops, no question. Why? Because I saw one of them holding a two-way radio and talking. That was alarming news. I couldn’t have been exposed from my end for any suspicious activity. Maybe Hammed’s past brought on my present situation? Was there a leak in the Mossad or the Agency? Besides, if there were, a reasonable response by any secret service would be to let me roam freely throughout the country, see what I was up to, whom I met, what photographs I took, and then apprehend me red-handed.
Other than meeting Hammed, I had done nothing since arriving in Damascus. I was also seen walking through the market with a bag full of sexy women’s lingerie. Was that a heinous crime here requiring surveillance? The only plausible conclusion was that I had grown a tail because I had made contact with Hammed, who was already contaminated, and the Mukhabarat was watching his home. The only plausible explanation was that they were a deterrent tail, letting me know they were following me to scare me off from achieving my purpose.
I was upset and concerned. Why did the Mossad connect me with a “dirty” contact in Damascus? It just didn’t make sense. I knew the way the Mossad operated, and security and caution were top priority. I was too tired to think about all the other options, so I just put it off for the time being.
As I inserted the key card into the slot on the door, I smelled cigarette odor combined with sour sweat. Not just cigarette smoke, but the stench locked into smokers’ clothes that leave traces wherever they go, combined with the body odor of someone who hadn’t bathed for a decade. I gingerly approached the door and heard noises. Someone was in my room. It wasn’t a chambermaid because they leave the room door open while they work, and it was too late for that. I knocked lightly on the door of the neighboring room, hoping that someone would be up. A man dressed in European clothes opened the door, holding a nightcap in his hand.
“Excuse me,” I said in an apologetic tone, “I was locked out of my room.” I pointed at my door. “I think but am not sure that my wife is there sleeping, therefore I don’t want to knock. I heard noise coming from your room, so I assumed you were awake.… Can I please go to your balcony and look over to my room to see if my wife is there?”
It took him only two seconds to open the door wide and say in an Italian accent, “Please.”
I walked to his balcony and bent over the divider. An intruder was inside my room, bending over my still-unpacked suitcase. It was zipped, and a small lock linked the two zipper ends. The man used a sharp object, perhaps a ballpoint pen, and stuck it between the tiny teeth of the zipper. An old Mossad trick, now practiced also by others. The top part of the suitcase easily separated from the bottom part. My host came behind me. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, thank you very much, I guess my wife is not in yet or maybe she’s in the shower, so I’ll go to the reception and get another key.” I left his room and went to the lobby. I wasn’t concerned with the search, because there was nothing in my room to cast any doubt on my identity. I was still Alexander Yager, a sales representative for a German export-import company. I was concerned by the mere intention to search my room, a treatment most tourists in Syria are probably spared. Although my legend was waterproof, there was no doubt that I’d attracted attention. But then, even a deep cover was no defense if I was caught doing something unconventional that an innocent businessman wouldn’t do, such as meeting with political rivals of the regime.
Something was very wrong here. I thought of Rule Number Three of the Moscow Rules: Assume that there is always hostile physical surveillance unless countersurveillance proves otherwise. Why would the Mukhabarat risk breaking into my room when they knew I was about to return? They probably didn’t mind. Where was the sentinel who was expected to be in the hallway to warn the intruders if I was returning to the room?
Why did the CIA or the Mossad hook me up with a contaminated person who now tainted me as well? It just didn’t make any sense to me.
But I had no time for soul-searching. I had a mission to complete and I needed to get my ass out of Syria as soon as I completed my mission, unless I faced imminent danger. Consequently, I also had to make an immediate decision about what to do next. Wait for the man, or maybe men, to leave my room and behave as if nothing had happened? What if they were planting an explosive device or some incriminating stuff like drugs or secret documents to frame me as a spy? Would that qualify as “nothing happened” as well?
On the other hand, if I abandoned my room and went to another hotel, that would be a strong signal to the Mukhabarat that I was not the innocent Alexander Yager, but someone with intelligence training. There was no point in fumigating the room for electronic surveillance devices. I couldn’t care less. I was just a businessman.
As always, I confront challenges. I went to the lobby, sat on the soft couch, and waited. I rested my hand on the armchair pointed toward the elevator door. Why? Because I had to direct my wristwatch toward the door. The elevator door opened and two men exited. Although I never saw my intruder’s face while he was in my room, I recognized him by his jacket. I pressed the watch’s crown three times, and put a bland expression on my face. The man exiting the elevator nodded to a third person who stood on guard next to the elevator door in the lobby, and the three of them left. I went to the door and saw them enter a dark sedan driven by a fourth person. Syrian secret service?
I returned to my room, opened the door, but left it open. If someone was still in my room, I’d better leave an escape route for him, and maybe for me if he was armed.
On first sight, the room was empty. I looked in the bathroom, the closets, and under the bed. Nothing. I closed the door. Under the circumstances, with the shadow escort I just had getting back to the hotel and the uninvited guests in my room, I had to assume a crisis was looming. I bent next to my suitcase. It was zipped up. I used the small key to unlock it and slowly lifted the back cover. All my stuff was there. But I couldn’t tell whether something, such as a homing or listening device, had been added. I had no laptop computer or cell phone, and of course, no electronic surveillance detection devices.
But, hey, I wasn’t going to talk on the phone with anyone, nor was I going to entertain anyone in my room. Therefore, I couldn’t care less if a listening device was installed. Usually, I try to mask my plans. Now, I wanted them to be known, because why would a European businessman behave as if he’s hiding anything?
The following morning, I checked out and took a cab to the airport. I expected that my departure could be a problem. I stood before the booth of the immigration officer as he flipped through the pages of my passport.
“How long was your visit?” he asked.
“Just two days,” I answered, “I had a single business meeting and I’m done.”
He slowly entered the information into his computer, and I waited for him to stamp my passport. The door behind him opened and another officer entered the small booth. I’m in trouble, was my first thought. They exchanged a few sentences in Arabic. Although I understood Arabic, it was too fast for me to catch. The officer who first took my passport left the booth. I was concerned as to whether he’d take my passport with him, but he didn’t. The officer who replaced him just stamped my passport and handed it back to me.
“Have a safe flight,” he said with a smile.
I smiled back, with deep inner relief, grateful that I’d be allowed to board the Syrianair flight to Tehran.
As I walked slowly through the airport, I wondered what it was all about. I had been followed, rather clumsily, by two men who made no secret of their interest in me. Two men had broken into my room and searched my suitcase, and yet nobody tried to stop my departure or even talk to me? Strange. Too strange to just be inefficiency. There was something else. I had to find out, but had no idea how, or when.
I glanced at my watch. With all my wonderings, I had to run to the gate. I made it, but there was a short delay. A man sitting next to me signaled me to follow him. In the men’s room, after we exchanged code words, he rapidly took my Alexander Yager passport and gave me another, in the name of Hans Dieter Kraus, plus an envelope of documents backing up my new identity.
I boarded the plane, which was half-empty. I tightened my seatbelt and let out a smile when I remembered the joke about the German flight attendant who announces on the PA: “Please fasten your seatbelts, and I vont to hear van click!” In fact, here there was no such instructional language, and the business cabin crew was exceptionally courteous and friendly, which helped to slow my accelerated heartbeat. Being brave means that you are the only one who knows you are scared. And frankly, I was worried. Who are you kidding? asked my little inner devil. You are terrified, I know, I’m inside you. All of your organs are contracting.
XII
May 2007, Tehran
I looked out the window and saw Damascus disappear beneath the clouds, and then looked around me in the cabin. All passengers in business class were men in suits, although a few wore them without a tie. Most were bearded. Before landing, as my heart palpitations increased, a smell of toothpaste and clogged bathrooms filled the cabin.
This was my first arrival into Imam Khomeini International Airport near Tehran. During my previous visit to Tehran, posing as a Canadian author, I had landed in the older and poorly maintained Mehrabad Airport. As we approached the airport, I saw the surrounding Alborz range and in the center, sunk in clouds of smog, was the metropolis of Tehran with its fourteen million residents.
It was a bumpy landing. Much to my surprise, instead of going through a walkway to enter the terminal, a bus was waiting. With accelerated heartbeat and a nervous stomach, I entered the arrival hall of Khomeini International Airport. Upon entering the terminal, I was surprised to see its poor maintenance. Though this airport was new, the floor was stained and damaged, and the aluminum-framed windows were dirty. The English and Farsi signage, yellow on blue, was legible, but at least twice the English was unclear. The red illuminated letters on the black sign at passport control were only in Farsi. The men’s bathroom was disgustingly dirty. There were several white flowerpots in the hallway, but the plants were nearly dead for lack of water.
I was nervous and for a good reason. I was high on the Iranian secret police “wanted” list.
A few years ago, while chasing the elusive Chameleon, I had penetrated Iran undercover, and barely escaped. To this day, I didn’t know if the Iranians knew my real identity or my real professional affiliation. I wasn’t using my real name now, and I didn’t use it then. Even the aliases were different, as well as the legends. I carried a European passport with my photo and biometrics describing me as Hans Dieter Kraus, born in Minsk, Belarus, in 1951. Two credit cards—Visa, Eurocard issued by MasterCard (no American Express, thank you very much). Also, €8,000 in Visa travelers’ checks and €2,000 in cash. Family photos, again, of Matilda and Snap. From the envelope of documents I also had business cards of God’s Faithful Followers Magazine, a European magazine catering for the faithful of all religions believing in God.
The Iranian security services had my photo, first from when I’d applied for a visa, and then from when I was under surveillance in Tehran during my chase after the Chameleon. However, my appearance had changed: no beard, thirty pounds heavier, ten years older. I was hoping, just hoping, that the change would smooth my entry. Adding to my sense of trepidation was the risk that if I had in fact been contaminated in Damascus, then VEVAK would know almost immediately. That would earn me a swift arrest, and a slow and painful interrogation and incarceration. The fact that in Damascus I was Alexander Yager and in Tehran I became Hans Dieter Kraus would only help to tighten the rope around my neck.
I was full of dread, but determined. My sense of mission was stronger than the butterflies in my stomach. I took a deep breath and walked toward the passport control boo
th. Standing before the police immigration officer, who was dressed in a light green shirt with his rank embroidered on his collar, I showed him my passport. He gave me a tired look. He was unshaven and reeked of cigarettes. He flipped through the pages of my passport, and, without a word, stamped it. That was it. Dan, you’re a paranoid, said my inner little devil. I agreed, though not forgetting that even paranoids may have real enemies.
Relieved once again, I went to the lower level to collect my luggage. An hour later, when everyone else had already collected their bags, I realized that mine wasn’t coming any time soon. The carousel stopped. The area emptied of people. I went to the lost luggage counter.
“Wait for a few more minutes,” the man behind the counter suggested, “and if your luggage is still unrecovered, call this number tomorrow.” He handed me a printed page in three languages. Frustrated, as I was preparing to exit the terminal without my bag, thinking who might be interested in keeping it—and I had one obvious guess—a man came running, holding my bag. “I found it!” he exclaimed. Grateful, I tipped him nicely.
I went back to the lost and found office to cancel my complaint, and the attendant giggled. He then told me that this is a regular trick of the baggage handlers to increase their poor wages. In each flight, they hold on to a bag or two and when the frustrated passenger seems helpless, they bring it to him as a newly found bag, and win a generous tip. I left the terminal into a bustling crowd of taxi drivers, moneychangers, and self-certified tour guides. I knew there was no metro or train to Tehran and had expected an hour and a half of travel by taxi to the city. The air was humid and the back of my shirt was wet, not only because of the humidity.
A talkative cabbie drove me to the Laleh Hotel in Laleh Park, close to the business district. Before the Islamic Revolution it was named the InterContinental, the best hotel in Tehran. Settled in my room, I opened the curtains and saw spectacular mountain views of Damavand and Alborz. I went downstairs to have a meal. With a choice of rotisserie, Polynesian, and Iranian restaurants, I chose the hotel’s Namakdoon restaurant that serves traditional Persian cuisine. Hell, I didn’t come to Tehran to eat Polynesian dishes! There were many diners in the elegant restaurant, and I was busy reading the menu, when a man dressed in Persian attire came to my table. “Mr. Hans?”
Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thrillers) Page 13