Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thrillers)

by Haggai Carmon

  I ignored the fact that he was addressing me by my first name.

  I looked up over the menu. He was heavyset, in his midfifties, with a dark mustache and sun-parched face. I nodded. When he didn’t respond, I said, “Yes, I’m Hans Dieter Kraus, and you are?”

  “Mr. Khader’s chauffer.” His accent was heavy. I looked at him attentively. He continued, “Once you finish your dinner, please go outside. I’ll be waiting in a white Mercedes limo.” He half bowed and walked away.

  The food was delicious, but I was too preoccupied with planning my next moves to enjoy it. Although I’ve been through these operations many times before, each time I was excited anew. I finished my meal and went outside. The man was waiting in his car, and I sat in the back seat.

  He started the engine.

  “Where are going?” I asked.

  “To your apartment.”

  “What apartment?” I asked. I knew I wasn’t supposed to check out of my hotel room.

  “Change of plans,” he said, “Mr. Khader told me to bring you over.”

  “I need stuff from my luggage,” I said. I was concerned. Although the chauffer gave me the correct code word, identifying him as my contact, the sudden unannounced change of plan was unusual. I decided not to argue and to wait for developments. I’d just violated a Mossad Rule: A sudden change of plans is always suspicious. Therefore, you must make sure you verify the authenticity of the instruction and abort in case of the slightest uncertainty. It could be hostile. I thought of Rule Number Two of the Moscow Rules: Never go against your gut. I had just violated that rule, too. Why? Because I’m a risk taker. If I fail, then my decisions would be defined as callous and stupid.

  “Mr. Khader said that you will not be returning to this hotel, and that your luggage must stay there. I have another suitcase for you here.”

  I said nothing, leaned back, and watched the passing streets of bustling Iran.

  We arrived at a six-story building in northern Tehran. The chauffer quickly exited and opened my door. He gave me a set of keys. “One key will open the main entrance door and the other key will open your apartment door. It’s on the sixth floor, apartment 6F.” He opened the trunk and pulled out a suitcase, which he carried to the door.

  I took the new suitcase, entered the building, and took the elevator to the sixth floor. As I entered the apartment I saw a man sitting on a sofa. The hair on my back rose. A trap, after all, I said to myself, quickly wondering how I’d let myself fall for it. I looked back to see if I could escape. It was too late. Behind the door was another man who closed the door, keeping me inside with no place to go.

  The man on the sofa got up, “Mr. Kraus?

  “Yes,” I answered trying to figure out what had gone wrong, and how long would it be before they’d peel me and get my identity, mission, and maybe even details about my previous Iranian penetration. I shouldn’t have ignored another Moscow Rule: Assume that all local nationals are hostile.

  He smiled, “I’m Khader, Hammed’s cousin, I’m glad to meet you.” He shook my hand firmly. Was a sigh of relief appropriate here? I wasn’t sure yet. I sat next to him. The man standing next to the door remained there. After the inevitable small talk, although no coffee was served—it was my apartment—I asked him: “Why did I need to leave my hotel room?”

  “For security reasons. You’ll keep your hotel room. My men will enter it to mess up the bed and make it look like you slept there.”

  “I need my toiletries and clothes.”

  “If you have medication or anything personal you need, my men will bring it over tomorrow. Otherwise, that suitcase”—he pointed at the suitcase I brought up—“contains a complete change of clothes for you.”

  I didn’t answer. The arrangement still seemed odd, but I decided to see how things developed. Besides, that sudden change must have been coordinated with the Agency, if they had my clothing sizes. “What about Tango?” I asked. After all, he was the focus of my mission.

  “Tango has left his apartment,” Khader answered.

  “To where?”

  “To another location. The VEVAK was getting closer to him.”

  I realized I wasn’t getting straight answers. “What’s the arrangement, then?” I asked, a bit surprised at the evasiveness.

  “We will bring him over to a safe house in southern Tehran, where he can blend, and once he’s there we’ll get you to him.”

  “When will that happen?”

  “Within a few days,” he said. “In the meanwhile, feel free to tour Tehran, but stay out of trouble,” he smiled. “Have you ever been here before?”

  My inner little devil had been semi-dormant the whole time. Now, he opened one eye. Don’t answer that! But be polite. Volunteering information, when asked a simple question that calls for a short answer, is always a bad policy. Doing that with strangers while on assignment is simply irresponsible. Why is he asking?

  “I’ll do some sightseeing of museums, there’s no trouble there,” I smiled back.

  “Tayeb,” he concluded. “There’s food in the refrigerator and a cleaning woman will come every day.” He handed me a piece of paper.

  “Here is my number. Memorize and destroy.” He shook my hand firmly with both his hands and left with the man at the door.

  I stretched out on the sofa, trying to digest the events. An hour later, I went out to the street and took a cab to Park Saie. I crossed the street and entered a store at the Sadaf building. I paid twenty-five thousand rials—about three dollars—for one hour’s use of their computer. I logged into my Yahoo account and mailed a message to Allgemeine Textile Fabriquant GmbH:

  I have arrived safely in Tehran. My hosts suggested I stay at an apartment rather than at the hotel to allow them to bring models to try on our merchandise. I was told that the shipment of our sample merchandise has not arrived yet, but hope to clear it through customs shortly. Hans Dieter Kraus.

  The memory of the great Iranian shawarma I had in Dubai was too strong to ignore. Despite my dinner at the Laleh Hotel, I stopped at one of the shawarma stands and helped myself to a hearty serving. Even though the white tahini sauce oozed through my fingers onto my pants, I didn’t stop eating. I looked around me. Young couples were pushing baby strollers, students were carrying backpacks, bicycle riders were maneuvering through the hectic traffic amid the noise of honking cars and eye-burning smog. This was the same Tehran I had left in a hurry ten years ago. It had only gotten bigger, dirtier in some areas, and more congested. During rush hour—and it’s rush hour during most of the day—walking is sometimes faster than taking a car. Crossing a highway is like swimming across an alligator-infested pool fast, hoping to make it in one piece.

  I went to a nearby ATM machine and sent a two-digit code to my bank in Germany. The bank’s computers were programmed to automatically and invisibly forward these messages to the CIA’s call center somewhere in the US Midwest. Code 76 meant I’m OK, but sudden changes raise concern. This was a midlevel alert. The instructions I was given during my training at The Farm were clear: Use it when there’s no imminent danger, but increased alertness is applied. If no communication is received from you that includes a #, or number sign, within twenty-four hours, that would mean you’re in distress and may have been apprehended and that communication was coerced.

  I behaved as a businessman with a few hours to kill would behave. My day tour the next day started with a visit to the Carpet Museum. Next, I went to the Museum of Reza Abbasi, named after the miniaturist in the Safavid era. It exhibits calligraphy and artifacts dating back to ancient Islamic periods and even before. Next, I visited the Crown Jewels Museum and the Archaeological Museum. There I saw a stone capital statue of a winged lion from Susa, and a sixth-century BC hall relief of Darius the Great from the Treasury at Persepolis. Nowhere did I identify anyone taking a special interest in me.

  After quick tours of the museums, I walked slowly through the bazaar, buying two souvenirs—bargaining the price down a bit—and then took a
cab to my hotel. My hotel? Yes, I wasn’t comfortable with my instructions to avoid the hotel. Something in me said it wasn’t right. Good to my notorious character of questioning authority when instructions do not make sense to me, I went up to my room, collected a few items from my baggage, messed up the room a bit, used the bathroom and left. I took a cab back to the bazaar, made sure through a few maneuvers that I wasn’t followed, and took a cab to my apartment.

  An hour later, Khader arrived. He opened my door with a key. That surprised me, but in fact, I should have been pleased that he had immediate access. I needed no privacy, I wasn’t entertaining women there, and in case of emergency, he could enter. I was troubled though that he didn’t bother telling me he had a key.

  “Mr. Kraus,” he said and I immediately sensed his anger.

  I looked at him.

  “I thought we asked you to stay away from your hotel.”

  “No, you did not. You said I would move here, but said nothing about not returning.” Was I under his watch all the time? I decided not to ask or comment any further. He knew, and wanted me to realize it. That was probably his purpose in chiding me.

  “What’s up with Tango?”

  “We hope to move him to a safe house in southern Tehran tomorrow.”

  “Just hope?” I asked. I didn’t like the uncertainty.

  “We’ll see in the morning,” he said cryptically. I didn’t respond; there was no way I would challenge him. Not then, not there. Maybe later. Maybe? Err, for sure.

  “If you need anything, call me,” Khader said, and when I said I was OK, he left, but not before asking me not to return to my hotel.

  I was anxious but not in a hurry to move the operation forward. However, the way things were progressing here made me uncomfortable. I recognized the feeling. A cloud of uncertainty was invisibly hovering in the room, telling me that something wasn’t right, but I had no clue what it was. This was my second undercover tour in Iran in which I had significant help from the Kurds. I’d also had several other contacts with the Kurds. The ones I had met were fearless fighters, honest and loyal.

  However, my little inner devil was restlessly moving inside me, telling me he too was uncomfortable.

  I decided to play it safe. Believe all men, but cut the cards. I thought of reporting to Eric, but if Khader and his men were sour, then my communication with Eric could be captured, especially if I used the tiny communication device that Khader had given me earlier. There was no way of knowing whether he had added himself as an additional subscriber. I wasn’t going to use the device other than for communicating with Khader. My other means of contact with Eric and Paul were through the Internet, using pre-agreed messages, or in case of emergency, via short messages through any ATM machine. These would end up, through my bank, on Eric’s desk. At this time there was no emergency, so I decided to wait.

  After watching Iranian television for an hour, I went to the kitchen, took a jar of sugar, and spilled it on the floor in the vestibule, covering it with a newspaper. Anyone entering the apartment during the night would step on the newspaper and make a grinding noise. That would be enough to wake me up.

  I went to sleep in the other vacant room in the apartment. Somehow I wasn’t comfortable sleeping in the master bedroom of an apartment to which other people I’d just met held keys.

  I woke up to the chant of muezzins calling devout Muslims to wake up for the morning prayer. It was still dark outside, but the sounds, broadcast from at least three minarets and coming from three directions, reminded me that I was in a Muslim country, where believers were expected to pray five times a day. As I planned to roll over and continue sleeping, there was a knock on the front door. I froze and listened to the sounds. Khader didn’t need to knock. Who else might it be?

  I went to the door and peeped through the viewer. A mustached man was standing there.

  “Who are you?” I asked while taking cover behind the door.

  “Khader sent me,” he said quietly, and gave me the password that identified him as a friend.

  I opened the door. “Please be ready. We are going to see Tango.”

  I returned to the bedroom, quickly changed, and joined the man. We went out to the street and entered his beat-up Toyota. I looked at the streets of northern Tehran as they filled up with traffic, mostly trucks, packed buses, and taxis. We entered Sadr Highway, got off next to Qeytariyeh, and entered a beautiful residential area.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “We’re in Farmaniyeh, this is where rich people live,” he said in an appreciative tone.

  He stopped the car next to a high-rise and used his cell phone to make a call. After exchanging a few words in Kurdish—a language I didn’t speak—he asked me to leave the car.

  “Go to the eighteenth floor,” he said, “Khader and Tango will be there.”

  “Aren’t you coming as well?”

  “No, I need to stay here.”

  “Is there a doorman in the building?”

  “Yes, just wave at him; he was told that a guest was coming.”

  “To what apartment should I go on the eighteenth floor?”

  “Khader will wait for you as you exit the elevator.”

  I walked to the entrance. The lobby was palatial, with a twenty-foot archway at the main entrance, marble floors, stone walls, arched mosaic ceilings, and decorative chandeliers. The walls on the walkway to the elevators had brick and terracotta façades. I waved at the half-asleep doorman and went to the eighteenth floor. Khader was indeed waiting for me. Without saying a word, he turned and I followed down a long, carpeted corridor hung with oil paintings. At the end of the hallway, he opened an apartment door.

  A man in his midfifties stood there.

  “This is General Cyrus Madani,” said Khader, as I approached. The general said nothing and shook my hand. His handshake was firm, and I could feel his farmer’s rough skin. He was dressed in starched and ironed khaki pants and shirt. I looked at his face. He had dark eyes and a well-groomed mustache.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” I said in Arabic.

  “We can talk in English,” he responded, realizing from my accent that Arabic was not my native language.

  “Marhaba,” he nonetheless said in Arabic. “Welcome. Please, let’s go inside.” I followed him to the end of the room, near tall windows. The curtains were open and I could see the nearby park. Madani sat on one end of a black leather sectional sofa. I sat on the other. Khader remained standing.

  “What’s the plan?” Madani asked. He had the confident tone of a person accustomed to giving orders. I was surprised at the direct approach, very much unlike the local custom.

  “We are going to cross the border to Syria.”

  As if on a cue, Madani asked, “And who would you be?”

  “I’m journalist writing an article on religious pilgrimages of various religions.”

  “For whom are you writing?”

  “God’s Faithful Followers Magazine,” I said.

  “Is that a joke?” he asked, in half contempt.

  “No, not at all, that’s a real magazine, and I’m listed in the masthead as a staff reporter. I fact, my previous article described the faithful Catholics’ pilgrimage to the Vatican. Here, I have a copy for you,” I handed him the magazine I kept in my briefcase.

  He flipped through the pages, his face motionless. He handed the magazine back to me.

  “No,” I insisted, “keep it. You may have to show it if questions are asked.”

  For the next three hours, I went with Madani through a series of instructions, telling him what to say if questioned about how our contact was made, and explaining why there were no previous telephone conversations, letters, or e-mails between us. I rehearsed the legend the CIA had designed for us.

  “Please memorize it,” I said, “remember even the minute technical details, such as the time of day I first approached you.”

  “Remember,” I concluded at the end, “it was your travel agent who s
pecializes in pilgrimage tours who made the connection. My editor called him, asking for a good example of a Shia pilgrim, and he suggested you.”

  “You mean that my travel agent is in the loop?” He sounded surprised.

  “No, he is not,” I said emphatically. “He in fact was approached by my editor, but your travel agent thinks it’s a real request from a genuine magazine, and in fact it is. The article about your pilgrimage will appear in print.”

  He gave me a long look, without saying anything. Moments later he said, “Tayeb.”

  “There’s a train going from Tehran north and west to Istanbul, avoiding Iraq, then south to Damascus. We will take it,” I said.

  His face showed no expression. “And then?” he asked.

  “From Damascus, we’ll take the return train to Turkey and you’ll be met by American agents who’ll take care of you.”

  He slanted his eyes. “What do you mean, take care of me? I thought we had an agreement. I’m going to America.”

  There was more than a tad of anger in his voice.

  “Of course, General,” I said quickly. “What I mean is that my instructions are to bring you safely to Turkey. From there another unit is taking over. As a general with so many years in the military you know the importance of field security. I am not supposed to know about all the details of the operation, just those that concern my role. If I’m caught and made to talk, I could be forced to reveal only what I know—my limited duties, not the entire operation. That is meant to protect you.”

  His black eyes were still on fire, but I moved on.

  “If we need to be in Turkey, why travel through Damascus?”

  I was uneasy. It was Madani who had told the CIA that his Iranian exit visa was limited to a Syrian visit only. The little devil inside me moved nervously.