Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thrillers)

by Haggai Carmon

  I called Benny. He was away, but his ever efficient chief of staff located him and conferenced us. I knew she did that each time Benny didn’t want to reveal where he was. The relay of the call through Tel Aviv made it possible to mask his location.

  “Benny, can you check if Tango had a connection with Mr. X? I’ll send you his name through channels.” Obviously I couldn’t do it over open phone lines.

  “I’ll let you know when I get it. Although the question seems redundant in light of the recent news regarding Tango.”

  “It’s very current and relevant,” I said and hung up.

  I sent Langley an encrypted message asking them to relay to Benny the name Leonid Shestakov. Was he connected to Madani, through Ali Akbar Kamrani or directly?

  A day later I received Benny’s response through Langley:

  Leonid Shestakov retained Tango to inform him on purchasing plans of nuclear components. We don’t know how Tango was paid; it was definitely not in Iran because the Iranian government was unaware that Tango was in fact spying for Shestakov. Since he hadn’t left Iran, there must be a hefty bank account somewhere waiting for him. However, we have no information regarding Ali Akbar Kamrani’s involvement, or even if Tango and Kamrani knew about each other.

  There was no time to waste. I sent Eric a short message: I had to leave Istanbul immediately, and would return in a few days. I knew he’d go ballistic, but I didn’t care. It was burning in me. I’d smelled a rat when Eric and Benny had told me about the third Madani. I just had to get to the bottom of it. The lone wolf in me, the character trait that the Mossad psychologist warned my recruiters of at the time, put the gears in a forward shift. I was on a mission. And this time without Eric’s, Paul’s, or Benny’s blessings.

  XVI

  June 2007, Rome

  I flew to Germany, and took a connection to Rome. First things first, I had a thick pizza Napolitano with lots of mozzarella cheese and two glasses of Chianti. That calmed one urge I had, but not my curiosity. Rome was the location of a bank that interested me: Sepah Bank. I had to find a connection, or a reason for the withdrawal receipt for ten thousand euros that I’d found in my apartment in Paris.

  I called Aldo Giovanni, a senior investigator at the Financial Crimes Unit at the Italian Finance Ministry. We’d worked together when he was attached to a joint US-Italian financial task force assembled to fight Italian Mafia tentacles sent to the US.

  Aldo was happy to hear my voice and agreed to meet me immediately. However, in his book, “immediately” meant next week. When I insisted politely that we should meet sooner, he relented and came to my hotel the next morning. I told him only that I was investigating a potential connection between Shestakov and Sepah Bank in Dubai. As a seasoned investigator, he didn’t ask too many questions about why I needed to know that.

  I did some quick research. On March 30, 2007, financial regulators in Italy and the UK froze assets of Iran’s Bank Sepah, following a March 24 resolution by the UN Security Council in response to Iran’s nuclear program. Therefore, Italy’s central bank effectively took control of the Rome branch of Sepah. Now the bank had an Italian overseer.

  Aldo came to my hotel. We sat in a quiet corner of the lobby.

  “Do you have access to the bank’s records?”

  “Generally yes, but normally we intervene only if we establish that there’s a suspicion of criminal or other activity in violation of the UN Security Council decisions. Are you telling me that there’s such a violation?”

  That was way more than I’d asked for, and continuing on that path could in fact damage my case and put me in hot water with the State Department. I had to slow him down. “Thanks, but at this time all I need is records showing a connection between Shestakov and Bank Sepah Dubai that passed through Rome.” I didn’t need to tell him who Shestakov was. Aldo seemed very familiar with him.

  “I can’t rule it out. In fact, a connection between Shestakov and Sepah Bank in Rome makes sense. The Iranians are trying to get around the difficulties caused by their international isolation and are setting up companies in Dubai that place orders with foreign vendors, including Shestakov, with payments made through Sepah in Rome. I don’t think that there are lots of records. The Sepah Bank in Rome has only about twelve employees, and is subject to oversight from a number of overlapping Italian authorities.”

  I looked at his face, listening attentively. Aldo came from a well-to-do family in Naples, but preferred public service over the family pottery business. I knew little about his private life, other than that he was married and had two young children. At forty-five, he had reached a senior management level position, and seemed very calm and content.

  He continued, “The Bank of Italy ensures that Sepah does not create new business, and the Unita di Informazione Finanzaria—Italy’s Financial Intelligence Unit—monitors all of Bank Sepah’s expenses in Rome. The Guardia di Finanza ensures that Bank Sepah does not sell its fixed physical assets. Sepah’s dollar-denominated accounts are blocked, but its euro accounts are still being used for overhead and payment of salaries. The Comitato di Sicurezza Finanzaria can authorize or reject transactions involving Bank Sepah’s euro-denominated accounts.”

  That sounded like a lot of bureaucracy to me. “Is there a way I could accompany the overseer while he’s examining the books?” I knew that my request was first-rate chutzpah, but what was wrong in asking?

  Aldo shook his head. “No, sorry, but I’ll see what I can do regarding your request, which by itself is unusual. Frankly, we should get a formal request through channels.” I never got used to that usual objection I get when I try to cut corners.

  “Dan,” he continued, as he read my mind, “the US and Italy signed an MLAT—Mutual Legal Assistance Treaty—in 1985. If this request is for evidence to be used in a US criminal investigation or prosecution, why don’t you use that channel?”

  “You are right,” I said, accepting my destiny to be entangled in bureaucracy, this time Italian. Last time, an urgent request for evidence took the Italian government three months to acknowledge, and six more months to provide the documents. And the Italians are not an exception. Most countries drag their feet when responding to these requests.

  “However,” he said with a sparkle in his eyes, “maybe I could help you unofficially.…”

  He drank another short espresso; I gulped my Campari with orange juice, and we continued chatting for another half an hour.

  Five hours later—speed of light in local terms—Aldo called my mobile phone. “Meet me at your hotel in two hours,” and hung up.

  Thirty minutes past the time of our scheduled meeting, Aldo came with a fashionable leather briefcase. “Please listen to me, don’t take notes. After our meeting I’ll leave you with documents. But not here.”

  I just listened.

  “Bank Sepah and its military clients have been secretly financing the development of nuclear weapons. We all know that. The Tehran-based headquarters of the bank has handled dozens of transactions totaling millions of dollars for front companies of Iran’s missile makers and nuclear parts components traders. Many of the deals have gone through the Rome branch. Iran’s use of state-owned banks and front companies is part of its effort to disguise money transfers through the global financial system. It uses front companies to conduct these procurements of needed parts for their missile and nuclear programs. Bank Sepah was the bank of choice for Iran’s missile and nuclear firms for many years.”

  I was losing my patience, although I sat motionless. Why is he telling me what every reader of a newspaper knows?

  “Can the bank argue they had no knowledge?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding?” asked Aldo. “The bank knew full well what sort of activity it was fostering. It’s done business over the years; you can presume knowledge solely based on the nature of the companies and the duration of the business and that it’s a state bank. Even the UN Security Council determined that Bank Sepah provides support for the Iranian Aerospace
Industries Organization and subordinates, including Shahid Hemmat Industrial Group and Shahid Bagheri Industrial Group.

  “These companies were not manufacturing or trading in chocolate. The Iranians are smart and use deceptive practices, such as front companies and the stripping of Iranian names off money transfers, which can undermine banks’ controls for knowing the identities of customers.”

  Where is the beef? I wondered again while listening to Aldo. The stuff he was telling was relevant and important, but I already knew it. I needed hard-core documents.

  “Can we go to the bank? I don’t have a car.”

  “Why?”

  “I simply want to see what it looks like.”

  “Bene,” he said.

  We went out to the street and entered his Fiat. Well, he entered and I squeezed myself in. He drove to 50 Via Barberini, and found a parking space right in front of the Mussolini-era building. It had a number of businesses. On the top floor was Thai International Airways. The floor below that had a sign for Bank Sepah: SEPAH—IRAN FILIALE DI ROMA in large blue letters. Other businesses included a PCL ticket agency, a local office of France’s Le Monde newspaper, a branch of the Polish Tourist Office, and, on the ground floor, a men’s clothing shop called Extra Large.

  We entered the branch. A portrait of Ayatollah Khomeini was hung above the teller window for letters of credit.

  Apparently, Aldo was a frequent visitor, because he was greeted by the staff. Not too warmly, I thought, but definitely understood given the circumstances.

  We left and drove a few blocks silently. Aldo then pulled over to the curb, and grabbed his briefcase. He pulled out a large brown envelope. “Take it, but open only in your hotel room. I’ll deny ever giving you anything.”

  I took the envelope, and he dropped me at my hotel. I rushed to my room, sat at the stylish desk, and opened the envelope.

  There were copies of a dozen or more bank statements, wire transfers, and ancillary banking documents. All were related to Shestakov’s company, LSIT, Leonid Shestakov International Trading GmbH. Even with my limited command of Italian, I could see the pattern immediately. Money came into Sepah Rome from Germany—usually a Berlin bank—then was transferred to Sepah Dubai or to the account of Vivian Tenafly Trust at the Bank of Traders and Merchants in the British Virgin Islands.

  I felt the thrill of discovery. Which of the treasure troves should I pursue first? They both needed my attention. I thought of a children’s espionage book I read in Israel when I was just nine years old. The protagonist suspected a delivery truck that carried hay from the city center to the village, while the normal route should have been the opposite. Why would Shestakov, who sold equipment to Iran—and should therefore be receiving payment into his accounts—send money to Dubai? It was not a single transfer that could have a plausible explanation, but it was rather a regular series of such payments, from Germany to Dubai. Who was he paying? The other discovery was of money transfers to an anonymous trust in the British Virgin Islands, an offshore tax haven. I wanted to know who the UTB was, the Ultimate Trust Beneficiary. Definitely a person who wanted to hide those payments, if he created an anonymous trust for them in a tax haven.

  The documents were intriguing and had to be investigated, but I needed to decide which way I was going. Continue with my unauthorized investigation, or lay it on the table for Eric, Paul, and Benny to decide?

  A phone call to my mobile from Eric made the decision easier. Eric told me to return to Istanbul immediately. He didn’t even ask where I was. He either knew, or couldn’t care. Something was obviously up. I returned.

  XVII

  June 2007, Istanbul

  In Istanbul, I checked into the Conrad Hotel again and found a message from Benny. I called. Benny asked me to come to the safe apartment that afternoon and promised me a surprise. He also didn’t ask me where I’d been or ask me to report my findings.

  The safe apartment was in a posh Istanbul neighborhood. When I entered, Benny, Paul, and Eric were seated next to three other men I didn’t recognize. Eric was on the phone and turned to Benny, “They’re early.”

  Benny took out a bottle of Yarden, a kosher Israeli wine. He cleared the coffee table and set the glasses out.

  “So, what?” I said. “Are we celebrating something?”

  “Yes,” said Benny, “Madani is coming here.”

  “Yes, Madani Number Four,” said Benny, and I thought he was joking.

  “And Madani Number Four likes Yarden wine too?” I asked cynically. I was surprised because Eric had told me earlier that Madani was already in the US.

  “Loves it. What he is doing is incredibly dangerous, so we want to make him as comfortable as possible,” Benny said cryptically.

  There was a knock on the door. Benny opened it. He ushered two men through the door, speaking Hebrew to one of them, to the one who looked Arabic. The other man was Caucasian.

  “Meet Madani,” said Benny ceremoniously to all of us, but I’d just heard that Madani speaking Hebrew to Benny. I could hardly believe it. A former member of the Republican Guard, a group of sworn enemies of Israel, speaking Hebrew?

  Clearly, a sign of the coming apocalypse. Benny turned to me, with our new guest.

  “Dan. I’d like you to meet Ittai, aka Madani.”

  “Ittai,” I said in astonishment, hearing that typical Israeli name, “Ittai?”

  Ittai smiled. “Yes, Ittai,” he said in Hebrew.

  Ittai reached his hand out to me warmly. I shook it.

  “How was your flight?” Eric asked.

  “Good,” Ittai said. “I made sure to glance nervously around the plane once or twice. I wore a hat. I definitely looked the part of an absconding Iranian national, if I do say so.”

  Eric clarified what we already understood. “Ittai was a decoy. He flew here from Damascus as Madani—when Madani was already here—using Madani’s passport that we sent back through the US diplomatic pouch to Damascus. It’s genuine, the real thing that Madani Number Three gave us when he arrived here and continued to Europe on his way to the US.”

  “Here’s the plan,” Eric sat on the couch with Ittai joining him. “Ittai, while in Istanbul, will continue his role, posing as the real Madani and running the usual errands, such as applying for refugee status and getting asylum.”

  The gravity of Ittai’s mission hit me all at once. As the decoy for a defecting Iranian general, it was an extraordinarily dangerous mission. I was overcome with awe.

  Ittai looked at the bottle on the coffee table, smiled, and asked, “May I?”

  After a brief respite, we got down to business. Benny and Eric were leaving within hours; they had unspecified business in Germany. I didn’t ask what. Before they left, though, the two left us parting presents: Benny went to the kitchen pantry and pulled out two handguns. Ittai and I were each given Glock G19s. That compact version of the polymer frame pistol was perfect for self-defense. The heavier artillery would be carried by our security detail and backup. The usual routine. I held the Glock, feeling the heft of it; I hadn’t held a Glock in a long time. And, once again, the weight of Ittai’s mission hit me. All the dangerous assignments I’d taken over the years, and still nothing compared to this. Ittai looked at me, a serious look, as though reading my mind. He had been in Damascus, and would be now in Istanbul, a walking duck in the shooting range, trying to smoke out any Iranians.

  If the decoy operation were successful, it would increase the chances that the Iranians would never realize that the real Madani—Number Three—had already left Damascus because Ittai, the fourth version of Madani, this time courtesy of the CIA and Mossad, was in Istanbul, acting as if he were the real thing. Since Ittai had left Syria and come to Turkey, it was a clear violation of Madani’s Iranian exit visa allowing him a Syrian visit only. From the Iranian perspective that meant only one thing: he was defecting and had to be stopped, dead or alive.

  “We should go,” I said.

  “Where is the refugee office?” Ittai ask
ed. “Close?”

  Our first stop would be applying for refugee status, and in fact the Istanbul office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees was on the other side of the city, about as far away as you could get and still be in Istanbul.

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Why couldn’t the office be any closer? If only. The longer the route, the greater the danger.

  “Ah, well. No matter. Our mission is twofold. You need to apply for refugee status, of course. But, we need the Iranians coming out of hiding,” I said, “if they discover that you are here.”

  “It’s not relevant anymore,” said Ittai. “I might have seen them in the airport or on the plane. The mind can play tricks. Which means I’m going to be shot at, and that’s if I’m lucky. Because if they try to shoot me, it’s because they believe I’m Madani. If they shoot, that means that they are sure I’m the real Madani, and that’s a good sign. So stay out of my way, or you’ll take a bullet, too.”

  He was serious. We put our bulletproof vests on.

  Ittai was right. I cocked my gun, engaged the safety, and stuck it in my waistband. We left the safe apartment, and slipped into the protected, American-style motorcade parked out front. This consisted of three armored black Suburbans, this time chosen specifically to be conspicuous. There were few American-style cars like this in Istanbul. They were ostentatious.

  They announced, someone important is here.

  Armed CIA combatants filled the first and the third in the motorcade, while Ittai and I sat in the second, also with three combatants. And like that, we were off.

  Driving through Istanbul was like navigating a minefield. Little old ladies shrunken into their head scarves; women with baby carriages; old, toothless men pushing carts—the weakest, most vulnerable-looking people—were all potential threats. We drove through Nişantaşı, a bucolic neighborhood and a socialite part of İstanbul. It featured expensive shops, cafés with a happy-hour buzz, and sinister windows. Windows, I thought: all the mayhem that can be done out of windows. Guns, grenades, handheld missiles. To name a few.