The Caspian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "They okay?" asked Jim Barker.

  "Jack's safe, but Amadeo is still in Tehran."

  "Do they know if he's among the hostages?"

  "They don't know nothin'."

  "They get the tape?"

  "Apparently not. Looks like it was all for nothing." Ross kicked the lower drawer on his desk. "We gotta… gotta do something."

  "Face it, we can't do squat from here."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Hang loose. Ruiz is a pro. He's been in this situation before, you just got to trust him to get out of there. Bet we'll hear from him before long. Besides this hostage thing won't last long. The Iranian government will step in and smooth the ting over."

  Ross bit his lip and drew a deep breath. "Got a bad feeling about this one. I don't think the talking heads on the TV have a clue. There's something about the Iranians we don't understand. I tried to figure it out when we were over there, but… I can't, it's just too complicated. You know what I mean?"

  "Not really, you've been there, not me. Don't be too pessimistic, it'll work out."

  "Maybe so. Anyway, I got to go. Need to pick up some baby stuff at the store."

  "How's Lisette doing? Any improvement? Sarah says she's still pretty depressed."

  "Yeah. Seems like the world is closing in on me. Guess I wasn't cut out to be a family man."

  14 ~ The Tape

  Saturday AM, 5 November 1979: Frankfurt, Germany

  Jack arrived on a morning flight and explained everything on the way back to the I.G. Farben Building. As they were walking up the steps, Jack remembered one thing he had not told John. " May not mean anything, but I saw an American at the ministry in Tehran. Looks like he had been doing some business."

  "Not a good time to be making a sales pitch, don't you think?"

  "It was Carl Walker."

  John Smith froze in his tracks and faced Jack. "You sure?"

  "Yeah, like I told Ruiz, he's one guy you don't forget. You know him?"

  "I got a bullet with his name on it … just waiting. The thieving bastard stole a plane load of arms destined for a unit of Laotian tribesmen I was working with. A lot of good men died because they didn't get those weapons. We had to…" His voice trailed off as he relived the memory of a tragedy in a nameless village in a misbegotten war. John's eyes burned with rage. "Lucky for him, he disappeared at the same time."

  "What you think he's doing in Tehran?"

  "Don't know." John took a deep breath to regain his composure. "But it's got to be crooked. Last I heard he was working with Lukas Penwell."

  "Penwell — you think they're trying to sell arms to the Iranians?"

  Former CIA officer Lukas Penwell was a fugitive from American justice ever since the drug smuggling fiasco in 1973 at Incirlik airbase in Turkey. Ross Brannan had been an unwitting participant but was cleared. Nevertheless, it had clouded his career ever since.

  "That's his racket now. He runs an outfit called Phoenician Air Services International out of Beirut. He's been suspected of peddling sophisticated electronic equipment to Middle East countries and trying to sell some of our computer technology to the Commies. He also sold a lot of sensitive equipment to Iran under the Shah for use by SAVAK, the secret police. Walker is one of his salesmen and trainers. Good work on spotting him, it may give the agency a valuable heads-up on some new scheme he's cooked up."

  "What you think he's up to?"

  "Probably trying to get in on the ground floor with the new regime. These guy's will deal with anyone, as long as they have the cash."

  "Won't his dealings with SAVAK disqualify him with the revolutionary crowd?"

  "Not sure. Could get interesting. One thing for sure, he has a lot of guts, showing up in Tehran at this time."

  "Bet Ross will be interested to hear about this."

  John scratched his nose. "Not yet, he's got too much on his plate right now. We don't need him charging over here with blood in his eye."

  Saturday AM, 5 November 1979: Tehran, Iran

  Amadeo walked out of the shower after completing an extended morning workout of sit-ups and push-ups. Sticking to his morning routine was a way to focus his thoughts and calm his mind for the task at hand.

  It had been easy to come up with a plan. There were only two options: scrub the mission and go home or contact Azad and get the tape. For a seasoned professional, there was only one choice — complete the mission.

  A direct approach was the best way. There wasn't time to build up a relationship of trust. The situation was too volatile. He had to find Azad and convince him to give him the tape. If he refused … Amadeo was ready to do whatever it took.

  * * *

  Azad reported to work as usual, taking the thermos with him. It was too valuable to leave behind, or too risky, take your choice. He was relieved to find that there was no one watching the restaurant. He figured the men had been watching the American, not him.

  He would wait until the embassy episode was over. The students would release the Americans soon and things would return to normal. It had happened before. The man would return for his Abgousht and — Azad smiled — a special meal of fresh Caspian fish.

  * * *

  Amadeo took a mid-morning stroll past the Tabari Restaurant and circled the American embassy. The so-called students were still in charge. The police stood by idly, doing nothing to intervene.

  A two-day-old growth of facial hair added to the impression that he was Iranian. So far, it had worked. No one had stopped him. He was confident his command of Farsi was enough to pose as a rural ethnic minority from the south. It had worked before.

  Anxious to get on with it, he headed towards the restaurant. An early lunch would give him the opportunity to deal with Azad in less crowded conditions.

  * * *

  Sam, after an anxious night, with only a few hours' sleep, decided to go to the restaurant and assure Azad that all will be well. The affair at the embassy would be wound-up in a few days and everything will return to normal. He stood at the door to his apartment building and surveyed the traffic, both foot and vehicle, nothing seemed amiss.

  Sam had reasoned, the students will not focus on him because he is a Black man, they are obsessed with the White Americans in the embassy. They believe all Americans are spies. He will tell anyone who asks — "I am an official from Ghana." There was a small African diplomatic community in Tehran because of Iran’s membership in OPEC, the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries. Most Iranians viewed him as an African, not American. It might work, it had to.

  He stepped out onto the sidewalk and headed for the restaurant. Aside from the normal stares, no one paid him any unusual attention.

  * * *

  Azad emerged from the kitchen with a meal for the lone customer, an older man who was a regular. A familiar face entered the front door. The man from yesterday. The one who spoke with an accent. Azad had presumed the man was an Ahwazi Arab from Khuzestan Province in the south near the Iraq border.

  The man took a table by the window, the one favored by the American.

  Azad approached with a menu. The man glanced up. There was something in his eyes, a look of recognition.

  The man spoke first, "A friend told me this was a special place to eat."

  It took a few seconds for it to register in his frazzled mind — the man spoke in English. Azad gasped.

  "You know my friend, the Black man from the American embassy?"

  Speechless, Azad feared a trap. The man sounded like an American but looked Iranian. He averted his eyes to the street. Are they waiting outside to take me away?

  "Our friend has been taken captive in the embassy. He will be unable to join me for lunch."

  Azad started to turn away, ready to flee.

  "You have the tape, I want it."

  Frozen in his tracks, Azad's shoulders slumped. He was trapped. The man knew. Azad's voice crackled, "What do you want?"

  "I want the tape. Do you still have it?"

  "I�
�� I do not know what you say."

  The man repeated with a firm tone, "I know you have it, it belongs to the U.S. Government, and we want it back."

  "I do not know you…"

  "Our friend is their prisoner. If they make him talk, he will tell them about you … and the tape. Give it to me now and you will be safe."

  Azad took a step back. The man knew too much. Perhaps the American had already talked. Could this be a trap?

  "If you are worried about your visa, it will be granted. We will make every effort to get you out of the country, but it may take some time. We'll have to wait till the situation calms down."

  Azad needed time to think. "What do you wish to eat?"

  "What did the American have?"

  "The Abgousht, a stew of the lamb."

  The man's face contorted. It didn't seem to please him. He said, "What else do you have?"

  Almost numb with fear, Azad played his last card. "The fish, we have fish from the Caspian." If the man were truly the American's friend, he would know the special words.

  "What kind of fish?"

  "Fresh fish."

  The man seemed puzzled, then a spark of recognition. "From the Caspian, you say?"

  "Yes…" Azad held his breath.

  "Fine, I'll have the fresh Caspian fish."

  Azad wheeled around and headed for the back of the kitchen. He paused a second before retrieving the thermos from under his jacket. The man knows. He must be real.

  The man looked up in surprise as Azad approached the table with the thermos. "The fresh fish is inside." He set the bottle beside the table leg.

  The man's eyes diverted to the panda decorated thermos bottle and then back to Azad. "You're sure?"

  Boyed with newfound confidence, Azad responded, "Yes, you will find it inside." He glanced back towards the kitchen. "I must say we do not have the fish to eat today. You must have the Abgousht."

  "Okay, make it a small serving and bring me some chai."

  Back in the kitchen, Azad leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. The cook asked if he was sick. Azad said, "No, all is well. One small bowl of Abgousht for the … customer." He almost said the American.

  Amadeo tapped his shoe against the thermos. Sometimes it pays to be lucky. Who would have guessed their code word for the tape would have been Caspian fish? Good thing I didn't want any more lamb stew. But what the heck, guess I'll stick around and eat, then get out of this God forsaken country.

  The waiter returned with a steaming bowl of stew and a cup of chai. He waited as Amadeo took a first bite. The man appeared less nervous than before.

  The stew wasn't too bad. Amadeo nodded and said, "Tastes good."

  "Yes, yes. Fresh … fresh today."

  Amadeo finished and signaled the waiter for the bill.

  Azad placed the check on the table. "Will that be all?"

  "Yes … and thank you for the fresh fish." Amadeo smiled.

  Azad stuttered, "The… the visa … you will."

  "The man from the embassy will handle it when he is released."

  Amadeo paid with a more than generous tip and left with the thermos.

  Azad took a deep breath and returned to the kitchen. Thanks be to Allah. My worries are over. Next week I will go to the embassy and then to Turkey. If I am lucky, they will allow me to go to America.

  Amadeo reached the end of the block and was about to cross the street, when a car pulled up in front of the restaurant. Three men got out. They rushed inside. Moments later, they emerged with Azad in tow, shoved him into the backseat, and drove off.

  Amadeo started to hail a passing taxi but held up. A Black man stood on the street corner a half block away, his attention focused on the arrest of Azad. He froze in place — It can't be him, I saw him at the embassy.

  Sam's gut churned at the sight of Azad hustled away under arrest. The world closed in. A few minutes earlier and they would have had me too. He struggled to stay calm, not show any obvious emotion. The car speed past, he dared not look. No longer hungry, he reversed direction and headed back to his apartment.

  Amadeo cautiously surveyed the area. If Azad had been under surveillance, they might still be there. He walked at a normal pace in the same direction as the Black man. After a block and a half, he was sure the coast was clear.

  Sam also feared he might have been spotted. He decided not to take a direct route back to his apartment and cut a sharp left turn at the next corner. He slowed and stopped to read a sign in a shop window. A furtive glance back down the street gave him an opportunity to assess his fellow pedestrians. Nothing seemed amiss. A block later he halted at a street vendor's table, then reversed course.

  Amadeo realized what Sam was doing. — He's checking his back, gotta be careful.

  Sam walked past Amadeo headed in the opposite direction, careful not to make eye contact. — It's him again.

  Busted. — Amadeo turned into the next shop and halted inside the door. He watched Sam continue down the street. Just before Sam disappeared out of view, he took off his jacket and wrapped the thermos in it. Moments later he crossed the street and continued after his prey. A block later, he bought a hat from a street vendor.

  Two blocks later Sam stopped at a busy intersection. He crossed with a crowd of pedestrians and halted to look back. There were too many people on the street, it was impossible to find his tail.

  Amadeo arrived at the corner just as Sam walked away down the busy sidewalk. He followed at a discrete distance.

  They already know where I live, so I might as well go home and wait. If they're going to take me, might as well be there. Not much chance of me making a break for it, I stand out wherever I go. Sam stuck his hands in his pockets and headed for his apartment.

  A quarter hour later, Sam arrived at the front door of his apartment building. Resigned to his fate he entered without looking back.

  Amadeo halted across the street. — Must be where he lives, but I better wait and see if he's just trying to lose me.

  Directly across the street from the apartment, a young man stood by a small table with a blender, a small bunch of bananas, and several jugs of milk. Amadeo ordered a banana milkshake, it would make his presence less obvious.

  Sam locked the door and dropped into his chair, exhausted mentally and physically. He replayed in his mind the image of Azad as he was hauled away. The man following him: Who is he? Has to be with the government. They've been watching for days. The embassy takeover, how long will it last? What to do? They'll soon figure out he is missing. Then what? His time to act is limited. Do what? He can't wander around Tehran, he will be spotted for sure. The Ghana diplomat option is too risky. What if they ask for a passport. He decided to stay put for the time being. What else is there to do?

  Thirty minutes later, Amadeo was satisfied Sam wasn't coming back out, or had left by a different exit. Either way, he had to get back to his priority — the tape. He hailed a cab.

  "Hotel Intercontinental," Amadeo told the bearded driver. A Picture of Khomeini adorned the dash.

  The seizure of Azad changed everything. They would interrogate him, and he would talk. A description of Amadeo would be circulated to the police. He was unsure if Azad knew where he was staying, but he couldn't take a chance.

  The thermos sat on the seat beside him. He didn't dare open it in the cab. Then it dawned on him: Azad will tell them. The jug was too large to hide under his coat, it would only draw attention. Better to play it casual, open in back at the hotel. Then what?

  Saturday AM, 5 November 1979: Frankfurt, Germany

  John Smith hung up the phone and stared at Jack Richards with an air of cool calm. He had just finished his third call of the day with Colonel Wilson.

  "So… what now?" asked Jack.

  "They don't know what to do. Wilson has been ordered to take no action until the suits upstairs decide…" He let the thought linger in the air.

  "Wilson's been ordered to stand down, but…" Jack paused and grinned.

&n
bsp; John finished his sentence, "… it don't necessarily apply to us does it?"

  Both men knew that when it hits the fan and immediate action is needed, it is better to go ahead, act, and ask for forgiveness later. Wilson, a master of the technique, would understand.

  John continued, "My guess is that Ruiz will try to contact us through his Madrid connection. In the meantime, let's check out the airline connections to Tehran and Eastern Turkey. If we have to move, it may be on our own without military resources."

  Jack pondered the thought and reached into his carry-on bag. "Picked up some airline schedules at the airport … just in case."

  Saturday PM, 5 November 1979: Intercontinental Hotel

  Amadeo strolled through the lobby with the bottle under his arm, trying to hide the distinctive panda decoration. The man in the gift shop gave him a casual glance, fortunately he was busy with a customer. The man at the end of the hall was gone.

  Back in his room, Amadeo opened the thermos. Nothing inside, the bottle was empty. With rapt anticipation, he unscrewed the bottle from the exterior and pulled it free. Coiled up in the bottom was a roll of reddish brown tape wrapped in plastic.

  The tape appeared to be several yards long. This presented a new problem. How to hide it and get it out of the country undetected? The thermos was a brilliant hiding place, but now they would be looking for a man with a panda jug.

  Fortunately, a back-up plan was in place. John Smith's idea. A one-inch tape would fit nicely inside a 35mm film cassette. The would-be journalist carried three resealable boxes with empty cylinders. He cut the tape into three sections, wound the tape tight, inserted them into empty AGFA black and white film cassettes, and sealed the box tops. They would appear as unopened boxes.

  Amadeo breathed an inner sigh of relief. One thing remained: Get out of Dodge, ASAP.

  First things first: Notify John Smith and book a flight out. Then get rid of the jug. If Azad spilled the beans, the secret police will be looking for it. He replaced the bottle inside the housing and screwed on the cap.

  A furtive glanced down the hall revealed the return of the watcher. At least he hadn't seen him with the jug. Amadeo strolled down the hall, ignoring the man, and punched the button for the ground floor. He carried the jug under his right arm, away from the man.