The Caspian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  Downstairs, he entered the bar, took a seat at a table by a potted palm, and ordered a lemonade. His foot discretely eased the thermos behind the plant. Fifteen minutes later, he settled the check and went to the reception counter.

  Affecting a Spanish accent, he asked the clerk, "May I send the telex. I must inform my newspaper."

  The young man handed him an international telex form. "The lines are busy today. It may be an hour before the message is sent."

  "Bueno, that is of no problema."

  He printed a message informing his bureau in Madrid that he had completed his research and was returning as soon as possible. The bureau, a CIA account, would automatically forward the message to Frankfurt.

  "I must return to Madrid. My work is complete. Will you please book me on the next flight to Europe."

  "Not possible. Is very busy. You must go to Mehrabad. I cannot help you."

  Left with no choice, Amadeo hailed a taxi and headed for the airport, unsure if he would return to the hotel. At least, he had the valuable tape in his pocket.

  15 ~ Capture

  Saturday PM, 5 November 1979: American Embassy, Tehran

  A band of armed hooligans, members of the local Khomiteh, self-appointed to dispense what they called revolutionary justice, had seized Azad and brought him to the American Embassy. They hustled him through the front door of the chancery and down the hall to a large room.

  A man wearing a green armband shouted at Azad, "You have a rotten brain, you are a traitor. You must be punished by the pure forces of the revolution."

  Azad protested, "No — I am a loyal person. Why do you treat me so? Why do you bring me here?"

  The man slapped Azad, a second man kicked at his legs. A third shoved him to the floor.

  "Bring him here." The command came from a man sitting at a desk on the far side of the room.

  Two men grabbed Azad by his arms and dragged him before the man.

  The man, older than the students and wearing a suit without a tie, spoke with a calm but commanding voice, "You are Azad Shirazi?"

  "Yes, but I have done nothing."

  The man held up a sheet of paper. "This visa application was found in the office of the head of the CIA den of spies. Your name is on it."

  Azad almost fainted. He was doomed.

  "Did you plan to desert the revolution? Were you conspiring with the den of spies — the American Satan?"

  Rather than protest, Azad hung his head. It was over, his life finished, he would surely die.

  "Your silence proves your guilt." The man slammed the paper to the table and gestured to the man wearing the green armband. "Take him away. We will deal with him later."

  Two rough men drug him to an adjoining room and thrust him through the door. Several despondent Iranians sat on the floor. They neither spoke nor looked up. A burly thug shoved Azad to the floor in a corner. The men left and locked the door.

  Saturday PM, 5 November 1979: Mehrabad Airport, Tehran

  An hour in line at Mehrabad, Amadeo finally reached the ticket counter. He already knew the answer but asked anyway. He was but one of many trying to leave Iran.

  "Next flight to Europe—"

  The irritated Iranian clerk cut him off. "All is booked. No flights today. Is not possible to book in advance. — Is not possible."

  "Is possible mañana … tomorrow?"

  "Enshallah." God willing.

  As Amadeo turned to leave, the beefy Australian in line behind him bellowed, "Bloody Hell. What a cock-up." Amadeo hurried towards the entrance, not wanting to be caught-up in the inevitable scene.

  He decided to return to the hotel, hold tight, try again tomorrow, and hope his cover story would hold-up. The capture of Azad had made his continued presence in Iran too risky.

  The guy will talk for sure, they have their ways and will get what they want from him. But they don't know my name or where I'm staying.

  He had what he came for and couldn't do any more. He couldn't help Azad and couldn't do anything for the people held at the embassy. At least Jack was safe.

  Saturday PM, 5 November 1979: Frankfurt, Germany

  John Smith opened the envelope and read the cable from Félix Fernández to his editor, printed out on yellow teletype paper. He passed it to Jack.

  "Told you he'd come through." said Jack. "What next?"

  "Sit tight, sounds like he's coming to us. Look at your schedules and find out what flights are leaving Tehran today and tomorrow. Meanwhile, I'll send our boy Felix a conformation."

  "You gonna notify The Man?"

  "Not yet. We'll wait until he gets here. Better to present them with a fiat accompli than to provide them an opportunity to screw thing up with new orders."

  Saturday PM, 5 November 1979: Intercontinental Hotel

  In Iran, most taxis pick up passengers if they have space. Amadeo hailed a roving cab and slipped into the back seat with two young men. A block later, the driver stopped for an older man carrying a newspaper. The headlines hailed the embassy takeover. He railed on about the den of spies for the next five blocks before he got out at an office building.

  The taxi let Amadeo out two blocks from the hotel. Experience taught him to be wary. Better to approach on foot and check for added security or anything strange.

  A young man dressed in an ill-fitting suit, with no tie, wandered around in front of the hotel. He was obviously watching for someone or something, but his nervous ramblings gave him away as a novice.

  Amadeo slowed his approach, slipped past unnoticed, and strolled through the front door. First stop was the gift shop. The clerk paid him no notice, he was listening to a spirited critique of the sins of the American Satan on the radio.

  Luck was with him, they stocked AGFA black and white film. A receipt for three boxes of film might come in handy, if the authorities inspected his camera bag.

  The clerk eyed Amadeo with suspicion. The voice on the radio babbled on about the den of spies. A picture of the Ayatollah stood beside the cash register.

  "You not wish the color film?"

  "No. I am periodista … journalist. Is for the newspaper," replied Amadeo with an exaggerated Spanish accent.

  "News … you print lies about the revolution."

  It was unclear whether it was a statement or a question, Amadeo replied, "No." He held up one of the film boxes. "La foto tell no lie."

  Amadeo paid in cash and left, unsure if the clerk was suspicious or just a hard case. Either way, he could be trouble.

  Caution prompted Amadeo to go to the bar, wait a while, and watch. A strange mixed mood permeated in the bar. The East European customers seemed to take satisfaction over the plight of the Americans. The few Iranians kept their feelings to themselves. It was too early in the game to vocally commit, better to see how it played out.

  Amadeo surveyed the crowd, strangely, there seemed to be a noticeable absence of any security types. Perhaps they were busy with the embassy situation. After a half-hour, he got up to leave. On the way out, he checked the potted palm. The thermos was gone.

  Out in the lobby, he fell in behind a trio of Lufthansa crew members headed towards the elevator. Inside he asked, "Is it possible to fly out tomorrow? I must return to España."

  The tall German, obviously in charge, answered with shrug and glanced at the others. "Wer weiß, was das Morgen bringt?"

  The younger pilot quipped, "As the Iranians say — Enshallah."

  Who knows what tomorrow will bring, only God knows for sure. Amadeo replied, "Si, sólo Dios sabe."

  The door slid open and Amadeo stepped out into the hall. The security man was gone. The first thing he noticed when he entered the room was the familiar order of cheap smokes. His bag was open.

  A search of the room failed to turn up any obvious listening devices, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

  * * *

  An hour after dark, Sam crept downstairs and stole a look through the front door. The man was gone. Everything seemed normal. The milk shak
e vendor was gone, he usually left at twilight. A car slowed, as if to stop, but sped-up and disappeared down the street. After ten-minutes Sam returned to his apartment and fell asleep in the chair.

  Saturday PM, 5 November 1979: Washington, D.C.

  Colonel Wilson called Mack Gibson to his office and briefed him on the situation in Tehran.

  Mack, surprised about Carl Walker's presence at the Ministry of Defense, asked, "What do you think he's doing in Tehran? Does it have something to do with his dealings with the Shah's forces?"

  Wilson said, "Not sure at this point. The Iranian air force took over the aircraft and systems of the Shah's forces. Most of the senior officers were dismissed or executed in the post-revolutionary purge. They have a bunch of older RF-4 Phantoms and newer F-14 Tomcats. I'll bet the Iranians are afraid the US won't allow the transfer of new systems and inhibit the flow of maintenance parts. The hostage situation makes this look like a sure bet. They want to ensure that they are capable of servicing their existing equipment. They probably expect export controls on aftermarket parts, that's why people like Carl Walker exist. These guys operate in the shadows."

  "Where do they get their parts?"

  "From the manufacturers. Walker buys so-called surplus or excess parts from foreign operators and resells them on the open market. They have to know what's happening but are willing to look the other way to make a buck."

  "So, it's just maintenance items?"

  "Walker is reputed to deal in advanced technology. Wouldn't be surprised to see him try to flog the Phoenix missile system, if he can get his hands on some. It has a radar that can independently track and engage multiple targets. Much better than their Sparrow and short-range Sidewinder air-to-air systems."

  Mack said, "Why? They think we're going to respond militarily to the embassy takeover."

  "Not likely. This administration doesn't have the guts and the Iranians know it. Most likely, some elements in the revolution see Iraq as a potential enemy and want to have the capabilities to respond."

  Mack knitted his brow. He knew Wilson had something up his sleeve.

  * * *

  "Got some good news, Ruiz is safe." Mack Gibson was on the phone from Washington, speaking to Ross Brannan.

  "He's out of Iran?" Ross' spirits took a turn for the better.

  "Not yet, but he's not one of the hostages. He reported in to John via his Spanish news cut-out."

  "Did he get the tape?"

  "Not sure. He said he had completed his story and was returning as soon as possible. I tend to take that as a yes."

  "When do they expect him? What's the situation with the airlines?"

  "John has word it is a bit chaotic at the Iranian end. Flights are still going in, but the outgoing ones are fully booked as you can imagine."

  "He'll make it — even if he has to steal a taxi." You need me over there…" Ross let it trail off as he realized he couldn't leave Lisette in her condition.

  "No sit tight, I'll let you know. You go home and take care of business. You hear?"

  "Okay, thanks for calling. Let me know right away, if there's any change."

  Mack hung up the secure phone. Poor guy, he's got a lot on his plate. Bet it's eating him up inside not to be in on the action.

  16 ~ A Loyal Iranian

  Sunday AM, 6 November 1979: Tehran, Iran

  Azad spent the night on the cold clammy floor in the embassy basement. The frigid air reeked the odor of fear. No one spoke, the only sounds came from outside as the students continued to ransack the embassy.

  Hours later, the door swung open, two angry men stormed in and drug Azad out into the corridor and up the stairs to a room full of even angrier men.

  A tall thin man wearing a green armband grabbed Azad by the collar. "You are a traitor. The man held up Azad's visa application. This was found in the office of the CIA criminal. You worked at the den of spies on the Caspian. You were plotting with the American Satan. You are guilty of betraying the Iranian people. What do you have to say? If you do not confess you will die today."

  Azad panicked. "I worked for the Americans only to spy on them. I am a good Muslim and pray five times a day. I told all to the local Komiteh when they took over the site. They believed me and let me stay. I am loyal."

  "What did you do there?"

  "I am an electrical engineer, I maintained the equipment. The Komiteh said the government wanted the site to spy on the godless communists in Russia. I stayed — I did my job for the revolution, for Iran. I showed them how the Americans sent their data back to the den of spies in Washington by satellite. I showed them the antenna dish, they destroyed it."

  "But you have no proof of this."

  Azad cringed. He knew his time was almost up. He had no way to prove his loyalty.

  "Why was the den of spies giving you a visa? Were you plotting to desert Iran?"

  "No…" Azad realized he had no choice but to tell the truth. It was the only thing he had left. "I had a tape … a tape from an intercept the machines made after the American's left. I was going to trade it for a visa. I was afraid I would be condemned because I had worked for the American Satan. I wanted…" Azad broke down crying, he had played his last card.

  A young bearded man rose from his chair behind a nearby desk and approached Azad. "The tape. Tell me more."

  Azad told them everything. About the tape and giving it to someone, he did not know who. Tall thin man didn't believe him and administered another beating. The bearded interrogator left the room to make a phone call.

  * * *

  Sam spent the morning holed up inside his apartment. He tried to read. The Six Days of the Condor novel was too close to his situation. He gave up, paced the room, and picked-up the book again. Every time someone passed in the hall, a door shut, or a loud noise echoed in the street, brought him closer to panic.

  I can't sit here all day, I'll go nuts. Gotta do something.

  Once again, he went downstairs and peeked through the front door. Everything seemed ordinary, people going about their business, and taxis speeding by. An open truck full of students flying revolutionary themed banners gave him a momentary start.

  Throwing caution to the wind, Sam edged out the front door and made his way to a shop in the next block. He bought a golden slab of Nan-e barbari, a Persian flatbread fresh from the oven, and a small block of feta.

  Back in his room, he ate a nervous lunch. Something had to give. He knew they should soon figure out he is missing. His time to act was limited. What to do? He couldn't leave and wander the streets. Checking into a hotel was not an option.

  * * *

  Amadeo decided to give the airport another try. No one was on watch at the end of the hall. He stepped out of the elevator and surveyed the lobby. Two men, obvious security types, make no pretense at hiding their role. One stood by the door, the other, seated in the lobby with a view of the elevator gave Amadeo a casual glance.

  He skipped his morning coffee and stopped at the reception counter. "Are there flights available at the airport? I must return to Madrid today."

  "We have no information, you must go direct to Mehrabad." The clerk paused and checked the boxes behind him. "Mr. Fernandez, you have a cable."

  It was a conformation his message had reached Frankfurt. He wrote out a new cable in Spanish and handed it to the clerk.

  "Please send this telex, I must tell my bureau my return has been delayed."

  Amadeo paid and headed for the taxi stand outside. A light blue Iranian made Paykan sedan pulled up. The door opened, Carl Walker stepped out and rushed into the hotel. Amadeo avoided eye contact and hopped into the back seat of the now empty cab.

  He instructed the driver, in Farsi, to take him to Mehrabad Airport. On the way, he asked the driver where he picked up the American. The hesitant driver found his voice after pocketing a five-dollar bill.

  His answer: Doshan Tapeh Air Base, the main headquarters for the Iranian Air Force. Amadeo knew it well, having spent several weeks there
back in January.

  What is he doing there? Is he trying to sell the Iranians spare parts or new systems? I wish John Smith was here, he'd know what to do. Should I follow him? Better not. Gotta get this tape back to the states, that has to be my main priority. But then again…

  * * *

  Azad sat slumped on the floor in a corner awaiting his fate. He had long given up any hope of survival. Gruesome images of so-called traitors hanging from streetlights and construction cranes played in his mind.

  Two men entered the room with the tall thin interrogator. He grabbed Azad by the neck, hauled him to his feet, and shoved him towards the two men.

  "Take this piece of filth we are finished with him. Do with him as you wish." The man spat on Azad as one of the men placed a sack over his head.

  Azad's knees buckled. Convinced they were taking him out for execution, he started to retch. The men grabbed him by his arms and marched him out of the building to a waiting car.

  * * *

  A team of Revolutionary Guards had set up shop at the terminal entrance. A young student type asked for Amadeo's ticket and passport in Farsi. He feigned ignorance. An older man stepped in and asked with a cultured English accent, "May I see your papers?" He examined the documents and frowned.

  "Your exit visa is not in order. Iran requires a valid exit visa to leave the country. You must have this before you depart."

  "Can I get one here at the airport?"

  "No, you must obtain the exit permit from the Ministry of Interior."

  "I need to check on flights. Can I go to the airline counter?"

  "All flights are fully booked. No flights are available for two days. You must first resolve the issue with your exit visa." The man made a note of Amadeo's name and passport number. As Amadeo turned to leave he said, "You speak excellent English for a Spaniard."

  Amadeo forced a smile. "And you speak excellent English for an Iranian."

  "You have spent time in America?"