The Caspian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  The stewardess with the raven hair chatted quietly with the others and called across the table, "You may share a taxi with us, if you wish, we are leaving to the airport soon."

  "Yes, that would be a delight."

  With a gleam in her eye, she gave Amadeo a suggestive smile. She said, "My name is Sophie."

  Amadeo dipped his head. "Felix Fernandez at your service."

  She rose from her chair and joined him at the table.

  At that moment, a fourth Air France stewardess appeared at the door. She called to the others, it was time to go. She was tall, slim but well figured, tanned, with eyes that could melt your heart. Amadeo knew her name, Rochelle Loubet, Jack's ex-girlfriend. She started to turn away but did a double-take when she recognized Amadeo.

  Her expression was one of surprise and curiosity as she strode over to the table. She halted in front of his table, hands on hips.

  "Amadeo Ruiz — What a surprise. What are you doing back in Tehran?" She glanced at Sophie with a questioning look.

  He was speechless. His cover blown, now he had to minimize the damage. He caught Sophie's intense scrutiny out of the corner of his eye.

  "I'm here on business." He dropped his Spanish accent and gave his words a hard edge, hoping to convey a message. "You understand."

  "Yes … I understand." She said to the others. "Come we must go — now."

  Sophie gave him a withering look and stormed out of the restaurant. The other ladies followed, the brunette flashed a disdainful smile as she passed the table.

  "I can't talk about why I'm here."

  "Do not worry, we are leaving." She hesitated. "Is Jack here too?"

  "No. He was expelled two days ago. I'm here alone."

  She started to leave.

  "He misses you."

  She stopped and turned with a tear in her eye. "I miss him too, but it can never be. Tell him… No. Don't tell him anything."

  "Lisette had her baby, a boy" Rochelle and Lisette were friends from school.

  "Yes, I know. How is she doing?"

  "Not good. You need to call her, she's depressed … some woman thing with new babies."

  "I am not surprised. She has to live in the desert with her cowboy. It is not a suitable life for…" Rochelle let her words trail off, halting before she went on a rant about le cow-boys Américains. The shootout at the Salang Pass in Afghanistan had soured her relationship with Jack. "I will call her, soon."

  "Is there any chance I can fly out with you?"

  "You are in trouble?"

  "I need to get out of Iran as soon as possible."

  She pursed her lips. "They watch us much closer since the revolution. Do you have an exit permit?"

  "Yes, and I have a Spanish passport."

  "I am sorry. It is too dangerous."

  "Understand." He thought about giving her the film canisters with the tape but didn't want to put her in peril. "Bye, good seeing you again."

  She kissed him on the cheek and rushed out to the lobby.

  * * *

  The bearded man hustled Azad into the room and shoved him down to the floor. Naheed opened the folder and showed the photographs one-by-one. Azad struggled to see through his swollen eyes, the trip upstairs had interrupted his latest beating.

  Azad coughed and struggled to breathe, his ribs were on fire. He took a deep breath and bleated, "That is the man."

  "The spy Sam Brooks?"

  "Yes."

  Naheed showed the last two photos. "Do you recognize the other man?"

  Azad's voice was barely audible, "Yes."

  "Speak up. — Where have you seen him?"

  "The tape … I gave the tape to him."

  Naheed turned to the Russian. "Now we must find out who this man is."

  The Russian stayed silent, he already knew his identity. He had last seen the American earlier in the year on the tarmac at Kabul airport. Major Viktor Andreyevich Suslov of the Soviet KGB said, "We are finished with this man. Do with him as you please."

  The Iranian gave a brisk command, "Take this to the revolutionary tribunal. Tell them he is a traitor, a spy for the American Satan. Make sure he receives the maximum penalty."

  The men grabbed Azad by the arms and drug him out of the room.

  "This man Brooks. What are we to do with him?" asked Naheed.

  Suslov pondered the question. "Nothing, he does not have the tape. I do not want anyone from the American embassy to know I am involved. Your men can help in finding him, but your party must not be in the vanguard. Do not mention the existence of the tape to anyone, not even your own comrades. This is very important, do you understand?"

  "What about the other American?"

  "Find him. Take the photograph and have the comrades go to the tourist hotels and find out where this man is staying."

  "Do you want us to bring him to you?"

  "Not yet. Let us find out who he is working with."

  Naheed led three of his men out of the room and stopped at the building's front entrance. He handed the photos to an intense older man with a Lenin-like goatee. "You and Rasheed check all of the major hotels. Find this man and bring him to me at the other house. We will find this tape and the Russian will be forced to cooperate with us. We will dictate what is to be done, this is our revolution, not Moscow's."

  Naheed motioned to his aide. "Come, we will find this man Sam Brooks and find out what he knows."

  * * *

  The Revolutionary Guards were still on duty at the airport terminal entrance. The exit visa worked wonders, Amadeo was waved through without a hitch.

  He checked first with Lufthansa. He presented the agent his open return ticket, hoping they would give him priority treatment.

  The Iranian barely glanced at it and shrugged. "No open seats for the next week." He spoke with a high-toned cultured accent. "Perhaps one of the less popular airlines will be able to accommodate you."

  Air France, Swissair, SAS, and Sabena, all booked solid for the next week. KLM Royal Dutch Airlines was his last chance.

  The ticket agent, a pleasant Iranian lady, greeted him with a smile.

  "What's your next flight out of Tehran?"

  "Tomorrow morning at 0340 we have a flight to Bangkok. That is our next flight out of Tehran with open seats."

  "I'll take it."

  "May I see your passport please?"

  He handed her his Spanish passport. She flicked through it to the last page. "I am sorry, you do not have a visa for Thailand." She smiled. "I cannot book you on that flight without a valid visa."

  "Anything else?"

  "The next available flight is on Wednesday the 9th, flight 832, depart at 1610 hours. One stop in Athens, arrives in Amsterdam at 2135. The next flight is on Saturday the 11th, departs at 0925." She smiled." You do not need a visa for Holland."

  "I'll take the Wednesday flight." He handed her his Eurocard in the name of Felix Fernandez.

  She ran his card through the imprinter and he signed the slip.

  "You may pick-up the ticket the day of your flight. Please arrive early for baggage check and the exit process."

  On the way out of the terminal, he spotted a vaguely familiar face. An Iranian student type, but a bit older. He had seen the guy on the street outside of Sam's place. Amadeo was trained to pay attention to details and had spent his career cultivating the habit of situational awareness. Twice could just be a coincidence, a third time would trigger a response. The man's image went to the front of Amadeo's mental Rolodex.

  Amadeo pondered the new development as the cab sped away from the airport. Are they watching Sam, or are they watching me? He told the driver to take him to a hotel near Sam's apartment.

  * * *

  Azad stood numb and silent before the tribunal. Three bearded mullahs sat stern and unyielding behind a table on the stage of a closed theater. A bank of lights illuminated the proceedings. So far, every defendant had been found guilty and dragged outside to be hanged. After two agonizing hours, his turn had c
ome.

  Drenched in sweat, despite the cold, Azad had long since resigned himself to his fate. It had been written down by Allah with the Pen of the Divine Will. Whatever happens to him to had been pre-determined and there was nothing he could do to change it. What has been written in the word cannot be altered. He bowed his head and muttered, "Enshallah." God willing.

  * * *

  Sam waited all morning for a knock on the door or worse. He had reconciled himself to capture, it was inevitable. No place to go to, no place to hide, just sit and wait. A few days in captivity, maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

  Azad. What would he tell his captors? But he had not given Sam the tape. Besides, they were just a bunch of student agitators, not trained intelligence operatives. And the American from Langley, was he for real? Too many questions. No answers. What will happen, will happen.

  He listened on his shortwave for the latest news. The BBC and Voice of America held out hope, no one expected it to last long. The Iranian broadcasts were less encouraging.

  Noon, nothing had happened. Perhaps they hadn't noticed he was missing or didn't know where he lived. He decided to go down the street to the shop and buy some fresh bread. Tempting fate, he didn't bother to check the area before stepping out. Half-way down the block, three men seized him and shoved him into the back seat of a waiting black Paykan sedan.

  Amadeo, helpless to intervene, saw the abduction from across the street.

  The burly man pushed Sam's head down and jerked a bag over his head. To resist was futile, Sam relaxed and retreated to an inner sanctum, seeking tranquility.

  Amadeo pulled back into a doorway and scanned the area. No familiar faces registered, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

  A few minutes later a car paused down the street. The man from the airport slipped out of the back seat and took up a position a half- block away, on the same side of the street as Amadeo.

  A group of students chanting anti-American slogans ambled along the sidewalk, moving in the direction of the U.S. embassy. Amadeo deftly joined the group out of the view of the man down the street. Two blocks later he slipped away, hailed a taxi, and told the driver to take him to the Intercontinental.

  * * *

  The black Paykan sedan ground to a halt at the embassy. They hustled Sam up a set of steps, dragged him down a hall, and dumped him on the floor of a cold room. Sam guessed he was on the first floor of the chancery building. The door slammed shut. He leaned back against the wall and waited for the inevitable.

  * * *

  After a quick, but thorough scan of the area, Amadeo entered the hotel and made for the elevator. He was about to push the button when a voice called out.

  "Sir, the film you ordered has arrived." The clerk from the gift shop beckoned with a wave of his hand.

  Suspicious of the man's intentions, Amadeo pressed the button.

  "It has arrived, I have it for you, please come." The man strode across the lobby.

  Amadeo glanced up. The elevator was descending from the top floor. He ignored the man's pleadings, sensing a trap.

  The elevator was three floors above when the man arrived at his side. "Please sir, come for the film." He placed his hand on Amadeo's elbow.

  "I didn't order any film. You must be mistaken." Amadeo spoke with a sharp tone of finality.

  "Usted está en peligro. Tienen su fotografía."

  It took a second for the words to register. The man had warned him in Spanish. He was in danger and someone had his photograph.

  "¡Ven conmigo! Come with me." The man tugged at his arm.

  The elevator stopped on the floor above.

  "Sé que eres un americano." He identified Amadeo as an American.

  Amadeo replied with emphasis, "Soy de España."

  "No España. Cubano de Miami."

  A chill descended on Amadeo, the man knew too much, his cover blown. The door opened and a party of three exited. He hesitated.

  The man wheeled around and headed back to the gift shop. Amadeo followed.

  Inside, the man slid behind the counter and spoke, dropping his Iranian accent. "I lived in Miami for eight months. Your accent is Cuban. Am I, not right?"

  "¿Qué deseas?" What do you want? Amadeo spit out the words with a threatening tone.

  “Cógelo con, take it easy.” The man opened a folder. "They came around an hour ago with this." The man revealed a photograph of Amadeo standing across from Sam's apartment.

  "Who's they?"

  "These days you can't be sure, but it is not good news for you." He glanced out towards the lobby. "Two men, not official, more like older students. They handed these out all over the hotel. The desk clerk recognized you and took the men upstairs. They may be waiting for you in your room."

  "Who are you? It's unusual for an Iranian to speak Spanish."

  The man smiled and didn't answer.

  Then it dawned on Amadeo. Mossad. "Who do you work for?"

  The man's expression didn't change. "Let's not speculate on my origins, it's your life at stake." He bagged a box of film and passed it over the counter. "Pay me and leave the hotel at once. They could return at any moment."

  Amadeo paid, wheeled around, and froze in his tracks at the entrance to the gift shop. Carl Walker stood at the elevator, looking up at the dial. The elevator was on the next floor, descending.

  Amadeo stepped back and asked, without taking his eyes off Walker, "You know that man?"

  "At the lift?"

  "Yes. Do you know who he is?"

  The door opened, and Walker stepped into the elevator.

  "You need to leave. It is too dangerous for you to linger here."

  "I need to know, tell me or I won't leave."

  "You presume I know about this man?"

  "I don't have time to play games. Give me some wise guidance. — Capisce?" Wise guidance refers to a passage in Proverbs used by Mossad as its motto.

  Without showing any sign of surprise, the man replied, "He is registered under the name of Carlos Spazier. Travels on a Paraguayan passport."

  "He was with an East German earlier."

  "They have some connection, but I do not know the details. Now you must leave."

  Amadeo nodded and said, "Todá." Thanks, in Hebrew.

  The man turned away and said, "Go."

  Amadeo scanned the lobby and hurried out the door. Down the street, it started to sprinkle.

  Shaul Amir was relieved, his good deed had almost blown his cover as a Mossad Sayan. He was an Iranian Jew who provided aid and intelligence to Israel. Amadeo's ease in detecting his role triggered an alarm.

  Amir's job as manager of the Intercontinental Hotel gift shop gave him an ideal cover to observe the comings and goings of international travelers. He resolved to follow-up on the American's interest in the so-called Paraguayan businessman. There was more than met the eye.

  Amadeo halted under an awning a block away with a cautious eye back down the street. The sprinkle had turned to a moderate rain, cooling the air. Ever since seeing Sam Brooks taken, he had been running full bore on a shot of adrenaline. Now, everything had changed for the worst. If they were circulating his picture, could he chance the airport again?

  Was the gift shop man a Mossad agent? Before he considered him a Khomeini hard-liner. Amadeo questioned his sense of judgement. Then there was Carlos Spazier. A Spanish-German cover for Carl Walker, not very original. Paraguayan passport, East German optics salesman, and he's calling on the Ministry of Defense, must be up to something.

  But first things first, get away from the hotel, no use taking a chance. Everything in the hotel room was lost, didn't matter, nothing valuable or incriminating remained. He patted the pocket on his jacket. The film canisters were still there. He needed to change his appearance, his clothes, although local, had been seen. Best place to buy a new outfit was the big bazaar downtown. Too far to walk, he would have to risk a taxi.

  * * *

  An hour later, a pair of so-called students moved Sam
to another room. The bag was removed from his head. Three men stood before him, one a student, the other two were older, different somehow. One was bearded and wore an old army jacket the other man he recognized from a CIA file: Mansoor Naheed, the leader of a militant Marxist faction.

  Naheed showed Sam the photograph of Amadeo. "What is this man's name?"

  Sam shook his head. "I don't know—"

  The bearded man punched him behind his right ear. Sam reeled. Naheed thrust a photo in front of his face. He struggled to focus.

  "This is you and the American together. Who is he?"

  A second blow snapped Sam's chin down to his chest.

  "Tell me and you will live. If not, you will die."

  Sam tensed, expecting a third jolt, none came. "I don't know—" The third punch brought him to his knees.

  "He didn't tell me his name … that is the truth. You can beat me all day and I cannot tell you because I don't know."

  The two men conversed in Farsi. Sam was determined not to let them know he understood, it might be the only advantage he had.

  The bearded man kicked Sam in the gut, he heeled over on to the floor. The door opened, and a group of students entered. An argument ensued. Naheed and the bearded man left.

  Caught up in a turf war, Sam had survived. The Islamic faction of the student leaders wanted nothing to do with Naheed and his Marxist band. Sam was safe for now.

  18 ~ The Bazaar

  Monday PM, 7 November 1979: Tehran Bazaar

  Amadeo walked behind a family of six through the main entrance to the bazaar and merged with the crowd moving down the central corridor. Ten kilometers of covered walkways amid a labyrinth of small shops offered a comforting sense of anonymity. The bazaar, a city within a city, held multiple mosques, tea shops, money changers, and guest houses offering cheap accommodations. Each corridor specialized in a specific product.

  Amadeo was familiar with the bazaar, a focus of support for the Ayatollah. Last January, he had gone with Ross and Lisette on a shopping excursion during the chaotic days of the revolution.

  The immediate task was to find the section selling clothing, preferably used. He stopped at a closet sized tea shop and quizzed the merchant while sipping a cup of hot chai. The merchant's son volunteered to guide him through the endless maze. Khomeini posters festooned the walls.