The Caspian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  The train station was on the southern edge of the city. There didn't seem to be any unusual police presence. The sun was setting as he wandered about and checked out the surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary, he strolled through the entrance.

  Halfway to the ticket counter, he noticed something on the floor at the end of a bench. The package. Peter sat with his back to Amadeo.

  The schedule board showed it was a three hour wait to the next train to Tabriz. Amadeo retreated to the entrance and stepped outside. If he took the next bus, he could be in Tabriz hours before Peter arrived. But to what end? He didn't need any further confrontations, all he needed to do was get over the border. Peter could take his dope and go to hell. Amadeo hailed a taxi and returned to the bus terminal.

  Tuesday PM, 8 November 1979: Police Headquarters. Tehran

  Captain Rezaei read the brief report. A shooting on the road to Qazvin. Two people dead. One man carried Soviet diplomatic credentials. He flipped open his file, it was the same man, one Samir Kazimov. The other man carried no identification.

  There were two witnesses to the incident, a pair of Danish drug addicts. They claimed a third man had escaped. A Paykan sedan was left on the scene. They also claimed the shooter had been driving a yellow German van. He had escaped as well.

  Rezaei re-read the bulletin Abbasi had sent out for the yellow van. It had to be the same one. Fernandez was being pursued by the Soviets and their Marxist lackeys. They had caught-up with him and were ambushed. What kind of intrigue was involved? If the Soviets were after him, Fernandez must be a CIA spy. A dangerous CIA spy.

  He called Abbasi and ordered a bulletin be put out for Fernandez and the Austrian called Peter Matias. They are to be held for his arrival.

  21 ~ Ronni

  Wednesday, 9 November 1979: Tabriz, Iran

  Amadeo sat on an uncomfortable bench at the Tabriz train terminal. Peter's train was due in a few minutes, if the schedule was to be believed. The waiting room was almost full. A train to Tehran was leaving within the hour.

  Security had seemed light at first, but the arrival of a dozen police officers triggered a personal alarm. All he could do was sit tight and hope his disguise held up.

  The train pulled in and the police drifted towards the platform gate. Passengers disembarked and lined up as officials compared each passenger with a photograph. After the last person passed through without incident, a group of officers boarded the train and conducted a search. An older officer started showing the picture to the people in the waiting room.

  The policeman started at the end of Amadeo's bench, asking each person if they had seen this man. He seemed distracted, bored with the process as if he wanted to be somewhere else. He flashed the photo in front of Amadeo. The picture was Amadeo on the street outside of Sam's apartment.

  He shook his head and said no in Farsi. The officer didn't look at Amadeo and moved to the next man.

  The man asked, in Farsi, "Who is this?"

  The bored officer responded, "A CIA assassin from the den of spies in Tehran. He has killed two men in cold blood."

  "May Allah grant them peace and give them blessings," said the man with reverence.

  The next man yelled, "Death to American Satan — Death to the den of spies." The crowd took up the chant, Amadeo joined in, not wanting to be singled out. The other officers renewed their interest and scanned the scene one more time before leaving.

  After a few minutes, Amadeo left his seat and made for the exit. A whipped-up crowd can be unpredictable, better safe than sorry.

  At the door, a female voice whispered from behind, "Fue usted, señor. La fotografía."

  The voice had told him he was the one in the police photo. In Spanish, no less. Sensing a trap, he ignored the voice and surveyed the area out of his peripheral vision. The police were boarding a small bus fifty meters away. Escape options were limited.

  She told him again with increased intensity, this time in Farsi. He increased his pace, heading for a crowd of pedestrians down the street.

  "You are not Iranian, I can tell." Her English had a continental accent.

  Amadeo looked back. The woman was short, about five-two, with well-styled raven-dark hair with flecks of grey.

  She drew up alongside him. "Let me help you."

  He started to pause, rejected the idea, and hurried his pace.

  "Someone will recognize you They are not all so stupid as that dumb cop."

  She was right, he slowed his pace and looked her over. The woman was dressed in faded jeans and wore a green parka over a cashmere sweater. She appeared to be in her late forties.

  She continued, "Your disguise may work fine in Tehran, but that ridiculous chafiye on your head is too much."

  The traditional headwrap had worked, so far. No one had taken notice, until now.

  "Who are you?"

  "My name is Veronica Zacarias." She glanced around, her eyes followed the police bus as it drove off down the street. "I work here in Tabriz at the archaeological museum."

  "What makes you think they're looking for me?"

  "Because the picture was a good likeness. Lucky for you, the cop was lazy today."

  Unsure what she was up to, Amadeo tried to buy some time to figure it out. "I don't understand what this is all about."

  She spat out the words, "Yes, you do." Before he could respond she said, "You killed the Soviet agent and now they will be after you too."

  "I didn't kill anyone…" He started to say Peter did it but held off saying more.

  They were approaching a crowd of morning shoppers. She said, "We need to speak of this, come to my house, we can talk there."

  "Why should I?"

  "Because if you don't, you will be picked up by the police. Believe me, they are serious."

  At this point, he didn't have a choice. "Okay, I'm game, lead on.

  Her serious demeanor dissolved into a warm smile. "We will continue our discussion over coffee. Please follow me at a discrete distance. You understand."

  "Sure." But he wasn't sure, his danger meter had peaked minutes ago, and his situational awareness was in overdrive.

  The woman walked ahead with a sense of purpose. He didn't know who she really was, but he liked her spirit. She had an unmistakable air of self-confidence.

  Wednesday, 9 November 1979: Tehran

  Suslov slammed the phone down. The call had woken him from an uneasy sleep. The pain from his leg and shoulder had not improved. Now, his day was ruined. The call from the embassy informed him Kazimov was dead, killed by an assassin on the road to Qazvin. He instructed the officer to tell the Iranian police Kazimov was an agricultural expert on his way to Tabriz and to send a car right away.

  What happened? Did the American get away? Did Kazimov follow him? Once more, the Raven-One team had foiled his plans. Suslov resolved it would not happen again.

  The car arrived fifteen minutes later. "Take me to the Ministry of the Interior," he told the driver. The major wanted to get ahead of the Iranian authorities and establish a credible reason for Kazimov's presence on the road. An indignant diplomatic protest would also be filed.

  Wednesday, 9 November 1979: Tabriz

  Veronica Zacarias lived in a small bungalow down an alley near the archeological museum. Amadeo took a seat on a couch as she prepared coffee in the small kitchen. A large Persian carpet covered the floor and ornate woven wall hangings adorned the walls. Whoever she was, she had good taste.

  She set a tray with coffee and pastries on a small carved wooden table. Amadeo took a sip from the steaming cup.

  His eyes arched in surprise. "Espresso?"

  Her eyes sparked at his revelation. "Of course. I am Italian after all."

  He took a bite of pastry and another sip. "How did you notice me at the terminal?"

  "I was looking for you."

  "I don't understand."

  She sat her cup on the tray and leaned back in the cushioned chair. "You are Felix Fernandez, are you not?"

 
; Amadeo sat up straight, almost spilling his piping hot cup of espresso. "Okay, let's cut to the chase. What are you getting at?"

  She canted her head and said, "I believe we have a common interest in a certain individual. We can help you and, in turn, you can help us."

  "Who's this us?"

  "The certain individual is one you know as Carlos Spazier who travels on a Paraguayan passport."

  Amadeo took a deep breath and exhaled. "I suppose this 'us' works at the Intercontinental Hotel in Tehran."

  She replied with a coy smile and took another sip of espresso.

  "What does the Mossad want with Carl Walker?"

  She offered no detectable reaction and asked with a matter-of-fact, "Is that his real name?"

  "Yeah, they didn't tell you?"

  She shrugged and took a bite of pastry. Her piercing eyes had a mysterious look.

  "Do you know where he is?" Amadeo wanted to test her knowledge.

  "Perhaps he has left the country."

  "Look, do you want to play games or get down to business?"

  She rose from her chair and joined Amadeo on the couch, pressing against him. "We can play games later, but yes, we get down to business."

  She wore a hint of makeup with a smidge of lipstick. Veronica was a dozen years older, but she was one of those Italian women that age well. Her close presence and inviting eyes had an intoxicating effect, a jolt of testosterone coursed through his body. If this was a honey trap, he was dangling over the abyss.

  She switched to a cold serious mode. Her devil-may-care attitude was merely a facade, underneath she was all business. "Word is that this Carlos Spazier has obtained the electronics for a Phoenix air-to-air missile from the Iranians. We believe he will attempt to sell it to the Syrians."

  "Again, do you know where he is?"

  "He has left for Beirut, but he did not depart with the electronics. We suspect that he passed it off to someone else."

  Now, Peter's package made sense. It wasn't heroin, it was the guts of a high-tech and restricted distribution air-to-air missile system.

  "He passed it off to an Austrian at Mehrabad airport yesterday morning."

  "How do you know this?"

  "I was there."

  Now it was her turn to be surprised. "You… at the airport?"

  "Yeah, and he sent a cable to someone from the PTT a half-hour later. Don't know who it was, but I can guess." She stared to say something, but he continued, " And, he's the one that killed the two men on the road. You say he was a Russian?"

  'Not Russian, an Aziri KGB agent in Tehran."

  "KGB?"

  "Yes. Why is the KGB after you?"

  "How do you know he's KGB?"

  "He is assigned to their embassy, it is well known in certain circles. He is under a Major Suslov who targets—"

  "Suslov." Amadeo tensed, she noticed.

  "You know this man?"

  "Yeah, I know him. Know him well."

  "How is this?"

  "Can't say."

  "Is this related to the missile and this Carlos person?"

  "No. It's personal. The SOB wants to kill me."

  "Why?"

  Amadeo leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "Look sweetheart, I'd love to stick around here and play, but we got work to do. The Austrian — goes by the name Peter Mattias — was due on the train this morning. He has the package and must have got off before Tabriz." He stood" "You got a car?"

  "I can find one."

  "Okay Veronica, get it. We need to come up with a plan."

  She rubbed her lips together and looked up at him with a winsome look. "My friends call me Ronni."

  "Okay, Ronni. Do you have a gun?" Amadeo's thinking was that weapons are only a last resort when all else fails, but why take a chance.

  She glided over to a desk and opened a drawer. "Will this do?" She held up a black pistol.

  "Is that a Berretta?"

  "Yes, a Berretta Model 70 Jaguar pistol made in Italia."

  "Normally I like something more than a twenty-two." The .22 caliber Model 70 had served as the favorite choice of weapon for Mossad assassins and Israeli sky-marshals.

  "When used properly, it can stop a terrorist very well. After all, David killed Goliath with only a slingshot and stone."

  He started to ask her if she knew how to use it, but her cold expression said it all. Amadeo knew one thing for sure, don't provoke a woman with a gun.

  "You have one for me?" he asked.

  "Do not worry," she said with fake condescension, "I will protect you."

  "Yeah, but I still would like—"

  "If we are stopped by the police or revolutionary guards, they will be less likely to search a woman. — End of discussion."

  Amadeo raised his palms in surrender. She was right.

  She picked up her jacket and headed for the door. "I go for the car, back in a while." She smiled and tilted her head towards the bath. "You may clean-up if you wish."

  Amadeo walked over and inspected the Berretta. It was better than nothing, Peter was armed and willing to kill. It occurred to him that she wasn't aware of his true mission: deliver the tapes. She didn't need to know. For now, he had little choice but to play along with her and wait for an opportunity to head for the border. But first, a hot shower.

  Wednesday, 9 November 1979: Ankara, Turkey

  John Smith and Jack Richards sat in the office of Colonel Kamal Çelik of MIT, the Turkish national intelligence service. He had worked with John before, they were trusted friends. The colonel was a burly man with a thick greying mustache.

  "…and that's about all I can tell you. Any help in getting this man out of Iran would be appreciated." John had given him a sanitized version of the facts, leaving an impression the situation had something to do with the embassy takeover.

  Çelik, a true professional, understood and appreciated John's predicament. "Yes, you have my sympathy. It is an unfortunate incident, a sign of the times. We believe the Iranian government will intervene soon and resolve the situation. Perhaps patience is the key?"

  John shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It wasn't what he wanted to hear.

  The colonel donned his reading glasses and picked up a sheet of paper. "This is a report from Iran, I received just this morning. A Soviet agricultural expert and his Iranian escort were shot and killed on the road between Tehran and Tabriz."

  John said, "I don't understand—"

  "They are looking for a CIA assassin named Fernandez." He peered over his glasses. "Does this interest you?"

  John looked at Jack and exhaled. "Yes, it does."

  "This Fernandez…?"

  "That's my man. I don't know anything about a shootout, he was there to pick-up something from the embassy. Not sure how the Ruskies got involved, but in any case, we need to get him out — we leave no man behind."

  "I cannot help officially, some people in my agency support the Iranian revolution. It is a very delicate matter."

  "Understand. So, there's nothing you can do?"

  "There is a man near Lake Van who may be able to help you for a price. A Kurd."

  "Is he trustworthy?"

  "For the right price, he is a Kurd after all."

  "How much?"

  The colonel shrugged. "For an illegal entry into Iran at this time. Start with ten thousand dollars American, in cash. He will want more, but you already know that."

  Outside, Jack asked, "We don't have that kind of money. What you going to do?"

  John bit his lip in disgust. Go back to the embassy and call the colonel. This thing just escalated way above my paygrade."

  22 ~ The Package

  Wednesday, 9 November 1979: Tabriz, Iran

  "You really Italian?" asked Amadeo. They sat in a Russian made Gaz-69 jeep-like vehicle opposite the main Tabriz bus terminal. She had borrowed it from a museum colleague who used the 4x4 on archeological digs.

  "Yes. You don't believe me?"

  "Sure, but what are you doing in Iran
?

  "I work for the museum."

  "But…"

  She gave him a playful smile. "My university degree is in archeology. Tell me are you really a Spaniard?"

  "The land of my ancestors."

  "Now you understand."

  "Yeah. So, you're Jewish, born Italian, serving the land of your ancestors."

  "Something like that."

  An older bus pulled in, a local. They were waiting in hope that Peter had left the train along the way and was going ahead to Tabriz in a less obvious means of transportation. Peter was not among the passengers.

  "That's the fifth one in the last hour," said Amadeo, glancing at his watch. "Wonder if this was a good idea?"

  "We wait at least one more hour. The local coaches are slow and sometimes unreliable."

  "Where did you learn your English? You almost sound like an American."

  "I studied in California at Berkeley. Two years."

  "You married?"

  She fell silent. He could tell he hit a nerve.

  "Sorry, didn't mean to pry."

  "No, it is all right." She sighed. "My husband was killed in 1967 on the Golan Heights when the Syrians attacked. He was a reservist tank commander. And my son died on the first day of the 1973 war. He was on Mount Herman when the Syrians captured the mountain."

  Amadeo understood her pain. "I understand. My father was killed in the Bay of Pig's invasion of Cuba."

  "So, you are Cuban?"

  "Raised in Miami."

  "Here is a coach," said Ronni. She gripped Amadeo's arm and squeezed.

  A beat-up MAN diesel bus chugged into the terminal and screeched to a halt. The door swung open, a column of rural Iranian men and the occasional woman wearing a black chador filed off. The last to step off was Peter carrying the cloth wrapped box.

  "That's him — and that's the prize."

  "Now what do we do? There are too many people about for us to take him here."

  "Right. We'll play it cool and follow him. Wait for an opportunity."

  Peter glanced about, checking the area. Amadeo could tell he was no pro. His technique was obvious to a trained eye. Satisfied, he shifted the box under his right arm and entered the building.