The Iranian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  There was one obvious question. "Any chance for some back-up?"

  Hansen, always blunt, the same old attitude, the essential Colonel Hansen, a true bastard, glared straight at me. We hated each other's guts. He shafted me before and now the sorry SOB was trying again. "You mean our in-house James Bond is afraid to go it alone."

  Wilson spoke first and saved me from voicing a critique of Hansen's pedigree. "Ruiz and Richards will be on standby if anything goes wrong. They can be on site in less than twenty-four hours. Afraid, that's the best we can do."

  "Thank you, sir." I was appreciative of at least the prospect of help if, or should it be when, things went south.

  Wilson continued, "Brannan, the key to the operation is to take your time and keep a low profile. Do not let the mission spin out of control. One man alone is sufficient for the job. Smith called Ruiz and Richards here to coach you on how to approach the mission."

  Hansen managed to get in a final thrust of the blade. "Mind how you interrogate the bitch — we don't want to let her go too."

  Wilson saved me one last time. "Colonel Hansen, may we speak in private. In my office — if you please." Hansen was seething as they left. Wilson's air of capable authority distinguished him from the men around him, in direct contrast to the brown-nosing, bootlicking, SOB, that was Colonel Hansen.

  After the door closed, Jack Richards asked with a skeptical tone, "Is there some history between you and Colonel Hansen?"

  Was there some history? Time was limited so I wisecracked, "More like The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire."

  Jack scrunched his eyebrows in a questioning manner. He was too new to the unit to know the full story.

  "Ancient history. Hansen and me go back a long way." I explained how Hansen sandbagged me on numerous occasions and how he was partially responsible for Marsden's defection. Not the full story, only the juicy parts, and made it clear I hated the man's guts.

  Mack Gibson shifted uneasily in his chair and changed the subject, "How's Lisette doing?" Mack, being a retired officer, obviously didn't want to listen to an extended version of my diatribe about Hansen.

  "Fine. She was disappointed she couldn't come along."

  An incredulous John Smith interrupted, "You told her? Remember, she's a foreign national with ties to French intelligence. We're not going to have any security issues, here are we?"

  Mack answered, "We've been over this with Ross and Lisette. Ross was granted a special exception on his security clearance to be married to a foreign national. It is not a problem."

  I chimed in, "Her only connection with French intelligence is her friend Lara Dumont." Lara was a member of the French intelligence service SDECE and had helped both of us in Kenya. Her superiors were not amused and transferred her to Kabul, Afghanistan.

  Smith responded with a softer tone, "I know the story, but like to keep things tight when it comes to operational security."

  "Yeah, understand where you're coming from, but remember, it's my butt on the line."

  Smith, obviously not convinced, continued, "Mack, any idea what this woman has to offer?"

  "Not sure. She claims to have worked with Marsden, but most of those issues are resolved. She spoke about a new more advanced system. Could be she just wants to defect and knows what buttons to push."

  "Or she's a plant with disinformation," said Richards.

  Amadeo broke in, "Maybe the whole thing is a set-up to find out what we learned from Marsden." Amadeo had been present for the interrogation and helped John Smith escort Marsden back to the states.

  Mack continued, "The truth of the matter is, we don't know. Her specialty is telemetry. It appears she is a technician, not an engineer. The only reason we're taking action is her supposed involvement with Marsden. What she has to offer, might be the missing piece of a puzzle. Can't take any chances, we just don't know."

  Amadeo asked, "What if she doesn't have good information? What then?"

  "Ross will decide, in the field, how to proceed. John, what assets are available in Nepal?"

  "The agency's efforts there are directed towards the Chinese border. The station chief Al Harris is an old Asia hand: Vietnam, Laos, Philippines, but not much experience dealing with the Soviets. He's about to retire next year so don't expect him to go out on a limb. Not sure what local assets he might have, but don't expect too much."

  Don't expect this and don't expect that. "Just what can I expect from him?"

  "He'll brief you on the situation, set you up with a local guide, and arrange a flight into the base camp area. Not sure if he can supply you with weapons or equipment, or what he has available. You can't carry weapons in on a commercial flight in any case. You may have to improvise. Do you have suitable gear for the mountains?"

  "Brought my backpack, sleeping bag, and mountaineering boots."

  "Fine, if you need anything else call over to Mountain Sports down from the Presidential Hotel. Someone will pick it up for you."

  Mack glanced at his Rolex. "John and I need to go. Richards and Ruiz will go over the mission details with you." He shook my hand before leaving. "Good luck and try to stay out of trouble."

  Barker stood up. "Got to go check on the U4. Sergeant George invited me to dinner with him at his sister's place this evening." He patted me on the back. "Don't worry about Lisette. Sarah will keep an eye on her."

  After they left, I told Amadeo, "This is beginning to feel like déjà vu all over again."

  "Like Barker said, don't worry about it. Let's go over the details again. I think Jack will agree, the more attention you pay to the little things, the better able you are to respond when something unexpected occurs. And as you are aware, the unexpected always occurs."

  Jack Richards and Amadeo Ruiz, professional intelligence officers assigned from the CIA to SSRP as operations security specialists. Their job was to provide on-the-ground security for Raven-One.

  I worked with Amadeo before in East Africa. Fluent in Spanish, Ethiopian Amharic and Arabic, he also spoke passable French and Farsi. An ex Air Force Air Commando with Middle East experience, his responsibility included mission planning involving activities in foreign countries. His family was originally from Cuba, his father killed at the Bay of Pigs.

  Jack Richards, newly assigned to our operation, arrived at Kirtland only a few weeks before. An ex Green Beret Vietnam vet, he was recommended to Wilson by Amadeo and John Smith. Fluent in French, Vietnamese and Russian, he spoke passable Arabic and Farsi. Jack, a weapons specialist and highly skilled in hand-to-hand combat, was in charge of on-the-ground field training.

  Both men were seasoned pros. Amadeo's light olive skin and black hair enabled him to fit in with any number of ethnic groups. Jack, a well-tanned outdoor type, also could fit in as well. Both men, average sized, wiry, not muscular, took pride in their fitness. On the street, they appeared unexceptional, just the ticket for their type of work.

  Confident I was in good hands, I asked, "Okay, what you got for me?"

  Jack answered, "Perhaps the most important thing is to be able to blend in. If you go over there looking like you're ready for trouble, you'll most likely find it."

  I already had that one figured out. "Yeah, like keep a low profile."

  "More than that, you need to be able to blend in. Blending in is an art, one that takes a lot of thought and practice. You don’t want to attract attention to yourself. Dress like the normal people around you. Don't look like you're ready to climb Mount Everest, but also don't look like you just came off the street. Evaluate your outfit and eliminate the things that might draw someone's attention. Don't project an image someone will be likely to remember."

  "He's right, but on the other hand don't project a soft image, don't make yourself into an obvious target," advised Amadeo. "The key is to appear confident and natural, like you belong."

  Jack agreed, "Most of all it's about being alert. Observing the people around you helps maintain a high level of awareness and can help you anticipate trouble. Alway
s be aware of your situation."

  "In other words, be paranoid." I already was well versed in that skill, having survived my ordeal in East Africa.

  His eyes bored in on me. "No, not paranoid, just ready to kill anyone you meet."

  That I could handle. Apparently, Amadeo hadn't told him about me killing four Cuban henchmen in Kenya, something I was not proud of. Rather than respond, I held my tongue. I glimpsed Amadeo's faint grin out of the corner of my eye.

  We spent the next couple of hours going over every detail. Seasoned pros, they should have been the ones on the mission, not me. I was just an analyst. My only formal training for such a mission was the Air Force's aircrew survival course at Fairchild Air Force Base when preparing for airborne intercept missions back in the sixties.

  That training helped me in East Africa. The instructors beat into our minds the idea of using all the resources you have available and to never-give-up. I thought I knew how to take care of myself but had a gut feeling something might go wrong.

  The day was getting late and I started to get up. "Need to get some sleep, got a long day tomorrow."

  "You can sleep on the plane. Let's go over everything one more time." Richards flipped his briefing book back to the first page.

  Amadeo piped up, "Your mission, Ross, should you decide to accept it, is to—"

  "That’s not funny."

  "As always, should you be caught or killed, Colonel Hansen will disavow any knowledge of your actions."

  "Enough."

  "This mission will self-destruct in five days. — Good luck, Ross."

  4 ~ Kathmandu

  Sunday, 17 December: Kathmandu, Nepal

  An exotic circus of hippies, snake charmers, and sacred cows wandered the streets amongst a maze of temples and ancient buildings adorned with ornate carvings. Kathmandu, the iconic city of the Age of Aquarius, the final stop on the fabled Hippie Trail from London through Istanbul and on to India, bustled with activity.

  A bedraggled, but still attractive, hippie girl dressed in ragged jeans and a worn sweater flashed a seductive smile as she paused to enter a shop. No choice but to resist temptation — duty called.

  Past Durbar Square, I hung a right and ambled along with a casual air down Pie Alley, a narrow dirty little street. Unfamiliar sights and smells confronted my senses and redefined the ordinary. Kathmandu wasn't famous for cleanliness.

  A menu posted in front of the Camp Hotel offered an excuse to pause and glance back up the street to see if anyone had a tail on me. No dead giveaways, no one seemed to be lurking about, moving when I moved, avoiding eye contact, making sudden turns, or halting when I did. No one seemed suspicious, but I couldn't afford to relax.

  Counter surveillance, that's what Jack called it, to me it's just watching your back. Situational awareness and attention to details isn't obsessively paranoid, it's just a good way to stay alive. The events of the past few months proved that. I'm still alive.

  Paused at the corner, waited a few seconds, moved on, swung a U-turn, and retraced my steps. Strolled back through the square, headed north towards the market, checked out the wares, made one purchase, and surveyed the area once more.

  At the appointed time, I hurried down Kanti Path to meet my local contact. I had arrived only an hour before after a series of long flights from Washington, London, and New Delhi. My orders, report to the American embassy, ASAP. For my own reasons, I didn't share Colonel Wilson's sense of urgency about the mission.

  * * *

  The CIA station chief’s weary face betrayed the frustrations of a backwater posting. His breath revealed the fact I interrupted his Sunday afternoon happy hour, my presence an unwelcome intrusion into his weekend routine. Al Harris, in his mid-fifties with short graying hair, was more bourbon and branch water than shaken not stirred.

  He examined the first page of my Canadian passport. "Five ten, one seventy-five, brown hair," he squinted at my eyes, "blue-green eyes, everything appears fine except you have sandy hair." He examined the picture and snorted. "This photo makes you look almost like Steve McQueen."

  "Yeah, that's what the ladies tell me." The slight resemblance had proved socially useful a few times before I met Lisette.

  He ignored my comeback. "You're travelling under the name Dan McDonald, so make sure you don't have anything on you that can connect you with your real identity."

  "No problem, we made sure of that back in Washington." Nothing in my possession identified me as Ross Brannan, a contract employee of the National Security Agency assigned to the Special Signals Research Project.

  He pitched the passport back across the desk and mumbled something under his breath. Couldn't tell from his sardonic expression if Harris believed me or just didn't care. It made no difference either way.

  Enough of this BS. — "When do I leave?"

  "Day after tomorrow: late Tuesday morning. You’re set up to fly out of Kathmandu to the airstrip at Syangboche. That's up past Namche Bazaar. It's a regular flight, taking passengers to the Everest View Hotel." He pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. "You’re booked in at the hotel. It's expensive as hell, but at least it don't come out of my budget." He tapped the pack, pulled out an unfiltered cigarette, and lit up with a battered Zippo.

  Harris took a long drag, paused, blew out a stream of pungent smoke from the side of his mouth, and shoved a large envelope and a small sheet of paper across the desk. "There's the tickets and 350 dollars in Rupees. Just sign the receipt. Expect you'll return the change if… before you leave." His voice delivered a rough gravel quality, most likely the product of a near lifetime of unfiltered cigarettes and booze.

  I signed the receipt, wondering if his slip of the tongue was inadvertent, or just a jab. It was difficult to tell if he was smiling or scowling.

  He placed the receipt in a folder, took another drag on the Camel, and asked, "You got any gear? Gets colder n' blazes up there. At least you got some boots for it. It ain't exactly no walk in the park."

  "Trekked in Nepal several years ago, brought a pack and sleeping bag along. You think of anything else?"

  He raised his eyebrows. "Good, so you at least know the ropes." His attitude seemed to change. "Better pick up some decent food to take along. It's pretty basic up there, unless you like chapattis and gritty rice. You do know what chapattis are, don't you?"

  "Yeah, Indian tortillas." Born in New Mexico, I happened to like tortillas, but wasn't about to tell him.

  "Be a good idea to stop at the pharmacy down the street and buy some codeine tabs." He blew a smoke ring and flicked an ash to the floor. "Most all the locals have some sort of respiratory problem. Sleeping in smoky rooms will get to you. You don't need no prescription. A pile of Rupees will get you just about anything."

  "No problem. Sounds like nothing's changed." So far, he hadn't told me anything I didn't know. "How 'bout my contact up there?"

  "I arranged for a local mountain guide, an experienced Sherpa who speaks good English. He's worked for me off and on for the last eighteen months and will meet you at the hotel after you land. You'll be in good hands."

  "Any other assets for back-up?"

  "Nope, you are pretty much on your own."

  I ignored his smug expression. "How about weapons?"

  He answered with pretend surprise, "You came unarmed?"

  "That's right. Flew commercial and was hoping you could supply something." I wanted to bring my little Walther PPK, but the civilian travel arrangements ruled that out. "How about a forty-five and a couple extra magazines?"

  The request caught him by surprise and he almost choked on a deep drag on the Camel. "No way. A firearm will get you in deep kimchi if you have to use it." He coughed. "Remember, you don't have diplomatic immunity, and travelling on a Canadian passport to boot."

  I wanted to tell him it's easier to get out of jail than to get out of dead but held my tongue. He had a point, but it wasn't his butt on the line.

  Harris drew in and expelled another puff. "My
suggestion is to hightail it over to the bazaar and get yourself a kukri. Know what that is?"

  "Sure, one of those wicked knives the Gurkhas carry."

  "Yeah, you'll have to bargain. Don't pay more than thirty rupees."

  "Will this do?" I pulled out a curved knife in a leather sheath and exposed the blade. "Only paid twenty rupees in the market, the poor kid seemed desperate for a sale."

  Harris shook his head and snuffed out the cigarette. "They warned me you're sort of a wise-ass."

  Now who would have said that? Had my suspicions.

  He pointed at the knife. "If you plan on using that thing, get it sharpened up, everyone carries one here."

  "Actually, I prefer a good switchblade for close-up work." I started to tell him I had killed five men this year, but let it go. Wasn’t proud of it and didn't want to seem to brag.

  He leaned back in his chair and scrunched up his brow. "Thought you're just a technician."

  "Learned to use a knife working on my uncle's ranch back in New Mexico, a ranch hand taught me how to use a knife in a tight situation."

  The CIA man winced as if in pain. "Oh brother, they sent me a real cowboy."

  I let the comment slide. My mentor, an older Mescalero Apache named Joe, taught me over the course of five summers the art of street fighting, self-defense, and many other things about life. He always claimed the best way to avoid trouble was to avoid it. It took me a long time to figure out the real meaning of those words — too long in fact.

  "Okay Cowboy, so you can handle a knife, but can you use it when the chips are down?" He made no attempt to hide the snide expression of condescension on his face.

  Sat up straight, made eye contact, and enunciated with emphasis, "Yeah, no problem, don't worry about it."

  He glared, not yet convinced. "You got military experience?"

  "Army. Eleven years."

  His eyes perked up. "Special Forces? Nam?"

  Guess he thought if I knew how to use a knife, I must be a snake eater. "No. ASA. Saigon and Thailand."

  He didn't even try to mask his disgust, muttered something inaudible, and cleared his throat. "An Army Security Agency weenie, so you don't have any actual field experience."