Although not particularly religious, Firuz began to attend the mosque as a means to be closer to his national roots. At a conference on Iran at Stanford University, he had met Nasrullah who completed Firuz’s indoctrination. Firuz was now an al Quds operative, an integral part of the IRGC, like his uncle.
As he drove, Firuz continued to plan his departure. What about his bonus? After all, it had been his technical expertise that had made the startup company successful. When creating firewalls and security software, it helped to have unrivaled hacking knowledge. He would convince corporate customers by first hacking into their computer systems. Dwayne, his Berkeley classmate and “Intrepid” co-founder, would then come in and sell their computer security package. Firuz accepted his role as the techie while Dwayne, more socially adept, closed the sale. The profit margins were high, but corporations felt they had little choice.
As Firuz drove toward the Golden Gate Bridge, the heavy white fog in back of the North Coastal Range looked like distant and threatening snow-clad peaks, like pictures of Iran’s Alborz Mountains.
He rolled his window up and kept on going. He had drawn back from his plan to sink the ferry. It was now time to be decisive.
He was done with California.
6. Langley, Virginia: CIA Headquarters
Her back to the large window overlooking the greenery of the CIA campus, Thérèse LaFont, shoulder length dark-blond hair, elegant but understated in a white silk blouse and dark suit, sat in front of CIA Director Walter Deuel’s wide desk and continued to try to obtain the Director’s assistance.
“State is going to fight us on this. We would do better if the request came from you directly. The very idea of introducing a non-official cover officer in Iran so soon after upgrading bilateral relations is going to give them a heart attack. I don’t even want to tell them that our man is not part of our regular NOC cadre.”
Deuel, with short hair that had been gun-metal gray at least since his glory days as captain of Cornell’s lacrosse team, reached for a cigar sitting in a clean ashtray.
“I do remember that the Chargé sent over there by State had refused to come here for a briefing before he went to Tehran. Tell me, why not one of our regular NOCs? Or, why not send Marshall? He recruited XYSENTINEL. Give him an alias passport. We know that he was in Tehran during their revolution, but they don’t. Their records are not that good. I trust him. In any case, using his son. Why? Because he happens to be available? Sounds like a bad idea. Since when is the National Clandestine Service a family affair?”
“Marshall’s experience is a double-edged sword,” Thérèse said, squirming a bit. “As a NOC he would have no official status; there’s little we can do to protect him.”
“You’re telling me that the risk is high and that it’s better for Steve to get caught than Marshall?” Deuel said, pointing his cigar at her. “What about giving him a diplomatic passport and simply inserting him in the U.S. Interest Section?”
“We’ve already tried to place one of our people in the Interest Section, but the new Chargé, Jeff Crossley, turned us down flat. We know him from Islamabad. Good linguist, but he identified more with Pakistani than with American interests.”
She brushed her hair back behind one ear and continued, “Although he didn’t meet with you, we did talk to him before he left for Tehran.” She rolled her eyes, “He doesn’t want to lie to the Iranians. He said that he doesn’t want to create the impression that the Interest Section is a ‘Nest of Spies,’ as the Iranians described the old American Embassy in 1979. Which is fine. Because the presence of American diplomats in Tehran will allow Mousavi’s people to focus on something other than our operations. Besides, if I remember correctly,” she smiled, “wasn’t it your idea to award Steve that medal last year?”
Her eyes glanced at a stockless primitive gun hanging on the wall on a red mat to Deuel’s left, a reminder that Deuel had cut his operational teeth in Laos running guerrillas in the H’mong program, Operation Momentum, and had eventually become Chief of Station in Beijing. He had an appreciation for unofficial cover work after being a NOC in India for three years. He was a good communicator, having inherited this skill from his father, a foreign correspondent in postwar Moscow.
“In hindsight, I wish we had put him in for the Medal of Honor instead. Do you know how many lives he saved by stopping that pathological self-styled messenger of God from firing the Israeli space laser? When they tried and failed to kill Steve in Morocco, the jihadists sparked something in Steve that became the force that stopped them from dominating the entire Middle East.”
“And its oil,” Therese replied. “Unfortunately, he didn’t think much of the CIA officers assigned to support him. He and Kella really accomplished the job on their own.”
Deuel came back to his point, “We agree there. Steve is one of the best, a natural intelligence officer. However, we have our own in-house NOCs. Why him? Steve is not even a CIA officer. We have to borrow him from West Gate. Why don’t you make him an offer he can’t refuse and get him onboard permanently?”
“Because he has already followed in his father’s footsteps: same school, Lehigh University; same major, International Relations; same fraternity, Phi Kappa Theta. He’s made up his mind that he’s going to have a different career from Marshall.”
A discreet knock on the door and a woman with immaculate make-up and hairdo looked in. “Sir, your next appointment is here, Admiral Wynn.” She seemed concerned but positive, almost motherly.
“Okay, thanks Mary,” Deuel replied. “Five minutes.”
Knowing that the Director of the National Security Agency, the biggest gorilla in the intelligence world owning eighty percent of the seventy-five billion dollar intelligence budget, was waiting, Thérèse spoke more rapidly.
“The guy I have in mind to handle SENTINEL full time is still handling an operation in Afghanistan. We could pull him out in about a month and have him replace Steve. Why Steve? Because he’s clean. Surprisingly, his real identity never surfaced, although his picture did appear in a French paper. He’s an authentic businessman. As you say, he’s a natural. He has operational instincts that are beyond training; he can operate independently.”
Deuel put his unlit cigar back in the ashtray, rose out of his Herman Miller ergonomic chair and said, “Yeah, that’s the only thing that worries me about him. Our World War II predecessor, the Office of Strategic Services, turned Hemingway down when he applied during the war because he was too independent. Can you keep Steve in check?” he pointed his finger at her, his eyes searching for the cigar now back in the ashtray.
Thérèse almost laughed at his surprise. “I worry that Steve could be irrationally intransigent.”
She searched for a twinkle in his eye at his tortured alliteration but found none. “You mean stubborn?” she asked with an equally serious look.
“Okay, Thérèse. There are people waiting to see me. What cover for Steve?”
“He’s a Canadian from St. John’s in Newfoundland,” Thérèse said as they walked to the door of his office. “He’s selling green energy to the Iranians who have oil but still have energy problems. The company is called Magnum Controls.”
As Thérèse left, he told her, “I want to see him for a few minutes before he leaves.”
She was relieved that Deuel hadn’t asked why it was necessary to activate him now, as opposed to waiting a month when her first choice would be available. She was concerned about the information that was coming from a contact in Syrian Military Intelligence that Morris Radu, her Chief of Station in Damascus at the time, claimed he had recruited. That notch on his gun was the main reason why Radu was now chief of the Near East Division.
Radu insisted that his source was a “unilateral,” that he was reporting without the knowledge of his government. The Syrian source claimed that Iran was many years away from a nuclear weapon and that Iranian motivation was only skin deep, political posturing, more show than go. She just wasn’t convinced that Radu’s
asset was reporting independently, or if he was a double agent feeding the CIA information that had been first approved by the Iranians, particularly by Ali Mousavi, the CIA’s nemesis. It was crucial to get SENTINEL’s information to confirm or deny the reporting from Radu’s agent.
Walking through the director’s outer office, the NCS Chief received “elevator looks” from the admiral’s entourage. At age forty-two, she was more appreciative than insulted of their unabashed interest. She walked down the corridor to her office, satisfied with the Deuel meeting. The operation was on. Her mind switched to her children: what about a summer camp? When she reached her outer office she said, “Clare, please arrange a meeting here tomorrow with Steve Church, the chief of cover staff, and Radu.”
“How about Marshall Church?” Clare asked. “I don’t think so.”
Marshall’s presence would only complicate things. It would be difficult enough to convince Steve to take on another CIA mission. Then she made a note to herself in a small notebook she had in her handbag. “Call Elaine about summer camps.”
Before Thérèse reached the door to her office, Clare said with a serious look that quickly melted into a slight grin, “Oh, I almost forgot, Captain Brian called. He said he would try to call you again tonight at home. He was calling from somewhere in the Middle East but couldn’t say where.”
Several months earlier, Thérèse had been one of the speakers at a memorial for the one hundred two CIA officers killed in the line of duty. Invited guests had packed the lobby of the CIA headquarters building. Afterward, as she greeted the families and friends of those being honored in front of the Wall of Honor and its one hundred two stars, her military deputy had introduced Captain Brian Navarre to her.
Navarre had invited her to the christening in Savannah of his new ship, an Aegis-class cruiser, the U.S.S. Allen Dulles, the first ship named for a Director of Central Intelligence. Following the afternoon ceremonies, he had invited her to have dinner with him at the Kasbah Moroccan Restaurant apparently wanting to impress her with his international sophistication. She recalled the evening and smiled. The food was excellent, and the seats, a foot off the floor, narrow and uncomfortable, had been a source of amusement throughout the evening.
Brian proved to be funny, smart, a bit formal, five years older, and single. He had blue eyes, which, she thought, can make up for a lot of imperfections. Brian’s wife had died in a car accident twelve years before while he was deployed during the first Gulf War. At the time he was a recent graduate of the Naval Academy. He had never remarried. No children.
They had dated again when he came through Washington for intelligence briefings. He had been equally as interesting the second time. Was Navarre a relationship waiting to happen? Was there more to Brian than an occasional dinner during infrequent visits to Washington? He wasn’t even spooked by her two children. On the contrary, he had seemed at ease with their antics and questions. Is it still called dating when both parties are in their forties? Or is it called desperately looking for a mate?
What was the name of that summer camp?
7. Langley: National Clandestine Service
The next day, Steve walked out of Thérèse LaFont’s suite of offices with Morris Radu who asked, “How fast can you pack? You should get in and get out before the Israelis do what they do best and bomb the hell out of Tehran.” Balding and wide of girth, Radu laughed at his joke and added, “I agree with you that sending you is a terrible idea.”
Steve had noted Radu’s subdued opposition during the meeting. He assumed that Radu had earlier expressed his views to Thérèse and had been overridden. As they were alone in the elevator, Steve said, “Did I say that? I don’t think so. I’m actually surprised that you need an outsider like me. As I said to Thérèse, I have a life, a job, and you must have much more qualified people. She just made a strong case that this is important. If it’s going to make a difference, I’m glad to go, until a full time case officer is available. We’re talking about a month max, right?”
Steve knew of Radu’s reputation as a dedicated Arabist who had studied at the Foreign Service School first in Arlington and then in Tunis. As Chief of Station in Damascus, he had gotten along famously with the Syrian intelligence service, which had provided information that Israel’s Mossad was still interfering in Lebanese politics. No surprise there and hardly worth a report. The Syrians had also provided a report on a possible terrorist threat against the American Embassy in Ankara. That report had been the clincher proving to some that the agent was credible. There were skeptics, however, because the terrorist group, whose operation was aborted through smart CIA cooperation with the Turks, had also been an enemy of the Syrian regime creating doubts about the true nature of Radu’s contact.
They reached the blue elevators and waited. Radu, treating Steve like a new visitor to the building, said, “Years after we moved into this building from the Ohio Drive World War II OSS Quonset huts, someone had the bright idea of painting each elevator bank a specific color. A ‘Decorating Committee’ chose the colors. It would be good for morale they said.”
“Yes, someone told me that the first time I came into the building. My father Marshall said that it was the first sign that the CIA was losing its unique identity and becoming just another Washington bureaucracy.” Radu’s clearly not in my corner, Steve thought. Maybe it was his “civilian” status, the fact that Steve was an outsider. Radu’s condescension only made it worse.
They reached the first floor and started walking toward the front entrance. “My first stop will be St. John’s to visit my cover office and my new boss,” Steve said. He was following up on the briefing from the Chief of the Cover Staff who had informed him that his cover company was small but real.
“O’Reagan, the owner-manager, is a retired Spec. Ops guy. Worked for us in Iraq. Loves to hunt and fish. He gathered his pennies and, two years ago, set up a small manufacturing plant in St. John’s, in Newfoundland, to make sensors and systems to optimize heating, ventilating, and air-conditioning in office buildings. He’s now in the sweet spot of energy efficiency and of climate change, and he’s expanding to keep up with the demand. Got his engineering degree from West Point. Good guy. In Tehran, you’ll be the expert on St. John’s and no one will be able to trip you up.”
Fingering his ever present worry-beads, a habit he had picked up from his Arabic language instructor and which had resonated when posted to Damascus, Radu said, “Actually, I’d prefer you left for Tehran when your alias passport is ready, in a couple of days. This is an urgent assignment. No time for a Canadian vacation. Besides, we don’t have the funds.”
Steve picked up on Radu’s tone. They reached the glass front doors of the Old Headquarters Building through a marble lobby big enough for two single-family homes with yards. On their left was the Wall of Honor. On the right past the doors was an inscription, “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
“If you guys want me to take this on,” Steve said, “it’ll be my way. As I understand the job, it’s not a walk in the park. One thing no one managed to explain in Thérèse’s office is what happens if I get picked up. Is the cavalry waiting in the wings? No? I didn’t think so. Maybe you want me to go with a CIA seal on my back. If I go, I want to get out alive. If that’s a problem for you, then let’s go back upstairs, and I’ll bow out and tell Thérèse why. What do you think?”
They had stopped outside the building. On the right of the entrance was the Bubble, a dome-shaped building that housed the auditorium. A massive concrete overhang rested on pillars that widened as they reached the roof. Sheltered steps leading up on three sides to a wide platform reminded Steve of a church parvis. Appropriate, he thought. Being a case officer in the NCS was like belonging to a religious order. Its members sacrificed in the name of goals and principles that few understood.
Radu swallowed, licked his lips and said, “Well, okay, okay. Don’t worry. You’ll have everything you need.” He turned and went back in the bui
lding. Steve grinned. Radu was putting out turf markers, somewhat awkwardly. Or he had plans that Steve didn’t know about.
He walked to his car in the VIP parking lot, put his sunglasses on, and waved to the guard at the entrance to the lot. He valued the parking privilege more than the medal the agency had bestowed on him. He drove out of the CIA campus, or what some called “Disneyland East.”
Steve had mixed feelings about the CIA. When he was a teenager in Tel Aviv, his father had felt compelled to explain the bodyguards and the unusual activities focused on their house due to a Director of Central Intelligence visit. It was then that he had revealed to Steve that he was not really a State Department diplomat but the CIA Chief of Station. After his father gave him the short version of what that meant, Steve had exclaimed, “Wow! How do you get a job like that?” From then on he had looked down his nose at his friends’ fathers who were mere diplomats. “Why don’t they get real jobs?” he asked rhetorically one night at dinner. His father had laughed in agreement sealing the bond.
Steve turned left on Dolly Madison Boulevard and took it to the George Washington Memorial Parkway, heading down the ramp toward Alexandria. He had several errands to run. The housekeeping chores had accumulated during Kella’s absence. She was coming back that evening, and he didn’t want a lecture on American laziness from a girl who had begun life in the North African desert but had quickly gotten used to life with servants after she was adopted by an American diplomat and his high-society French wife.
Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) Page 5
