Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2)

by André Le Gallo

  Turning again to Steve, Mousavi asked, “So, you have been here a few days only but already you are involved in Iranian internal affairs. Why?”

  “I don’t understand Mr. Minister. How have I been interfering?”

  Mousavi looked down at a paper on his desk briefly. “Do you deny that you are in contact with Vahid Kanjani, the son of the Baha’i leader in Esfahan?”

  Steve glanced in confusion at Hill then at Mousavi. “Yes, I do. However, there are many people I’ve met whose names I don’t know, waiters, taxi drivers. There was one person, a guide, who wanted to show me the wonderful culture of Iran, and he might have said Bahai, but I frankly was not listening very closely. The lights had gone out at my hotel, and I was out in front getting a breath of air. I didn’t go anywhere with him, and I don’t know his name.”

  Mousavi glanced back at his aide questioningly and looked back to Steve, “You deny having contact with Kanjani?”

  “I had no more contact with any Baha’i than a white pawn with a black pawn on your chess board.” He paused, looked down an instant, and, pointing toward the door, said, “I’m sorry but I have to ask you. Isn’t that the start of the Sicilian Defense? If I were white, I might have stopped the game too.”

  He smiled, feeling everyone’s eyes on him at this non-sequitur, sensing that he would now be throw out of the country not for contacts with the Baha’i but for insubordination, or for breaking diplomatic protocol, or simply for making a dumb statement to a minister.

  There was a pause in the room as everyone held their breaths. Then Mousavi chuckled, and the others joined him, but not any louder than Mousavi who said, “Yes, Mr. Breton. I see you play chess. Yes, that is the Sicilian Defense, Pawn to Queen Bishop’s fourth, my favorite opening when I play black. You must go to our National Museum. You will learn that chess was invented in Iran.”

  He held a hand up as if to stop any protest. “Yes, I know, some claim India. That is not true. The rook got its name from the Senmuru, the mystical Iranian bird, a gigantic creature that could carry off a camel or an elephant. The Arabs borrowed it in their tales and called it a Rukh. Also, ‘checkmate’ is English for shāh māt, or frozen king. The French call it mat.”

  The lighter had made its way from Mousavi’s hand to his desk, and the minister was more animated than at any time since the Canadians had entered his office. He continued, “The first chess pieces artifacts were found in what is now Eastern Iran, near Baluchistan. The oldest chess pieces are in a museum in Samarkand, which was then under Persian culture and pre-date any evidence of chess in India by at least four hundred years.”

  Mousavi stood and everyone followed suit. “Give the name of your company to my aide.” He walked toward the chess table with Steve and said, “Giuoco Siciliano. You are white, what is your next move?”

  Steve looked at the board for an instant trying to remember anything from the summer in Moldova when Kristina had taught him to play. Then he took the King’s Knight and moved it to Bishop’s third. “I haven’t played in a long time,” he said apologetically.

  Mousavi smiled again, “Tut tut. That is the old move. Modern players prefer Pawn to Queen’s fourth, or even Pawn to King Bishop’s fourth.”

  Mousavi turned to the ambassador, “Mr. Hill, thank you for your visit. You will hear from me soon, I promise.”

  Back in the car, Ambassador Hill asked, “Mr. Breton, allow me to call you Christopher, I thought for a second we were all going to be thrown out, not only from his office but from the country. That was quite a gamble, or should I say a gambit. How did you come by this expertise?”

  “I wasn’t sure myself where this was going to go, frankly. Sorry about that. I just reacted to that chess board by the door. After my Master’s at ULB, the Université Libre de Bruxelles, I worked for NATO in Brussels, and then I was sent to Moldova to open the NATO office under the Partners for Peace program. That’s where I met Kristina, a Russian girl. Her father had been a chess master. She taught me the game.”

  Mulcahy said, “And that’s not all I bet.”

  “Well, live-in teachers are definitely best.”

  Steve looked out the car window and hoped that he would be allowed to experience the horrific Tehran traffic a while longer.

  * **

  When Steve returned to his hotel room and poured himself a glass of water, his hands were shaking. It wasn’t until he looked for a clean shirt that he realized that his room had been searched by someone who didn’t bother to conceal his interest. The room search had taken place when he was at the ministry, still on the short list to be hustled out. The search was probably to find confirming evidence of interference. Or perhaps this was an uncoordinated event by cops checking out a new arrival in town. If so, it was more of a warning signal than a search, Steve concluded.

  20. Washington: House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence

  Deuel and LaFont arrived at the Capitol in a black CIA car with darkened windows and a guard in the front passenger seat. The clandestine service’s Near East Division Chief Morris Radu and the head of CIA’s Office of Congressional Affairs Richard Montgomery, an experienced operations officer and a devoted fan of Kansas University basketball, preceded the limousine with another guard in the front.

  As the group entered the Capitol Visitor Center on their way to the spacious underground meeting room, simply called a SCIF by those in the know, for the unwieldy bureaucratic term “Sensitive and Compartmented Information Facility”, Dorothea Langdon, from California, the Majority Leader and Chairwoman of the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence, and Fred Warner, from West Virginia, the committee’s minority ranking member, left the House Visitor Center Room HVC 304, the committee’s home base in the building, and also headed for the SCIF where guards checked clearances and badges before collecting cell phones and other personal electronic equipment from visitors.

  Like at an Inquisition trial, the committee cardinals sat exalted above the accused, in this case in a semicircular arrangement with positions for about twenty people, each with its own microphone, chair, and a contiguous desk surface that they shared.

  Looking down at the witnesses, Dorothea Langdon, her long gray hair hanging down below her shoulders, said, “Good morning to all of you. This session will focus on Iran, and we look forward to your report. This morning session will be very informal. Since Thérèse is here, I also conclude that we’ll be discussing HUMINT.” Her thin smile reminded Thérèse of a strict teacher addressing students whom she knows have transgressed—they just haven’t been caught yet.

  Both LaFont and Deuel disliked these meetings. Fortunately, this was a closed-door session, which tended to minimize the pontificating of the committee members.

  “Good morning Walter,” Fred Werner said. “Thérèse, you’re looking fine.”

  “This won’t take long,” Deuel said. “It’s a heads-up to keep you fully apprised of our activities. We briefed the chair and vice chair of Senate Intelligence yesterday. Since, as you guessed correctly, this is a HUMINT issue, I’d like Thérèse to take the lead.”

  Looking up from her seat toward the congressional dais, Thérèse began, “Iran is a hard target that is difficult to work against, because, in part, we have no permanent presence there, no station. The lack of diplomatic relations and diplomatic cover has made the existence of an in-country station problematic. However, we do have Iran platforms in Iraq and in Afghanistan. Not the same, of course.”

  Langdon, who had not worn make-up since her teens and looked pale under unflattering lights, said, “When we lack the normal reporting from an embassy, that’s the time for the CIA to step in. We now have an interest section there with our own diplomats, and we already have a better perspective.” She looked closely at Fred Werner for a reaction, her minority colleague, as she asked Thérèse, “I understand that you have no one there under State cover. Is that still correct?”

  “Yes, I’d like Radu, who heads our Near East Division, to brief you on
a new operation.”

  Radu wiped his forehead with a large white handkerchief which he put away as he retrieved his worry beads. “It’s indeed a privilege to be here,” he began but felt the stare from his supervisors and cut his fawning short. “We recently recruited an Iranian official who is now back in Tehran. We’re not sure what he’ll have access to, but we just sent in a case officer to see what is possible for exploiting this asset.”

  Langdon fairly exploded. “I don’t like this ‘see what’s possible’ approach. See what’s possible? Is this amateur hour? I see you now agree with those who have called the CIA inept. Also, correct me if I’m wrong, but you have recruited Iranian officials before and have never felt the need for a permanent case officer on the ground before. You seemed to be able to handle them from your stations bordering on Iran.”

  Thérèse spoke up. “This is a highly placed individual with direct access to al Quds activities. We know what’s possible, to borrow Mr. Radu’s inaccurate phrase. This is not a trial run. We have a good understanding of the operational environment in Iran. The case officer involved has experience and has proven his mettle in the past. We are confident that he understands the operational environment as well and will be able to run this operation securely. Of course, none of our operations are without risk. He’s been successful in making the initial contact, and we are going over the reporting as we speak. It looks very promising.”

  Fred Warner stood up in his standard dark suit and blue tie. “That’s good news, and I’m happy to learn of the progress. Will this new source be able to fill in the blanks on Iran’s nuclear program?”

  “We have had only one meeting with him, but we’re optimistic. He is not involved in the nuclear program directly, but his seniority puts him in touch with people who are in or associated with the nuclear program.”

  “And what is the case officer’s cover exactly?” Langdon asked.

  “He’s a businessman,” Thérèse replied.

  “American businessmen are not permitted to deal with Iran, even less to travel there for business.”

  “That’s correct. He’s carrying third country documentation.”

  “Given that our relations with Iran are warming up, and we have a dialogue. Is this really necessary?” Langdon asked.

  Deuel took the baton from LaFont. “Unless you tell us that we are no longer responsible to collect otherwise unobtainable information, yes, the operation is necessary.”

  “It’s a good question, Dorothea, but Walter is right,” Warner said. “This operation is necessary. Iran will not tell us what we need to know regardless of the temperature of the dialogue.”

  “We have promised resettlement in the U.S. to this asset, and we’ll be using one of our immigration slots when the time comes,” Deuel said.

  “What can you tell us about other progress on the HUMINT front?” Langdon asked.

  Thérèse took the lead again. “We have a number of developing cases in several countries. Recruiting a human agent is a time-consuming enterprise. Convincing people to steal information from their government, after all, is an unnatural act. We have promising contacts with twenty-five Iranians, internationally. Of these, perhaps twelve are in an advanced developmental stage.”

  “Last time, you said that you had ten in a so-called advanced stage,” Langdon said, referring to her notes.

  “Yes, and now we have two more. Of course, these are not necessarily from the same batch. Some drop out because they prove not to have the information we seek, or they prove to be unrecruitable.”

  “Because of the agency’s poor track record in the days leading to the Iraq War,” Langdon said, “it’s more important than ever that intelligence be timely and accurate and relevant in order for our country’s foreign policy to be equally relevant, timely, and accurate. I trust that this new development leads to improved reporting. However, as they say, ‘one sparrow does not a spring make.’ Now tell me about covert operations you have going in Iran regarding the election. Are we backing the opposition? That would be a mistake. I have heard nothing. Will I be the last to hear, after Iran accuses us of meddling?”

  “You know,” Thérèse replied, “that much of our covert action funding was taken away many years ago when you, when Congress created the National Endowment for Democracy. What the NED is doing in Iran, if anything, is overt. I’m sure they would brief you if you were interested.”

  They walked out of the SCIF together. Langdon’s flowery dress was full length, reminiscent, perhaps identical, to what she wore during the anti-Vietnam demonstrations of the 1970s. Radu hung back a bit as the other CIA officers went out, and Langdon said to him, “Radu, thank you so much for the briefing. Let me know if there is anything I can do.” Radu and Langdon shook hands, and Radu went out.

  Back in the car, Deuel said, “It was necessary, although Langdon didn’t treat it as good news. We’ve done both oversight committees; the Gang of Four is informed. I don’t think that we need to brief the Appropriations Committees. This is not a funding issue.” Looking off in the middle distance, he said, “When I started in this peculiar service, we were part of the Executive Branch. How things have changed.”

  “Like the definition of ‘hard target?’”

  “Like who we work for. It used to be the National Security Council and the White House. Now, we spend more time keeping Congress informed. Hard targets? That changed too. They used to be the Warsaw Pact countries and China. Now they’re mostly non-state actors.” Deuel’s unlit cigar appeared in his hand, and his lips became taut. “The world would look different if, in the seventies, our Station in Tehran hadn’t been restrained by policy from focusing on Iran’s opposition parties.”

  * **

  Back in her office, Langdon dictated a Memo for the Record, expressing her deep concern at the wisdom of this CIA operation, especially because, if discovered, it threatened to disrupt warming American-Iranian relations. The memo would not see the light of day, unless she needed it.

  21. Tehran: Farah’s Apartment

  Kella gave the address to the taxi driver, negotiated the fare as best as she could, and let the driver take her to Farah’s party. Farah didn’t have as much time as she thought, and the two had not seen each other since landing at Khomeini Airport. Kella had her idea of what a party in Islamic Tehran would be like—in a basement with lookouts to warn of a visit by the “Virtue Police,” always on alert for illicit fun.

  If they showed up, all the women would slip back into their chadors and the literary club would continue its meeting. Would the party have liquor? Probably not, she thought. Too dangerous. A female correspondent with dual American-Iranian citizenship had been arrested not for her articles but for buying a bottle of wine, although Kella had not seen any liquor stores during her stay in Tehran so far.

  The driver let her out in front of a large apartment building. It reminded her of the low rent buildings on the northern edge of Paris occupied by North and West African immigrants. However, the marble stairs changed her mind. She approached to the sound of Serge Gainsbourg’s “Bonnie and Clyde” pouring out of someone’s apartment, Farah’s as it turned out. Her door was wide open.

  As she walked in, someone handed her a martini. She put it down and found herself a glass of wine on a help-yourself table with all the wine and liquor she would have expected in a similar party in Paris. She couldn’t see Farah in the crowd. Couples were dancing on one side of the room to music current in London and New York. On the other side, couples and small clusters held lively conversations. There was constant movement of people within the two groups and from one side of the room to the other.

  Farah appeared from the semi-darkness and hugged her. “I’m glad you came. Come this way.” She pulled her toward the kitchen where it was a bit quieter and the population density thinner. They found an unoccupied corner near the refrigerator.

  “Sorry I haven’t had time for you since you arrived. How are you doing?” Farah wore a low-cut black dress cinch
ed at the waist with a heavily embossed leather belt with three buckles. Her black hair was pulled back revealing emerald earrings matching her necklace.

  Kella said, “Trés chic. You look beautiful. I didn’t know what to wear, but I really had little choice. I like to travel light.” She had black slacks and a long sleeve dark red blouse. “I think I’m the most conservatively dressed woman here. I thought this was a strict theocracy.”

  Looking down at her dress, Farah beamed. “It’s my Jean-Paul Gautier gift to myself. I brought it back from Dubai. This theocracy goes from ‘Let a thousand flowers bloom’ only to cut them off at the stem. We’re now in a blooming period. We’re living for today and scared of what tomorrow will bring. Here, let me introduce you.” She led Kella to two couples who had just walked into the room, then left her when a male guest tapped her on the shoulder to say that the bar needed more ice.

  The conversation quickly turned to the elections. One of the two women, about Kella’s age and dressed in Western attire said, “Everyone I know will vote against Ahmadinejad, especially women. For one thing, the women’s rights movement, working without publicity, has been active over the past several years. Remember the 2006 One Million Signatures Campaign? A petition against gender discrimination and for laws that provide equal rights for women in marriage, divorce, and inheritance. Turning to Kella, she added, “In court, it takes two women to testify against one man. Is that fair? Is that equal?” her voice rising.

  “The challenger is smart to have his wife campaign with him,” the second woman nodded in agreement.

  After an hour, people began to drift out. Kella herself was walking toward the door when Farah caught up with her. “Don’t go. We haven’t had a chance to talk. Here is a full glass.” She exchanged Kella’s empty wine glass with a full one.