As he left, Steve was confident that he had passed the test and that Mousavi would be sent a favorable report. On the other hand, he thought inviting a stranger into what was apparently a classified area, although it had no electronic access system, was unusual. It was also clear that the center was new and not yet in full gear. Perhaps setting up temperature controls was part of the ramping up process.
* **
That evening, Steve and Firuz played tennis at the Enghelab Sports Complex, a large, and modern multi-sport club in the northern part of Tehran. They went to a soft-drink bar in the complex afterward. The color theme was black and white. Steve thought himself in a 1950s movie set. They sat on black chairs at a white table. Some players and their friends preferred the black stools at a tall shiny metal health bar. Other tennis players were coming off the courts and, with much visual display, remembered their good shots.
“Six-four, four-six, seven-five is respectable ... for an old guy,” Steve said. “You must be, what, ten years younger than me?”
“How long will you stay here?”
“I came to visit family,” Firuz explained. “And then I got a job. I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“Your project apparently has high level support. So it sounds like the job will last. What’s your specialty?”
“In Los Angeles I was co-founder of a startup. We helped companies set up sophisticated firewalls. To get their business, we sometimes would break through their security systems, those that had them. It was fun, more fun than the defensive side.”
“What about Marko? What’s his specialty?”
“He has great experience. He was...” Firuz interrupted himself, as if suddenly aware that he might be going over the line and discussing sensitive information. “Listen, I’ve got to go?” as if asking permission.
As if he hadn’t heard, Steve asked, “What about this Iranian Cyber Army?
What’s that about?”
Firuz smiled but didn’t reply, looking at the other customers instead. Steve followed Firuz’s gaze but no one was paying attention to them. “How does the Computer Center fit into this ‘Army?” he pressed Firuz.
“It’s not an army. Nothing military about it. I don’t know why we’re even called that,” Firuz said quietly. “But I really have to go.”
As they finished their non-alcoholic beers and left, Steve gave him his card. “Let me know if I can help you in any way. My hotel number is on the back. Good luck to you. Thanks for the tennis.”
Steve walked out of the complex but didn’t look for a cab right away. He wanted to go over his day. He had a feeling that what had started as a cover-building activity was turning into something else.
He wasn’t sure what to make of the presence of foreign computer experts like Firuz and Lucca. He probably wasn’t supposed to meet Marko, the Russian. Either the presence of foreigners indicated that this was an unclassified activity or the opposite, that they were bringing expert knowledge not available in Iran for a high priority project.
Also, Firuz had become friendlier over the day. However, he had not crossed the line; he had not revealed confidential information as some might do to show-off their knowledge and importance. He thought Firuz had to be the key, and luckily, Yazdi could help him turn that key.
26. Tehran: Tuesday
Hashem Yazdi drove in the evening traffic with Steve in the passenger seat. “Is Steltzer still an issue?” Steve asked him. “We can help. However, you may have to leave the country for a few days. Has Mousavi mentioned it again?”
They were driving out of the city to a kebab restaurant in the suburbs. It was early evening, and a light rain had been soaking the city most of the day.
“He doesn’t have to repeat it. He expects results even if he mentioned it only once.” He glanced toward Steve expectantly.
“Here’s what we can do,” Steve said. “You go to Hamburg where you’ll find out that Steltzer is dead. I assume that will satisfy Mousavi. We’ll tell you how to find his grave, and you take a picture.”
Yazdi was leaning forward, as if trying to improve his view through the dirty windshield made muddy by the inadequate wipers.
“What if we had someone send it to you or email it to you?” Steve continued. “You wouldn’t have to leave Tehran. Could you claim that your contacts in Germany did the research, or perhaps even took care of Steltzer themselves at your command?”
Yazdi smiled slightly. “That’s too easy. Proof through some sort of official record would be better.”
“The impossible will take us a bit longer,” Steve grinned.
“Also, it’s better if I go to Hamburg so that I can report on the case personally. It’ll be more convincing to Mousavi.”
“Okay, let’s plan on your departure in, say, three days, and your return three days later.”
As they turned a corner, a roadblock surged in front of them. There were no side streets into which to turn and no choice except to make a U-turn, which would have raised the alarm and triggered a pursuit. There were several other cars in front of them, and now more in back. The policemen wore dark green ponchos with hoods over their hats. They were checking several cars at a time.
While Steve held his breath and rehearsed cover stories in his mind, Yazdi rolled down his window as a policeman approached. Words that Steve didn’t understand were exchanged. The policeman evidently wanted to inspect the car, but Yazdi was trying to talk him out of it. Faced with a persistent cop, Yazdi reluctantly showed his I.D. card. The effect was instantaneous. The policeman saluted, returned the card, and waved them on. Yazdi drove around the cars in front, and Steve allowed himself to breathe again.
As they reached the end of the street and turned, Steve said, “Wow. Even the president of the United States doesn’t have a card like that. What were they looking for?”
“It was just a mobile road block checking for drugs and alcohol. Don’t worry. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. We can’t meet like this anymore. Hopefully there won’t be a record that you were stopped. Do you have an apartment we can use, besides yours, I mean?”
“Don’t panic. I know how to handle security in Tehran. If it will make you feel better,” he grinned, “yes, there is an apartment we can use.”
They drove without speaking for a few minutes reflecting on what had just happened. It had stopped raining, and the only sound came from the squeaking windshield wipers, which Yazdi turned off.
Yazdi broke the silence, “Firuz told me he had met a Canadian businessman. I didn’t want to ask for details, but was that you?”
“Yes, I was wondering also if he was your nephew. Good tennis player. What is that computer center really doing? There were some classified areas that we couldn’t go into. Firuz said that it’s part of Iranian Cyber Army.”
“Remember Mousavi’s special project? Kozak, the KGB guy? The center you visited is part of that project, not the main installation, or you wouldn’t have gotten in. There are several computer centers in Tehran that support the project. Unlimited funds since the Supreme Council is the sponsor. The centers are very loosely connected but are carefully separated from each other.”
“Compartmentalized?” “Yes, that’s it.”
Steve’s recollection of the Center didn’t reflect unlimited funds. It was too small for one thing. However, he let Yazdi go on with no interruption, which he had learned was an essential virtue in an intelligence officer.
“Unlike whatever Firuz said, that’s not even where he works,” Yazdi said. “He’s in the headquarters of the project which is located where?”
Yazdi gave Steve a quick glance. “In the former American Embassy compound! I waited him out, and Firuz opened up last night.”
Steve felt rewarded for his patience. “What’s the purpose of the project?’ “Remember the Russian attack on Georgia? As part of the attack, the Russians disabled most of Georgia’s computer systems; Kozak had a big role. So now, as part of Russian-Iranian frien
dship, Russia is assisting Iran in setting up the mother of all cyber warfare capabilities. In return for an oil deal. Up to just recently, they were mapping American systems and identifying backdoors and inserting horses.” Yazdi had to brake suddenly to avoid hitting a car that had cut in front of him.
He muttered imprecations in Farsi and, when they were able to move ahead, Steve asked, “Horses?”
“‘Trojan horses’ is what Firuz said, viruses and software that can be activated remotely, from Iran. He said that the attack on Georgia was kid stuff compared to what they’re preparing; that Georgia was almost a dry run; that lessons learned are being applied; and that the damage will take years to repair.”
Yazdi turned into a parking lot next to the “Blue Duck,” a fast food outlet. “So, what are they preparing?”
“Firuz told me that all major national systems in the United States are in their sights. They have been probing and penetrating different systems every day.”
He continued. “The computers holding Social Security records, Firuz said, could be destroyed at any time. All the cell phone towers could be disabled. The power grids could be shut down. Same with the air control system, and the gas and oil pipelines. The big banks, the financial institutions, the Pentagon.”
Steve was speechless for an instant. Just erasing Social Security records would be a catastrophe for millions of Americans. But there must be a duplicate record somewhere. Then again, maybe not.
Getting out of the car, he said, “Washington is worried about a nuclear program that’s still in the building stage, and here you’re telling me about something worse that could take down the nerve centers of the country. That’s hard to believe. We better refocus on the most imminent danger.” Conscious of others in the parking lot, Steve kept quiet as they walked into a surprisingly large and upscale “Blue Duck”
“Which brings us to Firuz,” he continued after they sat at a table in the back. “He’s suddenly become very important. What’s driving him? Was California that bad?”
“I’m not sure,” Yazdi replied. “I think it’s more a question of conflicted loyalty. He has a romantic idea of ancient Persia. Its great history compared to its fallen status now makes him angry, makes many people angry.”
He looked pointedly at Steve. “It’s not that he hates America. I think that he would work against any other country if an Iranian authority told him to.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Steve said.
“Well, maybe not anymore. He’s not the firebrand he was when he first arrived. Also, he’s talking to his girl friend Joy on the phone. I think she wants him to come back.” He laughed quietly.
“I heard that the Chinese have been probing American computer systems, especially the Pentagon, some of it successful. I haven’t heard that Iran was in the game.”
As if suddenly remembering, Yazdi said, “Oh yes, China. Firuz said that they routed many of their attacks to make it appear they came from China.”
“Did you say that’s what they were doing until recently? What did you mean? What are they doing now? You sound as if this cyber weapon is ready to go at any time. Is that right?”
“I think so. Maybe not one hundred percent ready but close.” The food they had ordered was on the table, untouched.
Steve felt his anxieties rise to the surface. He took a deep breath as the purpose for his mission to Iran suddenly underwent a complete change.
“This is now our number one collection target,” he said in a low voice looking directly at Yazdi. “Get to Firuz and get him to talk about Iranian intentions. In other words,” he continued with more urgency, “is this capability being built for immediate use or is it to have on tap for some future undefined time?”
They left the restaurant having eaten little. They reviewed arrangements for the next meeting, which would take place in a safe apartment, but otherwise rode in silence until heavy traffic stopped the car, and Steve got out to meld with the pedestrian population on its way home.
27. Tehran: Ministry of Intelligence Compound
Hashem Yazdi chatted with the three men waiting for Mousavi in his outer office. He knew them, having run into them before. They all had internal security responsibilities. One of them, Ali Tavakoli, was in charge of the al Quds Karbala Brigades, better known for putting down potential rebellions than for more sophisticated operations such as counterespionage. Yazdi had requested the meeting, but the other three had been convoked. Yazdi was called in first.
When he walked into Mousavi’s office, he found him brooding over the chessboard, more disheveled than ever. Perhaps conscious of his appearance, Mousavi ran a hand through his hair to no effect whatsoever. His eyes were hard and his mouth a tight line.
With a black onyx warrior in his hand he asked Yazdi, “What do you want?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Steltzer, the German professor.”
As Mousavi put the onyx pawn back on the board, he said, “Forget Steltzer. Something more important has come up. The Great Satan has a spy in Tehran.”
Mousavi walked toward his desk. “Call the others in. I want you to hear this.”
While Yazdi stood to one side, the three others stood in front of Mousavi’s desk. Looking as angry as Yazdi had ever seen him, Mousavi said, “There is a CIA spy here somewhere. He’s a businessman.”
As he spoke, Mousavi’s fingers absent-mindedly toyed with a lighter. “I want you to review all the foreign businessmen who have traveled to Tehran in the last month. Screen them but no arrests yet. He isn’t here for tourism. He must be running an agent. I want to catch them both. Together. Drop anything else you’re doing. This is your number one task.”
The head of the national police asked, “How good is the information Minister?”
His hair quivering in many directions and pointing the lighter at the police chief, Mousavi replied, “Are you an idiot? Do you take me for one? Would I give these orders without a good reason?”
“What about the U.S. Interests Section? We’ve had intermittent surveillance on Crossley and his people but haven’t detected anything suspicious. Should we put them under twenty-four hour watch?” another officer asked.
“Don’t bother. The spy is not assigned to the Interests Section.”
Yazdi spoke up, “With respect, Minister, isn’t it possible that the spy would try to be in touch with the American Interest section at the Swiss Embassy? Maybe to have to transmit information to Washington?”
Mousavi said, “Okay, keep the American diplomats under a tighter rein. Also I assume that their phones are tapped. Go over the tapes for the last month. Find out if they bought any cell phones or are communicating secretly through their own illegal satellite phones; control any internet communications,” he snapped.
“We are going to catch this spy and make an example of him. The world will understand that we are not a third world banana republic. We will force them to respect us!” He looked at each man. “Questions? I want daily reports, and I want Hashem here,” he pointed to Yazdi, “to coordinate the effort.”
* **
Yazdi’s heart was beatings faster as he left the Ministry. He had spoken up to cover himself. Breton had assured him at the outset that he would have no contacts with the Interests Section. He wondered where Mousavi’s information came from.
He was considering his options. Should he go to Germany anyway, using the Steltzer case as a pretext? Mousavi had told him to forget Steltzer until this crisis was over. Once in Hamburg, he could decide whether to come back to Tehran. He knew that if he left now, he would never come back. Why come back? To be shot?
It was early enough in the day for him to signal for an emergency meeting with Steve for that night. He drove to a shopping center near Steve’s hotel. A wall covered with graffiti bordered a large parking lot. As he walked past, he left a blue chalk mark, unnoticeable except to anyone who looked for it as Steve did every day before noon.
When they met that night at a prearranged site, Yazdi con
sidered “Breton” a threat to his own life. As he briefed Steve on Mousavi’s dragnet, he was reviewing his options. He knew that he could not allow the American to be captured.
“You have to get out of the country,” he told him Steve. “Mousavi is harnessing the entire country to find you. I’ll help you get out.”
Steve nodded thoughtfully. “You’re right. I can’t leave until you get me the information from Firuz.”
They parted after a quick meeting, each with his separate thoughts. For the first time, Yazdi felt frightened. He had told “Breton” several times not to worry, that he knew how far he could go in taking chances, that it was his turf.
Now, “Breton” was saying in effect that the value of the information was worth a higher level of risk. Maybe he should be renegotiating the agreement he had reached with Marshall Church. He tucked that thought away and focused on how he should proceed and stay alive. Could he get Firuz to share his information? Would he react well to an approach based on Yazdi’s family seniority?
Until the American left the country, he was at risk. Breton had to disappear, one way or another. He could not let him be captured alive.
28. Tehran: Esteghlal Hotel
“Okay, this is it,” Kella announced, entering Steve’s room. “LaFont wants us to get out ASAP. She wants to know if we can still get out by commercial flight. She also wants to know if we can get to the Interests Section where she’ll send us diplomatic passports. But it’ll be a few days.”
Steve wore grey slacks, a white collarless shirt, and sandals, which he had bought at E CUT, a chain store aimed at middle class Iranians who either couldn’t afford better or wanted to fit in with the president’s working-class roots and sartorial model. The fact that his skin was a bit dark also helped.
“It’s too late for me,” Steve said leaning back against the bed’s headrest. “Whether I show up at the airport or at the Swiss Embassy’s door, I’m dead.”
Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) Page 14
