“Deploy our patrol boats as needed,” he added crisply. The Dulles’ Phalanx, Bushmaster 20 mm cannon and the .50-calibre machine guns were already manned.
When the FPB’s were ten thousand yards away, Navarre directed Pelletier to try to communicate to their crews.
“This is Coalition Warship 252 engaged in peaceful transit in international waters. Inbound small craft: your identity is not known; your intentions are unclear, please identify yourselves and your intention, over.”
The boats continued on their course, and the Officer of the Deck repeated his request.
When they were five thousand yards away, he warned, “If you do not steer clear, you will be subject to defensive measures. Request that you alter course immediately.”
At that point, the Tactical Action Officer ordered the ship’s own speedboats to put out to sea.
The Iranians split up into two groups of three and two and kept heading straight for the cruiser. Suddenly, Pellettier tensed. “Say again -say again, over,” and he switched to speakerphones. “I am coming at you. I say again, I am coming at you. You will explode in two minutes.”
“Take evasive action, lieutenant.” Navarre told Pelletier, He then ordered the TAO, “Fire warning shots.”
The four General Electric LM2500 gas turbines powered the Dulles into a thirty degrees starboard turn forcing the small boats on the right to adjust their heading to their left to pass behind the Dulles. Those on the port side increased their speed. The sounds of their engines were like giant angry wasps trying to protect the hive.
At the same time, the Dulles’s 50-caliber guns let loose several bursts ahead of the closest FPB’s, which veered off and retreated back.
The dangerous maneuvers continued for another fifteen minutes. The only communications from the Iranian crews were similar to their first message, “I am going to explode you.” The Dulles repeated its identification and asked the Iranians to reciprocate but in vain.
Captain Brian Navarre transmitted the threats to the Reagan Carrier Task Force in Manama, “And one of the boats is flying the Iranian flag so their identification is not in doubt,” he reported. “Four out of five were armed only with heavy machine guns, and one with missiles. Seems to have been a dry run to test our reactions. Repeat: seems to have been a dry run.”
After the fast boats pulled away, Navarre said, “They’re getting closer and closer. Either they attack us with missiles from over the horizon, or they do a U.S.S. Cole on us.”
“I’ll be glad to get to Manama,” the Lieutenant said simply.
Everyone remembered that on 12 October 2000, terrorists attacked the destroyer U.S.S. Cole in Aden, Yemen, by exploding a bomb in a small boat that had been allowed to approach its hull. The explosion killed seventeen American sailors.
40. Washington: U.S. Capitol Building
The noise level from the conversations among the reporters in the small room decreased as Dorothea Langdon made her way to the microphone-studded podium. As the Chair of the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence, and a senior member of Congress, Langdon could usually draw a crowd, and the room was full.
She blinked a bit at the bright lights focused on her, looked to the left, looked to the right, smiled and said, “In 1975, the CIA’s many transgressions were brought to the attention of the American people through the Church Committee hearings. We learned of assassinations. Luckily, they were mostly bungled.” Several in the audience laughed.
“The special tools of assassinations, covert actions run rampant, things that all came together to help the agency truly earn the rogue-elephant label. As result, Congress set up an oversight system to keep the CIA in check and under control. I have been honored by my party to chair the House’s intelligence oversight. It is in that capacity that I speak to you today.”
One reporter whispered to his neighbor, “Is she going to get to it? I’m having lunch with the new special assistant to our editor in an hour. Wait ‘till you see her.”
“Take it easy, she’s leading up to something, and it won’t be good for the CIA. That’s always gotten me front page coverage.”
Langdon continued. “Since our elections, our policy toward Iran has changed dramatically.” She took a sip of water from a glass on a shelf inside the podium. “Iran should be the capstone of our Middle East policy. Where we were not even on speaking terms during the eight years of the previous administration, we now have a gradually warming dialogue. As a symbol of our new policy, the Iranian Government has allowed us to station American diplomats in Tehran. The American Interests Section in the Swiss Embassy is now run by American Foreign Service Officers. Our diplomats have daily contacts with their Iranian counterparts, a vast improvement from the last administration. Relations cannot improve without direct communications, and those communications are now in place and working.
“As you know, an article appeared in the Washington Tribune on Tuesday concerning CIA activities in Iran. According to the rules set up many years ago, the CIA is obliged to brief the oversight committees before undertaking major new operations. We need to ensure the American people that the CIA’s activities are hand-in-glove with our foreign policy and reflect American values. However, in this instance, and there may be others that we don’t know about yet--we would not know about this activity had it not been for the Washington Tribune...”
She paused and looked at her audience to emphasize her next statement.
“Neither I, nor this committee,” she continued, “was told beforehand of this CIA activity, which is not in keeping with the new relations we are beginning to enjoy with Iran, a country with a great history and a wonderful culture, a country with which we must work to promote American vital interests in the region.
“In brief, I have asked Congressional leaders to appoint an investigating committee to determine what other activities the CIA may be involved in, or be planning that it has forgotten to share with my committee.”
41. Tehran: President’s Office
Acting Minister for Intelligence Mousavi returned the guard’s salute as he entered the building on Pasteur, one of the few streets that had not been renamed after the Revolution. The street was closed off; he had left the car and his driver at the barriers. The Supreme Leader’s offices were in the same compound behind another barrier and set of guards.
Mousavi, somewhat less disheveled than usual made his way down the corridor accompanied by an aide to the president who had been waiting for him. This was his second meeting with the president, the first since his nomination as “acting minister.” Two meetings, he thought, hiring and firing. If fired, he wondered what other punishment awaited him. He began to pay close attention to his surroundings aware of the bleak sensory deprivation of a prison cell.
The gray wall-to-wall carpeting was threadbare where it showed between rugs from various provinces. Mousavi followed the aide and walked over rugs from Hamadan, a central medallion surrounded by soft red flowers; from Kashan, ivory with star shaped medallions in soft rust; more colorful rugs from Meshed in purple-red, orange-rust and Persian blue.
Mousavi’s mind stopped noticing the artistry and variety as he neared the President’s outer office where he was invited to sit. The aide stood off near the president’s door. Mousavi tried not to gauge his own fate by the aide’s behavior, although it was difficult to avoid drawing negative conclusions. The aide likely did not know himself the purpose of the meeting.
After fifteen minutes, he was shown in. President Ahmadinejad was not a large man, rather spare with a graying beard and glasses that he took off when Mousavi came in revealing dark eyes that peered out from narrow slits and heavy eyelids. His modest attire, gray-tan trousers and windbreaker jacket, reminded Mousavi of the president’s modest beginnings from a poor family. His father had been a blacksmith, a trade he had begun before his intelligence gained him entrance to higher education.
“Hajj-Agha,” the president began, with a traditional greeting of respect. “What is
going on? Why do I have to learn about CIA activities in my country from the American news, Satan’s own politicians?”
“We are screening the foreign presence very closely. We have an excellent source who has told us that the CIA officer is possibly of Asian background, Vietnamese.”
The president grinned. “Oh yes, the wife of the American Chargé?”
Mousavi grinned back through his straggly mustache, “Yes, she is devoted to helping Iran because of America’s past misdeeds. Our man also makes sure that her knowledge of American-Iranian relations is thorough.”
The inevitable tea-man walked in with two cups and sugar cubes on a tray.
The president sat forward, “Tell me, what is their game? Why are they force-feeding us information about their secret operations? Are they trying to humiliate my government in front of our population? In front of the world? They seem to be saying, ‘Look everybody, we’re in Iran and doing whatever we want and the Iranians are helpless.’”
Ahmadinejad sat back, running the fingers of one hand through his short beard, his piercing eyes trying TO read the answer to his questions on Mousavi’s face and demeanor.
“Are they trying to provoke us?” he asked. “Perhaps, since their embargo is not totally successful, they are trying to have us arrest all the foreign executives or force the foreign companies to close and go home, to further depress our economy. This what the CIA calls covert action? What is their real game?”
He put a sugar cube in his mouth and took a sip of tea.
Mousavi replied using the same Socratic Method, “Or are American politicians so egotistical, so concerned about their own political careers that they’re using their national secrets to further their own goals? Are they really so shallow? Thanks to Allah, the Merciful, their devilish influence is no longer suppressing our Islamic values.”
The president was still seated behind his desk, while Mousavi sat on a chair directly in front of it. The president steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. His eyes became even narrower. Mousavi focused all of his senses on Ahmadinejad; he knew that his survival was at stake. His sensitive antennae had brought him this far. He relied on them. He knew that his performance in this affair would either increase his status and power, or kill him.
“I leave it to you to find the truth,” the president continued. “I am running out of patience with the Americans. And so is the Supreme Leader,” he said referring to the Ayatollah who was also Chief of State.
“They and their lackeys patrol our waters. It’s not the American Gulf; it’s not the Arabian Gulf, as their Sunni allies, apostates all, call it. It’s the Persian Gulf.” He drained his cup and set it aside.
“When you catch the American spy,” he instructed Mousavi, “we will use him as leverage to get the Western ships out of our waters. The Supreme Leader and I have discussed this topic. It is important to catch this Satan Spy! Which should not prove difficult, correct?” He paused only long enough for Mousavi to nod in agreement.
“We want to reveal him to the public on the anniversary of the capture of the American Embassy in 1979, which is in two weeks from yesterday. Mark the calendar and pray for help and inspiration from Allah, the Good, the Beneficent. We may to have to sink an American ship. The sacrifice of our own sailors will be well worth the reward.” Without a pause, he buzzed for his assistant who came in to his office immediately, waiting two steps inside the office.
“Tell General Mashai that I want to see him right away,” he instructed his assistant, who bowed himself out. Mousavi knew Mashai, the Defense Minister, to be an aggressive conservative. He wondered if Ahmadinejad was making policy even as he spoke, or whether this was to impress on him the urgent need to catch the American spy.
“I have another option if that doesn’t work; inflict such a loss on the Great Satan that he’ll have to focus his resources on rebuilding at home.” Ahmadinejad said, pointing his finger at Mousavi. “You know what that is. I hope the cyber project is ready to be activated. That should get those foreign warships out of our waters.”
Ahmadinejad added, “This timing bothers me. Has it occurred to you that the Satan’s Spy is here, or we are told he is here, during our election? Is he here to overthrow our government? A rerun of 1953? Are we told publicly that the CIA is present in order to roil the population, to agitate, to create the expectation that a revolution would receive American support? I want frequent reports,” he said standing up and ending the meeting.
“Yes, Excellency. We will catch the American soon, and I will keep you informed,” Mousavi promised.
“Remember my friend,” the president said as Mousavi got up to leave, “We are here only until the Mahdi returns. Until then, we must do our best to live an Islamic life and allow others who do not now enjoy its rewards to better appreciate them in their submission.” That was the first time that Mousavi had heard him speak about the return of the Twelfth Imam who, in Shiite dogma, had disappeared in the ninth century.
On his way back in the car, Minister of Intelligence Mousavi knew that he had to press harder. Hashem Yazdi was being too passive for one thing. But he didn’t know about Jafar. It was time for Jafar to put more pressure on the American whore. It was time for the cyber technicians to work around the clock.
His intercept team had recently reported on the presence of mysterious transmissions appearing to originate in Tehran. Probably coming from the CIA spy. He didn’t understand why his people couldn’t give him the transcript of the messages, although they did insist that the signal was too short, a millisecond they said, always on different frequencies. It was time that the technicians stopped hiding behind excuses.
Now more than ever, Mousavi feared for his life. However, he still had significant pieces on the board. As he thought about it, he owned all the pieces on the board except for one. He controlled the center lanes. He would stop thinking “middle game” and go into the “end game.” Which reminded him of the young Canadian and his recognition of the Giuoco Siciliano.
What was his name? Oh, yes, Breton. His employment in St. John’s had been confirmed. Not definitively of course. Mousavi had dozens of front companies all over the world, and it was easy to answer the phone to confirm a spy’s existence. He wondered if Breton was still in Iran.
42. Outskirts of Tehran
Yazdi stopped the car at a small restaurant. As he parked the car, he turned to Steve and said, “As you say in America, good news and bad news. Mousavi’s latest information is that the CIA spy is Vietnamese-American and has a tattoo.”
He grinned at Steve. “I can guess how you did that. Mousavi is going to realize it’s a head-fake, you know. The bad news is that he asked specifically about you, whether you were still in Iran. The other bad news is that our electronic department detected strange transmissions that might be going from Tehran to an American satellite. They’re focusing on a possible spread spectrum burst transmission that seems to take place every night now for the last couple of weeks.
“They can’t read it. They have triangulated the signal to the general area of your hotel. The signal is very faint, and very difficult to put back together. It takes them about twenty-four to forty-eight hours to figure out the location, the spot where it’s coming from. It’s not going to be long before they conclude that you’re the person they’re looking for. You need to get out of the country. As of today, your name is not on the lookout list. But every visitor with a Vietnamese name is. By the end of the day, Mousavi will conclude that he’s looking for you.”
They got out of the car and walked slowly to the back of the restaurant where tables were set up. It was late in the day but not yet completely dark. Some of the tables were already occupied, mostly by young men, smoking and laughing. What were the chances that they were waiting for him, ready to close the trap? Steve watched them carefully for any hint that he was the target, that the laughter was intended to lure him in? He glanced at their car as he walked away from it.
“What else have you learn
ed?” Steve spoke quietly, “I can’t leave without getting to the bottom of this cyberattack that your government is preparing. Are you getting anything out of Firuz? Is he doing the Right Thing?”
Yazdi shrugged. “All I know is that the cyber center is working constantly. Firuz said several things. I’m not a computer expert, so I will just tell you what I understood.” He tapped a finger against the table.
“First, because most of the United States has Microsoft systems, it is an easy target. Until recently, security was not a priority for Microsoft. Others are open systems like LINUX. Furthermore,” he continued extending another finger, “with the Russians’ help, Firuz’s unit has been able to penetrate and use the computers of the National University of China, which is the strategic adviser to the Chinese military on cyber warfare. They have also borrowed a sophisticated worldwide computer attack network, a Chinese-government-sponsored program called GhostNet that is based on Hainan Island in the South China Sea.”
“What does he think about what he is doing?” Steve asked. “Would he talk to me?”
“Hard to say. However, I can’t ask him without revealing what I’m doing.” “What if you told him that Iran will turn out to be the loser if it attacks the United States? Would he be willing to take steps that will blunt the attack and therefore the American response?”
“I’ll try. What about you? You need to get out. I think it’s too late to leave normally through the airport. By tomorrow, your name will be on the hot list.”
“Okay, what are you suggesting?”
“First, go to Yazd. I’ll take you there. It’s my village, my town. I have friends and family that will take care of you until we figure out an exfiltration route. Through the Zoroastrian network.”
Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) Page 19
