Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2)
Page 27
He paused as if to give weight to what he going to say, making sure he had his audience’s full attention. “We are no longer convinced that Velayat-e Faqih is right for our country, at least the way it is being practiced now, as the absolute guardianship of Islamic jurists over every aspect of government. We are discussing a more limited guardianship concept. It would be the most radical departure since the 1979 Revolution.”
Steve nodded to acknowledge the significance of Hafizadeh’s words although he wasn’t sure that he totally understood.
“I will be asked, and I need to be able to answer, questions about your nuclear program, your backing of Hamas and Hizballah, your assassinations, and terrorist operations abroad.”
“I can say this,” Hafizadeh said, looking earnestly in Steve’s eyes, “except for the development of peaceful nuclear power, most other issues could be on the table. We would be willing, and expect, to negotiate with your government.”
“I must reiterate that your message will have no weight if it’s not associated with a name.”
“If I tell you, you must agree that we will help you get out of the country,” Hafizadeh said. “We cannot take a chance that you will be captured. We don’t know how you plan to do that of course. So we’ll do it and make sure you don’t fall in the hands of Mousavi’s interrogators.”
Steve leaned back in his chair to take the aggression out of his statement.
“Mullah Hafizadeh, please don’t negotiate with me. I personally don’t care if your message gets through or not. I’m not the only channel. You could go to the U.S. Interests Section. You could travel to another country and go to the American Embassy. Hell, as long as you can travel, why not go directly to Washington and make your case?”
“Because each one has its drawbacks. And you’re here and available. This is the expedient way, the practical way.”
Steve sat forward again to indicate his agreement. “We would be fools not take your advice on how to get out. We reserve the final decision. Our lives are at stake.”
Hafizadeh looked at the men who had come with him for a second and then got up to go speak with them. Maybe they aren’t bodyguards after all, Steve thought. Hafizadeh returned to the table and sat down.
“Our leader is Hojatoleslam Mohammad Khatami. He is a former president and a well-known reformist. We are talking with Grand Ayatollah Hossein Ali Montazeri, and he is sympathetic. Also Ayatollah Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani, who is chairman of the Assembly of Experts, the body that chooses the Supreme Leader.”
With that, Hafizadeh and his men abruptly left the room.
* **
After a few moments, Kella almost exploded. Is he kidding? Lech Walesa? I don’t think so. The liberals may have started the demonstrations but Hafizadeh can’t masquerade his boss as cut from the same cloth. Okay, the senior clergy and Ahmadinejad are not friends. The liberals are not the main players. It’s a battle within the religious establishment. Rafsanjani and friends are fighting back against Ahmadinejad who has been cutting their influence. These are the old clerics fighting to keep their perks.”
Steve rubbed his stubbly beard, which he had let grow ever since he had moved from the hotel, and asked, “How is it that you’re better informed on Iranian politics than I am, by the way?”
“Believe it or not, Farah and I didn’t spend our time discussing fashions—well, not all our time.”
“I’m more worried over how easy it has been for Hafizadeh to track us than who wins this tug of war between the ayatollahs. I’m thinking that Jemshid and Maryam couldn’t keep a secret.”
“They did manage to drop Khatami’s name as one of their friends. He is from Yazd, they said, and has been to their house. I don’t think it was an indiscretion. I would bet that Maryam, who I got to know a bit … she’s a clever woman … whispered in Jemshid’s ear that he should let Khatami know about us for political cover, for protection in case we and they got caught. Then Khatami saw an opportunity and he seized it.”
“You’re probably right,” Steve said. “But, this is way above my pay grade, especially since I’m not getting paid,” he smiled. “It’s not my job to make a decision on who’s going to be the king of the hill. All I can do is pass the message on. I’ve agreed to a meeting in Europe in two weeks between the agency and Khatami. If I’m wrong, we won’t show. By that time, I’ll be out of the picture.” He looked at Kella and smiled, “On vacation, right? Where do we want to go?”
“Depends. Are we going to be doing a High Altitude/Low Opening parachute jump across the North Korean border to save the world again? Or SCUBA diving off the Great Barrier Reef? Or double black-diamond skiing in the Himalayas? Whatever you like to do to relax.”
Steve grinned at Kella’s sarcasm and took her hand. “Your sense of humor is the best thrill. You know I’m always good to go.
“First, however,” he suggested soberly, “contact headquarters and make the final arrangements for exfiltration. Hafizadeh said they could deliver us anywhere, or almost anywhere, since much of the coast is classified as strategic by the Republican Guard. Headquarters named a coastal park. Sounds like an ecological area. Probably protected. Where exactly and when?”
56. Andrews Air Force Base: CIA Hangar
The news that Steve was now in touch with the opposition was received by Thérèse LaFont as she was leaving the office to join Wally Deuel at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, just outside Washington, where the CIA’s small business jet fleet operated. Deuel was already on his way, and she decided to wait until she spoke with him personally before alerting either the Director of National Intelligence or the White House.
Their destination was Manama. They were taking advantage of a change of command of the Fifth Fleet’s Task Force 56 to review intelligence needs and requirements in the Persian Gulf and to visit the CIA personnel attached to the Fifth Fleet. Task Force 56 provided oversight for the three thousand eight hundred sailors of the Navy’s expeditionary combat warfare operations in the U.S. Naval Forces Central Command. Its intelligence needs were a major responsibility, and burden, for the CIA.
They met at the CIA hangar. Deuel was bringing his assistant Mary, and Thérèse, who had relegated Radu to the Counterintelligence staff, was bringing her new Near East Division chief, Jason Farrish, a veteran of both Iraq and Afghanistan.
The nail in Radu’s career coffin had been to share intelligence obtained from the Turks about the Kurdistan Workers Party with Syrian intelligence, breaking the hallowed rule of not sharing one allied intelligence organization’s reporting with another. The CI staff had had a position available, and the transfer had been easy. However, she intended to move him away from current operations. Radu just wasn’t with the program, too close to the Syrians for one thing.
Office of Security provided two body guards. As they all settled in the swank cabin of the new Gulfstream G-650, not yet commercially available, Thérèse shared her new information with the Director of the CIA.
“That’s good news for us,” he said, “However, it’s going to complicate my life considerably. The State Department is not going to like it. My favorite congresswoman Dorothea Langdon is going to get her knickers in a knot, a double knot. Last time I looked, it was our job to provide other countries’ secrets to policy makers. I don’t quite know how to do that if we are not permitted to have contacts with opposition groups.”
Deuel glanced out to see the white line of the runway growing smaller as the sleek plane climbed swiftly. “You don’t need a CIA if all you want to do is listen to the party line of the government in power. Trust us, we’re telling you the truth.
“That’s what happened in Iran in the seventies. We were prohibited from being in touch with the competing centers of power, the students, and the mullahs. We could only be in touch with the Shah’s government, in other words with SAVAK, the security organization. As a government, we fail to learn by our mistakes.”
“What about meeting Khatami in two weeks?” she asked.
She turned to Jason and said, “I want you to go if you think you can do your homework on Iran by then. Take one or two analysts with you. We may or may not give Khatami any kind of commitment.”
“This will be something we need to clear with the Department of State and the Office of the Director of National Intelligence,” he said, “as well as with the White House, and the Congressional oversight committees, of course. Staying in touch with him and his group will be a great opportunity to better understand the dynamics of the Iranian situation. Make sure you meet with Steve and Kella when they get out. You might want one or both of them at the meeting, as well. Whoever shows up from the Iranian side will not be alone. There will be a security detail as well as two or three others to confirm after the fact that what they report back to the boss is actually what happened.”
Turning back to include Deuel in her reply, Thérèse continued, “No one wants to be under a cloud. Without witnesses, the Iranian representative will be accused of having been recruited by the CIA. Which is always the goal, isn’t it? We’re not called the Great Satan for nothing.”
The plane was soon at cruising altitude, and the copilot came back and showed everyone where they could find sandwiches and cold drinks in the small fridge. He made fresh coffee and went back to the cockpit.
Deuel had found his cigar and was already fiddling with it. “What about Steve and Kella?” he asked. “When are they coming out, and how? We need Steve’s information.”
“Their last message said that Hafizadeh had returned to explain that the entire city is closed off,” Thérèse replied. “No one is coming in or out without some sort of official pass until further order. Obviously, Mousavi picked up the scent. Hafizadeh said to wait, that Mousavi would have to relent, that he couldn’t shut down a major city for more than a day or two, or three.”
“We can’t wait,” Deuel said. “We need that cyber information right away. Alternatives?”
Jason Farrish, the new Near East chief, was about fifty, with short grey hair, was dressed informally in khaki cargo pants and a Congressional Country Club Golf shirt. “We’re looking at the type of passes Iran has used in the past,” he said. “There’s going to be a lot of confusion about what the passes look like. Probably each city administrator will issue different colors, signatures, and so on. We can forge a number of passes in different formats. We’ll make them available on a bulletin board that Steve can access with a password that we’ll send through Kella. All they have to do is find access to a color printer.”
Thérèse laughed, “You’re kidding right, a color printer?” Farrish squirmed at the criticism. “It’s not as if they have no local help,” he said in his defense.
They settled back with coffee and magazines. As Thérèse took a notebook from her travel bag, one of the body guards was reading The Clash of Civilizations by Samuel Huntington. How appropriate.
Her notes on things she needed to do in Manama soon turned to doodles. Was she being silly to spend any time at all contemplating a possible relationship, or worse a marriage, to Brian? Both were extremely independent and used to being in charge at the office and at home. Brian hadn’t had a home to speak of for years. Would that make him more or less adaptable?
She couldn’t believe the terrible timing of this trip. Brian, whose current home port was Fifth Fleet Headquarters in Manama, had a trip to the coast of Somalia pending, any day, he had said. He certainly wouldn’t be back until after Thérèse returned to Langley. It was an indicator of what life would be like married to a career navy officer. Of course, he might also be assigned to the Pentagon. That would work, she thought, and went back to her list.
She and Farrish needed to plan with the Navy to exfiltrate Steve and Kella. She turned to Jason and, pointing to the logo on his shirt, said, “Jason, great shirt. Is that what you get for the one hundred seventy thousand dollar initiation fee?”
He smiled. “I wish. It was a gift. Neither my golf nor my bank account are at the Congressional Country Club level.”
Thérèse smiled back. “Okay, in that case I’ll call off the counter intelligence people from investigating the source of all that wealth. In Manama, you need to talk to SEAL Team Three about Steve and Kella. They should be picked up in the next forty-eight hours, don’t you think? Your Special Operations background should help.”
Jason Farrish had come to the CIA from a short career with the Rangers and then with Special Forces. He had cut his career short to apply to the CIA after having participated in a CIA operation in Iraq. He had done Spec Ops and could talk Spec Ops, which would help in establishing rapport with the SEAL unit.
“Yes, I’ve already sent them an alert,” he said. “They’re expecting more information from us to plan the pickup. I’m also in touch with one of our Special Ops teams in Iran. They’re already in the Shiraz area on another operation. They’re using a Qashqai camp near Firuzabad, about two and a half hours south of Shiraz, as their temporary base. They should be able to pick up Steve and Kella, if they can solve the pass problem.”
Deuel looked up. “Yes, the Qashqai tribe. I recall when we renewed the tie with them the Oversight Committees were beside themselves. Of course, some members made their little notes in case they could score political points later if the relationship blew up in our face.”
“Renewed the tie, sir?” Farrish asked. “I didn’t know we had been in touch with them before.”
“Oh yes. The Qashqai have always been politically active. They’re the Metternichs of the Middle East, Balance of Power politics. The Kurds play the same game further north. The Qashqais are always siding with somebody to keep their independence from whoever is running Persia at the time. They’ve even been known to side with the central government against other tribes. But they’re much less nomadic now than they used to be. They’re finally being integrated in the large towns. With about four hundred thousand nationwide,” Deuel recited, “they’re still a political force to be reckoned with.
“During World War I and then World War II, they sided with the Germans and then with the Allies. Later, we were in touch with them. I’m sure other intelligence services were in touch with them as well, including the Mossad and the Brits, MI-6. Now, we’re in touch with sons and grandsons of the tribal leaders we knew a couple of generations ago. They have long memories. We must have done something right back then or Abdollah Mansour Khan, the current chief, wouldn’t have agreed to renew the connection.”
Thérèse stood up to go to the fridge. “Anyone want a drink, or a sandwich?” she asked. She came back with a plate of oranges and grapes and put it on a side table.
Deuel helped himself to several grapes and continued. “Anyway, Mansour Khan has been very helpful in the last couple of years. They’re a tight group. In all that time, there hasn’t been a leak. In Washington, a secret has a half-life of five minutes.” He shook his head.
Thérèse’s visit to the fridge had provoked a Pavlovian reaction; the coffee maker and the fridge became points of interest.
Deuel continued his history lesson. “When I left Laos as a young paramilitary officer—that’s what we called Special Operations then, P.M.—we had to leave our H’mong guerrillas high and dry to face the communists by themselves. Many lost their lives for having helped us. I hope that doesn’t happen to the Qashqais.” He looked out the window down at the clouds.
Farrish, sensing that his lack of knowledge on the CIA-Qashqai connection might have made him look less than sharp with the Director, tried to repair his image. “We’ll do everything we can to make sure it doesn’t happen, sir.”
Deuel looked at him and said, “Jason, that’s the problem. There won’t be a Goddamn thing any of us will be able to do about it. We don’t do policy, remember?” He turned back to the window.
57. Firuzabad, Iran
Kurosh had just returned to his house in the northwestern part of the
city near the university, after visiting City Hall to obtain a pass. Having changed into clothes that Kurosh had given them, Steve and Kella had been waiting for him impatiently nibbling from a large bowl of almonds, which they had learned was a local staple.
Kurosh, still animated from mixing with the crowd of people trying to obtain passes, told them, “This is an incredible act on the part of the government. Tehran, as usual, doesn’t care about us. Everyone is upset. There is no precedent for this. The bazaaris are the most upset. They have influence. I can’t believe that this blockade can continue for very long. There will be demonstrations, mark my words. Tehran is strangling our economy, strangling us.”
“Were you able to get a pass?” Steve asked.
Kurosh took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Steve who took it and asked, “Let’s see what we can do with this, Kurosh, where is your computer?”
As Kurosh led them to the study, there was a knock at the door. He motioned for them to go ahead while he went to the door and opened it. A minute later, he brought two men into the study. They were obviously not city people. One wore riding boots and the other running shoes. Both had long black hair, grayish trousers, and long sleeve shirts that had not been washed in some time and been ironed never. One was in his early thirties and the other about ten years older. Their clothes were downright shabby, with the exception of the boots on the younger man and of the sunglasses that the older of the two had put on top of his head.
“I’m not sure who they are, but I think that they’re looking for you,” Kurosh said.
Steve looked at Kurosh with alarm and Kurosh added, “They said that they were friends.”
“Sunglasses” told Kurosh in fluent Farsi, “Excuse us one second,” and he guided Steve and Kella to a corner of the room.