Rarely was the data viewed or mined. But a business executive, diplomat, or world leader staying internationally had to take care. Information could be passed along, sold, or stolen for the purpose of compromising talks or discrediting characters.
Now in Tehran, Reilly was also concerned about more active devices that might be employed in his suite. He casually walked around looking for cameras, which likely covered the living room, bedroom, bathroom, and possibly the closets.
He didn’t detect any, but that didn’t mean they weren’t behind the mirrors, which seemed to be strategically placed to reflect every quadrant. As for microphones, they could be in the lamps, phones, and even more discreetly in the bed. Pillow talk.
This definitely wasn’t a secure place to have confidential calls. His training in the service told him that despite the thaw in US–Iranian relations, he shouldn’t consider anywhere he went private.
Reilly opted to stay in and rest for three hours. Later, waking to his own cell phone alarm, he showered, dressed in a light green linen suit, and took the elevator down for his ride. As promised, a driver was waiting, his government Mercedes running and cool. Reilly was grateful. It was 122 degrees outside.
They drove into the heart of the city. This was Reilly’s first trip to Iran. It was every bit the metropolitan hub, built up with Middle Eastern character. Towering new glass and cement office buildings cast shadows across century-old souks. Traffic flowed along six-lane downtown streets, in and around dedicated bus lanes, and through the Grand Bazaar and the Tajrish Bazaar. Iran was definitely making itself a more welcoming destination.
The car pulled up in front of Alborz. The driver explained that it was one of Tehran’s oldest and most famous traditional Persian restaurants. “The filet kabab is the best you’ll ever have. But pace yourself. It’s all wonderful.” It was their only conversation since Reilly got into the car.
Reilly entered the restaurant and was led to an elegant table with gold utensils and gold-rimmed glasses atop a black silk tablecloth. Hosni Samir Madani rose from his seat to welcome him.
“You rested well, I hope?” he said shaking Reilly’s hand again.
The question immediately confirmed Reilly’s suspicion. His activities were being monitored.
“Oh yes. I travel a great deal. Jet lag doesn’t hit me as long as I get a power nap in.”
“Then you are a better traveler than I, my friend,” Samir Madani replied. “Now we eat, get to know one another better, and talk just a modicum of business. We’ll leave more for the morning meeting.”
The driver had been right. The meal didn’t disappoint, and the filet kabab was particularly wonderful.
Reilly tried to keep the dinner conversation light and intentionally vague. He talked about his passion for skiing, the type of thrillers he liked to read on his Kindle, and how he was married to his cell phone and no longer to his wife.
Samir Madani laughed at the last comment. “Yes, business travel, the great … what is your expression? Home-wrecker?”
“Yes, you never know where it can lead,” Reilly said obliquely. He’d seen how his host subtly probed for details to everything. But Reilly had mastered the ability to be completely conversational and yet say nothing substantive at the same time.
Moving the subject away from the personal, he made an observation. “On the drive in I saw construction everywhere. I’m sure you’re proud of where Tehran is headed,” Reilly said. He intentionally stopped short of adding since most sanctions eased.
“I am. We’ve built more hotels in the last year than the total number in the last century. Our tourism industry provides the lens through which the international community will see the new Iran. I’m sure you’re aware of Accor’s growth.”
“Yes, Europe’s largest hotel group. Two four-star hotels already here.”
“And more coming. The same with Rotana, which was the first hotel management company to announce its expansion plans. Four hotels, and still counting. Of course the arrival of more trusted American hotel corporations will truly signal that Iran is open for business. And to get tourists and businesses to our country, we’re ordering hundreds of new passenger planes that we couldn’t purchase until recently.”
Even the Iranian avoided the word sanctions. It was still too charged a word.
“There’s so much to see, Mr. Reilly, to celebrate, to explore. And tourism will turn Iran’s economy around. We’re building for a tsunami of tourists in the coming years. We have the most breathtaking Islamic architecture. You’ve had a taste of our sensational food. Our beaches are beautiful, and we even have skiing for you. Try Dizin. It has twenty ski lifts and has already been recognized by the International Ski Federation.”
“I’ll put it on the list.”
“And we certainly hope the esteemed Kensington Royal will join in the development, for your benefit and ours. We’ll talk more about it tomorrow when I unveil an investment package that you should find most attractive.”
19
LANGLEY, VA
CIA HEADQUARTERS
“Bob, can you come down?” Veronica Severi asked over the phone. “Sooner the better. Now’s the best.”
“Give me twenty, twenty-five minutes,” Heath replied. “Have to see the director.”
“You might want to stop by here first.”
“Really?”
“Really,” the facial recognition technician replied.
Heath called CIA Director Gerald Watts’ office and bought himself an hour. He made it to Severi’s computer station in ten minutes.
“Okay, Veronica, you got me at ‘really.’ What do you have?”
“This.” She clicked on the enhanced probe photo of Smug. It was sharper than the original.
“Much clearer. Good job,” he said, hoping this wasn’t the only reason she’d asked him to delay his meeting.
“I ran it against everything in the database. I got a possible match with, of all people, the deputy director of transportation and public works in Santa Rosa, California. Similar features, but it seemed way off base. I downloaded other photographs of the guy and was able to confirm the false positive.”
“Okay, so no go, and …”
“And a few more false positives easily confirmed with reanalysis and a few phone calls.”
“So nothing,” Heath concluded.
“Not until I gave it more thought. I knocked some years off the subject, narrowed the search parameters to relative years, and tied into some off-site archives.”
“Tied in?” Heath asked. “Is that a euphemism for hacked?”
“Let’s just stay with tied in.”
“Tied in, then,” Heath replied.
“My target field was the late 1980s to 2005—about a fifteen year spread to allow for five different age regression likenesses.”
She clicked on the desktop. Five younger versions of the original image opened. “I ran these against our archives, but again nothing credible. Then the outside databases. ICON gave me a hit through the German paper Hamburger Abendblatt.”
By ICON Veronica meant the International Coalition of Newspapers, an aggregate of hundreds of publications old and new.
She brought a new JPEG up of a grainy news photo, which she lined up next to one of the younger computer depictions of the subject. There were definite similarities. Heath could see it in the eyes and cheekbones. Maybe the chin. A furry winter hat obscured the hairline.
Severi worked toward creating a more direct matchup. She cut out the hat on the archived picture and pasted it on top of the regressed image.
“Could be,” Heath proclaimed. “But forget my eye. What’s the computer probability?”
“It’s 85 percent.” She showed him the actual computer mapping on the eyes, nose, and mouth. “I’d sure like to back it up with another photo.”
Heath was about to congratulate Severi when he stopped. “Was there a cutline description assigned to the archived photo?”
Severi smiled. “Yes. T
his is why I wanted you to check it out before you went upstairs.”
She opened the source file and expanded the view to make the original newspaper clipping easier to read. But Heath couldn’t read it. It was in German.
“I assume you’ve translated,” he said.
“Of course.” She brought the content up.
Heath read quickly once and then again. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed. “Print that for me.”
“Already have,” she said, handing him a sealed legal envelope.
20
TEHRAN, IRAN
Back at the hotel, Reilly decided to relax in the lounge and order a cup of sharbat, a cool, sweet Iranian drink. He was one of about a dozen visitors. Sizing up the room, he determined that two men were government moles. A loud French-speaking group of four were there for business. There were two couples. He listened to hear what languages they were speaking. One was German, the other Russian. Sitting alone at a small table was a very well put together woman reading London’s Financial Times.
While he was deciding where to sit, his cell phone vibrated. Alan Cannon.
“Hi Alan, what’s up?” Reilly said, backing out of the lounge.
“Working on Tokyo,” the KR head of security said, choosing to be careful on an open line.
“Good to hear,” Reilly replied. “Anything?”
“Yes and no. I got a feeling something’s half a bubble off plumb.”
This gave Reilly pause. “Oh?”
“Just a feeling.” Cannon had effectively communicated what he wanted to tell Reilly.
Reilly replied, while working through something’s half a bubble off plumb. The meaning of the expression came to him.
“Well, that’s got to keep you up,” Reilly replied, staying vague. He saw no eyes on him, but he couldn’t know if there were any ears listening. There was definitely something cryptic in what Cannon had to say.
“It does. When will you be back?” Cannon inquired.
“Tomorrow’s really my first business discussion. Then back on the plane the next morning. I have a stopover in London. How about we talk then?”
“Good.”
They wrapped up with small talk and said goodbye, and Reilly returned to the lounge, continuing to think about the phrase Cannon had dropped. Half a bubble off plumb.
Nothing had changed inside the lounge. The men Reilly potentially ID’d as SAVAK, Iran’s secret police, hadn’t followed him. The French businessmen and the Russian and German couples remained ensconced in conversation. The woman reading the business pages still sat alone. He decided to change that.
“Market okay?” he asked, walking over to her corner table.
She looked up from the Financial Times and smiled. “Nothing seismic on the London Exchange,” she replied. Her brown eyes sparkled in a way that brightened her entire face, which was appropriately framed by a blue hijab. Her clipped British accent and playful inflection seemed all the more welcoming.
“It all depends who you’re following,” she added. “I’d say you’d be interested in the New York Exchange and Kensington Royal stock.”
Now he was surprised. “You have me at a disadvantage,” Reilly said.
“Quite so.” She laughed. “We’re actually friends on LinkedIn, though we’ve never met.”
“We are?”
“We are. Apparently I use it more effectively than you do, Mr. Reilly.”
“Still at a disadvantage.”
“Marnie Babbitt,” she said. “Barclays London. And no doubt, we’re both in Tehran for pretty much the same reason. New business.”
“You’re very, very good, Ms. Babbitt,” he said.
“So I’m told.”
Dan Reilly wondered if she meant her reply as a deliberate double entendre. He wondered enough to ask if he could sit down.
“Please,” Babbitt said warmly.
Reilly saw a truly self-assured businesswoman who fully understood how to present herself in a Muslim country. Her ankle length dress covered everything and revealed nothing. Her makeup was understated and her jewelry worn as accents, not for show. He figured she was 35 or 36. No wedding ring. His interest was piqued by this intriguing woman, but he was also on his guard.
“Barclays. I haven’t done any business with your bank,” he commented.
“Not yet, but there’s no time like the present, Mr. Reilly.”
“We’ll have to see,” he returned.
Over the first cup of sharbat, he learned that she was an Oxford business grad who had come up through the ranks with jobs at Booz Allen Hamilton, Deloitte, and Citigold International before joining Barclays.
“Glad to see Barclays back in Iran,” he offered. This was a pointed comment to show what he knew.
“And it’s my job to make it right this time.”
They were both talking about how Barclays had been fined $298 million in 2010 for violating sanctions against Iran, Libya, Sudan, Burma, and Cuba. The ruling came down to the banking institution for defying the Trading with the Enemy Act and the International Emergency Economic Powers Act. Now, however, the British bank was legally free to conduct business in Iran. And apparently Marnie Babbitt was a door opener.
“So, Mr. Reilly,” she said, finishing her drink, “perhaps we can do some business together.”
Reilly had been thinking the same thing. Depending on the incentives that Samir Madani had in mind, Barclays financing could be key. He’d keep an open mind.
“Well, you never know,” he replied.
“Are you committed to opening here?”
This was a question he’d deflect. Too probing, he thought.
“Can’t say.” And won’t. “But with the changes happening, we can’t ignore it. Iran is pouring a ton of money into tourism.”
“For the long haul, too,” she offered with a roguish smile. “We really could work well together.”
“You can tell that over one drink?”
“Oh yes, and you should see how much better I’d get to know you in a country that serves martinis.”
“Well, Ms. Babbitt, I suppose we’ll have to find out,” he said willingly. Reilly liked the dance. But so far she was leading.
“I’ve done my homework on you, Mr. Reilly,” she added.
“Oh?”
He assumed a go ahead, tell me posture.
“You’re not one to walk away from trouble. You get involved. You’re decisive. People are already talking about Mazatlán.”
“Oh?” But he really thought, Oh shit. “Nothing to talk about,” he added humbly.
“Okay, you’re also modest. I like that. You have the reputation for being willing to make decisions—hard ones—without hesitating. Decisions that others would avoid. You act like a leader, and you sound like one, too. I saw clips of you on CNN. You gave it to those senators straight. That’s high on my list, too.”
“Thank you, but I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else.”
“And that leads me to another thing.”
“Uh-oh,” he joked, feeling all the more uncomfortable with her reading. Between Marnie Babbitt and Veronica Severi’s appraisals, his life apparently was an open book.
“You put your ego aside.”
“Oh that,” Reilly sighed with relief. “Yeah, it’s probably cost me some bonuses.”
“See, right there. You’re a damned good manager. But I sense—”
Reilly quickly interrupted to go on offense. “My turn. Let me give Marnie Babbitt a read. You’re a good poker player who can out-psyche a business opponent with flattery. It works for you.”
“You think I’m trying to do that?” She stiffened.
“Up to a point. You may have passed it.”
“Got me on one.”
“You also take your work seriously. I’ll bet you’ve risen in your career because you’ve argued against bad deals as much as you’ve made good ones happen. Maybe too loudly sometimes, which cost you promotions. That’s why you’ve worked for five corporations i
n, I’d say, less than fourteen years.”
“Okay, that’s two right,” she said uncomfortably.
Now Reilly relied on what he did know about Barclays’ recent business. “You said no to a new Dublin hotel. Yes on a position with Hilton in Amsterdam. You walked away from Prague. I can only speculate. The company rightly prohibits bribes.”
“Mr. Reilly, I think that’s good enough,” she interrupted, sounding vulnerable herself now.
“And if I have my information right, you’re recommending against an oil play in Beijing that will probably get you in Dutch with both the Chinese and the Russians.”
“Really, enough, Mr. Reilly, especially since most of this isn’t even in the papers,” Babbitt insisted.
“Right,” Reilly laughed. He was pleased with the way he had maneuvered the dance by taking the lead. “I think it’s safe to say we’re both pretty good at what we do and we should find reasons other than business to keep talking.”
She smiled and asked, “Did they give you one of the suites?”
This threw him off his game. “That’s fast. We’ve jumped to the bedroom?”
“Ah, Mr. Reilly, behave. I was only wondering if they’ve rolled out the red carpet as much for you.”
“Yes. Very nicely,” he said trying recover from his inappropriate remark. “It’s the most palatial suite I’ve been in, and I’ve been in a lot.”
“However good yours is, they have better. Like the top-floor suite where President Gorshkov stayed.”
“Oh,” Reilly said. “I’m sure we could ask to see it.”
“I tried,” she said with a slightly exasperated note in her voice. “No luck. They explained they’re making upgrades based on client requests.”
“Not good enough for Gorshkov?”
“Even richer billionaires. And he stayed before they officially opened. The hotel was the main residence for the Russian delegation when they were here for the Gas Exporting Countries Forum. Apparently Gorshkov’s visit forced them to get it in shape early.”
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