The Nephilim Protocol

by Stuart Killbourn

  “What for? What am I reassigned to.”

  “I can't really say. I understand it's a technical expert role – more of a consultant. A desk job without the desk we like to say.”

  “What do I do about my work here?”

  “Call in sick for appearance sake. Your boss is the only one who knows you've been reassigned. He recommended you for the position.”

  The door slid open and the conversation was over. Gary had been given his instructions and he clutched the address in his hands. This was all he needed to know – all he was going to be told.

  Chapter 22

  Cambridge, Massachusetts, United States of America

  “I want a lawyer,” the Iranian girl insisted. Her name was Zarina Ansari. Gary had perused her file; her résumé was very impressive. She was a graduate student at Harvard where her supervisor had tipped off the CIA: she might have some knowledge of the recent nuclear test conducted in the Southern Indian Ocean. It was a long shot but it might just pay off. Two agents were interrogating her – Gary had forgotten their names but one was short and fat and looked Italian; the other was taller. Both had the confident, intimidating swagger of seasoned law enforcement agents. The Italian was playing good cop. Gary sat in the corner observing. The tall one answered.

  “No, Miss Ansari, you're not under arrest. You are here to help us with our enquires – you're here of your own free will.”

  “I would like leave. Can I leave?” Zarina was assertive.

  “No,” replied the tall agent. Then the Italian agent spoke.

  “What Agent Schultz is saying is that you can leave … when you've answered our questions. Would you like a cup of coffee? Something else to drink? Perhaps something to eat?”

  “How about a nice ham sandwich?” put in Agent Schultz leaning across the table. Gary cringed. It was blatantly offensive to offer a muslim pork and the rudeness of the agent made him uncomfortable but he did not interfere.

  “Perhaps some focaccia with chorizo and a sprinkling of rucola?” Zarina faced up to Agent Schultz without any hint of intimidation. He was taller and stronger but she showed absolutely no fear. The Italian agent laughed. Gary raised an eye brow. He had not noticed her accent until this moment. It was fluid and modulated between English and Spanish – or possibly Portuguese or Italian.

  “She's got you there, Agent Schultz. Ham salad roll it is. And bring me some coffee.” Both agents laughed and joked with each other. Abruptly, Agent Schultz sat down and got serious.

  “Miss Ansari, where were you born?”

  “I think you know the answer and it's the reason you brought me here.”

  “Answer the question, Miss Ansari.”

  “I'd prefer if you told me why I'm here.”

  “You're here to answer the questions we ask.” Agent Schultz was grating on Gary's sensibilities and he was relieved when the Italian agent intervened.

  “Miss Ansari, there are a few preliminary questions we need to ask to check you are who we think you are. It's like putting your name at the top of the exam paper. That's all.”

  “I was born in Tehran.” She made it sound like a terrible confession.

  “At the Zayeshgah e Amin Sadeghiyeh maternity hospital?”

  “That's right – well done, top marks, Agent Vitti.”

  “Where did you learn Mandarin?”

  “At school.”

  “You went to school in Lahore, right?”

  Zarina nodded and added, “Saint Anthony's High School.” Gary looked up then checked her file. It was true. It was the same school attended by Doctor Abdul Qadeer Khan, the scientist responsible for Pakistan's nuclear programme and black market trading in uranium enrichment technology. Gary knew Khan's file inside out. It was standard reading for his line of work.

  “It's not on the curriculum. They don't teach Mandarin.”

  “Private tuition. I had a Chinese tutor. My father wanted me to learn. A quarter of the world is Chinese – he said it was an essential business skill.”

  “Have you been to China?”

  “No. Nor am I currently or ever have been a member of the communist party. Be sure to make a careful note of that.” The reference to McCarthy's anti-communist witch hunts provoked wry regard from Gary. Zarina was not going to be easy to get information from but she might let something slip.

  “Who paid your university fees at Cambridge?”

  “My father.”

  “Miss Ansari, your father died in a car accident in Karachi, six years before you started at Cambridge. He had no money.” Zarina's jaw tightened and her eyes narrowed.

  “My father was murdered and the accident was staged.” Zarina paused and watched Agent Schultz closely. “Hmm, it seems that isn't it in my file. My father changed his religion away from Islam. We were outcasts and left destitute – my father lost his job. The only place we could go was Pakistan. Fanatics tracked him down and murdered him – an honour killing they called it.” Zarina was clearly bitter about the events.

  The Italian agent nodded his head in sympathy but gently repeated the question, “And how did you raise the money to pay for fees?”

  “My tutors were very understanding and I gave Farsi lessons and did translation work.”

  “Your father worked at the Iranian nuclear laboratory in Arak, didn't he?”

  “We lived near Arak but my father never talked about his work. I was eleven when we left.” Gary was listening intently. These were undeniably true statements but the terseness belied something different. It was easy to read into the information the answer or conjecture what you wanted to hear. Zarina was definitely hiding something but there would be no easy way to find out what.

  “Did you sell information to fund your travel and education?”

  “I sold home-baking at a village fête near Cambridge in aid of Amnesty International. That's the only thing I have ever sold.” Agent Schultz began leading the questions again.

  “Come on, Miss Ansari. You didn't pay for Cambridge University on Farsi lessons, did you?” Agent Schultz was as aggressive as ever.

  “As I said, my father paid.”

  “Who is your father?” Agent Schultz barked but Zarina laughed.

  “Shouldn't you ask my mother?”

  “Who is your father?” Agent Schultz repeated.

  Zarina switched from amused to factual and added, “I was adopted by a missionary family. Saint Anthony's High School is run by the Catholic Church and my tutors were able to make special provisions for me. I find Europeans more charitable in this regard. I still had to work every weekend in a greasy restaurant and do translation work every evening after lectures.”

  “When did you last visit Iran?”

  “I left when I was eleven. I doubt I will ever return.” Gary noted that again these were true statements that inferred something but there was a hole. She did not actually say she had not be back to Iran.

  “Why did you choose Cambridge University?”

  “It's the best university in England.”

  “And Harvard?”

  “The best university in America. Didn't you go there?” Gary thought Agent Schultz deserved the barbed remark – of course he had not gone to Harvard. If he had, he might be running the CIA by now rather than grafting as a field agent. Agent Schultz ignored the question.

  “When did you visit South Africa?”

  “Visit South Africa? I don't think I have.” Zarina was implacable. She made an exaggerated display of recollecting, “Wait. Err. No, never been. Should I go? I hear the weather is very agreeable though the state of the roads is somewhat lacking.”

  “Miss Ansari, you recently submitted a paper that predicted uncontrolled nuclear proliferation. What was your basis for that assumption?”

  “Progress.” Zarina was as laconic as ever but, after a long pause for effect, she went on. “That which is possible is inevitable. Technology will advance until nuclear proliferation becomes possible and, therefore, inevitable. Say, have I been dragged in here
because you suspect me of making some sort of atomic bomb? Well read my file. I haven't studied science since high school and I am no nuclear physicist. You can check with the school. Actually, if I remember, you've already checked the curriculum.”

  “You deny any involvement with any nuclear research?”

  “It's not my field. I'm strictly political science.”

  “Thank you for your time, Miss Ansari.” Agent Vitti's tone was more conciliatory. “We will be making further checks on your background. Certain circumstances concerning national security require us to take precautions. I'm sure we won't find anything untoward but if you do know something, it would be better for you to volunteer that information now, before we find out by other means. I'm sure we could come to an arrangement. We can protect you but only if you play on our side. Here, take my card. You can contact me any time – perhaps you'll remember something in a few days.” Zarina took the card. She scowled at the veiled threat of needing protection. As she stood up to leave Gary also rose and posed a final question. He spoke Portuguese.

  “I hope you’re not late for your lecture?”

  A momentary look of dismay passed over Zarina's face but as quickly as it appeared she collected herself. “I trust we are done here.” She left the room. The agents remained. Agent Vitti waited until she would be well out of hearing before commenting.

  “She's a real testy character. Not at all typical of Persian women. Mostly, they are afraid of men and especially policemen. She told us what she wanted us to know but no more. She won't crack easily – not without external pressure.”

  Agent Schultz turned to Gary and added, “The main purpose of this first interview is to let her know that we are on to her. She'll start looking over her shoulder, suspecting people and getting paranoid. It starts the process of isolation. Once she's isolated, she's ripe for picking.” The explanation was for Gary's benefit. “What was the gobbledegook at the end? What language was that? She seemed disconcerted by it for a moment.”

  “Portuguese – and she clearly understood it,” replied Gary. “What's the next step with Miss Ansari?”

  “We'll run further background checks and find out who adopted her after her father's death. We might get some hint of who killed her father if it wasn't an accident – the Iranian security forces would be a good place to start – or Mossad. Any financial transactions will show up in bank records – they are easy enough to check – even in Pakistan. We'll find inconsistencies.”

  “Is there any chance she's innocent and we're wasting our time?”

  “Not for us to say. She didn't cooperate fully and was quite antagonistic. The policy is to dig deeper until we are satisfied. Mister Sanders, she'll tell us what we want to know sooner or later – that's inevitable.”

  “She could get on a plane and run.”

  “Run where? Straight to her contacts? So much the better.” The agents rose and left. Gary pondered the interview. He admired Zarina. She was stunning and articulate. She stood up to Agent Schultz fearlessly. Gary was intrigued where such confidence sprang from.

  Chapter 23

  New York, United States of America

  Rachel Cohen stepped off the plane from Tel Aviv. She cleared passport control and proceeded to the Sheraton Hotel. She was travelling on business but had no meetings scheduled, no factory visits. She wrote no reports – and read none either. She went shopping. She equipped herself with a mid-range selection of casual and evening wear and a few quality second hand pieces from a Salvation Army thrift store. Also, she socialised. In the morning, she went to a class on cake decorating although she had little interest in decorating cakes. In the afternoon, she went to a book signing and discussed the existentialist subtext of the latest Pulitzer Prize winner. Her critique was excessively pragmatic but robustly argued. Few would insist she were incorrect but few would be truly persuaded. In the evening, she dabbled with frequenting cocktail bars but was not able to make much headway.

  After four days, Rachel had a very passable Queen's accent – not perfect but passable to anyone not from New York. She took a taxi from the Sheraton to Newark airport. Her suitcase contained the results of her shopping trip. This time at passport control she presented a passport in the name of Melissa Williams – an American citizen. Six hours later she arrived at London Heathrow and boarded a train to Cambridge where an apartment had been arranged.

  Chapter 24

  Arlington, Virginia, United States of America

  Gary entered the CIA office and informed the receptionist he had an appointment with Agent Schultz. The receptionist checked his identity card and picked up the telephone, “Gary Sanders is here to see you.” Then she turned to Gary and pointed to some seats. “He'll be down in a few minutes.”

  Gary waited. He wondered what news Agent Schultz had for him – he had received a message that they had found something important. The CIA had been scouring a long list of suspects and persons of interest both in the US and abroad that might be trading in nuclear technology. Gary had sat in on some of the interviews. The suspects were mostly foreign: Arabs, Chinese, North Koreans but many others. Some were Islamists – even Afrikaans and Neo-Nazis were under suspicion. Soon the whole world would be flooded by rumours.

  Agent Schultz met Gary and they went up to his office.

  “So, what's your investigation turned up?” asked Gary.

  Agent Schultz brought up a photograph on his computer. “You might remember this one?” Gary looked at the image. It was immediately familiar. He had been with Agents Schultz and Vitti at the interview.

  “The Iranian girl. What's her name? Zarina. Zarina Ansari?”

  “That's right. Well, we fed her photo into our facial recognition software and trawled the internet. She's not on Facebook or any other social network. But at the CIA we have access to airport and train station security cameras all round the world. When she's not Zarina Ansari, the delightful Iranian girl, she's Mariam Karam a Lebanese business woman.” A picture of a Lebanese passport appeared beside Zarina's, they were a perfect match. “She's been getting about too! Quite an itinerary.”

  “Lebanese? Well, well. Is she Iranian pretending to be Lebanese or Lebanese pretending to be Iranian?” Agent Schultz shrugged his shoulders.

  “Hard to tell for sure. They all look the same to me. Here's where she's been in the last six months: Lebanon, Czech Republic, England, Dubai – a stopover probably – Mozambique, South Africa, China and six visits to Brazil – all to Rio de Janeiro.”

  “Are you sure she doesn't have any other passports?”

  “Anything is possible. Having multiple passports in another name isn't that unusual – not for the people we handle. There were other things we found. She had a boyfriend at high school. One James Campbell currently at Cambridge University. He's the son of an aid worker in Mozambique.”

  “Mozambique? That's a curious coincidence. I was in Mozambique last month following an illegal export of reactor technology. I visited an orphanage where they were exploiting children to process radioactive material. The director was called Doctor Campbell.”

  “Could be his father? Campbell is quite a common surname, particularly in Scotland, New Zealand and Canada. Did you get a first name?”

  “No, always Doctor. They called me Mister Sanders.”

  “It's just that one of the inconsistencies in Zarina's story is that she was never officially adopted. There are no official documents. She claimed she was adopted by a missionary family – her boyfriend's family might fit the bill.”

  “Did you get any clues on her father's death?” Gary recalled Zarina's intense bitterness.

  “Yes, we did. There were certain encrypted transmissions from Iran – from Arak, in fact – to known Iranian agents in Pakistan. The content is incomplete but the intent was an order to eliminate someone – most likely Zarina's father. Mister Ansari was killed the next day. The police investigation into Mister Ansari's death found it was a tragic road accident. His brakes failed and he drove
off a remote country road down the side of a wadi. The car caught fire and was burnt out with him inside. It is fairly safe to assume that the Iranian security service assassinated him just as Zarina claimed. The question is why. You might assume that he simply wanted out but he knew too much – and you don't get to resign from that type of employer. One other explanation is that the death was staged – bearing in mind that the body may not have been Zarina's father after all.”

  “But why? What's the point?” Gary tried not to seem like a novice but he could not guess at whatever warped purpose that Agent Schultz had in mind.

  “To encourage Zarina's adoption by a well-educated, western family. We have picked up a few cases where radicalised children are inserted into western families to obtain intelligence information. As bizarre as it seems, it does happen.” Gary's face must have shown complete disbelief. He had seen films and read books about Mata Hari-style agents but to use children in this way was unconscionable.

  “Do you think that happened with Zarina?”

  “Her high school boyfriend, James Campbell, is doing a doctorate degree in nuclear physics – specialising in reactor design. You're the expert, Gary. What do you think? What would he have access too? Would it be useful to the Iranians?” Gary could not answer.

  “It depends on the research...”

  “Here are the publications, his and the rest of the research team for the last five years. The red binder at the back contains the first thirty-four pages of his doctoral thesis. We took it off his hard drive discretely. How much time do you need to read that and form an opinion?” Gary looked at the thick pile of paper that Agent Schultz had just handed over. There were a few publications in the usual set of respected journals. Others were top secret government files.

  “I'd need a couple of days to go through all this...”

  “But can you tell us what sort of information he has access to?”

  “Yes, I'm sure I can.”