Scorpion Deception s-4

by Andrew Kaplan

  “What about the Gardener?” Scorpion asked.

  “What?” Vahidi snapped.

  “The Gardener? Is Ghanbari the Gardener?”

  Vahidi shoved past him, opened the door and walked out to the office. He turned and glared at Scorpion coming out. If Scorpion didn’t know better, he could have sworn he saw fear in Vahidi’s eyes the minute he mentioned the Gardener.

  “Look, General-” he began.

  “I think you should leave, Monsieur Westermann,” Vahidi said. “Our conversation is over.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Farmanieh,

  Tehran, Iran

  Zahra was driving, bumping the Mercedes along in stop-and-go traffic, heading for Sadr Highway; the only way to get across North Tehran this time of evening, she said. Just the two of them in the car taking him back to his hotel, the street lined with plane trees and a few people still out walking despite the rain.

  “What happened with General Vahidi?” she asked. “He seemed upset.”

  “We talked. Obviously, the sinking of the missile boat is not good,” Scorpion said. He kept going back in his mind to what Vahidi started to tell him about Ghanbari before he stopped himself. He had said, “You should ask. .” then stopped. For Scorpion, it had to be Zahra. She and Vahidi were the only people he knew in Tehran.

  “Beshoor,” idiot, she muttered, swerving to avoid a Samand compact car weaving between lanes, which in Tehran were theoretical at best. She darted a glance at him. “What do they want from us, the Americans? Sanctions. UN resolutions. Threats. Whatever happened between us was a long time ago.”

  “Maybe they don’t like people getting killed in their embassies. We Swiss don’t like it either.”

  Headlights from a passing car briefly swept across his face. The rain got heavier. She turned her wipers on faster.

  “What has that to do with us?”

  “Don’t be naive,” he said, glancing casually back over his shoulder at the rear window, stippled with rain. The dark Peugeot that had been following them since they left the party was still on their tail. “Moscow takes what happened in Bern very seriously. If the Americans can prove an Iranian link to Bern, any possibility of missiles for Iran may be off the table.”

  “Meaning what?” she asked, the sound of the windshield wipers punctuating their conversation.

  “We’re being followed,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “A Peugeot sedan. It’s been with us since we left the party.”

  She bit her lip. “Maybe it’s from the general. To protect you.”

  “From what? Tehran traffic? It’s no good, Zahra. I can’t do business this way,” he said.

  “What do you want to do?” she asked softly.

  “Better not go back to my hotel. Where else can we go?”

  She thought for a moment; a touch too casual about them being followed. They’re hers, he thought. Everyone in Iran is a little paranoid. Why wasn’t she, unless they were hers?

  “There’s Chai Bar Coffeehouse,” she said. “It’s on Salimi Street in Farmanieh, not far from my flat. It has a nice garden under umbrellas for the rain, good food.”

  “Too public. Someplace private,” he said, looking at her with what he hoped was a seductive gaze. Glancing over, she caught his drift immediately.

  “I was right. You are a naughty man,” she said.

  “We need to talk. It’s important.” When she gave him a This is just a line to get me into bed look, he added, “I’m a married man.”

  “Aren’t they all?” she said. “How do I know I can trust you? Don’t be fooled by what goes on ‘behind the curtain’ in North Tehran, Mr. Westermann. This is a very conservative country. I’m an unmarried woman.”

  “Are the men in Iran blind? You’re a beautiful woman,” he said, checking the side mirror as they turned onto Sadr Highway. It was a wide road, four lanes in each direction. They drove past a parade of high-rise apartment buildings, the Peugeot still behind them.

  “I’m divorced,” she said. “Damaged goods. Who do you think they are?” Meaning the Peugeot.

  “I know who they are. So do you,” he said. Oncoming headlights from cars on the other side of the highway sprayed the rain-spattered windshield with light like broken glass.

  “VEVAK,” she said. “You’re an important man, Mr. Westermann.”

  “Call me Laurent,” he said, touching her bare arm with his fingertips.

  “Vay,” she breathed. Oh my.

  Her apartment overlooked a quiet tree-lined street. From behind the window curtain he could see the Peugeot parked in a No Parking zone. No one had gotten out of the car.

  “Still there?” she asked about the Peugeot, opening a bottle of pinot grigio in the kitchen. He looked around the living room. It was nicely furnished, with a good Kashmar rug on the floor. Whatever she did at the ministry, the money came from somewhere else, he thought.

  “Afraid so,” he said. “I’m ruining your reputation.”

  “For my parents, I’m a lost cause,” she said, coming over and handing him a glass. “Cheerio.”

  “Sante,” he said, keeping the French cover going. His hand in his trouser pocket was fingering the Tylenol gelcap containing Ketamine, a powerful knockout drug. He’d brought it along just in case and had been hoping to use it since General Vahidi implied that she knew something about Ghanbari.

  “Now what was so important you had to get me alone?” Zahra said, coming seductively close to him. He could smell her perfume. Joy, by Jean Patou. He put his hand to her cheek.

  “Are we going to do this?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Are we? You. The Russians. The Americans. It’s crazy. When comes the part when you tell me it’s been nice and how you love your kids?”

  “Vahidi said you know a man named Muhammad Ghanbari. Who is he?”

  “You bastard!” she snapped, and threw her wine in his face. “I thought you were interested in me. I should call VEVAK,” she said, indicating the window and the Peugeot. “Tell them to arrest you, you harum zadeh!”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” Scorpion said, going to the kitchen and wiping his face with a dish towel. “How do you know Ghanbari?”

  “I don’t know anybody or anything,” she said angrily from the living room. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you. That’s all.”

  “But you know him?” he said, taking another glass and refilling it with wine. As he did so, he opened the gelcap and stirred the tasteless powder into the wine with his finger. He brought the wineglass with him back into the living room.

  “What does this have to do with the missile program? And what bloody business is it of yours?” she said, taking the wineglass from him as he continued to wipe himself off. She put the glass down on a side table.

  “Personally, I don’t give a damn. Moscow, however, has concerns. If the Americans attack Iran-and if they find out that the Russians would even consider selling SS-27s. .” He left it unfinished so the implication would sink in. “I’m a middleman, that’s all. I wouldn’t be asking the question if the Russians didn’t want to know. General Vahidi suggested Ghanbari is with al Quds and Asaib al-Haq. Is it true?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, coming close again. Be careful, he told himself. She was changing tactics. “These are not things one should meddle with. I ruined your suit,” she said, brushing his jacket lapel with her fingers. She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Maybe you should take it off.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. They were soft, yielding, and he knew she was somewhere between wanting him and playing him. Was she just trying to dodge the question? Or was she afraid? The tip of her tongue darted between his lips as if searching for something.

  “Just tell me. Do you know him? Where can I find him?”

  She looked at him, her face a mask. Beautiful. Unreadable.

  “I can’t tell you. Don’t ask,” she whispered, taking off his suit jacket
, then his tie, then his shirt. He let her. As she started to fumble with his zipper, he stopped her.

  “Wait,” he said. “Let’s finish our drink,” getting the wineglasses.

  A minute later she was on the carpet, unconscious. He picked her up and carried her to the bedroom, setting her on top of the bedspread. The good thing about Ketamine, he thought, was that it worked quickly, was virtually untraceable, and when she woke she would have no memory of what had happened.

  He checked the pulse in her neck to make sure she wasn’t faking it, went back to the window to check that the Peugeot was still parked there, then got to work. He planted an electronic listening bug/transmitter under the base of the lamp by her bedroom telephone, a second one behind a plastic electric outlet plate in the living room, and replaced the SIM in her cell phone with an NSA SIM that would forward her location and all her conversations to his computer tablet. Then he went on to the laptop computer she kept on a desk in her bedroom, glancing over at her to make sure she was still out cold.

  Her e-mails and files were in Farsi, but that wasn’t a problem for him, especially since Farsi and Arabic lettering were similar, except for additional Perso-Arabic letters for p, t, zh, g, and a few other changes. A lot of the e-mails were the usual junk. The only personal ones were between her and her brother, Amjud. He scanned through them quickly while plugging in an NSA flash drive that copied all her files and e-mails.

  He was about to close her e-mail when he spotted one from Amjud complaining that his wife’s brother, Muhammad, had gone over the deep end. Muhammad had told them to let him know if they noticed anything unusual. Muhammad exaggerates everything, including his own importance, Amjud said, and that he was involved in a dispute within the Pasdaran-the Revolutionary Guards-claiming that a rival, whose name he didn’t mention, was out to destroy him.

  Was it possible? Scorpion wondered. Is that what General Vahidi meant when he said “You should ask”? Muhammad was a common enough name. The most common in the Middle East. But was it possible that Zahra’s brother-in-law’s brother, Muhammad, was Muhammad Ghanbari?

  The flash drive finished copying the files. Using her computer, he went online to the Tehran Times website. The headline read: IRAN NAVAL FORCES WILL FIRE ON U.S. SHIPS IN IRANIAN WATERS. According to the article, after discussions with the Supreme Leader, the president of Iran had authorized all Iranian and Revolutionary Guard naval vessels and planes to attack any U.S. ships that ventured into Iranian waters in the Persian Gulf. Any attempt by American naval or air forces to impose a blockade on Iran would be met with force. If there were any further provocations by the Americans, Iran would mine the Straits of Hormuz, blocking all oil shipments from the Middle East that passed through the Gulf.

  Iran’s president declared: “The Iranian people will not be intimidated by the bullying attacks of the American imperialists and their Zionist puppet masters, pulling the strings behind the curtain. Iran will fight to the death to preserve its freedom and the freedom of peace-loving people everywhere.”

  He switched to nytimes.com. That he was able to get to it meant the Iranian government hadn’t yet blocked access to websites outside the country. The headline read: WHITE HOUSE IMPOSES NEWS BLACKOUT. It cited sources that said it was in response to the action in the Persian Gulf and the Iranian government’s announcement. Scorpion knew what the blackout meant. It was a long-established protocol to stop all news and the possibility of leaks when the Pentagon went to DEFCON 2. Damn, he thought. That was higher than the DEFCON level they had gone to after the 9/11 attack in 2001. At DEFCON 2 the news blackout would last seventy-two hours, after which military action could occur.

  There was only one solution: he would have to make something happen.

  He turned off her computer, put his shirt and jacket back on, checked to see if Zahra was still sleeping soundly, and pulled a bedcover over her. Then he went over to the window. The Peugeot was still parked in the same spot. Making sure everything in the apartment was the way it had been before he came in, he left, closing the door silently behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Laleh Park,

  Tehran, Iran

  The park was a few blocks from Scorpion’s hotel. Traffic was light this time of night, but he had taken no chances and had gone out of the hotel using the back entrance, around the block in one direction and another block in the opposite direction, to make sure he wasn’t followed.

  It was still raining. He walked down Keshavarz Boulevard under an umbrella, shielded from view by plane trees on either side of the center pedestrian island. A water canal shrouded by foliage ran through the center of the pedestrian walkway for the length of the wide boulevard to Laleh Park. The city was crisscrossed by such water channels.

  The streets were nearly empty in the rain. The cafes were closed, their plastic chairs folded and stacked, leaning against the sides of buildings; the only sound was the splash of a passing car and the gurgle of water flowing in the canal. He stopped for a moment as if to tie his shoe and glanced behind him. The boulevard was empty. Either he wasn’t being followed or they were giving him plenty of rope to hang himself, he thought, straightening and walking into Laleh Park.

  Except for the occasional streetlight beside a paved walkway, the park was dark and still and wet. There were broad green spaces, fountains and trees and the patter of raindrops on the leaves.

  “A dead-drop. That’s the best we can do,” Shaefer had said in Dubai. “As it is, someone will have to risk their life to get anything to you.”

  “If I find Ghanbari, how do I get something to you?” he had asked.

  “There’ll be something in the dead drop. Just use it once and get rid of it because the VEVAK’ll be on you like white on rice,” Shaefer had drawled in response.

  He made his way past a fountain with a statue in the middle and down a lane so overhung with trees they formed a tunnel over benches where, in evenings when the weather was good, couples who had nowhere else to go for privacy would hang out and kiss. The lane opened to a broad green, a children’s playground, and two concrete structures for men’s and women’s public restrooms. He went into the men’s restroom. The first stall was empty. In the second stall he found a black Tumi messenger bag identical to the one he was carrying.

  He closed the stall door and put his bag down, leaving it where the other bag had been. Inside the new bag there were two cell phones, a plug-in flash drive, and a PC-9 ZOAF-an Iranian copycat version of the SIG Sauer P226 9mm pistol. There was also a sound suppressor and four magazines of ammunition, wrapped with rubber bands. He loaded the ZOAF with a fifteen-round magazine and put it and the cell phones into his raincoat pocket, zipping up the new messenger bag and slinging it over his shoulder as he left the restroom.

  The area was still empty. He didn’t bother to scan the trees. The contact who had left the bag was either watching, waiting for him to leave to retrieve the empty messenger bag he’d left in the stall, or would be back in a half hour; certainly before dawn, he thought.

  Before leaving the park Scorpion stopped in a stand of trees, and after making sure there were no eyes on him, turned on both cell phones, one at a time. The second phone had a text message. It was a jumble of letters that didn’t seem to represent anything but changed daily based on a random-number algorithm on his flash drive, which could be plugged into any USB port or cell phone. The letters represented multiple alphabet values, to avoid frequency analysis, and were synchronized with identical results on drives held by Rabinowich and Shaefer; a key that could only be used by the three of them. Once translated, it read: tangoershadfinalwmzexpectedarlingtonfullcourtpress. Pure Rabinowich, he thought.

  They had topped it off with a simple reversal code he’d worked out with Rabinowich and Shaefer in Dubai just in case. The reversal wasn’t serious encryption, just meant to slow someone down a few crucial minutes in case they broke the random number code. They were acting on the assumption that any communication was bound to be picked up
by the COMINT monitoring by VEVAK and the Revolutionary Guards that blanketed the city.

  “Tango” was military-speak for the letter T, the seventh letter from the end of the alphabet, so Scorpion knew that Rabinowich was referring to the seventh letter from the beginning of the alphabet, G, obviously meaning either Ghanbari or the Gardener. He assumed it stood for Ghanbari or there would have been more. ERSHAD was a Farsi acronym. It stood for the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, the Iranian ministry in charge of government censorship of media and the Internet. Combing through reams of data, Rabinowich had somehow uncovered that Ghanbari worked there as a cover for his al Quds activities; either that or someone at that particular ministry knew how to get to him.

  Scorpion knew that going through the ministry would be difficult. He had appointments with General Vahidi’s people in the IRGCAF, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps Aerospace Force. It would be next to impossible to explain to VEVAK what business he had with the Islamic Guidance ministry, and in any case it didn’t matter. He was counting on Zahra, he thought, looking around at the stand of trees in the darkness.

  The silence was complete; no bird or animal stirrings, not even the faint patter of rain on the leaves. The rain was tapering off.

  Final wmz, when the three letters were numerically reversed alphabetically, stood for “final DNA.” Combining that with “expected” meant that the final DNA tests on the bodies of the terrorists in Bern had yielded the expected results they first talked about in Zug and that had since been broadcast all over the world. Except for the Kurdish girl, the dead terrorists in Bern had been Iranians.

  It was starting to look like that was enough for Washington. Arlington meant the Pentagon plus full-court press. It meant the generals were pressuring the pols, telling them that they couldn’t hold at this DEFCON level for too long without a security breach or losing mission readiness. He could feel the pressure coming from Harris, who was obviously trying to hold his finger in the dike. Unless they heard otherwise from him soon, the U.S. was seriously considering attacking Iran, even without the proof they needed. Except neither he nor anyone in Washington understood what was going on. Especially in this internal battle within Iran’s Revolutionary Guards. It could be a huge potential fiasco, he thought. And Harris was all he had. The DCIA, the head of the CIA, was a political appointee. He couldn’t stand up to the generals and the politicos forever.