False Flag

by F. W. Rustmann Jr.

  I am helping them do this to her.

  She abruptly turned away and busily resumed her task of preparing the bath. She dared not look back.

  When the tub was half-full, she turned off the water and busily stirred in more bubble bath. She turned back and noticed that Yasmin had not moved. She stood there, arms to her sides, with a strange, inquisitive look on her face.

  Pouri, unable to speak, beckoned to Yasmin. She slowly walked toward the tub. When she reached it, she stopped and looked down at Pouri. Their eyes met and they held their gaze. Something small was shifting between them.

  Yasmin reached out a hand to steady herself and placed it gently on Pouri’s head. She lifted one leg up and into the tub. Pouri reached out to assist and placed a hand on Yasmin’s hip, guiding her into the tub.

  Yasmin settled into the warm, soapy water and luxuriated in the release of tension that flowed out of her body. She looked over at the still kneeling woman beside her and their eyes locked once again. Yasmin slid down into the tub, submerging her entire body and dunking her head under the soapy water.

  She emerged with suds and water streaming from her face and hair.

  CHAPTER 19

  MacMurphy was hanging out at the pool of the Hilton Hotel in Nicosia, waiting for news from Kashmiri in Beirut. He was bored and did not like being far from the action. It was difficult not to envy Kashmiri for being in the thick of it.

  Kashmiri had been surveilling Nabil’s residence for two days, looking for an opportunity to approach the man. But he still hadn’t seen him. Either Nabil was not at home, or he simply did not go out very often. Kashmiri had asked MacMurphy if he could make some discreet inquiries at the pharmacy and around the neighborhood, but MacMurphy rejected the idea. MacMurphy explained that inquiries of any sort often came back to bite you. No one else needed to know about their interest in Nabil.

  Strict compartmentation was an absolute necessity in an operation like this. MacMurphy instructed Kashmiri to keep up the surveillance. He would just have to continue peeing in a jar.

  Although MacMurphy had confidence in Kashmiri’s ability to pull off the recruitment of Nabil and his nephew, he was less confident in Kashmiri’s ability to carry out the surveillance. He would have liked to engage the services of a professional surveillance team, but compartmentation made this impossible. He would have to make do what he had, and that was Hadi Kashmiri.

  MacMurphy also worried about what “Plan B” would be if Nabil decided to reject Kashmiri’s offer. Nabil would tell his Hezbollah masters he had been approached. Then they would tell their Iranian masters, who would realize the approach was a total ruse, which would be the end of Kashmiri.

  He wondered if Kashmiri realized this fact.

  Hezbollah, knowing someone was planning a rescue op, would then move Yasmin to a more secure location, probably in Iran.

  Everything rested on the shoulders of Hadi Kashmiri.

  Kashmiri was on his third day of surveillance. It was a little before nine o’clock in the morning. He was pouring a second cup of tea from a large thermos bottle when the door to the apartment building opened and a man in a wheelchair struggled through.

  He felt a surge of adrenaline and splashed hot tea onto his lap. He struggled to compose himself, set the thermos aside, wiped the hot tea from his lap, and bolted out of the car.

  He watched Nabil Nassar maneuver the wheelchair out onto the sidewalk and turn up Massaken Street. Moments later, he entered the Al Bouchrieh Pharmacy. Heart pounding, Kashmiri tucked the manila envelope full of money under his arm and headed toward it.

  He pulled open the pharmacy door and stood for a moment, surveying the interior. Nabil was nowhere to be seen. He headed up the aisle directly in front of him. At the end of the aisle, he came upon the prescription drug section. Two pharmacists in white smocks were working behind a long counter. One of them was assisting Nabil.

  Kashmiri lingered in the aisle, pretending to examine the merchandise while always keeping one eye on Nabil. Nabil was dressed in black slacks and a white, tight-fitting polo that displayed his huge, muscular arms. He was a rugged man with a large, crooked nose, an easy smile and longish dark hair tussled in a carefree way.

  He smiled broadly as he accepted his package from the pharmacist, who thanked him by name, and wheeled away from the counter back up the aisle toward the exit. Kashmiri hurried up the parallel aisle and met him at the front of the store. He stood between the exit and the oncoming wheelchair, reached out his hand and said, “You’re Nabil Nassar! How are you? Do you remember me?”

  Surprised and a bit wary, Nabil took Kashmiri’s outstretched hand and replied, “You look familiar, but . . .”

  “Of course, you don’t remember me. It’s been years. We used to play football together. But now I’m old and I’ve gained a few pounds. And I never was very good at the game anyway.” Kashmiri placed his hands over his stomach and laughed. “I heard the pharmacist say your name and then I recognized you.”

  “Well, I’ve changed as well,” said Nabil, pointing bitterly to his wheelchair.

  “Yes, I heard about that, your accident, I mean . . .”

  Anxious to get Nabil out of the pharmacy and away from prying eyes, Kashmiri pushed open the door and held it. Nabil wheeled himself through the door with strong arms and spun the chair around to face Kashmiri when he reached the sidewalk.

  “It was a pleasure seeing you again, Mister . . .”

  “Kashmiri, Hadi Kashmiri.”

  Nabil put his hand to his forehead. “That name is familiar. Hadi Kashmiri . . .”

  “Come have a cup of tea with me, Nabil. Unless you are in a hurry to get someplace?”

  “No, I should be getting back, but thank you for the invitation.” He turned his wheelchair in the direction of his apartment.

  Kashmiri’s heart sank. “Couldn’t you spare ten minutes for an old admirer?”

  Nabil turned back and looked up at Kashmiri. After a moment he said, “Well . . . okay. I am never in much of a hurry these days.” He indicated his legs and shook his head. “There’s a good café just up the road.” Nabil nodded in a direction further up the street.

  “Wonderful,” said Kashmiri. “Would you like a push?”

  “No, no thank you. I’m fine.”

  Nabil gave the wheels a strong push and headed up the street. Kashmiri hurried to keep up. When they reached the café, Kashmiri led Nabil to a table near the sidewalk but away from other customers.

  When they were seated and had ordered, Kashmiri decided to get directly to the point. He leaned forward and placed a hand on Nabil’s arm. “There is actually something I would like to discuss with you, Mr. Nassar.”

  “Nabil. Please call me Nabil.”

  “Yes, of course, and please call me Hadi.” He hesitated a moment to punctuate what he was about to say. “Nabil, I have a very important message for you, a message from a very important person in Iran.”

  Confused, he replied, “Iran? I don’t know anyone in Iran.”

  Kashmiri smiled and nodded. “But there are people in Iran who know you. They sent me to find you. But before I get into that, I need your assurance that you won’t repeat what I am about to say under any circumstance.”

  “But . . . I don’t understand . . .”

  “I will explain everything to you. But what I am about to relate to you is very sensitive. So, if you give me your word that you won’t reveal what I am about to say, I can continue.”

  Nabil shook his head and ran his fingers through his wavy hair. “I don’t know. This is very strange . . .”

  “Look, you know my name, and you know I am Iranian. You can check me out. Ask around. My relationship with the Iranian leadership is well known in Beirut. I maintain a residence in Tehran and I travel there frequently. I help the Iranian leadership with all kinds of things outside of Iran.”

  “Outside of Iran? What do you mean?”

  Kashmiri took a sip of tea and gently set the cup down in front of hi
m, never taking his eyes off Nabil. “Most Iranians do not have the ease of travel I have. I am what they call an ‘overseas Iranian.’ I have an Iranian passport and a British passport. I can do things outside of Iran that a normal Iranian cannot. Do you understand?”

  Still confused, Nabil replied, “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good. Now I want to be very frank with you. You can check me out all you want later. But right now you must promise not to reveal to anyone what my message is to you. If you can’t agree to this, I cannot continue.”

  Nabil studied the man sitting across from him. He was very smooth, very convincing. He did not doubt that Kashmiri could be an Iranian emissary, but this was all very odd. He did recall having heard that Hadi Kashmiri worked for the Iranians, but that was a very long time ago.

  “Yes or no, Nabil. I need to have your word before I can continue. Those are my instructions from the Iranian leadership.”

  “What Iranian leadership?” asked Nabil.

  “This is right from the top. The Ayatollah Khamenei himself has signed off on this approach.”

  “The supreme leader? He wants my help?”

  “He needs your help. You are the only one who can help.”

  Nabil’s head spun. His curiosity was sparked. There was no way he could stop now. He needed to know more. After all, he could always decline whatever it was they wanted him to do.

  “Okay, I agree. I will not divulge to anyone what you are about to say to me. I promise in the name of Allah.”

  Kashmiri sat back in his chair and took another sip of tea while he collected his thoughts. Then he leaned forward, solemnly placed both hands on Nabil’s arms, and squeezed for emphasis. “That’s enough for me, Nabil. I was told I could trust you, and I do.”

  Kashmiri reflected for another moment and then began. “A couple of weeks ago, on the orders of the Iranian leadership, your colleagues in Hezbollah kidnapped an American spy. A young woman who was collecting information on our nuclear program. She is being held in a safe house in Beirut for interrogation.”

  “I heard something about that,” said Nabil.

  “Yes, the story has been reported in the press.”

  “But how can I help? I am not active any longer as you can see.” He indicated his wheelchair.

  “You are in an excellent position to help. That is why you were selected. Her jailer is Abu Salah—you know him—and Abu Salah’s driver is your nephew, Walid.”

  Nabil’s eyes widened. “I, um, I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain. Ayatollah Khamenei is a very ‘hands on’ leader. And this American spy is extremely important to him and the rest of the Iranian leadership. And, well, this is very delicate—you must understand, a delicate matter . . .”

  “Yes, go on . . .”

  “Yes, a delicate matter. You see, he does not fully trust Hezbollah to keep this extremely important Iranian asset safe and secure. Especially Abu Salah, who is a bit of a, shall we say, Neanderthal. Surely, you must understand this concern. Hezbollah can sometimes be, well, a bit heavy-handed and sloppy . . .”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. But why don’t they bring this spy to Iran?”

  Kashmiri sensed that the hook was in. Nabil was becoming involved in the process. In a low, conspiratorial voice, he said, “Exactly. That is the plan. But we are not there yet. Hezbollah has control of this spy and is reluctant to give her up. It’s a delicate issue and we must maintain some balance . . .”

  “Balance?”

  “Work with Hezbollah but keep a degree of control. To do this we need to be kept informed of Hezbollah’s every move concerning the spy. That’s where you come in.”

  “Why me? Why don’t you ask Abu Salah?”

  Kashmiri shook his head, “No, no, Abu Salah is the main problem. He is a thug and not to be trusted.”

  Nabil nodded, “Yes, indeed. He is a stupid thug. Not very bright at all.”

  “So now you understand.” Kashmiri smiled and spread his arms wide, welcoming Nabil into the conspiracy. “Your role will be to monitor Abu Salah’s movements through your nephew and report back to me. I will in turn report your findings to the Ayatollah through his representatives in the Ministry of Intelligence.”

  Nabil nodded. He understood fully but had a question. “Why don’t you just ask Walid? He is already on the scene.”

  “Great question. I actually asked them that and they said it was a matter of trust. They trust you and have confidence in you, but they do not know Walid yet. They want you to act as an intermediary between them and Walid. Walid respects you . . .”

  “Ah, sure, I understand now. I can do that.” He was excited now. He was back in the game.

  Kashmiri grinned broadly and lifted the manila envelope from the seat next to him. He handed it to Nabil with both hands and a slight bow. “You will incur expenses and you deserve to be compensated for your time, so this is a down payment from Ayatollah Khamenei. You might want to share some of it with Walid. There is more where this came from.”

  Confused, Nabil opened the package and looked inside. When he looked up there were tears in his large brown eyes.

  CHAPTER 20

  MacMurphy was bored. He had set things in motion in Beirut and they were playing themselves out while he cooled his heals in Nicosia. He decided to get out of the hotel, drive across the “Green Line” to the Turkish side of the city, and visit the majestic Bellapaix Abbey.

  Throughout his many travels in Cyprus, he had frequently visited the abbey, and it never ceased to impress him and instill a sense of calm in him.

  MacMurphy loved old rocks. So much history. And this pile of rocks was very old and contained a lot of history. The original site of the abbey was built by the bishops of Kyrenia as a place of refuge from Arab raids in the seventh and eighth centuries. The current structure, consisting of a church, cloister, and several outlying monastic buildings, was built in the thirteenth century. Today, Bellapaix overlooks the harbor town of Kyrenia and the Mediterranean Sea.

  It was midday when MacMurphy arrived. There were no crowds of tourists in Northern Cyprus, though it was the most beautiful part of the island. He enjoyed wandering through the ruins practically alone.

  Northern Cyprus was also home to several Crusader castles that MacMurphy had visited. He enjoyed walking among their ruins without being molested by hordes of obnoxious tourists. It left him free to think about Richard the Lionheart and other events that had taken place within their walls over the centuries.

  Cyprus is rich in history but a sad place. The island was divided in 1974 when the Greek Cypriot population, led by Archbishop Makarios III, tried to annex the island to Greece. This did not sit well with the Turkish Cypriot population, so Turkey invaded, occupied the top third of the island, and declared a separate, Turkish Cypriot state.

  Realizing that Greeks and Turks were like oil and water, the Turks then demanded that all Greek Cypriots living in the northern third of the island abandon their homes and businesses and head south to the Greek sector. All Turkish Cypriots living in the south were forced to move north to the Turkish sector. The Turks got the better part of the deal.

  The United Nations then created an armed barrier along the border to keep the ethnic Greeks and Turks from killing each other. That “Green Line” barrier, patrolled by the United Nations, exists to this day. The result is that the “Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus,” which is only recognized by one state, Turkey, has remained relatively unchanged since then.

  MacMurphy reflected on all of this as he wandered through the ruins of the Bellapaix Abbey, touching the ancient stones and reflecting on their history.

  He ate a light lunch in the small, uncrowded restaurant within the walls of one of the monastic buildings and thought about Kashmiri’s successful recruitment of Nabil Nassar. Kashmiri could not go into detail over the phone, but MacMurphy heard enough to know that Nabil was on board.

  The next steps had to be carefully planned and orchestrated. It was
hard enough orchestrating a recruitment operation when a case officer worked directly with a prospective agent. But, there were many extra moving parts in this operation; too many people were involved in the daisy chain. The more complicated an operation was, the easier it fell apart when things started to go wrong.

  While MacMurphy trusted Kashmiri’s instincts, Kashmiri did not have the training of a case officer. He was not a professional. And Nabil was only the first link in the daisy chain. Clear and secure communication still needed to be established throughout the chain. Specific questions would have to pass down the daisy chain from MacMurphy to Kashmiri, from Kashmiri to Nabil, and then from Nabil to Walid. And those promptings—questions to which the Ayatollah would reasonably want answers—had to be consistent with their cover story.

  Then there was the added problem of getting the information back up the chain to MacMurphy. Would Walid’s reports be accurate and timely after going through the ears and mouths of two other people?

  There were so many things to consider, so many things that could go wrong, and so much room for misinterpretation.

  CHAPTER 21

  The interrogations of Yasmin continued for several hours each day, but things had definitely changed. The dynamic between the two women was noticeably different.

  Pouri’s questions were relatively non-threatening and focused almost exclusively on Yasmin’s activities in Iran. These were the very things Yasmin had vowed to conceal. So, Yasmin would talk at length about her visits without revealing anything about the handling of her main asset, XOJAZZ.

  Being held in solitary confinement had its advantages; it gave the prisoner lots of time to think. And Yasmin had used her time for just that purpose.

  There were certain things she knew Pouri knew, certain things she was unsure if Pouri knew, and other things she was pretty darn sure Pouri did not know.

  The things she wasn’t sure if Pouri knew were her developmental contacts in Beirut and Tehran. Fortunately, none of those contacts were recruited assets. And none of them knew or suspected her true CIA affiliation.