False Flag

by F. W. Rustmann Jr.

  The one operation she was pretty certain Pouri didn’t know about was the only recruited agent she handled in Tehran. This agent, this one case, was her raison d’etre, the sole reason for her assignment. And she was 99 percent certain the source had not been compromised. Aside from one hasty brush pass that took place almost nine months ago during her first trip to Tehran, she had never met directly with the asset.

  XOJAZZ was a high-level nuclear engineer working at the Tehran Nuclear Research Center. He was handled with extreme care, as any denied area asset would be. This meant little or no physical contact between case officer and agent within the denied area, which in this case was Iran.

  All communication with the agent was accomplished through dead drops, secret writing, chalk signals, one-way encrypted burst transmissions and other sophisticated—and some not so sophisticated—means of clandestine agent communications.

  Yasmin’s primary mission was to travel to Tehran, always under the cover of her alias, to scout out potential dead-drop and signal sites, provide headquarters with detailed casings of them, and then load or unload the sites and set the signals as required. Headquarters maintained parallel electronic communications directly with the asset via encrypted burst radio transmissions.

  When she wasn’t casing for possible sites or performing her operational tasks—which included unloading dead-drop sites of voluminous documents from XOJAZZ, photographing them and reducing them to microfiche—she lived out her cover as a Jordanian pharmaceutical representative. That cover helped expand her number of developmental contacts in Tehran. In the clandestine trade, creating this expansion was called spotting and assessing new agent talent.

  Yasmin spent every waking hour of her captivity concocting a reasonable cover story to explain her mission in Tehran and Beirut. It was a story designed to lead Pouri as far away from the nuclear subject and XOJAZZ as possible. She felt confident she could pull it off, especially given the way her relationship with Pouri was evolving. As long as Pouri kept the interrogations on the present track without the use of torture or enhanced techniques, she could survive this ordeal.

  As with all good cover stories, Yasmin’s had to be believable and verifiable. It also had to be something that would make her presence in Iran seem less important. For example, spying on Iran’s nuclear plans was an extremely sensitive issue for Iranians, but spying on Hezbollah’s involvement in drug trafficking that could be linked to Iran was another thing altogether. It was even possible that the Iranian Ayatollahs would look askance at this kind of behavior from their close ally.

  Yasmin decided to use this classified operation run by the Drug Enforcement Agency as the cover story for her nuclear spying. Before leaving for Cyprus, she had been briefed on the operation at headquarters and had been instructed to keep her eyes and ears open for any information about it. She also knew that portions of the operation had recently been leaked to the press, something that would enhance her story’s credibility in the eyes of the Iranians. After all, most DEA operations were not all that secret anyway.

  So, when Pouri hammered her for the umpteenth time about her contacts in Tehran, she dropped her head, sighed, and said, “Let me explain something to you, Pouri. Your country and mine are not so estranged on certain issues. In fact, if we just tried a little harder, we might be able to cooperate on some things of mutual concern.”

  “Of course,” said Pouri, “but your country is bound and determined to deny us access to nuclear technology, and that’s wrong, flat wrong.”

  “My job here has nothing to do with nuclear matters. I know nothing about that. I’m only a junior officer. This is my first overseas tour. But that’s all you can think about, nuclear matters. A deal has been hammered out between our two countries and, like it or not, it is done. We are not going back on our word. And there are other things that concern us . . .”

  Pouri stood up from behind the little table and walked slowly around the room. When she turned back, she placed both hands on the table and looked down into Yasmin’s eyes. “Then what? What other things?”

  “Like drug trafficking and money laundering operations run by your lackeys with your full knowledge and consent.”

  Pouri slapped her hand on the table. “What are you talking about? What lackeys? With whose knowledge and consent?” She sat back down heavily.

  “Surely, you are aware of the recent arrests that have resulted from the DEA’s Operation Cassandra?”

  Pouri shook her head. “Never heard of it.”

  “Let me fill you in. Things are coming to a head. Unraveling, you might say.” Yasmin paused to collect her thoughts. “This operation has been going on for a little over two years and I have been directly involved in it, fully involved in it.”

  “What’s your role?”

  “Finding connections between Hezbollah and Iran.”

  “And have you found any?”

  “Nothing solid yet, but there are indications . . .”

  “What kind of indications?”

  “Surely, you’ve heard of some of the groups that are part of Hezbollah’s External Security Organization?”

  Pouri shook her head again.

  “Well, to give you some background, the ESO was founded by Imad Mughniyeh. You know, the little prick who blew up the U.S. Embassy and the Marine Barracks here in Beirut. He also tortured and killed Bill Buckley, our station chief. You know who I’m talking about.”

  Pouri nodded. “Yes, I know who you’re talking about. I’m sorry . . .”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. You just have to know that the United States has a long memory.”

  “But your people killed Mughniyeh. You dropped a bomb on him in Damascus a few years back.”

  “May he rot in hell . . .”

  Pouri rubbed her chin and looked up. “So, what’s Mughniyeh and these groups got to do with Iran? Everyone knows Hezbollah is just a bunch of thugs. Yes, they take some direction from Iran, but we can’t control everything they do, can we?”

  “No, but when your people are involved in and actually profit from Hezbollah’s illegal activities, that’s where you should draw the line.”

  Pouri was taking notes rapidly. When she was finished scribbling she looked up. “Continue. Which Iranians are involved?”

  “I don’t have any names for you yet . . . Look, for a long time Hezbollah has been working with several South American drug cartels, including La Oficina de Envigado, to supply cocaine to the U.S. and Europe. The proceeds from this drug trade are laundered through a scheme called the Black Market Peso Exchange. Ever heard of that?”

  Pouri continued rapidly taking notes and shook her head without looking up. “No. Go on.”

  “Well, one of the ESO groups controls other money-laundering schemes, which in turn provide both revenue and weapons for Hezbollah. This helps finance its terrorist activities around the world. I should say it supplements the financial support it receives from Iran. Can you really look me in the eye and say Iran is not aware of this?”

  “I, well . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “That’s naïve of you to say. You know the answer. And that is exactly what I’m trying to prove. Maybe you can help me do that. You see, the latest efforts against Hezbollah have uncovered a network of couriers busily transferring drug money from Europe to the Middle East. Much of this money has been traced going through Lebanon, where Hezbollah siphons off a large chunk. A large portion of what remains then moves on to Iran.”

  Looking up from her notepad, Pouri asked, “How do you know all this? Who are your sources?”

  “The DEA and their counterparts in France, Germany, Italy, and Belgium have recently arrested several top leaders of the ESO group. This was the result of our work over the past year or so.”

  “Again, can you be more specific? Give me some names.”

  “Sure, the main guy is a creep named Mohammad Noureddine. He’s a Lebanese money-launderer who transferred funds to Hezbollah through his company, Trade Poi
nt International. He has direct ties to terrorist elements in Lebanon, Iraq, and Syria. He and two of his cohorts—Hamdi Zaher El Dine was one of them, I don’t recall the other guy’s name—admitted that they had used criminal drug proceeds to fund terrorism and political instability in the region.”

  “And Iran is aware of all this?”

  “You’ll just have to ask them that question, won’t you?” They stared at each other before Yasmin continued, “I would start by asking Foreign Affairs Minister Mohammad Javad Zarif. After all, he’s a big fan of Imad Mughniyeh. He even visited Mughniyeh’s grave to pay his respects not too long ago . . .”

  Pouri left the safe house and started walking toward her car. The air was humid and the streets were alive with the dredges of Lebanese society. Why did Hezbollah always choose the worst neighborhoods for their safe houses?

  Actually, she knew the answer to that question. That’s where they belong, that’s where they are comfortable, and that’s where their supporters live.

  She reached her car, a dusty little Ford Focus rental, and the same three little urchins she had hired to watch it that morning came running toward her, hands outstretched, legs jumping with glee, throats yelling for their money. One of them began polishing her windshield with a greasy rag, smiling at her broadly, displaying a gap where his two front teeth used to be.

  She gave each one of them a Lebanese pound and they took off, happily waving their newfound wealth in the air. She inspected her car, noticed it did not have any new scratches or dents, and wondered what it would have looked like if she hadn’t paid the extortion.

  She felt safe again when she was in her car and on her way out of the western slums. As she headed toward her middle-class pied-à-terre in East Beirut near the corniche, she realized she was happy to be out of that dingy prison apartment. It was strange that she should feel so liberated after leaving her place of business.

  She wanted to believe Yasmin but wasn’t sure if she could. Her MOI bosses in Iran were exerting a lot of pressure to finish the interrogation quickly. If she didn’t gather true intelligence and finish the interrogation as soon as possible, they would replace her with one of their torturers. And she did not want that to happen.

  Knuckles white on the steering wheel, she decided to take a short walk along the corniche before reporting the information she had received from Yasmin. She parked a mile away from her apartment and began walking at a brisk pace. The wind ghosted across the shimmering sea and swept past her in waves, forcing her to cross her arms and huddle as she marched. Noticing a father enjoying the view with his two young children not far ahead, she stopped and turned to glare at the beautiful water below. She looked up at the pale blue sky and felt her hand tighten on the metal railing that kept pedestrians from falling into the sea. The sky was the same color as the shirt he always wore.

  When she was young, her father traveled for work and her mother frequently accompanied him. While they were away, Pouri stayed with her mother’s brother, who worked from home to take care of his wife. She was soft-spoken and always very kind to Pouri when her multiple sclerosis didn’t restrict her to a bed.

  Looking after herself at her uncle’s house suited Pouri just fine. She enjoyed inventing games only she knew the rules to. But she was not the only one.

  The first time it happened, she was lying in the middle of a rug trying to spot animals in its intricate patterns. The object of the game was to find the most threatening beast and sit on it before it clawed its way through the rug’s thin fibers and ate her. She was darting between a cheetah and a bear when she noticed a salamander eating a deer out of the corner of her eye. For some reason, the audacity of the small creature made her laugh, and she collapsed on top of it in a fit of giggles. That’s when her uncle started screaming.

  He was standing in the doorway, wearing the same black business suit and blue, buttoned-down shirt he always wore. He accused her of never shutting up, of always interrupting his work, and of making her aunt’s migraines worse. She lay still as stone as he charged toward her. For some reason, her entire body went numb. She couldn’t move an inch, not even when he stood over her with the belt.

  He never broke the skin and always made sure the damage was superficial enough to disappear before her parents returned. He threatened to hurt her in worse ways if she ever told anyone, but she still thought of telling her parents every time they took her home. Whenever she tried, a lump would grow in her throat and words would abandon her. She hated herself for not being braver and for feeling ashamed of something that wasn’t her fault.

  She was slow to learn that begging and crying did not stop the beatings. But she was quick to learn that her uncle had no patience for children, especially when they accidentally dropped things, or refused to eat food they didn’t like, or laughed too loudly. She tried her best to learn the rules that would keep her safe, but they seemed to change daily. Something that wouldn’t bother her uncle one day would incense him the next.

  Pouri learned too late that chaos has no rules.

  When she was thirteen, her uncle died in a car crash. At the funeral, her mother explained that he was bipolar and that his manic episodes sometimes made him a reckless driver. To this day, she could not articulate the thoughts that had passed through her mind at that moment.

  Standing over his fresh grave, Pouri decided to bury his evil along with his body. What difference would the truth make now? The damage was already done. Denying his memory the sordid pleasure of tormenting her in the future was the only revenge she could achieve.

  But thoughts of her aunt still haunted her. She was never present when the abuse happened, but hadn’t she heard Pouri scream? How could her uncle have kept such behavior a secret?

  Maybe he didn’t. Maybe her aunt’s multiple sclerosis wasn’t the only thing that kept her bedridden.

  A child laughed, and it brought Pouri back to the present. She watched as the father shepherded his children further down the corniche. Pouri turned and started walking back to her car, lost in thought.

  She wanted no part of torture. But this was a minority view in Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence. Just the thought of it being applied to Yasmin made her wince. She had convinced her bosses that torture would not be necessary in this case, and so far she had been correct. At least she thought so.

  The shock and feeling of despair that Yasmin exhibited right after her abduction, combined with the isolation in the days that followed, appeared to have had their desired effect. And her malnourishment seemed to aid this process. When she was allowed to bathe and change into clean clothes, her whole attitude changed. Yasmin became more cooperative, if in fact she was telling the truth.

  Pouri hoped so. She knew Yasmin was probably holding some things back—this was just human nature—but she did not want to harm the intelligent woman she had come to respect and admire. No, she would not hurt Yasmin. She would not hurt anyone the way she had been hurt.

  But how could she protect Yasmin from the interrogator that would surely follow if she hadn’t been honest?

  Well, she wouldn’t have to worry about that for another two or three days. It would take them that long to evaluate the most recent information Yasmin had provided. Pouri hoped it would all check out.

  CHAPTER 22

  Maggie sat across from Santos in his GSR office in Fort Lauderdale. He asked, “How’s Mac doing?”

  “He’s still hanging out in Cyprus, probably working on his tan at the Hilton pool, eating too much and visiting old ruins.”

  Santos laughed, “You’ve certainly got his number. I’ll bet that’s exactly what he’s doing out there.”

  “But while he was lounging by the pool, his asset, Hadi Kashmiri, was doing great things.”

  She briefed him on Kashmiri’s recruiting accomplishments. Santos listened intently and when she was finished, he let out a long breath of air. “Wow! That Kashmiri guy is super. And you brought him to us, didn’t you? You deserve a medal for this.”

&nb
sp; “No, the one who deserves the medal is Mac. He’s the one who pulled all the strings. But we aren’t there yet. We’re still waiting to see what will happen after Nabil’s meeting with Walid. I’m pretty confident Walid will buy the story. Nabil certainly did, but you never know . . .”

  “You mean, that the Ayatollah is behind the whole thing?”

  “Exactly, and whether the guy can keep a secret. If he starts bragging to his Hezbollah buddies, we’re dead in the water.”

  Santos chuckled, “Interesting choice of words—dead in the water! If he takes the money, we’ll be fine. Nabil will share some of his newfound wealth with Walid, won’t he?”

  “I certainly hope so. That was the plan. We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Santos stood up, walked to the window and gazed out at the Intracoastal Waterway bustling with white yachts below. “So, what’s the next step? We wait?”

  Maggie shook her head and joined him at the window. “No. In fact, we may be running out of time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rothmann called yesterday. He’s worried, really worried. He asked a lot of questions about our progress, and I filled him in as best I could over the phone. We’re both using throwaways, but still . . .”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, he’s following the intercepts, you know.”

  Santos nodded. “I assume we’re pretty well plugged in? What did the DDO learn?”

  “We’re pretty well plugged in, but it could be better. He said there’s a fair amount of chatter between Hezbollah and Iran, and some of it appears to be about this case. It seems that Iran is unhappy about the pace of the interrogations and wants to bring our gal to Tehran.”

  “Ouch, that would not be good.”

  “No, not at all. Hezbollah is against it. They’re guarding their turf, which is good for us. It looks like they’re arguing that the interrogator is Iranian, so there is no need to bring her to Iran.”