False Flag

by F. W. Rustmann Jr.

  Santos blanched. “An Iranian interrogator? You’re sure?”

  “That’s what it sounds like.”

  “So, the Ministry of Intelligence is definitely controlling the operation. That’s good news and bad news. Good news because the Iranians will probably take better care of their hostage than the Hezbollah thugs would, but bad news because it means they know they have a very important prisoner in their hands.”

  Maggie tucked an errant strand of graying hair behind her ear and looked up at him over her glasses. “They know what they have,” she said with certainty.

  “Then I’d better get out there right now.”

  “Not so fast! We’ve got some preparations to take care of first.”

  “What preparations?”

  “Well, think about it. If you’re going out there to rescue this damsel in distress, you’re going to need some support.”

  “We need to know where the hell she is. That’s what we need.”

  “Yes, that’s the most important thing. And Mac is working on it as we speak. But once we know where she is, you guys will still have to figure out how to get her out of Lebanon.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said Santos a bit sheepishly. “We’ll need an exfiltration plan.”

  “And a capture plan.”

  “Yes, we’ll need weapons and a boat.”

  “Now you’re thinking.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Walid showed up at his uncle’s apartment a little past eleven o’clock in the evening. He was dressed in a traditional white dishdasha man-dress and black shoes. An attractive man in his late thirties, he sported longish black hair and a slender but athletic physique. He was happy to see his uncle after such a long time and they embraced warmly.

  Nabil fixed them tea and they settled into comfortable chairs in a sparsely furnished living room. Walid complained that his boss demanded too much of his time and wanted Walid to be constantly at his beck and call.

  “So, you are not so happy with your current work?”

  “No, uncle, it is quite boring. I am nothing more than a driver for a thankless idiot. I want to be a fighter, like you were. But for the past few months I’ve been nothing but a flunky for this moron. You know him. Abu Salah.”

  Nabil flinched at the word “were.” It was true, he was no longer a fighter. Just an old cripple in a wheelchair. “Oh yes, I know him. You are right. He is very strict, very old school. Not a pleasant man.”

  “And right now he does nothing but stay in an apartment. He is watching over someone . . .”

  “What do you mean, watching over someone?”

  Walid thought for a moment before responding, “I’m not supposed to talk about it. It’s a huge secret.”

  Nabil nodded, took a long sip of tea and thoughtfully placed his cup on the coffee table in front of him. He looked up at Walid and said, “That’s why I asked you over here. There is a problem, a very serious problem. And you and I have been asked to help.”

  “Help? I cannot help with anything. I’m just a chauffeur these days.”

  “You happen to be in a very important position right now, a very important position. That’s why I’ve been asked to seek your assistance. I’ve been told what you are doing.”

  Walid put his hands up. “You can’t know. Only a small number of cadres know, and they are all very senior Hezbollah officers. Except for me, of course . . .”

  “Don’t sell yourself short, nephew. You are very important, and you are part of a very important operation. You are a part of a small group of people who transport, guard, and feed an extraordinarily important asset, an American CIA spy. Did you know that?”

  Walid squirmed in his chair and looked at his uncle with wide eyes. “I, I . . . How do you know this?”

  “I have been told by someone much higher than Abu Salah or Abu Salah’s bosses or their bosses in Hezbollah. I have been chosen to talk to you in the strictest confidence by the supreme leader himself.”

  “The Ayatollah? In Iran?”

  “Yes, that is how far up this goes in the chain of command. The Ayatollah and his people in the intelligence directorate have asked me to speak privately with you. They chose me because I am your uncle and because I brought you into Hezbollah.”

  Walid’s eyes grew wide in disbelief and pride. “I will do whatever he asks. I will die before I let him down. Please, you must convey to him my sincere appreciation and thanks for the trust and confidence he has placed in me and you.”

  “I knew you would feel that way.” Nabil smiled, reached across the table and grasped both of Walid’s hands. “We are in this together, you and me. No one else can know about this. Understand? May I have your pledge?”

  “You have my solemn pledge, uncle. I say this in Allah’s name . . .”

  CHAPTER 24

  Maggie was no stranger to operational planning. Her many years in the operations directorate, especially the ones spent in the ranks of the lofty senior intelligence service, provided her with ample on-thejob training in the planning and execution of clandestine operations.

  She knew instinctively that any rescue operation would require reliable transportation for exfiltration. And given the location of Beirut on the coast, it did not take a genius to know a yacht would be the best choice.

  Flipping through the Rolodex of her mind, Maggie tried to think of a contact with access to a suitable oceangoing yacht but came up blank. Then she thought of Buck Herring, the pilot who had flown them in and out of Roatán on a sensitive exfiltration operation a few months ago. Herring was in the business of transporting people in and out of dark places without a trace, often for the CIA. He had orchestrated hundreds of infiltration and exfiltration operations for the CIA and other more nefarious clients. If anyone knew someone in the maritime field who could do the same thing, it would be Buck Herring. He had been in the “transporting” business for a long time. It was hard to walk away from such a lucrative business model. People will pay a pretty penny to appear and disappear like magic.

  She called Herring and explained what was required: a yacht big enough and fast enough to carry three or four passengers and some sensitive cargo between Beirut and Cyprus black—without going through customs in either location. The captain had to be reliable, discreet, and willing to take a few risks.

  Herring claimed he knew one or two people who could fit the bill, but he would need time to secure everything. He said he would make a few calls and get back to her in a day or so. Maggie asked him to be quick about it.

  The following morning Herring called back.

  He recommended a man he had worked with before, one who also had Agency connections. Herring explained that his friend, Nikos Fotopolous, had assisted the CIA in the capture of the terrorist Fawaz Yunis, a lieutenant of Hezbollah’s Imad Mughniyeh.

  The operation had taken place in international waters off the coast of Cyprus back in 1987. Maggie remembered it well. At the time, she was a junior officer in the CIA’s fledgling Counterterrorism Center, working for Rothmann and Dewey Clarridge. She had watched the operation unfold from the CTC Watch Center at Langley.

  Fawaz Yunis was lured by a CIA asset to Fotopolous’s yacht, which was drifting in the Mediterranean a couple miles east of Limassol. The bait was a suitcase full of one-hundred-dollar bills and the promise of a huge drug deal. When the small boat carrying Yunis arrived at the yacht, he was arrested by two huge, seasick FBI agents who slammed him to the deck so hard they broke both his wrists. As they were cuffing him, Yunis looked up in fear and asked, “Are you guys Mossad?” When they replied that they were American FBI agents and read him his rights, he sighed in relief and muttered, “Thank God.”

  Nikos Fotopolous observed all of this in great amusement from the bridge of his yacht.

  The CIA’s original plan was to have two female and two male FBI agents on the yacht to welcome Yunis. The women were supposed to be wearing skimpy bikinis and waving as Yunis pulled alongside the yacht. The two bulky, male FBI agen
ts were supposed to remain out of sight until the last minute.

  But nothing went as planned. None of the FBI agents were sailors. So, even in the calm waters of the Mediterranean, they all became seasick. During the two-plus hour wait for Yunis, with the yacht gently pitching and yawing in the sea, they spent most of their time below deck in one of the two heads, taking turns puking into the toilets.

  By the time Yunis arrived the two women were so ill they refused to come out of the heads. And the two men, weakened by nausea, just wanted to get the job over with as quickly as possible, hence the rough handling when Yunis climbed aboard.

  After his arrest, the yacht sped back to the gray-bottomed United States aircraft carrier Saratoga. Yunis was then flown to Andrews Air Force Base in a military aircraft.

  The arrest was the first under a new anti-terrorism law that permitted United States agents to apprehend terrorist suspects overseas without seeking approval or cooperation from other nations. Yunis was subsequently tried and convicted and remains in a federal prison serving out a life sentence.

  After hearing Herring’s nomination, Maggie agreed that Nikos Fotopolous was the right man for the job.

  Fotopolous was in his seventies, but his years at sea had kept him trim and fit and he was still very active. His home base was Piraeus, Greece. And he now spent most of his time ferrying well-heeled tourists around the Greek Isles. But when Maggie called and offered him an opportunity to get back in the game, he leaped at the chance. Excitement and money are prime motivators for intelligence operatives. “My decks are cleared for you, Maggie,” he declared.

  Fotopolous was now in possession of a heavily mortgaged, two-year-old Ferretti Altura 840. It was 84.6 feet long with a twenty-foot beam, powered by twin MTU engines. Its top speed was close to thirty knots per hour and its range was 350 nautical miles, more than enough to make the run back and forth from Limassol to Beirut. It could carry up to twenty passengers, so the anticipated three or four would travel in great comfort.

  Maggie looked it up. It was a beautiful, Italian-designed yacht. She would not mind spending a few relaxing days on it at all. They agreed it would be perfect for this operation.

  The next item on Maggie’s list was provisions. She left the food, wine, and alcohol provisioning to Fotopolous and asked Santos to secure the “special” provisions.

  Santos reached out to a trusted contact, Bill Barker, who lived a few miles south in the Florida Keys, for guns and ammo. Using a blind phone, he set up the meeting with Barker, stating he was Ralph Callaway and was sent by Tom Willett. Barker recalled the names immediately and invited him down to Islamorada for a meeting.

  Rothmann and Santos used the aliases Willett and Callaway a year earlier when they had reached out to Barker. Santos and MacMurphy had needed specialized arms, ammunition, and other essentials for an operation in the Golden Triangle region of northern Thailand. Barker had made a nice profit on the sale and delivery of the arms and equipment.

  Santos mentioned that he was looking for equipment that was similar to what he and Bob Humphrey (MacMurphy’s alias) had purchased last year. When he arrived at Barker’s oceanfront home in Islamorada; Barker already had several guns lined up on his living room couch.

  Bill Barker was a big, drawling southerner who was a prized covert asset of the CIA and a long-time contact of Rothman. He had come through for Santos and MacMurphy in their recent Golden Triangle gig, and he would be a perfect asset for this gig as well. Barker was an expert in small arms and ultra-long-range rifles, and he knew how to securely deliver them anywhere in the world without the normal customs red tape.

  The big man ushered Santos into a long, sun-filled room overlooking the turquoise Atlantic. “Ah assembled guns like you boys got for that Thailand gig a while back. Not much has changed since then in the way of technology, so I suspect they’ll do just fine for whatever y’all got in mind this time around. Of course, it all depends on what you boys are up to on this little adventure.”

  Santos stood in front of the couch, admiring the display and nodding in approval. “Good thinking, Bill. This looks about right.” He glanced over at Barker and said with a wink, “I see you left out the ricin this time.”

  That quip elicited a guffaw out of Barker. During their last visit, Santos and MacMurphy had purchased many vials of ricin to poison a drug lord’s shipment of heroin. “I got it if you need it,” he said.

  Santos replied with a huge grin, “We won’t be needing your pharmaceutical talents this time around.”

  Neatly arranged on the couch was a magnificent collection: one Noreen 338LM Lapua semi-automatic sniper rifle with a scope and suppressor; two POF 416 5.56mm submachine guns with one hundred round C-Mag drums, suppressors, and night vision lasers; two sets of night vision goggles; two Heckler & Koch MK 23 .45 caliber handguns with quick detach suppressors and holsters; and two Russian-made Spetsnaz ballistic knives.

  “I think you thought of everything. Well done. Can you get all of this and plenty of ammo to Piraeus, Greece, for us?”

  “Piraeus? Y’all gonna do some yachtin’?”

  Santos blanched.

  “Never mind,” Barker laughed. “I know you boys can’t talk about anythin’ y’all are up to. Just jerkin’ your tail . . .”

  Santos smiled and handed him a note with two addresses on it. “Send the shipment to Nikos Fotopolous at the first address in Piraeus. Throw in a couple of Kevlar vests for Bob and me, and night vision gear, and whatever else you think we may need. Send the bill to me at the second address along with your wiring instructions. We’ll get you paid immediately.”

  “I know you boys are good for it. No problem. By the way, how’s Humphrey doin’? Give him my regards.”

  “Bob’s doing just fine. And I’m sure he’ll appreciate the Lapua rifle in this batch of goodies. I didn’t think of it, and I don’t think we’ll need it, but it will make him real happy just the same.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Yasmin knew something was wrong the moment Pouri walked into the safe house. Pouri motioned for her to get off the bed and take a seat in her usual place behind the card table. She spoke not a word of greeting and seated herself, head down, on the other side of the table.

  Pouri seemed to be thinking about what she was about to say. Finally, she raised her head and locked onto Yasmin’s eyes. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. “They don’t believe you,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “They just don’t believe you.”

  Yasmin reached across the table and grasped both of the woman’s hands. Oddly, she felt more concern for Pouri than she did for herself. Even though she knew what this news would mean for her.

  She heard herself saying, “It’s okay. You tried your best. I know you did. It’s okay, Pouri . . .”

  Pouri pulled a tissue from her bag, dabbed at her eyes and blew into it. She got up slowly, walked to the side of the bed, tossed the tissue into a wastebasket and turned to face Yasmin. “I did try. I honestly did. They just think my methods were too . . . too gentle. They think you are holding information back . . . important information . . . I . . .”

  Yasmin stood and went over to Pouri and enveloped her in her arms. Pouri burst into tears once again and stood there, sobbing in Yasmin’s arms, rocking back and forth. For some reason, comforting her interrogator seemed natural to Yasmin. Their mutual respect had grown into the kind of admiration sisters shared. And ever since her bath, Yasmin had begun to suspect that Pouri felt guilty about interrogating her.

  When Pouri had calmed down, Yasmin asked, “What are they going to do to me? What is going to happen to you? Will I ever see you again?”

  Pouri looked deeply into her eyes. “Yes. So many concerns, so many unknowns. I will do my best to protect you. We still have a few days to figure something out.”

  “That’s not a lot of time. Will they torture me? What will they do to me?”

  If Pouri had been a smoker, this would have been the time to light up, inhale deeply, and exhale a lon
g, slow stream of smoke. It would give her time to collect her thoughts and think before responding.

  Instead, she gulped back a sob that emerged from deep within her and said, “They will make you admit you collected information on our nuclear program, and they will make you give us the names of all your sources. This is what they think your mission was, and they will not stop until they have all the evidence they need to back up their belief.”

  Yasmin shuddered. “Then you have to help me escape, Pouri. You must.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Kashmiri dug into an enormous steak while summarizing his most recent meeting with Nabil to MacMurphy. “So, that’s where we are. We’ve got a clear path to Walid and Abu Salah through Nabil. Everyone’s on board. We’re ready to start producing information for you.” He grinned broadly. “Now what’s your first question?”

  MacMurphy tipped his wine glass at Kashmiri. “You really came through for us, Hadi. I owe you.” He thought a moment, swished his wine around in the glass and took a long sip of the oaky Bordeaux. “I don’t think we have a lot of time. Let’s ask Walid to create a sort of diary of his past two weeks with Abu Salah.”

  “What he did and where he went?”

  “Exactly. We need to know where our officer is being held.”

  Kashmiri brushed his plate away and pushed himself back from the table before responding. “But why don’t we just ask him where they are holding her?”

  “Because the Ayatollah and his people would probably already know that.”

  “Good point. Our questions need to make it seem like we only want to check up on Abu Salah and his Hezbollah bosses.”

  MacMurphy nodded. “Exactly. Our interest is in Hezbollah. Their hostage is only of tangential interest. We need to keep our questions focused on Abu Salah and his activities. That’s our cover story.”

  “I understand. It’s a question of how we pose the questions to get the information we desire.”