False Flag

by F. W. Rustmann Jr.

“Right, things that Iran would be interested in.”

  Kashmiri stood up and prepared to leave. “Okay, I’ll head over to Nabil’s place right now.” He dropped his napkin on the table and stuck out his hand to say goodbye.

  “Hold on. Let’s give our guys a little incentive to act rapidly.” He withdrew an envelope from his back pocket and pushed it over to Kashmiri. “Here’s five thousand dollars to grease the skids a bit. Change it into Lebanese Pounds and divide it up among the three of you.”

  “I’ll do better than that. Let’s see, five thousand U.S. dollars amounts to about seven and a half million Lebanese Pounds. I’ll prepare envelopes for Nabil and Walid with three and a half million pounds in each. I’ll keep the spare change and then seal each envelope and address them in Farsi to ‘N’ and ‘W’ from ‘Your friends in Iran.’ Would that work?”

  MacMurphy smiled. He was pleased at the way this operation was unfolding. Kashmiri was learning fast and he was resourceful and dependable and honest. The latter quality was especially surprising in this world of cutthroat rug merchants. “That would be perfect. A nice touch . . .”

  Kashmiri left the restaurant and drove directly to the Limassol port. There he boarded the last ferry to Beirut, arriving a little before midnight. He decided it was too late to call Nabil that night and took a cab directly to his flat.

  The next morning he addressed two plain white envelopes to “N” and “W,” carefully printing his message in Farsi to disguise his handwriting, and drove to the kiosk of his favorite moneychanger. There he converted the currency, filled the envelopes, and sealed them.

  Two days later, he arranged a meeting with Nabil at their usual café. Kashmiri arrived just as Nabil was maneuvering out of his wheelchair and into a chair at a quiet table. They shook hands over the table as Kashmiri sat down.

  After ordering tea and French croissants, a true mix of cultures common in Beirut, Kashmiri pushed the two envelopes across the table. “Put these away.”

  After glancing at them briefly, Nabil reached over and stuffed the envelopes into a pocket on the side of his wheelchair. “Feels like money,” he said.

  “It is. Quite a bit of money. From our friends. Something to show their gratitude. They also don’t want you to go out of pocket helping them. More than anything though, it’s a show of good faith.”

  Nabil was clearly pleased and humbled by the gesture. “I will not let them down, and I can assure you that Walid will not either. He will do his best to help. Just tell me what our friends need and we will get it for them.”

  Kashmiri lowered his voice and leaned forward, “As you know, they have reason to believe Abu Salah is not being, shall we say, trustworthy.”

  Nabil nodded, intensely interested.

  Kashmiri said, “They want to know where he goes and what he does. They did not give me any specifics about their suspicions, so we should just give them as much information as possible. In other words, ask Walid to note everything Abu Salah does and every place he goes. Ask him to start with the past week or so. Like a diary of sorts. That will get us started. Once they have that information I’m sure they will have more questions and follow-up requirements.”

  Nabil said, “I understand.”

  “When can you get these questions to Walid?”

  “I will ask him to come over to my flat on his way home tonight. I will give him your questions and his envelope at that time.”

  Kashmiri settled back in his chair and took a large bite out of his croissant. He sprayed flakes of the pastry as he replied, “Excellent. And . . . and when can you see him again to get his report?”

  “A few days, maybe . . . I don’t know. When do they need it?”

  “I got the impression they were very anxious to have this information. Maybe you could ask him to jot down just the highlights and then maybe get a report to us the following day. What do you think?”

  “Well, I guess I could ask him to prepare a report during the day and pass it to me the following evening. Would that be okay?”

  Kashmiri was satisfied. “That sounds like an excellent idea. I will meet you back here the day after tomorrow. Same time.”

  Nabil stuck out a strong, callused hand and they shook on it.

  CHAPTER 27

  When MacMurphy received the news that the meeting between Nabil and Kashmiri had gone well, he immediately contacted Maggie and Santos to help coordinate the rescue attempt. Meanwhile, he hoped Nabil would deliver Walid’s report to Kashmiri as soon as possible. He recalled that when the CIA was gearing up for the rescue of foreign hostages back in the 1980s, the problem wasn’t how to rescue them, it was finding them.

  More than one hundred foreigners were taken hostage in Lebanon from 1982 until 1992. Most of them were Americans and Western Europeans. At the instigation of Iran, Imad Mughniyeh and Hezbollah orchestrated the kidnappings. They included CIA Station Chief William Buckley and Marine Colonel William Higgins, both of whom were killed in captivity. Others were University of Beirut President David Dodge, Associated Press Chief Middle East Correspondent Terry Anderson, and an envoy for Anglican Church, Terry Waite.

  Hezbollah eventually went so far as to kidnap four Soviet diplomats, but they were released a month later after the KGB retaliated by kidnapping and murdering a key Hezbollah leader. This was proof to MacMurphy and anyone else who was paying attention that swift, lethal retaliation was the key to ending these kinds of terrorist actions.

  But the United States chose to dawdle and play Pat-A-Cake with Iran and Hezbollah through diplomatic channels while their hostages rotted in chains and were tortured and murdered. MacMurphy knew that things hadn’t changed much since then. The CIA still tried to orchestrate a rescue while negotiations were slogging along. They spent millions on infiltration plans, exfiltration plans, lining up rescue boats, mapping out routes and stocking clandestine warehouses in Beirut full of food, arms and ammunition, medical supplies, vehicles, and other necessary gear. They even selected advance commandos, mostly of Filipino and Middle Eastern descent, who could infiltrate and blend into the Lebanese environment. They studied maps of every house, street, and back alley of Beirut.

  But they were never launched. No rescue missions were ever attempted even after fastidious preparations. Why? They needed to locate the hostages before they could rescue them. And this they never could do. This one critical piece of intelligence eluded them.

  This was the precise reason why Rothmann decided to enlist the aid of MacMurphy and his team on this rescue mission. MacMurphy was confident that Kashmiri’s daisy chain of informants would provide that critical piece of information. He just hoped he would get it in time.

  Maggie arranged for the secure transfer of $100,000 to Nikos Fotopolous in Piraeus. The money, which came from a numbered account in the Banque Credit Suisse in Bern, Switzerland, an account that had previously been set up by MacMurphy under the alias Frederick Martin, would be a down payment for the indefinite rental and provisioning of the yacht.

  Fotopolous agreed to move the yacht to Limassol as soon as he received Bill Barker’s shipment. Santos in turn was biting Barker’s ankles to get the shipment out to Fotopolous as soon as possible.

  To get the shipment to Fotopolous without the knowledge of the authorities in the United States or Greece, Barker flew the arms to Canada via private aircraft where he arranged for a Ugandan diplomat to accept delivery. The diplomat placed the shipment into a diplomatic pouch and sent it on to the Ugandan embassy in London via a commercial flight. Upon arrival in London, the shipment was loaded onto a lorry and driven across the European Union to Piraeus by an embassy staff member. The shipment arrived safely at the dock where Fotopolous’s Ferretti was tied up. The whole process took less than a week from the time it left Islamorada in the Florida Keys.

  Once the arms and all the provisions were safely aboard, Fotopolous charted a course for Limassol, Cyprus. As requested, he left his two crewmembers on the dock and traveled alone. He told no one what his destinat
ion was.

  CHAPTER 28

  Three days after Kashmiri gave money to Nabil, the informant called Kashmiri and excitedly requested to meet at their café. Once there, Nabil explained that Walid had come to his apartment late the previous evening. “He said it was the first chance he had to break away from Abu Salah and that Abu Salah was ‘busting his balls.’ He said, ‘He treats me like I’m his personal servant. He wants me with him twenty-fourseven. He can’t even wipe his ass without my help!’”

  Kashmiri laughed as Nabil continued, “I told him that the Ayatollah’s people in Tehran were very pleased he had agreed to help and that keeping tabs on Abu Salah was an extremely high-priority issue.”

  Kashmiri was anxious. “Did you give him the assignment we discussed?”

  “Yes, I explained that they did not tell me why they distrusted Abu Salah but that they clearly do. And I also explained the diary.”

  “What did he say?” asked Kashmiri.

  “He said, ‘That’s very easy.’” Nabil pushed back in the booth and awaited Kashmiri’s praise.

  “Excellent work, Nabil. Now we are all on the same page. When can we expect him to complete his first report?”

  “He told me there was no need for a report. He said that for the past couple of weeks they’ve done nothing but guard someone in an apartment in South Beirut. They bring food and other supplies to the apartment and supervise changing guards. That is all they do. He said he spends most of his time just sitting in his car in front of the apartment, waiting for Abu Salah.”

  Kashmiri looked puzzled. “Just one address?”

  “Actually, there are two addresses. The first one was on Old Saida Road in the southeast quarter of Beirut, but then they moved to Lailake Road. That is still in the southern quarter but further west, very close to the airport.”

  Kashmiri knew Beirut well. For the most part, East Beirut was the Christian Quarter, West Beirut was Sunni Muslim, and the southern suburbs were Shia Muslim. The middle downtown area was the Green Line no-man’s land. It made sense that Hezbollah and Iran would choose to operate in the Shia section. “Can you be more specific?” he asked. “What’s the house number?”

  “Yes, the building is number 67. I have been in the neighborhood. It is in a very bad part of town. Very run down with lots of damage from the fighting that took place there.”

  “Did Walid describe the building to you?”

  “Yes, of course. I asked him that. It’s an old building with three stories and an apartment on each floor. They use the apartment on the second level.”

  “Has Walid ever been inside the building?”

  “He said he’s been in the lobby to deliver food and packages but never upstairs. He said Abu Salah would never permit that.”

  “Has Abu Salah ever discussed with Walid what he does inside the apartment?”

  Nabil shook his head. “You have to understand . . . my nephew is just a flunky for Abu Salah. He drives the car and does what he is told. Abu Salah does not confide in him or discuss things with him.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” said Kashmiri. “Walid has no idea what is going on inside the apartment or who is inside it. Is that right?”

  “Let me put it this way. He has not been told anything about what’s going on in the apartment, but he is not stupid. He has eyes and ears. He knows they are holding someone prisoner in the apartment. And he thinks it’s a woman.”

  Kashmiri blurted out, “Why does he . . .” and then he caught himself. “Sorry . . .”

  Nabil laughed. “I told you, he brings them supplies—mostly food but other things as well. One time he brought a bottle of Midol tablets and a box of Tampons.” Nabil sat back to let that sink in.

  “Okay . . . but what if those things were for one of the jailers or someone else in the apartment?”

  “I don’t think so. Walid said the only people connected with that apartment are Abu Salah, a grouchy old woman who is well past the age of menstruation, and three rotating male guards who remain out front or in the lobby at all times. Oh yes, and then there’s another woman who comes and goes. She appears to be an interrogator. She drives her own car and never spends the night there. She wouldn’t need to have that kind of stuff delivered to her.”

  Kashmiri was excited. “Why does he think she’s an interrogator?”

  “He said that’s the way it looks. She is Iranian, he thinks. She dresses and looks like an Iranian. Middle-aged woman. Quite attractive. Occasionally, she brings packages up. Stays there for hours at a time but doesn’t come every day.”

  Kashmiri had to fight his emotions. He knew he had hit the jackpot for MacMurphy and could hardly restrain himself. But his cover story was the activities of Abu Salah. He took a deep breath, calmed himself, and continued along that line of questioning. “Walid clearly has a keen eye. The Ayatollah will be pleased to know this sensitive assignment is in such capable hands. But now we are completely off topic. When does Abu Salah arrive and when does he depart?”

  Kashmiri continued along these lines for another half an hour, feigning interest until he eventually called the meeting to an end. He congratulated Nabil on a job well done and asked him to keep asking Walid for similar updates about Abu Salah.

  In truth, he couldn’t wait to get out of there so he could call MacMurphy and get back to Cyprus.

  CHAPTER 29

  MacMurphy watched through the windows of the Larnaca Airport lounge as the Cyprus Air flight from Athens touched down. While the plane taxied to its gate, MacMurphy walked to the arrivals section to meet Santos.

  The first thing MacMurphy noticed was the week’s worth of dark beard growth on Santos’s face. Other than this unshaven, scruffy quirk, he looked the same. He wore familiar blue jeans, a blue blazer with gold buttons, and a white button-down shirt. Like MacMurphy, he was a bit preppy in his dress. But the man with three advanced engineering degrees from MIT still could not completely disguise the powerful physique beneath his tailored Brooks Brothers exterior. And the beard only added another dimension to his already threatening appearance.

  As Santos walked, he towed a black leather valise small enough to fit in the overhead of the plane. Checked luggage was just one more thing to worry about these days.

  MacMurphy was happy to have Santos back in the field with him. He had excellent case officer skills, but he had a knack for getting himself into dicey situations, sometimes of his own making. Whenever that happened Santos always seemed to be there to bail him out and save the day.

  Once, while they were successfully tracking a vicious drug lord in northern Thailand, MacMurphy let his guard down by celebrating too much and trying to pick up an attractive American tourist. He had drunk way too much wine and cognac and was out of control. Santos managed to get him safely back to their hotel, but later, in the middle of the night, the druggies came looking for them. Santos heard them but could not rouse MacMurphy, who was snoring loudly in an adjacent room in an alcohol-induced slumber. Santos managed to slip out of his room in his undershorts and ambush the thugs as they were in the process of breaking into MacMurphy’s room. Santo’s quick action saved them that time and many others.

  It wasn’t just loyalty. It was mutual respect and dependency. They had been through a lot together, and each one felt he needed the other to succeed.

  The two friends embraced warmly in the terminal and headed out to the parking lot. Once in MacMurphy’s rental car, MacMurphy briefed Santos on the details of the operation during their hour-long drive up to Nicosia.

  “Everything’s falling neatly into place,” he said. “Fotopolous is bringing the yacht down to Limassol from Piraeus along with the provisions and the arms and ammunition you ordered from Barker. We’ll be ready to launch as soon as the Ferretti arrives.”

  “Do we have a plan to get our gal out of there, or will we just wing it like those child recovery jobs?” Santos asked sarcastically.

  MacMurphy winced.

  “Just kidding.” Santos knew tha
t planning was one of MacMurphy’s strong suits. He told anyone who would listen that careful planning was the key to success in any operation. But he also knew that the ability to wing it when all else failed was a gift that only the very best case officers possessed. Sometimes things just don’t go the way they are planned. “I guess the main thing we need to know is whether she’s still at that 67 Lailake Road address.”

  “We think she is, but you know how that goes. If they decide to move her, they won’t announce it in advance. That’s what they did last time,” said MacMurphy.

  Santos thought a minute, looking out the window at the bleak, dusty Cyprus countryside zipping by. “I guess we’ll have to do our own casings. The info we have is pretty sketchy.”

  “Yes, it is. I wish we could talk directly with Walid, but we actually know quite a bit: small building, target apartment on the second floor, one guard at the entrance. And the only people in the apartment are Yasmin Ghorbani, Abu Salah, an old woman in a full, black burqa and occasionally the interrogator. We should be able to handle that.”

  Still concentrating on the dusty, Middle Eastern landscape, Santos reflected, “Sounds almost too easy. Makes me nervous . . .”

  “Would you rather have it the other way?”

  “No, but I want a firsthand look myself. I’ll feel a lot better then. When’s the yacht supposed to get here?”

  MacMurphy slowed and pulled onto the off-ramp toward central Nicosia. “Day after tomorrow. I’ll give him a call later on the satphone to confirm the exact time. The Ferretti cruises at twenty-plus knots per hour, so unless he hits heavy seas, which is unlikely at this time of year, he should arrive on schedule. As soon as he gets here we’ll load up and be on our way.”

  “We’re going in black, right?”

  “Black as pitch . . .”

  CHAPTER 30

  Pouri backed away and looked quizzically at Yasmin. “What do you mean, help you escape? You know I cannot do that. I have a husband, two children, and a career. You want me to throw all that away for you?” She softened her tone when she saw Yasmin’s terrified eyes. “I would like to help you, and I will do whatever I can to protect you. But you must understand it is not me who is in charge. There are lines I cannot cross. There are limits . . .