False Flag

by F. W. Rustmann Jr.

  “Hezbollah is in charge of your security, and Iran is in charge of your interrogation. And Hezbollah and Iran do not see eye to eye on everything. Even their goals are different. Hezbollah would like to ransom you for money or a trade while Iran wants you as an intelligence source and possibly a bargaining chip later on. They want to milk you dry and then trade you for some concession or prisoner or whatever . . .”

  Yasmin smiled sadly and said, “Looks like I’m between the proverbial rock and a hard place.”

  Pouri squeezed her hand. “You certainly are . . .”

  Yasmin pulled her hand back, sat up straight, and asked, “Okay then, you’re the expert. What can I expect from now on? Don’t pull punches. What’s going to happen to me?”

  Pouri answered thoughtfully, “I think they will move you to a new location very soon. You have been here almost two weeks. It’s time to move. That’s Hezbollah’s modus operandi.”

  “And what about you?” Yasmin asked.

  “I don’t know. They are not happy with me. I think they will replace me with another interrogator.”

  Yasmin flinched and shook her head. “How did it come to this? Iran and America were close allies not that many years ago. Now we are bitter enemies.”

  “I remember—or at least I remember hearing my parents speak about it—the way things were before the revolution. I was a little girl when the Shah was overthrown and Ayatollah Khomeini returned from exile in Paris. Suddenly everything changed. The move from a westernized nation to a fanatical religious country was swift. The religious police would beat women in the streets for wearing western style clothing. Western music was banned. Then there was the war with Iraq and millions died. It was horrible.”

  Yasmin nodded, “One of my history professors described it as the most egregious foreign policy mistake made by America in the twentieth century. The Shah was far from perfect, but compared to the Ayatollah he was a saint. The cruel vengeance the Ayatollah reaped on his people was unbelievable.”

  “But it was predictable,” said Pouri. “One only had to look into the eyes of Ayatollah Khomeini to see a hatred and a lust for vengeance. All of the pictures of him demonstrated that. Under his rule, my parents’ lives changed forever. They were an educated, westernized couple and were suddenly thrown back into the Stone Age.”

  “And from a foreign policy perspective,” said Yasmin, “America lost its closest ally in the Persian Gulf. Overnight, an ally that had maintained peace and stability in the gulf region with arms purchased from the U.S. was turned into an adversary that needed to be boxed in and contained by American forces, which were sent into the region at great expense.”

  “And look at the entire Middle East region today,” said Pouri. “It’s true that when America sneezes, the rest of the world catches cold.”

  “Then why not join me and try to make things better?” asked Yasmin with a wink.

  “Always thinking like a CIA case officer, aren’t you?” replied Pouri with a laugh.

  “Well,” countered Yasmin, “it’s worth considering if things get really bad. Just a thought to keep in mind . . .”

  CHAPTER 31

  Limassol Marina was certainly not Monaco or Nice, but it did have its share of huge, white luxury yachts lined up in slips reaching far out into the harbor. One of those yachts had arrived in the early morning hours. It was tied up at the end of one of the docks, waiting to be assigned a more permanent slip. The name of the yacht was Theano, in honor of its owner’s daughter. It was a sleek, cream-colored Ferretti Altura 840.

  Nikos Fotopolous lounged behind the wheel on the flying bridge. He thoughtfully puffed on a cigarette while waiting for the customs inspector. The yacht had performed well during the trip and he was happy to be able to relax.

  Fotopolous was a familiar figure in Limassol, having visited frequently over the past forty years. And he was not concerned about the cache of arms and ammunition in his yacht’s hold. The customs inspectors were all old friends. Some gentle conversation, a smoke, and a one hundred Cyprus pound note passed along through a handshake would keep the inspector from looking any further than the main cabin.

  The inspectors knew that well-healed passengers needed their supply of hashish and cocaine, and they figured a little recreational pot and snuff was not hurting anyone anyway. They would never suspect a cache of weapons and ammo, which was just as well.

  After passing the customs check and moving the Ferretti into an assigned slip, Fotopolous went below to take a well-deserved nap. His passengers were expected to arrive around mid-afternoon. He would need rest before setting out for Lebanon.

  Santos and MacMurphy arrived at the marina at three o’clock in the afternoon. They parked their rental car in the marina lot and headed for slip number 102. They were dressed similarly in tan shorts, boat shoes, and light-colored polo shirts. Each man pulled a piece of luggage and carried a backpack slung over one shoulder. Just two dudes on their way to a cruise around the Greek islands; one was lanky and gray-headed, and the other was shorter and square with an unkempt dark beard.

  They found Theano near the end of the pier. She was backed into her slip with a ladder leading directly onto the after-deck. Santos called out to Fotopolous, who quickly appeared from below deck, looking refreshed and ready to go.

  He was dressed neatly in a white captain’s uniform and cap, which contrasted with his unruly shock of longish gray hair, deeply tanned, weather-beaten face and bare feet. His eyes were pale gray and deeply creased from years of squinting into the sun. He sported a bushy, salt-and-pepper moustache and a four-day-old beard. They later learned that Fotopolous shaved only once a week—on Sunday mornings before church. That was, of course, when he was able to attend. If not, he would just let it grow for another week or two until he could attend.

  Santos and MacMurphy dropped their packs on the deck and greeted Fotopolous warmly, briefly talking about mutual friends like Maggie Moore and Buck Herring and generally playing the “do you remember so-and-so?” game. MacMurphy made a point of praising Fotopolous for the key role he played during the Fawaz Yunis capture a few miles off the same Cypriot coast thirty-some years ago. The comment drew a huge grin and a proud, “aw-shucks” response from the old sailor. It cemented their “we’re all members of the same secret group” affiliation.

  Fotopolous gave them a quick tour of the yacht and showed them their cabins. After MacMurphy and Santos stowed their gear they all gathered around the table in the spacious, air-conditioned main cabin to discuss plans.

  Fotopolous served a couple of cold beers from the fridge while MacMurphy briefed him on the kidnapping, telling him just enough to allow him to perform his function effectively but not any more than was necessary. A strict adherence to the need-to-know policy.

  “The short story is that Hezbollah grabbed one of our officers off the street about three weeks ago. She’s a young woman and doesn’t have a lot of operational experience. We believe she’s being held in a safe house in the southern suburbs of Beirut.”

  Fotopolous nodded.

  “We have the address. It’s an apartment building just east of the airport. We need to get there, grab the woman and get out. That’s the bones of our plan. How we accomplish it is largely up to you. Your main job is to get us into Beirut without anyone knowing and to get us the hell out of there when we’re done.”

  Santos added, “You will need to drop us off somewhere where customs and immigration will not present a problem. And then we will need to get from the drop-off point to Beirut and back again.”

  MacMurphy looked directly into Fotopolous’s pale eyes. “Can you do that?”

  Fotopolous removed his cap, scratched his mane of white hair, replaced the cap, and said, “Yeah, what the hell, I think I can handle that . . .”

  CHAPTER 32

  The crossing from Cyprus to Lebanon was uneventful and slow and quite pleasant, giving the team plenty of time to fine-tune their plans. Fotopolous spent a good portion of the voyage on
the satphone, arranging things for their arrival. It was time well spent.

  The night they arrived, they could see the distant lights of Juniyah to the north and Beirut to the south. The pulsating light at the end of the Dbaiyeh Marina breakwater, their destination, lay directly in front of them.

  Fotopolous had chosen a small, private marina close to the larger Dbaiyeh Marina because it had little commercial activity and contained mostly pleasure yachts, many of which belonged to American diplomats from the nearby United States Embassy. It also had no immigration and customs office, and the dock-master’s office was unmanned during the evenings. Foreign visitors were supposed to report their arrivals and departures to the main office in Beirut. There was a phone on the main dock for that exact purpose, but few people bothered with this detail.

  The Theano gently rolled and pitched as it approached the coast of Lebanon. It moved silently at not much more than idle speed. Fotopolous eased the yacht around the breakwater and into the quiet marina. He skillfully docked the Theano at the end of one of the finger piers, and MacMurphy and Santos helped him tie off.

  Santos jumped down onto the pier and MacMurphy hefted the two heavy bags down to him. MacMurphy turned to Fotopolous, shook his hand in thanks, and followed Santos down to the dock. The two hurried down the pier to the parking lot where a late-model Toyota Land Cruiser, rented by one of Fotopolous’s trusted contacts, awaited them.

  Santos reached under the left, front wheel-well and retrieved an envelope taped to the top of the tire. It contained a set of car keys and two hotel key cards.

  Santos drove while MacMurphy adjusted the car’s GPS to guide them down Seaside Road, past central Beirut, and on to the Coral Beach Hotel and Resort. The hotel was located on the beach and was just three miles west of the Beirut Rafic-Hariri International Airport. It was also close to their target address on Lailake Road in the southern Shia neighborhood.

  Less than an hour after walking off the Theano, they pulled into the parking lot of the five-star hotel and proceeded directly to adjacent rooms 420 and 422 for a well-deserved rest. Their rooms had been rented and paid for in advance by the same Fotopolous contact who had rented and planted their vehicle.

  MacMurphy couldn’t help but think, Nice job, Nikos . . .

  CHAPTER 33

  The phone jolted MacMurphy awake.

  “Mac, this is Maggie. Did I wake you?”

  “Of course, you did. It’s . . . what time is it?”

  “It’s eight-thirty in the morning, your time. Sounds like you arrived okay. Are you in the hotel?”

  MacMurphy sat up and tried to clear the gunk from his brain. He was always like this in the morning. His deepest sleep came in the early morning hours and he always hated getting out of bed. In this respect, he was like a teenager. “Yes, we arrived early this morning. What’s up?”

  “I wouldn’t normally bother you so early, knowing how much you like to sleep, but this is important. Edwin just called to warn us that they may be getting ready to move our friend.”

  “What!” MacMurphy struggled to absorb the information. He knew that as the DDO, Rothmann had access to NSA intercept information and that the CIA was monitoring this situation closely. Something discussed between Iran and Hezbollah must have tipped him off. “Do we have a timeframe?”

  “That’s all he knows.”

  “Okay, we’ll get out there ASAP. Is there anything else?”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Always. Thanks, Maggie. Keep us posted. Bye . . .” MacMurphy hung up and phoned Santos’s room but there was no answer. He knew Santos was an early riser and was probably down in the dining room having breakfast. He quickly showered, dressed, and entered the downstairs dining room in twenty minutes. Sure enough, he found Santos chowing down on an enormous American breakfast of fried eggs, ham, sausage, toast, orange juice, and coffee.

  Santos looked up as MacMurphy approached. “Well if it isn’t sleeping beauty. You must have gotten hungry. Food’s great here. Just like back home.”

  MacMurphy slid into a chair across from him. “You better eat fast. We’ve got a problem.” He brought Santos up to speed as he wolfed down a couple slices of toast with butter and jam and ordered a large coffee and a banana to go.

  Soon they were in the Land Cruiser heading toward 67 Lailake Road. The morning traffic was heavy and it seemed like every other driver was leaning on his horn, creating a cacophony of street noise. Only a few traffic lights were working in the run-down, working-class neighborhood, which created gnarled traffic jams at various intersections.

  The Land Cruiser was a good choice. They sat up high with a good view of the surrounding traffic. And SUVs like Land Cruisers were abundant in Beirut, especially white ones that were cooler in the summer heat, like the one they were driving.

  They found the address without any difficulty and made a slow pass in front of the target building. MacMurphy took several photos of it through the car windows as they passed.

  Walid’s description proved accurate. It was a narrow, three-story building wedged between an auto repair shop and an electronics store. People passed by but they saw no one entering or leaving the building. The entrance door was closed and there was a button on the door jam, which was probably used to buzz the door open from the outside. The door was solid wood with no windows.

  The street teemed with cars, trucks, pedestrians, shoppers, bicycles, and generally the dregs of humanity. To say it was a lower-class neighborhood would be generous.

  Santos looked over at MacMurphy and shook his head. MacMurphy nodded in agreement. They both understood that this surveillance was going to be a bitch. There were no other westerners in sight. They were going to stick out like dogs in a horse race.

  Finally, MacMurphy said, “We can’t get out of the car. We’re just going to have to keep circling around.”

  “Yup, the minute we step out from behind these tinted windows, we’ll attract a crowd. Doesn’t look like there’s any good place to park either,” said Santos.

  “Maybe something will open up.” MacMurphy thought a moment and then added, “Damn, this is bad. We really need an indigenous surveillance team on this job.”

  Santos nodded in agreement as he maneuvered the large SUV through traffic. “What about bringing Kashmiri on board? We need someone on the street, and he would certainly blend in. The need-toknow principle might have to be relaxed in this case.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right. He’s probably still in Cyprus but he could get over here in a day. I’ll give him a call. Meanwhile, let’s keep circling the block and taking photos. Something might change.”

  MacMurphy called Kashmiri, confirmed that he was indeed still in Cyprus, asked him to meet them at their hotel the following morning in a rental car and advised him to dress like a poor native.

  They continued their surveillance in vain. During one pass, they noticed a man in a white man-dress with a full beard smoking a cigarette in front of the entrance. But aside from that, there was no activity. The problem was the time between each pass. Each circle took ten to fifteen minutes and they only had the entrance in sight for about a minute each time.

  Before too long, MacMurphy said, “I think we need to give this a rest for a while. We’re going to attract attention if we keep this up much longer. Let’s drive to a more metropolitan area near the airport, get something to eat, and buy you one of those dishdasha man-dresses. That beard you’re sprouting looks pretty good right now, and you might be able to pass as an Arab if you keep your mouth shut. What do you think?”

  At first Santos scoffed at the idea, but the more he thought about it . . . “Lunch is a great idea, and maybe the man-dress isn’t such a bad idea. I’m glad we’ll have Kashmiri with us, though. He’s the real deal and we may not have a lot of time left.”

  CHAPTER 34

  MacMurphy and Santos drove west, skirted north around the airport, and turned onto Ouzai Highway, which ran north and south along the coast. They located a moder
n shopping mall where they grabbed a quick lunch of falafels and beer and found a department store that sold all sorts of things, including a whole line of fashionable dishdasha man-dresses.

  “Looks pretty good on you,” said MacMurphy. Santos had exited the changing room modeling a white dishdasha robe with black piping.

  “Really?” said Santos, mock posing in front of a tall mirror.

  MacMurphy leaned toward him and whispered, “Actually you look pretty much like a terrorist. Great cover for action.”

  “You need to get one too. Look, you can conceal a whole armory of weapons under one of these things.” He demonstrated the roominess of the robe and was careful to keep his voice down. They were drawing attention from gawking customers and staff.

  MacMurphy laughed. “Good idea.” He signaled for the hovering, little sales clerk, also dressed in a dishdasha robe, to come over. He asked, “Do you have one just like this in my size?” He thought for a moment and then added, “And how about a couple of matching, what do you call them, beanie hats?”

  “Kufi,” said the sales clerk. “It’s called a kufi.”

  Santos rolled his eyes. “Whatever . . .”

  Fed and purchases made, they headed back to Lailake to continue their sporadic surveillance. On their second pass, they saw the same bearded man squatting in front of the building smoking a cigarette.

  “You think he belongs in that building?” asked Santos.

  “Could be,” said MacMurphy. “Maybe one of the guards.”

  “I’m really afraid we’re going to heat this place up if we keep doing this for much longer. Why don’t we limit our passes to one an hour, each time coming from a different direction?”