If Amir’s refusal to answer his door meant he wasn’t interested in becoming friends with me, then my job had just gotten a whole lot harder.
When the elevator arrived on the second floor, I stepped aside to allow a young woman dressed in a dark blue manteau to exit the elevator. She smiled and lowered her head as she stepped in front of me.
Her pale-yellow headscarf had fallen down around her shoulders, and, after readjusting it, she turned and headed down the hallway in the direction of Amir’s apartment. I held the elevator open long enough to see if 205B could possibly be her destination.
The moment I saw her lift the doorknocker to 205B, I stepped inside the elevator. Then, as the doors were closing, I heard Amir invite her inside.
He sounded happy to see her. I was pretty happy about it myself.
If I’d interpreted the situation correctly, Amir’s reluctance to answer the door had nothing to do with me personally. It was simply a matter of him not wanting someone around when the young woman arrived at his place for dinner.
That was understandable.
Seeing the young woman at Amir’s door made me more determined than ever to host a dinner party at my place and invite the nuclear scientist as one of my guests.
Naturally, I planned to invite Chaman as well.
When I got back to my apartment, I sat down in front of the window in the guest bedroom and pointed my camera at the entrance to Building B. I planned to snap a few photographs of Amir’s lady friend when she left the building and then upload them to the Ops Center for identification purposes.
However, as soon as my camera was positioned correctly, I spotted Farid pulling into a parking spot in front of my building.
Chaman was with him.
Since neither of them had seen the final results of Uzan’s decorating efforts, I suspected the purpose of their impromptu visit was to critique the results.
For a moment, I considered not answering the door so I could capture some shots of the young woman. Then, I realized I couldn’t do that because Farid had probably seen my car parked outside the building.
I immediately stashed my camera in a drawer in the guest bedroom and went to the door.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Farid said, when I invited them inside, “Chaman insisted we drop by.”
“No, of course not.”
As soon as Chaman greeted me, she walked over to a carved wooden cabinet, one that Uzan had described as being “the focal point of the room.”
The cabinet was as wide as it was tall, and, as far as I could determine, it served no useful purpose whatsoever.
“This is perfect,” Chaman said, running her hand across the inlaid surface. “I love the gold accents.”
Chaman oohed and aahed her way around the living room, commenting on the gold tapestry couch and chairs, plus the mosaic coffee table.
Then, she entered the dining room.
“Exactly how I envisioned it,” she said, sitting down in one of the gilded dining chairs.
When she stood up, she patted the red velvet cushion. “It’s comfortable too.”
As Chaman walked down the hall to inspect the bedrooms, Farid leaned over and whispered in my ear. “I hope you’re not offended, Hammid, but, personally, I think Uzan overdid it.”
PART TWO
Chapter 8
Tehran, Iran
November 21, 2014
In the following weeks, I managed to have several casual encounters with Amir. One time, I ran into him in the parking lot outside my building. A few days later, I followed him down the street to a local dry-cleaning establishment and entered it just as he was leaving.
On another occasion, I strolled up to a newspaper kiosk as he was purchasing a copy of Kayhan, one of Tehran’s daily newspapers. After we exchanged greetings, I asked him if he’d like to go grab a cup of coffee with me. Although he made an excuse about running late for an appointment, he sounded sincere when he said he’d like to do it some other time.
Just before he walked off, I gave him my business card, and, a week later, he called me.
I was careful not to appear too eager when I accepted his invitation to try out a new restaurant.
During the meal, I only brought up his position at the Atomic Energy Building once. We spent most of the time discussing my background.
He seemed especially curious about my education, and I noticed he used the same type of interrogation technique I’d seen him use on Farid when he was questioning him about Chaman.
I considered his interest in me a good thing, and, in an effort to get him to share something personal with me, when we were driving back to Shemiran, I voluntarily brought up some personal things about myself, including how much I enjoyed cooking.
He laughed when I told him about my hobby. “You hardly seem the type, Hammid.”
Since cooking was considered a feminist trait in Iran, I immediately explained my culinary expertise was connected to my Swiss heritage, and I joked with him about keeping my pastime a secret.
I half-expected him to admit he wasn’t averse to cooking himself, but his only response was to shrug and quote an old Persian proverb.
“An alive person needs life,” he said.
After we arrived back at Shemiran, I decided it was time for me to take the next step in my recruitment of Amir. To that end, I issued him an invitation.
“I’ve invited a few friends to a dinner party at my place next week. Farid and Chaman plan to be there. Would you also be able to join us?”
Even though Amir didn’t appear to be totally comfortable with me yet, he immediately accepted my invitation. “Sure, why not? I can’t think of anything more enjoyable than arguing with Chaman for a few hours.”
As I rode the elevator up to my apartment, I congratulated myself on my brilliant timing and my masterful plan to recruit Amir Madani.
Later, I had to revise my highly-overrated opinion of myself.
Even before I opened the door to my apartment, I knew someone had paid me a visit while I was out having dinner with Amir.
Every time I left the building, I always set up at least one hidden trip marker, and when I checked the tiny plastic filament I’d placed across the door sill, I saw it had been triggered.
As soon as I discovered this, I removed my weapon from my holster and slowly pushed open the door.
The moment I stepped inside the living room, I immediately caught a whiff of a masculine scent—something I couldn’t identify, a kind of woodsy smell.
However, the living room was empty.
I walked down the hallway and checked out the other rooms.
Also empty.
I returned to the living room and took a look around.
That’s when I spotted the overturned lamp.
It wasn’t on the floor; it was leaning up against an armchair in a corner of the room. When Uzan had decorated my apartment, she’d placed a table lamp next to a high-backed chair. It was a chair she’d described as “perfect for reading.” However, I’d quickly discovered the lamp was top-heavy and toppled over easily.
As I envisioned it, someone must have stepped behind the chair and tipped the lamp over without realizing it, or maybe they had stuck their hand behind the cushions and knocked the lamp over that way.
At any rate, they hadn’t repositioned the lamp correctly.
Sloppy.
When I walked over to the antique wooden desk, I discovered the trip marker I’d placed under a stack of books had been moved, although the books themselves appeared undisturbed.
In spite of this, nothing in the apartment seemed to be missing.
It wasn’t a robbery. The apartment had been searched; pure and simple.
For what purpose?
I pulled out my cell phone, sat down in my perfect-for-reading chair, and clicked on my security camera icon.
It was time to find out.
When the archived video from the pinhole cameras in my apartment began appearing across my screen, the tim
eline showed two men entering my apartment approximately twenty minutes after Amir and I had pulled out of the parking lot at Shemiran.
One of the men had immediately headed back to the bedrooms, while the other guy had remained in the living room. Both men were dressed in casual attire. Both were wearing black leather half-boots with rubber soles and reinforced toes.
I had little doubt the two men were VEVAK agents. The search they conducted was methodical, quick, and professional.
There was only one problem with it.
Had I been asked to critique their technique during one of the periodic refresher courses at the Agency’s training facility at Williamsburg, Virginia—better known as The Farm—I would have given the guy responsible for searching the living room lower marks for his failure to give the living room The Last Look.
The Last Look was a tenet of surveillance tradecraft drilled into all recruits at The Farm. It consisted of taking a moment before exiting the premises to survey the room. Had he done so, I’m sure he would have immediately spotted the overturned lamp.
Even so, I would have given both men high marks for their timing.
The search didn’t take long. They were in and out of my apartment within thirty minutes.
Although I was concerned about what I’d just witnessed, I wasn’t unduly alarmed by VEVAK paying me a visit because it appeared the men weren’t looking for anything in particular. This was obvious when I observed the cursory way they’d looked through the drawers in the bedrooms and the cabinets in the kitchen.
VEVAK was notorious for such behavior. Iranians had no rights when it came to privacy and, unlike most Americans, they never imagined they did.
I felt sure what had triggered the search was Hammid Salimi’s purchase of the apartment in the first place.
Even though Hammid was half-Iranian, he’d entered Iran on a Swiss passport. While his wealth made it less likely he could be the agent of a foreign power, I assumed the VEVAK officers had probably been told to check out the new tenant in Building C anyway.
Of course, it didn’t escape my attention the apartment had been searched within a few minutes of my leaving Shemiran in the company of Amir Madani.
Was there a connection in the timing?
I didn’t dismiss the idea entirely.
I sent Carlton a text telling him we needed to talk, and he contacted me a few minutes later. I had no plans to tell him I’d captured the VEVAK agents on the video cameras I’d installed.
Before bringing up the search, I briefed him on my evening with Amir. His only comment—other than acknowledging the progress I was making—was to point out his concern about Amir’s interest in my background.
“I’m troubled by the way he’s probing your legend,” he said. “Were these general questions he was asking you, or did he attempt to drill down a little further?”
“He usually followed up a general question with something more specific. After that, he would drop the subject entirely and circle back around to it later. He always admitted to bringing up the topic again, but then he would explain the redundancy by saying he needed more clarification about what I’d said earlier.”
“Amir Madani sounds suspiciously like an interrogator to me.”
“I understand why you’d think that, but he’s also a trained research scientist. He’s used to figuring out stuff by asking questions.”
“That’s something to consider.”
After I told him about the dinner I was planning, I brought up the subject of my apartment being searched.
“One more thing, Douglas. While I was out with Amir, some unwelcomed guests showed up at my apartment. They let themselves in, took a look around, and left before I got home.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“How obvious were they?”
“A couple of my markers were tripped, and they were sloppy. Nothing was missing; it wasn’t a robbery.”
“Probably local police. Of course, it could have been VEVAK.”
“I’m leaning toward the latter.”
“Why?”
“No reason. Just a gut feeling.”
“If it happens again, you’ll need to install cameras, audio, the whole works.”
“Sure. If it happens again, I’ll consider that.”
VEVAK showed up again, but not at my apartment.
A few days later, when I was on my way to meet Omid Askari, an Iranian banker who had been helping me funnel cash from the Agency to an Iranian opposition group, I spotted a tail.
The men shadowing me were driving a white Iranian Khodro, a knockoff Peugeot, the kind of vehicle driven by government workers, especially surveillance teams employed by VEVAK.
I was convinced it was VEVAK when I had a hard time losing the vehicle. Members of the local police force seldom received any kind of training in surveillance, and I felt sure if the occupants of the Khodro had been local policemen, then I would have been able to lose them just by making a few right turns.
On the other hand, the secret police had a division specifically schooled in surveillance tactics; losing them was a time-consuming process and involved lots of switchbacks.
It took me forty minutes to lose the VEVAK agents. Once that happened, as a precautionary measure, I immediately contacted Omid and put off our meeting.
The next day, I spotted no sign of a tail, and when VEVAK didn’t show up the day after that, I figured—much like the search of my apartment—it was a one-time surveillance assignment.
Then, the Khodro showed up again two days later.
This time when I spotted the VEVAK team, I’d just finished up a meeting with Fabel Reza. I suspected the VEVAK agents might have observed our encounter, and this was especially troubling because Reza was one of my most promising assets.
Although most of my assets had been recommended to me by Farid, that hadn’t been the case with Fabel Reza.
I’d discovered Reza on my own by observing his behavior during a protest demonstration in Tohid Square following the election of the new president.
The protest organizers had been given all the necessary permits to conduct the demonstration, leading many Western journalists to speculate the government was using the protest as a propaganda tool to show the world the election was a democratic process.
They were right about that, of course.
While the protest was going on, I was inside a restaurant at a table next to a window. The window gave me a full, panoramic view of the crowd outside, and as I sat there studying the protesters, I happened to notice Reza.
He drew my interest because he didn’t exhibit the same kind of enthusiasm for the protest as the rest of the participants did. Although he was carrying a placard, he didn’t repeat the chants given to the protesters by the man with the loudspeaker, nor was he raising his fist or showing any other spontaneous response to the demonstration.
As the protest was breaking up, I saw Reza walk across the street and enter the crowded restaurant. When he began looking around for a table, I used the opportunity to wave him over to where I was seated.
“Would you care to join me?” I asked. “I’m almost finished here.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” I glanced down at my watch. “I’m supposed to meet a client in twenty minutes.”
As he sat down, he motioned out the window. “I hope you don’t have far to go. There’s still a crowd out there.”
“I figure they’ll be gone in a few minutes.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Most of those protesters looked like university students. I imagine their professors told them it was their duty to come out to Tohid Square today, and now, since they’ve fulfilled their obligation, they’ll be eager to spend the rest of the day pursuing more entertaining activities.”
“Are you sure about that?” he asked, pointing to the placard he’d carried into the restaurant. “I’m not a student, and I was out there protesting.”
I ma
de a show of looking him over for a moment.
He appeared to be around thirty years old, short haircut, neatly trimmed beard, an able-bodied man. Even so, he didn’t have a military bearing, so I knew he wasn’t a soldier, nor was he dressed like a bureaucrat. His clothes were clean, but of poor quality.
Finally, I said, “I’m guessing you were one of the paid protesters.”
He looked down at his feet for a second. When he looked up, he nodded. “You’re right. How did you know that?”
I spun him a yarn and told him I was a student of human nature and studying people was a hobby of mine. Then, I pointed out a couple of people in the square and made up a short story about them.
“What about him?” he asked, pointing to well-dressed man about to cross the street.
“Your turn,” I said. “What’s his profession? How old is he? Where’s he headed now?”
His analysis of the man was surprisingly close to mine.
“Are you also a student of human nature?” I asked. “On second thought, let me guess. You have a good imagination, so I’ll bet you’re a writer.”
He nodded. “I suppose you could say that. I write my own songs.” He stuck out his hand. “Fabel Reza.”
“Hammid Salimi,” I said, shaking his hand. “I’m a salesman, mostly watches. Are you a professional musician?”
“If you mean do I get paid for writing music, the answer is yes, but if you mean do I make a living with my music, the answer is no.” He pointed down at the placard. “I occasionally have to supplement my income by getting paid to do other things.”
There was something about Reza that struck a chord with me, and I made a quick decision—something I seldom did—and asked him if he’d be interested in making some deliveries for me. I explained the work would be sporadic, but when I told him how many Iranian rials I’d pay him to deliver a watch to a client, he immediately took me up on my offer.
In the months that followed, I discovered Reza had strong views about Iran’s nuclear program, and he was adamantly opposed to the mullah’s efforts to obtain a nuclear weapon. The more I encouraged him to explain his opposition to the regime, the more I realized it would be easy for me to recruit him as an asset.
One Step Back: A Titus Ray Thriller Page 6
