We went outside to get fresh air before dinner. “Come,” Benny said. “Let’s have coffee.” We got in his car and went to Giverny. He stopped near Musée d’Art Américain and entered Terra Café. “Let’s go outside,” he said.
We walked to the beautiful porch and sat under a wooden pergola. I ordered a quiche, and Benny had just coffee. I knew Benny had something on his mind, so I just waited for him to start. When he didn’t, I asked, “You just gave us a theory, but no evidence or even a direction. Where does it lead us? Where is the touch point to the money trail?”
“Our longtime clandestine cooperation with the Kurds in Iran and Iraq has yielded interesting results,” said Benny with a smile like that of the cat that just ate the canary.
I knew what he meant. Israel had always thought it would be a fatal mistake not to extend its defense lines hundreds of miles away from its physical borders. It wanted to know when its enemy left its bases to attack Israel, rather than to be awakened when the enemy was at Israel’s door. A close relationship with the Kurds in Iraq and Iran had given Israel an observation point and a human early-warning system. Since as early as 1965, Israel had been training and supporting Kurdish commandos fighting for Kurdish independence. That enabled Israel to run covert operations inside Kurdish areas of Iran, Iraq, and Syria, primarily for intelligence-gathering operations.
Benny continued. “Together with Kurdish commandos, our agents have entered Iran and installed sensors and other intelligence-gathering devices that, for the most part, target suspected Iranian nuclear facilities.”
It had already been known for some time. Not all communications are transferred by the Internet, definitely not military and intelligence data, unless heavily encrypted. That is particularly true with respect to countries, such as Iran, which aren’t there yet in terms of computer sophistication. So Benny’s men were milking information from the Iranians by somehow listening to Iranian communication lines.
“As an observant Jew, I believe in the wisdom of our sages, which has taught us that we must study Torah not for a reward in the present or in the afterlife, but just for the sake of study. By studying Torah, a reward will come.”
“So?” I asked impatiently, champing at the bit.
“Here is a present-day application of that wisdom. Our devices were meant to alert us to Iran’s nuclear capabilities. But unexpectedly we benefited from these listening devices and unearthed loads of information about Iranian covert operations in support of terror organizations.”
“Go ahead,” I urged him. Of course, shrewd operator that he was, I fully realized that he would tell me only as much as he intended to tell me, but that didn’t make me any less eager to hear what he had to say.
“We know that there were extensive top-secret communications in Iran in connection with the U.S. The word Atashbon, Farsi for the guardians of fire, was very frequently used. We assume it to be a code name.” He gave me a clever look and started returning to his car, leaving me puzzled. But I knew Benny—more info was forthcoming. We returned to the chateau.
After dinner I joined Benny and Nicole Blair for a visit to Monet’s gardens and the Musée d’Art Américain, but their gates were already closed.
On the following day, we convened again in the dining room. Kyle and Benny summed up the conference. We were divided into four working groups and were taken to separate smaller rooms to continue talking. We finally talked shop and specifics.
I had breakfast with Benny before he left. He ate only bread and yogurt, knowing that the food served there wasn’t kosher.
“Do you know what’s next?” I asked. “The conclusion of the evening last night was somewhat vague. Is the cooperation on Iran’s terror financing between Israel and the U.S. across the board?” I asked.
Benny nodded. “I think we’ll have an agreement to cooperate in the operations discussed. However, each operation will be independently approved. Intel gathering ops will be separate. In other operations, there will be no mixed teams. To avoid problems resulting from disparity in political cultures and translations, each organization will be assigned a different piece of the action, and there will be a coordination meeting every two weeks—or sooner, if developments warrant it. “One good thing happened last night,” he concluded. “I wasn’t preached to.”
“What?” I didn’t get it.
Benny glanced at me from above his eyeglasses. “Our agenda is to eliminate our worst enemies, while most of the Free World still wants to turn a blind eye—as long as their countries remain intact—and preach to us to see the good side of our enemies.” He chuckled. “That is hypocrisy at its best, or rather, at its worst. Last night I was with people who think like me.”
“Are you going back to Israel?”
“Shortly. I’ll see you soon,” he said.
“You never finished the story about Atashbon. Was it on purpose?”
“Yes.”
“But do you know more than you told me?”
Benny looked at me with his intelligent brown eyes, studying my face. “Some.”
“Then tell me,” I said, taking the bait.
“Later,” he promised. He was firm. There was no point in arguing.
Kyle approached my table. “Specific assignments to teams have been prepared. Here are your instructions.” He handed me a piece of paper with a Paris address. “You can go there—it’s a safe apartment.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After I packed my stuff, I joined Nicole for a ride to Paris. The journey was short, just about an hour. We were dropped off in the 16th arrondissement, the posh quarter on the west end of the French capital. I knew the area well. Whenever I’d come to Paris for more than two days, I would stroll in this quarter and behave like a tourist. We passed the commercial district of Passy, next to avenue Mozart in Auteuil, a small market community with a strong Provençal feel. Within minutes we stopped in front of a building on rue St. Didier. The building looked rather old and inconspicuous, but as all realtors say, what counts is location, location, location. Being in the 16th meant everything.
We lurched to the third floor in a squeaky elevator. But when Nicole opened the door of the apartment, I was in awe. It was massive. We entered a room with a twenty-foot-high ceiling and huge windows with wooden shades. Against one wall stood a long, upholstered sofa and an antique cocktail table. In the corner were two armchairs. On the other side of the living area, the dining area was set up with a simple, yet enormous, rectangular wooden table with carved wooden chairs. An additional sofa was placed in the alcove behind the dining area. Next to the dining area was a fully furnished kitchen that was modern in the fifties. A wooden stairway led us to the upper floor with its master bedroom and bathroom, two additional bedrooms, another bathroom, and a comfortable gallery designed around a balcony overlooking the living room. We looked inside the master bedroom: it had a king-size bed, a chest, and a vanity table. “That’s my bedroom,” announced Nicole, as if we were in the gold-rush era, when husky men were claiming property by the force of their guns.
She quickly backtracked with a smile. “Well, if you don’t mind. It’s just that it’s perfect for my needs.”
As a gentleman, I acquiesced, returning her smile. “Fine,” I said.
The other bedrooms were smaller, but I found one with a king-size bed. The third room was empty but for two desks and office chairs, with a combined fax, copier, scanner, and printer and a digital telephone, both hooked up to a signal scrambler that made them secure.
“That will be our communication room,” said Nicole. “I need to shower and change. I’ll see you in a little while.”
I wondered who watched the safe apartment while it was empty. Or was it ever empty? Obviously, the classified communication equipment could not be left there without security. I went outside. I’d always liked the area for its cultural attractions— the Bois de Boulogne, Champs Elysées, Arc de Triomphe, Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, and Musée Marmottan Monet were all within walk
ing distance. There were many cafés and restaurants to explore. I strolled along the narrow rue St. Didier with its boulangeries, fruit and vegetable shops, and flower shops. I continued to Androuet, the famous cheese store.
I’ll be back here soon, I promised myself, once I’m done with my chores with Nicole.
I returned to the apartment. Nicole sat on the sofa with her bare feet on the coffee table. In blue jeans, she looked miles away from her strictly business appearance at the convention.
“This is a great area,” I said companionably. “Lots of interesting places to visit.”
“We’re here to crack a case,” she said severely. “We aren’t tourists.” She wasn’t kidding. I nodded. “Let’s start by defining the perimeter,” she said.
She’s perfect, I thought—in other words, boring.
“I need to trace Ward’s movements,” I said, masking some anger.
“Right. Professor Manfred Krieger the archaeologist is our most solid anchor at this time.”
“I agree.”
“OK, we could start with him right now,” said Nicole. “Shouldn’t be hard to track him down, although we don’t know if he’s still alive.”
“I sure hope he is,” I said. Even in a world of hunters and targets, sometimes people aged and died of natural causes.
Nicole clicked at her laptop, briskly accessing the Net through encrypted wireless. “Here it is. Professor Krieger published an article on archaeology of the Orient in 2003, in Archaeology and Heritage, an academic journal published in London. So, unless the article was written a long time ago, then at least in 2003 he was still alive. It says here that he teaches at the University of Berlin.”
It took only a few minutes to find Professor Krieger’s address and phone number in Berlin.
“So what do we want from this guy?” she queried.
“I want to pick his memory, or even his records concerning his staff during his 1980 excavations in Iran.”
“And do you think he’d still have them?”
“Nicole, archaeologists rummage through records left thousands of years ago. It’s kind of against their religion for them to throw out their own papers, don’t you think?” I was trying to reintroduce levity into the room.
Nicole allowed a smile. “OK. What’s the suggested legend? We need to make it plausible and pitch it to Langley. We can’t approach him without their authorization.”
“Just for making a phone call you need Langley’s approval?” I thought of the improvisational manner in which we operated at the Mossad, and the social-engineering methods I applied during my tenure as a lone wolf at the Department of Justice while hunting money launderers. We were working with totally different institutional cultures.
“We should bear in mind that the legend must hold water not only with the professor, but elsewhere. We don’t know the types of connections the professor has in Iran. If there’s a hole in our story and he suspects us, and tells the Iranians about our snooping, the doors will shut in our faces. And maybe some metal doors behind us, if they ever get us.”
“On second thought, you’re right,” I conceded. “The source of information leading us to Krieger is a dubious character in Islamabad. We don’t really know who he is, and why he was telling me this story for only the $300 I gave him. Definitely something rotten there. Getting me to contact Krieger could be one of his ulterior motives. Who knows, maybe he’s more conniving than I thought.” I decided not to tell Nicole about the information Benny gave me linking Ahmed Khan to the Iranian intelligence services. Not just yet.
For the next hour we raised and rejected several options, and finally came up with the one we thought would be reasonably plausible. Nicole e-mailed an encrypted message to Langley to get approval. She slammed shut her laptop computer, got up from her chair, and stretched her arms, revealing a flat, tanned stomach. “We’re done here. It will be a day or so until we hear from them.”
I went out to the street and walked straight to the boulangerie, bought two baguettes, and ended up in Androuet, the cheese shrine. The aroma was overwhelming.
“We sell 340 different kinds of cheese,” said a friendly salesperson in a green apron, who realized I was besieged. I bought Camembert, Brie, and Fontainebleau cheese.
“Monsieur,” he said, “may I suggest you take also Vacherin? We sell it only from October to March.”
I stopped at the corner wine store and got a bottle of a promising Côtes du Rhone. I went back to the apartment, resisting an urge to start devouring the food en route. We feasted until I felt the wine pulling down my eyelids.
By the following morning, an encrypted message had come in: “Legend approved, mode of approach at your discretion.”
“Do you think we should call him or pay a personal visit?” I asked Nicole.
“I think we should start with calling him. A personal visit could be intimidating or suspicious. Why would an American come to Berlin to ask a few questions for a family memorial book for a person who’s been missing for twenty-some years?”
I dialed.
“Krieger,” announced a man’s voice.
“Professor Krieger?”
“Ja.” He answered in German.
“My name is Stanley Ward. I hope you speak English.” “Yes.”
“I’m sorry to bother you on a small matter, but I wonder if you remember Albert Ward, a member of my family?”
“Remind me.”
“He was a young photographer who worked for you in the excavations in Tal-e Malyan, Iran, in the early 1980s.”
“I remember that name very vaguely.”
“As I said earlier, I’m Stanley Ward, his cousin. We’re preparing a family history pamphlet and want to dedicate a page to his memory.” I paused upon mentioning that Ward had died, hoping he’d reveal something he might know about it. But he kept silent, and I continued.
“Since he mentioned your name in a postcard he sent my parents, I thought you might be able to tell me about his work. It’ll take only a few minutes of your time.”
“There isn’t anything to tell,” he said. “Dagmar Fischer, my assistant at the time, suggested bringing him over. If I’m not mistaken, she said she had met him some place in Africa. But at the end, he never came to work for us. The truth is, those volunteers are really good for nothing. Unless they are getting academic credit, lots of them don’t show up, and some of those who do come behave like they’re in a summer camp and forget we are involved in serious scientific research.”
“Did he expect to be paid for his work?”
“Of course not, nobody did. We had a limited bud get mostly spent on local diggers and food supplies for my staff and students. He was expected to be a volunteer like all others.”
“Do you remember anything special about him?”
“Nothing. I never met him. I remember the name only because we had to sponsor an Iranian visa for him.”
“Where can I find Ms. Dagmar Fischer?”
“She teaches at the University of London’s Archaeology Department.”
I thanked him and hung up the phone. Nicole, who had been recording the conversation, stopped the tape recorder. Next, we called Dagmar Fischer, who was found after a few tries and proved more pleasant than the grumpy Professor Krieger.
“Yes, I knew Al Ward pretty well. I remember him as a kind person.”
“That’s nice to hear,” I said. “Have you been in contact?” “No. I last saw him many years ago. While I was a student, I went on vacation to South Africa, where I met him in a youth hostel. We spent some time together, and I even went with him on a safari, where he took magnificent photos.”
“I understand he had plans to follow you to Iran.”
She laughed. “You make it sound romantic. It wasn’t, at least not from my perspective. While still in South Africa I heard from my classmate that a German archaeology expedition was planning a dig in Iran and was looking for students willing to volunteer. I called the department and they agreed to take me. I
flew from Johannesburg to Tehran and joined Professor Krieger’s team. When the site of Anshan in Tal-e Malyan was discovered, we needed a professional photographer, but with a very small bud get, we wanted a volunteer. I told Professor Krieger about Ward being a good photographer who was looking for adventure. Professor Krieger asked me to invite Ward. I had his next address in a youth hostel in Islamabad, Pakistan, and sent him a letter.”
“Did he respond?”
“Yes, but it took some time, and his letter was very short, like one or two sentences—‘Coming on that date,’ or something like that. I was a bit surprised that he didn’t even ask about the terms or anything else.”
“Maybe he wanted to be in your company more than anything else?”
“Maybe,” she giggled.
“Was anyone worried about bringing an American to Iran, considering it was after the revolution?”
“Well, we told the Iranians that we were planning to invite a young American photographer to join the group’s excavations in return for room and board. Which for us meant, you know, a tent in the desert and canned food.”
“So what’d they say?”
“You know, I have no idea. I was really just rank and file—I was helping Professor Krieger with some administrative chores. But I guess it wasn’t OK, because Ward never actually showed up.”
“Do you know who handled the visa matter for the Iranians? Perhaps he will know.”
“I’m not sure I remember. It’s been so long. But I think I saw the Iranian officer twice at the camp. Actually, I’m sure I did, because he came back about a month later. He told us they’d hold us responsible for attempting to bring Ward over. He said they’d discovered that Ward was a spy.”
“He said Ward was a spy?” I tried to sound surprised. “That’s shocking. And besides, even if that ridiculous story were true, why would you be responsible?”
“Because his visa application to Iran was sponsored by the expedition. Well, he said Ward was an American spy. We were pretty upset. Plus we were left without a photographer.”
The Chameleon Conspiracy Page 13
