“Good, please do.”
All went as planned. I went home, kissed my children good-bye over dinner, made dog-sitting arrangements for Snap, and returned to the airport to catch my flight to Dubai. And so here I was, leaning back in my too-narrow plane seat, crunching dry crackers, thinking what a fitting cryptonym TEMPEST was for the operation. I expected it to start quietly and end with a bang.
My favorite Beethoven piano sonata, No. 17 in D minor, nicknamed Tempest, also alternates between peacefulness and unexpected turbulence turning into a storm.
As we approached Dubai’s international airport, I could see the famous palm-tree shaped man-made island, with its glittering villas for the rich and famous on each side. They look like something you’d see in South Beach, only whiter, much taller, much grander—all against the blue sea water on one side, and an empty desert backdrop on the other, like some kind of mirage. As I exited the sleek airport terminal, a wave of hot air hit my face. It was a fifteen-minute cab ride to the Hyatt Regency Hotel on the Deira Corniche, overlooking the Arabian Gulf at the mouth of Dubai Creek.
“Welcome, Mr. Van der Hoff.” A neatly and modestly dressed receptionist smiled at me. She quickly gave me my room key card. Hearing her use my new name was strange. You’ll have to get used to it, as you did many times before, to other odd names assigned to you, declared my little inner devil as I walked to the elevator. I’m now Jaap Van der Hoff, a trader in electronic spare parts with an office in Rotterdam, and an apartment in Paris, where I rarely stay because my business requires constant travel. I roam Europe and the Middle East looking for business opportunities. Divorced, two adult children. One lives in my Paris apartment while he attends the Sorbonne University.
I had a delicious dinner at the hotel’s Al Dawaar, a twenty-fifth-floor revolving restaurant. The views of the Arabian Gulf, the Creek, and the city of Dubai were spectacular. On one side was black glassy water, with the ancient desert horizon behind it cut by sharp palms. On the other was sleek metal and glass structures, whirring and lit, like some self-generating machine.
On the following day, playing the part, I scheduled an appointment with the manager of United Gulf Trust, a private banking subsidiary of the Swiss Alps Bank and Trust.
“My letter of introduction,” I said, handing him a sealed envelope. Hamid Al Zarwai invited me to take a seat in his palatial office. He was a trim man in his late forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and wearing a dark, superbly tailored lightweight wool suit with a vest. His small, gold-rimmed glasses gave him an almost academic air. The temperature outside was 100 degrees Fahrenheit, but the windows were tinted and his office was cool.
He quickly read the letter that Eric had arranged. It was on the letterhead of Templehof Bank, Zurich, a Swiss bank secretly controlled by the Mossad as its proprietary company, without the Swiss government’s or the bank management’s knowledge.
“What can I do for you?” Hamid Al Zarwai asked in a polite tone. His English was British, and he sounded like the product of a private school.
“I own a company trading in electronic components for industrial use, and I’m closely affiliated with a much bigger company,” I said. “We are looking for a way to”—I paused, as if looking for the right word—“penetrate into the Iranian market, without alienating the Americans.” I waited for his reaction, but he just continued to listen. The buzzwords, alienating the Americans, delivered the message that the type of trade I had in mind was embargoed. It could mean business that violated the laws against sponsoring terror, or those against nuclear proliferation, or even both. I was very familiar with the rules of the US Treasury’s Office of Foreign Assets Control, and I had no doubt that he, too, shared that knowledge.
Al Zarwai nodded, expressionless, his eyes on me.
“I need your help to assess how to go about it. We have very strong ties with German, Belgian, and Dutch manufacturing companies. They had previously traded with Iran but had to stop under international pressure. However, they now realize that Chinese and Russian companies came in their place, and the sky didn’t fall. I think these manufacturing companies would agree to resume their exports to Iran if they could be guaranteed safe passage, to keep them out of hot water with their own governments as well as the US government. They conduct substantial trade with US companies and, for obvious reasons, don’t want their plans to resume trading with Iran to wind up being public knowledge.
“I myself have nothing to lose by pissing off the Americans—my company operates out of Europe and has no American interests—but unfortunately the companies we represent could lose many millions if they wind up blacklisted by the US government.”
“I understand,” Al Zarwai said, very calm, very cool. Still his face remained expressionless. Had I piqued his interest? His eyes betrayed nothing; he had an excellent poker face, but his body language betrayed his effort to express no emotion. He was interested.
I went on. “European newspapers have written quite a lot recently about how the American government is banning American banks from doing any business with Iranian banks. So when I was talking to my affiliated companies about potential business with Iran, the first question they asked me was, how do you prevent business with Iran from being identified by the US? Can we use European banks without branches or ties with the US to avoid trouble?”
I was trying to convey that I knew that the US Treasury had compiled a list of Iran’s major banks, such as Saderat, Bank Melli, and Sepah, and had blacklisted them along with many other banks and individuals, so, obviously, these banks were out.
“Why?” he asked, again with placid eyes, although I was certain he knew the answer.
“Because the European companies we work with insist upon receiving letters of credit and bank wire transfers for the goods sold. They know that the US is monitoring the world’s banking activities to detect illegal trade with Iran in violation of US and UN sanctions, and they don’t want to get caught doing business with Iran. The US reaction is likely to be—well, painful.” I paused, waiting for a comment, but Al Zarwai just sat there nodding without saying anything.
A moment later, he finally reacted. Slow gears? Or did something about me finally click? He’d sized me up and liked what he saw?
“Don’t worry,” he said almost casually as he took his glasses off. He began cleaning them with a lens wipe. “We use intermediary banks for these purposes. Iranian banks know how to do it.”
I knew what they were doing: “stripping.” Asking intermediary foreign banks to remove any markers of the transactions’ ties to Iran or to Iranian banks.
“As you must know, Mr. Van der Hoff, we like to help our customers meet their legitimate goals. I think that what you are looking for is possible. However, that is not the type of business we do.”
Our research had definitely shown Al Zarwai’s bank as being active in financing hush exports to Iran, and now he was playing hard to get? When he saw my slightly raised eyebrows, he added, “We finance transactions, issue letters of credit and other documentary financing. Regarding all other aspects of your commercial relationship, I suggest you meet Mr. Kamiar Nemati.”
That name sounded very Iranian to me. Nonetheless, his extra cautiousness was obvious and understood. He couldn’t risk his bank and its Swiss parent by discussing ways and means to bypass UN sanctions with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who barged into his office, particularly when the visitor could be a US government agent, like me.
“Who is Mr. Nemati?”
“The very respectable president of Cross Gulf Trading Ltd., a Dubai company specializing in trade with Iran.”
“Thank you. Please make the introduction,” I requested.
“With pleasure. Please give me your business card. I’ll have Mr. Nemati contact you.”
I gave him my business card and wrote on its back my hotel’s telephone number. “I’ll be in Dubai for another week, if he could call me.”
He got up. I shook his hand and left. Outside his office, I wiped
my hand on a tissue. Al Zarwai’s hand was clammy.
VI
January 2007, Dubai
If I was being monitored—and I was certain that I was—I was satisfied that I’d taken the first step to make my visit look legitimate, doing what a trader was expected to do. And if suspected of being a foreign agent, my conduct could not support that. It was time to move to the next step. It was part of my “trader” legend. It was also the real purpose of my trip. I went to We Forward Unlimited. According to the Dubai postal records, this company owned the postal box that the third letter to the consulate gave as a point of contact.
We Forward Unlimited occupied half of the third floor of a modern office building in a commercial area filled with similar buildings, one giant gleaming office park. More than ten people were working in an office with sleek leather couches in the waiting area. Everything here, just as in the rest of Dubai, seemed hypermodern. The air conditioning was glacial. A quick glance down a large hallway showed state-of-the-art computer equipment.
A man dressed in typical Arab garb—a tunic, in his case bright white with blue trim—but without the kaffiyeh headdress, welcomed me.
“Welcome, sir, how can I help you?”
“I need office services—”
“Please follow me.” He brought me to a small office with glass walls.
I began: “I frequent Dubai several times a year on business and intend to increase my presence here in the future. However, I don’t have a local office where I can pick up my mail. I don’t really need an actual office in Dubai for the time being, but I want my Dubai address on my business cards and letterhead to look respectable.”
“We are perfectly fit for your needs, sir,” he answered. “You can use our street address or our post office box.”
“Can you tell me a little more about how it works? Thing is I travel constantly and don’t want to risk missing any business opportunities.”
“No problem, sir, here’s how it works. First, you pick an address.”
“Well, as I said, I don’t have an address here, that’s the problem. I stay at a hotel each time I visit.” I played the confused businessman who keeps asking questions.
He smiled patiently. “We can provide you with an address in Dubai. You may also want to consider our services in other countries as well. We can help you with the same address service in any of the Gulf States, in some European countries, and even in the US. You can give any of these addresses to your business contacts, if you need more than one address.”
“I think a local post office box is better. I don’t want to be embarrassed if someone actually comes to your office and realizes it isn’t mine.”
“Not a problem, you can use our POB address.”
“Do you have only one?”
“In Dubai? Yes.”
“Tell me about your mail procedures.”
“When we receive your mail, sir, you decide what mail gets opened, scanned, e-mailed, and then shredded, or forwarded unopened to you by postal mail. When we receive mail addressed to you, we first scan the sealed envelope, and post the image on a website that only you will be able to access by entering a password. If you wish to delete the image, you can do that with a click of the mouse. You can also leave us a message on the website to scan the contents of the envelope and e-mail them to you. Once you read the contents, you can delete or print it anywhere.
“See, the great thing about our service is that no matter where you are in the world, you can read your mail. You don’t need an e-mail address to receive important mail, you know,” he said in a low, confiding tone. “E-mail boxes can be hacked and business opportunities stolen, because your business rivals will know where to look. But with our system nobody but you and us knows that you have a dedicated website where you can read, delete, or print your mail.”
“What do you do with the originals after scanning?”
“We follow our clients’ instructions, of course. Forward to another location, keep them in our archives until the client comes to pick them up, or shred them.
“How much is the service?”
“A one-time setup fee of one hundred fifty dollars, and twenty dollars monthly. Additionally, we charge a nominal fee for each scanned letter.”
“Let’s do it,” I said. I had to appear legit, and my inner little devil was already making suggestions about how the service would benefit my investigation. Their prices seemed excessive compared with similar services, but I came there for the role they played, not to get a cheap deal. Besides, with the Washington bean counters’ generosity, I could afford to be a little lavish, provided I didn’t spend more than fifty dollars a day on “miscellaneous.” Otherwise, I’d need to submit a receipt for each dollar I spent. Each dollar! Just the thought bugged the hell out of me. Auditors never participate in overseas operations. The only physical risk they take is possibly breaking a nail on a keyboard. They don’t understand that by making me ask for receipts for every dime I spend, I might expose myself as a government bureaucrat. Most businesses don’t treat their employees that way. Never mind I might be endangering my life, as long as an audit doesn’t catch me spending an extra ten dollars! Think an IRS audit is scary? Try my bean counters’ review of my monthly expense account. Sometimes I think I should use them as prisoner interrogators—they would drive even the most stubborn cons out of their minds and make them sing.
My new friend at We Forward Unlimited photocopied my European passport in the name of Jaap Van der Hoff. It was one of the “throwaway” identities that I’ve used when involved in deep cover clandestine operations. This showed my home address as 1359, rue Beccaria, 75012 Paris, France. In fact that was just my “clean accommodation address,” a requisite for building me a new identity.
After the formalities were concluded, he gave me a copy of the service agreement and a website address. “Log into www.weforwardunlimited.com/vanderhoff and create your own password. Then, whenever you log in, just enter your password and you’ll see your incoming mail.”
“Oh, I have one more question. I travel in Africa and sometimes I don’t have access to the Internet. I’ll need physically to get my mail.”
“Not a problem, sir. If you can’t log in, just call us to give a forwarding address.”
“That’s perfect, thank you.”
Had I observed the Moscow Rule, Everyone is potentially under opposition control? I wasn’t sure that I had. But I wasn’t sure what to do about it if I hadn’t. These rules were originally created for CIA agents operating in the Communist Soviet Union, during the Cold War. The Cold War was over. The need for the rules was not.
A day later, I met the anxious-for-business Mr. Nemati. He was in his late fifties, chubby and friendly—even jolly-seeming—with a disarming ear-to-ear grin. He seemed to smile constantly. We sat in his plush office, a block from my hotel. After I described my company’s activities and “our wish to extend our trade and become intermediaries for sales of machinery, compounds, and technology to Iran,” he went on to explain why I had made the right move in coming to Dubai, and, of course, in coming to see him.
“Dubai is an international marketplace,” he said, standing at the window of his twenty-fourth-floor office and looking down on all of Dubai. “Since we are the only country in the region without oil, we use the advantage that Allah has seen to provide us: proximity to Iran.”
Nemati didn’t mention that though Dubai’s citizens were mostly Sunni and Arab, the geographical proximity to Iran was so dominant that Dubai’s economy was practically run by people of Iranian descent: Shiite and non-Arab.
“This is little Tehran,” he said with a smile, like a proud father telling me about an exceptionally accomplished son. “You know the history of Dubai? It was once filled with Bedouins—nomads. A steady diet of camel, and more camel, and camel milk. But today! Today there are 450,000 Iranians living here who have family ties to Iran. There are also thousands of Iranian-owned businesses. We have more Iranians here than any other place
outside Iran.” I knew that California had more Iranian expats, but I decided not to look too knowledgeable in these matters.
“The sanctions the Americans are trying to impose on the world do not exist here. Therefore, if you can’t trade with Iran directly, the next best place to do business with Iran is Dubai.” He smiled in self-satisfaction, patted his belly, then suggested lunch at the Iranian Club. I expected another nice restaurant on a higher floor of a modern office building. Hence my surprise when we entered a large compound on Oud Metha Road, not far from the Indian Club.
The Iranian Club was a small city unto itself. It included an elegant hotel and theaters with intricate Moorish architecture; a large shimmering swimming pool; a restaurant; even a sports stadium. In the restaurant, pictures of Ayatollah Khomeini and Hassan Nasrallah, Hezbollah’s chief, hung in the entrance. Everyone around us spoke Farsi; the menu was in Farsi. At the host station, two customers—European-looking blonde women—were putting on headscarves provided by the restaurant. Head covering was mandatory here.
After settling in, ordering soft drinks and lunch, and dancing around the issues, we got down to business.
I recited my legend and gave him copies of brochures and catalogs, finding myself once again impressed by the Agency’s professionalism in creating such an extensive legend. The manufacturing company I was representing was a real and viable company. Thankfully, the owner had agreed to hire my “company” and thereby unwittingly provided a plausible cover story for my borrowed identity. The Agency had arranged the representation through a third party, supposedly acting for me and with his own legend. The terms were simple. I would act as an intermediary: I would not be able to bind his company in any agreement, and all payments for sales made would be wired directly from the buyer to the manufacturing company’s bank account. When funds were cleared, the manufacturing company would pay my “company” a commission. The benefit for his company would be any business I could drum up while I conducted my real job—snooping—about which he was totally unaware. It was a win-win situation, or was it?
Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thrillers) Page 6
