“We know that VEVAK is behind all that. When their agent, whom they named Ali Akbar Kamrani, sent us the letters for his purported scientist ‘brother,’ they were not shooting in the dark. We think that the entire ploy was to send a message to their scientists who cultivate thoughts of defecting: ‘Watch out! Big Brother knows everything.’ This time, Big Brother is Iranian. Benny?”
Benny waited a moment, and then confirmed my earlier suspicion.
“My men in Tehran tell me that they suspect Firouz Kamrani was chosen by VEVAK to fake defection intentions to the US, and when his defection ‘offer’ was accepted, expose the clumsy attempt of the US. This would allow VEVAK to retaliate by smearing the CIA and the Mossad.
“So, the Iranians hoped to achieve two goals from this: destroying our credibility, so that no potential asset would work with either of us, and deterring other scientists who might think of defecting, because they could never know if the offer made to them was a genuine CIA or Mossad offer, or was actually made by VEVAK to entrap them.
“When Kamrani was selected to participate in the ploy, VEVAK didn’t take into account one small detail.”
“Kamrani wasn’t faking,” I said, although I wasn’t quite sure.
“Right. He wanted to live outside Iran, and the offer made by VEVAK to fake defection was his chance to become ‘defector-in-place.’
“Meaning?”
“He was theoretically renouncing his Iranian citizenship and allegiance, but remained in Iran as an informer until extricated. Unfortunately, things went south. Either there was a security leak and Firouz Kamrani’s real intentions were revealed to VEVAK or.…”
Benny didn’t finish the sentence. Was he hinting that there was a security breach, or worse, a mole among us? I didn’t ask, and he continued. “Anyway, we tend to believe that VEVAK discovered Kamrani’s defection plans and probably rigged his gas heater to emit carbon monoxide that killed him in his sleep. So here we are, having lost a potentially invaluable asset, someone who could have provided us with the intel the United States and Israel need. We were so close.”
For once in my life, I disagreed with Benny. “The Mossad and the CIA were never close to getting Kamrani as an asset. This was a ploy to begin with. Even if Kamrani wanted to defect, then what? He of all people couldn’t go to the bathroom without being monitored by VEVAK. He was a lost cause to begin with.”
Benny paused and looked out the window, his brow furrowed. I knew he was turning over the what-ifs in his mind.
“Whatever happened,” he continued, “we need to cover all bases, and therefore, our security department is investigating whether there was any security breach on our end that exposed Dan, or brought about Kamrani’s early demise.”
Silence fell over the room. “What’s next?” I asked.
Benny, still with that stern expression, turned to me and said, “With Kamrani dead, we are dropping his purported defection case.”
I was certain that it wasn’t the purpose of this meeting, just to announce a closing of a case. There had to be another, forward-looking plan. I waited patiently.
“For a while now, we’ve been quietly spreading the message that defectors will be welcome,” said Benny. “We have several combatants operating in the area, harassing nuclear scientists. And the harassment was working. When my combatants tried to intimidate a particular Iranian nuclear scientist from continuing with his research, they were more successful than they anticipated. The scientist quite plainly let our combatants know that he’d be willing to stop his research if we helped him defect from Iran and get a university research position in the US. We told the CIA, and there the idea of forming a joint agency team gained speed.”
“So did you help this scientist get the job?” I asked.
Eric nodded. “His defection was scheduled to take place last week. Once in our safe house in Virginia, after his thorough interrogation, we would’ve announced it publicly, to make other Iranian scientists aware it would be worth their while to stop working on the Iranian nuke and defect to the US, or Europe. The plan is on hold. Now that Kamrani’s died, potential Iranian defectors are, for obvious reasons, getting cold feet.”
“But,” continued Benny, with his sly smile, “we are revisiting old plans on talents ready to defect. It’s time to Tango again.”
Benny, Paul, and Eric then detailed their plan. It left me breathless.
XI
May 2007, Damascus, Syria
It was time to Tango again. An Agency car took me from CIA HQ in Langley to Reagan Airport, just across the Potomac from Washington, DC. The two weeks of training I had just had at The Farm were intriguing and extensive. Although the signs at the entry say DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE ARMED FORCES EXPERIMENTAL TRAINING ACTIVITY, it’s in fact a 10,000-acre site where CIA trainees, also called Career Trainees, take an eighteen-week course in what’s called “operational intelligence.” The camp was similar to many other military camps I’d seen, except that uniforms were few. Those who graduate the course begin working as intelligence and case officers for the CIA’s National Clandestine Service.
After a brief stopover in New York to see my children, I flew to Frankfurt International Airport using my blue US tourist and business passport. I proceeded to the arrival hall, claimed my luggage, and met an Agency representative, a young man in his early thirties who identified with the right code word. He signaled me to follow him to the parking lot. I entered his Volkswagen van.
Inside he gave me everything I needed to assume my new identity. A European passport with my photo and biometrics, describing me as Alexander Yager, born in Riga, Latvia, in 1950. Three credit cards—Visa, Eurocard issued by MasterCard, and Diners Club. And again, no American Express, thank you very much. There was €9,000 in Visa traveler’s checks and €1,000 in cash. Family photos of my late wife Anna, may she rest in peace, and of Snap, my real-life golden retriever. I also had business stationery and business cards for Yager Export and Import Consultants, GmbH. It was set up as a German firm that helps European textile goods companies penetrate new and emerging markets, and to avoid bureaucratic pitfalls whether they are buying or selling.
I gave the Agency representative my US passport. That was the only item that connected me with the US. My clothes were made in Europe, mostly in Germany, including my underwear, socks, and shoes. My watch was Swiss; my eyeglasses were made in France. My luggage was made in China and sold in Swiss department stores. Even my ballpoint pens carried European marks. I was glad to find a baggage cart next to a parked car, and used it to get my suitcase back to the terminal.
I checked into a Syrianair flight to Damascus International Airport. As we approached Damascus, I couldn’t avoid thinking of my friend, an Israeli Air Force pilot, who had been captured by the Syrians during the Six-Day War and had undergone inhumane and brutal torture. He returned missing one blue eye, with a scarred face, but with a strong determination to put it behind him. The Syrians are not known for merciful treatment of their enemies. Another Israeli, Eli Cohen, a Mossad spy, was caught and hanged in Damascus in public. I shivered at the thought of what would happen to me if I were captured.
The Damascus airport was mostly empty when I arrived. The passport control officer asked me only about the purpose of my visit and the expected duration of my stay. He saw that I had a ticket for a Syrianair flight to Tehran in ten days and asked me to prove I had enough money to pay for my stay. Five minutes later, I was out in the street, practically swarmed by dozens of taxi drivers and hustlers. It was an unavoidable scene in most third world countries.
I took a cab for the short ride to the Four Seasons Hotel at Shukri Al Quatli Street and paid 1,500 Syrian pounds for the ride. I settled in my room and then took a walk to the old city, surrounded by a Roman-era wall with large oblong stones. Like a typical tourist, I looked at the tour guidebook; the old city has seven gates: Bab Sharqi, Bab al-Jabieh, Bab Keissan, Bab al-Saghir, Bab Tuma, Bab al-Jeniq, and Bab al-Faradiss. The main road crossed the city fr
om Bab al-Jabieh to Bab Sharqi. Occasionally, I used Mossad tactics to identify whether I was drawing any particular attention. But it seemed that the coast was clear. I didn’t identify any sign that I was the subject of particular interest to anyone. This was odd and unusual. Under normal circumstances, in the Middle East, people looking like tourists are usually approached by all sorts of locals, either seeking to offer services or just to be courteous.
But, here and now, nada.
When everything seems to be right, then you must be wrong, were the warning words of Alex, my Mossad instructor. I thought of the thorough briefing I had received at The Farm before leaving. Although Syria is about 55 percent Sunni Muslim, for nearly 40 years it has been governed by the Assad family, who are Alawites, a Shia sect. Although Syria has a population of nearly 22 million, the Alawites, who number only 1.4 million, have managed to keep their grip on the country—first by Hafez al-Assad and then, after his death, by his son, Bashir al-Assad.
Syria is a typical Middle Eastern police state, where the rulers are “elected” by a 99 percent majority and stay in power by playing various groups off one another and brutally suppressing opposition groups. For the past twenty years, Syria has allied itself with Shiite Iran. The pariah status of Iran in the eyes of the world was shared by some Arab states and it affected their attitude toward Syria, which became unpopular with most other Sunni Arab states.
Syria openly supports Hezbollah but also provides sanctuary for Sunni Muslim terrorists on their way to Iraq. But even this was done at the request of Iran, which was supporting al-Qaeda and its ilk, only because this was a way to kill Americans. Normally, al-Qaeda prefers to kill Shia Muslims (whom they consider heretics). Syrian Sunnis and Kurds in the north have commenced terrorist attacks against Syrian Alawite targets. The Alawites have responded, as they always have, with efficiency and savage reprisals. Bloodshed is routine in these areas.
I went looking for Hammed’s lingerie store. I wasn’t going to buy sexy underwear for a girlfriend. I was going to get something much hotter: information and assistance.
Syrian lingerie is famous among distributors in the US, but the consumers know nothing of it. The MADE IN SYRIA labels are cut out and replaced with labels showing another country of origin. When I first heard that during my training in The Farm, I was surprised and amused. Syrians are conservative, but they manufacture sexy underwear that would put porn magazines to shame.
I walked to Souk Hamadiya. Its labyrinthine market streets and alleys were packed with people. Many of the small stores lining the souk were cluttered with underwear sets displaying more traditional wear, such as sequined belly-dance costumes. I found Hammed’s store, a shop selling outsized lingerie and other women’s clothing. A middle-aged man with dark eyes and a scarred face looked at me suspiciously. I asked to speak to Hammed.
“Who are you, sir?” he responded in English.
“I’m Alexander Yager. My office received an inquiry regarding exports to Germany. Are you Mr. Hammed?”
“Please follow me,” he said and took me to the back of the store. He opened a wooden door and entered an office. He emerged within seconds, leaving the door open and inviting me to enter.
“This is Mr. Hammed,” he said pointing at a heavyset one-armed man with gray hair and a mustache. The man got up.
“Mr. Hammed?” I asked.
He nodded. The door was still open and the scarred-face man was standing nearby. I recited my role.
“My company in Germany received your inquiry. They said you wanted to sell women’s lingerie and needed their help to penetrate the German market.”
“That was a long time ago,” Hammed said wearily and for a moment, I suspected that someone at the Agency had failed to do his homework.
“Are you still interested?” I asked.
“Only if you could get my merchandise into the German markets.” His English was good, but with a heavy Arab accent. He didn’t look local; his skin was darker. “Please sit down.” He left the door open.
“We have strong ties with major department stores in Germany and in other locations in Europe,” I took from my briefcase colorful brochures of German department stores. He looked at them with interest. I couldn’t tell whether it was professional interest in the goods, or a personal fancy for the voluptuous blonde models.
“Nice merchandise,” he said. “I can manufacture to your standards.” The door was still open.
“Good,” I said, “for example, how many bras can you deliver in a month. Can you ship five thousand?” I asked. “They usually prefer to work with bigger quantities.”
“I can, sizes 34 to 44 with cups A to D.”
“German women like pinkish colors,” I said. These were the buzzwords that would confirm that he was the real thing.
“We have got that and purple as well,” came the right answer. Hammed was my man.
Hammed was a Kurd, the son of a tribal leader who’d been fighting all his life for Kurdish statehood in the northern parts of Iraq, Iran, Turkey, and Syria. Hammed was my local anchor, a Mossad contribution to the case.
“Can we talk here?” I asked in a barely audible voice.
“No,” he said, “too many ears, too many eyes, and they are all bad. Come to my home tonight for dinner.” He gave me his address. I sat in his office for an additional twenty minutes going over brochures and then returned to my hotel, carrying a plastic bag full of sample women’s underwear.
“It’s better if people see you leave my store with merchandise,” he said. I didn’t know if he meant it was good for his business or for mine.
I returned to the Four Seasons Hotel. I couldn’t tell whether I had followers, but as usual and under the rules, I had to assume there were. At six-thirty I took a cab to Hammed’s home. It was located less than 150 feet from the center of the old city. I rang the bell. An iron gate opened, and I found myself in a small courtyard paved with blue and white ceramic tiles. Against the wall were flowerpots, and through the big oblong windows I could see the living room. Hammed met me at the entrance.
“Welcome, my friend,” he said, “Marhaba.” I followed him into the house. The walls were thick, and the elevated and extended window seats were used as sofas, covered with colorful Arab bedspreads. There were just the two of us. A small table was laden with pistachio nuts, sweet rolled-up baklava cakes, and small mugs with thick coffee.
I looked around. There was no sign of a dinner table, and I was hungry, expecting a Middle Eastern dinner. The street’s shouts and clatters came through the windows and masked his voice. I had to move closer to hear him.
“Have you been followed coming here?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, but one can never tell. Anyway, I’m a businessman and I came to do business. There’s nothing wrong or suspicious about it.”
“Tayeb—good,” he said, although I was certain he wasn’t satisfied with my answer. I discovered why, but not before he drained my patience. He then moved to discuss the weather, ask questions about Germany, talk about his friends that emigrated to Europe, and lament the limited number of tourists coming to Damascus. I was waiting for him to make the move: start talking business. My business. I said nothing, of course. I was very familiar with the Middle Eastern custom of engaging in small talk for a long time until you get to the point. There was a lot of wisdom in that custom: you have ample opportunities to study your guest and find his soft points.
After about an hour, he finally turned to business.
“When you land in Tehran you will be met by Khader and his men. He’s my cousin and you can trust him. He is also in the women’s clothing business and, therefore, your contacts will look OK.”
He paused, waiting for my response, and looking at the small table between us. I took the hint. As customary in the Middle East, he would not touch the food until I helped myself. I took a few pistachios in my hand, and asked, “Will he recognize me?”
“Yes,” he assured me. “He’ll meet you for dinner on t
he day of your arrival at your hotel.” He gave me additional technical details, addresses and phone numbers and emergency escape routes. The information Hammed gave me generally matched my instructions. I knew that neither Hammed nor Khader could risk any electronic communications with the Agency or the Mossad and, therefore, the specific information had to be given to me in person. If their messages were intercepted by the Syrian or Iranian security services, we wouldn’t know it until it was too late.
“Any questions?”
“What about the exit?”
Hopefully, I would return within a week accompanied by Tango. I wasn’t sure whether Hammed knew of Tango’s identity, and I had to assume that he did not.
“It’s all in here.” He handed me a single sheet of paper, printed with a travel agency’s stationery.
“Do I keep a copy?” I was a bit surprised at the lack of security.
“No, just memorize it. Khader has a copy as well. He will make sure you depart safely. When you arrive with your friend in Damascus, you will be staying in a vacation apartment we rented for you. My men will meet you in Damascus Airport and will take both of you to the apartment. If all goes well, both of you will leave Damascus the next day. There’s no point in keeping you here and attracting the attention of the Mukhabarat, the Syrian secret police. They are everywhere, believe me, I know.”
Hammed went to the next room, holding the document. I heard the toilet flush. He returned to the room without it.
“Have you had any run-ins with them?”
“Yes,” he said with a sigh. He then said that he had been arrested by the Mukhabarat.
“Why?”
“They came to my store one day and went through my files, without asking permission or a court order. I’m a Kurd; we are a minority here. I had to keep my mouth shut or get on their bad side. They looked in my address book and asked why there were so many foreign addresses. I told them they were names and addresses of my clients. They didn’t like my responses. They said my address book was proof I worked for the CIA and the Mossad.”
Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thrillers) Page 12
