Ittai sat placidly, it seemed. I couldn’t tell if he was nervous or not. Likely he’d steeled himself back at the safe house. His eyes were following the scenery as we drove by. “The scenery.” Nothing felt safe, and somehow, ironically, the “nice” parts—the flowerbeds and the minaret-topped museums filled with tourists—seemed especially foreboding. Inside the car, there was silence. I could almost hear the driver breathe.
And then we turned into Surici, the oldest part of town, and the most congested. The streets were narrow and winding. We passed large, crumbling buildings that used to be public baths, groups of begging children, and then an open-air market. Of course we were passing an open-air market. The traffic slowed as we passed, and then slowed again. We inched past two butcher stalls, a stall with dyed fabrics, and then—testimony to our global world—multiple stalls manned by stooped old women selling cheap plastic trinkets no doubt made in China.
The roads, I noticed, were badly in need of repair. I’d grown used to such roads, living in the States. Even with these behemoths we were in—surely these Suburbans had shock absorbers worthy of the price of the vehicle—I could feel every pothole, every bump in the road.
And then traffic ground to a halt. Our windows were smoked; we could look out, but no one could see us. And there we sat, as every other car furiously honked and people began to shout. Off in the distance, in the bustling bazaar crowd, I spotted a young woman who seemed to lock her eyes onto our convoy; she had an intense look of concentration in her face, as least she seemed to from where I sat. She was squinting against the glare of the sun. Was she looking right at us? I couldn’t tell. Her hair was long, her clothes simple. I’d place her age at around nineteen. Old enough to kill, surely. I nudged Ittai, look. As she stared intently at us, we stared out, unseen, back at her.
Just then, she turned on her heel and walked back inside the little stall she’d come out of; she immediately came back out with another girl, a bit older, also beautiful. The two spoke to each other, then began walking toward us.
How long had we been stopped here? Longer than any traffic light, certainly, so what the hell was it? Maybe this traffic jam had been created for our benefit; maybe an intentional car crash had been staged ahead, designed to keep us trapped here, stopped, vulnerable. And still, the girls moved toward us with singular purpose. For a second I lost sight of them through the crowds of the marketplace. Then I caught sight of the younger girl’s scarf, spotting it in the crowd like a shark fin in water.
I grabbed my Glock.
Ittai put his hand on my arm.
“Wait,” he said. “We need to know: are they coming for Madani? I need to have proof. I don’t see any weapon. They could just be amazed by these massive vehicles.”
“And if they have a bomb?”
“One, even if they’re not Iranian, it seems that they are after me.”
“What difference does that make? Hezbollah does Iran’s bidding. So does Hamas. They’re not ‘Iranian.’” In fact, rarely was there an act of violence committed that was obviously attributable to Iran. The threat of UN sanctions had long ago driven acts of treachery underground. Countries no longer attacked each other openly, or very rarely. Iran had proven itself a master at this kind of battle, inflicting maximum damage, strictly by proxy.
The girls stopped and were chatting with someone, a man.
“Point taken,” Ittai went on, “but also, I can see from here they’re not Kurds.” There was some logic there. Suicide bombers in Turkey were always Kurds. The Turks didn’t do that kind of thing.
But of course, there’s always a first time.
The girls and the man resumed their beeline, but now a few other men had joined them. One of the girls kept her hand in her purse. So maybe she didn’t have a bomb, I thought. Maybe she had a gun. Guns were universal.
“You have to get out,” I said to Ittai. “Now. You—”
BAM! Just then someone crashed into Ittai’s side of the car. It was filled with thick smoke. “Turn around,” I yelled. “Don’t open the windows yet, don’t let them see us.”
It was easier said than done. The smoke was choking us, burning our eyes and throats. It smelled of sulfur. Our driver was not a Sunday driver taking his family to church. He accelerated and used the brakes at the same time, making the Suburban spin 180 degrees. I heard bullets hit the car from two different directions. I knew that the car was armored and light weaponry would not penetrate, but still, every rule has an exception. I knew that every bullet carries an address. However, I was concerned about the bullets that were addressed To whom it may concern.
I heard another explosion: an RPG missile just missed us. Our driver pushed the pedal to the metal, knocking over two fruit stands.
I looked back. Two Mercedes sedans followed. One silver, one black, both with tinted windows. There were more shots, but I felt no damage to our car. Pedestrians or no, we had to get out of this mess, and not on a gurney. Our driver raced through an intersection, sideswiping what looked like a small shipping container of clothing, knocking the whole lot over.
The two cars were right on us, crashing into that same container, as well. Our driver swerved. Ittai aimed for the driver behind us, shooting. So did our security detail. The pursuers were shooting back. I handed Ittai my Glock as well.
And then, up ahead, a shock of yellow—what the?—yes, it was a massive pile of lemons, spilled all over the road. They’d fallen off a truck, apparently, an entire truckload of them left there, smashed, smearing the street. We could spin out on those. We made a fast U-turn over a center divider to avoid them, narrowly missing an old woman. The silver Mercedes drove straight over the lemons and spun out. Bingo! It hit a cement wall. And then it went up in flames.
The black Mercedes was behind us. Obviously, we’d effectively smoked out the Iranians. They believed that Ittai was Madani. Bravo. Mission accomplished. Now let’s get the hell out of here.
I ducked as a shot rang through the driver’s seat window but missed. The driver gunned it; and then Ittai shot at the black Mercedes. I looked back. It was still behind us, but it was listing: Ittai had hit one of its tires.
Quickly, our driver turned toward the bazaar. The Mercedes followed, still listing; it was slower now, but still keeping up. We turned again, onto the road flanking the open-air market; I knew I had seconds, maybe four, five, six, before the black Mercedes would show up. I saw it make the turn behind us, and lurch to a halt. As Ittai had shot out the driver’s seat windows, we could see whether it was going to be abandoned. Sure enough, two men came out of the Mercedes, leaving the driver’s seat empty, kicking the flat tires and cursing. I heard my little devil say, The Iranians had to know that Madani Number Three was a fake. Might they have been attacking Ittai to bolster the appearance that Number Three was real?
A car chase in Istanbul is nothing like you see in the movies. There’s nothing easy about an old-world car chase. I always imagined a car chase would be much, much easier in the States, though I’ve yet to experience one there. The normal, average citizen in the States is a conscientious driver, stopping regularly at stop signs and red lights, nearly always maintaining the speed limit, giving right-of-way to pedestrians. If I were to gun through a red light in the States, I know it’s virtually certain that everyone else would be dutifully stopped at that red light, so the coast would be clear to speed off. I would be the one person breaking the laws—along, of course, with the person chasing me—and I suspect every other driver, not to mention every pedestrian, would just instinctively stay out of my way. But if you gun through a red light here in Istanbul, there’s no telling what to expect. We’re never the only ones breaking traffic laws in a place like this. This is the Middle East. The old world. Chaos comes with the territory, particularly when it comes to driving under a barrage of bullets.
Here we are in the twenty-first century, with new technology sprouting every three seconds. So much of my work is dependent on it. And yet at the end of the day, we lost one
pursuing Mercedes, thanks to a bunch of spilled lemons. Never underestimate low tech.
We opened the windows to let the smoke out, coughing. “Is everyone OK?” asked Ittai. A quick head count showed that none of us was hurt. Our driver used the two-way radio to report and, apparently, to get instructions. I just heard the buzzing of the on-and-off exchange. “The first car took an RPG missile at the rear end but managed to drive away. They have three injured.”
“What about the car that was behind us?” Ittai asked.” He was cool.
“They are fine, with light burn injuries. But we must get the hell out of here. The attack was well planned, and whoever attacked us must have Plan B.”
We didn’t have to guess who’d attacked us. Forces loyal to Iran made the attempt. They could not allow Madani to get away. He was much too valuable. To national pride and to national security. However, the attack proved that the CIA/Mossad ploy had worked. Our attackers were sure that we had Madani with us, not Ittai, the Israeli decoy.
“We’re going to a meeting in Alpha Place,” said our driver. “We have a Plan B, too.” I knew that Alpha Place was the code word for Istanbul Samandıra Army Air Base, but I had no idea where we were.
“Where is it?” I asked.
“In Kartal district, right here in Istanbul,” said the driver, “within the General İsmail Hakkı Tunaboylu Barracks north of the Anatolian Motorway Otoyo Four. We are not far.”
Ten minutes later we were at the gate. They were expecting us. We went directly to the heliport. A UH-60A Black Hawk helicopter was waiting for us. We were the last of the three cars from our motorcade to arrive. We rushed into the helicopter, and it took off in a blazing noise.
Ittai was looking out; I was looking out. Men like us are prepared for all kinds of situations. Snipers, grenades, roadside bombs. We understand guns, bombs, and covert war. We know what to do if we’re shot at. We know what to do in the case of tear gas. But with all that knowledge and our background in the Israeli Army in combat—still, what the fuck was this? I turned to Ittai.
“Nothing in the Mossad playbook for this?”
“Nope,” he said. “Not a thing.”
XVIII
June 2007, Ankara, Turkey
We flew to Ankara. After Ittai and I checked into the Hotel Arshan, we were joined by Jay Black, a security officer from the US Embassy in Ankara for security briefing. In the morning we went to the Ankara office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees to request political asylum for Ittai, aka Madani.
The office was full of people seeking asylum. Most of them were in ethnic clothing typical of their country of origin. I could identify many coming from the combat areas in southern Russia. They were waiting patiently. Following a two-hour wait, a staffer asked us to approach the desk. We quickly filled out the application form and handed it back to the staffer, along with prepared “documents” supplied by the Agency and delivered through Jay Black showing that Cyrus Madani was a subject of persecution in Iran because of his political beliefs, and that his life was in danger. He was requesting asylum in the US.
The staffer quickly reviewed and accepted the paperwork. “Call us in one month for the status of your application,” he said, handing Madani some sheets of boilerplate information with the UNHCR phone number.
“There’s one other thing,” I said hesitantly. “General Madani doesn’t have status in Turkey. There could be questions.”
He nodded in understanding. “What would you need?”
“Some paper, a letter or any sort of confirmation that General Madani is being processed by you, if he’s stopped by police or any Turkish government agency and asked why he didn’t leave Turkey when his visitor’s visa expired.” I sounded humble and apologetic.
Without a word, the staffer disappeared behind a door, leaving us to wonder if he’d return. Thirty minutes later he emerged and handed us a printed sheet of paper carrying the Commission’s emblem. I read it quickly:
United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees
Regarding Cyrus Madani
To Whom it May Concern,
Referrals from the UNHCR for the UN refugee resettlement program for Iranian and Iraqi refugees in Turkey are processed by the office of the International Catholic Migration Commission (ICMC) office located in Istanbul. ICMC is an agency under contract to the American Department of State, and is charged with preparing refugee applications for presentation to US Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS) officers. The USCIS officers are responsible for finally determining the applicants’ eligibility for resettlement in the United States under the refugee program.
The referred refugee(s) have been scheduled to have their first interview with the agency during the next few weeks. Subject to eligibility determination the case will then be presented to a USCIS officer at the next adjudication in Istanbul. Should the case be approved for resettlement by USCIS then a further 1 to 2 months are needed for the coordination of the actual departure of the concerned refugee(s).
Any assistance your office may extend to the referred case during these processing periods shall be appreciated by our agency and the US Refugee Program.
Sincerely,
Peter K. Schwabb
Director
I thanked the staffer with a nod, not wanting to appear overjoyed, although my heart sang, and walked out of his office. We left the building, relieved that it had gone without a hitch.
The request for the document was a spur of the moment move. I thought that we needed some such document as a sort of alibi. We obviously didn’t need a UN agency to arrange asylum for Madani in the US. He was already there with legal status, together with a retirement package that would astonish even the generous souls in the intelligence community. Although issued to a decoy, not to the real Madani, that paper could be a public relations insurance policy against planted rumors that Madani was anything else but a defector. That usually happens in similar instances when rumors, speculation, and anonymously sourced news stories suggest a kidnapping.
There was a risk, though, that the UN—trying to maintain neutrality—would later on try to distance itself from the document, alleging that it was fake. Obviously, the Iranian government could make that argument as well. But I didn’t care anymore. I had the document in my hand, and everything else that could emerge later on would be just propaganda.
In the safe house with Ittai, I reported my achievement to Eric on the secure phone.
“Whose idea was it?” he asked, when I told him about the letter.
Waiting for praise from Eric is like expecting rain in the Sahara: it does come, once in a millennium. Therefore, I wasn’t expecting anything. But what followed was bizarre.
“Dan, I think we went through these matters earlier. Although I appreciate your creative mind, in sensitive matters such as this one, you need to clear things with me first.”
“Eric,” I said trying hard not to lose my temper, “are you suggesting that I had to leave the UNHCR office, call you on an unsecured phone, raise with you the idea of getting something from the UNHCR with Madani’s name on it, then return and wait another two hours to ask for the damn letter?”
Eric sensed my anger, but didn’t seem to care. Eels don’t have feelings, only an insatiable need to hunt their next meal. However, I wasn’t about to allow Eric to regard me as his next prey.
“I did what was right under the circumstances,” I said drily. “The process as far as Madani was concerned was ended but they gave him no paper or receipt bearing his name. They just gave him a bunch of boilerplate documents with general information, nothing specific to Madani.”
Eric didn’t respond and moved on to ask other questions. “OK,” he finally said. “I’m sending you instructions on what to do next.” He hung up.
I no longer take antacids after talking with Eric. I got used to his acerbic conduct. It comes with the territory.
Jay Black called me shortly thereafter. “Due to the sensitivity of Madani’s case, and the fact t
hat the US Embassy brought the UN agency in on it, Madani’s asylum application will be accepted in a day or two,” he said. “After the United Nations accepts his file, it will be referred to Istanbul to a refugee organization called the International Catholic Migration Commission to help him out until the asylum application is finalized.” This was basically what was in the letter that I’d got “Madani” from the UNHCR. But Jay Black didn’t know that it was in fact Ittai posing as Madani, and I thanked him for the news.
The way back to our hotel from the refugee agency in Ankara was uneventful. As the driver pulled up beside the curb, Ittai sat still for a minute. I knew what he was thinking. We’d crisscrossed the city, he’d been an open target, and we’d escaped unscathed. Did they know? If agents had been watching—and he felt they had—had he done something that had tipped them off? A suspect gesture? Something that had somehow managed to telegraph, “I am not Iranian?” I let him sit. I could see it in his face: he was mentally cataloguing every move he had made since taking on this mission, turning each moment over in his head, looking for the crack, the defect.
XIX
June 2007, Istanbul
We took a commercial flight to Istanbul and waited for three days, under the protection of two US security agents, in a small hotel next to the airport. We were not allowed to leave our rooms, and spent the time reminiscing about Israeli life and food. Then came the word that, with the help of the ICMC, a hotel room had been reserved for Ittai, aka Madani, at the Jiran Hotel—the hotel the ICMC normally uses.
“Are we moving there?” I asked the security detail chief, a bit baffled.
“No. We just made it look like Madani did move over there. Everything has to look like a routine handling of the matter by the UN agency.”
We did move, however, together with the protection detail, to a safe house instead. We couldn’t stay in one place for too long. The safe house was small but good for the purpose. It was in fact a fleabag hotel where, as European-looking men, we could quite easily blend into the background: this was a red light district. Lots of European tourists prowled the streets at any given time, day or night. Brothels were sandwiched between makeshift tea houses.
Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thrillers) Page 20
