“Start the search back process again,” suggested Pierre. “I’ll also look up some records at the office. Maybe there was something that you overlooked.”
Only later I realized how right he was.
XXI
June 2007, Dubai
I flew from Paris to Dubai. Immediately after checking in into a hotel, I walked into the Sepah Bank to confront Ali Akbar Kamrani, the assistant manager in charge of export document financing. He was the person with the clues, and I was about to extract them from him.
“Sorry about your brother, or was he your brother?” I asked sarcastically and loudly, when I walked unannounced into his office.
Ali Akbar Kamrani seemed shaken to see me. “Please,” he said. “People are watching.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “If you want this conversation to be quiet, you’d better talk to me.”
“What do you want to know?”
I took the big flower vase off his credenza. “I’m going to smash it right now and raise such a scandal that you’d find it difficult to explain to management.”
“What do you want to know?”
“All.”
“Like what?”
“I think that you are a VEVAK agent under deep cover, and that’s OK with your bank management because the bank is owned by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, and VEVAK is a close affiliate. I want to know how and why you contacted me.”
His eyes were puzzled, trying to see what leverage I could have on him, and consequently should he concede to my statement.
“Get out!” he said. “Get the hell out!”
“If I walk through that door, you’ll be sorry for the rest of your miserable life that will probably not last too long after I tell the world, VEVAK included, what I know.”
“You know zilch,” he said defiantly.
“Really?” I said mockingly. “You’re doubled. You have double loyalty. The VEVAK is not going to like it.” I put the vase back on his credenza. I noticed a slight tremor in his right hand. He was sweating.
“Doubled? What do you mean? I don’t work for VEVAK, and I’m not sure I understand what you mean by doubled? I’m just an assistant manager in charge of export document financing in the bank.” There was also a slight tremor in his voice. He licked his lips.
“Are you sure?” I asked in clear contempt. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I know that Firouz Kamrani was not your brother—you just have the same last name, and even that could be intentional, I don’t care. I also know that your story that you found me through your brother-in-law or some other funny connection, is also crap.
“You received my name from VEVAK and they came up with this cover story that has more holes than in my grandfather’s net when he went fishing. My friend, you work for VEVAK and, without telling them, also for a Russian agent working for the Russian foreign intelligence service.”
“Who?” he asked, breathing hard.
“SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, Служба Внешней Разведки Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki.” I repeated it in Russian.
“Never heard of them,” he became defiant again.
A thought crossed my mind: perhaps Ali Akbar never realized that Shestakov was building his own nest, but was also working for SVR to smooth his activities.
“What do you want from me? I lost my brother and now this?” Ali Akbar tried again.
“I shed tears for you,” I said mockingly. “You were recruited to work for the SVR. Was it Leonid Shestakov, the owner of LSIT—Leonid Shestakov International Trading GmbH—who recruited you?”
“Never heard his name.”
That Kamrani continued with this conversation rather than calling security to throw me out, just as any legitimate bank executive who had gotten no closer to espionage than a James Bond movie would do if I came bolting into his office with accusations taken directly from a spy manual, spoke volumes. Clearly, Kamrani was negotiating with me in his own subtle way to find out what I knew about him, and to discover what I wanted, and if that was below his cost of being exposed as a double agent cheating VEVAK.
“Never heard of him? So maybe it was Monica Mann who got you into this?” I decided to first use that name, which appeared on the passport of the German girlfriend of my “son” in Paris. “Or maybe it was Gerda Ehlen?” I deliberately did not show that I knew that it was the same person.
“Mr. Van der Hoff,” he said slowly, “I really don’t understand what you want from me.”
There we go again. He’s playing dumb. “Fine,” I said, “Unless you start leveling with me, VEVAK’s security officers will receive copies of payments you regularly received from Shestakov and SVR, his masters, directly or through Monica into a bank account in the British Virgin Islands. They will also highly appreciate the information that you were successful in saving $13.5 million in just two years from your salary at a midlevel management position at the bank. They will also get word that these savings represent ‘commissions’ from Shestakov on each sale of equipment to the Iranian Bushehr reactor.”
I partly was bluffing, of course, or at least shooting in the dark. But only partly. I had bank statements from the Italian branch of Sepah, transferring 15 percent of the amount of each of many transactions to the bank in the BVI. Though they did not prove a tie to Ali Akbar personally, that each transfer was exactly 15 percent of the money transferred each time to Dubai served to suggest that it was the customary 30 percent commission, split fifty-fifty.
And who’d be a more suitable partner with whom to share a commission than Ali Akbar, who was in a perfect position to enjoy both worlds? All that mattered was that Ali Akbar Kamrani believed that I had proof. And if he hadn’t thrown me out of his office by this point, it served as proof that he had something, or maybe a lot, to lose by letting me make good on my threat.
“Get out! Just get out,” he said quietly, as if he’d read my mind and wanted to prove me wrong.
“Thank you,” I said and left his office. I had a better plan. A floor show without the audience around us.
That evening, I waited for him next to the employees’ exit from the bank building. As he walked out the door, I came from behind him, stuck my finger at his back, and said, “You’re coming with me now. If you make a wrong move, you’ll get a bullet so fast that you won’t even have time to think about how you ended up in hell. Trust me, I won’t hesitate or miss.”
I pushed him lightly toward a car I had rented earlier and made him sit next to me. I repeated my threats to hurt him if he acted foolishly. I drove to the Jumeirah Beach, next door to the Burj al Arab and the Jumeirah Beach hotel. I stopped the car, turned off the engine and the lights. “Get out,” I barked at Ali Akbar, flashing my gun.
Shaken, he exited the car. “Walk,” I ordered him, signaling to get closer to the sandy beach with the palm trees. I looked around. The area was devoid of people. There were just a hot breeze and cicadas.
“This is your opportunity to stay alive,” I said. “Either you talk to me, or you’re a corpse.” I cocked my gun. He shivered when he heard the metal clicking.
“Please, Mr. Van der Hoff, please,” he begged.
“Sit,” I ordered. I pressed the video recorder in my pocket. The tiny wireless camera attached to my lapel should capture our conversation even when the only light came from the full moon. Ali Akbar sat on the sand. I remained standing.
“I’m going to ask each question only once. If I don’t get a satisfactory answer, you’ll meet my ugly side.”
Ali Akbar didn’t answer. But his black eyes reflected his fear.
“What do you want?” he asked, and I knew that I’d scored.
“Where is General Cyrus Madani?” I dropped the bombshell.
Ali Akbar was stunned.
“Who?” His question seemed like a futile attempt to gain time.
“You heard me, General Cyrus Madani. Where is he?”
Kamrani let out a big sigh. “He’s here.”
“Wha
t do you mean?” I was too overwhelmed by my success to take that information in. I was clearly shooting in the dark and hit a jackpot.
“Here in Dubai.”
“Doing what?” I asked hastily.
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“For travel arrangements.”
“To where?”
Kamrani became silent. “Please, Mr. Van der Hoff, I can’t tell you more or I die.”
“Where is Madani?” I insisted, lowering my gun to his neck, letting him feel the cold metal.
“In a safe house in Dubai, that’s all I know.”
“Who’s holding him?”
“Shestakov’s men. Please,” he begged, “they will kill me, please let me go, I told you all I know.”
“You are not going anywhere until I get the whole story. How did Madani end up here, and where is Shestakov holding him and why?”
He didn’t answer. I switched to another topic that was burning in me, making him believe—falsely—that he was off the hook.
“How did you know who I was when you first approached me with your story about your supposed scientist brother who allegedly wanted to defect?”
“Mr. Van Der Hoff, I’m sorry, I can’t answer you.”
I knew I had only a one-bullet gun. If I informed VEVAK about their bad apple, he would die—and so would my only source of information. So I made a tactical withdrawal. That seemed to astonish him more than anything.
“How did you know to approach me when we first met?” I repeated the question.
He hesitated.
I lifted my gun toward his face.
“Wait,” he cried. “I’ll tell you.”
“I’m listening,” I said.
“When you first came to We Forward Unlimited company in Dubai to rent their services, you gave them your passport, which they copied and scanned. As routine, they sent your image to VEVAK in Tehran.”
“Why would they do that?” I asked, although I knew the answer.
“Because VEVAK owns them.”
“Why did the request come?”
“It’s a routine procedure applied whenever a new client hires the company’s services. That helps VEVAK to identify foreign agents snooping around the Gulf States, since they are more likely to use services such as We Forward Unlimited to mask their identity. They are particularly interested in American agents collecting proof of embargo violations.”
Smart idea! I thought. That service gave VEVAK information about potential foreign intelligence agents, but also an open door to read all their mail. Obviously, intelligence agents don’t discuss their subterfuge matters on third-party vendors’ service platforms. But sometimes, some of their counterparts’ names and addresses are revealed, and at times secret information falls between the cracks without being ciphered.
Ali Akbar paused.
“Go on!” I urged him.
“VEVAK used sophisticated facial recognition software to match your photo with all photos they have on file.”
“How did they have my photo to compare to?”
“You gave the Iranian Consulate in Vienna your passport photo when you applied for a visa a few years back.”
Ha! I remembered that. It was during my preparation to infiltrate Iran chasing the Chameleon.
“When VEVAK had a positive ID on you, they told We Forward Unlimited to send them your mailbox services application and saw your listed Paris address.”
“And then?”
“They told Shestakov that you were likely to expose his secret dealings. So he sent Monica, the German woman, to befriend your son and move in with him to get access to you.”
“Does she work for VEVAK?”
“I don’t know. I know she works for Shestakov.”
I was amazed. That means that I was under the prying eyes of VEVAK as soon as I set foot in Dubai. I also didn’t have an answer yet as to how VEVAK identified me as an American agent. Just by comparing photos? Well, they were right to suspect, because they saw the same person using two completely different names, and even with different nationalities.
I also delved into my memory to ascertain what had happened to André’s rent payments. I knew they ended up in at the Agency’s coffers, but could André know about it and tell Monica that the CIA cashed his rent checks? I made a mental note to ask Eric about it.
“You still didn’t answer my question. How did you know to approach me?”
“After VEVAK identified you as a suspected foreign operative, their agent instructed me. He showed me your photo, told me where you were staying, and directed me to talk to you about my letters. When the letters were sent to the US Consulate in Dubai, saying that my scientist brother wanted to defect, VEVAK didn’t know who the CIA would send. When you came, they had no proof that you were the one the CIA sent for that mission. There are so many foreign agents here. But for them it was enough if you exposed yourself as an American agent so that they could kidnap you.”
My stomach lurched, but I kept on going.
“Was Firouz really your brother?”
“No. We just happen to have the same last name. It is very common in Iran.”
“But the brother story came up first through your letters to the consulate!”
“That’s true. It was the beginning of the VEVAK operation to apprehend an American agent in Dubai.”
“Were you the one to post a warning on my account with We Forward Unlimited to make me leave Dubai?”
“No. VEVAK did that independently to make you panic, do unexpected things, then try to kidnap you. But if you managed to leave, they would follow you to your next destination.”
“Did they follow me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need the address of the place where Madani is held.”
Ali Akbar didn’t answer. Without a warning, I hit his face with the gun. His nose started bleeding. “Answer me!”
“Shestakov has him.”
Although he’d told me that earlier, still, this was breaking news. But I didn’t blink, as if I’d expected Ali Akbar to tell me that.
“Where?”
“In a villa right here in Dubai.”
So, there’s a new Madani revealed every way I turn. Who’s the right Madani and who’s fake? I was getting confused.
“Why would Shestakov hold him?”
“Shestakov orchestrated, along with Madani, Madani’s escape from Iran. Madani in return was expected to advise Shestakov about the Iranian government’s military and nuclear purchasing plans, to enable Shestakov to continue sales of the parts for the reactor and initiate additional sales of military goods.”
“Madani wanted to leave Iran?” I asked a dumb question. Ali Akbar didn’t need to know what I already knew about Madani.
“Yes, and it was impossible for Madani to leave.” If what Ali Akbar was telling me was accurate, it seemed that Madani’s contact with the Mossad agents who attempted to recruit him earlier in Italy was loaded. Madani knew that the price of betrayal could be very heavy and that he could face summary justice Iranian style—at the end of a rope. And he had already been in contact with Shestakov, who wanted his services. So great discretion was needed. Madani must then have played off Shestakov and the Mossad. Perhaps the textile business that Madani thereafter started was only a cover? If Shestakov was indeed holding Madani, then it seemed that he’d got tired of the games Madani was playing and had had his men abduct Madani.
“Did Shestakov abduct Madani?”
“You can say that,” answered Ali Akbar. “Shestakov smuggled Madani here through the Iranian port of Kharg Island, across the bay from Dubai. They hid Madani in an empty container that had earlier brought Iranian reactor equipment shipped by Shestakov, and therefore anchored in a separate place for security reasons. Shestakov’s men had free access to the ship, and it sailed the four-hundred-and-thirty-mile distance to Dubai.”
“Why is Shestakov holding Madani? For ransom?”
“I don’t kn
ow. All I know is that Madani cannot leave the villa and that there were some angry exchanges of words between him and Shestakov. I was there just once.”
It was clear to me that Shestakov knew he was holding a treasure, and if he was holding him in a secluded villa, it could mean that Shestakov was negotiating to sell Madani to the highest bidder.
I wouldn’t be surprised if Shestakov had given SVR a right of first refusal. After all, Shestakov was Russian, and he brokered between Russia and Iran re the reactor in Bushehr. Therefore offering Madani to the SVR would make a lot of sense. From the SVR’s perspective, “buying” Madani had its advantages. First, to prevent a knowledgeable Iranian general from defecting to the West. Second, to strike a blow at the CIA, which had failed in the race to get Madani, when he was discovered to be in the SVR’s hands. Third, Madani could give firsthand information that he possessed regarding the Iranian government’s nuclear bomb plans though obviously, by now, Shestakov must have sucked from Madani everything he wanted to know.
“Does Madani understand what will happen?
“I don’t know. Shestakov’s men bring him food and entertainment.”
“Women?”
“Yes.”
“Are you married?” I asked.
“No.”
“Any children?”
“No.”
“Do you live alone?
“Yes.”
“Get up!” I snapped, “We’re going.”
“Where?” he was frightened. “I already told you everything.”
“Home, to your home.”
If Ali Akbar thought I was done with him and was about to give him a free ride home, he would soon find out he was wrong.
He directed me to his home. An apartment in a high-rise. When he exited the car I followed him.
“Where are you going?” he asked when he saw me next to him.
“To your place. I just accepted your kind offer to serve me with tea.”
He had no words. We entered the elevator and went to the ninth floor. He opened his apartment door. I grabbed his keys from him and locked the door from the inside. So much for any attempt to escape and call the police to arrest an intruder.
Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thrillers) Page 22