Two Steps Forward

by Luana Ehrlich

  “Uh-huh. Did you like it? Was it interesting?”

  I watched as one of the Iranians at the palace across the street appeared to be intentionally lagging behind the rest of the group. Unlike his friends, he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to the tour guide, who was giving a lecture on the El Badi’s famous sunken gardens.

  Instead, Lagger Guy was checking out the other tourists while pretending to study a brochure.

  “Oh, you bet. It was very interesting.”

  “Where will you go next?”

  As the rest of the Iranians followed the tour guide over to the entrance to the palace, Lagger Guy sat down on a stone bench beside one of the crumbling fountains and read the brochure.

  A few seconds later, he placed the brochure down on the bench and walked away.

  Leaving the brochure behind appeared to be a very deliberate act.

  “I’m sorry, Eleanor. What was your question?”

  “I asked you where you were going next?”

  As Lagger Guy walked over and rejoined his group, he glanced over at a bunch of tourists, who were part of another tour group.

  He studied them a moment as if he might be looking for someone.

  “Well, actually, Eleanor, I think we’ll stick around here a little longer.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I think I just spotted a friend of mine who’s also here visiting the El Badi Palace.”

  “Oh, that’s cool.”

  “My thoughts exactly. We’ll call you in a few days. Have fun with Bella.”

  When I handed Nikki back her cell phone, she gave me a puzzled look. “What’s going on? Why did you tell her you’d spotted a friend of yours here?”

  “Because I did. Would you mind waiting here while I go check it out?”

  “Uh . . . I guess not, but you’re being awfully mysterious.”

  I bent down and gave her a kiss. “I happened to know you love a good mystery.”

  * * * *

  As I was ending my conversation with Eleanor, I’d focused my attention on the tourists gathered around the entrance to the palace, curious to see which one of them would walk over to the fountain and pick up the brochure left behind by Lagger Guy.

  However, none of them had made a move in that direction. Instead, they’d continued listening to the tour guide’s lecture.

  Then, as I was getting off the phone with Eleanor, I’d noticed a young guy with a backpack slung across his shoulder. For one brief moment, he’d taken his eyes off the tour guide and glanced over at the fountain.

  It was only a split-second move, but even so, I’d immediately recognized his profile—or thought I did.

  He was one of Carlton’s operatives.

  Now, as I made my way across the street toward the entrance of the El Badi Palace, I wanted to see if I was right.

  I had no plans to interfere with whatever he was doing.

  I simply wanted to know why he was here.

  I wanted to know what was going on.

  Lagger Guy’s actions led me to believe he was trying to pass a message off to someone—say, for instance, the young guy with the backpack.

  His technique was classic espionage tradecraft.

  He’d arrived at the location with a large group of people; he’d left a message where his handler could easily retrieve it—the brochure on the bench—and he’d carefully avoided any contact with his handler.

  Despite that, the young guy with the backpack—who I presumed to be his handler—had yet to make a move to retrieve the brochure.

  That too was good espionage tradecraft.

  He was being cautious, assessing the environment to determine if the whole thing could be a trap, and he was protecting his identity, making sure his actions wouldn’t compromise his asset.

  It didn’t surprise me Carlton had assigned operatives to the Summit. I fully expected him to have them everywhere, either engaged in an active operation or simply running surveillance.

  I’d been assigned to follow a Syrian diplomat during a similar summit a few years ago, even though a Level 1 covert operative wasn’t usually tasked with surveillance duties. In that instance, Carlton had been short-handed because of the number of operatives required to cover all the delegates attending the summit.

  A few days ago, when Carlton had asked me to take some photographs of the Iraqi security detail, I’d wondered if he had a similar situation and was just taking advantage of my presence here.

  I didn’t have a problem with that.

  What I did have a problem with was why he’d lied to me about Ben Mitchell.

  Why had he told me Mitchell was on an assignment in Iraq, when he was standing a few feet away from me in front of the El Badi Palace wearing a backpack?

  * * * *

  After I left Nikki, I joined Mitchell’s tour group, sliding into a position a few feet behind him while he listened—or pretended to listen—to his tour guide explain the politics of the sultan who’d built the palace.

  The Iranians were in another tour off to my right. Their guide was describing the construction of the sunken gardens. From having recently been on the same tour, I knew the guide would soon direct the Iranians inside a pavilion away from the front entrance.

  I figured that would be when Mitchell would make his move.

  As far as I could tell, there weren’t any other Agency operatives around to do the retrieval.

  Mitchell was on his own.

  Not having a backup was never a good idea.

  As the tour guide began leading the Iranians away from the front entrance toward the pavilion, Mitchell took another quick glance over toward the fountain.

  If the woman standing next to me hadn’t decided to remove her headscarf at that moment, I don’t believe Mitchell would have ever spotted me.

  But, the flash of her red scarf caused him to momentarily turn in my direction.

  When our eyes met, he stared at me in disbelief for a few seconds.

  To his credit, he quickly recovered and turned around to face the tour guide without drawing attention to himself.

  A few minutes later, when the guide finished his lecture, and the crowd started breaking up, Mitchell sauntered over to the fountain.

  After he sat down on the stone bench, he casually picked up the brochure and slipped it inside his shirt pocket.

  Once I’d seen him do that, I walked over and knelt down in front of the fountain, examining the crumbling stones as if I were some kind of archeologist who specialized in decaying masonry.

  After everyone had wandered off, Mitchell said, “I should have known Douglas wouldn’t let me do this job on my own.”

  I shook my head. “You’ve got that wrong. Douglas didn’t send me here to keep tabs on you. Nikki and I are here on our honeymoon.”

  “Yeah, sure. You really expect me to believe that?”

  I turned away from the fountain and faced him. “As a matter of fact, I do. Name one time when I’ve ever lied to you.”

  “You’ve lied to me plenty of times. Besides that, you deliberately don’t tell me everything. In my book, that’s the same as lying.”

  “It’s not the same at all.”

  “Okay, here’s an example. Last year, when I was kidnapped by the drug cartel, you deliberately didn’t tell me my father tried to hire you to come find me. I consider that lying.”

  “Okay, you’re right. I did lie to you about that, but if you remember, I told you the truth later.”

  Although I was willing to concede his point in this instance, I wasn’t about to come clean with Mitchell.

  He was right, though. I’d lied to him before, especially when it came to his father.

  Ben’s father was Senator Elijah Mitchell, the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, and the two of us had had an adversarial relationship for over ten years, although Ben wasn’t aware I’d known him that long.

  In fact, when I’d met Ben in Costa Rica last year, I didn’t have any idea his father was the
Senator. All I knew was that Ben was an untested operative who’d only been with the Agency five years and wasn’t always in control of his emotions.

  Despite that, I’d agreed to take him on as my partner in Operation Clear Signal, especially since I could tell Ben had a lot of innate abilities that would help him become an excellent covert operative one day.

  My assessment was contingent upon him having someone around him to steer him in the right direction, and for some reason, I’d decided to become that person.

  Since then, the two of us had worked together on a couple of operations, and each time, he’d gotten better at his tradecraft, and I’d found him less annoying.

  However, there were still occasions when he acted like a spoiled rich kid who resented anyone interfering in his life, especially me.

  This appeared to be one of those occasions.

  Mitchell looked around the entrance to the El Badi Palace. “If you’re really here on your honeymoon, where’s your new wife?”

  I gestured across the street. “Follow me, and I’ll introduce you.”

  Mitchell reluctantly followed me across the street to the palace gardens where Nikki was waiting for me.

  When we were still a few feet away from her, I motioned toward the park bench where she was sitting and said, “That’s Nikki. She’s the dark-haired woman in the red dress.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No, I’m not kidding you. She’s my wife.”

  “But . . . she’s gorgeous.”

  “Yeah. My wife just happens to be gorgeous.”

  Chapter 7

  When I introduced Mitchell to Nikki, I told her he was a colleague from the Consortium for International Studies. This was solely for the benefit of the people sitting on the park bench next to us.

  Nikki knew he worked for the Agency, and he knew she knew.

  We played the game of social chitchat for a few minutes, with Mitchell apologizing for not being able to make it to our wedding, and Nikki accepting his apology.

  Mitchell took it a step further and asked her how the wedding had gone and where the reception had been held. Once she’d answered those questions, he asked a bunch of other questions like that—questions I couldn’t remember to ask in social situations.

  Or, maybe I was just too much of an introvert to ask them.

  Mitchell, however, wasn’t an introvert. He’d also been well-schooled in the art of schmoozing—having grown up in a politician’s home—and I’d seen him use his ability to make small talk on several occasions, especially when he was trying to impress someone.

  Evidently, that was his objective with Nikki.

  When she described how the candles on one of the candelabras had gone out during the wedding—something I didn’t even know had happened—Mitchell laughed and said, “That’s the same thing that happened at my cousin’s wedding. I remember the groom making a joke about—”

  “I’m sorry to cut you off, Ben,” I said, “but before you leave, we need to have a chat. You don’t mind, do you, Nikki?”

  She smiled. “No, of course not. I’ll go take a walk through these beautiful gardens while the two of you get caught up.”

  As we watched her walk away, Mitchell said, “She’s quite a lady, Titus. I can see why you married her.” He shook his head. “I wish I could find someone like that.”

  Mitchell’s love life had been through several ups and downs during this past year, but his failures hadn’t dampened his enthusiasm for romance, which was why I was tempted to ask him if he’d been seeing Delaney Karol.

  Delaney was an Agency Support Specialist who’d been with us during Rebel Merchant, our last operation. I thought I’d noticed some chemistry between them, especially during our debriefing.

  However, the last time Mitchell and I’d talked about one of his girlfriends, our conversation had ended badly, so I decided to leave the subject alone.

  “I guess that means you believe me now,” I said. “Douglas didn’t send me here to check on you. I’m in Marrakesh enjoying my honeymoon.”

  Mitchell ran his hand through his thick black hair and nodded. “Yeah, I believe you. I suppose the two of us being here together is just a coincidence. Of course, you know what Douglas says about coincidences.”

  “There are no coincidences.”

  * * * *

  When a couple of old-timers sat down on the bench next to us and opened their chessboard, I pointed up the street and suggested we take a walk.

  Mitchell agreed, and once we were headed away from the El Badi Palace, he said, “I’m sure you’re curious about what you witnessed at the palace today.”

  “Of course I am. Wouldn’t you be curious if you saw another operative servicing an open drop?”

  An open drop was Agency jargon for an asset passing information along to a handler in a public place, the opposite of a dead drop, in which the asset placed a message in a hidden location to be picked up by the handler at a later time.

  Mitchell said, “Oh, yeah. I’d be curious all right.” He was quiet for few seconds. “Okay, I don’t mind telling you about it unless you think I’d be breaking Agency rules.”

  “Do you mean the rule about not discussing an operation with another operative unless said operative is also engaged in the operation?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s it.”

  “That rule only applies to an active ongoing operation.”

  “So you think it’s okay?”

  “As I understand it, you’re not engaged in an active ongoing operation. You’re only on an assignment.”

  “Did Douglas tell you that?”

  “He told me he was sending you to Baghdad to do some preliminary prep for an operation that’s still in the planning stages.”

  “Wait a minute. Aren’t you on leave?”

  When I nodded, he said, “I’m surprised Douglas discussed Agency matters with you when you’re still on leave. What’s up with that?”

  For all of five seconds, I thought about lying to him, but, in the end, the truth won out.

  “Here’s the thing, Ben. Like I told you, I’m really in Marrakesh on my honeymoon, but while I’m here, Douglas asked me to do him a favor. I told him I would—”

  “See! I knew you were here to—”

  “No, listen. When he called to discuss it with me, he mentioned he’d given you an assignment. All he told me was that he was sending you to Baghdad. That’s it. Of course, that begs the question. What are you doing here in Marrakesh when you’re supposed to be in Baghdad? And why were you servicing an open drop at the El Badi Palace?”

  Mitchell waited until we’d passed a young couple on the sidewalk before he said anything. Then, he pointed over to a coffee shop where no one was seated at the outdoor tables. “Let’s grab a cup of coffee, and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

  Once the waiter had taken our orders, Mitchell said, “Douglas didn’t tell me anything about our upcoming Iraqi operation. All I know is that you’re the primary, and I’m one of the principals on the operational team. When he told me he was sending me to Baghdad, he said it was to initiate contact with a low-level diplomat who’d recently gotten in touch with the American Embassy in Baghdad.”

  “An Iraqi diplomat?”

  “No, an Iranian.”

  “An Iranian diplomat in Iraq?”

  “That’s right. He said his name was Abbas Alviri.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “No, but I’m guessing you caught sight of him at the El Badi Palace this afternoon. He’s the guy who made the open drop by the fountain.”

  * * * *

  Our conversation was momentarily interrupted when the waiter arrived with our order. We’d each ordered a cup of nous nous—a Moroccan coffee made up of equal parts of frothed milk and strong espresso, and I’d also ordered us a plate of pastries to share.

  The pastries consisted of stuffed dates drizzled with honey along with kaabs el ghazalm, two crescent-shaped cookies filled w
ith almond paste.

  After our waiter had left, I said, “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Ben. Why did Alviri get in touch with our embassy in Baghdad?”

  “That’s the reason Douglas sent me to Iraq,” Ben said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I was assigned to make contact with him and find out why he’d left a cryptic note with one of our embassy officials.”

  “That sounds like an assignment better suited for the Agency’s chief of station in Baghdad.”

  “Yeah, I guess so, but I didn’t bring that up with Douglas. I just figured he specifically wanted me to go to Baghdad because of our upcoming operation in Iraq.”

  “Tell me about Abbas Alviri. What did the Ops Center give you?”

  “They said he works in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Iran, but he spends time in their embassy in Baghdad. He’s not one of their top-level diplomats. His primary responsibility is speechwriting, but he also doubles as a translator. He speaks several languages.”

  “I know you don’t speak Farsi, so I’m assuming the two of you conducted your meeting in Arabic.”

  “No, we spoke English. I told him I could speak Arabic if he preferred, but he insisted we speak English. He’s totally enamored with all things American, and I believe that’s why he contacted the embassy and offered us his services.”

  “I don’t imagine you mean translation services.”

  Mitchell shook his head and popped one of the stuffed dates in his mouth, washing it down with a gulp of coffee.

  “No, not translation services. He told me he’d been assigned to attend the Arab Summit as part of the Iranian delegation. His responsibility is to take notes during the meetings President Rashad will be having with the other delegations. Once the Summit’s over, he’s supposed to use his notes to write a speech, which President Rashad plans to deliver to the Iranian people.”

  “Let me guess. Alviri offered to hand over a copy of those notes to you—a.k.a. the Americans—for a small fee.”

  “I wouldn’t call the price he quoted a small fee, but you’re right. The reason he contacted the American Embassy was to initiate that transaction. Once I relayed that information on to Douglas, and the DDO agreed to pay him the money, I told Alviri he would need to let me know how to contact him in Marrakesh. I gave him a choice of three different locations where he could pass along his contact information, and he chose the El Badi Palace at noon today.”