The Caspian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "Worked last time … almost." Last time was in February when Amadeo posed as an Iranian driver for the Raven-One team. Almost, meant they convinced everyone except the Russians, who staged an ambush on the streets of Tehran. One CIA man was killed in the incident.

  John said, "Do what you have to do." John Smith had worked with Amadeo for several years and had full confidence in his skills as a covert operator. He had proved himself Ethiopia, Iran, Lebanon, and other places that cannot be named.

  Jack spoke up, "I make contact with someone from the embassy at the hotel." Jack paused and made eye contact with John. "You're sure this guy has cover, not known to the Iranians?"

  John shrugged. "That's what they say, but I would exercise every ounce of caution. You can't assume anything."

  Jack took a deep breath. Operating in a confused and ambiguous environment was nothing new. "I do not make contact with the US embassy under any circumstances. The tape will be delivered to me by my contact and then we leave on the next available flight. That about it?"

  "Well, on the embassy thing. I would never say never, but like I told Amadeo, do what you gotta do. You're the one on the ground, just do it, get the tape and get it home." John looked up at the clock, "Three hours till your flight leaves, get your stuff together and Amadeo you leave first—"

  "Hey if you want authenticity," said Jack, "don't you think Senior Fernandez should be fashionably late, Latin style."

  Before Amadeo had a chance to answer, John retorted, "Ain't gonna happen. Nobody's gonna be late on my watch."

  "Say John, I have a question," said Amadeo. "Why don't they just send the tape out in the diplomatic pouch?"

  "Yeah, seems a lot safer and simpler to me," said Jack.

  John exhaled. "When did they ever do anything simple? Remember, this is government work. If some genius from the post office was running the show, they'd probably do just that. But we're dealing with these…" Jack and Amadeo joined in unison with John, they knew the drill, had heard it before, "...freakin Ivy League geniuses."

  Thursday, 1 November 1979: Tehran, Iran

  Preparations for an epic march proved unnecessary. The planned procession ended up at a square, a mile south of the embassy. Fortunately, the organizers believed the distance too far.

  A small group, organized by the Communist party, showed up in the morning and marched back and forth around the compound, chanting slogans, and adding to the already abundant graffiti on the compound walls. The crowd eventually grew to less than five thousand and dispersed late in the afternoon.

  Sam, who had stayed home, checked in at the embassy late in the evening. He asked his boss, "Did they ever try to break in? I figured it to be a likely repeat of Valentine's Day."

  "No, they seemed content to just march around, the usual. Probably just wanted to harass us and hope someone got nervous and over reacted. Luckily, everyone kept their cool. We know now not to let them provoke us, all that does is let us do their dirty work for them."

  "So, we had no incidents?"

  "Just one near miss. Late in the afternoon one of the security officers decided to pull down a banner hung up on the embassy gates out front."

  "What did it say?"

  "The usual, some derogatory crap about Carter and telling the world how great Khomeini is, you know the drill. Anyway, that stirred the pot and even the Iranian police, supposedly guarding the embassy, joined in."

  "What happened then?"

  "Someone decided to give in and let them rehang the banner. But told them it wasn't going back on the gate. They nixed that idea and said if we didn't give in, they would swarm over the walls. With the police against us, we had no real choice. To everyone's dismay, the banner went back up…" He bit his lip in disgust and inhaled a deep breath. "…on the gate. The mob hung around for another hour, but at least they didn't try anything else."

  "On the way over here, I saw another crowd coming away from the embassy. What was that all about?"

  "A different bunch held a rally at the stadium and decided to come by and give us their salutations. The thing was no big deal, over in less than a quarter hour, just your normal drive by hate-fest."

  "Were our preparations in order, everything went okay?"

  "More or less. We stuck to our contingency plans and kept in touch with State by telephone. Think we have the drill down pat by now." He grinned. "Oh yeah, one new policy, we'll reject anyone with a sore throat who shows up to apply for a visa."

  10 ~ Arrival

  Friday, 2 November 1979: Tehran, Iran

  A bearded man spat at Sam Brooks as he waded through the mob. Someone screeched a racial epithet worthy of Georgia back road, in Farsi no less. Sam cringed, paused at the front gate, and glanced back to the street. He recognized two men, his watchers, at the front of the crowd. They glared impassively with no attempt to disguise their interest.

  The Marine guard cautiously opened the gate and greeted Sam, "Surprised to see you, sir."

  "Why's that?"

  "The ambassador placed us on alert and ordered all non-essential personnel to avoid the embassy. Didn't you get the message?"

  Sam managed a smile. "Well that makes me feel better."

  The Marine gave a questioning look, just as a chant went up from the crowd. "Marg bar Amrika! Marg bar Amrika! Marg bar Amrika!"

  "I have to go in, so I guess that makes me essential personnel." Sam looked back — they were still there. "See the guy in the leather jacket and the one next to him in the blue coat?"

  "Yes, sir. Are they giving you a hard time?"

  "Been following me for a few days, keep an eye on them."

  * * *

  Inside the embassy, Sam reported the afternoon's events to his CIA supervisor. "I was able to contact Azad, but he was genuinely nervous. Two of the men following me came in and sat two tables away. The last few days, they're making no pretense at hiding their intentions. I told Azad I would like my fish the next time I came in."

  "Fish? … Oh, yeah. What was his response?"

  "Well, his attitude has changed the last couple of times I've been in there. He seems to display a little more attitude."

  "Think he's getting cold feet?"

  "No, I don't think so. Most likely, he's trying to put on an act for my watchers. He's aware of their presence and probably just trying not to raise their suspicions."

  "If they're keeping such a close watch, how are you going to take care of business? Looks to me like they could complicate the transaction."

  "Don't know. I was hoping you could give me some advice."

  "Sounds like a job for the hot shots from Langley." He handed a teletype message to Sam. "They're supposed to have arrived this afternoon. All the details are in the message. Contact them at the hotel this evening, but be careful, I don't want to take a chance of blowing your cover or at least raising any more suspicions. Then there's always the possibility that he's a plant, or that they found out what he's up to and turned him. Don't discount that possibility."

  "I haven't. The more I think about it, the more I—"

  "Don't obsess on it. You need to keep a clear focus on the target. These guys should be here soon, so just play it cool, and leave it up to them."

  That's easy for you to say, thought Sam. "Yes sir, you're right. I'll let you know after I contact them."

  Friday, 2 November 1979: Mehrabad Airport, Tehran, Iran

  Back in January, the last time the Raven-One team arrived in Tehran, the revolution was in full tilt. At that time, few passengers flew in to Tehran, everyone scrambled to leave, and seats were at a premium. Today the Mehrabad Airport terminal was calmer, but not less tense, soldiers and civilian militia members controlled the terminal.

  A young soldier with an H&K G3 automatic rifle glanced about nervously at the waiting passengers. A rough character sporting a green armband walked down the line of arriving passengers eying the westerners with disdain. Amadeo passed through first near the head of the line without incident. Jack lingered in t
he rear, not wanting to be associated with Amadeo.

  Jack completed filling out his two-sheet embarkation-disembarkation form and approached the passport control counter. The scruffy dressed immigration officer, wearing what was obviously a second-hand uniform, eyed him warily. The man snatched the form and passport, turned the pages, examined each entry, and checked everything against a list.

  "You America?" asked the officer, a balding man in his mid-forties with a grey five-day stubble pretending to be a beard. He ignored the fact that Jack had presented him a Canadian passport.

  Jack feigned indignation, "No way — Canada" He pointed at the passport, "Canada, not USA."

  The man asked impassively, as he read from a prepared list of questions, "What you come Iran?"

  "I represent Fabrique National in Belgium. I have business with the Ministry of Defense."

  "What you… what hotel you stay?"

  "The Intercontinental." Jack stifled a sigh. He knew it was best to play along with the bureaucratic routine. To do otherwise would only draw attention.

  The man checked what appeared to be a list of hotels and made a notation beside Jack's name on the passenger manifest list.

  He referred to the list of questions again, "You have the money?"

  Jack presented a packet of Thomas Cook traveler's checks in Pounds sterling. The man examined the packet, hesitated, seemed unsure what to do next, and called over a bearded man in civilian clothes. They spoke for a few moments. The bearded man examined the embarkation-disembarkation form, passport, and traveler's checks. He glared at Jack and handed the items back to the officer. Jack understood enough of the conversation to relax a bit. They bought the fake cover story.

  The passport officer asked a few more pro-forma questions, stamped, and signed the official entry cachet on the last blank page. After hesitating a moment, he returned Jack's documents and traveler's checks.

  "Do I need my copy of the disembarkation form," asked Jack.

  The man frowned and handed over the yellow copy. "You give you leave."

  Jack took the form without comment and made a mental note for John Smith: the new immigration officers seemed to be untrained civilians put to work based on their revolutionary credentials. The regular officers probably were hiding or dead, after all, they had worked for the Shah.

  Outside the terminal building, Amadeo spotted Jack as he entered a cab, but offered no signs of recognition. He took the next available cab, an Iranian made Paykan, and was soon on his way into central Tehran.

  Friday, 2 November 1979: Intercontinental Hotel, Tehran, Iran

  "You represent Fabrique National from Belgium?" The security officer had pulled Jack aside as he was checking into the hotel. The apparatchik wore a dark blue suit with no tie. Iran's post-revolutionary dress code discouraged ties as too Western. "Est-ce une société belge?" Is this a Belgian company? The man was obviously well educated and spoke excellent French.

  "Oui, il est situé près de Liège à Herstal." Yes, it is located near Liège in Herstal.

  As he thumbed through the passport, he asked, "And you are Canadian?"

  "That is correct. My original home is Calgary. Now I live and work in Herstal." The man still had a question in his eyes. "I travel as a representative of the company's international marketing division."

  He examined the last page with the visa issued in Brussels "Why are you in Iran?"

  "I wish to contact the Ministry of Defense regarding some contract issues."

  The man squinted. "And these would be?"

  This guy is sure getting nosy, can't seem too compliant. "An order for pistols was placed before the revolution," the man puckered his brow, "I was sent here to finalize the details of the payments." The man started to speak, but Jack continued, "The Belgians are — how would you say — tight with their money."

  The man frowned, he didn't understand.

  Jack repeated in French, "Les Belges sont avares avec leur argent. They just want to make sure they are paid. You understand?"

  "Yes. Who are you to contact at the Ministry of Defense?"

  "I don't have a contact."

  The security officer's attention heightened. "How do—"

  "That's why I'm here. We have a communication problem. My job is to establish contact with the Ministry of Defense. Our contract seems to have become lost somehow." Before the man could ask the next obvious question, "I plan to present myself at the ministry and attempt to find someone with authority to resolve the issue."

  "These weapons were ordered by the previous government?"

  "Yes, we are businessmen. We only want to sell our product."

  "To whoever—"

  "Has the money. Like I said, the Belgians just want to make money."

  The officer handed the passport back to Jack, "Udachi v ministerstve."

  Jack feigned bewilderment. The man had just wished him good luck in Russian, "Je ne comprends pas."

  The man turned and walked away. Jack took a deep breath. The nervous hotel clerk handed him his key and Jack headed for the elevator.

  What's with the Russian, is he suspicious or just fishing? At least he didn't ask me in Farsi. The guy is good. His French is better than mine. At least he seemed to buy the cover story.

  In the room Jack performed his regular routine, check for audio bugs and hidden cameras. He found none, but his experience told him to conduct himself as if there were, no use taking any chances.

  * * *

  The security officer — Captain Rezaei of the Ministry of the Interior — halted outside the hotel and made a notation in his notebook. He was assigned to monitor foreigners.

  Rezaei, an educated man knowledgeable in the ways of the west, had studied in France and traveled to England. His family was not politically connected with the previous government, but his position made him a potential target for the revolutionaries. He was careful not to do anything to cause suspicion.

  The Intercontinental was a preferred abode for the horde of foreigners seeking to exploit the revolution. In addition, there were signs that the Soviets were actively pursuing American technology used by the Iranian military. As usual, he had handled the routine assignment himself, his command of foreign languages put the foreigners at ease.

  The Canadian's papers seemed to be in order, but the Ministry of Defense connection would call for a follow-up. The man had not reacted to his farewell in Russian, but he did detect a change in pitch in his French response. He decided to keep an eye on him. Can't be too careful these days.

  * * *

  An hour later Amadeo stood with Jack as they waited for the elevator in the lobby. The meeting was pre-arranged, designed to be a casual encounter. There was no sign of the man who questioned Jack.

  Amadeo asked in a low tone, looking straight ahead, "Any problems?"

  "No, some security type questioned me at the front counter, but he seemed to buy the cover. I looked around when I came back down. Don't see no signs of anything obvious. How 'bout you?"

  "Nope, no one questioned me or anything. Feel like the invisible man."

  "Let's keep it that way. My room is six-twelve."

  "Five-nineteen."

  "My room in ten." The elevator door opened, they entered, and rode to their respective floors in silence. Good operational security assumes that elevators may be bugged. An elevator in a major international hotel in a paranoid revolutionary dictatorship was a sure bet.

  Fifteen minutes later, following a second sweep of the room, Jack admitted Amadeo, who glanced back down the hall as he entered.

  "You being followed?"

  "There was a guy at the end of the hall as I left. Went back down to the lobby and waited and then came back up. No sign of him. Any sign of our contact?"

  "No. We'll just have to sit and wait."

  * * *

  "It's been almost two hours. You think were being stood up?" asked Amadeo. They had spent the time listening to Iranian TV, brushing up on their Farsi comprehension.


  "Dunno, all we can do is wait."

  Amadeo glanced at the television, "Think they'll have the Dolphins – Oilers game on Sunday? Sure, hated to miss that one."

  Jack laughed. "Nah, these guys seem to be more the Oakland Raiders type." Amadeo nodded in agreement. "Think Csonka's return gonna help the Dolphins?"

  Amadeo didn't have a chance to answer. The phone rang. Jack assumed a serious countenance and picked up the receiver, "Bolton here." He listened for a few moments and hung up.

  "Our contact?"

  "Think so. He said your brother is in the bar."

  "Brother. What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Must be some sort of a coded signal. Guess I'll go down and see what's up. We need to approach this with care, could be the real thing or…"

  "Right on, I'll slip out first, go down to the bar, and check things out." Amadeo smiled, "Don't want you to blunder into a trap."

  "Okay, I'll follow in a few minutes. If it's nothing, you leave first and we'll meet back up in your room."

  * * *

  Five minutes later, Jack strolled into the bar filled with westerners and expatriates grumbling about the unavailability of booze following the revolution. Amadeo sat at a table conversing in Spanish with two men. As he noticed Jack, he nodded towards the bar. Their silently exchanged glances conveyed all that needed to be said. A Black man wearing a tan corduroy sport coat sat at the bar, a drink in hand.

  Jack took the stool next to him and spoke with a casual tone, "Whatcha drinkin' bro?"

  Sam held up his glass. "They always say things go better with Coke, but they've banned it. Try the lemonade, not too bad." He glanced at Jack, "You American?"

  "Everybody keeps asking me that. My name's Mike Bolton from Calgary. You?"

  "Sam Brooks from Baltimore."

  "The Colts gonna beat the Bengals this weekend?"

  Sam's eyebrows rose imperceptibly. "Probably not — looks like this may be Marchibroda's last season at the helm."

  Jack glanced left with a quick look. "I agree. He's toast."

  Sam stayed silent, confident that he had made contact. Anyone knowledgeable about the foibles of the Colts had to be the real deal.