The Iranian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  A half-hour and a second round of coffee later, a group of four Americans strode in and chose the table across from us. A tall man with a beard spoke in an animated fashion about the kidnapping of the American ambassador. The diplomat was being held as a hostage at the Kabul Hotel.

  I cast a glance to Jack and whispered, "Where's the Kabul Hotel?"

  "Middle of downtown, can't miss it."

  A well-dressed couple entered and sat down two tables away. They began to converse in French.

  French — Lara Dumont — French embassy, Kabul — of course, why didn't I think of her before? If anyone can help us, it's her, if she's still speaking to me. — All I can do is ask.

  I leaned over and asked, "Excuse moi s'il vous plaît, où... ah…" Couldn't remember the rest of it and said, "Where is the French embassy?"

  The man, amused at my fractured French, said with a sniff, "Around the corner to the right." The woman twitched her nose while she perused my outfit. My sheepskin vest was beginning to ripen.

  I glanced over at Jack. "Come on."

  He followed me out the door and tugged on my sleeve. "You need to hold up and check the area before you go barging out onto the street."

  "Sorry." The situational awareness thing again, I still had a lot to learn.

  "Where you headed in such a hurry?"

  "The French embassy."

  "I gathered that, can you tell me…" He paused. "Yeah, Barker told me about your other French girlfriend. Think she can help us?"

  "We'll find out."

  * * *

  The French embassy was close by, around the corner, it took less than five minutes, including all of Jack's situational awareness tricks to make sure we weren't followed. We made it to the reception with relative ease. I asked for Lara Dumont.

  "C'est impossible," said the dour lady at the front desk. It seemed like déjà vu all over again, but I was used to embassy run arounds.

  I straightened up, trying to appear serious, a difficult task considering my Afghan hippie outfit. "Please, I know she is assigned to this embassy, I need to speak to her."

  The lady responded with an indignant huffiness long perfected by the French, "Non — c'est impossible."

  Jack broke in and started babbling rapid fire French.

  The lady glanced up at me, diverted her eyes to Jack, and back to me with a wicked flash of amusement. She motioned to the seating area. "S'asseoir, s'il vous plaît." She looked me over with a strange air of delight.

  We traipsed across the room and sat on chairs that belonged in an antique shop. The lady picked up the phone and spoke for a few moments, and then hung up with a satisfied smile.

  "What'd you tell her?"

  Jack leaned over and whispered, "Told her you're Lara Dumont's lover, and you need to tell her you just found out you got syphilis."

  Before I had a chance to respond, the inner door burst open. Lara Dumont emerged, red-faced. She glared first at Jack and then at me. The look on her face was priceless. She buried her head in her hands and then started to laugh. We met halfway and embraced. The lady at the front desk took it all in with a smug expression.

  "What are you doing in Kabul?" She eyed Jack, silently sizing him up and then back to me. "Lisette is here, she tried to contact you in Tehran."

  Confused, I responded with an incoherent bleat, "Lisette… here."

  She persisted, "Why are you here?"

  Jack piped up, "We're just passing through."

  "Lisette, what— she's here?"

  Lara ignored my puzzlement and glared at Jack. "Be serious. Tell me what you are doing here."

  Jack responded, "We're trying to get to the U.S. embassy, but—"

  "Yes, yes, the ambassador has been kidnapped. Kabul is in chaos. Yesterday, a Soviet officer was ambushed south of the city and a guerilla band attacked a roadblock into the city. Now this." She noticed his guilty look and glanced over at the reception lady. "Come, we will continue in my office."

  On the way down the hall, I asked again about Lisette. She ignored me and said, "Why do I sense you know about these events?"

  I didn't hear the question. My mind was on Lisette.

  Lara halted in mid-stride and repeated the question with a dead serious expression on her face. I knew I couldn't keep any secrets from her, she was a member of SDECE, Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage, in other words, the French CIA. I knew, sooner or later, she would find out.

  "You might as well know … I was the one who shot at the Russian. By the way he's KGB—"

  "Merde, what have you done?"

  Jack was enjoying my predicament and twisted the knife one more time. "Tell her the rest."

  She closed her eyes in anticipation, regained her composure, grasped my elbow, and ushered us into her office. She closed the door to the small cubbyhole with a desk and two chairs, paused a moment, and wheeled around to face us, her eyes ablaze.

  I spoke first, "We were on the bus that broke through the roadblock and it wasn't a band of guerillas, just some friends offering…" Words failed me as my mind wandered back to Lisette.

  "Fire support," said Jack. "They were offering fire support."

  She slumped, leaned back against the door, and made the sign of the cross.

  Surprised, I said, "Didn't realize you're religious."

  "I will need all the help I can get. I have the feeling I must consult the atlas to find my next posting, if my career survives."

  "Does that mean you'll help us?" asked Jack.

  Lisette. My head started to spin. "Wait a minute — Lisette is in Kabul — how'd she get here?"

  Lara exhaled and told Jack, Yes, I will help you." She placed her hand on my arm and spoke softly, "Lisette is not in Kabul. She left this morning to travel to Bamiyan."

  "Bamiyan?" Sounded like the far side of the moon. "Where the hell's Bamiyan?"

  Jack answered, "Up north, some statues tourists like to visit … kinda off in the boondocks."

  "She's on her own?"

  "No, no, she is with her friend from the airline."

  "Rochelle?" asked Jack with a bright look of anticipation.

  "Why yes, how do you…" Her eyes showed a spark of recognition. "Oh… You must be Jacque Richard." She paused and gave Jack a knowing head to foot evaluation before her demeanor and tone turned even more serious. "Please tell me why you told the reception about my lover."

  Jack responded with a Gallic shrug. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. — Worked didn't it?"

  Lara drew her lips in a tight circle. "Come we go to my rooms, they are nearby." She grimaced and examined my outfit. "I must find you a change of clothes."

  31 ~ The Embassy

  Thursday Morning, 15 February: US Embassy, Kabul

  We sat in an embassy office with Don Pettigrew while he expounded his views on the current situation in Afghanistan.

  "There's been a growing resistance to Soviet influence since the Communist coup last April. We're afraid pressure may be building up within the Politburo to intervene somehow."

  Don was a career CIA case officer, an older man who reminded me of Al Harris back in Kathmandu, but even more cynical. The station chief and his assistant were away from the office dealing with the assassination of the ambassador.

  "Yesterday's kidnapping stirred the pot. Pile that on top of the revolt in Herat and incidents south of Kabul a couple days ago. Things are heating up for sure."

  "What's with this incident?"

  "Been try 'in to get a handle on it, not many details available, most likely just another bunch of hotheads getting their jollies."

  I shot a quick glance at Jack. "You're probably right. These people seem to have an itchy trigger finger."

  Jack explained to me afterwards, Afghans live by a tribal code of honor, Badal or an eye for an eye, for the killing of a family member. At least I had that in common with the Afghans. The shooters on the bus lost family members in Herat, so it's open season on Russians.

  I
asked, "Why are the Russian's involved?"

  Don leaned back and cleared his throat. "The prospect of a Khomeini-style regime in Kabul is seen as a threat to the Soviet regime, considering the border regions big Moslem populations. They signed a mutual friendship treaty with the new Commie government back in December, which effectively gives them the right to intervene and restore internal stability."

  "But they already have influence over the new government, don't they?" I was asking all the questions. Apparently, Jack already knew the answers.

  "The current Afghan honcho has used a string of purges to hold on to power. No telling how many people he's killed. But even with all that, his regime is shaky to say the least. The Russians have even tried to pressure him to tone it down." Don shook his head. "An ironic twist for a bunch of Bolsheviks, don't you think."

  "Yeah, did it help?"

  "Hell no — the SOB just stepped it up a notch. He wanted to wipe out his enemies, bomb the hell out of them, kill 'em all."

  "At least we're not involved."

  "Hah — this guy's so bad the Russians think we're backing him somehow. They believe he might be a plant by the CIA."

  "Why?"

  "The bastard went to grad school at Columbia in New York City. Can you believe it … they gave him a masters." He chuckled. "Guess that's where he picked up his commie leanings."

  "Is he working for the CIA?"

  The question caught him by surprise. He leaned over and whispered, "Hell, those piss-ant wizards back in Langley can't even organize a decent bowel movement. This whole thing—" he glanced sideways at Jack and back to me, "Know what I mean?"

  "Yeah, know where you're coming from. Big time." I was tempted to go on a tirade about the folks back at the big glass house of magical thinking but decided to play it cool for a change.

  He shifted his eyes to Jack, "How long you boys worked for the agency?"

  He knew Jack was CIA. Jack had mentioned a few mutual acquaintances to establish our credibility. I had offered Al Harris' name and received a nod of approval. Don told us Harris was a good man and had worked with him in the Philippines.

  Jack hesitated and replied quietly, "Almost ten years."

  His eyes brightened. "Must have started in Nam." Jack nodded. "Those were the good ole days." He glanced at me. "How 'bout you?"

  "Just a few months in Saigon and Thailand." I didn't want to dwell on it, and wanted to change the subject, back to our situation.

  Don wasn't impressed and shot me a smug satisfied expression. "One of the Saigon Station boy's, eh?"

  Jack answered, "He's not company — NSA."

  Don eyed me, shook his head, and told Jack, "You hang around with his type you'll just get yourself killed."

  Jack gave me a halfway glance. "Yeah, you might be right."

  The CIA man glared at me and cleared his throat again. His look of disgust was obvious.

  Tired of the history lesson, I wanted to get back to business. After a deep exaggerated breath, I snapped back, "Like I said when we came in here … we need to get on the horn with our people back in the states."

  "Like I said, when you came in here, all circuits are handling only priority messages. I'm sure you can understand." He paused a moment and chuckled. "Don't you NSA boys have some sort of secret communicator ring?"

  Jack interjected, "Look we need to—"

  Don ignored him and kept talking. "You boy's still haven't told me what the hell you're doing here anyway. And why is the French dame involved? She called the station chief direct and—"

  "She's involved because the Marine guards barred us from the embassy." I was about to lose it and took a deep breath. Keep calm — Keep calm. "We need to use the embassy's communications ASAP. Understand this — we're on official business."

  "Okay, okay I got it, but you'll just have to wait. Go out, enjoy yourselves for the rest of the day, and check back tomorrow." Even though we had changed clothes, we still looked scruffy, even for Kabul. "Head on down to Chicken Street, see if you can pick up a pair of hippie broads. You boys just might get lucky."

  Jack's turn to blow up, "Listen here, we're involved in a priority mission, and he needs to send that message ASAP."

  Don looked askance at me. I answered, "He's telling you straight. You heard about what happened in Herat, didn't you?"

  He frowned and said, "Yes, but what does that—"

  "We were there, right in the middle of it. I have some valuable information we need to transmit to the states — yesterday. A KGB officer knows we have it and will kill us if he has to—"

  "KGB?"

  "Yeah, KGB, like in Russian gorillas."

  "How do you know—"

  Jack broke in, "Because, we escaped from being captured in Iran just a few days ago and are being chased by the KGB. They caught me and held me prisoner in Herat, until this man here organized an attack on the fort and sprung me."

  Don sat up straight and eyed me with disbelief.

  Jack continued, "The KGB officer pursued us to Kandahar and now all the way to Kabul. And I'll tell you what — we need weapons for personal protection. We're not walking out the door without some serious iron. Understand?"

  Before he could answer, I said, "How 'bout the message?"

  "You can just turn it over to me and—"

  "Hold it bubba, this is way above your pay grade," I was about to pop off, big time, "and if you don't get to it, you'll be the one in serious trouble."

  He started to turn red. "Hold it yourself — Sonny — I don't have to take any—"

  In a flash, Jack leaned over the desk, right in Don's face, "You'll take whatever he dishes out, and if you need some more, I'll serve up the rest — Do-you-understand?"

  He didn't notice when I moved around beside him. The telltale click of the butterfly knife blade flying open caught his attention. Didn't say a word, didn't have too, six inches of cold steel contains all the words in the dictionary.

  Don swallowed hard. "Okay, I'll get with Simmons. He's the senior case officer handling local ops. I'll have to go over to the Ministry of Defense … that's where they're conducting the investigation. You wait here till I get back."

  He slapped his hand on the desk and stormed out of the office.

  "What do you think?" I asked and refolded my knife.

  "Cool move. When he mentioned the Philippines, it made me think of Ballisong knives. I had the impression he'd heard that click before. Sure scared the devil out of him anyway."

  "We need to get out of here. I feel a BOHICA moment coming on."

  "Likewise. Don't trust the SOB any further than I can throw him. Not sure why they have a guy his age and experience handling walk-ins. Must be in the doghouse holdin' on for retirement."

  I hurried around behind Don's desk and checked the drawers for a weapon. No such luck. Locked up tight. I glanced up at Jack and shrugged.

  "He ain't that dumb. Come on let's go."

  We made our way down the corridor, out the front door, and through the front gate guarded by two burly Marine guards armed with M-16 rifles.

  Out on the street, Jack asked, "What now Boss?"

  "Why am I always the boss when we've run out of options?"

  * * *

  Lara's rooms proved to be just that, two small rooms in a compound near the French embassy. Gone were the stylish flairs from her apartment in Nairobi, a big step down, and all my fault. She helped me escape and paid the price. No way could I ever repay her.

  We spent the previous night sleeping on the floor in her main room, which also served as a small kitchen. Somehow, she managed to provide us with a change of clothes, Jack's fit, mine almost. Jack joked he was glad her boyfriend was his size. She was not amused.

  We had just returned from the U. S. embassy. Lara was still at work and we had time to plan our next move.

  "I want to go to this Bamiyan place and make sure Lisette is all right. Don't like the idea of them traveling like that, too many things happening."

  "What a
bout the mission? We can't just place it on hold for personal business. Sooner or later, we'll have to try the embassy again."

  "Okay, you stay. I'm leaving. You're the career guy. You deal with those people."

  He shook his head, he didn't think of himself as a career guy like Don or Al Harris. "Let's just wait a day, Simmons will—"

  "You don't think this guy Simmons will let us just waltz into the commo room and send messages without his clearance, do you? I'm sorry, but I'm beginning to believe CIA stands for Can't–Initiate–Action."

  "Okay, what do you propose?"

  "We'll go to the PTT and make a phone call to the states."

  "PTT?"

  "Post, telephone, and telegraph office, every Third World capital has one."

  "I know, but who'll you call?'

  I rubbed my chin: Who can I call? It'd be a red flag to call an official number in Washington. "I'll call Barker at home."

  He wasn't convinced. "What time is it in Albuquerque?"

  "Not sure. Its daylight here, they're on the other side of the world — must be nighttime. He'll be home for sure."

  Jack thought it over and finally gave in. "Okay. Let's give it a try. When we get to the PTT, you go in and I'll stay across the street and keep an eye open for trouble." He saw I was about to ask a question and answered, "You won't need me to interpret. It's a center for international calls so they'll speak English." He paused. "Wish we could've picked-up a weapon at the embassy. Sorta feel naked, if you know what I mean."

  "Okay, I'll make the call. You do your spook thing outside." Then it dawned on me.

  I hustled into Lara's bedroom, reached under the bed, and pulled out a pump shotgun. Old habits die-hard, she kept it in the same place in Nairobi. I returned and pitched the gun to Jack.

  Jack caught the weapon and examined it. He was impressed. "Ithaca M37 … the Navy Seals used them in Nam. Think she used to date a Seal?" He pitched it back. "Too big for concealment."

  I ambled back to the kitchen, pulled open a cupboard, and produced a sub-machine gun. "French MAT-49 … sprays 9-mils."

  Jack shook his head, but his expression showed he was even more impressed. "Still too big."