The Iranian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  "No. Stay here, just in case. Help Lars with the Fiat. We're gonna need both cars."

  "Right." Jack pulled out the MAB P 15. "Here, you better take the pistol."

  Lars saw the exchange and said, "The hotel is around the corner, 100-meters, turn left."

  "Thanks … be back soon." I stuffed the pistol in my waistband and made my way out to the dirt street.

  My thoughts replayed the morning's events as I strolled towards the hotel. I had no answers, only questions: How did Suslov know where we would be? Could have been just luck, or maybe a logical move on his part. Is he still alive? Too bad Jack didn't go down and finish him off.

  Lost in thoughts about Lisette, sixth sense on hold, I wheeled around the corner, not checking my surroundings, staring at the ground ahead. How am I gonna work this out with her? Everything seems to be going to hell. A white squat boxy vehicle parked in front of the hotel jolted me back to the present.

  Afghan men wandered along the street, two young boys chased down a side alley. A decorated and overloaded truck lumbered by. No one seemed out of place. I proceeded towards the hotel with caution.

  Chevrons on the hood identified the vehicle: a French Citroën. I approached the jeep-like vehicle and eased around to the rear: diplomatic plates and a white oval with a block letter F. Obviously, someone from the French embassy.

  After checking the area one more time, I bound up the steps and entered the lobby. The clerk was nowhere in sight. An inspection of the dining room proved fruitless and I returned to the front desk. The register indicated Massoud was in a room on the second floor.

  Sensing something amiss, I jogged up the stairs, hurried down the hall to Massoud's room, and knocked. He opened the door and appeared to be nervous. Siegfried sat in a wooden chair. He recognized me but didn't speak.

  "Lara’s been injured." Siegfried remained stony-faced. "She’s been shot and needs medical assistance." Massoud's brow furrowed. "Do you understand?"

  "Madame Dumont is hurt?" said Massoud, his eyes wide in astonishment.

  "Yes." I glared at Siegfried and attempted some French, "Madame Dumont est blessé — une balle — en…. ah, the back."

  "Je comprends. Où est-elle?" His expression hadn't changed.

  "She's up the street." He remained impassive. I tried some Gasthouse German, "Um die Ecke, hundert Meter," after all his name was Siegfried.

  "Okay, we go," he responded in English. "Je suis français — not the German." The guy was all business. He told Massoud to stay and we left.

  The next half hour consumed in a flurry of activity as Siegfried took charge. Much to my surprise, he spoke reasonably good English, and was indeed French, from Alsace near the German border. The embassy dispatched him after the indignant lover reported in.

  Between the three of us, we worked out a plan. Rochelle informed us Lara needed medical attention. The wound deemed not serious, but she was concerned about infection, the bullet had fragmented.

  "Okay, we have three vehicles, and seven people. Why don't we leave the Fiat and concentrate everyone in Siegfried's car and the Ford?"

  Siegfried appeared agitated and shook his head.

  "Why not?"

  "Ze auto is from the chef."

  "The cook's car?" I couldn't believe it.

  At last, he smiled. "Non, no — chef — boss. Monsieur Gosselin, chef du bureau."

  "Okay, I got it." Good grief, Lara borrowed her bosses' car. Wonder if he knows? "Siegfried and I will go back to the hotel, and get Massoud and the two cars, and bring them here." I told Jack, "Try to have everyone ready to roll."

  He gave me a wry smile. "Okay, chef."

  We approached the hotel. Siegfried told me to see to Massoud, he would ready the vehicle. I entered the front door — lobby still empty, front desk un-occupied — and started up the stairs.

  A knock brought no answer. Same with a second knock. I glanced up and down the hall. Pushed on the handle, the door was unlocked, and eased into the room. Massoud lay on the floor. For a split second, the world halted in its tracks, I froze in place.

  I drew the pistol, flicked off the frame-mounted safety, and scanned the room. The room was small, with no place to hide. Blood covered Massoud's chest, he wasn’t breathing. A finger to his neck: no pulse, he was dead. He had been knifed, a horrible messy way to die. The smell of death made me want to throw up. I choked back the urge and recoiled away.

  My mind reeled with possibilities. His body was still warm, couldn't have been Suslov, had to be someone else. I inhaled a series of deep breaths. The survival instinct prevailed, my mind focused on the present, everything else faded into the void.

  My heart pounded, hands shook, I retreated and peeked down the hall — all clear. Pulled the door shut, slipped out into the hallway, and made my way to the stairwell. With back to the wall, I listened with fear and anticipation. The only sounds, blood rushing through my ears and heavy breathing.

  After a peek around the corner, I tiptoed down the stairs, pistol in my right hand. At the bottom step, I froze, listened, and eased out into the lobby. In a flash, a man lunged at me from around the corner, a knife in his right hand.

  He grabbed the extended pistol with his left hand and twisted. The weapon fired harmlessly into the wall and fell to the floor. He slashed at me with the blade, his thrust blocked with an elbow.

  Without hesitation or thinking, the lesson taught by Joe the Apache ranch hand, came into play: 'action finishes all fights, if you allow yourself to hesitate, you'll lose.'

  Trained reflexes caused me to spring forward and seize the wrist holding the knife with both hands. I twisted left, forced my back into his torso, and continued the motion through a full one-eighty. He lost his balance and tripped to the floor. The knife clattered across the room.

  My foot brushed against a hard object — the pistol. I dropped to the floor, snatched the weapon, and brought it to bear, aimed at his head. The hard-poker-faced man froze in place on the floor beside the front desk. He was the blue sport coat guy that tailed me from the PTT.

  "Bravo, bravo, well done." Siegfried stood behind the door applauding.

  "Don't just stand there … this guy killed Massoud."

  The big Frenchman was on the assailant in a flash with a savage boot to the ribs. The thug tried to rise, but Siegfried, his kicks efficient and precise, crushed his hand with a well-placed heel, followed by a blow to the head. The man rolled over, unconscious.

  Siegfried bent down, rummaged through the blue sport coat, and retrieved a cheap leather wallet. He flicked it open and exhaled in disgust.

  "Merde — AGSA."

  "What?"

  "Police secrète Afghan." He grabbed the man's feet and started dragging him up the stairs. "Come we talk to him."

  The man refused to talk, even after a few gut-wrenching moments of near torture. Had to give it to the guy, he was tough and determined — Siegfried too.

  Before we left the hotel, Siegfried placed the man's knife back into Massoud's body. He then delivered crushing blows to the man's knees. He reasoned the man would be powerless to escape and unable to explain to the police, since we had his identification. We would be safely in Kabul by the time they had it straightened out.

  Fortunately, it worked out that way. After an anxious drive to Kabul on the Fiat's busted suspension, we arrived at Lara's rooms, called her boss, and he dispatched a doctor.

  * * *

  The doctor, a Pakistani, shut his black bag and spoke to Rochelle. "The lady requires rest. I will send more antibiotics tomorrow. Please ensure she takes one every four hours." He checked his watch and spoke to me, "I will return tomorrow morning. The embassy man," he glanced at Siegfried, "may call me if required." Jack followed Siegfried and the doctor to the door.

  I waited while Jack slipped out into the darkness to conduct a thorough recon up and down the street. Minutes later, he returned and assured me the coast was clear.

  I entered the bedroom and asked Lara, "How do you feel, any p
ain?" She was face down on the bed and didn't answer. I leaned over. She was asleep. I gently pulled the door shut and rejoined the others.

  "She's out cold."

  Rochelle, arms folded across her bloody shirt, eyed us with a stern and uncompromising glare. "May we have an explanation?"

  A glance at Lisette, it seemed she was of the same mind. We had spoken little since our reunion. Her terse words and annoyed glances told me I was in trouble.

  Jack gently grasped Rochelle's elbow and tried to steer her towards the couch. "Let's sit down. Ross and I will explain all we can."

  Rochelle brushed his hand away. She almost cut him in two with her eyes. Lisette, on the other hand, seemed more flustered than angry.

  Following a sanitized explanation minus the obviously classified parts, a flurry of questions, and several detailed translations into French, I exclaimed, "That's it. This is where we are at the present."

  After what seemed like an eternity, Rochelle spoke with a measured tone, "Very interesting." Her expression remained strained.

  Lisette had her mysterious look, the one I can never fathom. She canted her head towards Rochelle, they stared at each other, and Lisette spoke, "Please leave us. Go to Lara."

  Jack and I shuffled into the bedroom, walking the walk of doomed men about to meet an uncertain fate. Women are mysterious creatures. Either you know what women want, or you don’t. If, like me, you don’t, forget about trying to understand.

  Ten uncomfortable minutes later, a call, and we re-entered the room. Lisette and Rochelle sat on the couch, stern as ever.

  I stood passively and wondered what to do or say. I tried to speak, my knees turned to jelly. Lisette let out a whimper, leapt up, and hugged me with all her might, kissing, and babbling away in French. I couldn't understand what she was saying but didn't care.

  Rochelle told Jack, "She said it was his duty."

  35 ~ Kabul

  Saturday, 17 February: Kabul

  Monsieur Gosselin appeared ordinary, an asset in his role as the chef de la station of the Kabul office of the SDECE, Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-Espionnage, the French CIA. At five feet seven, fiftyish, peppercorn hair with a deep receding hairline, a slight paunch, and thick wire rimmed glasses, he could blend into the background almost anywhere.

  He arrived first thing, to check on Lara and find out, "Que diable s'est-il passé?" What the hell happened? Lara was much better, able to walk around and speak with Lisette and Rochelle. She avoided Jack and me.

  Lara and Gosselin met alone in her bedroom for an hour before he emerged and began questioning me in an officious manner. Judging by his attitude, he would have made a good waiter in an over-priced French eatery. I tried my best to explain, leaving out the obviously sensitive stuff.

  After listening to my account, he pulled out a blue pack of Gauloises cigarettes and lit up with a flourish. His first comment, "We are not amused. You have not told us the entire story." He spoke English well, but with a Peter Lorre accent.

  "You're right, but that's all I can tell you. Can't reveal why I'm here, you should understand."

  "You underestimate us, we do comprehend." He continued with a hint at a smile, but only a hint, "We began our career in service technique, a signals intelligence spécialiste." He paused again, obviously a lame attempt for dramatic effect and flicked an ash to the floor. "It is known you travel from Iran…" He let it hang, eyes boring into me from behind thick lenses.

  Lara squealed. This guy knows the whole story. Trying to move the focus away from me, I asked, "You have any word on the KGB man, Suslov?"

  "Yes. This Suslov is… very much alive. The Afghane police brought the wounded man to Kaboul last night." He shot a quick glance in Jack's direction. "The driver is… dead."

  "Will there be reprisals?" Tightness formed in the pit of my stomach. Is this never going to end?

  "Non. — We have spoken with our Soviet counterpart. They deny it all… of course. However, the matter will be contained." His tone turned harsh, "No more incidents… will be tolerated. Colonel Luzinov is not amused with the behavior of this man… Suslov." After a brief pause, he continued with a more sympathetic tone, "The unfortunate occurrence of the death of your ambassadeur has placed everyone in a… euh, situation délicate. Can you appreciate the situation?"

  "Yes sir, and I assure you we will make every effort to avoid any more incidents. All we want to do is leave ASAP… ah, as soon as possible." Like, let's get the hell out of here.

  "It will please us if you do. We have informed Dumont… you are to leave this house immédiatement… and not to return. Are we clear?"

  "Yes, but my wife?"

  "She is un citoyen de la France and has only a visa d'étudiant for your country. We have informed Dumont… Mademoiselle Duval and Loubet are on the next flight out of Kaboul… tomorrow morning at nine to Istanboul."

  After an awkward pause, I caught what he meant. "She's Mrs. Ross Brannan."

  He took a long drag and let out a stream of smoke in my direction. "Not according to her passeport. Can you not understand why it is fortunate she does not carry your name… here in Kaboul?"

  He was right. If things go to hell, at least she would have a degree of separation. Thoroughly deflated, I nodded in assent.

  "Muller will drive you to the ambassade américaine after you explain to your… euh, wife."

  Didn't like the way he said wife, we were married, even if it was only a quickie ceremony in Mexico. "Muller? — You mean Siegfried?"

  "He has the orders to drive you directement." Gosselin's eyes bored into me again. "We will have no problèmes?"

  Unsure if that was a question or statement, I answered, "No." After an uncomfortable silence, I glanced at Siegfried and said, "No problem, I've seen him in action."

  Finally, a smile emerged from the stern countenance of Monsieur Gosselin. "Exactement." He spoke to Siegfried, "À l'ambassade." At the door he glanced at his watch and spoke over his shoulder on the way out, the cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, "Muller will return for you at half ten. Be ready."

  I gritted my teeth when he strutted out the door. Thank you for your consideration. you officious prig.

  "We better tell the girls good-by," said Jack.

  * * *

  Siegfried met us at 0930 on the dot. The first thing I noticed when we slipped into the squat Citroen Mehari: A Browning Hi-Power on the floorboard. "Pour moi?" I joked.

  "You may return when you leave."

  Jack peered over my shoulder from the back seat, "Only one magazine?"

  "Merde — cow-boys américains." Jack and I started to laugh, Siegfried joined in. "Under the seat — please be economical with the shooting."

  "Is Gosselin angry with us?" I asked.

  "What do you think? Three dead men and Dumont wounded. The Russe are … how you say... suspectes of him. Non, what reason does he have to be angry?"

  Jack joined in, "Not to mention the shootout at the love nest."

  "Oui, and the difficulty of the man to explain to his wife."

  We halted at the embassy gate and Siegfried said, "Meet me here at eight tomorrow. I will drive you to the airport with your companions." He saluted, "Bonne chance."

  "Thanks." He drove off and I stuffed the Hi-Power under my jacket.

  The Marine at the gate eyed me suspiciously. "Sir, was that a weapon?"

  "Why would we need to carry a weapon in Kabul?"

  He gave us the once over and opened the gate. "Have a good day sir."

  "Well if it ain't Starsky and Hutch," barked Don Pettigrew in the hall facing Simmons' office. "You boys started World War Three yet?" He opened the door and announced, "They're here."

  I shot him a one-fingered salute as he ambled down the hall.

  Simmons called from his desk, "Come on in. Close the door." We stepped on in and he motioned for us to sit. "Had coffee yet?" He didn't appear to be particularly upset.

  "Thanks, we had some, but I'll take another if yo
u don't mind."

  After pouring three cups, he leaned back in his chair. "The report I have says one killed in a shootout at Salang tunnel and two injured. Is that right?"

  "If you're keeping score, it's three dead and if you don't count the nick on my head only two injured." He leaned forward. "One guy dead from an attempted ambush at the French embassy love nest … you know the one north of town, and a French embassy driver knifed in Charikar."

  "At least the French are taking some of the heat off us, thanks to you." I wiped my brow. Simmons continued, "So far the Soviet embassy hasn't publicly connected you to the shootings."

  Jack broke in, "It's us they're after. They have to know." He glanced at me. "Unless Suslov didn't tell them."

  I nodded. He could be right.

  Simmons said, "They may believe you are engaged in retaliation for the killing of the ambassador."

  "But Suslov knows."

  "But if he didn't tell them about his mission … and he did chase you all the way from Iran. It's not like he staged this with the Soviet embassy's approval and assistance."

  "Something to think about." I relaxed a bit and asked, "By the way. Are we in hot water?"

  Simmons’ friendly expression changed to a more serious air. "More like boiling water. The chargé d’affaires received a message from your superiors requesting we take you into custody." He leaned forward. "Any idea why?"

  Hansen — the rat-bastard SOB. "No." I shot Jack a quick glance. "Can't think of any reason. Can you?"

  "Must be some mistake," said Jack. "You know how these things work, must have been garbled in transmission."

  Simmons leaned back and curled his lip. "Yeah, that's what I figured. Don’t worry about it. We've got too many fish to fry with everything else going on. Just try to stay out of any more trouble."

  "Sure — no problem." I couldn’t tell if he wasn’t buying it.

  "Anything else I can do for you gents?"

  Jack piped up, "Any chance you can loan me a pistol for a few days?"

  Simmons didn't even blink and glanced my way. "What about you?"

  I pulled up the jacket and exposed the Hi-Power.