The Iranian Intercept

by R G Ainslee

  Without changing expression, he opened a desk drawer and slid a M1911 forty-five across the desk. Jack dropped the magazine, confirmed it was loaded, popped it back in, racked the slide, and stuck the pistol his waistband.

  Simmons pointed in my direction. "You good on ammo?"

  "Yeah, if we run out we'll come back for more."

  Jack said, "One other thing. Can you bring us up to date on the situation here?"

  After Simmons briefed us on the investigation into the ambassador’s murder and the status of the evacuation flights, he said, "Anything else you want to know?"

  I asked a question, on my mind since our little escapade in Heart, "You think the Iranian revolution will spread to Afghanistan?"

  "Not sure. The Afghan fundamentalists have a weak organization and aren't much of a force, yet. The main threat to the current government is Pashtun nationalists. They want to establish their own state, Pashtunistan, with a tribal rather than a central governmental structure, but the Pakistanis won't allow that."

  "Are we involved?"

  "Some pro-Islamic forces have approached us, but we don't want another Khomeini style situation. If we do give aid, it'll be modest and under the table, no need to provoke the Russians into invading. The ambassador is… was a Russian specialist and tended to be cautious. We'll miss his expertise. He was a good guy."

  Jack asked, "Is the current government fully in charge?"

  "About as much as anybody can be in Afghanistan. There are a lot of internal power struggles and some people have approached us, but we have to be careful, the Soviets might overreact to whatever we do."

  I asked, "What's your assessment of the prospects of a full Soviet takeover?"

  "They currently have what amounts to a Communist government. Any overt military intervention would involve difficult terrain and a determined population. As I'm sure you've noticed, the Afghans are a tenacious bunch, they like to fight. Just ask the British. They invaded several times and were never able to hold on long term. But, on the other hand, the Russians might not want to risk having a Communist led regime fail. In their way of thinking, they have an obligation to intervene to help Socialist comrades."

  "Yeah, and they don't want to set a precedent," I added. If Afghanistan falls, the whole Soviet empire could go up in flames."

  "In your dreams," said Jack, "those Kremlin guys won't ever lose control."

  "Never say never," said Simmons. "Anyway, the current regime is so brutal and incompetent, something's got to give. My guess is the Soviets will gradually increase forces and take over by stealth. An invasion would cause too much chaos, even for them."

  I asked, "Is your agency prepared for this?"

  Jack guffawed. "Two years ago, the new DCI let several hundred of our best people go, just happened to be in sections dealing with the Soviet Union."

  "He's right," said Simmons, "some of us don't believe the agency will ever recover, at least not in a recognizable form."

  "Sounds like you guys are not the only ones with a bunch of pinheads running the show. Maybe we'll get lucky and world peace will break out."

  Simmons leaned forward. "Barring that, what do you have planned for the rest of the day?"

  Glanced over at Jack, he shrugged. "Nothing, I guess. Where's the snack bar?"

  "Nah… way too public. Why don't you come with me? I gotta go out east of town and visit a man about some goats. You guys can spend the night at my place."

  "Why not, it’s not like we have anything better to do."

  A quarter-hour later, we were on the road in Simmons' tan Volkswagen bug, heading for a rendezvous with an Afghan goat-roper.

  36 ~ Kabul

  Sunday, 18 February: US Embassy Kabul

  February mornings can be cool, even in Kabul at almost 6,000 feet above sea level. The thermometer by the embassy front gate read zero degrees centigrade, freezing.

  Jack and I stood out front, struggling to keep warm. "Wonder what's taking him so long…" I shivered. "…he said eight."

  Jack reminded me, "Remember who his passengers are."

  "Hmm, guess you're right." One thing I had not learned to do in my short stint, as a married man, was to be patient while waiting.

  A car approached from the direction of the French embassy. Jack called out, "Here they come."

  "Thank goodness he's not driving the Mehari, we'd' freeze to death for sure."

  Siegfried pulled up in a shiny blue Citroën DS, one of the expensive models. Lisette and Rochelle sat in the cavernous back seat.

  I opened the rear door and slid in beside Lisette. She greeted me with a warm and enjoyable kiss on the lips. Jack took the front passenger seat, spoke to Rochelle, and received a cool bonjour in return.

  Jack joked to Siegfried, "Looks like you stole the ambassador's car." He looked surprised and a bit guilty.

  "How's Lara this morning?" I asked to no one in particular.

  After a brief hesitation, Siegfried answered, "Madame Dumont recover well today. The médicament make her sleep." He twisted his head to Jack. "Yes, this is the auto de l'ambassadeur."

  Lisette cuddled up against me. "What you do yesterday?"

  "We went to see a man about a goat." Her blank expression, a sign she didn't understand. Jack explained in French, all I understood was de chèvre, the French word for goat. I had that one down pat.

  Siegfried laughed. "You are with Simmons, the Américaine who spies on de chèvre.

  Jack jumped right in, "Yeah, we even dined on some roasted goat. Ross told the guy it was the best he ever had."

  "It was okay, just okay." Lisette had understood, and a frown began to form. "Wasn't nearly as good as your… cooking."

  Siegfried laughed again. Lisette reached forward and twisted his ear while releasing a torrent of familiar French expletives, shocking language for an ex-nun. Rochelle broke out of her mood and joined in the fun. At last, life was returning to normal.

  Siegfried let us out in front of the airport terminal and explained he would stay with the car. He wanted to make sure nothing unfortunate happened to the fancy Citroën. I suspected l'ambassadeur didn't know his car was in service as a taxi.

  * * *

  The Ariana Afghan Airlines Boeing 707-720 lifted off bound for Istanbul, non-stop, thankfully bypassing Tehran with Lisette and Rochelle safely aboard. Rochelle had been more than ready to leave. She told Jack, Lisette needed a stern lecture from Lara to give in. A close call, but they were finally out of danger. I could relax. Tomorrow we'd be on our way too.

  "How's it with Rochelle? She seemed kinda stand offish."

  "Yeah… she's not accustomed to all the gunplay. Imagine I've seen the last of her. Lisette's taking it okay, guess she's used to it by now."

  Sadly, he was right. Lisette, having been around me, had to get used to it. "Not for much longer. When we get back, I'm telling Hansen, or whoever's in charge of this thing, to stick it where the sun don't shine."

  We crossed the lobby and approached the entrance. Jack spoke sharply, "Something's wrong. Check out the car." Siegfried, propped against the blue Citroën, appeared to be in distress.

  We charged through the door and out to the parking lot. A man lay on the ground a few yards away, out cold, twisted in an unnatural position. Jack held back and scanned the area for accomplices.

  Siegfried leaned against the driver's side door, blood oozed around a small hole in his right shoulder. He appeared to be irritated and showed no outward sign of pain.

  Perplexed by the sudden development, all I could say was, "You're hit, blood…"

  "Oui…" He flinched slightly when he moved, but his hard expression remained unchanged.

  Jack called out, "What happened?

  The big Frenchman slurred, "Le mec a mis un pistolet à… Euh, the man place pistolet to window. I push door, and le mec a tiré, euh shoot le pistolet."

  The man on the ground was an Afghan dressed like the man who followed me from the PTT, a different guy, but a thug no less.

/>   Jack popped the rear passenger door open and shoved Siegfried inside. "Get in. — Ross you drive." He waved a leather wallet. "This guy was another AGSA operative. We need to get outta here pronto."

  Adrenalin surged through my veins. I slipped behind the wheel. In spite of the weird gearshift, the car was in gear and moving before the door closed. A taxi tried to pull out ahead of us, but a super loud doo-bee blast from the custom French police horn caused the driver to hesitate long enough for me to speed past.

  "Where to?"

  Jack shouted from the back seat, "Just get the hell outta here, we'll figure it out on the way. Need to stop his bleeding, just drive. — Go."

  The guards at the airport gate scurried aside when the big Citroën roared past rendering a frantic chorus of doo-bee, doo-bee, doo-bee.

  * * *

  We sat in Simmons office, having just returned from the hospital. Siegfried was doing okay, more worried about the ambassador's car than the bullet wound. Simmons was briefing us.

  "…so, the charge d'affaires and the station chief are over at the French embassy trying to deal with the situation. Gosselin called right after you pulled up to the embassy and was not a happy camper."

  "We were just at the airport to see the girls off and weren't involved in the shooting."

  Jack pitched the AGSA man's wallet on the desk, "The shooter had this on him. He's Afghan—"

  "Son of a gun — AGSA. You guys really know how to party don't you. Is he dead?"

  "No, Muller knocked him down at the same time he fired and kicked the daylights out of the guy as he lay on the ground." I tilted my head to Jack. "And Jack managed to give him one more to the crotch before we left."

  "Here's his pistol," said Jack as he slid a Makarov across the desk. "He only got off one round."

  "Think there'll be any blowback from the Afghans on this?" I asked.

  "You can't be sure. They may let it pass, since it involved an altercation involving someone with diplomatic status. However, you're a different kettle of fish. You need to stay here until your flight tomorrow. The situation's too volatile."

  A knock on the door and Martin from the comm center entered. "Message for you gents, priority, classified confidential." He passed me the yellow tear sheet.

  The message read: Meet Ariana flight 710 at 1616 today. I asked Simmons, "Ariana flight 710, where does it originate?"

  He opened his desk and checked a folder, "Tehran, direct flight, leaves at 1400 arrives here 1616." He glanced up. "If I may ask?"

  "Don't know. Just says meet the plane. Guess we go to the airport and find out. Any chance for a ride?"

  Simmons' expression didn't change, didn't even blink an eye. "I'll check out a Suburban and a pair of shotguns." He glanced at his watch, "Let's go eat, we'll leave about 1530." Simmons was one cool customer. He and Jack had a lot in common.

  * * *

  The drive to the airport was tense but uneventful. No extra security or signs of the morning's troubles, everything appeared normal. I half expected to see tanks.

  Simmons parked the Suburban near the entrance and remained in the vehicle with Corporal Milliken, a member of the Marine detachment, dressed in civvies. We went ahead into the lobby with Don Pettigrew as our back up.

  The flight was an hour late. Not an unusual occurrence when flying on a Third World airline. Jack suggested we move about, practice situational awareness, not wanting to be stuck in one place. I was worried someone might remember us from the morning. Don disagreed and withdrew out to the car.

  "Who do you think it is?" asked Jack.

  "Hell, if I know. Wilson and Smith should be back in D.C. by now. Maybe it's some of the IBEX crew bailing out."

  For the next forty-five minutes, we rambled around the airport, out to the vehicle, to the baggage area, and back to the passenger lounge. Jack took it in stride, I remained apprehensive.

  "Here it comes," said Jack as a Boeing 727 taxied up to the terminal. A ground crewman waved the jet to a halt and an airline crew leisurely deployed a set of stairs. The cabin door swung open and passengers began to disembark. A procession of Afghans and Westerners crossed the tarmac to the terminal. The last two passengers were John Smith and Amadeo.

  "Look."

  Jack gripped my arm. "Play it cool … we don't know who's watching. Let's play this businesslike with no emotion … no use drawing any extra attention to ourselves."

  "Good idea, we'll meet them when they come out of the customs line."

  Twenty minutes later, Don had rejoined us, we met them and shook hands all business like. Apparently, John Smith was of a like mind as Jack.

  I asked, "You guys armed?"

  John Smith stared at me with disbelief, and then to Jack. "Why? Is there a problem?"

  I answered first, "We've already been involved in a shooting incident here this morning, right outside the terminal — need to move out ASAP." I made it sound a little more dramatic than I needed to, but so what.

  Jack motioned for them to follow. John Smith seemed genuinely irritated. Don gave me a silly grin.

  Amadeo hung back. "Is this another one of your—"

  "No, we really did have some trouble, keep your eyes open, it's real. How'd you get away, we thought you were dead."

  "Long story, tell you on the way."

  John Smith, Jack, and Don led the way. Smith and Pettigrew had served together some time in the past.

  As we piled into the Suburban, Amadeo noticed the shotguns, "You weren't kidding, were you." Simmons passed him a M1911. I couldn't tell if Amadeo was concerned or excited at the prospect of trouble.

  "Tell me how you got away."

  John Smith broke in, "Let's wait until we reach a secure location to discuss business." Don, sitting beside me, let out a harrumph. John ignored him and said, "Fill me in on the security situation."

  Simmons chimed in, "The body count is three dead and three wounded. Your boys have been busy."

  Don joined in, "No to mention the French ambassador’s car getting shot up."

  Smith spun around, glared at Don and then to me.

  "At least the girls are away safe," I said. He started to speak, but I beat him to the punch. "We saw Lisette and Rochelle off at the airport this morning … before the shooting."

  John stared at me for a few seconds. He still seemed composed. "A family affair. Guess I shouldn't be surprised." He asked Simmons, "Why is the French ambassador involved?"

  Simmons said, "In addition to his car, one of his people was killed and two wounded. The station chief is over there trying to smooth things over."

  "I couldn't leave it alone, "You left out the part about the shoot-out at their love nest."

  John let out an exasperated breath of air. "Okay, we’ll continue this conversation later."

  * * *

  The door to Simmons' office closed as he left us to discuss our situation. He suggested we keep a low profile and not use the embassy conference room.

  John Smith stared at me with a first sergeant's eyes, the look that tells you you're in hot water and you had better have a good explanation. A look I hadn't seen since leaving the army.

  I beat him to the punch and spoke first. "What's the deal with Wilson? We received a message that said Hansen was in charge. What gives?"

  John sat silent for a few moments, and then spoke with a precise tone, "Colonel Wilson has been relieved of duties pending an inquiry into his actions." He saw I was about to ask why and continued. "Let me explain. McKenna obtained information through an Iranian officer, about a rumor concerning a pending action at T-2. The informant offered no specifics but indicated something was about to happen. We attempted to make contact the day of the raid but were unsuccessful. There was no reply to our messages to the site."

  "Must have been after they blew the generator."

  "We assumed the worst but were in the dark as to details. Then on Friday the ninth, it all went to hell at Dashan Tadeh. An organized group, more than just a mob, broke into the base
and took over the Iranian portion of IBEX. They captured a hell of a lot of sensitive materials. Now the Soviets will most likely have access to all our classified technical manuals. We kept a low profile and managed to stay out of trouble. The situation was dicey, to say the least. Time was running short. We expected to be expelled any day. Five days later, Ritter was able to re-establish contact." He glanced at Amadeo.

  Amadeo said, "Suslov had stolen the trucks to drive back to the border and disabled all the remaining vehicles. But after two days I was able to piece together a working jeep down at the base camp and drove up to the site to check on you. Found out you had left and planned to go hunt for you guys, but Ritter commandeered the vehicle. Him and another tech drove down to the IBEX station at Mashhad airport and re-established contact. They were lucky to make it, that jeep was on its last legs."

  "Yeah, and Ritter's lucky you didn't plug him for stealing your ride."

  Amadeo shifted his eyes towards John.

  John cleared his throat and continued, "Colonel Wilson took it on himself to appropriate the Caribou again and fly to T-2 to extract Ruiz and search for you. I went with him. Once we made contact, Ruiz told us about your escape and said one of the technicians indicated you had made a successful intercept."

  "Who was that?"

  Amadeo answered, "The commo man Derrick Howell, everyone else clammed up, didn't seem to trust me at first."

  John said, "Ritter was back at the site by the time we arrived and claims you threatened him. Did you?"

  "No. It wasn't a threat. It was a promise."

  At last, a faint smile broke John's seriousness. "We flew back from the site with three wounded people who needed medical evacuation. Ritter put up a fuss, wanted to fly out too, but the colonel told him to stuff it."

  Wilson … you magnificent bastard!

  Amadeo said, "Yeah, Suslov's bunch roughed up some of the techs, including Jimmy Kelly. He got the worst of it."

  John continued, "He's correct about Kelly, he was in bad shape. Good man, they tried to break him, but failed. The colonel was impressed with his performance. We could use a squared away troop like him.