Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) (10 page)

And there were Shawarma stands. Shawarma is lamb cooked on a rotating skewer, then cut into thin strips and placed into warm pita bread with vegetables and white Tahini dressing; the scent—rich roasting lamb was irresistible. I stopped at one stand and got an Iranian version of the dish for AED 5 – approximately $1.30. I decided not to itemize that meal to the bean counters in Washington; they might get ideas about my ability to save on the cost of food.

I strolled through the market, enjoying my Shawarma immensely. Soon, though, I realized that a man was walking just behind me, slightly off to the side. I could see him out of the corner of my eye; he was in his early 30s, and wore a black shirt
and pants. As I kept him surreptitiously in sight, concentrating on my food, the man passed me, making the kind of brush-contact usually performed when two undercover agents meet in a public place, and quickly and discreetly transfer or exchange documents with no word other than “Sorry.” Only a professional would notice. For any bystander, the incident would seem accidental and meaningless. He shoved a note into my pocket, and disappeared into the crowd. “Mr. Vanderhof,” read the note, misspelling my name, “Please meet me at the parking lot behind the food stand, I have information for you.”

I kept on walking and thought about it. Usually I don’t meet strange men in dark parking lots, not having a death wish or a desire to be robbed. However, under the circumstances, I decided to take a limited risk. I hailed a cab and instructed the cabby to drive the 50 yards back to the parking lot behind the stand where I’d bought the Shawarma. There, next to a late model Japanese car, stood the man who’d stuck the note into my pocket. “Stay here,” I told the cabby when I’d made sure that the man was alone. Although I was armed, and had to be ready for any hostile encounter, I moved forward anyway.

The man lit a cigarette and I could see his face. He seemed to be a young Arab, no more than 30 years old, with a wide, furrowed brow. He took a hit off his cigarette,
then
nodded
deferentially to me. He took a few steps toward me, in a nonthreatening manner and said, “Mr. Vanderhof, thank you for coming.”

I nodded, waiting for him to explain what he wanted, and why the aura of secrecy. I turned my hand in his general direction, and pressed on the crown of my watch. It wasn't just a simple, sporty looking watch. Next to its number 3 was a video camera lens that could pick up clear images up to 30 feet away, and record any conversation within that range. The 32 gig capacity enabled me to shoot up to 120 minutes of high quality video. First, I took four still snapshots. The lighting, though, was poor. I wasn’t sure that I would have a clear image of his face.

"I have information for you."

"Regarding the government’s microelectronic chips tender bid?” I asked.

When he seemed baffled, I continued, “I'm interested, and would consider payment, but only if the information is solid." I stuck to my legend as an electronic components trader.

"Electronic parts? No, I have information regarding the letter."

"What letter?”

"The letter sent to the Consulate.”

True to my cover as a trader, I had to demonstrate complete ignorance. "What do you mean? Which Consulate? I’m afraid you might be mistaken,” and took a step back to the cab.

"Please, Mr. Van der Hoff," he was adamant.

I stopped, "What letter? And, just how did you know my

name
?" I said quickly in a mix of feigned fear and surprise.

"Mr. Van der hoff, I’m talking about the letter to the Consulate, and I understand you are in Dubai to talk about it.”

That was a take it or leave it offer. If I continued to deny any knowledge, I might convince him he was mistaken, and pass on the contact opportunity. On the other hand I couldn’t blow my cover just because a stranger in a dark parking lot was trying to tell me something.

"I know who you are,” he said, a little grimly.

I wasn’t alarmed, but had to stay and see what he had to say. “How did you find out my name?" I put my hand into my pocket to feel the assuring metal touch of my polymer frame high velocity Glock 23 with its silencer.

"I have friends."

"OK, tell me about the letter you say was sent to the Consulate, you mean the Dutch Consulate regarding my registration? Are my competitors trying to defame me?”

“Mr. Vanderhoff, I think we should stop playing games.”

“I’m ready for that as well, so tell me what’s it all about,” I said, always leaving him the initiative to move forward and for me to withdraw.

“The letter talked about a scientist, and you came here to talk about it, so let’s talk.”

I had to keep my cover and act ignorant, as any normal uninvolved businessman would do. Although of course I wanted him to continue. "Thanks for the information, goodbye," I said and turned toward to my cab, expecting him to call me back as any bazaar store owner would do after rebuffing your final offer. But he didn't. I got into the cab and returned to my hotel. I had to have him checked out; it could’ve been a trap by anyone, including the Dubai police. I had heard that the sanitary conditions in the Dubai prison system needed major improvements; I had no intention of finding out if the rumor were true first hand.

But was it a trap? I couldn't tell. He certainly had an agenda with me. He wanted to make contact, that's for sure, but
for what purpose? Did he want to surprise me and put my legend to the test? He mentioned one letter. There were three. The first two mentioned a scientist. But, that might mean nothing. How did he know that I had a connection with them, or with one of them? Obviously, there had been a serious breach of security. From connecting me with any of the letters, it was only a short distance to unveiling my true identity, or at least my affiliation. That was bad news. I had to decide what to do next.

I considered my choices. Abandon ship and mission and return to the U.S
.
before any damage was done, probably to my person? Or continue using my alias and let whoever was watching me monitor my actions, giving me the opportunity to turn the table and see who they are? I know well that all reason stops at the entry points to the Middle East. But if that person was telling me the truth, his behavior was simply stupid. Since I always hold the opposition — any opposition — in high esteem, I decided to look for another, more likely reason behind such an encounter. He never said what he wanted me to do, and didn't leave any means of future communication with him.

My inner little devil was no help.
“Hey,”
he said, “
can’t you see what he was doing? Have you lost all your senses? The man could, just could, be for real. He wanted your attention and to make you do something or go somewhere. I know, I know, how did he
know to approach you? He must have had prior knowledge that you were operating under cover and might have trailed you just as he did today. That’s bad news."
No matter how many times I asked myself the question — how the hell did the man know to approach me? —
neither
my little devil nor I had a good answer.

In my room, I logged into
www.weforwardunlimited.com/vanderhoff
. To my surprise, a message was blinking. Probably a routine 'welcome' notice from the company, I thought. When I opened it, the message was unroutinely unwelcoming.

"We know who you are and why you are in Dubai. You must leave immediately if you don't want to get hurt. Take this message seriously."

The message was not signed. What the hell, I thought, I had made no progress whatsoever in discovering the identity of the person behind the Dubai PO box on the letters to the Consulate. Yet whoever sent me the threat knew about my unique, password-protected web address through ‘We Forward Unlimited.’ It had to be someone from within that company, or a hacker who had broken into my mailbox, or worse, into my computer. More troubling was the indication that the sender knew who I was. This meant that he didn't buy the Jaap Van der Hoff legend — or maybe he was trying
to smoke me out from behind the legend, hoping that by scaring me I'd make a mistake and reveal my real identity and affiliation? That’s one step before circulating to news agencies around the world the photo where I’m blindfolded and ask the U.S
.
to yield to my captors’ demands or I die.

I sent Eric an encrypted mail about the threat and the encounter, attaching an image file with the snapshots I’d taken in the parking lot.

"What do you make of it?" Eric asked in a return email.

“Beats me,” I responded. “There’s no question that my cover was blown and that someone was able to post a message on my private box at the mail service company. The posted message isn’t so earthshaking. What worries me is who knew I had that box and bothered to threaten me, and why.”  

Eric mailed back, “Dan, I meant the encounter you had, not the message you received. However, once you brought it up, do you see a connection between the two incidents? As to the image file you sent, the outcome was too dark and blurred to identify the person. I’m sending it to the lab to run advanced decoding software to enhance the quality.”

I answered, “I suspect there is, but I have no basis to support the suspicion.”

Eric’s mail came an hour later, “Obviously there's been a breach of security which we can't control or risk. Rent another room at your hotel for a ‘business associate’ who will arrive soon. Take the key, quietly move to the other room and wait for instructions. Keep both rooms. I don’t want you to check out of your current hotel room and demonstrate that you have changed your behavior immediately after reading the threat. As to the Tango operation, it’s still on hold."

I went to the reception desk and rented another room. In fifteen minutes, I was sitting in an upgrade. When the receptionist had told me that the new room “for my business associate” would cost $515 a night, I immediately thought of the antacid the bean counters in Washington would start popping when they saw the hotel bill. But I could always blame Eric. Before entering the new room, I’d made sure that no one was watching me, other than the hotel’s hidden security cameras. All of a sudden, a small assignment to identify who was behind a post office box, with no apparent active opposition, had the potential to become seriously confrontational.

Other than waiting for instructions, I had nothing to do. It was late. It had been a long day. I slept.

VII

January 2007 - Dubai

As I finished a late, room-service brunch the next morning, an incoming message popped up on my computer monitor. "We now have a clear image but no trace on the person who approached you. Stay put for another day or two until we make further investigation."

How could I object to spending one or two more days at the hotel's sunny pool, courtesy of Uncle Sam?

I went dipping in and lazing by the pool for a couple of hours, getting sunburned in the process, and analyzing all options. That in turn called for a conversation with Eric. Exchanging emails was too limiting. However, the only place to make a secure telephone call would be from the U.S
.
Consulate. There was still time to change my clothes and get to the Consulate before it closed for the day. But even though it was in a high-rise, I didn't think it'd be wise to be seen entering it if “someone” knew who I was. The Consulate would likely be monitored by all sorts of FOE – Forces of Evil - a code I use until I identify my enemy, from Iran to Al Qaeda. I was a European citizen visiting Dubai. What plausible business could I have at the U.S
.
Consulate? Request a visa? European passport holders don't need a visa to enter the U.S. for 90 days.

Back in my room, I got a message from Eric.
"Total market change."
These were code words for ‘
Security breached. Leave immediately. Don't use this computer until it's cleared.’

I stuffed my computer and a few essentials into my briefcase, leaving behind my small suitcase and the rest of my clothing, and walked outside. To disguise my departure, I didn’t check out of the hotel. I entered an Internet café nearby and prepared a benign-looking email to Eric’s Gmail address, hinting about a possible source of the threat, “
Maybe the trouble started with my son. I’ll go and see how he is doing
.
”

I went to the airport, changing cabs twice. After I was fairly confident that I wasn’t being shadowed, and was sure that no surveillance cameras saw me, I wiped my gun clean and dumped it in a trash can as I couldn’t board with it – and caught the next flight for Paris. It arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport at 2:35 p.m. the next day.

VII

January 2007 - Paris

I went straight to “my apartment” in the 11
th
arrondissement. It was occupied by André, a French student paying
low rent to live there and pose as my son. The Agency subsidized the rent through an accommodating, but unknowing, French real estate agent. I’d recognize André from the photos in my “Sheep Dip.” André was supposed to recognize me from “family” photos that the Agency gave the realtor to decorate the apartment.

Like a lot of apartments in the area, the ceilings were low, with ancient wood beams; a balcony looked out onto the standard Parisian courtyard. My framed photos—landscape shots of my “home” country, which could be anywhere in Europe— were on the wall, and my clothes and other personal belongings were in the closets. “This apartment is still under 1948 rent control laws,” was the legend that the realtor had offered as to why André had to pose as my son, when all he wanted was to rent a cheap apartment advertised in the newspaper. “Monsieur needs to maintain and support the fact that he’s never abandoned his residence, although he now travels constantly and is there only a few times a year, since a member of his immediate family lives in the apartment,” the realtor had explained.  André hadn’t seemed to care. Why should he? A furnished apartment, well below market price, with two bedrooms and an absentee landlord who visited twice or three times a year for two or three days?