Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) (13 page)

“Never. I never use a landline unless secured.”

“And a mobile?”

“Hell, no. Not that, either, and it was my first and only time in the apartment this year.”

“It’s possible there was a watch on you even before this case was assigned to you.
Something to do with another case where the opposition was looking for a future opportunity to get even, and had you shadowed.
If so, once you visited the Paris apartment, you unwittingly contaminated and compromised it, and it’s now an arena for detecting your future assignments.” Eric could be right, I thought, but said nothing.

Eric moved on. “Her home address is also fake. There’s no such house number. We’ll see if she got André to cooperate with her; until then, we won’t shake things up there. However, in the long run, we may have to replace André with another student or abandon the apartment; I’ll let you know. We want to observe her with her guard down. In the meanwhile, keep your distance from her.  She’s very likely armed.”

That explained why she had to pose as a 22 year old, probably fearing that André, who was barely 22, would be reluctant to have an affair with a 28 year old. The person who built “Monica’s” legend probably didn’t remember how 22-year-old men think.

“Armed, I already know, didn’t you see my report?”

“I did, but she could be carrying another gun for daily use, so to speak.”

Yes, of course: that explained why she was so protective of her purse when I asked her for her passport. It wasn’t the passport she was hiding. It was a gun.

“I’ll send a team to cover her movements; until they arrive I’ll ask the French to step in. I’m sending you now through the Embassy’s cipher room a short memo on
Leonid
Shestakov. Read and destroy.”

Ten minutes later, a young Embassy staffer walked in and handed me Eric’s deciphered mail.

“Leonid
Shestakov, DOB May 7, 1946, in Moscow, graduated Moscow University with a degree in Mechanical Engineering in 1969. Served in the Red Army’s Corps of Engineers and was stationed in Uzbekistan through 1989. He took a short part in the war in Afghanistan. In 1990 was discharged with the rank of Lt. Colonel and in 1991 relocated to Berlin, Germany. He currently owns several trading companies in Berlin, doing business in Russia, Libya, and Iran, which has been his major client in recent years. His companies were placing orders with German companies for sensitive nuclear materials and technology purportedly for use by Russian nuclear power plants, primarily the Kalinin nuclear power station, 120
 
miles northwest of Moscow. An investigation revealed that the merchandise never got to Kalinin but was transshipped on the Volga River through Kazakhstan to the Caspian Sea, ending in Northern Iran, apparently without the Russian government’s knowledge. This activity intensified in 2005 when Mahmoud Ahmadinejad became the Iranian president. Recently Shestakov managed to
transfer 14 satellite navigation systems to Iran. That particular type of the global positioning system (GPS) is used in unmanned aerial drones for intelligence or attack purposes. Israeli Mossad reported
that, during the Second Lebanon war in 2006, similar navigation systems were mounted on drones operated by Hezbollah against Israel. The Mossad reported that these systems were manufactured by a company in Baden-Wurttemberg, Germany, and could be those sold by Shestakov to Iran, which then gave them to Hezbollah. Several additional defective GPS malfunctioned and were returned.” A list of
Shestakov’s companies, known transactions, and key personnel was attached to Eric’s cable.
Eric didn’t elaborate on why they’d malfunctioned, but I had my own ideas. 

The memo also indicated that after
the route on the Volga to Kazakhstan and northern Iran was exposed and stopped,
Shestakov
found a new destination
—
not a surprise here
—
Dubai. The Dubai free-trade zone was declared as the end destination, while in fact it was used as a conduit to Iran, which is just across the bay.

I got back on the secure phone with Eric. “OK, got it. Does Shestakov’s activity in Dubai connect to my assignment?" I asked.

Soon enough I’d have to tell Eric about my own findings regarding the unholy trinity of Monica, Chennault, and Shestakov.

“There are still a lot of missing pieces in the puzzle,” said Eric, “and I don’t know yet what the connection is exactly, but assume there is one.”

This time, I was more cautious than Eric. I remembered another Moscow Rule, which Alex, my Mossad instructor, rehearsed with us. “
Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, and three times is a hostile action.”
Once – is Monica’s presence in my Paris cover apartment. Twice
is
the gun and multiple passports hidden underneath the floorboard; and three times, her affiliation with Shestakov, “a person of interest” to many intelligence services for his trade with Iran. I didn’t need to go further, and count her fake address. I had to assume I was in active clandestine combat, and as usual in these wars, the identity and location of my enemy weren’t clear.
Shestakov’s company?
The Iranians? Some new kid on the block I hadn’t met yet?  All that just increased my suspicion that I was in somebody’s sights.

“So, now?” I asked Eric.

“Return to Dubai, stay there for a while; we need to see how the opposition got on your tail, and why. Be alert, you’ll be a walking target once you return, but that’s the only way to hole them out.”

“Thank you very much,”
whined my little inner devil, “
a walking target, what are you, a duck? Give Eric a piece of your
mind!”
I didn’t listen to my little devil, but soon I realized that I should have.

I did fly back to Dubai — though not until the next day. First I found a small hotel nearby and slept through the early morning hours. Then I left my luggage there and waited in the café across the street from my, and André’s, apartment. At 7:45 am Monica and André exited the building. Monica took a cab and André rode a bicycle. I waited for fifteen minutes, and when I thought the coast was clear I entered the apartment. It was a bit embarrassing to sneak into my own apartment, fearing detection by my “son” and his dubious guest. I returned to their bedroom.

The arms stash underneath the bed was intact. I went through Monica’s clothing again, checking all her pockets. Then I turned to the coat closet in the vestibule, and searched the coats and bags. In a small woman’s bag, I found a folded piece of paper. It was a wire transfer confirmation from an account in Bank Sepah, via Barberini branch, Rome, Italy. The amount transferred was €110,000. All other details were too smudged to read. I put the receipt in my pocket, and continued with my search. In another purse, I found three Lufthansa boarding pass stubs and a half-empty pack of cigarettes. I checked it thoroughly; it contained only cigarettes. I copied the dates and the flight numbers. I moved to the desk and searched André’s papers. Other than school
materials, I found nothing of interest. I made sure I left everything intact and left the apartment. As I walked up the street, I saw Monica coming toward me. I turned quickly and entered a store. I didn’t want her to see me in the area when I’d told André that I was leaving Paris.

From an Internet café I reported to Eric about the bank withdrawal slip, using pre-assigned code words and making the message short.

I surfed the Internet for an hour, until Eric’s ciphered response arrived, but I couldn’t open it. Eric must have forgotten his order to stop using my computer until cleaned.

I sent him another email, “Can’t read, I’m still in Paris. I’m going to Kingdom to call you.”

When the connection in the bubble was made, Eric went straight to business. “I thought you returned to Dubai, why the delay?”

"I decided to search the apartment again.” I told him about the withdrawal slip and the boarding passes.

“What do you suggest, then?” asked Eric, catching me by surprise. Since when does Eric ask for advice? If he wants someone’s opinion, he gives it to him.

“I think I should go back to Dubai, that’s where I should look.”

“OK, go back,” he said. “As long as you are in the enemy's sightline, you must exercise extra caution. Where is your laptop?

“Here with me. I left it outside the bubble.”

“Good, have my IT experts check it out to make sure it wasn't compromised. Leave it with them until you depart. Use Internet cafés to communicate using the designated code words. Report every day, or earlier as events develop. Continue using your legend as an electronics trader. Any change in your activity would signal that they were right to suspect you. Upon arrival in Dubai and before you’d pick up a tail, go to the Consulate. There will be a package waiting for you with my Chief of Station.”

Three hours later, I received my laptop back. “Cleaned,” said the attached note. They never said if they found anything hostile in it, and I didn’t ask.

VIII

January 2007 - Dubai

I flew back to Dubai and returned to the Hyatt Regency Hotel. I went up to my room and opened the safe. Everything looked normal. I went downstairs; cancelled my earlier
reservation for the extra room for my “business associate;” and asked for a new room for myself. “Please give me a room at the end of the corridor, I’d like to have an uninterrupted view of the Gulf.” The location of the new room would give me an opportunity to see who might be coming my way, because there were at least 50 feet between my door and the door of the next room.

In my new room, I emptied my pockets. My entire legend spilled out, plus detritus from my mission. My European passport, one Visa Card, one MasterCard, no American Express card  – thank you very much, I’ve had too much hassle from them — a French driver’s license, three door keys on a metal ring, two taxi receipts, airline ticket stubs, used boarding cards, a copy of the service agreement with We Forward Unlimited, and a laminated photo of my “family.” I flipped through the passport pages. There was nothing irregular there to attract attention. I looked at my driver’s license. It had my photo on it and my Paris address.

Leaving the hotel, I took a cab for some blocks; switched to another; and after a tour around the city, got out a block before the Dubai World Trade Center on Sheikh Zayed Road, next to the roundabout. I walked to the original tower. After going through security, as a habit I first took an elevator to the 24
th
floor, and then took another down to 21 and entered the U.S. Consulate. After I’d identified myself to the Marine guard, a young man came
up and said, “Please follow me.” We entered a vacant office. He gave me a bulky 14”x 11” box. “Please sign here,” he said, handing me a form and a pen. “If you intend to open the parcel here,” he said, “I suggest you give me the empty box for safe disposal.”

I opened the box. Inside were an M4 polymer frame handgun, the Mil Tech 12x20mm, and ammo specifically designed for the gun. The Chief of Station had also left a mobile phone in the box for me.  An attached note listed its number, with the comment that the phone was unregistered.

I returned to my hotel with the gun and the phone in my pocket.

The man who had brushed against me next to the Shawarma stand a few days earlier was sitting on a couch in the lobby. How did he know I was still around? When his eyes met mine, he nodded. I approached him. The marble floors in the lobby echoed. Airy, vaulted ceilings, money secreted everywhere — you could feel it. The lobby was fairly crowded; international clientele waited at the reception desk. On my way to sit down I heard at least four languages.

The man seemed to be alone, although you never know.

“Mr. Van der Hoff, please join me,” he said.

I sat opposite him, saying nothing. On the coffee table between us sat a vase, with an elegant stalk of dried desert flowers.

He leaned forward across the table and spoke quietly. “I’m taking a significant risk in approaching you, but there’s no other way. The post office box mentioned in the letter was compromised by an Iranian VEVAK agent working out of Dubai.”

I didn’t react, putting on my best poker face. He continued. “I’m the one who sent the letter to the Consulate.”

I kept looking at him without saying a word.

“I wrote it on behalf of my brother, a nuclear scientist. Can we talk now?”

“What is there to talk about?” I asked playing the dumb fool – as my only available defense from a trap.

“Can you help him get political asylum in the U.S
.
and a job, in return for nonpublic information about his work?”

“Sir,” I said, “I don’t know why you are approaching me.”

He said immediately, “Because I know you work for the American government, and you came here in connection with the letter I sent. I know you opened an account with We Forward Unlimited; this is where I opened my box as well. I’ve just
discovered that We Forward Unlimited works for VEVAK and, therefore, I wanted to stop you from responding to that box. Any incoming mail will be immediately read by VEVAK, and believe me when I say they are quite merciless.”

“Well, I did open a box there for my electronic parts trading business. Is that how you found my name? Were you present at the office when I signed up?”