Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) (16 page)

Eric turned to Paul, “By the way, I read your status memo. You know you left out an important detail.”  His tone was gruff.

Paul looked surprised. "What?"

“Kamrani was recently employed by Isfahan's Malik Ashtar University of Technology. Several departments of that institution have been quietly involved in Iran's secret nuclear program. His boss was University Rector Mahdi Najad Nuri, also a general in the Revolutionary Guards,” said Eric abruptly.

“And what’s so wrong with a general getting an education?” asked Paul, in sarcasm.

Eric, ever humorless, didn’t get it. “What’s so wrong is that Mahdi Najad Nuri is on a U.N
.
Security Council list of people and institutions whose activity is being monitored for alleged contact with Tehran's nuclear program. The Nuclear Technology Center of Isfahan is a nuclear research facility that currently operates four small nuclear research reactors, all supplied by China. The uranium conversion facility at Isfahan converts yellowcake into uranium hexafluoride gas, which is then enriched by thousands of centrifuges. As of late October 2006, the site was almost fully operational, with 21 or even all of 24 workshops completed. There is also a Zirconium production plant located nearby that produces the necessary ingredients and alloys for nuclear reactors.”

“So do you think the death of one scientist, as senior as one could be, would put off Iran from developing nuclear weapons?” I asked, sounding doubtful, because I was.

“It sends a message, although not by us,” said Eric. “Let the ground shake under their scientists’ feet. Let them fear the unknown. These deaths increase the “white desertion” of scientists. They either continue working but their minds are
elsewhere, or they resign and move to less dangerous jobs. But the Iranian regime doesn’t let them off the hook that easily. In fact, some of these scientists find themselves between a rock and a hard place.  We know that VEVAK is behind all that. When their agent whom they named Ali Akbar Kamrani sent us the letters for his purported scientist “brother,” they were not shooting in the dark. We think that the entire ploy was to send a message to their scientists who cultivate thoughts of defecting: ‘Watch out! Big Brother knows everything.’ This time, Big Brother is Iranian. Benny?”

Benny waited a moment, and then confirmed my earlier suspicion. 

“My men in Tehran tell me that they suspect Firouz Kamrani was chosen by VEVAK to fake defection intentions to the U.S
.
, and when his defection “offer” was accepted, expose the clumsy attempt of the U.S. This would allow VEVAK to retaliate by smearing the CIA and the Mossad. So, the Iranians hoped to achieve two goals from this: destroying our credibility, so that no potential asset would work with either of us, and deterring other scientists who might think of defecting, because they could never know if the offer made to them was a genuine CIA or Mossad offer, or was actually made by VEVAK to entrap them.  When
Kamrani was selected to participate in the ploy, VEVAK didn’t take into account one small detail.”

“Kamrani wasn’t faking,” I said, although I wasn’t quite sure.

“Right. He
wanted
to live outside Iran, and the offer made by VEVAK to fake defection was his chance to become ‘defector-in-place.’

“Meaning?”

“He was theoretically renouncing his Iranian citizenship and allegiance, but remained in Iran as an informer until extricated. Unfortunately, things went south. Either there was a security leak and Firouz Kamrani’s real intentions were revealed to VEVAK or...
.” Benny
didn’t finish the sentence. Was he hinting that there was a security breach, or worse, a mole among us? I didn’t ask and he continued.
“
Anyway, we tend to believe that VEVAK discovered Kamrani's defection plans and probably rigged his gas heater to emit CO that killed him in his sleep. So here we are, having lost a potentially invaluable asset, someone who could have provided us with the
intel
the United States and Israel need. We were so close.”

For once in my life, I disagreed with Benny. “The Mossad and the CIA were never close to getting Kamrani as an asset. This was
a ploy to begin with.
Even if Kamrani wanted to defect, then what?
He of all people couldn’t go to the bathroom without being monitored by VEVAK. He was a lost ca
u
se to begin with.”

Benny paused and looked out the window, his brow furrowed. I knew he was turning over the “what ifs” in his mind.

“Whatever happened,” he continued, “we need to cover all bases, and therefore, our security department is investigating whether there was any security breach on our end that exposed Dan, or brought about Kamrani’s early demise.”

There was silence in the room for a minute. “What’s next?” I asked.

Benny, still with that stern expression, turned to me and said, “With Kamrani dead, we are dropping his purported defection case.”

I was certain that it wasn’t the purpose of this meeting, just to announce a closing of a case. There had to be another, forward-looking plan. I waited patiently.

“For a while now, we’ve been quietly spreading the message that defectors will be welcome,” said Benny. “We have several combatants operating in the area, harassing nuclear scientists. And the harassment was working. When my combatants tried to
intimidate a particular Iranian nuclear scientist from continuing with his research, they were more successful than they anticipated. The scientist quite plainly let our combatants know that he’d be willing to stop his research if we helped him defect from Iran and get a university research position in the U.S. We told the CIA, and there the idea of forming a joint agency team gained speed.”

“So did you help this scientist get the job?” I asked.

Eric nodded. “His defection was scheduled to take place last week. Once in our safe house in Virginia, after his thorough interrogation, we would’ve announced it publicly, to make other Iranian scientists aware it would be worth their while to stop working on the Iranian nuke and defect to the U.S
.
, or Europe. The plan is on hold. Now that Kamrani’s died, potential Iranian defectors are, for obvious reasons, getting cold feet.”

“But,” continued Benny, with his sly smile, “We are revisiting old plans on talents ready to defect. It’s time to Tango again.”

Benny, Paul, and Eric then detailed their plan. It left me breathless.

X

May 2007
-  Damascus
, Syria

It was time to Tango again. An Agency car took me from CIA HQ in Langley to Reagan Airport, just across the Potomac from Washington, D.C. The two weeks of training I had just had at the Farm were intriguing and extensive. Although the signs at the entry say “
Department of Defense Armed Forces Experimental Training Activity,” it’s in fact a
10,000-acre site where CIA trainees, also called “Career Trainees,” take an 18-week course in what’s called “operational intelligence.” The camp was similar to many other military camps I’d seen, except that uniforms were few. Those who graduate the course begin working as intelligence and case officers for the CIA’s
National
Clandestine Service.

After a brief stopover in New York to see my children, I flew to Frankfurt International Airport using my blue U.S. tourist and business passport. I proceeded to the arrival hall; claimed my luggage; and met an Agency representative, a young man in his early 30s who identified with the right code word. He signaled me to follow him to the parking lot. I entered his Volkswagen van.

Inside he gave me everything I needed to assume my new identity.
A European passport with my photo and biometrics, describing me as Alexander Yager, born in Riga, Latvia, in 1950.
Three credit cards – Visa, Eurocard issued by MasterCard, and Diners Club.
And again, no American Express, thank you very much.
€9,000 in Visa travelers’ checks and €1,000 in cash. Family photos of my late wife Anna, may she rest in peace, and of Snap, my real life Golden Retriever. I also had business stationary and business cards of Yager Export and Import Consultants, GMBH, a German firm that helps European textile goods companies penetrate new and emerging markets, and to avoid bureaucratic pitfalls whether they are buying or selling.

I gave the Agency representative my U.S. passport. That was the only item that connected me with the U.S. My clothes were made in Europe, mostly in Germany, including my underwear, socks, and shoes. My watch was Swiss; my eyeglasses were made in France. My luggage was made in China and sold in Swiss department stores. Even my ballpoint pens carried European marks. I was glad to find a baggage cart next to a parked car, and used it to get my suitcase back to the terminal.

I checked into a Syrianair RB408 flight to Damascus International Airport
.
As we approached Damascus, I couldn’t avoid thinking of my friend, an Israeli Air Force pilot, who was captured by the Syrians during the Six Day War and had undergone inhumane and brutal torture. He returned missing one blue eye, with a scarred face, but with a strong determination to put it
behind him. The Syrians are not known for merciful treatment of their enemies. Another Israeli, Eli Cohen, a Mossad spy, was caught and hanged in Damascus in public. I shivered at the thought of what would happen to me if I were captured.

The Damascus airport was mostly empty when I arrived. The passport control officer asked me only about the purpose of my visit and the expected duration of my stay. He saw that I had a ticket for a continuing Syrianair flight RB373 to Tehran in 10 days and asked me to prove I had enough money to pay for my stay. Five minutes later, I was out in the street, practically swarmed by dozens of taxi drivers and hustlers, an unavoidable scene in most third world countries.

I took a cab for the short ride to the Four Seasons Hotel at Shukri Al Quatli Street and paid 1,500 Syrian pounds for the ride. I settled in my room and then took a walk to the old city, surrounded by a Roman-era wall with large oblong stones. Like a typical tourist, I looked at the tour guidebook; the old city has seven gates.
Bab Sharqi, Bab al-Jabieh, Bab Keissan, Bab al-Saghir, Bab Tuma, Bab al-Jeniq, and Bab al-Faradiss.
The main road crossed the city from Bab al-Jabieh to Bab Sharqi.  Occasionally, I used Mossad tactics to identify whether I was drawing any particular attention. But it seemed that the coast was clear. I didn’t identify any sign that I was the subject of
particular interest to anyone. This was odd and unusual. Under normal circumstances, in the Middle East, people looking like tourists are usually approached by all sorts of locals, either seeking to offer services or just to be courteous.
But, here and now, nada.

“When everything seems to be right, then you must be wrong,”
were the warning words of Alex, my Mossad instructor. I thought of the thorough briefing I had received at the Farm before leaving. Although Syria is about 55 percent Sunni Muslim, for nearly 40 years it has been governed by the Assad family, who are Alawites, a Shia sect. Although Syria has a population of nearly 22 million, the Alawites, who number only 1.4 million, have managed to keep their grip on the country, first by Hafez al-Assad and then, after his death, by his son, Basher Al-Assad.

Syria is a typical Middle Eastern police state, where the rulers are “elected” by a 99% majority and stay in power by playing various groups off one another and brutally suppressing opposition groups. For the past twenty years, Syria has allied itself with Shiite Iran. The pariah-status of Iran in the eyes of the world was shared by some Arab states and it affected their attitude toward Syria, which became unpopular with most other Sunni-Arab states. Syria openly supports Hezbollah but also provides sanctuary for Sunni Muslim terrorists on their way to
Iraq. But even this was done at the request of Iran, which was supporting al Qaeda and its ilk, only because this was a way to kill Americans. Normally, al Qaeda prefers to kill Shia Muslims (whom they consider heretics). Syrian Sunnis and Kurds in the north have commenced terrorist attacks against Syrian Alawite targets. The Alawites have responded, as they always have, with efficiency and savage reprisals.  Bloodshed is routine in these areas.

I went looking for Hammed’s lingerie store.  I wasn’t going to buy sexy underwear for a girlfriend. I was going to get something much hotter: information and assistance.

Syrian lingerie is famous among distributers in the U.S
.
, but the consumers know nothing of it. The "Made in Syria" labels are cut out and replaced with labels showing another country of origin.  When I first heard that during my training in the Farm, I was surprised and amused.
Top of Form

Syrians are conservative, but they manufacture sexy underwear that would put porn magazines to shame.

I walked to Souk Hamadiya. Its labyrinthine market streets and alleys were packed with people. Many of the small stores lining the souk were cluttered with underwear sets displaying more traditional wear, such as sequined belly-dance costumes. I
found Hammed’s store, a shop selling outsized lingerie and other women’s clothing.  A middle-aged man with dark eyes and a scarred face looked at me suspiciously. I asked to speak to Hammed.

“Who are you, Sir?” he responded in English.