Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) (20 page)

"Go to the 18th floor," he said, "Khader and Tango will be there."

"Aren't you coming as well?"
"No, I need to stay here."

             
"Is there a doorman in the building?"

"Yes, just wave at him, he was told that a guest was coming."

             
"To what apartment should I go on the 18
th
floor?"

             
"Khader will wait for you as you exit the elevator."

I walked to the entrance. The lobby was palatial, with a 20-foot archway at the main entrance, marble floors, stone walls, arched mosaic ceilings, and decorative chandeliers. The walls on the walkway to the elevators had brick and terracotta façades. I waved at the half-asleep doorman and went to the 18
th
floor. Khader was indeed waiting for me. Without saying a word, he turned and I followed down a long, carpeted corridor hung with oil paintings. At the end of the hallway, he opened an apartment door. A man in his mid-50s stood there. "This is General Cyrus Madani,” said Khader, as I approached. The general said nothing and shook my hand. His handshake was firm and I could feel his farmer’s rough skin. He was dressed in starched and ironed khaki pants and shirt. I looked at his face. He had dark eyes and a well-groomed mustache.

“I’m pleased to meet you,”
I
said in Arabic.

“We can talk in English,” he responded, realizing from my accent that Arabic was not my native language.

“Marhaba,” he nonetheless said in Arabic,
“Welcome.”
“Please, let’s go inside.” I followed him to the end of the room, near tall windows. The curtains were open and I could see the
nearby park. Madani sat on one end of a black leather sectional sofa. I sat on the other. Khader remained standing.

“What’s the plan?” Madani asked. He had the confident tone of a person accustomed to giving orders. I was surprised at the direct approach, very much unlike the local custom.

“We are going to cross the border to Syria.”

As if on a cue,
Madani asked, “And who would you be?”

“I’m journalist writing an article on religious pilgrimages of various religions.”

“For whom are you writing?”

“God’s Faithful Followers Magazine,” I said.

“Is that a joke?” he asked, in half contempt.

“No, not at all, that’s a real magazine, and I’m listed in the masthead as a staff reporter. I fact, my previous article described the faithful Catholics’ pilgrimage to the Vatican, here, I have a copy for you,” I handed him the magazine I kept in my briefcase.

He flipped through the pages, his face motionless. He handed
me
the magazine back to me.

“No,” I insisted, “keep it. You may have to show it if questions are asked.”

For the next three hours, I went with Madani through a series of instructions, telling him what to say if questioned about how our contact was made, and explaining why there were no previous telephone conversations, letters, or emails between us. I rehearsed the legend the CIA had designed for us. “Please memorize it,” I said, “remember even the minute technical details, such as the time of day I first approached you.”

“Remember,” I concluded at the end, “it was your travel agent who specializes in pilgrimage tours who made the connection. My editor called him
,
asking for a good example of a Shia pilgrim, and he suggested you.”

“You mean that my travel agent is in the loop?” He sounded surprised.

“No, he is not,” I said emphatically. “He in fact was approached by my editor, but your travel agent thinks it’s a real request from a genuine magazine, and in fact it is, the article about your pilgrimage will appear in print.”

He gave me a long look, without saying anything. Moments later he said “
Tayeb”
– good.

“There’s a train going from Tehran north and west to Istanbul, avoiding Iraq, then south to Damascus. We will take it,” I said.

His face showed no expression. “And then?” he asked.

“From Damascus we’ll take the return train to Turkey and you’ll be met by American agents who’ll take care of you.”

He slanted his eyes, “What do you mean take care of me?” I thought we had an agreement. I’m going to America.”

There was more than a tad of anger in his voice.

“Of course, General,” I said quickly, “what I mean is that my instructions are to bring you safely to Turkey. From there another unit is taking over. As a general with so many years in the military you know the importance of field security. I am not supposed to know about all the details of the operation, just those that concern my role. If I’m caught and made to talk, I could be forced to reveal only what I know -- my limited duties, not the entire operation. That is meant to protect you.”

His black eyes were still on fire, but I moved on.

“If we need to be in Turkey, why travel through Damascus?”

I was uneasy. It was Madani who had told the CIA that his Iranian exit visa is limited to a Syrian visit only. The little devil inside me moved nervously.

“Because I’ve been told that your Iranian exit visa allows you to visit only Damascus on a pilgrimage, right?”

He nodded.

“How are we going to Syria?” he sounded surprised, “Iran doesn’t border with Syria, Iraq is in between.”

“As I mentioned earlier, by train. We have reservations for a four berth cabin on a train traveling between Tehran and Damascus through Turkey,
which requires a five hour ferry ride to get across.”

“Who’s traveling?” he asked.

“Just you and me.”

“Then why the 4 berths?”

“They have no 2 berth cabins. We paid for the 4 couchettes to avoid company.” I wasn’t going to tell him that we’d be guarded from a short distance by six men in the next cabin.

“It’s a long ride,” Madani said in a weary tone, “I thought we were flying.”

“No, my instructions are to travel by train, there are fewer security checks.”

“It’s more than 3,000 miles away,” he insisted.

“I know,” I said, not mentioning that the actual distance was not even half that: less than 2,400 kilometers, and so less than 1,500 miles. There was no point in contradicting him.

“It doesn’t make sense.” He was adamant.

I decided not to challenge him. “Is there a better plan?” I asked, although I knew that Madani couldn’t make changes to a plan that had been worked out by dozens of CIA and Mossad researchers and analysts. Nonetheless, I had to give him the impression that his opinion was important.

I waited for a response or the next argument to come immediately. It didn’t.

I continued, “We’ll be traveling on an Iranian train where VEVAK has eyes and ears in every corner, showing we have nothing to hide.”

“Why aren’t we going from Tehran to Damascus through Iraq? It’s much shorter?”

“There’s no train service from Tehran through Iraqi territory, hostility is still strong.”

“Why can’t we get off in Turkey en route to Damascus? What’s the idea of passing Turkey, staying on the train and then when in Damascus returning to Turkey?”

There was a lot of sense in his question, but the planners thought differently. 

“We’ll get to Damascus, go on a pilgrimage which will most probably be shadowed by VEVAK agents. Since we know you are under their prying eyes, they are most likely going to expect defection in Turkey and if that happened, they would shoot you then and there. No. We will travel to Damascus from Turkey and then you lose them.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, “
it’s
part of the next step.”

His dark face became red all of a sudden. “What do you mean you don’t know? What kind of an operation you are running here? Are you an amateur? I’m risking my life and ‘you don’t know’? The last sentence was undoubtedly genuine sounding, but not the rest of what he said. My stomach moved nervously again.

“When?” He asked curtly, moving on all of a sudden as if nothing had happened.

I looked at Khader, who said, “Tomorrow morning.”

“Is that all?” he asked, rising from the sofa.

“I guess so,” I said, “Khader will fill you in on the technical details. But generally speaking, you should pack and conduct yourself as if you are going on a pilgrimage.”

“I am,” he said, reassuring himself.

“Of course you are, but at the conclusion of your pilgrimage to the Holy Shia sites in Syria, you’ll continue on a different pilgrimage to the U.S.”

He seemed satisfied to hear my answer.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow, Monday evening, at the
Tehran Central Railway Station, in Shoosh
,” I said, shaking his hand, and left. Khader accompanied me down to the waiting car.

“He seemed nervous,” I said.

“You can understand that,” said Khader, “It’s a huge step to take for a man in his position.”

I didn’t share with Khader my gut feeling and the messages the little devil in me was sending. The driver took me back to the apartment building and, as the car sped away, I entered a small newspaper and magazine store and bought a Farsi language daily. I could read the script, since the letters are Arabic and
its grammar is similar to that of many contemporary European languages. B
ut I could barely understand the general meaning due
to my very limited command of the Farsi language. Nonetheless, a man holding a Farsi newspaper is somewhat less likely to be regarded as a stranger. I walked to the nearest bank and used the ATM machine to withdraw Rials. Then I punched a sequence of keys of innocuous looking transactions. They would immediately appear on my bank statements being monitored hourly in the operations center in the U.S. The sequence of keystrokes sent the message: “All well. Leaving with Tango as planned.”

I returned to the apartment and prepared for the next move. I had no idea where my backup team was located. I knew they were close, but I hadn’t identified them yet. In that day and age where security cameras are located in most public areas and buildings, I couldn’t risk being seen with any one of my team. Either I or one of them could already be contaminated, and, by meeting, would automatically contaminate the other.

On Monday afternoon, Khader’s driver picked me up and took me to the central railway station, a palatial building with Acropolis-like heavy columns and a building façade reminiscent of the Pentagon. Holding my ticket and travel documents, I passed the gate and saw Madani standing on the platform next to a woman dressed in a black chador. I nodded and said, “Good afternoon, General.”

“This is my wife, Fatima,” he said.

             
I smiled at her, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Madani,”

Her eyes smiled. Because of the chador she was wearing, I could barely see her face.

“She doesn’t speak English,” said Madani.

I carefully scoured the area. I was certain that there were at least two groups of watchers, my backup team and VEVAK agents. However, I was unable to identify any of them. The sleek modern electric train was already in the station,
and passengers were boarding. Madani hugged his wife and watched her walk toward the exit. Then we boarded the train and entered our cabin.

XII

May 2007 – Tehran to Istanbul

Soon the train left the station and Tehran. As we sat, saying little, in the cabin, Madani seemed tense, nervous, and uncomfortable. I eventually decided not to engage in conversation that could irritate him further.

“I’m tired,” I said. “I’m getting some sleep.”

Madani just nodded.

I woke up several hours later. Madani wasn’t there. I jumped to my feet and checked the bathroom. Nothing. I left the cabin with my heart pounding; searched the corridor; couldn’t see him. Many passengers stood in the aisle, smoking cigarettes that burned my eyes and charred my throat.

I was deeply alarmed. How could Madani leave the cabin? Wasn’t he aware of the risks? And where the hell was my backup team, who were supposed to monitor him and me at all times? I had a weapon of last resort, my small communication device disguised as a pen. I could transmit short coded messages a short distance by pressing the top. That would bring the team out to help me in any distress. But that could also blow their cover and, most likely, doom the operation if we were observed. I asked the conductor which station came next.

“Zanjan,” he said.

I’d fallen asleep after we’d left the only stop before Zanjan. That meant that Madani must still be on the train. I walked to the front of the train, trying to look disinterested, and peeked into each cabin. There was no trace of Madani. I was distressed. How could he vanish, and how could I face Eric and explain? I could almost hear Eric mutter,
“An intelligence golden nugget that has been worked on for a year with considerable
effort and expense slips through the hands of that nincompoop Dan Gordon
.” I felt cold drops of sweat roll down my spine. That could be my CEI – career ending incident. I took a deep breath and was more determined than ever to find him. I completed two rounds of search throughout the train, even waited outside each of the occupied lavatories to see who exited, but to no avail.  I pulled out the pen, getting ready to press its head and alarm my backup team. “
Think outside the box,
” were the words of my Mossad Academy instructors. Nice suggestion, I thought, but where is the box and what’s beyond it? At a time of distress these suggestions only contributed to my confusion. My instincts work better when in trouble. As I was about to turn around, return to my cabin, and operate the pen - alarming my thus far unseen backup team - I saw Madani in the corridor approaching me. I didn’t know which emotion took precedence, my sense of rage or relief. I was about to yell ‘
Where the fuck were you
?’ but composed myself.