Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) (23 page)

“Fake? Is this is a gut feeling, Dan? I mean, he could be
fake
planted by Iran, of course. If you had hard proof, if you’d intercepted any kind of communication, for example….”

Proof. He wanted proof.
The best weapon is the mind.

     “OK,” I said, although I was certain he had proof, but wanted to see my cards as well. “Let’s apply Occam’s Razor.
According to the 14th-century English
 
logician and
 
Franciscan
 
friar
 
William of Ockham,
the simplest theory that accounts for all the facts will be correct. Now, I know it may seem like intelligence work is an exception to that rule; very often, the ‘truth’ seems tremendously complex. I go to Dubai, to Istanbul, to France, to Damascus. I have different names in different countries. But in the end, it’s really not so complex.
In the end, it’s all about groups of people who want to do harm to other people, and I work to prevent that. Simple. I’ve been doing that for
you
for years—“

     “And you know we appreciate the work you do Dan. You know--”

     “Spare me the platitudes. Back to Occam’s Razor. Let’s take the problem, and see what the simplest answer is. Problem: Madani had no idea why we were going through Syria, even though it was supposedly
his
idea. Problem: he disappeared on the train on our way here, claiming he ‘likes trains.’ My suspicion? He met someone for whatever reason, and it was not romantic purposes, and I don’t think he spent some time chatting with the

engineer
.”

     My God, I wondered, did Madani really say that to me? That he was “chatting with the
engineer
”? I should’ve broken protocol right then and there. I should have made contact. I went on.

             
“Problem: Madani and I were questioned by the Iranian border

police
, after which they spoke to Madani privately, after which I

was
told Madani was a wanted terrorist, after which I was told to

post
$100 bail.
A hundred dollars?
For a terrorist?

Problem: these very same police didn’t look twice at me, an English
-
speaking foreigner in an area where you seldom see
tourists, travelling with an alleged terrorist? Not even look at my passport? The director who staged this folly should be sent back to school.”

     The sun was setting, now, and blue shadows began pooling around the room. I heard a vacuum cleaner going down the hall. I felt like a prosecutor, wrapping up his case.

     “The simplest.
Most obvious.
Is the most reasonable explanation: returning to
Occam’s Razor
:
“
The simplest explanation will be the most plausible until evidence is presented to prove it false.”
Therefore, Tango is
fake
. Need more? Problem: Madani--”

     Eric interrupted. “Look, Dan, we already know—OK? We began to suspect along the way, just like you. That something wasn’t adding up.”

     “You knew,” I said, scar
s
throbbing again. I grew quiet, my voice lower.  

      “And you kept me in the dark?”

      Eric sighed heavily.

     “First off, Dan, we didn’t ‘know’ until a few days ago. At the beginning we only suspected, and telling you was impossible because you were already travelling with him on the train.
Anyway, telling you that would have placed you in much greater danger. If Tango is a fake, and he at all suspected
—“

     “And as I’m the only one here who knows Madani, the only one here who spent past two weeks with him, breaking bread with him, drinking tea with him
—
no one is better to extract that information than I am, particularly now, when we both know he’s bad. There are so many details we could extract from him, that I can’t even start to count.”

“Wait,” Benny interrupted. “Let me ask you something, Dan. Say Tango is a fake, what do you care?” The question seemed rhetorical to me. “So, we got the wrong guy. Then what, no damage was done, he gave us nothing we gave him nothing, end of story.”

“Propaganda,” I retorted, again realizing they just wanted to hear my reasons, which might be different from theirs.  “You should care, because if he’s fake, you can’t hold him, you won’t give him all the goodies Madani would get. Therefore, once he walks, in Istanbul, Tehran, or Washington
,
D.C., it will soon hit the media, that the Iranians toyed with us again, we’ll be getting yet another black eye from public opinion. And if it comes out he’s a fake that the Iranians sent, the bloggers and armchair counterspies will be all over it. Then the House and Senate Committees. You know that.”

“Not so fast, my friend,” said Benny in a measured tone, “even if Madani is fake and what you’re saying is true regarding the propaganda war, it’s still not the end of the story, for one because we’ll be credited for exposing his lies. And besides, fake or not, we’ll take the opportunity to milk what he knows.”

“Knows?” I said in half contempt, “If he’s fake as I suspect, then he knows nothing, zilch. The Iranians are smart
.
D
o you think they would risk sending someone with any information whatsoever, other than the price of a loaf of bread and the bus fare? Nonetheless we need his confession that he’s fake on video in case he goes public and Iran tries to mock us.”

“Dan,” said Eric, “don’t be so sure that he couldn’t tell us anything of value. Even if he was recruited off the street, he knows who they are, and what they told him to say. He was trained some place, he could tell us that. He could tell us who his instructors were, and whether others were trained with him. There’s always something.”

Only problem with that reasoning: no one learns the names of their recruiters, instructors, or other trainees, they all use false names. Eric knew that. I knew that. So when Eric saw my astonished face he added, “I know, I know, they all use fake names, but in a closed society like Iran, when many people know
many others, although fake names are used, there are after hours gatherings, a coffee and a cigarette together, people lose their defenses after a while.”

Eric was right of course, so I didn’t respond. There was no point in developing the argument.

“Listen,” Paul said. “Imagine an Iranian general, any Iranian general, glued to TV broadcasts of a Madani, telling the Iranian public how the CIA had offered him a cool $3 million to defect—but since the CIA caught him as a fake, they’d expelled him, so he has no money, but there he is telling the world about that offer. The Iranian security apparatus would not be happy to hear that on television.
To say the least.
It would be like a commercial to all Iranian military commanders, ‘Come to us and we’ll give you $3 million
tax free,
and asylum, if you are for real.’ Do you still think, even if Madani is a fake, that Iran would be able to maintain any kind of upper hand in the propaganda war?”

“A general?” Benny weighed in. “You wouldn’t even have to be a general. Say you’re a major, hardly making it in Iran. Maybe you’re sick of everything, the Ayatollahs, the moral police, the oppression.
All of it.
And there you are, in front of the TV. And you hear of an opportunity to give yourself and your family a
better, freer life. You have a wife and children, wouldn’t you consider defecting, seriously? So I say, let the fake Madani say whatever he wants. It’ll still be our best recruitment tool, enticing others with possible
intel
to consider defection to the U.S. Three million dollars turns defection into real possibility. Not just asylum--money. That’s a considerable carrot.”

“The world’s most expensive carrot,” I said. “Why tax free?”

“Because under an Internal Revenue ruling, any bonus paid to a defector is not taxable since it’s for “work” performed before the defector came to the United States,” said Paul.

It was now evening, almost dark. I could see the three of us, Eric, Benny, and me, reflected in the window, in yet another safe house, another city, another country, trapped yet again in the twisting maze of intelligence work. Once again, both sides were playing the counterintelligence game, and neither party was able to reveal its tricks. In this case, because it might tip the other side as to how the enemy might be using a defector--as if the Iranians or the U.S. and Israel needed instruction on deception. In the Mossad, especially, deception meant survival. My Mossad days taught me that if one wants to come out ahead, he must persuade the opposition that its ranks are riddled with spies and moles. In this way, you turn the enemy on itself.

I excused myself for minute -- to the bathroom, to splash water on my face. I needed to clear my head. The cold water shocked me into clarity. Yes, I thought: we must persuade the opposition that its ranks are riddled with spies and moles. I knew such an approach could work. In the 1960s, the CIA’s head of counterintelligence, James J. Angleton, was sure that the Soviets had infiltrated the CIA. He took measures that effectively paralyzed the CIA’s operations in Moscow.
A quintessential CI-Nick overreach – too much information of no use disseminated by a counterintelligence officer.

I came back to the room with Benny, Eric, and Paul and sat down, the four of us, quietly for a minute, as if digesting a full meal. All four of us were thinking, thinking; you could almost hear gears whirring.

Hopefully, I thought, the same paralyzing fear will take effect in Iran. With any luck, the CIA has Iranian counterspies turning Tehran's labs upside down. Of course, years ago it was remarkably easy to sow seeds of doubt in just about any foreign government, including Iran’s. U.S
.
counterintelligence agents could very simply contact a member of a
 
terrorist organization and hint, insinuate, or just say, “Hey, Nawaf, or Abdul or what have you, is working with us, why don’t you?”
 

And it would work.
Even if the target turned away, the “Hey, Nawaf” approach would inevitably work its magic. When the target reported the encounter, rounds of internal accusations and investigations to find our supposed “spies” would ensue.

Likewise, it’s in the CIA’s interest to paint the re-defector, or the fake defector, as just one of many long-term American moles, or, at the very least, as someone who gave up the names of others in the nuclear program who might be vulnerable to CIA recruitment, after he fled to the West. Almost certainly, Iranian security would wring any defector dry on that score—or worse--and redouble its efforts to root out the CIA's supposed spies. The challenge for both sides, of course, is, was, and will always
be knowing
for sure who is on whose side. And in the spy vs. spy world's so-called wilderness of mirrors, you can never be sure.

I was still sure about one thing though: The man calling himself Madani, whom I escorted from Iran to Turkey, was not our intended Tango, General Cyrus Madani.

“OK,” I said, “OK, Fake or not fake, maybe it can work in our favor. You make good points. And, as you say, he’ll have useful information for us, whatever his motives.”

XIII

June
2007  -
  Germany

Twenty-four hours later, I was in Germany, debriefing Madani, genuine or fake. Persistence wins. Well, at least with me vs. Eric.

Interrogation rooms always look alike, no matter the country. Drab. Nondescript. One large one-way mirror and no window, so if your charge wants to look outside — if he finds himself looking around the room, if he needs a distraction, there isn’t any, only his own reflection. Sophisticated audio and video recording equipment was buried in the ceiling, covering the room from both sides. However this room was different. It was the notorious grinder. A safe house used only for Madani’s debriefing. Only those on the short list on the need to
know,
are given the location. The defector, genuine or fake
,
must be protected from outside attempts to kill him. Why a grinder?
B
ecause the subject is required to repeat his story again and again.
His recorded accounts are then analyzed for consistency, and voice tremors to identify the subject’s lies or half- truths. Sometimes, the process can take months to complete and determine w
he
ther the defector is
bona fide
or a plant. As I sat across
from
Madani today, the suspected fake Madani, I was sure of it, he as yet wasn’t searching the room; he was still placid, still calm.

“And you were born….?” Asked one of the agents, a large, imposing man named Hank, although his demeanor belied his frame. His tone was soft, unthreatening. Next to him sat Doyle, wiry, with a mustache. He reminded me a little of a weasel. Hank, in mock disinterest---as if this were just another mundane routine he had to get through, like filing paperwork --- read from the open file in front of him, and then looked at Madani. I sat behind the agents, watching quietly.