Tier One Wild (25 page)

He looked her up and down lasciviously, with no care or concern that her “husband” was seated right next to her.

Kolt slipped his mobile phone out of his pocket, activated the microphone, and began recording Afifi’s phone conversation for later analysis. He placed his phone on the bar with the speaker turned toward the man, who was only just now turning away from the good-looking woman in the black cocktail dress.

Soon Raynor noticed a pair of men entering the lobby from the stairwell. They wore suits and ties, but they had hard faces and cold eyes. They looked around the room, regarding every person, every doorway, every shadow.

Kolt knew they were security. He thought he recognized one of the men from the photos Digger had taken at Chalice the other day.

Kolt glanced back to Hawk. He was determined that these men would not “make” him. He would not give them any evidence whatsoever that he was anything other than an indulgent newlywed listening to the tales of his hot but slightly goofy wife.

After a few minutes he had evidence that his efforts were paying off. The two men at the staircase came out into the room now, and two more men, not quite carbon copies of the first pair but close enough, came out of the elevator and assumed positions in the lobby area with nice fields of view.

Raynor sipped his draft beer and took over the conversation for a moment, focusing all his attention on Hawk, because he suspected these men were an advance detail for a VIP, and he wanted his cover perfectly established before the VIP appeared.

He told a story about a dog he’d had as a child, making up most of the details to stretch it out.

It seemed to take forever, but finally Afifi got off of his phone and went to a small private room in the dining room behind the bar. The elevator opened shortly thereafter, and two more goons, similar to the four already in the lobby, stepped out, leading an older man through the lobby and into the restaurant. Kolt did not dare watch them to see where they headed once inside, but when he did glance back it appeared they had entered the same room as Afifi.

The four security men who’d placed themselves in the lobby came closer to the restaurant. Two wandered over to the gift shop and pretended to read magazines there, and two more came to the bar, sat at stools on Hawk’s right, and ordered fruit juice.

Even though they were young men in their twenties, they took no interest in Cindy whatsoever.

These characters were disciplined, Raynor noted. Plus, he figured, they probably got their share of ass when they weren’t on the job.

Kolt still had his phone recording, though he wondered how much of Afifi’s conversation he’d managed to pick up with him and Hawk chatting so much closer to the mic. He reached to turn it off, but the two men at the bar started talking to one another while they scanned the lobby and the patrons of the restaurant.

It was foreign, that’s all Kolt could tell. He hoped Cindy could understand some of their conversation. He looked at her for some sign that she was listening while she was talking, but immediately he saw something in her eyes.

She stopped talking for a moment.

Kolt took over the conversation, but even he stopped when she silently mouthed something to him with wide eyes. Kolt knew their every move was broadcast in the mirror behind the liquor bottles on the wall. The last thing they needed was for her to look suspicious to the security goons. Kolt tried to give her that look, a look that said,
Don’t dick this up now.

The look did not register. She started to mouth it a second time, but Kolt reached over, placed his hand behind her head, and pulled her close. He kissed her neck, then moved his lips toward her left ear.

“Honey, whisper in my ear. Be cool.”

Cindy knew right away she’d messed that up and faked a giggle to recover. She turned in to rub her cheek against Kolt’s and whispered.

“Farsi.”

Kolt showed no expression. He just nodded and smiled, and willed her to calm down. He placed his hand on hers on the bar, and then he asked for the check.

Farsi,
he thought.

Iranians.

Shit.

He kept his smile as he paid cash for the drinks, and he reached for his glass to kill the rest of his beer. As he brought the drink to his lips he saw four men in gray suits enter the lobby, heading for the restaurant.

Raynor recognized Aref Saleh from his photos, even though he could tell the man had had some work done on his face.

Quickly Kolt turned to Cindy. “Shall we?”

Her eyes were on Saleh, as well, but Kolt’s attention diverted hers before his goons noticed.

Seconds later Frank and Carrie were heading out the door.

*   *   *

“Sorry about that,” Cindy said after the valet brought them their car and they headed off back to the safe house. “I lost my head for a second.”

Kolt nodded. Getting excited like that was a rookie mistake. But she was, in fact, something of a rookie. He said, “You got away with it. Are you certain about the language?”

“Yes. I didn’t understand what they were saying. But I recognized the sound of it.”

Kolt saw that she was pretty agitated about this discovery and he understood why. If these seven men were Iranian, then that meant they were not some band of rogue freedom fighters or some terrorist outfit. No, the men at the Sofitel meeting with a personality from the JSO arms ring would be Iranian intelligence agents of some sort.

It upped the scale of these proceedings.

Cindy asked, “You are sure that was Saleh?”

“Yep,” Kolt said. “Curtis is going to wet himself with excitement.”

“But what do Iranians need with Saleh’s SAMs? They must have thousands of MANPADS.”

Kolt nodded slowly while he drove. “Curtis can confirm it, but I suspect these guys are going to be with Quds Force. They are a special unit of the Iranian Republican Guard in charge of extraterritorial operations. They will pass the shoulder-fired missiles out to every asshole on the planet that wants to knock down an American or an Israeli plane.”

“Wonderful,” Cindy said.

*   *   *

They made it back to the safe house just before nine, and Curtis and his men were waiting for them in the commo room.

“Did you get anything?” Curtis asked.

Kolt noticed that Curtis’s eyes were on Cindy in her dress, but he answered the question as if he were the one being addressed. “Yep. Positive ID on Saleh. Afifi, as well.”

“Hot damn.” Curtis stood from his chair and high-fived Murphy and Wychowski. He then looked back to Raynor. “Who did he meet with?”

Kolt reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He tossed it across the little room. “How’s your Farsi?”

“Dammit. Iranian?”

“’Fraid so. Got some conversation between a couple of them. Seven men in total. One VIP, along with a six-strong, exceptionally well-trained security detail.”

Curtis thought over the implications. “These Iranians are going to be Quds Force of the Republican Guard. We’ve heard rumblings about them nosing around in Tripoli trying to get MANPADS. Dammit,” Curtis repeated. “I’ll need to let Langley know. We are not going to let a team of Quds operatives waltz out of Cairo with a trailer full of MANPADS. They want these SAMs so they can give them to third parties. They can bring down aircraft without it being tied back to Iran. They’ll pass them off to their proxy goons in the Sadr militia in Iraq or to Hezbollah in Lebanon, or to God knows who else, God knows
where
else.”

Kolt said, “Spare us the lesson in geopolitics. Combating Iranian influence has been one of JSOC’s top priorities since ’06. Quds guys know how to fight, and those Libyans are going to know how to disappear. If the Egyptian Army tries this on their own it will be a mess. Plus, we’ve got to assume there are Egyptian government officials who will tip off Saleh.”

Then Kolt added, “The Quds men are billeted at the Sofitel. That seemed pretty obvious.”

Curtis thought this over. “Langley can easily find out which rooms were rented out by an entourage of seven men. I’ll see if I can get operations to send over an electronic surveillance/wire tap team to get in there and drop some bugs. This ought to warrant that level of attention from Langley.”

Murphy said, “When we get that location bugged, we’ll need someone here in the commo room who can do real-time translations.”

“We
will
need another terp,” confirmed Curtis. “Get a Farsi terp from Cairo Station, stat. If they have a guy vetted who speaks Arabic and Farsi, that would be ideal.”

“I don’t recommend that,” Kolt said.

“Don’t sweat it, Racer. Cairo Station will have someone that they’ve been using for years.”

“Do it right and send tonight’s audio file to Langley. Maybe they can get someone who speaks Farsi here with the audio team. We start pulling support staff from the embassy … that’s going to get around.”

Curtis shrugged. He seemed to reconsider.

Feeling that his harsh comments about the unvetted Arabic terp may have sunk in, Kolt eased up. “Just be careful about who you bring into our operation. Think OPSEC first, okay?”

Now Curtis smiled. “Don’t you worry, Racer. I’ll talk to Langley about getting a crew on the way, and you and yours can sleep safe and snug in your beds tonight.”

TWENTY-TWO

The Vezarat-e Ettela’at va Amniyat-e Keshvar, or VEVAK, is the Ministry of Intelligence and National Security of the Islamic Republic of Iran. Iran had long recruited agents in the U.S. Embassy in Cairo Egypt. Most of the day-to-day running of the assets was done by an Iranian officer working under diplomatic cover as a commercial affairs officer in the Iranian Embassy of Egypt at 12 Rifaa Street in Cairo. Majid Dalwan, the director of Egypt’s VEVAK office, spent his days recruiting new contacts as well as tending to established agents, each working in diplomatic offices across the city.

By no means had Dalwan’s network of agents here managed to seriously compromise the American Embassy, but they had managed to achieve a toehold on some sectors of operations.

One of VEVAK network’s toeholds was a fifty-six-year-old Egyptian translation support officer in the U.S. Embassy named Hamdy el Nasr. The man had served as an English translator for years for the Mubarak government before taking his current position at the U.S. Embassy. Now, in his administrative role, he found himself in charge of organizing the translation needs of several departments of the embassy.

Dalwan had made gentle contact with el Nasr a year earlier, and he’d found the man to be receptive to offers of small amounts of cash for small bits of intelligence. He had twice stolen documents from his embassy, and he had given the VEVAK officer at the Iranian Embassy information on Farsi speakers who worked with the Americans locally.

His product had not been terribly useful to date, so months ago Majid Dalwan passed the embassy employee off to one of his underlings. He had not personally spoken to el Nasr since then, so he was surprised to find his underperforming agent on the other end of the line when his office phone rang just after nine in the morning.

“Good morning, my friend,” said Majid. “It is not like you to contact me. Is there a problem?”

“No. None at all. I wondered if we could have a chat in response to the e-mail I received from your office the other day.”

Dalwan thought it over for just a moment. He had ordered his officers to put out feelers to local agents in the Iranian community. Dalwan had been notified by the Republican Guard that they would have Quds personnel operating in the city for a few days, and Dalwan had been instructed to keep an ear out for any uptick in chatter by American, Israeli, or Egyptian intelligence organizations that might indicate one of these agencies had knowledge of the Iranians in the city. So VEVAK had sent a general e-mail out to their contacts asking them to get in touch if there were any rumors or out-of-the-ordinary happenings.

So this call from an administrative officer in the U.S. Embassy in relation to the e-mail filled Dalwan with instant curiosity.

Dalwan made a decision. He had been doing this long enough, and he knew that this agent was solid enough, that he felt a face-to-face meeting was warranted.

“Let’s meet at the usual place.”

“Yes,” said el Nasr. “I think that would be in order.”

*   *   *

Majid Dalwan kept his expectations low as he and Hamdy el Nasr sipped tea at a nearly empty café a block east of Tahrir Square. He kept the conversation pleasant and light while he made sure el Nasr had not brought a tail. This took some time, but finally, when they were alone in the café, Dalwan leaned forward to his agent.

“What news do you bring me?”

“This morning I found out we have hired a Farsi translator on a one-week contract basis.”

Dalwan looked at his agent. So much excitement in the older man’s eyes, yet this news meant nothing to the Iranian spy except that he had just wasted his morning on a fruitless trip to Tahrir Square.

“Someone in the embassy needs a Farsi speaker.
That
is why I am here?”

“There is more.”

“I certainly hope there is. Who has requested the duties of this contract employee?”

“I don’t have the ability to see who requisitioned him. I only know because I arrange payment of interpreters and translators, and this man, an old colleague, called me asking about an advance.”

“Then what is it that you find so exciting?”

“I have no record of him being hired for work this week. We have no need of a Farsi speaker at this time. Plus, the rate he claims to have been offered is very high. This indicated to me my old colleague is cleared for the highest security clearance.”

Majid Dalwan ran his fingertips along his trim mustache. “Maybe he needed to translate love letters from the ambassador to his Persian girlfriend, and they will pay him in cash. Maybe he is—”

“I am certain he is working with the CIA.”

Dalwan cocked his head. “How do you know?”

“The local CIA station at the embassy has their own language experts. They do not need to contract them. So this man will not be working for the CIA at the local station. But this is an emergency contract at a very high rate of pay. To me it looks as if it entails overnight work, as well. Probably twenty-four hours a day on site at a location.”