Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) (17 page)

“I’m Alexander Yager, my office received an inquiry regarding exports to Germany. Are you Mr. Hammed?”

“Please follow me,” he said and took me to the back of the store. He opened a wooden door and entered an office. He emerged within seconds, leaving the door open and inviting me to enter.

“This is Mr. Hammed,” he said pointing at a heavyset one-armed man with grey hair and a mustache. The man got up.

“Mr. Hammed?” I asked.

He nodded. The door was still open and the scarred-faced man was standing nearby. I recited my role.

“My company in Germany received your inquiry. They said you wanted to sell women’s lingerie and needed their help to penetrate the German market.”

“That was a long time ago,” Hammed said wearily and for a moment, I suspected that someone at the Agency had failed to do his homework. 

“Are you still interested?” I asked.

“Only if you could get my merchandise into the German markets.” His English was good, but with a heavy Arab accent. He didn’t look local, his skin was darker. “Please sit down.” He left the door open.

“We have strong ties with major department stores in Germany and in other locations in Europe,” I took from my briefcase colorful brochures of German department stores. He looked at them with interest. I couldn't tell whether it was professional interest in the goods, or a personal fancy for the voluptuous blonde models. “Nice merchandise,” he said, “I can manufacture to your standards,” he said. The door was still open.

“Good,” I said, “for example, how many bras can you deliver in a month, can you ship 5,000?” I asked. “They usually prefer to work with bigger quantities.”
             

“I can, sizes 34-44 with cups A-D.”

“German women like pinkish colors,” I said. These were the buzzwords that would confirm that he’s the real thing.

“We have got that and purple as well,” came the right answer. Hammed was my man.

Hammed was a Kurd, the son of a tribal leader who’d been fighting all his life for Kurdish statehood in the northern parts
of Iraq, Iran, Turkey, and Syria. Hammed, his
son
,
was my local anchor, a Mossad contribution to the case.

“Can we talk here?” I asked in a barely audible voice.

“No,” he said, “too many ears, too may eyes, and they are all bad. Come to my home tonight for dinner.” He gave me his address. I sat in his office for an additional twenty minutes going over brochures and then returned to my hotel, carrying a plastic bag full of sample women’s underwear. 

“It’s better if people see you leave my store with merchandise.” I didn’t know if he meant it was good for his business or for mine.

I returned to the Four Seasons Hotel. I couldn’t tell whether I had followers, but as usual and under the rules, I had to assume there were. At 6:30 I took a cab to Hammed’s home. It was located
less than 150 feet from the center of the old city. I rang the bell. An iron gate opened and I found myself in a small courtyard paved with blue and white ceramic tiles. Against the wall were flowerpots, and through the big oblong windows I could see the living room. Hammed met me at the entrance.  

“Welcome, my friend,” he said, “
Marhaba.
” I followed him into the house. The walls were very thick, and the elevated and extended window
seats were used as sofas, covered with colorful
Arab bedspreads. There were just the two of
us
.  A small table was laden with p
istachio nuts
, sweet rolled-up
baklava cakes, and small mugs with thick coffee.

I looked around. There was no sign of a dinner table, and I was hungry, expecting a Middle Eastern dinner. The street’s shouts and clatters came through the windows and masked his voice. I had to move closer to hear him.

“Have you been followed coming here?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, but one can never tell. Anyway, I’m a businessman and I came to do business, there’s nothing wrong or suspicious about it.”

“
Tayeb
– good,” he said, although I was certain he wasn’t satisfied with my answer. I discovered why, but not before he drained my patience. He then moved to discuss the weather, ask questions about Germany, talk about his friends that emigrated to Europe, and lament the limited number of tourists coming to Damascus. I was waiting for him to make the move: start talking business, my business. I said nothing, of course. I was very familiar with the Middle Eastern custom of engaging in small talk for a very long time until you get to the point. There was a lot of wisdom in that custom: you have ample opportunities to study your guest and find his soft points.

After about an hour, he finally turned to business.

“When you land in Tehran you will be met by Khader and his men. He’s my cousin and you can trust him. He is also in the women’s clothing business and, therefore, your contacts will look OK.”

He paused, waiting for my response, and looking at the small table between us. I took the hint. As customary in the Middle East, he would not touch the food until I helped myself. I took a few pistachios in my hand, and asked, “Will he recognize me?”

“Yes,” he assured me, “he’ll meet you for dinner on the day of your arrival at your hotel.” He gave me additional technical details, addresses and phone numbers and emergency escape routes.  The information Hammed gave me generally matched my instructions. I knew that neither Hammed nor Khader could risk any electronic communications with the Agency or the Mossad and, therefore, the specific information had to be given to me in person. If their messages were intercepted by the Syrian or Iranian security services, we wouldn’t know it until it was too late.

“Any questions?”

“What about the exit?”

Hopefully, I would return within a week accompanied by Tango. I wasn’t sure whether Hammed knew of Tango’s identity, and I had to assume that he did not.

“It's all in here.” He handed me a single sheet of paper, printed with a travel agency's stationery.

“Do I keep a copy?” I was a bit surprised at the lack of security.

“No, just memorize it. Khader has a copy as well. He will make sure you depart safely.  When you arrive with your friend in Damascus, you will be staying in a vacation apartment we rented for you. My men will meet you in Damascus Airport and will take both of you to the apartment. If all goes well, both of you will leave Damascus the next day. There’s no point in keeping you here and attracting the attention of the Mukhabarat, the Syrian secret police. They are everywhere, believe me, I know.”

Hammed went to the next room, holding the document. I heard the toilet flush. He returned to the room without it.

“Have you had any run-ins with them?”

“Yes,” he said with a sigh. He then said that he had been arrested by the Mukhabarat.

“Why?”

“They came to my store one day and went through my files, without asking permission or a court order. I’m a Kurd; we are a minority here. I had to keep my mouth shut or get on their bad side. They looked in my address book and asked why there were so many foreign addresses. I told them they were names and addresses of my clients. They didn’t like my responses. They said my address book was proof I worked for the CIA and the Mossad.

That was bad news, because it could mean that Hammed was still on their radar.

“Why aren’t you drinking your coffee?” he asked suddenly.

“Sorry, coffee doesn’t agree with me, and the aftermath would be regrettable,” I replied, hoping that I wasn’t insulting him.

“Is tea alright?”

“Sure,” I said

He snapped his fingers. A young boy came in looking humble. Hammed said “
jib chai
” – bring tea - and moments later, the boy returned carrying a polished steel tray with a pot of sweet tea and an hourglass-shaped glass with a gold rim.
 
 

Hammed continued, “The Mukhabarat questioned me as to whether I was a member in KDP, the Kurdistan Democracy Party. I
denied it. They took me away
and detained me with common criminals at Adra prison, near Damascus, where I was beaten and degraded. I was not allowed to meet privately with my lawyer. I was prevented from leaving my cell, watching TV, or listening to the radio. One day I was assaulted by a criminal detainee who stabbed me with a sharpened spoon. I nearly died of bleeding until the prison guards pulled me out. This is how I lost my arm. On another occasion I was severely beaten by prison guards who shaved my head and made me crawl on all fours. All that happened before I was brought before a judge for crimes I never committed. I didn’t even know what the charges against me were. I was sentenced by the Damascus Criminal Court to five years imprisonment on the charge of ‘
spreading false information harmful to the state’
under Article 286 of the Syrian Criminal Code.”

“Why? What had you done”

“They brought a witness who said he’d heard me say that ‘Soon the Kurds will have a state of their own.’”    

I knew that such political trials were heard by Syria’s Criminal, Military, and State Security Courts as part of their effort to suppress any hope of the Kurds for autonomy or independence.

“How long were you imprisoned?”

“Five years. The Mukhabarat promised me that I could be released sooner if I agreed to spy on my own people. I refused. They moved me to a prison cell in the basement floor, with no running water, no daylight. I was in solitary confinement. The Mukhabarat interrogators used electrical shocks on my genitals,” he said, gesturing at his crotch and his feet. "They beat me on my back and legs and I still feel pain although it’s been seven years since my release."

I saw the pain in his bloodshot, yellowish eyes, which reflected his intense anger. I got the messages he sent me, direct and subtle, and I was sure that our meeting had ended. As I was planning to leave and rush to the nearest restaurant to satisfy my hunger, Hammed snapped his fingers. His servant opened the door, and Hammed directed me to a dining room.

A long oblong table was laden with many small plates with various salads and dips. "Please, please," he said, directing me to a chair opposite him. He broke pita bread and wiped it into a small plate with hummus. I followed suit, attempting to look ignorant of the custom of eating with your hands. This was strictly a case of need to know, and he didn't need to know about my Israeli background and my lifelong lust for hummus.

It was close to 10:30 pm when I left Hammed's home. The streets were empty. It was a cool night with a half moon. A sudden breeze chilled, or was it the steps I heard behind me? A professional would not look back. But, I was playing tourist, and I looked back. That was of course contrary to Rule #4 of the Moscow Rules: “
Don't look back; you are never completely alone”.
But, hey, I wasn’t supposed to be familiar with the Moscow Rules, I was just a businessman from Germany.
Two men were behind staring at me. They didn't even make an effort to hide or “shake off the dogs,” old CIA lingo. I continued walking hoping to catch a cab. Were they thugs looking for easy prey? Cops? I had no time or will to find out. Alas, there were no cabs.

I walked a bit faster, and they were still behind me. I passed by stores with their iron curtains down. The streetlights were sporadic and the cold wind was still blowing. We were still alone in the street. I finally made it to the main road. If they were to continue following me, it'd mean they were cops, not robbers who'd prefer a darker street. A cab cruised up, and I hailed it.

Before entering I looked back, the two men just stood there.
Cops, no question.
Why? Because I saw one of them holding a two-way radio and talking. That was alarming news. I couldn't have been exposed from my end for any suspicious activity. Maybe
Hammed’s past brought on my present situation? Was there a leak in the Mossad or the Agency? Besides, if there were, a reasonable response by any secret service would be to let me roam freely throughout the country, see what I was up to, whom I met, what photographs I took, and then to apprehend me red-handed. Other than meeting Hammed I had done nothing since arriving in Damascus. I was also seen walking through the market with a bag full of sexy women's lingerie. Was that a heinous crime here requiring surveillance? The only plausible conclusion was that I had grown a tail because I had made contact with Hammed who was already contaminated, and the Mukhabarat was watching his home. The only plausible explanation is that they are a deterrent tail, who deliberately let me know they are following me to scare me of
f from
achieving my purpose.

I was upset and concerned. Why did the Mossad connect me with a ‘dirty’ contact in Damascus? It just didn't make sense. I knew the way the Mossad operated, and security and caution were top priority. I was too tired to think about all the other options, so I just put it off for the time being.

As I inserted the key card into the slot on the door, I smelled cigarette odor combined with sour sweat. Not just cigarette smoke, but the stench locked into smokers’ clothes that leave traces wherever they go, combined with body odor of someone
who hadn’t bathed for a decade. I gingerly approached the door and heard noises. Someone was in my room. It wasn't a chambermaid because they leave the room door open while they work, and it was too late for them to be working anyhow. I knocked lightly on the door of the neighboring room, hoping that someone would be up. A man dressed in European clothes opened the door, holding a nightcap in his hand.