Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) (18 page)

"Excuse me," I said in an apologetic tone, "I was locked out of my room," I pointed at my door. "I think but am not sure that my wife is there sleeping, therefore I don't want to knock. I heard noise coming from your room, so I assumed you were awake... Can I please go to your balcony and look over to my room to see if my wife is there?"

It took him only two seconds to open the door wide and say in an Italian accent, "Please."

I walked to his balcony and bent over the divider. An intruder was inside my room, bending over my still-unpacked suitcase. It was zipped, and a small lock linked the two zipper ends. The man used a sharp object, perhaps a ballpoint pen, and stuck it between the tiny teeth of the zipper. An old Mossad trick, now practiced also by others. The top part of the suitcase
easily separated from the bottom part. My host came behind me. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, thank you very much, I guess, my wife is not in yet or

maybe
she’s in the shower, so I'll go to the reception and get another key.” I left his room and went to the lobby. I wasn’t concerned with the search, because there was nothing in my room to cast any doubt on my identity. I was still Alexander Yager, a sales representative for a German export-import company. I was concerned by the mere intention to search my room, a treatment most tourists to Syria are probably spared. Although my legend was waterproof, there was no doubt that I’d attracted attention. But then, even a deep cover is no defense if I’m caught doing something unconventional that an innocent businessman wouldn’t do, such as meeting with political rivals of the regime. 

             
Something was very wrong here. I thought of Rule #3 of the Moscow Rules: “
Assume that there is always hostile physical surveillance unless counter-surveillance proves otherwise.
” Why would the Mukhabarat risk breaking into my room when they knew I was about to return? They probably didn’t mind. Where was the sentinel who was expected to be in the hallway to warn the intruders if I was returning to the room? Why did the CIA or the
Mossad hook me up with a contaminated person who now tainted me as well? It just didn't make any sense to me.

             
But I had no time for soul searching. I had a mission to complete and I needed to get my ass out of Syria as soon as I completed my mission, unless I faced imminent danger. Consequently, I also had to make an immediate decision about what to do next. Wait for the man, or maybe men, to leave my room and behave as if nothing had happened? What if they were planting an explosive device or some incriminating stuff like drugs or secret documents to frame me as a spy? Would that qualify as “nothing happened” as well? On the other hand, if I abandoned my room and went to another hotel, that would be a strong signal to the Mukhabarat that I was not the innocent Alexander Yager, but someone with intelligence training. There was no point in fumigating the room for electronic surveillance devices- I couldn’t care less. I was just a businessman.

As always, when faced with a challenge I confront it rather than run away. I went to the lobby, sat on the soft couch, and waited. I rested my hand on the armchair pointed toward the elevator door. Why?
Because I had to direct my wristwatch toward the door.
The elevator door opened and two men exited. Although I never saw my intruder's face while he was in my room, I recognized him by his jacket. I pressed the watch’s crown three
times, and put a bland expression on my face. The man exiting the elevator nodded to a third person who stood on guard next to the elevator door in the lobby, and the three of them left the lobby. I slowly got up and went to the door. They entered a dark sedan driven by a fourth person.
Syrian secret service?
I pressed the crown again to stop the video recording. I returned to my room, opened the door, but left it open. If someone was still in my room, I’d better leave an escape route for him, and maybe for me if he’s armed.

             
   On first sight, the room was empty. I looked in the bathroom, the closets, and under the bed. Nothing. I closed the door. Under the circumstances, with the shadow escort I just had getting back to the hotel and the uninvited guests in my room, I had to assume a crisis was looming. I bent next to my suitcase. It was zipped up. I used the small key to unlock and slowly lifted the back cover. All my stuff was there. But I couldn't tell whether something, such as a homing or a listening device, had been added. I had no laptop computer or cell phone, and of course, I had no electronic surveillance detection devices. But, hey, I wasn’t going to talk on the phone with anyone, nor was I going to entertain anyone in my room. Therefore, I couldn’t care less if a listening device was installed. Usually, I try to mask my plans. Now, I wanted them to be known, because why would a
European businessman behave as if he's hiding anything? On the following morning I checked out and took a cab to the airport. I expected that my departure could be a problem. I stood before the booth of the immigration officer as he flipped through the pages of my passport.

“How long was your visit?” he asked.

“Just two days,” I answered, “I had a single business meeting and I’m done.”

He slowly entered the information into his computer. My tension was high, waiting for him to stamp my passport. The door behind him opened and another officer entered the small booth. I’m in trouble, was my first thought. They exchanged a few sentences in Arabic. Although I understand Arabic, it was too fast for me to catch. The officer who first took my passport left the booth. I was concerned as to whether he’d take my passport with him, but he didn’t. The officer who replaced him just stamped my passport and handed it back to me. “Have a safe flight,” he said with a smile. I smiled back, with deep inner relief, grateful that I’d be allowed to board the Syrianair flight to Tehran.

As I walked slowly through the airport, I wondered what it was all about. I had been followed, rather clumsily by two men,
who made no secret of their interest in me. Two men had broken into my room and searched my suitcase, and yet nobody tried to stop my departure or even talk to me? Strange.
Too strange to just be inefficiency.
There was something else. I had to find out, but had no idea how, or when.

I glanced at my watch. With all my wonderings, I had to run to the gate. I made it, but there was a short delay. A man sitting next to me signaled me to follow him. In the men’s room, after we exchanged code words, he rapidly took my Alexander Yager passport and gave me another, in the name of Hans Dieter Kraus, plus an envelope of documents backing up my new identity.

I boarded the plane, which was half-empty. I tightened my seatbelt and let out a smile when I remembered the joke about the German flight attendant who announces on the PA “
Please fasten your seatbelts, and I vont to hear van click!
” In fact, here there was no such instructional language, and the business cabin crew was exceptionally courteous and friendly, which helped to slow down my accelerated heartbeats. Being brave means that you are the only one who knows you are scared. And frankly, I was worried. “
Who are you kidding?”
asked my little inner devil, “
You are terrified
,
I know, I’m inside you. Your entire organ’s contracting.
”

XI

May 2007 - Tehran

I looked out the window and saw Damascus disappear beneath the clouds, and then looked around me in the cabin. All passengers in business class were men. All were dressed in suits, although a few wore them without a tie. Most men were also bearded. Before landing, as my heart palpitations increased, there was a combined smell of toothpaste and clogged bathrooms in the cabin.

This was my first arrival into Imam Khomeini International Airport near Tehran. During my previous visit to Tehran, posing as a Canadian author, I had landed in the older and poorly maintained Mehrabad Airport. As we approached the airport, I saw the surrounding Alborz range and in the center, sunk in clouds of smog, was the metropolis of Tehran with its 14 million residents.

It was a bumpy landing.
Much to my surprise, instead of going through a walkway to enter the terminal, a bus was waiting. With accelerated heartbeat and a nervous stomach, I entered the arrival hall of Khomeini International Airport. Upon entering the terminal, I was surprised to see its poor maintenance. Though this airport was new, the floor was stained and damaged, and the aluminum-framed windows were dirty. The English and Farsi signage, yellow on blue, was legible but, at least twice, the
English was unclear.  Standing in the line for passport control, the red illuminated letters on the black sign were only in Farsi. The men’s bathroom was disgustingly dirty. There were several white flowerpots in the hallway, but the plants were nearly dead for lack of water.  I was nervous and for a good reason. I was high on the Iranian secret police “wanted” list.

A few years ago, while chasing the elusive Chameleon, I had penetrated Iran undercover, and barely escaped. To this day, I didn’t know if the Iranians knew my real identity or my real professional affiliation. I wasn’t using my real name now, and I didn’t use it then. Even the aliases were different, as well as the legends. I was carrying a European passport with my photo and biometrics describing me as Hans Dieter Kraus, born in Minsk, Belarus, in 1951. Two credit cards – Visa, Eurocard issued by MasterCard, no American Express,
thank
you very much. €8,000 in Visa travelers’ checks and €2,000 in cash. Family photos of my late wife Matilda, may she rest in peace, and of Snap, my real life Golden Retriever. From the envelope of documents I also had business cards of “God’s Faithful Followers Magazine,” a European magazine catering for the faithful of all religions believing in God.

The Iranian security services had my photo, first from when I’d applied for a visa, and then from when I was under
surveillance in Tehran during my chase after the Chameleon. However, my appearance had changed: no beard, 30 pounds heavier, ten years older. I was hoping, just hoping, that the change would smooth my entry. To add to my sense of trepidation was the risk that if I had in fact been contaminated in Damascus, then it was only a question of a few minutes to convey the message to VEVAK, the Iranian internal security services, earning me a swift arrest and a slow and painful interrogation and incarceration. The fact that in Damascus I was Alexander Yager and in Tehran I became Hans Dieter Kraus would only help to tighten the rope around my neck.   

I was full of dread, but determined. My sense of mission was stronger than the butterflies in my stomach. I took a deep breath and walked toward the passport control booth.  Standing before the police immigration officer, who was dressed in a light green shirt with his rank
embroidered
on his collar, I showed him my passport. He gave me a tired look. He was unshaven and reeked of cigarettes. He flipped through the pages of my passport, and, without a word, stamped it. That was it.
“Dan, you're a paranoid
,” said my inner little devil. I agreed, though not forgetting that even paranoids may have real enemies.

Relieved once again, I went to the lower level to collect my luggage. An hour later, when everyone else had already collected
their bags, I realized that mine wasn’t coming any time soon. The carousel stopped. The area emptied of people. I went to the lost luggage counter. “Wait for a few more minutes,” the man behind the counter suggested, “and if your luggage is still unrecovered, call this number tomorrow.” He handed me a printed page in three languages. Frustrated, as I was preparing to exit the terminal without my bag, thinking who might be interested in keeping it – and I had one obvious guess – a man came running, holding my bag. “I found it!” he exclaimed. Grateful, I tipped him nicely. I went back to the lost and found office to cancel my complaint and the attendant giggled. He then told me that this is a regular trick of the baggage handlers to increase their poor wages. In each flight, they hold on to a bag or two and when the frustrated passenger seems helpless, they bring it to him as a newly found bag, and win a generous tip. I left the terminal into a bustling crowd of taxi drivers, money-changers, and self-certified tour guides. I knew there was no metro or train to Tehran and had expected an hour and a half of travel by taxi to the city. The air was humid and the back of my shirt was wet, not only because of the humidity.

A talkative cabby drove me to the Laleh Hotel in Laleh Park, close to the business district. Before the Islamic Revolution it was named the InterContinental, the best hotel in Tehran. Settled
in my room, I opened the curtains and saw spectacular views of mounts Damavand and Alborz. I went downstairs to have a meal. With a choice of rotisserie, Polynesian, and Iranian restaurants, I chose the hotel’s Namakdoon restaurant that serves traditional Persian cuisine. Hell, I didn't come to Tehran to eat Polynesian dishes! There were many diners in the elegant restaurant, and I was busy reading the menu, when a man dressed in Persian attire came to my table. “Mr. Hans?”

I ignored the fact that he was addressing me by my first name.

I looked up over the menu. He was heavyset, in his mid-50s, with a dark mustache and sun-parched face. I nodded. When he didn’t respond, I said, “Yes, I’m Hans Dieter Kraus, and you are?”

“Mr. Khader’s chauffer.” His accent was heavy. I looked at him attentively. He continued, “Once you finish your dinner, please go outside, I’ll be waiting in a white Mercedes limo.” He half bowed and walked away.