Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) (29 page)

“No,” he said. “Something is missing.”

He slipped his hand into a side pocket of his magic bag, took out a small box, and opened it.

“Ah, yes,” he said, and, very carefully, he gave Ittai tufts of gray ear-hair, gluing them into his ear canal with his epoxy, a kind developed just for this, to withstand human sweat.

He stood back again, and indeed the transformation was astonishing. Gone was the trim Mossad agent with the dark brown eyes and sharp jaw line. He had aged considerably, with bags and slight jowls—but the man I was looking at now wasn’t simply an aged Ittai.  Rather, his face looked entirely different. His
profile had been transformed: his forehead was now pronounced, his nose bulbous. His eyes drooped, and deep creases radiated outward, above his now-bushier eyebrows, along his cheeks, surrounding his eyes. He looked hard and weathered, reminding me of the Arab men you see in one of Istanbul’s
 
gecekondus
— those built-on-the-fly housing developments spreading through Istanbul, whole makeshift neighborhoods so dilapidated they seemed to be collapsing in on their occupants. Here, the poor of Istanbul lived, and
after a lifetime of back-breaking work, they very often looked broken and ancient by the time they were 50; Ittai, to me, looked like one of these men.

“How do I look?” Ittai asked, and then he smiled a big, toothy grin. The putty adorning his face—completely invisible now--moved with his smile; it looked entirely natural.  But with Ittai smiling, I could see that there was still one thing missing. Joe saw it, too.
             

“Teeth,” he said.

He capped a number of Ittai’s teeth with yellow and mottled brown facades. Perfect. And then, like an Italian painter, Joe surveyed his project and kissed his fingertips.

“Beautiful,” he said. And before he left, he gave us the piece de résistance: a passport for Ittai, complete with fake
name, and a photo of an old man who bore a striking resemblance to the transformed Ittai.

After Joe left, Ittai and I regrouped. We ate lunch I’d grabbed on our way over. Ittai had to be careful, because of the caps on his teeth--nothing hard or tough to chew, which was an easy enough prescription in this area of the world. We had hummus and pita.

His mission was completed, but mine was not. He had to get back to the airport in one piece. He was so close, and I and the rest of the team needed to make sure he got home safely. There could have been others against us. But those we had tentatively identified had been Turks, which told me a few things:  1) that Iran has Turks in its service, a trained militia-in-waiting and 2) that there were more out there looking for us, no question; I’d seen the two men from the black Mercedes, and likely there had been two more in the silver Mercedes that had crashed. That made four. A proxy group trained by Iran, with organized
surveilling
capabilities, not to mention the funding for Mercedes sedans and Glocks, would have more than four men. No question.

The one place they would know to find us would be our last stop in Turkey. They would be lying in wait outside the airport.
This was a certainty. It would make no difference were we to take a train: they would be there too.

“So, your plan?” asked Ittai.

“Go the airport,” I said, and gave him the details.

I thought back, Dubai, Paris: No matter how careful I try to be, someone finds me. Is a disguise – even one by “Joe” - going to change that? And if someone gets word that Ittai is in disguise? The way things had been going, that did not seem to be a distinct possibility.

Our security detail came with a rented car. It would take me 20 minutes to get to the airport.

Twenty minutes later I was in a big parking lot just outside the airport, driving slowly into the entrance. I passed by the passenger drop off area and I slowed, surreptitiously checking out all the cars idling there—or rather, I was trying to look like someone who
thought
he was being surreptitious. In fact, I was behaving in a fairly hamfisted way, craning my neck out the window, nervously looking over my shoulder. Around and around, circling.
But, nothing.
I pulled off, finally, to a strip in the airport where cars can idle, waiting for late planes. A few cars were there; I made sure there were all within my sightline.

All of a sudden, it started to rain. I rolled up my window, watching the rain pour down on this bleak bit of asphalt. Maybe, I thought, I should have gone with the make-up disguise, gone the route Eric and Benny had set up for me; and yet, even still, my gut was telling me no. There have so many breaches, so many leaks. It’s been rough enough when I’ve been on assignment alone. Rough, yes, but I handle it. It’s a different story now, though: I’m not working alone. I’m on assignment with someone else, a man who has entrusted me with his life. Ittai came here, facing down possible death; his bravery, his willingness, and unwavering dedication reminded me of what drew me to the Mossad in the first place, and now to the Agency.

Again, I felt that something was wrong; I’d been trusted with someone I have tremendous respect for,
and I can’t do my fucking job.
There was a risk just openly sending him to the airport. His make-up was impeccable
;
how could anyone spot him? How would they know? Given the past six months of my life, there’s only one conclusion I could draw: they
will
know. I don’t know how. But I know they will.  They knew in Dubai.
In Paris.
They knew with the 2
nd
Tango. They knew with Ittai, the 4th Tango.

Ittai was tense but silent. I started again and kept going. Approaching a red traffic light, I slowed down. Someone started tapping at my window. I jerked my head to the left. It was an old
woman. The wrinkles around her eyes were deep grooves. She lifted an umbrella and snapped it opened. The look on her face -- she was backing away -- the umbrella – it was a signal that she’d identified me.

Ittai and I ducked.

BANGBANGBANG, shots rang through the car, rang through the driver’s and the passenger windows. The shots hit head-high. One just grazed my head. I slammed on the gas. I couldn’t see anything behind me.
Too gray.
Too rainy.

There had been no car behind me, not even the security detail car; where had the shots come from? Someone standing at the edge of the road, directly behind the car, crouched. Had to be it.

Now there was a car behind me. Clearly, their “Plan B.” I sped. They sped. We both hit the highway. Traffic was sparse. I jerked from lane to lane and heard shots—but nothing hit the crouching Mossad agent I had in the car posing as an Iranian defector. I found a short cut.

I took the next exit, made a careening right, then a fast left between two buildings that formed a kind of alley way, a very short one. This was a back way to my interim destination. I shot out between the two buildings, braked, screeched, parked. I
was here. My personal FOE
were
in hot pursuit, racing between the two buildings behind me as one of them got off a few shots. And then, like me, they emerged. We were in the parking lot of a police station. Their car at once made a U-turn and took off. A call to the security detail that lost us in the chase, and within a few minutes a squad car took us to the airport. I have had enough being at the top of the Iranians’ Hit Parade. Ittai, surrounded by a six
-
man security detail, entered the airport terminal, turned around, and waved to
me
.

What transpired in the aftermath was expected. Confused and conflicting stories emerged as to whether indeed Madani and his family had left Iran. What followed was an Iranian propaganda effort discounting the idea that Madani had fled Iran of his own volition. Accusations were hurled by Iranian officials in the Iranian press that Madani had been the victim of a sophisticated kidnapping plot by Israel and the United States aimed at uncovering Iran’s secrets.

Then Iranian media reported that ten people claiming to be Madani’s family, including two women saying they were his wives, protested in front of the Turkish Embassy in Tehran, charging that Turkish security forces had handed Madani over to Israel.

As we idled in the safe apartment, I showed the newspaper to Benny. He chuckled. “In fact,” he said, “Madani had three wives - 2 ex-wives and one current wife. His current wife left Iran with one of their children and is waiting in Europe for the media storm to calm down before they join Madani in the United States. The two ex-wives were forced by the Iranian security services to demonstrate in front of the Turkish Embassy in Tehran, in order to lend credibility to their claim that Madani was kidnapped.”

Tango Number 4 is OK, but what about the 3
rd
Tango? Was that
mission entirely successful?
The escape from house arrest, to Damascus, to Germany.
No breach. No ambush. And just how is it that
that
mission—the most important of them all—went off without a hitch? I was out of the loop. Only Paul, Benny, and Eric were all over that mission.

I, however, was not.

It was time to do some soul searching. How did the Iranians know that Ittai – whom they thought was Madani, was coming to Turkey? Was that a security breach, or a leak? And--if there
were
a leak up on high, wouldn’t it have been leaked that Ittai was in fact a fake Madani? Wouldn’t the leak instead have pointed to the real Tango?

So, I reasoned, this can’t be a leak from on high. It has to be something else.

A nagging feeling began welling within me--a feeling that I was the link. Good god.

I was me. It had to be. I was out of the loop with the 3
rd
Tango. I was in the loop with every other mission—and every other mission has been ambushed. I was the throughline: the one common element connecting the compromised missions.
But still, where did these breaches come from? How did they happen? How—

Although Benny and Eric are certain that “their Madani,” whom they told me was already en route to the U.S
.
, was the genuine Madani, I
was doubtful.
I was even willing to take the heat from Benny and Eric, who’d most probably accuse me of being stubborn and blind to the facts, or even crazy.

XIX

June 2009 – Paris

Nonetheless, I left Istanbul without telling them and flew to Paris. This is where I could start down the path to solving the mystery.

Women in tight skirts and heels, espresso, escargots in butter.
It was good to be back in France, even better to be back
with my old friend, Pierre Perot. An afternoon meal with Pierre, running down my past mission—it was like my own kind of de-briefing. I always appreciated his opinion. He was one the sharpest people I knew. And today, I was hoping to get some information from him. He was a good friend, and was occasionally willing to offer me off-the-record intelligence, the kind it would typically take me months, and possibly islands of paperwork, to procure.

But first came a long lunch, and conversation about everything but what I wanted to ask. That seemed, as far as I could tell, to be the French way: everything in leisure. And indeed, after what I’d been through, taking my time felt damn good.

“Tell me,” Pierre asked, glass of wine in hand. I’d just finished my story of Istanbul; Pierre had listened with rapt attention. I knew that Pierre had already read the official confidential circular the CIA had sent its intelligence allies, but Pierre – as Pierre – wanted to hear the details. I had no problem with telling him, particularly when what Pierre wanted to hear was whether there were any good restaurants to recommend, or…well you know what else he wanted to know.

“It all went without a hitch.” “Like fun it did…” said my inner devil.

“Wonderful to hear, Dan. Let’s drink to that. And of course, to your survival.”

I raised my water glass. He raised his wine glass. I noticed the wine he was drinking was
—
Chianti?

“You’re drinking -- Italian?”

“Yes, well, a man can grow, no? Experience all life has to offer.”

Indeed. I knew Pierre well; I knew immediately his latest mistress had to be Italian.

“Her name?”

“Giuletta,” he smiled that impish smile of his. “But enough about my life, as wonderful as it might be. You, Dan, seem not yourself. Shouldn’t you be feeling triumphant? You’re here, you’re safe. The man you were charged to protect is safe. And of course, let’s not forget, the world was made just a bit safer, all because of you, my friend. Are these not reasons to celebrate?”

Yes, we had made it.
Because of me.
But if he hadn’t made it, that would also have been because of me. Running down
hypotheticals like this--what might have happened if X or Y or Z had happened--was a trap. I knew that. Mossad training intelligently warns against hypotheticals. Young recruits can get too easily mired in them: “If that bullet had been flying 1/16 inch to the left,” “If I had taken a different train,” and on, and on.  A trap.

I was in that trap; I was stuck.