Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) (30 page)

“A woman, Dan,” Pierre said. “That’s all you need. To cheer you.”

I shook my head, smiling in spite of myself.

Pierre looked serious now.

“What, then? How can I
help.
”

“You know I came this short of thinking either Benny or Eric had been contaminated.”

“So? It happens. Even to our friends, it happens.”

“True. But the thing is, I used to be able to rely on gut instinct, and for a while, it was making me very leery of them. Very. But I was off--way, off.”

“We all have off days, Dan. No one is perfect. Not even you.” He smiled. “Listen. I know what you’re thinking. We’ve all heard the stories about agents who’ve lost it.
Their edge, their
mind.
Every agency has stories like that. In the RG, there was a man who thought that every person he met in the street was attempting to recruit him. We had to let him go. You’re not that kind of man.”

“How do you know?” I was teasing, but being half serious.
             
“Because what you just described,
Dan,
is a perfectly normal reaction to being in the Agency.
Or the Mossad.
Paranoia, Dan. A normal reaction for those of us who do what we do.”

I nodded. Of course, he was right.

“There’s more though, isn’t there?”

Again, I nodded.

“I was so worried about where the contamination was, I missed the most obvious answer: it could be me. I’ve been under surveillance for a good six months now, which has jeopardized every one of my missions. Every one. I should have seen it. How could I
not
have seen
it.
”

“You’re seeing it now.”

“I was compromised in Dubai. And right here in Paris—remember?”

“Ah,” Pierre said. “Well, I could certainly make an educated guess, who this person is.
Leonid
Shestakov, yes?
From Russia,
illegally brokering German-made nuclear parts in Dubai, for Iran, and the German girl working for him, yes.”

“And twice,” he continued, “ during jobs that involved Iran.”

“Exactly. I lay it out in the simplest terms possible, instantly you know. But me, it’s taken me….”

“Dan. Don’t get stuck like that. You must look forward.
To the future.
“

I took a deep breath.

“I wanted to ask you something, Pierre. About looking to the future — about
Leonid
. Maybe you can help.”

“As I said, we’ve known for more than a week now that the man I escorted out of Tehran was fake. How did the Iranians know what we were about to do?”

“Start the search back process again,” suggested Pierre. “I’ll also look up some records at the office. Maybe there was something that you overlooked.” Only later I realized how right he was.

XX

June 2007
             
-
 
Dubai

I flew from Paris to Dubai. Immediately after checking in into a hotel, I walked into the Sepah
B
ank to confront Ali Akbar Kamrani, the assistant manager in charge of export document financing. Ali Akbar Kamrani is the person with the clues, and
I’m
about to extract them from him. Now.

“Sorry about your brother, or was he your brother?” I asked sarcastically and loudly, when I walked unannounced into his office.

Ali Akbar Kamrani was shaken to see me. “Please,” he said, “People are watching.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “If you want this conversation to be quiet you’d better talk to me.”

“What do you want to know?”

I took the big flower vase off his credenza and said, “I’m going to smash it right now and raise such a scandal that you’d find it difficult to explain to management.”

“What do you want to know?”

“All.”

“Like what?”

“I think that you are a VEVAK agent under deep cover, and that’s OK with your bank management because the bank is owned by
the Iranian Revolutionary Guards, and VEVAK is a close affiliate. I want to know how and why you contacted me.”

His eyes were puzzled, trying to see what leverage I could have on him, and consequently should he concede to my statement.

“Get out!” he said all of a sudden, “Get the hell out!” he stood up.

“If I walk through that door, you’ll be sorry for the rest of your miserable life that will probably not last too long after I tell the world, VEVAK included what I know.”
             

“You know zilch,” he said defiantly.

“Really?” I said mockingly, “You’re doubled, you have double loyalty. The VEVAK is not going to like it,” I said quietly, putting the vase back on his credenza. I noticed a slight tremor in his right hand. He was sweating. “Doubled? What do you mean? I don’t work for VEVAK and I’m not sure I understand what you mean by doubled? I’m just an
Assistant
M
anager in charge of export document financing in the bank.” There was also a slight tremor in his voice. He licked his lips.

“Are you sure?” I asked in clear contempt. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I know that Firouz Kamrani was not your brother, you just have the same last name, and even that could be
intentional, I don’t care. I also know that your story that you found me through your brother-in-law or some other funny connection, is also crap. You received my name from VEVAK and they came up with this cover story that has more holes than in my grandfather’s net when he went fishing. My friend, you work for VEVAK and, without telling them, also for a Russian agent working for the Russian foreign intelligence service.”

“Who?” he asked, breathing hard.

“SVR, t
he
 
Russian Foreign Intelligence Service
,
Служба Внешней Разведки
 
Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki
.
”
I said
it
in Russian.

“Never heard of them,” he became defiant again. “SVR,” I said in English.

He shook his head.

A thought crossed my mind
:
perhaps Ali Akbar never realized that Shestakov was building his own nest
,
but was also working for SVR to smooth his activities.

“What do you want from me? I lost my brother and now
this
?” Ali Akbar tried again.

“I shed tears for you,” I said mockingly, you were recruited to work for the SVR. Was it Leonid
Shestakov, the owner of LSIT, Leonid Shestakov International Trading GMBH, who recruited you?”

“Never heard his name.”

That Kamrani continued with this conversation rather than calling security to throw me out, just as any legitimate bank executive would do if I came bolting into his office with accusations taken directly from a spy manual, although the closest he’d ever got to espionage was when he watched a James Bond movie, spoke volumes. Clearly, Kamrani was negotiating with me in his own subtle way to find out what I knew about him, and to discover what I wanted, and if that was below his cost of being exposed as a double agent cheating VEVAK.

“Never heard of him? So maybe it was Monica Mann who got you into this?” I decided to first use that name, which appeared on the passport of my “son’s” German girlfriend in Paris. “Or maybe it was Gerda Ehlen?” I deliberately did not show that I knew that it was the same person.

“Mr. Van der hoff,” he said slowly, “I really don’t understand what you want from me.”

There we go again. He’s playing dumb. “Fine,” I said, “Unless you start leveling with me, VEVAK’s security officers
will receive copies of payments you regularly received from Shestakov and SVR, his masters, directly or through Monica into a bank account in the British Virgin Islands. They will also highly appreciate the information that you were successful in saving $13.5 million in just two years from your salary at a mid-level management position at the bank. They will also get word that these savings represent ‘commissions’ from Shestakov on each sale of equipment to the Iranian Bushehr reactor.”

I partly was bluffing, of course, or at least shooting in the dark.
But only partly.
I had bank statements from the Italian branch of Sepah, transferring 15% of the amount of each of many transactions to the bank in the BVI. Though they did not prove a tie to Ali Akbar personally, that each transfer was exactly 15% of the money transferred each time to Dubai, served to suggest that it was the customary 30% commission, split 50-50. And who’d be a more suitable partner with whom to share a commission than Ali Akbar, who was in a perfect position to enjoy both worlds? All that mattered was that Ali Akbar Kamrani believed that I had proof. And if he hadn’t thrown me out of his office by this point, it served as proof that he had something, or maybe a lot, to lose by letting me make good on my threat.

“Get out!” he said quietly, “Just get out,” as if he’d read my mind and wanted to prove me wrong.

“Thank you,” I said and left his office. I had a better plan.
A floor
show without the audience around us.

That evening, I waited for him next to the employees’ exit from the bank building. As he walked out the door, I came from behind him, stuck my finger at his back, and said, “You’re coming with me now. If you make a wrong move, you’ll get a bullet so fast that you won’t even have time to think how you ended up in hell. Trust me: I won’t hesitate or miss.”

I pushed him lightly toward a car I had rented earlier. I made him sit next to me. I repeated my threats to hurt him if he acted foolishly. I drove to the
Jumeirah Beach, next door to the Burj al Arab and the Jumeirah Beach hotel. I stopped the car, turned off the engine and the lights. “Get out,” I barked at Ali Akbar
,
flashing my gun.

Shaken, he exited the car. “Walk,” I ordered him signaling to get closer to the sandy beach with the palm trees. I looked around
. T
he area was devoid of people
. T
here were just a hot breeze and cicadas.

“This is your opportunity to stay alive,” I said. “Either you talk to me, or you’re a corpse.” I cocked my gun. He shivered when he heard the metal clicking.
             

“Please
,
Mr. Van der hoff, please,” he begged.

“Sit
,
” I ordered. I pressed the video recorder in my pocket. The tiny wireless camera attached to my lapel should capture our conversation even when the only light came from the full moon. Ali Akbar sat on the sand. I remained standing.

“I’m going to ask each question only once. If I don’t get a satisfactory answer, you’ll meet my ugly side.”

Ali Akbar didn’t answer
. B
ut his black eyes reflected his fear.

“What do you want?” he asked, and I knew that I’d scored.

“Where is General Cyrus Madani?” I dropped the bombshell.

Ali Akbar was stunned.

“Who?” He asked in a futile attempt to gain time.

“You heard me, General Cyrus Madani. Where is he?”

Kamrani let out a big sigh, “He’s here.”

“What do you mean?” I was too overwhelmed by my success to take that information in. I was clearly shooting in the dark and hit a jackpot.

“Here in Dubai.”

“Doing what?” I asked hastily

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For travel arrangements.”

“To where?”

Kamrani became silent. “Please, Mr. Van der hoff, I can’t tell you more or I die.”

“Where is Madani?” I insisted, lowering my gun to his neck, letting him feel the cold metal.

“In a safe house in Dubai, that’s all I know.”

“Who’s holding him?”

“Shestakov’s men. Please,” he begged, “they will kill me, please let me go, I told you all I know.”

“You are not going anywhere until I get the whole story. How did Madani end up here, and where is Shestakov holding him and why.”

He didn’t answer. I switched to another topic that was burning in me, making him believe – falsely- that he was off the hook.

“How did you know who I was when you first approached me with your story about your supposed scientist brother who supposedly wanted to defect?

“Mr. Van der hoff, I’m sorry, I can’t answer you.”

I knew I had only a one-bullet gun. If I informed VEVAK about their bad apple, he would die -- and so would my only source of information. So I made a tactical withdrawal. That seemed to astonish him more than anything.

“How did you know to approach me when we first met?” I repeated the question.

He hesitated.

I lifted my gun to
ward
his face.