Misdemeanor Trials (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

THE MAKEOVER

"The most beautiful makeup of a woman is passion.  But cosmetics are easier to buy."

— Yves Saint-Laurent

The flight to Stuttgart was sixteen hours long and uncomfortable in United coach.  He mulled why he could not be left alone by the government, or why they did not at least get him business class.  He had served his time for the country, and now wanted to be a lawyer, go to trial, and put the bad guys away.  He wanted to have a beer on occasion and investigate the bubbly body of Cody Jones.

The landing was smooth and John reached for his carry-on and walked to arrivals.  He was approached by a man dressed in jeans and a polo shirt.  “Mr. Trader, welcome to Germany.  I’m here to transport you.  My name is William.”

Too exhausted to be polite, John followed William to a military green SUV waiting at the curb.  He was transported to
Stuttgart Army Airfield
, and taken to a small conference room where William and two other men, dressed in Army fatigues greeted him.  The ranking officer said, “Welcome to Germany, Mr. Trader.  You are probably wondering why you are here and what is happening.  We don’t know either, but we have instructions to deliver you to the covert facility immediately.  Apparently there is some urgency in what you’re doing.  In a moment William will take you to the barracks and give you some Army fatigues, which you need to change into immediately.  I know you're Navy, but these fatigues will make it easier for you to get around the base for the next few days.  When covert operations spooks are through with you today, William will pick you up, bring you back to the barracks, and you’ll have a chance to adjust and maybe get some sleep.  Good luck with the spooks, John.”

Dressed in fatigues, John was driven to a building that had no signs, which, to any remotely informed person, meant it was populated by super-secret people.  John thought they should just put Maintenance Building 9, or something that didn’t jump out as a spook building.  But then again, if they did, some army private first class would drive to the building and try to get an oil change.  William stopped in front of the door where a casually dressed man stood.  William told John he would return when they were finished.  The man told John to follow him.  Inside the building John followed him down a colorless hallway where the man directed John through a door.  He entered a windowless room with a large tub and a rather matronly looking woman in a white frock who told him to strip down to nothing.  She told him her name was Tanya.  “We’re going to submerge you in that large tub of circulating liquid.  It will be like a warm bath but in a couple of days you will have a wonderful Middle Eastern tan.  Would you like Yemeni brown or Algerian chocolate?”

“How about Honolulu surfer?” he asked.

“Negative,” she replied.  “We have to follow the rules.  With your complexion and coloring you are going to be a difficult project.  We do a fairly good job of dressing you up to look like a local.  It may be difficult to hide broccoli in a glass of milk, but we do our best.”

She looked at his face.  “You will have to wear these eye protectors while submerged, and you will have a breathing tube for the ten minutes under.” She paused as she looked at his face.  “I will have to get some dark brown contacts to cover those piercing blue eyes.  You must be a real hit with girls,” which she said in a way that made him think she might not be a girl or just liked other girls a bit too much.  After a few minutes in the swirling warm liquid, John almost fell asleep.  He was rudely awakened by Tanya who handed him some paper hospital shorts and told him to sit in a chair, dripping wet.  He was not cold in the warm air of the room.  She put some liquid around his eyes, and brushed something into his hair and beard.  “You’ll have to wait here a couple of hours, and then we’ll let you go.” John sat in the chair and fell asleep.  He was awakened by Tanya’s gentle nudge and told he could dress, but that he could not take a shower until the next day.  William was waiting at the door.  John told him he would like to get something to eat and return to the barracks where he wanted to sleep for several days.

“Fine,” said William.  “The food is good, but you have a nine o’clock wakeup in the morning.  I’ll be there to make sure you're ready.”

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

SPOOKS

“Let's remember the National Security Agencies job is to go out and create wars.”

--Jesse Ventura

John woke the next morning and looked at himself in the mirror.  He had a fair tan, definitely of a light Middle Eastern quality, and his hair and beard were black.  It was probably a good idea that he wore fatigues, or he could be identified as a terrorist who had infiltrated the base.

After a full pot of coffee at chow, he walked over with William to the Headquarters building.  There he was not surprised to see Agent Davis, this time dressed in a blue blazer, open collared shirt and gray slacks.  “Good morning, John,” Davis said in a much more friendly way than in Washington.  “I have some good news and some bad news.  The good news is you look quite good in a tan.  The bad news is you’re going to a place where no one will notice.” Davis continued.  “We have some reliable information that Darby Rhodes, or whoever he is, left Canada a few days ago, stopped in London, and then traveled to Turkey, where we lost the trail.  We believe he boarded a plane to Tehran under a name he may have used before.  Tuesday you will leave for Algeria.  You will have an Algerian passport for Chandler Berkant.  From there you will travel on Turkish Airways to Tehran.  A vehicle has been rented at the Tehran airport, but you probably won’t pick it up.  You have reservations at the Firouzeh Hotel.  Berkant has traveled from Algeria to the Imam Khomeini Airport every year for the last several years, and your passport will reflect that.  Once picked up at the airport, you will be told what we need you to do.  It should not be dangerous at all.  We just need you to identify Darby.”

“I am not used to all this cloak and dagger stuff,” said John.  “Is there another way to get into Iran?”

“We don’t do cloak and dagger,” answered Davis.  “The commercial flight is rather mundane and should pose no risk.  The alternative would be to drop you from a stealth bomber at thirty thousand feet in a pressurized suit with automatic chute deployment at three thousand feet over the desert at night, where you would be picked up by some of our people.  Overland from Iraq is too risky.  The alternatives for entry into Iran are limited.”

“Does Turkish air have first class?” asked John.  Davis did not answer.

“The Tehran airport was extensively damaged in the inauguration day bombing.  It was fairly modern and large and is being rebuilt quite rapidly.  You should move through like a breeze,” said Davis.

“How do I get out when I identify Rhodes?” asked John.

“We’ll deal with that later,” answered Davis.  “As I said, you will leave here in two days.  We’ll brief you more on the procedures to get through the airport, and any questions that officials might ask you while you are there.  But, Chandler, you have a track record of business activity in Tehran. They are aware you don’t speak Farsi, that your mother is British and your father is Turkish.”

He handed John a small, very thin cellphone.  “This cellphone has one telephone number.  It is an extraction phone.  It is to be used only if there is an emergency exfil.  Turn it on and press the pound sign.  That's all you have to do.  When you arrive in Tehran tape it to the inside of your thigh.”

“How long will this mission last?” asked John, as he took the phone from Davis.

Davis answered, “A week, maybe two, maybe more.  It all depends.”

John spent the next two days getting briefed on Iran, the topography, mapping, roads, available communication, dress, customs and cultural nuances.  He watched as his skin color became darker.  It began to look natural.  He was fitted with dark brown contacts, and when he looked at himself in the mirror, he was shaded by the contacts.  His hair was long and black, and his beard was dark.  He looked very much the part.  The spooks had done a good job.

His passport photograph was taken.  He was fitted with a European suit, white shirt and tie.  He was given a worn passport with several country visas and entry stamps, which showed his name as Chandler Berkant.  He was told reservations had been made for the flight from Algeria to Tehran.  He was given a credit card, and cash.  He flew into Algeria on a scheduled military transport plane, caught a taxi to the Turkish terminal, used the credit card to upgrade to first class, and began traveling to a country he did not know, with an objective he had no plan to achieve, for an uncertain period of time, with people with whom he was unfamiliar and could not recognize, whose names he had not been told, and a country that was hostile.  Trader felt oddly at ease with his identity.  He knew that once he was surrounded by a hostile environment, he would react confidently in the way he had been trained for years.  He had done it before.

During the flight, and on arrival in Tehran, John could not understand a word the Captain or anyone else said.  But as passengers started to leave the airplane, so did he.  He followed the crowd to customs, handed his passport to the young female official behind the glassed in office.  The official said in almost perfect English, “Welcome back to Tehran, Mr. Berkant.” She stamped his passport and said, “Have a nice day.” It was more like flying into New Haven that into a hostile Terrorist nation. 

John followed the universal pictures and signs everyone who traveled understood, and they guided him to the outside of the building.  As he walked toward the exit of the airport, he noticed people at the entrance to the airport walking in, dragging luggage, heading towards their airplane.  There were no security checkpoints, metal detectors, or pat downs.  Terrorists didn't need them.  This was the way terrorists traveled.  This was the other side of the parallel universe.  He saw some buildings had collapsed in what he saw was a fairly modern and busy airport.  He assumed it was from the inauguration day bombing.  Reconstruction was moving along and the airport was crowded with travelers.  As he headed for the exit he saw a bearded Middle Eastern man in a brown collared shirt and black pants holding a sign that said, “Mr. Berkant”.  John walked up to the man who said quietly to John, “I’m Raintree.  Follow me, we have car.”

A few steps away was a taxi waiting on the curb.  Raintree told John to get in the back, and Raintree drove the taxi away from the airport.  Raintree said, “I will take you to the hotel.  You can get a good night’s sleep.  At eight tomorrow morning I will pick you up and we will start working.  After tomorrow you will stay with us, so check out.  When I pick you up in the morning, wear dark slacks, dark shoes, and a long sleeve shirt.  Do not speak English with me or anyone else unless you have to.”

“I can't speak any other language but English,” said John.

“Then keep quiet,” answered Raintree.

“You drive a taxi?” asked John, in English.

“Hey,” replied Raintree.  “It’s a good gig.  I pick up some extra cash and I can drive all over town.  No one asks any questions.”

“How do I know who you are?” asked John.

“You don’t,” replied Raintree, “but Sarah said to say hello.”

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

LET US PRAY

“Religion has a place in another time, in another place, in a different world maybe, but not in this one, not in this cold, bottomless void where fear rules and hope dances alone in the dark.”

--Anonymous,  commenting on the state of faith in the Middle East

“My name is Corey Raintree,” said Raintree when he picked up John in the taxi the next morning at precisely eight.  They drove silently for fifteen minutes and turned into a six foot walled two story home in the middle of what was clearly a residential area.  Raintree got out of the cab, opened the wood gate, and drove the taxi into the courtyard.  John grabbed his duffel bag and followed him into the house.  When John and Raintree entered the house, no one else was there.

“Have a seat.” He directed John to a sofa that was so low it was like sitting on the floor.  Raintree said, “I'm from Detroit.”

“You don't look like you're from Detroit,” said John.

“It's a long story,” said Raintree.  “I was born in Detroit.  My family came to the U.S.  from Persia when the Shah died in 1980.  We spoke Farsi at home almost all of my life.  I've been here several years.”

“What do you do while you are here?” asked John.

“The three of us who live here in this house are the American unofficial, unknown, and hopefully unseen 'presence' in Tehran.  We don't do much.  We have no specific assignment.  Once in a while we are called upon to do something, or make a report, or send back our observations, but no one comes to us like you have.  We usually do what we are told by the administrative guys who occupy the upstairs offices at the agency, and then go on with our uncomplicated lives in Tehran. 

“Our group here is myself, Mac and Farah.  Farah is also a 'presence', and she provides cover that we are a family.  She is a secretary at the Tehran Province Water Company.  She was born in Tehran and has no difficulty in the culture.  She is Jewish.  As a teenager she had some association with Israel before she came to the states, and has a legitimate Iranian passport.  When we came here we ran across an abandoned orphan, a street urchin.  We took him in.  He was about six.  We only speak Farsi when he is around so when you meet him I'll tell him you are a friend from Canada.  With school and soccer he rarely is around, but he helps us maintain our cover as a family.  He is purely Persian and knows nothing about us.  He turned out to be a good kid.  Does well in school.  Hates America.”

“What am I supposed to do here?” asked John.

“There are about 600 mosques in Tehran.  Apparently the big boys think there is strong evidence that this fellow Darby is in Tehran, and, as a loyal radical extremist baby killing Muslim, he will attend daily prayers.  We will survey about fifty of the largest mosques in Tehran, which the bosses think is the right balance between success, and the useless expenditure of resources.  We’ve told the higher ups that we think this is a waste of time.  Having you here can breach our cover, put us a risk.  But we’re stuck with you as our assignment.  If you put us at risk, you are expendable; you are on your own.  On the other hand, we know you have training, some experience and discipline.  If there is anything someone needs to survive in this environment, it is discipline.  Today I will show you how to pray, use the prayer rug, how to enter and exit a Mosque, what to do and what not to do.  After that, and in the next few days, we’ll attend a few Mosques where the attitude is a bit loose, so that you can practice and get used to the environment.  After you are comfortable, you and one of us will go to the morning and evening prayers at a different Mosque in the morning and evening, surveil the entrance and hopefully, John, you can spot him, this Darby guy.  You will have to learn to use public transportation inside Tehran.  There is so much traffic they have a pollution problem, and the government has restricted cars in certain areas of Tehran.  Mac and Farah will be here later on this evening.

“Right now let’s get you started, and make things as simple as we can.  The sooner you can get to the Mosques, the sooner we can get this assignment over.  To let you know, you cannot wear your shoes into the Mosque, but Mosques let you exchange your shoes for a token, and you can pick them up afterward.  Your shoes are a little too flashy for us.  We'll stop tomorrow and get a pair of good used sandals for you.  First, lay the rug on the ground.” He pulled a rug from a wicker basket next to the wall and showed John how to spread the rug.  “Some of the better Mosque's already have rugs laid out in the prayer room.  After you enter the Mosque, and are standing before the rug you have laid out, or the one provided by the Mosque, you will stand before it with your hands raised to shoulder level in front of you.” Raintree raised his hands in front of him and mumbled some unintelligible words that John could not understand.  “You will have to quietly say 'Takbirat Al Ihram'.  Then put your right hand over your left hand and put them over your chest.  At that point whisper and mumble just like I said.  I can’t teach you Farsi in one day, but that part of the prayer can be a whisper.  Then bow in “Ruku” with your hands on your knees.  Then you kneel on the rug and your knees have to be on the rug before your hands touch the rug.” Raintree bent over at the waist and put his hands on his knees.  Raintree continued.  “Then touch your forehead, nose, both hands and both knees, and the internal parts of your toes on the prayer rug.  Obviously, if you have any kind of arthritis you can’t be a Muslim.  Anyway, while prostrate mumble 'Subhana Rabbiyal A’ala'.  There is more to say, but this is a lot for the first session.  After being prostrate, rise to the sitting position, but now put your left outside part of your foot down on the ground.  Turn your head to the right and then the left, and you are done.  Everyone in the Mosque goes through this same ritual and you have to be in sync.  At the same time, if you haven't seen Darby on your way in, you will have to look around while in the Mosque and see if you recognize him.  I hope you can multi-task.”

Raintree handed John the prayer rug and showed him how to point the rug towards Mecca, and how to roll it back up after prayers.  Raintree retrieved another prayer rug from the wicker basket.  Raintree spread his rug again and showed John how to pray and John tried to follow along.  John soon realized that the ritual was complex.  Third world countries where guys have a lot of time on their hands establish complicated religious routines and litany, probably so they don't have to go to work.  American Christians were wealthy because they could pray while they worked.  Seems to have created a much more stable, successful and rich culture.  But then the Persian culture surely has more than Persian Rugs and camel hair coats, you would think.