Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thrillers) Read online

  “How would you like to proceed?” Kamiar Nemati asked, in front of him a plate of spicy Persian rice, lavash—a thin flatbread that is the most popular type of bread in Iran—with chopped tomato and minted yogurt sauce. I had ordered a lamb stew; it came bubbling hot. “You’ll have to advise me,” I said, “though isn’t incorporating a local company generally the way to go?”

  “If you’re planning to operate outside our new free-trade zone—”

  As he spoke, the waiter came to refresh our water and fumbled a little, dribbling the water down the side of my glass. Nemati barked sharply at him in Farsi. His tone was so sharp, his chastisement so swift, that I was startled as well. The waiter flinched and wiped my glass down; I gathered that he was apologizing profusely.

  Without missing a beat, Nemati turned to me, smiled another wide, disarming grin, and finished his sentence, “Indeed, yes, you’ll need a local partner to own fifty-one percent of the company. That’s the law here. I can suggest several names, if you wish.”

  “Please do. Whom do you have in mind?” I asked.

  “Well, it could be me. I’m a Dubai citizen,” he smiled again.

  “What would you bring into the company?” I asked, I couldn’t look too eager, although I was.

  “Your ability to incorporate,” Nemati said, eating a piece of lavash. He ate with surprising delicacy for a large man, almost daintily patting the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “But, obviously, I will bring business as well, certainly. I do have strong ties to Iran.”

  “Any connections within the Iranian government? The reason I ask is a few other companies I represent have on offer some complex technologies and equipment. Governments are their typical clients.”

  “Of course, I have connections in most ministries of the Iranian government. In what areas might you need them?” Nemati asked.

  “Nuclear research and energy production. For peaceful purposes, of course.”

  He observed me for a while and carefully selected his words, without hiding his excitement. He placed his hand on his belly, lightly tapping his fingers on his vest.

  “This is a matter I will need to discuss with my colleagues,” he said. “I should ask, though—there are so many aspects to nuclear energy—any specific areas you have in mind?”

  “From reactor cooling equipment to electric and electronic machinery, from enrichment equipment to chemical compounds used in the process.”

  “I see,” he just said and looked at me, trying to measure me up. His broad smile had diminished but had not disappeared; it was now more of a smirk. “I’ll get back to you on that. I’m sure we could do business together.”

  Well, at least he did not brush me off like Hamid Al Zarwai, the banker who elegantly suggested I speak to Nemati. In fact, I didn’t expect Nemati to agree immediately. Once I mentioned the word nuclear I was going to be cross-referenced and checked a hundred times over. The Iranians in general are not a stupid people, and Nemati was no exception to the rule. There was no question in my mind that the moment I said nuclear I became an immediate subject of interest to several intelligence agencies, first and foremost VEVAK. That was part of the risk involved in the trade. I couldn’t offer him sewing machines or fruit-juice extraction machines and get the kind of interest I wanted. I’d put my head in at the snake pit, hoping to survive the inspecting hissing.

  Still, I felt that the TEMPEST seeds were planted. I had no doubt that I’d hear from him soon. I was too big a fish to throw back into the sea, whether I was the real thing or a foreign agent. Under either hat I’d be an interesting subject.

  I sauntered back to my hotel. The Iranian influence was visible wherever I looked. From the Iranian mosque to the Iranian hospital, from the signs on the stores to the Iranian merchants in the Spice Market, from the Iranian restaurants to the Iranian banks. Everywhere, huge, beautifully landscaped buildings and crowds of well-dressed people. The city’s economy seemed booming.

  Back at the hotel, I used my laptop to e-mail Eric an encrypted report on my visit to We Forward Unlimited: It will help if you can hack into www.weforwardunlimited.com and surreptitiously download its customer list. I don’t know the extension of the particular client who sent the letter to the consulate, but suggest you try the extension ‘Refigh.’ I hoped that Refigh had opted for the website option, rather than physically forwarding incoming mail to another location. Then I inserted a one-liner asking about the Tango defection case. I was anxious to know when it would be resumed.

  A few hours later, Eric’s response arrived: See the attached spreadsheet with the customer list. The name Refigh doesn’t appear.

  I reviewed the attached list. It contained 1,609 names of customers. Hell, I thought, how do I sort it out?

  I sent Eric another encrypted e-mail: Thanks, but the list can’t help much at this time. Can you match the names on the list against any existing list of Iranians associated with the nuclear program?

  I waited, ordering one, then two beers from room service. Finally, I heard the beep of an incoming message. The decrypted message read: Dan, see the revised list, only 16 names remain, but it’s possible some are aliases, and we may not have a complete updated list of all Iranians associated with their nuclear program. Eric.

  I looked at the list he had attached. It contained sixteen Iranian names, all male. Each name was followed by a short description of the man’s occupation. There were six chemical engineers, two chemistry researchers, six physicists, and two mathematicians. Although the list was short, on its face it was a bridge to nowhere.

  I walked out onto the small balcony off my room to do two things: look at the Gulf views, and think. What should I do next? Send a letter to the Dubai POB and ask Refigh to contact me? That would call for a carefully preplanned operation; this was also outside the defined duties of my mission. All I was instructed to do was identify the true owner of the box. I couldn’t see a solution, and I was frustrated. What’s the matter, nudged my inner little devil. All of a sudden, you decided to follow orders to the letter? What, have you become a wimp? Where’s the notorious defiance? People who behave don’t make history.

  He was right, of course, but I decided to postpone any decision until after I had eaten. Never make an important decision when you are hungry, says an old Chinese proverb, I advised my little devil. There isn’t such a proverb, he responded. Well, then I’ve just invented one. Frustrated, I locked my laptop’s keyboard, applied the safety measures against attempted use even with an external device, locked it in my room safe, and went out.

  Knowing nothing about Dubai for ordinary people, I went to the Gold Souk, a dazzling walk through all manner of gold, with vendors selling earrings, rings, necklaces, pendants. The streetlights made the gold shine in the night. Shops sold oils and perfumes, spices and fish—the same goods people might have found in a marketplace right here thousands of years ago.

  And there were shawarma stands. Shawarma is lamb cooked on a rotating skewer, then cut into thin strips and placed into warm pita bread with vegetables and white Tahini dressing; the scent-rich roasting lamb was irresistible. I stopped at one stand and got an Iranian version of the dish for AED 5—approximately one dollar and thirty cents. I decided not to itemize that meal to the bean counters in Washington; they might get ideas about my ability to save on the cost of food.

  I strolled through the market, enjoying my shawarma immensely. Soon, though, I realized that a man was walking just behind me, slightly off to the side. I could see him out of the corner of my eye; he was in his early thirties, and wore a black shirt and pants. As I kept him surreptitiously in sight, concentrating on my food, the man passed me, making the kind of brush-contact usually performed when two undercover agents meet in a public place, and quickly and discreetly transfer or exchange documents with no word other than “Sorry.” Only a professional would notice. For any bystander, the incident would seem accidental and meaningless. He shoved a note into my pocket, and disappeared into the crowd. Mr. Vanderhof, re
ad the note. Please meet me at the parking lot behind the food stand. I have information for you.

  I kept on walking and thought about it. Usually I don’t meet strange men in dark parking lots, not having a death wish or a desire to be robbed. However, under the circumstances, I decided to take a limited risk. I hailed a cab and instructed the cabbie to drive the fifty yards back to the parking lot behind the stand where I’d bought the shawarma. There, next to a late-model Japanese car, stood the man who’d stuck the note into my pocket. “Stay here,” I told the cabbie when I’d made sure that the man was alone. Although I was armed, and had to be ready for any hostile encounter, I moved forward anyway.

  The man lit a cigarette and I could see his face. He seemed to be a young Arab, no more than thirty years old, with a wide, furrowed brow. He took a hit off his cigarette, then nodded deferentially to me. He took a few steps toward me, in a nonthreatening manner and said, “Mr. Van der Hoff, thank you for coming.”

  I nodded, waiting for him to explain what he wanted, and why the aura of secrecy. I turned my hand in his general direction, and pressed on the crown of my watch. It wasn’t just a simple, sporty-looking watch. Next to its numeral 3 was a video camera lens that could pick up clear images up to thirty feet away, and record any conversation within that range. The 32-gig capacity enabled me to shoot up to 120 minutes of high quality video. First, I took four still snapshots. The lighting, though, was poor. I wasn’t sure that I would have a clear image of his face.

  “I have information for you.”

  “Regarding the government’s microelectronic chips tender bid?” I asked.

  When he seemed baffled, I continued, “I’m interested, and would consider payment, but only if the information is solid.” I stuck to my legend as an electronic components trader.

  “Electronic parts? No, I have information regarding the letter.”

  “What letter?”

  “The letter sent to the consulate.”

  True to my cover as a trader, I had to demonstrate complete ignorance. “What do you mean? Which consulate? I’m afraid you might be mistaken,” and took a step back to the cab.

  “Please, Mr. Van der Hoff.” He was adamant.

  I stopped, “What letter? And, just how did you know my name?” I said quickly in a mix of feigned fear and surprise.

  “Mr. Van der Hoff, I’m talking about the letter to the consulate, and I understand you are in Dubai to talk about it.”

  That was a take it or leave it offer. If I continued to deny any knowledge, I might convince him he was mistaken—and pass on the contact opportunity. On the other hand I couldn’t blow my cover just because a stranger in a dark parking lot was trying to tell me something.

  “I know who you are,” he said, a little grimly.

  I wasn’t alarmed, but I had to stay and see what he had to say. “How did you find out my name?” I put my hand into my pocket to feel the assuring metal touch of my polymer-frame high-velocity Glock 23 with its silencer.

  “I have friends.”

  “OK, tell me about the letter you say was sent to the consulate. You mean the Dutch Consulate regarding my registration? Are my competitors trying to defame me?”

  “Mr. Van der Hoff, I think we should stop playing games.”

  “I’m ready for that as well, so tell me what’s it all about,” I said, always leaving him the initiative to move forward and for me to withdraw.

  “The letter talked about a scientist, and you came here to talk about it, so let’s talk.”

  I had to keep my cover and act ignorant, as any normal uninvolved businessman would do. Although of course I wanted him to continue. “Thanks for the information, good-bye,” I said and turned toward to my cab, expecting him to call me back as any bazaar store owner would do after rebuffing your final offer. But he didn’t.

  I got into the cab and returned to my hotel. I had to have him checked out; it could’ve been a trap by anyone, including the Dubai police. I had heard that the sanitary conditions in the Dubai prison system needed major improvements; I had no intention of finding out firsthand if the rumor were true.

  But was it a trap? I couldn’t tell. He certainly had an agenda with me. He wanted to make contact, that’s for sure, but for what purpose? Did he want to surprise me and put my legend to the test? He mentioned one letter. There were three. The first two mentioned a scientist. But that might mean nothing. How did he know that I had a connection with them, or with one of them? Obviously, there had been a serious breach of security. From connecting me with any of the letters, it was only a short distance to unveiling my true identity, or at least my affiliation. That was bad news. I had to decide what to do next.

  I considered my choices. Abandon ship and mission and return to the US before any damage was done, probably to my person? Or continue using my alias and let whoever was watching me monitor my actions, giving me the opportunity to turn the tables and see who they were? I know well that all reason stops at the entry points to the Middle East. But if that person was telling me the truth, his behavior was simply stupid.

  Since I always hold the opposition—any opposition—in high esteem, I decided to look for another, more likely reason behind such an encounter. He never said what he wanted me to do, and didn’t leave any means of future communication with him.

  My inner little devil was no help. Hey, he said, can’t you see what he was doing? Have you lost all your senses? The man could, just could, be for real. He wanted your attention and to make you do something or go somewhere. I know, I know, how did he know to approach you? He must have had prior knowledge that you were operating under cover and might have trailed you just as he did today. That’s bad news.

  No matter how many times I asked myself the question—how the hell did the man know to approach me?—neither my little devil nor I had a good answer.

  In my room, I logged into www.weforwardunlimited.com/vanderhoff. To my surprise, a message was blinking. Probably a routine welcome notice from the company, I thought. When I opened it, the message was unroutinely unwelcoming. We know who you are and why you are in Dubai. You must leave immediately if you don’t want to get hurt. Take this message seriously.

  The message was not signed. What the hell, I thought, I had made no progress whatsoever in discovering the identity of the person behind the Dubai PO box on the letters to the consulate. Yet whoever sent me the threat knew about my unique, password-protected web address through We Forward Unlimited. It had to be someone from within that company, or a hacker who had broken into my mailbox, or worse, into my computer. More troubling was the indication that the sender knew who I was. This meant that he didn’t buy the Jaap Van der Hoff legend—or maybe he was trying to smoke me out from behind the legend, hoping that by scaring me I’d make a mistake and reveal my real identity and affiliation? That’s one step before circulating to news agencies around the world the photo in which I’m blindfolded and ask the US to yield to my captors’ demands or I die.

  I sent Eric a message about the threat and the encounter, attaching an image file with the snapshots I’d taken in the parking lot.

  What do you make of it? Eric replied.

  Beats me, I responded. There’s no question that my cover was blown and that someone was able to post a message on my private box at the mail service company. The posted message isn’t so earthshaking. What worries me is who knew I had that box and bothered to threaten me, and why.

  Eric messaged back: Dan, I meant the encounter you had, not the message you received. However, since you brought it up, do you see a connection between the two incidents? As to the image file you sent, the outcome was too dark and blurred to identify the person. I’m sending it to the lab to run advanced decoding software to enhance the quality.

  I answered: I suspect there is, but I have no basis to support the suspicion.

  Eric’s next message came an hour later: Obviously there’s been a breach of security that we can’t control or risk. Rent another room at your hotel
for a ‘business associate’ who will arrive soon. Take the key, quietly move to the other room and wait for instructions. Keep both rooms. I don’t want you to check out of your current hotel room and demonstrate that you have changed your behavior immediately after reading the threat. As to the Tango operation, it’s still on hold.

  In fifteen minutes, I was sitting in an upgrade. When the receptionist had told me that the new room for my business associate would cost $515 a night, I immediately thought of the antacid that the bean counters in Washington would start popping when they saw the hotel bill. But I could always blame Eric. Before entering the new room, I’d made sure that no one was watching me, other than the hotel’s hidden security cameras. All of a sudden, a small assignment to identify who was behind a post office box—with no apparent active opposition—had the potential to become seriously confrontational.

  Other than waiting for instructions, I had nothing to do. It was late. It had been a long day. I slept.

  VII

  January 2007, Dubai

  As I finished a late room-service brunch the next morning, an incoming message popped up on my computer monitor. We now have a clear image but no trace on the person who approached you. Stay put for another day or two until we make further investigation.

  How could I object to spending one or two more days at the hotel’s sunny pool, courtesy of Uncle Sam?

  I lazed by the pool for a couple of hours, taking an occasional dip and getting sunburned in the process while I analyzed all options. That in turn called for a conversation with Eric. Exchanging e-mails was too limiting. However, the only place to make a secure telephone call would be from the US Consulate. There was still time to change my clothes and get to the consulate before it closed for the day. But even though it was in a high-rise, I didn’t think it’d be wise to be seen entering it if “someone” knew who I was. The Consulate would likely be monitored by all sorts of FOE—Forces of Evil—a code I use until I identify my enemy, from Iran to al-Qaeda.