Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) (9 page)

“How much is the service?”

“A one-time set-up fee of $150 and $20 monthly. Additionally, we charge a nominal fee for each scanned letter.”

“Let’s do it,” I said. I had to appear legit, and my inner little devil was already making suggestions about how the service would benefit my investigation. Their prices seemed excessive compared with similar services, but I came there for the role they played, not to get a cheap deal. Besides, with the Washington bean counters’ generosity, I could afford to be a little lavish, provided I didn’t spend more than $50 a day on ‘miscellaneous.’ Otherwise, I’d need to submit a receipt for each dollar I spent. Each dollar! Just the thought bugged the hell out of me.  Auditors never participate in overseas operations — the
only physical risk they take is possibly breaking a nail on a keyboard. They don’t understand that by making me ask for receipts for every dime I spend, I might expose myself as a government bureaucrat, because most business companies don’t treat their employees that way. Never mind I might be endangering my life, as long as an audit doesn’t catch me spending an extra $10! Think an IRS audit is scary? Try my bean counters’ review of my monthly expense account. Sometimes I think I should use them as prisoner interrogators — they would drive even the most stubborn cons out of their minds and make them sing, as long as they’re guaranteed that the auditors stay off their backs.

He photocopied my European passport in the name of “Jaap Van der Hoff,” yet another of the “throwaway” identities that I’ve used when involved in “deep cover” clandestine operations. This showed my home address as
1359,
rue Beccaria, 7501
1
Paris, France. In fact that was just my “clean accommodation address” a requisite for building me a new identity.

After the formalities were concluded, he gave me a copy of the service agreement and a website address. “Log into
www.weforwardunlimited.com/vanderhoff
and create your own password. Then, whenever you log in, just enter your password and you’ll see your incoming mail.”

“Oh, I have one more question. I travel in Africa and sometimes I don’t have access to the Internet. I’ll need physically to get my mail.”

“Not a problem, Sir, if you can’t log in, just call us to give a forwarding address.”

“That’s perfect, thank you.”

Had I observed the Moscow Rule, “
Everyone is potentially under opposition control?”
I wasn’t sure that I had. But I wasn’t sure what to do about it if I hadn’t. These rules were
originally created for CIA agents operating in the Communist Soviet Union, during the Cold War. The Cold War was over. The need for the Rules was not.

A day later, I met the anxious-for-business Mr. Nemati. He was in his late 50s, chubby and friendly — even jolly-seeming — with a disarming ear-to-ear grin. He seemed to smile constantly. We sat in his plush office, a block from my hotel. After I described my company’s activities and “our wish to extend our trade and become intermediaries for sales of machinery, compounds, and technology to Iran,” he went on to explain why I had made the right move, coming to Dubai, and, of course, coming to see him.
             

“Dubai is an international marketplace,” he said, standing at the window of his 24
th
-floor office and looking down on all of Dubai. “Since we are the only country in the region without oil, we use the advantage that Allah has seen to provide us: proximity to Iran."

He didn't mention that though Dubai's citizens were mostly Sunni and Arab, the geographical proximity to Iran was so dominant, that Dubai’s economy was practically run by people of Iranian descent: Shiite and non-Arab.

"This is little Tehran,” he said with a smile, like a proud father telling me about an exceptionally accomplished son. “You know the history of Dubai? It was once filled with Bedouins—nomads.
A steady diet of camel, and more camel, and camel milk.
But today! Today there are 450,000 Iranians living here who have family ties to Iran. There are also thousands of Iranian-owned businesses. We have more Iranians here than any other place outside Iran.” I knew that California had more Iranian expats, but I decided not to look too knowledgeable in these matters.

“The sanctions the Americans are trying to impose on the world do not exist here. Therefore, if you can’t trade with Iran directly, the next best place to do business with Iran is Dubai.” He smiled in self-satisfaction, patted his belly,
then
suggested
lunch at the Iranian Club. I expected another nice restaurant on a higher floor of a modern office building. Hence my surprise when we entered a large compound on Oud Metha road, not far from the Indian
Club
.

The Iranian Club was a small city unto itself. It included an elegant hotel and theaters with intricate Moorish architecture; a large shimmering swimming pool; a restaurant; even a sports stadium. In the restaurant, pictures of Ayatollah Khomeini and Hassan Nasrallah, Hezbollah’s chief, hung in the entrance. Everyone around us spoke Farsi; the menu was in Farsi. At the host station, two customers—European looking blonde women—were putting on headscarves provided by the restaurant. Head covering was mandatory here. 

After settling in, ordering soft drinks and lunch, and dancing around the issues, we got down to business.

I recited my legend and gave him copies of brochures and catalogs, finding myself once again impressed by the Agency’s professionalism in creating such an extensive legend. The manufacturing company I was representing was a real and viable company. Thankfully, the owner had agreed to hire my “company” and thereby unwittingly provide a plausible cover story for my borrowed identity. The Agency had arranged the representation
through a third party, supposedly acting for me and with his own “legend.” The terms were simple. I would act as an intermediary: I would not be able to bind his company in any agreement, and all payments for sales made would be wired directly from the buyer to the manufacturing company’s bank account. When funds were cleared, the manufacturing company would pay my “company” a commission. The benefit for his company would be any business I could drum up while I conducted my real job—snooping—about which he was totally unaware. It was a win-win situation, or was it?

“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 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 51% 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 extracting 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 email 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 email. “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 mail 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 of males. 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 pre-planned 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, vendors selling earring, rings, necklaces, pendants. The streetlights were on, making the gold shine in the night. There were shops selling oils and perfumes, some selling spices and some selling fish — all in all the same goods people might have found in a marketplace right here thousands of years ago.