The Caspian Intercept Page 11

  "I'm a newspaper reporter. I travel the world. Six months in New York for a session of the United Nations."

  Something in the man's expression showed he had strong doubts. "Very well. We will see you later … with your exit visa."

  Amadeo left without further comment. The man was suspicious — and dangerous. He hailed a taxi and told him to drive him to the Ministry of the Interior.

  * * *

  A kaleidoscope of possibilities spun through Azad's mind. Are they taking him to his execution? A cell deep in the bowels of a prison? More questions? More beatings? He began to sob. A brutal elbow to the kidney took his breath away.

  The car ground to a halt, rough hands dragged Azad out of the car, up two flights of stairs, and slammed him down on a chair. Then silence. He sensed others in the room, the sack over his head left him in darkness. The stench of fear dominated his senses, permeated the room, his sweat and the foul odor of the sack made him want to throw up.

  Movement. He sensed the presence of another person. He wanted to speak, call out that he was a loyal Iranian, he did not deserve this… An impact to his chest took his breath away, the chair tumbled over, his head bounced off the floor. He was barely conscious when the chair was returned to an upright position.

  "Tell us about the tape." The voice was calm and non-threatening.

  "I have told all I know, please believe me."

  'Tell us about the tape — do not make me repeat the question." The voice was louder and the speaker's tone severe.

  He told it all again: about the automated tape system, the missile launches. A different voice asked, "What about the people at the site?" He told them. They asked again and again, he stuck to his story, the only one he had.

  Someone removed the sack from his head. Azad took a deep breath and struggled to refocus his eyes. Four men stood before him, three others sat at a table, he sensed others behind the chair.

  A man sitting at the table, with silver grey hair and cold piercing eyes, asked, "What was the date the tape was made? The date and time of the intercept?" The man asked the question in English, his accent foreign, not a native English speaker, but a European.

  "By the calendar of the Americans it was the sixth day February of this year. I do not remember the time. It was afternoon." Azad answered in English.

  The man sat up straight. The answer seemed to hit a nerve. "You are positive of this date?"

  "Yes." The date of the fateful intercept was burned in Azad's mind. Now, he wished it had never happened.

  "You are sure this was from across the border in the Soviet Union?"

  "Yes, that was why they were there."

  The man paused and asked in a deliberate manner. "What is the name of the man at the embassy?"

  "His name was Sam … Sam Brooks, that's what the men at the site called him."

  "He was of the staff at the base?"

  "No, he came from the embassy, every month. I do not know why."

  "Describe him. What did he look like?"

  "He is a dark man … like an African, but he is American."

  At that moment Azad recognized one of the men sitting at the table. He had never met him, but his face was familiar, from the newspapers and television. Mansoor Naheed, the leader of a Marxist faction, not part of the Islamic Komiteh.

  "Is he the one you gave the tape to?" asked the European.

  A chill enveloped Azad's being, he realized the man was a Russian, a godless communist. A new fear overcame his senses, he couldn't speak.

  "Answer the question, do not delay," shouted Naheed.

  "No. I did not give it to him. I gave it to a man who came to the restaurant."

  "Who is this man? Describe him."

  "I do not know his name. He looked like an Iranian, I thought he was an Ahwazi, he spoke Farsi with an accent."

  "Why did you give him the tape?" asked the Russian.

  "He said it belonged to the American government and they wanted it back."

  "He was American?" The Russian's irritation was unmistakable.

  Azad hung his head, his fate sealed. "Yes."

  Again, the man asked with a forceful tone. "What is his name?"

  "He did not tell me."

  "Did he threaten you? Why did you give him the tape?'

  "He promised my visa would be approved."

  "Was he from the embassy? Had you seen him before?"

  "He came in the day before, but only ate a meal. I do not know if he is from the embassy. Please believe me, I thought he was Ahwazi … he spoke with an accent."

  Naheed motioned to the man behind Azad.

  Before the man could deliver a blow, the Russian said, "Enough. Let us talk to this Black CIA agent. Bring him here. We will find out from him."

  The Russian lifted himself from the chair and wobbled towards the door with the aid of a cane. He paused and spoke over his shoulder to Azad, "If you are lying, you will die today."

  Naheed shouted to a bearded man wearing an old army jacket, "Call the comrades at the embassy and have them bring the Black man named Sam Brooks to us at once." He canted his head towards Azad, "Take this filth away, we will deal with him later."

  * * *

  After an hour in line, Amadeo stood before a bored official in the Ministry of Interior. He handed the man his passport and application for an exit visa.

  The official examined the passport and opened it to the next blank page. "You are journalist?"

  "Yes, I must return to Espana, my editor has new assignment for me."

  Without looking up, the man stamped and signed the exit visa.

  Amadeo took the passport and exited the ministry. Obtaining an exit visa had been a snap, unusual for a revolutionary bureaucracy. Rather than return to the hotel, Amadeo decided to keep up the pretense as a journalist. Go to the embassy, the logical story a foreign reporter would cover.

  The taxi let Amadeo out two blocks from the embassy. A crowd milled around the grounds, it didn't look like the government was going to intervene. No one paid him any notice.

  Since he was in the neighborhood, he decided to check on Sam. It was time to make contact.

  * * *

  Sam couldn't take it any longer. He had to get out of the apartment, the walls were closing in, his paranoia enhanced by the presence of a listening device — or more. A walk around the block, perhaps take in a movie, the darkness providing a shield of anonymity.

  The street was busy with a typical early evening crowd. The shake vendor across the street was busy with a customer. Sam edged out the door, intending to head west away from the embassy. The customer turned, milkshake in hand. — The man who had been following him. — Their eyes met.

  Amadeo realized he had been spotted. No time like the present. He handed the half-empty glass to the vendor and stepped off the curb.

  Sam hurried down the sidewalk. He was suspicious, this might be an attempt to trap him, and tried to ignore the man as he threaded his way through the mid-block traffic.

  Amadeo caught up with Sam at the end of the block when they were forced to halt at the busy intersection. They stood side by side as cars flew past. Sam started to move away, convinced it's a trap.

  "I have the tape from your man at the restaurant." Sam, caught off guard, froze in place. "They arrested him, you saw them do it. If he talks, you have a limited amount of time to get out of the country or go into hiding."

  "Don't know what you are talking about, I am a student from Ghana."

  "I was in the bar when you spoke with my partner. You are not from Ghana, more like Baltimore, and a Colts fan to boot."

  Sam, still suspicious, said, "And you are?"

  "I'm from Miami, Dolphins all the way."

  Sam's knees turn to jelly, he wanted to run but couldn't muster the courage. "What do you want?" He barely got the words out.

  "Let's go back to your place, we need to talk." Reading the fear in Sam's eyes, he emphasized, "I'm on your side. Come on, we gotta get off the street."
<
br />   'The tape … you said you had the tape."

  "Yeah, got it from the guy at the restaurant — fresh fish from the Caspian."

  Sam inhaled deep breath. What the man said seemed credible. What other choice did he have? "Okay, follow me."

  A man standing across the street took their picture with a telephoto lens.

  * * *

  Naheed Mansoor hung up the phone and walked around the desk. He frowned at the Russian.

  "There is one Black man being held at the embassy, but he is not the man called Sam Brooks."

  "So, this Azad is lying?"

  "No, there is a Sam Brooks and he may be with the CIA. The comrades at the embassy have not had time to look at all the records. The imperialists were not able to destroy all of their papers and we will know for sure in a few days."

  "We may not have a few days." The Russian used the cane to help him stand. "You must find this man and the tape. We will speak to this Azad again."

  "This tape is important? What does it contain?"

  "That is not for you to know. All you must do is find it. Do you understand?"

  Naheed seethed but held his tongue. He was a dedicated Marxist but did not like or trust the Russians. Who does this man think he is, ordering me about like one of his inferiors. When we come to power they will dance to a different tune. He held in his rage and said, "I understand, it will be found."

  * * *

  Amadeo followed Sam up the stairs to the apartment. He asked, "Is it safe to talk in your place?"

  "No, it's been bugged. We'll need to mask our conversations."

  "No problem, if we have to, we'll communicate with a notepad. Don't say anything when we enter, we don't let them know you're with someone. Can you show me the bug?"

  "Yes, it's in the bookcase."

  Amadeo found the hidden mike, checked the rooms for more, there were none. He placed Sam's portable radio next to the bug, turned it on, and tuned to Radio Moscow.

  "Now we can talk, but speak softly," said Amadeo. A Russian opera, Boris Godunov, blared out from the small speaker. "Let's sit over there at the table."

  "You really have the tape?"

  "Yeah, that's what I was sent here for."

  "The other man. Where's he at? Is he watching?"

  "No, they grabbed him at the embassy."

  Sam's heart skipped a beat. "He's with the others?"

  "No, he had a Canadian passport and a credible cover. The expelled him the same day."

  "They've got Azad."

  "Azad? … Oh, you mean the waiter."

  "Yes. He's sure to talk."

  "Does he know your name?"

  "Not sure, but he probably does. I saw him plenty of times at the site. He could have heard it there, but I never told him. Does he know who you are?"

  "Not by name, but I made it pretty clear I represented the U.S. Government. He probably guessed I was an American."

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "Got an exit visa on my Spanish passport this afternoon at the Ministry of the Interior. Now I just gotta stay out of trouble until I can catch a flight out."

  "You said Spanish passport."

  "Yeah, by the way, my name's Felix Fernandez, ace international reporter of the Diario del Mundo de Bilbao."

  "Sounds like something they would come up with at Langley."

  Amadeo grinned. "Think they'll figure out you're missing from the embassy?"

  "Not sure if they were able to destroy the personnel rosters. If not, it's only a matter of time."

  "Do you think you're safe here?"

  "Not really, but where's a brother from Baltimore going to go in this town?"

  "You told me on the street, you were a student from Ghana. Can you make that work?"

  "Not for long. Anyway, my only hope is for the government to intervene and free the hostages. This shouldn't last more than a few days."

  "I don't know, they seem pretty determined to me. The way they were talking, nothing would surprise me."

  "To fârsi harf mizani? You understand Farsi?"

  "Bale, ye kam. Just enough to get by."

  Sam nodded. "You could pass for an Ahwazi. That's a group from the south."

  Amadeo grinned.

  "You've been here before?"

  "Can't say, you understand."

  Sam eyed Amadeo with a new respect, mixed with a tinge of suspicion. "What now?"

  "I better get back to my hotel."

  "Where —" Sam cut off his question. Operational security, better not to know.

  "I'll contact you here if we need to go to Plan B."

  "And that is?"

  "You work on that one, I don't have a clue."

  Amadeo strode out of the building and headed away from the area before he would look for a taxi. When he passed under a street lamp, the man snapped another picture.

  * * *

  Amadeo checked for messages at the hotel. There are none. He gave the bar a quick onceover and decided to head up to the room. The man at the end of the hall had returned.

  Safe in his room, he turned on the television. The big news: Prime Minister Bazargan's cabinet had resigned and the Revolutionary Guards under Ayatollah Khomeini are the new rulers of Iran.

  Sunday PM, 6 November 1979: Frankfurt, Germany

  "Says his flight's delayed." John Smith passed the message to Jack.

  "That could mean a lot of things," said Jack.

  "Don't say how long. But I imagine things are pretty dicey at Mehrabad. I spoke with a contact at Lufthansa and he said their outgoing flights from Tehran are fully booked for the next few days. Bet that's what's happening."

  Jack, ever skeptical, sensed something else was wrong. "The newspapers think the matter will be over in a day or two, but I'm not so sure."

  "Tend to agree. We better start making plans if something don't break in a day or two."

  "You gonna give The Man a heads up?"

  "He's got enough to worry about. I hate to make him say no when he doesn't really want to."

  "Better to ask for forgiveness after the fact than to ask for permission."

  John smiled and reached for the phone.

  17 ~ The Russian

  Monday AM, 7 November 1979: Tehran, Iran

  Naheed strutted into the office, halted in front of the Russian, and dropped a plain cardboard folder on the table.

  The Russian sneered. "What is this?"

  The Iranian projected a smug self-satisfied arrogance as he said, "Open it and find out."

  The Russian gave Naheed a withering look and opened the folder, it held six photographs. The first one showed Sam entering his apartment building.

  "Is this Sam Brooks?" said the Russian.

  Naheed stood a little taller, his shoulders back, and answered with a crisp, "Yes. One of my men confirmed his identity at the embassy."

  The Russian leafed through the photos until he came to the next to last one. He held it close and examined the black and white print in detail. He did the same with the last photo.

  Naheed noticed the change in the Russian's countenance. "We have not yet identified the other man. My watcher was alone and chose to remain in place as ordered. Do you wish us to follow him next time?"

  The Russian knotted his lips and glared at Naheed. "Incompetence, you should have had two men on duty. Do I have to lay out every detail for you? How do you expect to lead a revolution if you can't even accomplish a simple surveillance?"

  Naheed stood speechless, seething with anger. His seeming triumph had turned to naught.

  The Russian barked out an order, "Bring this Azad here. — Now."

  * * *

  Amadeo strolled into the hotel restaurant intent on having a full breakfast before heading to the airport. He settled into a chair at a corner table and awaited the arrival of the indifferent waiter. The morning staff was a hotbed of rude behavior, but the food was okay, if slow to arrive.

  The waiter, an older man who took on the airs of an ayatollah, scrib
bled the order on his pad. As he walked away, Amadeo requested he be served his coffee first. The waiter ignored him.

  The large room held only a handful of diners. It was still early, or the hotel guests were trying their luck elsewhere. Ten minutes later, a lukewarm cup of coffee arrived at the same time the East German optics salesman strolled in, followed seconds later by Carl Walker. They sat together three tables away.

  Amadeo strained to eavesdrop on their conversation, to no avail, they spoke softly in German. The waiter arrived with Amadeo's order, a tomato omelet with a small slab of Nan with jam. He snubbed a request for a coffee refill.

  The two men ate a continental style breakfast of coffee and Iranian pastries. Amadeo nibbled slowly, hoping to pick up on the nature of their business. He made a conscious effort not to look their way or appear interested.

  Halfway through the meal, a trio of Air France stewardesses swept into the room and settled at the table between Amadeo and Walker. They chattered away about some indignity suffered at the hands of airport officials at Mehrabad. Their conversation blocked any further attempts at overhearing Walker and his friend but did give a credible excuse to look their way.

  The petite raven-haired one caught Amadeo staring in her direction. She glanced away, only to return the look moments later. Sensing an opening, Amadeo nodded his head. She gave him a coy smile.

  Amadeo asked in fractured French, if they were flying out today.

  She answered in English, "Yes. Why do you ask?"

  "I have the difficulty to find the flight to Europa, I must return to Espana."

  "You are from Espagne?"

  "Yes. I am periodista… journalist."

  "It is how you say … compliqué."

  "Complicated," said the brunette. She spoke over her shoulder, "We are full for the next week. Have you tried the other airlines?"

  "Yes … is no luck. I go again today."

  At that moment, Walker and the German stood and strolled towards the door, still engaged in an intense discussion. Amadeo, on the verge of leaving some money and following, froze when Walker looked back from the door. He stared straight at Amadeo for a long two seconds before disappearing around the corner.

  Amadeo expelled an exasperated breath. What was that look? He's suspicious, but I tried to be discrete. Can't follow him now, it would be a dead giveaway.