Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Deception

Vahidi looked at him hard, obviously calculating.

“What’s the name of the man you want to know about?” he said finally.

“Muhammad Ghanbari. Do you know him?” Scorpion asked, although he could see by Vahidi’s eyes that the instant the words came out, Vahidi knew who it was.

Vahidi sat on the edge of a mahogany desk and rubbed his face with his hand. “And this name came from the SVR? Or perhaps the CIA?”

“What difference does it make? Moscow needs to know their exposure. Frankly, so does my company. Neutrality only goes so far. We do business with the Americans too. Who is he?”

“What I’m about to tell you-” Vahidi began, and stopped. He took a deep breath. “In this country we have two different factions competing for power. In an odd way, we’re like the Americans with their Republicans and Democrats. These days the battle is between those like the head of the Expediency Council, Abouzar Beikzadeh, who want Iran and Muslims worldwide to move aggressively against the Americans and their Zionist lackeys in Israel, even if it means all-out war, and those in the Guardian Council who urge restraint, particularly in light of the Bern embassy attack and the American and European sanctions and now this latest incident. This everyone knows.” He waved his hand dismissively.

“Can I ask which faction you support?” Scorpion asked carefully.

“No, you may not,” Vahidi said, getting up and motioning Scorpion to follow him. They went into a large gleaming white marble bathroom. Vahidi put his finger to his lips and closed the door. “It’s important we understand each other or there will be no missiles.”

“Yes,” Scorpion murmured.

“This rivalry seeps down to all levels, particularly in the Revolutionary Guards. Do you understand?” he asked.

Scorpion’s mind was racing. Vahidi was suggesting the attack on Bern was part of the rivalry between factions in the Revolutionary Guard vying for power.

“Who is Ghanbari?” he asked.

“Have you heard of Asaib al-Haq?” Vahidi asked.

“No. Who le diable are they?” he lied. He knew exactly who they were. Asaib al-Haq. The League of the Righteous aka the Khazali Network. A Shia Iraqi guerrilla force responsible for hundreds of terrorist attacks in Iraq and elsewhere. In Dubai, Rabinowich had told him he had indicators but no proof that Asaib al-Haq was being run and financed from Iran by the al Quds Force of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards.

“An Iraqi arm of the al Quds Force, which is as you know a special paramilitary unit within the Revolutionary Guards designed for secret operations anywhere in the world. But they are expanding what they do. There is a rift within the Revolutionary Guards between the al Quds Force and Kta’eb Hezbollah.”

“And this man, Ghanbari, is a leader in al Quds and Asaib al-Haq?” Scorpion asked, his voice echoing slightly off the marble walls. If there was a battle for control of the Revolutionary Guards, he thought, Ghanbari might have attacked Bern as part of it.

Vahidi didn’t answer.

“I have to give my partners something,” Scorpion said.

“You mean Moscow?”

Scorpion nodded. “Did Ghanbari attack Bern?”

“Impossible! This could not have happened without approval of the Expediency Council. I would know about it,” Vahidi snapped.

“Where can I find him?”

“I have no idea. I deal with missiles and the defense of my country,” Vahidi said stiffly. “This is Revolutionary Guards business. You should ask — ” he started to say, then stopped. “I’ve said all I have to say. Iran did not attack in Bern. If Asaib al-Haq did something, blame the Iraqis.”

“What about the Gardener?” Scorpion asked.

“What?” Vahidi snapped.

“The Gardener? Is Ghanbari the Gardener?”

Vahidi shoved past him, opened the door and walked out to the office. He turned and glared at Scorpion coming out. If Scorpion didn’t know better, he could have sworn he saw fear in Vahidi’s eyes the minute he mentioned the Gardener.

“Look, General-” he began.

“I think you should leave, Monsieur Westermann,” Vahidi said. “Our conversation is over.”

Farmanieh,

Tehran, Iran

Zahra was driving, bumping the Mercedes along in stop-and-go traffic, heading for Sadr Highway; the only way to get across North Tehran this time of evening, she said. Just the two of them in the car taking him back to his hotel, the street lined with plane trees and a few people still out walking despite the rain.

“What happened with General Vahidi?” she asked. “He seemed upset.”

“We talked. Obviously, the sinking of the missile boat is not good,” Scorpion said. He kept going back in his mind to what Vahidi started to tell him about Ghanbari before he stopped himself. He had said, “You should ask. .” then stopped. For Scorpion, it had to be Zahra. She and Vahidi were the only people he knew in Tehran.

“Beshoor,” idiot, she muttered, swerving to avoid a Samand compact car weaving between lanes, which in Tehran were theoretical at best. She darted a glance at him. “What do they want from us, the Americans? Sanctions. UN resolutions. Threats. Whatever happened between us was a long time ago.”

“Maybe they don’t like people getting killed in their embassies. We Swiss don’t like it either.”

Headlights from a passing car briefly swept across his face. The rain got heavier. She turned her wipers on faster.

“What has that to do with us?”

“Don’t be naive,” he said, glancing casually back over his shoulder at the rear window, stippled with rain. The dark Peugeot that had been following them since they left the party was still on their tail. “Moscow takes what happened in Bern very seriously. If the Americans can prove an Iranian link to Bern, any possibility of missiles for Iran may be off the table.”

“Meaning what?” she asked, the sound of the windshield wipers punctuating their conversation.

“We’re being followed,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“A Peugeot sedan. It’s been with us since we left the party.”

She bit her lip. “Maybe it’s from the general. To protect you.”

“From what? Tehran traffic? It’s no good, Zahra. I can’t do business this way,” he said.

“What do you want to do?” she asked softly.

“Better not go back to my hotel. Where else can we go?”

She thought for a moment; a touch too casual about them being followed. They’re hers, he thought. Everyone in Iran is a little paranoid. Why wasn’t she, unless they were hers?

“There’s Chai Bar Coffeehouse,” she said. “It’s on Salimi Street in Farmanieh, not far from my flat. It has a nice garden under umbrellas for the rain, good food.”

“Too public. Someplace private,” he said, looking at her with what he hoped was a seductive gaze. Glancing over, she caught his drift immediately.

“I was right. You are a naughty man,” she said.

“We need to talk. It’s important.” When she gave him a This is just a line to get me into bed look, he added, “I’m a married man.”

“Aren’t they all?” she said. “How do I know I can trust you? Don’t be fooled by what goes on ‘behind the curtain’ in North Tehran, Mr. Westermann. This is a very conservative country. I’m an unmarried woman.”

“Are the men in Iran blind? You’re a beautiful woman,” he said, checking the side mirror as they turned onto Sadr Highway. It was a wide road, four lanes in each direction. They drove past a parade of high-rise apartment buildings, the Peugeot still behind them.

“I’m divorced,” she said. “Damaged goods. Who do you think they are?” Meaning the Peugeot.