Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Deception

“I know who they are. So do you,” he said. Oncoming headlights from cars on the other side of the highway sprayed the rain-spattered windshield with light like broken glass.

“VEVAK,” she said. “You’re an important man, Mr. Westermann.”

“Call me Laurent,” he said, touching her bare arm with his fingertips.

“Vay,” she breathed. Oh my.

Her apartment overlooked a quiet tree-lined street. From behind the window curtain he could see the Peugeot parked in a No Parking zone. No one had gotten out of the car.

“Still there?” she asked about the Peugeot, opening a bottle of pinot grigio in the kitchen. He looked around the living room. It was nicely furnished, with a good Kashmar rug on the floor. Whatever she did at the ministry, the money came from somewhere else, he thought.

“Afraid so,” he said. “I’m ruining your reputation.”

“For my parents, I’m a lost cause,” she said, coming over and handing him a glass. “Cheerio.”

“Sante,” he said, keeping the French cover going. His hand in his trouser pocket was fingering the Tylenol gelcap containing Ketamine, a powerful knockout drug. He’d brought it along just in case and had been hoping to use it since General Vahidi implied that she knew something about Ghanbari.

“Now what was so important you had to get me alone?” Zahra said, coming seductively close to him. He could smell her perfume. Joy, by Jean Patou. He put his hand to her cheek.

“Are we going to do this?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Are we? You. The Russians. The Americans. It’s crazy. When comes the part when you tell me it’s been nice and how you love your kids?”

“Vahidi said you know a man named Muhammad Ghanbari. Who is he?”

“You bastard!” she snapped, and threw her wine in his face. “I thought you were interested in me. I should call VEVAK,” she said, indicating the window and the Peugeot. “Tell them to arrest you, you harum zadeh !”

“You didn’t answer the question,” Scorpion said, going to the kitchen and wiping his face with a dish towel. “How do you know Ghanbari?”

“I don’t know anybody or anything,” she said angrily from the living room. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you. That’s all.”

“But you know him?” he said, taking another glass and refilling it with wine. As he did so, he opened the gelcap and stirred the tasteless powder into the wine with his finger. He brought the wineglass with him back into the living room.

“What does this have to do with the missile program? And what bloody business is it of yours?” she said, taking the wineglass from him as he continued to wipe himself off. She put the glass down on a side table.

“Personally, I don’t give a damn. Moscow, however, has concerns. If the Americans attack Iran-and if they find out that the Russians would even consider selling SS-27s. .” He left it unfinished so the implication would sink in. “I’m a middleman, that’s all. I wouldn’t be asking the question if the Russians didn’t want to know. General Vahidi suggested Ghanbari is with al Quds and Asaib al-Haq. Is it true?”

“I don’t know,” she said, coming close again. Be careful, he told himself. She was changing tactics. “These are not things one should meddle with. I ruined your suit,” she said, brushing his jacket lapel with her fingers. She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Maybe you should take it off.”

He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. They were soft, yielding, and he knew she was somewhere between wanting him and playing him. Was she just trying to dodge the question? Or was she afraid? The tip of her tongue darted between his lips as if searching for something.

“Just tell me. Do you know him? Where can I find him?”

She looked at him, her face a mask. Beautiful. Unreadable.

“I can’t tell you. Don’t ask,” she whispered, taking off his suit jacket, then his tie, then his shirt. He let her. As she started to fumble with his zipper, he stopped her.

“Wait,” he said. “Let’s finish our drink,” getting the wineglasses.

A minute later she was on the carpet, unconscious. He picked her up and carried her to the bedroom, setting her on top of the bedspread. The good thing about Ketamine, he thought, was that it worked quickly, was virtually untraceable, and when she woke she would have no memory of what had happened.

He checked the pulse in her neck to make sure she wasn’t faking it, went back to the window to check that the Peugeot was still parked there, then got to work. He planted an electronic listening bug/transmitter under the base of the lamp by her bedroom telephone, a second one behind a plastic electric outlet plate in the living room, and replaced the SIM in her cell phone with an NSA SIM that would forward her location and all her conversations to his computer tablet. Then he went on to the laptop computer she kept on a desk in her bedroom, glancing over at her to make sure she was still out cold.

Her e-mails and files were in Farsi, but that wasn’t a problem for him, especially since Farsi and Arabic lettering were similar, except for additional Perso-Arabic letters for p, t, zh, g , and a few other changes. A lot of the e-mails were the usual junk. The only personal ones were between her and her brother, Amjud. He scanned through them quickly while plugging in an NSA flash drive that copied all her files and e-mails.

He was about to close her e-mail when he spotted one from Amjud complaining that his wife’s brother, Muhammad, had gone over the deep end. Muhammad had told them to let him know if they noticed anything unusual. Muhammad exaggerates everything, including his own importance, Amjud said, and that he was involved in a dispute within the Pasdaran-the Revolutionary Guards-claiming that a rival, whose name he didn’t mention, was out to destroy him.

Was it possible? Scorpion wondered. Is that what General Vahidi meant when he said “You should ask”? Muhammad was a common enough name. The most common in the Middle East. But was it possible that Zahra’s brother-in-law’s brother, Muhammad, was Muhammad Ghanbari?

The flash drive finished copying the files. Using her computer, he went online to the Tehran Times website. The headline read: IRAN NAVAL FORCES WILL FIRE ON U.S. SHIPS IN IRANIAN WATERS. According to the article, after discussions with the Supreme Leader, the president of Iran had authorized all Iranian and Revolutionary Guard naval vessels and planes to attack any U.S. ships that ventured into Iranian waters in the Persian Gulf. Any attempt by American naval or air forces to impose a blockade on Iran would be met with force. If there were any further provocations by the Americans, Iran would mine the Straits of Hormuz, blocking all oil shipments from the Middle East that passed through the Gulf.

Iran’s president declared: “The Iranian people will not be intimidated by the bullying attacks of the American imperialists and their Zionist puppet masters, pulling the strings behind the curtain. Iran will fight to the death to preserve its freedom and the freedom of peace-loving people everywhere.”

He switched to nytimes.com. That he was able to get to it meant the Iranian government hadn’t yet blocked access to websites outside the country. The headline read: WHITE HOUSE IMPOSES NEWS BLACKOUT. It cited sources that said it was in response to the action in the Persian Gulf and the Iranian government’s announcement. Scorpion knew what the blackout meant. It was a long-established protocol to stop all news and the possibility of leaks when the Pentagon went to DEFCON 2. Damn, he thought. That was higher than the DEFCON level they had gone to after the 9/11 attack in 2001. At DEFCON 2 the news blackout would last seventy-two hours, after which military action could occur.