Haggai Carmon - Triple Identity

“Good,” said Eric.

“Team two reports arrival at safe house and radio reporting is off.”

Eric wiped perspiration from his forehead. I was surprised, considering he was such a cold-blooded eel; I figured he probably sent his wife a written memo if he wanted to have sex with her.

Hours went by. I stretched out on the couch. Only the intermittent sounds of incoming reports broke the silence. Just before 5:00 A.M. Eric asked, “How are they doing there?”

“Twelve files copied; there are at least four more.”

“OK, tell them to wrap it up. Remove the cash and the relevant files together with four additional files that are clearly, I repeat clearly, unconnected to the Iranians, and leave.”

So Eric was extending Benny's idea. They would look even more like random burglars by taking unrelated files. “Wait,” I said to Eric. “Tell them to search Guttmacher's desk drawers.”

“Why?” asked a surprised Eric. “There couldn't be anything important to us in the desk.”

“True,” I said, “but we want to create the impression that burglars broke into the bank, and that's what a burglar would do.” My training kicked in again.

“OK,” said Eric, and gave the order.

The man with the headset said to Eric, “They found a personal diary and a checkbook and ask what to do with it.”

“I suggest you tell them to photocopy all entries in the diary during the past month, but take the checkbook,” I said. Eric agreed. “Tell team three to scour the area before they're picked up,” he added.

Fifteen minutes later the word came. “Team one outside the target.”

“All clear,” came the response a few minutes later. “Teams one and three are on their way to their safe houses.”

I shook Eric's hand; it was wet with perspiration. “Congratulations,” I said.

“Thanks for your help,” said the visibly drained Eric. “Now we need to see what we got.” Eric's technical staff started dismantling the equipment. Minutes later Tom and Jeff of team three walked in. They were unshaven and looked tired. “Mission accomplished,” said Tom.

“Good work,” said Eric. “Did you clean the rented office?”

“Yes, I made sure nothing was left behind aside from the documents intended to be left there, those collected from the garbage cans of a big Hollywood studio.” He chuckled. “The landlord will be surprised that his tenants disappeared, although the rent was paid until the end of the month.”

“That has been taken care of,” said Eric. “A letter will be delivered to him on Monday giving him notice, a check for another month's rent, and an apology that the film-making project was delayed for several months.”

Benny smiled.

“Now,” continued Eric, “go home and get some sleep. I mean all of you, excluding the technical staff here. Our men will wrap up all the equipment and make sure nothing is left behind. As of now, this place is abandoned. Benny and Dan, I'll see you at the other safe house today at four in the afternoon. My men will pick you up from your hotels at 3:35 P.M. Each of you should leave here in opposite directions, even if you need to go to the same area. U-turn later. Leave at five-minute intervals. Remember, although it's early Sunday morning, there could be people outside. Don't arouse any suspicion; none of us look as if we belong here. Female members of our team, please leave together with a man to make it look like you are returning from a party.”

I got back to my hotel but couldn't sleep. The whole day had been intense; the adrenaline rush still hadn't subsided. Then I thought of Ariel. More calming than a pill. I fell asleep.

Tom picked me up on time, as usual, and took me to another safe house. The apartment was located in a high-rise building that looked out of place in this suburban neighborhood. But multistory buildings are a good location for a safe apartment because they give you a certain degree of anonymity. In a building with only six units every one may know everyone else, and a strange face can breed curiosity.

Benny and Eric were already there with the two men I'd seen earlier in the operation center. “These are my supervisors from Langley,” said Eric. “Phil Richards,” he pointed at a tall, slim man in his early fifties. I shook his hand. “And this is Arthur Brown, my direct supervisor.” Brown was a stocky African American with a firm handshake.

“Dan, nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you.”

“Please, I can explain,” I said grinning.

He smiled. “Not right now, we've got work to do.”

“We've had only an initial review of the material from the bank,” said Eric. “Most of it relates to the transactions Guttmacher was making with Broncotrade and the Iranians. It looks promising but we'll have to analyze it thoroughly.”

“What about me?” I asked. “Anything about DeLouise?”

“We don't know yet. There's still a lot to check out. If it's here, you'll get it, don't worry.”

We continued in a cordial exchange of conversation, but there was really nothing more to be said. We'd have to go through the files before any conclusions could be drawn.

“OK,” I said as I got up. “I guess my tour of duty for you has ended. Just let me know when I can come and work on these papers. I've still got my own job to do.”

“Sit down,” said Brown politely, “you're not done yet.”

I sat back down on the couch waiting for somebody to say something. Nobody did, so I ventured a question.

“What about the break-in into Armajani's apartment? Anything interesting there?” I asked.

“That yielded only one file,” said Brown. “Eric, let him see it.” He sounded content.

The first document had ten pages. It bore an official Iranian flag in green, white, and red and a green seal. I looked over Eric's shoulder as he went through the pages. It was typed in Arabic script on thin airmail paper.

“It's written in Farsi,” I said, after giving it a first glance behind Eric's shoulder, “because there are few extra letters to Arabic.”

“Can you read Farsi?” asked Eric.

“No. The letters are Arabic, which I can read, but I'd have no clue what they say except for a few words that entered Farsi from Arabic.”

“Never mind,” said Eric, “we made a quick translation,” and handed me a stapled document.

I took the document and started in. The header read “Top Secret” and then came the words “With God Almighty's Blessing.” The letter was dated 13 farvadin 1369 and was addressed to Cyrus Armajani and Farbod Kutchemeshgi.

“What is that date?” asked Brown.

“The Iranian solar calendar,” I volunteered. “Years are numbered by the years since Mohammad's Hegira in 621 A.D., so the Iranian year will be 621 years less than the Gregorian year that began on January 1. That makes the year 1369. Farvadin is April. And since they say in the letter that this is the Islamic Republic Day, I presume the correct date to be April 2,1990.”

The document was titled “Iran's Pride.”

“Before you continue,” Eric said, “I should mention that ‘Iran's Pride’ is a code name assigned to their nuclear weaponization program, which is closely connected to their delivery system, a ballistic missile.”

“OK,” I said, and continued reading from the translation. “Today is Islamic Republic Day. The Great Iranian Islamic nation is about to demonstrate to the world its scientific ability by building an atomic bomb to safeguard our nation's leading position in the region.

“This entire program is subject to the most stringent confidentiality Under orders of Ali Akbar Hashemi Rafsanjani, our president, all activities in this program must be under the guise of ‘intended for civil or peaceful use.’ If asked, we offer the explanation that the purchases of the materials are for ‘civil use such as oil refining, food and dairy production, car and truck manufacture, pharmaceutical research, and drug production.’”