The Twelfth Imam (20 page)

44

Tehran, Iran

Abdol Esfahani was not a big fish.

In the grand scheme of Iran Telecom’s communications empire, he was a minnow. But at least he was nibbling.

As Iran Telecom’s deputy director of technical operations, Esfahani was in charge of the day-to-day mechanics of turning the company’s ambitious strategic overhaul from concept to reality. He hadn’t negotiated the massive contract between Iran Telecom and Nokia Siemens Networks. Nor had he been involved in the subcontract NSN had inked with Munich Digital Systems. But all of the consultants and technical support teams that NSN already had in Iran ultimately reported to him, as would the MDS teams that were about to arrive in force.

David had no idea what Esfahani wanted to discuss, nor did Eva. He guessed the man simply wanted to look them in the eye, take their measure, and establish clear lines of authority and responsibility before the MDS tech teams arrived. After all, MDS’s role was a critical one: installing state-of-the-art call routers and proprietary software systems capable of handling millions of calls per minute, all of which would also integrate voice, data, and video services through the new fiber-optic and wireless networks NSN was building. The scope of the work was staggering. It was going to be complicated, time-consuming, and expensive. Esfahani no doubt wanted to make sure he was on a first-name basis with the senior Farsi-speaking project managers on the MDS team.

The breakfast meeting was set for seven thirty in the penthouse conference room of Iran Telecom’s headquarters in downtown Tehran. By the time Eva and David—traveling as Reza Tabrizi—landed at Imam Khomeini International Airport, cleared an extensive passport control and customs process, checked into separate rooms at the Simorgh Hotel on Vali-Assr Avenue, showered, changed, and got back into their hired car—followed the entire time by Iranian intelligence agents—they were lucky to make it to the meeting on schedule. With less than five minutes to spare, they sprinted into the main lobby and presented their IDs and a faxed letter of invitation. Only then were they directed to the ninth floor. There they were greeted by a lovely but somewhat-timid young receptionist wearing a black, full-length traditional woman’s cloak known as a
chador
and a dark green headscarf that not only accented her shy, green eyes but nearly matched the color of Eva’s headscarf as well.

“Welcome to Iran Telecom,” she said, stammering somewhat and unable to make eye contact, even with Eva. “My name is Mina.”

“Thank you, Mina,” Eva said, taking the lead. “It’s good to be here, despite all that traffic.”

“Yes, it’s quite challenging,” Mina said, still not looking at them but rather at the letter of invitation. “Forgive me, but which one of you is Mr. Tabrizi?”

It was an odd question, David thought, given the fact that he was the only man standing there. “That would be me,” he replied.

Mina glanced at him, then looked away quickly. “Are we still waiting for Mr. Fischer?” she asked.

“Actually,” Eva said, “that appears to be a mistake on the invitation. It’s supposed to be
Ms.
Fischer, not
Mr.
And that would be me.”

She held out her hand to shake Mina’s. But Mina, startled, didn’t take it.

“
Ms.
Fischer?”

“That’s right,” Eva said, still holding out her hand.

“There’s no
Mr.
Fischer?”

“No, just me.” Eva awkwardly withdrew her unwelcome hand, now looking as perplexed as the receptionist.

“
You
are the project manager for MDS?” Mina asked.

Eva forced a smile. “Yes; is there a problem?”

Mina looked up, stared at Eva for a moment, then looked away again. “Please have a seat,” she said crisply, picking up her phone and dialing. “It will be a few minutes.”

A moment later, Mina hung up the phone, excused herself, and stepped into Mr. Esfahani’s office, leaving the door open a crack behind her. David could hear whispering for a few moments, and then came the explosion.

“What? Are you certain?”
yelled a man David figured for Esfahani.

He could hear Mina talking, but she spoke so quietly he couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“A woman?”
the man shouted.
“They sent a woman? And you let them? Don’t you know how close we are, you fool? Don’t you know how pious we must be? He’s coming at any moment. We must be ready!”
Something glass or ceramic crashed against the wall and shattered.

David turned to Eva. This was not good. Esfahani was screaming at the top of his lungs. They could hear the man’s fist slamming into his desk. They could hear his secretary quietly sobbing. They heard him curse her for daring to think that he would ever have a woman running such an important project. He threatened to fire her.
“How could you make such a stupid mistake?”
he roared.
“How could you bring dishonor into this office at such a time as this?”
He began cursing NSN and MDS for having the gall to think he would accept a woman as a project manager. And then Esfahani, a thin man—almost gaunt—balding, and red as a beet, stormed out of his office, not stopping to look at either David or Eva. He blew through the reception area and boarded the elevator, and before they knew it, he was gone.

David, barely believing what he had just witnessed, turned to his colleague. Eva was pale. She was so deeply shaken, he wanted to give her a hug. But he could not, of course. Touching a woman who was not his wife, and doing so in public, risked turning the crisis into a full-blown cultural catastrophe. He didn’t know what to do or say to Eva, much less to Mina. The secretary was crying and muttering to herself and trying to clean up whatever had been destroyed in Esfahani’s office. This wasn’t something they trained you for at Langley. But David knew he had to do something to salvage this situation. The stakes were higher than the feelings of these two women. This was the CIA’s only door into Iran Telecom, and it had just been slammed in their faces.

“Go to the car,” he whispered to Eva when he was certain Mina was not looking. “Have the driver take you back to the hotel. I’ll try to salvage this.”

“No, I’m fine,” Eva said curtly, clearly embarrassed but trying hard to regain control.

David didn’t have time to argue. He could tell from Eva’s tone and stiff body language that her shock was turning to anger. But he couldn’t take the risk that she would try to undo the damage and in so doing end up making things worse.

“This wasn’t your fault, Eva,” he whispered back. “But you can’t fix it. Not now. I don’t know if I can either, but for now you need to go back to the hotel.”

“And then what?”

“Just wait there. Don’t call anyone. Don’t do anything. I’ll call you as soon as I know something, and then we’ll regroup.”

Eva’s eyes said it all. She didn’t like being managed by a man, much less a younger one, especially when Zalinsky had put her in charge of this mission. They stared at each other for a moment. David didn’t back down, and Eva finally relented. She knew he was right. There was nothing she could do. But she wasn’t happy and wanted him to know it. Sixty seconds later, the elevator arrived. Fortunately, it was empty. Eva stepped in, her jaw set, her eyes down. She was still resolutely avoiding David’s gaze when the doors slid shut.

David checked his watch. It was nearly eight. At any moment, he expected the floor to be flooded with dozens of other secretaries and operations staff. In fact, he was surprised they weren’t there already. If there was any chance of making this right, it had to be now. He ducked his head into Esfahani’s spacious and impressive corner office. It was far larger and more ornate than he would have expected for a “deputy director of technical operations,” with an expansive view of the smog settling over the Tehran skyline. Mina was still sitting on the floor, wiping her eyes and picking up the pieces of what had been a lamp.

“May I help you?” David asked gently.

He didn’t wait for an answer but stooped and picked up some of the smaller pieces of glass and put them in the small trash bin beside Mina.

“I’ll be fine,” she said halfheartedly, continuing to avert her eyes from his. “It’s probably best for you to go.”

David continued picking up the smaller pieces. “Will Mr. Esfahani be back soon?” he asked, trying to buy time and goodwill.

Mina said nothing, but shook her head.

“Did he have another appointment?”

Again she shook her head.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “My colleague and I should have known better. I should have, at least. With a name like Reza Tabrizi, obviously my relatives were all originally from Tabriz. But my parents grew up here in Tehran. They actually met just a few blocks from here in 1975, not long after my dad finished medical school. But you probably guessed Ms. Fischer isn’t from here. I mean, she actually speaks Farsi really well for a foreigner, but she’s German, and she’s—”

“It’s okay,” Mina said. “You don’t have to say any more.”

“She meant no harm,” David added. “Neither of us did.”

“I know.”

“Living in Europe, well, it’s . . .”

“Different,” Mina offered.

“A lot different.”

Mina nodded but looked away again. They were quiet for a moment. David could see she was lowering her defenses ever so slightly. But just then the elevator bell rang, and several associates stepped off chatting and laughing. They were out of time. It was improper for them to be found together. David’s mind raced. Then he reached for another piece of glass and purposely cut his finger.

“Oh, my goodness,” Mina said, noticing him wince, “you’re bleeding.”

“It’s okay,” he said, stepping back into the reception area. “I’ll get something for it at the hotel.”

“No, no,” Mina said, rushing to her desk and pulling out a first aid kit. “You could get an infection. Here, use this.”

She handed him a tube of antibiotic ointment, and as she did, she actually looked him in the eye, if only for a moment. He smiled and thanked her. To his amazement, she smiled back. The poor woman looked like she never got out of the office. She was small and pale and somewhat frail, but she was sweet and he felt bad for her, trapped in a job she had to hate, verbally abused by a boss who was impossible to respect.

“Again, I’m so sorry for the trouble we caused you today,” he said, finishing with the tube of ointment and giving it back to her.

“The error was mine,” she said softly. “I should have called ahead and gotten all of the details. It’s just that the meeting came up so fast, and, well . . . anyway, it was my fault.”

She looked at him again, and when she did, David shook his head and whispered, “It wasn’t your fault, Mina. It was all mine. And I’m probably going to get fired for it.”

“No,” she whispered back, sounding pained at the prospect. “Would they really fire you?” She handed him an adhesive bandage.

“If I blow this contract, they will,” he said. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you could help me.”

Mina looked away, terrified of being caught doing something else wrong. David suspected she would be severely punished for her transgressions today, and his heart went out to her.

The elevator bell rang again. More staff stepped off and headed to their cubicles. Mina greeted several of them, backing away from David as she did. He slowly put on the bandage, trying to buy as much time as he could, but it didn’t seem to matter. They had passed the point of no return. He really had to go.

He nodded good-bye, then stepped to the elevator, pushed the button, and silently begged Allah for mercy. The wait seemed like an eternity. He tried to imagine the coming conversation with Zalinsky, trying to explain how he and Eva had blown a mission that offered the last shred of hope of averting an apocalyptic war between Israel, Iran, and the rest of the region. But it was too painful.

The bell rang. The door opened. Still more of Esfahani’s staff poured out, and David stepped in. He hit the button for the ground floor and smiled at Mina one last time. The elevator doors began to close, but just before they did, a woman’s hand came through and held the doors ajar for a moment. It was Mina’s hand, holding a business card. Startled, David took the card, and Mina withdrew her hand. The doors closed. The elevator began to descend to the ground floor.

David looked carefully at the card. It was Esfahani’s, showing two different mobile numbers, plus his direct office line, general office line, fax number, and telex number. On the back was a handwritten note.

Imam Khomeini Mosque,
it read,
Naser Khosrow Avenue.

David couldn’t believe it. He had one more shot.

45

Outside the Iran Telecom building, David tried to hail a taxi.

But in Tehran’s cacophonous morning rush hour traffic—bumper to bumper for blocks on end—that was nearly impossible. He suddenly understood why one of the city’s recent mayors had been elected after boasting of having a doctorate in traffic management.

Once again he found himself begging Allah for mercy. He was desperate and reasoned that this wasn’t a selfish prayer. This was a battle of good versus evil. He was trying to stop a catastrophic war and the deaths of millions, and he needed all the help he could get, divine or otherwise.

David had no idea how far away Naser Khosrow Avenue was, but he was determined to get to the mosque before Esfahani left. His heart raced. But he knew he had to look calm, for he was not alone. And the delay in finding an available cab, he concluded, was good in the grand scheme of things. It gave the Iranian surveillance detail assigned to trail him—half of whom had already been forced to follow Eva back to the Simorgh Hotel—enough time to prepare for his next move.

On this topic, Zalinsky had been crystal clear back at Langley: for the first few weeks in Iran, he and Eva—like all foreigners—would be suspected by the Iranian intelligence services as spies for the Mossad or the CIA or the BND, Germany’s federal intelligence service. They would be followed everywhere. Everywhere they went would be monitored and logged in a file by the secret police. Everyone they met with would be noted, and some would be interviewed or interrogated. Their hotel phones would be tapped. Their rooms would be bugged. Their cell phones would be monitored. They would be photographed surreptitiously and constantly. Their mission, therefore, was to act normal. To relax. Blend in. Play the part of an MDS consultant and nothing else. This was not the time to play James Bond or Jason Bourne. This was not the time to evade their tails and get their handlers curious, much less worried. They were already pushing the margins with Eva leaving early and David taking a cab rather than their hired car (whose driver surely worked for the secret police). They couldn’t afford any more irregularities.

By the time David was finally able to flag down a cab, he was certain that the driver worked for the secret police. He was too young and looked far too nervous to be a simple taxi driver.

“Hey, buddy, listen. I need your help,” David said in Farsi, tinged with a little more of a German accent than usual. “What’s your name?”

“Behrouz,” the young man said hesitantly.

“Behrouz?”
David said. “That means lucky, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good; so listen, Behrouz—today is your lucky day.”

“Why’s that?”

“If I don’t get to the Imam Khomeini Mosque and find my client before he finishes praying, my company’s fifty-million-euro contract is going to be flushed down the toilet, you know what I’m saying?” David pulled out his wallet and tossed a crisp one-hundred-euro bill on the front seat.

The young man’s eyes went wide when he saw the money. He glanced in the rearview mirror, and David pleaded with him to help. Behrouz then glanced at his mobile phone sitting next to the euro note. David assumed the kid was supposed to call something like this in. But it wasn’t like his suspect was going to get away, right? He and Behrouz were going to be together for the entire ride.

“No problem,” the kid said, finally mustering up his courage. “But you might want to put on your seat belt.”

David did, and they were off. Behrouz gunned the engine and hopped the curb, terrifying pigeons and pedestrians alike and unleashing an avalanche of curses from several clerics trying to cross the street. Not seeming to care in the slightest, the kid ran a stoplight, barely missing an oncoming bus, and took a hard right at the next intersection. This kid was good, David thought, half-wondering if he should hire him as his driver full-time.

On a straightaway, David caught his breath, pulled out his phone, and did his homework. He dialed up a quick Internet search for the Imam Khomeini Mosque and immediately found a map, a satellite photo of the enormous compound, and a brief description of the site, courtesy of Google. The Imam Khomeini Grand Mosala Mosque was the largest mosque in the world. The two minarets stood at 136 meters, and the mosque compound covered 450,000 square meters.

Six minutes later, Behrouz raced by the Golestan Palace and finally screeched to a halt beside the mosque’s main entrance.

“Thanks, Behrouz,” David said, already out of the cab. “There’s another hundred in it for you if you give me your cell phone number and hang around until I need you again.”

The young man, breathless, readily accepted. He scratched out his mobile number on the back of a receipt and gave it to David, who thanked him, entered it into his phone, and dashed inside the gates of the mosque, hoping against hope to find Abdol Esfahani.

Dubai, United Arab Emirates

Zalinsky’s phone chirped.

It was the watch officer from the Global Ops Center at Langley. Zalinsky, in the CIA safe house in Dubai where he had set up his base camp, was instantly on alert.

“Ops Center; go secure,” the watch officer said.

The grizzled old CIA veteran punched in his authorization code. “Secure; go.”

“Two minutes ago, Zephyr entered his first phone number,” the watch officer explained.

That was fast,
Zalinsky thought.

“It’s a junior agent with the secret police in Tehran,” the watch officer continued. “He’s already making his first call.”

“Where to?” Zalinsky asked, now on his feet and pacing.

“It’s a local call. . . . Secure, but we’re cracking it; hold on. . . . NSA says it’s a direct line into VEVAK.”

Wow,
Zalinsky thought, unexpectedly impressed. He didn’t speak Farsi, but he certainly knew that the
Vezarat-e Ettela’at va Amniat-e Keshvar
—known by its acronym, VEVAK—was Iran’s central intelligence service.
Themis and Zephyr just might pay off after all.

The watch officer now patched Zalinsky through to a live feed from the National Security Agency headquarters in Fort Meade, Maryland. A Farsi specialist translated the call in real time.

Caller:
Base, this is Car 1902.


Receiver:
What’s your status?


Caller:
I’m at Imam Khomeini Mosque. Subject just entered.


Receiver:
Do you have a visual?


Caller:
Negative. This was my first chance to call it in.


Receiver:
Why didn’t you follow him?


Caller:
He paid me extra to wait here. Should I go after him?


Receiver:
Negative. Wait as instructed. Did subject say what he’s doing there? The next call to prayer isn’t for another four hours.


Caller:
Subject is meeting someone inside.


Receiver:
Who?


Caller:
Didn’t say. But it sounded urgent.


Receiver:
Why?


Caller:
Subject said some business deal would collapse if he didn’t find this guy in time. I think it’s an executive from Iran Telecom. That’s where I picked him up.


Receiver:
Roger that. We think it’s Esfahani. We’re sending you additional agents.


Caller:
Abdol Esfahani?


Receiver:
Affirmative.


Caller:
The nephew of the boss?


Receiver:
Affirmative.


Caller:
Is he in danger? Should I do something?


Receiver:
Negative. It probably really is a business deal.


Caller:
But you’re sure Esfahani’s going to be okay?


Receiver:
Affirmative. We’ll have more agents arriving on scene any moment. Just stay where you are, and let us know when the subject returns to the cab.


Caller:
Yes, sir.


With that, the call was over. But Zalinsky’s interest was piqued. Who exactly was Abdol Esfahani related to, and why did it matter so much to these intelligence operatives? It wasn’t possible that Esfahani was related to Ibrahim Asgari, the commander of VEVAK, was it? Zalinsky couldn’t imagine it. Surely he would have known that before now. He quickly logged on to Langley’s mainframe database and ran an extensive search.

After ten minutes, he couldn’t find a shred of information suggesting this was true. But it was clear to Zalinsky that the Iranian intelligence agents on the call he’d just heard believed Esfahani was connected to someone important. Zalinsky wasn’t sure what to make of that exactly. But he began to wonder if maybe Esfahani was a bigger fish than they had thought.