a discussion on the logistics of the Iranian plan, Hassan said, “If you are still interested in dual-use equipment for your nuclear program, by the way, I have a new contact who could open many doors for you. As you know, our own efforts were successful, until the Zionists bombed our al-Khobar installation. Now, the Pakistani, A.Q. Khan, who sold us most of the plans, is under arrest, and we have other priorities. But we have a new source who seems anxious to do business. Give me a list and I will see what I can do.”
Yosemani took another sip of coffee, digesting the offer and wondering if Hassan’s recent visit to Brussels, a secret his own sources had reported, was related to the Syrian’s new business associate. “We have our own channels, you know,” he said, putting his cup down, “But I will keep your offer in mind. And what would be your finder’s fee?”
“Your nuclear project will benefit my country, and I am offering this as a gift of friendship,” Hassan said, raising his glass of water to his guest, who regarded the toast as strong as the content of Hassan’s glass.
“To what specific type of equipment does your new friend have access?”
“Across the board. He is a retired senior intelligence official and has entrée to the industrial captains of his country, and beyond. I can help you,” Hassan smiled.
In turn, Yosemani raised his cup to the Syrian.
He knew Louis DuChemin had retired from being director of the Belgian Sureté, the internal security service, six months before, and he had a reputation for having no love for the Americans, his country’s NATO allies. Yosemani saw no need for a go-between. He thought the trip to Damascus, as unpleasant as it was to deal with Arabs, had already paid off. He would simply call on DuChemin during his next visit to Brussels, which would be soon.
As he left the Syrian, Yosemani’s mind turned to the recent election of a new president in his country. He had always been able to get ahead and stay ahead by understanding Tehran’s politics. He guessed Hassan Rouhani would pay close attention to the prospect of either the United States or Israel attacking the country’s nuclear installations. But he also surmised Rouhani would be no more likely to stop the program than his predecessor. He had already considered retaliatory options, and his special operations units were ready to attack American installations in the Gulf with the help of the large Shiite populations in the coastal kingdoms.
At the same time, Yosemani had been supplying Semtex to the Iranian mission at the United Nations. Semtex, a military explosive he had bought from the defunct communist regime in Czechoslovakia, could be used with devastating results. Over time, he had used the diplomatic pouch to accumulate supplies of Semtex to his North American installations.
Yosemani suspected, however, the Americans were well prepared to defend against another attack on their homeland. He might try assassinating another key American, as his team had recently tried unsuccessfully in Washington. But he knew the Americans had stepped up their security resources to counter that possibility. The essence of effective warfare, especially when fighting an enemy as formidable as the Great Satan, was surprise, the ability to strike a strategic target that was not adequately defended.
There, he thought, lay his advantage. Since Washington’s leaders always prepared for the last war, they no doubt assumed the U.S. East Coast would be the site of the next attack. Al-Qaeda’s strike had programmed the Americans to concentrate on that prospect. He would therefore focus on the other side of the country.
5. Alexandria, Virginia
“I’ve got news on your buddy Yosemani,” Marshall said, sitting in his son’s sparsely furnished apartment. Steve sat across from him, his six-foot-one frame folded easily in a leather recliner, a bottle of beer in his hand. Before his father’s medical diagnosis, they would return to his place in Old Town after their weekly tennis game. Now, they continued the practice without the tennis.
“According to a NSA intercept, he’s getting ready to travel to Brussels,” Marshall said.
“And the CIA station there has found out he has a son studying at your old alma mater, as a matter of fact. So I am planning a swoop and scoop.”
Steve recognized the term as an in trade euphemism for a kidnapping, sometimes done with the approval and cooperation of the host country’s intelligence service, and sometimes not. Since Belgium was a member of NATO, he assumed Belgian knowledge and support.
“Do you have a team? And a team leader? I assume you’ll stay here.”
“Yes, I have my hands full with the cyber op.”
While two commentators on the muted TV reviewed the recent performance of the Washington Redskins’ new quarterback, Marshall said, “During the Cold War, Vienna was the espionage capital of the world. Now, it’s Brussels. There are more diplomats and foreign officials per capita in Brussels than anywhere else.” He took a sip from a glass of water on the coffee table.
“And more spies,” he continued. “That and a lackadaisical internal security service make Belgium ideal. I assume it’s also why Yosemani likes to do business there. The Belgians are too busy with their internal politics to bother with foreign terrorists—as long as they don’t kill Belgians.”
“What I don’t get is why the CIA is not running this operation. Why outsource it to you?” Steve asked. “After the big hiring surge that followed 9/11, I know the agency isn’t short of personnel or money.” Steve knew his White House office had just requested the Office of Management and Budget add another ten-million dollars for new CIA operations, much of it outsourced to private companies like his father’s.
“You know why,” Marshall replied. “Most of the new hires cut their teeth in Afghanistan or Iraq. And when they came back, they had to be retrained. Because what they were doing in a war zone is not what they’re going to be doing in the rest of the world. When I returned from Laos in the sixties, I had some retooling to do. Advising and training guerrillas isn’t quite the same as recruiting and running agents.”
Steve had seen photos from his father’s first CIA tour in Laos—Hmong fighters posing with M1 rifles almost as tall as they were, parachute drops from unmarked airplanes, and Marshall in jump boots, fatigues, a beret, and a sidearm. But that was before he was born. It wasn’t part of his world, although more stories were seeping out, now that his father had retired.
“The agency is not clearing this operation with the Belgians, because they would turn it down,” Marshall said. “The former head of Belgian security, DuChemin, never liked to take sides. He once even tried to get me kicked out of the country, when one of my officers pitched the Iraqi ambassador just before the first Gulf War. From what I hear about his successor, he’d probably find a way to leak the information to Yosemani, if we tried to coordinate the operation with him. Who needs enemies with NATO allies like that?”
“So that’s why the agency is going to use your company rather than blue-badgers, for plausible deniability? If you get caught, the U.S. government will claim it never heard of you. Right?”
“Getting caught is not part of my plan. With the European Union’s open borders, we can easily get Yosemani to Germany and fly him out from one of our military bases.”
“An extraordinary rendition? Is the agency going to brief the White House? How about Congress?” Steve was starting to realize he already knew too much. His father was usually very discreet, even with him, so he assumed his father had a purpose. .
Steve disappeared for a moment and returned with a bowl of peanuts and a beer, which he
