The Increment: A Novel - By David Ignatius Page 0,103
that they exist in fact. Cities, addresses, people. Otherwise you cannot target this deception accurately, I am afraid. And then you will be lost.”
“Okay,” said Harry. “We need him to identify other weaponization programs. Redundant ones, which the Iranians created so that if the Tohid track fails, other tracks would be ready. Is that it?”
“Yes, yes.”
“So what’s the cosmic question?” asked Harry.
“The cosmic question, sir, is whether your Iranian man is smart enough and brave enough to go back in and steer this process in the direction that you want, once you have interviewed him. And whether you, Mr. Fellows, are smart enough and brave enough to understand what he is telling you. Otherwise, it would be better really to let it all run, just as we have set it up, and not let this Iranian chap get in the way and make mistakes. It’s awkward.”
“For whom?”
“For business, my dear.”
Harry Pappas and Adrian Winkler took off that afternoon from Mildenhall air base in Cambridgeshire, in a small business jet bound for Turkmenistan. The jet was registered to GasPort Ltd., a nominee company whose owner was a shell company in the Netherlands Antilles. The plane was unmarked, other than the tail number that had been furnished that day to the ruler of the country, in a private and personal call from a Lebanese businessman in London who had done him many favors, and would do him many more.
ASHGABAT, TURKMENISTAN
The fishing trawler reached the Caspian coast just before midnight. Jackie and her team were waiting on a sandbar that jutted out from the shore, east of Gohar Baran. The moon was a quarter full, casting a pale light on the murky saline waters of the Caspian. Karim Molavi was nervous: he studied every distant light across the water; he started at every automobile that passed on the coastal road. He fiddled in his pockets and removed his Iranian cell phone, and his “special” phone, and his Palm Pilot electronic address book. He asked if he should leave them behind, and Jackie answered, “God, no.”
“I have no passport,” whispered Karim. He was embarrassed. He had not wanted to mention it, for fear that it would create a last-minute problem.
Jackie laughed. She thought he was making a joke. “You won’t need one on this trip,” she said.
The members of the team were all dressed in black camouflage against the night, shadow figures along the shore. Jackie had a black wet suit for her Iranian passenger. Molavi tugged it on awkwardly, then donned the black balaclava handed to him by Marwan, whom he still knew as “Mr. Saleh.” Marwan and Hakim had automatic rifles slung over their shoulders. Jackie had put down her gun and was squatting on the sand, positioning a small radio beacon.
The fishing boat had extinguished its running lights. They heard the slow chug of the old boat’s motor before they saw the craft. The captain was a Turkman, wrapped in a heavy cape. He had been plying these waters for thirty years, ferrying cargoes to and from Iran since the days of the old Soviet republic. He had paid off the authorities on both sides of the border for so long that he was almost legitimate; all they asked was that he stay in the shadows and not get caught. With the Turkman was a British intelligence officer from Ashgabat station, dressed in a navy peacoat and shivering in the night air.
The four waded toward the trawler, Jackie leading the way, her gun hoisted high over her head. Molavi followed, and then Hakim and Marwan, facing to shore with their guns on automatic fire.
Jackie called out the name “Jeremy.” The British man in the pea jacket answered back with her name, “Jackie.” That wasn’t much of a recognition code, but it sufficed. He lowered a ladder, and the four clambered up, Molavi first. The putt-putt of the engine grew louder and soon they were away. When they cleared Iranian coastal waters, Jackie told Molavi he was safe. He shook his head, as if he still did not believe his deliverance was real.
The Iranian looked at the British woman, snug in her wet suit, the rubber fabric clinging to her breasts and hips.
“Is it always this easy?” Molavi asked.
“Yes,” she answered, “if you do it right.”
An Iranian patrol boat bobbed at anchor to the east, guarding the border point below the Turkmen coastal town of Hasan Kuli. The Turkman smuggler gave the Iranian vessel a wide birth.