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  A Trap in Paris / Uzi Eilam

  All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

  Copyright © 2017 Uzi Eilam

  Contact: [email protected]

  Chapter 1

  The sun rose over a clear spring morning in Tehran. Reza Ghulam Musawi, a general in the Guardians of the Revolution and director of the Guardians’ Special Missile Development Unit, sat down at the breakfast table, put on his glasses, and began leafing through a bundle of documents. The sound of footsteps and the rustling of a robe caused him to glance up, but only for a moment. As far as he was concerned, his wife, Latifa, was as attractive as when they had first met. In those days, droves of young suitors had sought to win the heart of the young beauty. And she had chosen him.

  “Should I be worried?” Latifa asked.

  “No, dear. Today we’re presenting the results of the most recent missile system tests. We still have a long way to go. He’s impatient, and we’re feeling the stress too.”

  “What about General Jamshidi? He’s the direct supervisor! Isn’t he taking any responsibility?”

  “The general is not shirking his responsibility. He’ll be right there with me in the meetings today,” he told her with an audible weariness. “It’s getting late. I need to be out the door in ten minutes.”

  There was no need to worry Latifa about the efforts that were clearly being made to sabotage the development project, Musawi told himself. They had only five days until the first test of the new Shahab missile. General Jamshidi had promised the president that the project would continue according to schedule and invited him and the leadership of the Guardians of the Revolution to attend the test as observers. This morning’s meeting with the president would be tense due to problems with the development of the warheads. We’ll have to reassure him that everything is under control.

  One major problem was the challenge of acquiring electronic components. Another was the cyberattacks against the computers in the development unit, which were becoming increasingly frequent and effective with each passing day. What could he tell the president? His good relationship with General Jamshidi and the president could work to his advantage this time. So could his special relationship with the Supreme Leader, which he had enjoyed ever since he had saved him from an assassination attempt.

  Musawi left the house and strode toward the car awaiting him by the curb as his bodyguard scanned their surroundings for possible threats. The driver opened the rear door quickly, allowing Musawi to slide in, and closed it behind him. His bodyguard was already seated up front, behind the driver, with his hand resting on the pistol on his belt. The car pulled out into the heavy traffic and, despite the rotating blue emergency light that the driver had switched on, they made slow progress. Musawi returned to his documents, making notes in the margins. His cell phone rang and, when he answered, he heard the voice of General Jamshidi.

  “Good morning, Musawi. I wanted to make sure you’re on the way in. Only five more days until the test that will be observed by the entire leadership.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said quickly. “I’m on my way.”

  The other vehicles in the road made way for their car, but a red light at an intersection forced the driver to bring the car to a halt. A shadow moved across Musawi’s face, an explosion rang out, and something pierced the car’s armored glass. Musawi felt a blow to his temple and neck as two rounds from a pistol left him bleeding and badly wounded.

  “Don’t stop!” Musawi wheezed. “Don’t worry about me. Follow the motorcycle!”

  “Yes sir.” The driver was accustomed to following orders, but one look in the rearview mirror told him that his boss was severely injured and fading fast. Pistol drawn, Musawi’s bodyguard continued to take aim at the assassins, who by now were far ahead of them.

  “Catch them!” said Musawi breathlessly with the last of his strength. “Forget about me.”

  The motorcycle zigzagged among the other vehicles on the road, and the driver and bodyguard watched hopelessly as it moved farther and farther away from them, disappearing into the sea of heavy morning traffic.

  “Drive directly to Imam Khomeini Hospital!” shouted the bodyguard. “And don’t stop at the lights!” Only now was he able to radio in the attack to unit headquarters.

  A medical team awaited them at the hospital entrance, and Musawi was rushed directly into the operating room. His bodyguard answered the torrent of questions barked at him by his supervisors over the phone. He provided them with a detailed description of the assassins’ motorcycle and their clothing, which had concealed any identifying features. He then took a seat beside Musawi’s driver in the waiting room, where the two continued to sit silently, ashamed and frustrated by their inability to do something to help.

  ***

  Gideon Ben-Ari was seated in his office at his consulting firm when the telephone rang.

  “You have a call from someone who isn’t willing to tell me his name,” his secretary, Noga, informed him apologetically. “He says it’s urgent.” Gideon picked up the receiver and was greeted by a man who identified himself simply as Binyamin from the prime minister’s office.

  “I’d like to speak with you about a matter of national security,” said the man in a deep and authoritative baritone voice. This, Gideon thought, is the voice of a man who is not used to being refused.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” asked Gideon, in an attempt to inject a bit of levity into the conversation.

  “I’ll fill you in on the details when we meet. All I can tell you on the phone is that it’s a matter of national security. I suggest you find time for a meeting today.”

  It was clear to Gideon that Binyamin was from one of the two intelligence agencies operating under the authority of the prime minister’s office. That, along with his use of the words “national security,” was enough to persuade him to agree to the meeting.

  The apartment building at the address Binyamin had given him had four stories, like the rest of the buildings on the street. The front door of the building opened with a push, and Gideon could see that the keypad on the side of the entrance had been out of use for some time. Binyamin had told him that the apartment was located on the third floor and had the number five on the door. As he made his way upstairs, he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He rang the bell and the door opened. Binyamin extended a strong, somewhat rough hand to Gideon, and Gideon shook it.

  Binyamin was a tall man, with an athletic build, who looked as if he took care to maintain his physical fitness. He had a sharp facial structure, pursed lips, curly black hair that had started to thin, and green eyes, which scrutinized Gideon from head to toe. The three-room apartment was simply yet elegantly furnished and looked as if no one lived there on a regular basis.

  “Coffee?” Binyamin slipped into the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

  A few minutes later, the two men settled into imitation leather armchairs, across from one another, in the living room. Steam rose from the two glasses of aromatic Turkish coffee sitting on the low table separating them, and Binyamin began to explain to Gideon why he had wished to speak with him.

  “Like many Israelis, Gideon, you are undoubtedly aware of what’s been going on in Iran under the rule of the ayatollahs. Particularly troubling for us—and, to a certain extent, also for the Americans—are the efforts of the Guardians of the Revolution to develop and arm themselves with weapons systems with a range of hundreds of kilometers. The effort is based
on lessons learned from the Iraq-Iran war. The Iranians are convinced that long-range Iraqi missiles played a decisive role in Iran’s defeat. The Iraqis, for their part, could not have successfully pulled off such an ambitious project without the help of Dr. Gerald Bull, who made an international name for himself by establishing the Space Research Corporation in Barbados. We’re asking for your involvement because we believe strongly that we’re dealing with a security problem that is strategic in nature. We’re also talking to you, in no small part, due to your past connection to Dr. Bull.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Gideon asked. “What exactly is the problem? Dr. Bull is dead, and Iraq is no longer a significant power in our region.” Gideon’s eyes remained focused on Binyamin, who appeared to hesitate for the first time since his arrival.

  “We believe there’s currently a need to learn from Gerald Bull’s methods and the way he conducted his shady arms deals and unauthorized sale of sensitive technology,” Binyamin explained. “We’re hopeful that the insight it gives us will help us come up with a solution to the problems we’re facing today. However, to give you more details, we’ll need to meet in the director’s office. You’ve already met Mr. Nahari. He asked me to tell you that he’s hoping to have the pleasure of receiving you in his office. Shall I tell him to expect you tomorrow?”

  ***

  After the meeting, Gideon returned to his office and asked Noga to bring him a double espresso, as he typically did at that hour of the afternoon. Much less typical was his request to hold all his calls and clear his schedule. His office was not spacious, by any means, but it was large enough to accommodate his hefty wooden desk, which was adorned with soft, delicate lines. Little by little, he began to process his meeting with Binyamin from the prime minister’s office. His appeal had clearly been sincere, but in light of the gravity of the issue and the importance he ascribed to all efforts to thwart threats to Israel, Gideon felt the need for more specific information from another source.

  Gideon had already met Yitzhak Nahari. It had been some years ago, when he flew in from California for consultations on the Iranian network that was operating there at the time. Nahari had risen quickly through the ranks of his organization, which operated out of the prime minister’s office, and Gideon had learned to appreciate him. All in all, he had to admit that he found the prospect of meeting Nahari again, the following day, quite intriguing.

  ***

  Despite the early hour, the office of the president of the Islamic Republic of Iran, in Sa’dabad Palace, was already teeming with life. Adorned with his numerous medals of commendation, General Mohammed Ali Jamshidi sat in the reception area with his adjutant, who was laden with an almost countless number of files but, nonetheless, somehow managed to sit up straight.

  “Where is Musawi?” Jamshidi threw an annoyed glance toward the door. “He’s never late.”

  “Our phones are with the security detail at the entrance, so he couldn’t let us know he’d be late even if he tried.” The adjutant strained to adjust the files in his lap.

  “Why don’t you have a word with the president’s assistant? Perhaps he can call Musawi and find out what’s keeping him.”

  Before the adjutant could stand up, the president’s assistant entered the reception area wearing a solemn expression. “The president will see you now,” he informed them, almost in a whisper.

  “But Musawi hasn’t arrived yet,” Jamshidi pointed out. “Does the president wish to begin the meeting without him?”

  “The president has requested to see you in his office alone,” the assistant replied. “Please, follow me.” Curious, General Jamshidi got to his feet and followed the assistant into the president’s office.

  “Sit down, Mohammed Ali, sit down.” The president didn’t get up to greet his friend and shake his hand as he usually did. Jamshidi took a seat but remained alert. The president did not speak as he flipped through the file of documents that lay on the small table beside him. He seemed hesitant to speak his piece. Did it have to do with the recurring delays in the missile development timetable? Now, of all times, Musawi was late and didn’t have his back.

  “An attempt was made on Musawi’s life,” the president began, with a quiver in his voice. “He was shot in the head and is now in the intensive care unit at Imam Khomeini Hospital.”

  Jamshidi was visibly stunned by the news. “How is he? Do we know what his condition is?” he stammered.

  “I just spoke with the director of the hospital. He promised me that the best doctors have been called in to work on him.” The president sighed. “All we can do now is pray that Allah helps him.”

  “Was the personal security unit negligent in some way?” asked Jamshidi. “This is the third time in the past few weeks and, again, a hit on one of our senior people. Musawi is the moving force behind the development of our new missiles. We need him back to work as quickly as possible.”

  “Will this affect the Shahab missile test next week? How can it be conducted without him?” the president asked.

  “Don’t worry about the test. I can run it with the assistance of General Musawi’s team. The missile launch test will take place as scheduled.”

  “In light of the situation, I felt it necessary to schedule an urgent consultation with General Ali Mustafa Ja’afari, the commander of the Guardians, at the palace of the Supreme Leader. It will take place later today, and it’s important that you also attend. As I’m sure you understand, this is a situation that requires our utmost attention.”

  “I am entirely at your service,” Jamshidi promised. “We still need to clarify the obstacles to the new long-term missile program—”

  “And we will,” the president said, interrupting him. “All in good time. But first we need to focus on the matter at hand: figuring out how to protect our men against assassination. I also suggest that we pray for Musawi’s quick recovery.”

  All of a sudden, the reality of the situation hit home for Jamshidi. With Musawi at least temporarily out of commission, all the major challenges of the weapons development program—technology, procurement, and activities in Europe—now fell squarely on his shoulders.

  Chapter 2

  Gideon remembered the fifth floor from a briefing he had once attended. He also recognized Yitzhak Nahari, whose tightly closed lips and penetrating gaze naturally warned those who interacted with him to tread carefully. Nahari’s face, etched with an endless maze of wrinkles despite his relatively young age, attested to the challenging road he had traveled to reach his senior position. Binyamin was already seated in the reception area when Gideon arrived, and he stood up to greet him with a firm but friendly handshake.

  “Thanks for coming in, Gideon,” Nahari said when the two men entered the conference room. Also seated around the table were three other men, with serious but unrevealing expressions, whom Nahari did not introduce. The one in uniform sported the rank of brigadier general and the hard build of a military man. “Let’s get straight to the reason we’re all here,” Nahari continued. “Gideon, I’m sure you’re eager to hear about the role we’re asking you to play. Some pushed for appointing younger men for the job, but—”

  “Hey, I’m all for affording opportunities to the young,” Gideon cut in quickly, in a serious tone but with a hint of jest in his eyes. “I’d be more than willing to give up my seat, even though I haven’t even occupied it yet…”

  “That’s a nice sentiment, Gideon,” Nahari said with a smile, “but the wisdom that comes with experience is of special importance to us here. First, I suggest you hear about the situation and the mission at hand. Then see what you think. Brigadier General Bar-Oz…” Nahari turned to the officer sitting at attention across the table. “Perhaps you could update us on the status of the Iranian procurement activities underway in Europe? Haim Bar-Oz is on loan to the project from the army. He brings a rare combination of combat experience, in the paratroopers, and aca
demic technological knowledge. He has a degree in electronic engineering from Tel Aviv University. I’m sure you two will find a common language.” Nahari stopped speaking and watched as Gideon and Haim exchanged glances.

  “Thank you, Yitzhak,” Haim began, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. “The crux of the matter is the new efforts by the Guardians of the Revolution to gather intelligence and procure technological materials and components that are on the embargo list. They’re making progress in the development of long-range missiles. But equally troubling is their effort to move into the field of nuclear weapons.”

  He stopped for a moment and examined the papers on the table before him. “Until now, Germany has been the source of numerous materials and components, mostly supplied under the guise of dual-use materials. More than a hundred German companies have taken part in this process, and the Iranians have not hesitated to line the pockets of those involved with generous payouts. We also know about other cases in which the procurement route has been more circuitous, with parts being routed through Russia to companies with the capability of completely assembling the components, thereby allowing the Iranians to successfully evade the supervision apparatus.

  “We’ve also identified other interim destinations in India, which has close ties with Iran, as well as in Pakistan.” Bar-Oz looked around the table and, seeing that everyone was listening to him attentively, continued his explanation. “The change in Iranian behavior has been largely the result of Germany’s new policy. It appears that Angela Merkel finally came to terms with the fact that US intelligence authorities had been listening in on her personal phone conversations and agreed to the Americans’ request to step up its supervision of the movement of multiuse materials. She also agreed to slap high fines on companies violating the law. The Guardians of the Revolution took note of the change and has been making major efforts to find alternative routes. They’re currently trying to build procurement routes based on acquisition from French companies—”