A Trap in Paris Page 11

  At the end of the first day of meetings, Professor Bernard addressed the attendees. “Mister Director-General, ladies and gentlemen, it seems to me that we have laid a foundation for understanding the need to block the channels of funding for Iran’s illegal procurement activities. I suggest we stop here for the day and take some time to think about the proposed courses of action we’ll discuss tomorrow.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” the director-general said. “Thank you for your fascinating presentations. You deserve some rest after such a long day. I wish us all a pleasant evening and a good night.”

  “Your presentation was excellent,” Dominique told Haim as everyone stood up and began gathering their files and papers. “Your knowledge is impressive and intriguing, and leaves me wanting more.”

  “Uh…thanks.” Haim was caught off guard but pleasantly surprised by Dominique’s words. “The truth is that the constraints of the meeting kept me from really going into depth.”

  “Well, we have nothing planned for this evening. Would you be willing to enlighten me with some more of your knowledge, perhaps over a cup of coffee? I’m buying.”

  “Sure, why not?” Haim concealed the joy that suddenly enveloped him. “There’s a lot to tell.”

  “Shall we say seven in the lobby? There’s a nice café not far from here.”

  “Seven it is.”

  In the meantime, Gideon was engaged in a conversation with Dan, who brought him up to speed on the meeting with the Americans from the NSA and Swiss intelligence. He was pleased to hear that Dan had already linked up to the systems used for monitoring the financial activities of the Iranians and that they had already begun to yield a steady stream of data.

  “You gave a good presentation, Haim,” Gideon said, as Haim hurried to pack up his papers. “What would you say to a night on the town?”

  “No thanks, Gideon,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I think I’d prefer a quiet evening.”

  ***

  Dominique spoke in French to the courteous waiter about the dry white wine and pastry he had recommended ordering with their coffee. The conversation was incomprehensible to Haim, who focused on following her facial expressions.

  “To your health, General,” Dominique said, raising her glass.

  “To yours, Dominique,” Haim replied with a smile.

  “So, tell me, how did you end up on the task force? How does a combat general end up engaging in intelligence work and diplomacy?”

  “It’s a long story, Dominique,” Haim said with a sigh. “Are you sure you want to hear it?” The two glasses of wine he had already drunk had entered his bloodstream and visibly loosened him up.

  “I’d love to, even if it’s only a condensed version.”

  “Well, I was drafted into the paratroopers and went through grueling training. I also took part in combat operations during wartime. After I received command of my own company, I decided to join the career army and devote my life to the military.”

  “That sounds fascinating. Were you promoted to the rank of general relatively quickly?”

  “Yes, but it stopped there. After I finished commanding a paratroopers brigade, which is a position that ensures promotion to the rank of major general, my advancement was blocked…”

  “Why? What happened along the way?”

  “If you ask my wife, Zehavit, I didn’t assert myself enough and I didn’t cultivate enough connections with the military elite. She also says I should retire from the military and start earning real money, instead of the peanuts the IDF pays.”

  “I don’t understand. Just how low are the salaries of senior officers?”

  “It’s not the salary, Dominique. It’s my wife. Nothing is ever enough for her. We get into major arguments from time to time, and I’m sometimes glad when my assignments take me far from home.”

  “I can’t complain that my husband doesn’t make enough money, but that doesn’t mean I have no complaints.”

  “What do you have to complain about?” asked Haim, feeling increasingly uninhibited. “You hold a top position with the General Secretariat and possess beauty that would attract anyone with eyes in his head.”

  “Life’s not as rosy as it seems, mon chère.” She sighed. “My husband’s almost never home. He goes out of town or abroad quite often, and even when he’s here, he rarely stays home. He has a young lover whom he apparently finds more attractive than me. And at work, it’s a constant battle to maintain my position and status. Overall, it really wears me down.”

  “Your husband is a fool if he prefers some younger woman to you. I also noticed the looks you get from your boss, General de Villiers.”

  “Yes, you have a keen eye. It’s sometimes hard to simply ignore the efforts of officials who would like to get me into bed. But enough about me. Tell me about you. Are you ready to retire from the military? What do you want to do when you grow up? You know, independence in civilian life requires significant financial security.”

  “Personally, I’m ready to retire, Dominique, but the money they’ll pay me when I do is not enough to bank on.”

  “You know, there are other ways to make money—much more than you could ever imagine.”

  “Really? How?”

  “It all depends on you.”

  “I wouldn’t object to having a small fortune and no worries someday,” Haim said dreamily.

  “We’ll talk about it sometime,” Dominique promised.

  The second day of talks had ups and downs and was fraught with numerous obstacles and their ultimate resolution. Deutsch and Gideon helped Bernard traverse the minefield, which their hosts had planted along the path to close supervision of Iranian funds. Professor Bernard authorized Dan to share some of the confidential Iranian financial transfers that had been made in the past few days, which is what ultimately convinced the Swiss to withdraw their objection to the team’s request.

  After bidding adieu to their hosts, with warm words of gratitude and the director-general’s promise of an open line of communication, the members of the negotiating team remained at the table for a concluding session.

  “I suggest we set up a smaller contingent to maintain contact with the Swiss Department of Finance,” said Bernard. “What do you think about a three-member team: Madame Dominique de Saint-Germaine, Mr. John O’Connor, and General Haim Bar-Oz?”

  “I’d be happy to be on the committee,” Haim said, making eye contact with Dominique for the first time since the previous evening, and Dominique and O’Connor also agreed. Bernard congratulated the group on the successful conclusion of the talks and expressed confidence in coordinated and productive work with the Swiss aimed at blocking this channel of funding for Iranian procurement.

  Chapter 21

  Gideon felt at home back in Paris after the two days of marathon meetings with financial officials in Switzerland, and he was ready to dive into the immense amount of work that awaited them. He tried to repress his disappointment with what had happened in Zürich on a personal level. He had been hoping for a romantic evening with Dominique, but his new-old flame had vanished altogether. Haim was also nowhere to be found, and Gideon pointed this out to Dan as they sat in the hotel lobby to sum up their impressions of the talks. “This is something we should all be doing together, both for ourselves and in order to be better able to update our colleagues back home.”

  ***

  “I missed you on our last night in Zürich,” Gideon whispered to Dominique when they arrived for a meeting of the task force, soon after their return. “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Oh…yes. I was exhausted after two such intense days.”

  “We could also meet up here in Paris,” Gideon suggested.

  “Let’s talk about it at the end of the day.”

  All at once, the work required of her seemed overwhelming and confusing. General de Villiers had
called her into his office and requested an update on the talks in Zürich. He was pleased to hear that she had made progress with General Bar-Oz, and Dominique decided to make no mention of her romantic encounter with Gideon. She informed General de Villiers of Dan’s success in gaining access to confidential information using Israeli intelligence techniques. Gideon’s role had been primarily to provide useful guidance for the intelligence effort and an astute analysis of its findings. De Villiers, once again, laid out the task he had assigned her regarding technological intelligence and stressed the importance of acquiring information that the Israelis had refrained from sharing with others. When she finished her briefing, he followed her to the door, showering her with compliments about what she had achieved so far and attempting to show his appreciation in a physical manner. Dominique picked up her pace and slipped out the door before he could reach her, closing it softly but firmly behind her and leaving the general on the other side.

  Letting go of her frustration, she returned to the tasks at hand. During the time she had spent with Bar-Oz in Zürich, he had seemed eager and avaricious. She knew she needed to devote more time to the undertaking to reel him in once and for all. There was no doubt about the enthusiastic Israeli general’s romantic motivation. She also thought he had shown substantial interest in the financial bait she had cast. Should she move forward with him? Might it not be a clever Israeli trap? She did not know Haim well. If he was anything like Gideon, with his natural intelligence and caution, she would need to tread extremely carefully, step by step. She knew that Gideon possessed internal mechanisms of self-control that would prevent him from giving up any classified information, but there were also the emotional remnants of their love affair from long ago.

  Her tasks also included handling Dr. Kayghobadi, which she had been assigned by Professor Bernard. He was scheduled to come in today with new information about the local activities of the Guardians of the Revolution. A small room next to the conference room in the interior minister’s office had been designated for these classified meetings.

  ***

  “So, what do you have for us today, Kayghobadi?” she asked.

  Dr. Kayghobadi began his update as Dominique scribbled in her notepad. “There have been two important developments regarding procurement. One has to do with a large shipment of materials and parts for the long-range missile project and the centrifuge factory at the uranium enrichment site in Natanz.”

  “What exactly is about to happen?” asked Dominique.

  “I don’t have all the details, but I do know that the materials are being transported by plane, initially on an internal European flight to Portela Airport near Lisbon, and from there on an Air Iran flight to Tehran. It will apparently happen one week from now,” the informant explained.

  “You need to get us the rest of the information. We need to know where in Europe the flight will originate and the exact date and time of the flight from Portela to Iran.”

  “Yes, of course, Madame de Saint-Germaine. I’ll inform you as soon as I get it.”

  “It’s also important we know what they are smuggling and which of our companies are cooperating with them. And what’s the second development, Dr. Kayghobadi?”

  “My understanding of the second development is not as clear. It has something to do with a substance known as red mercury and a high-priority order to purchase a quantity of it as soon as possible. According to my information, the directive stressed that no expense should be spared in acquiring it.”

  “Who requested it? And who’s dealing with the purchase in Europe?” Dominique asked.

  “I’m sorry, but I still haven’t been able to get all the details,” Dr. Kayghobadi said. “I assume that your scientists are more qualified than I am to clarify the nature and uses of the substance. The order to acquire it at any expense, Madame de Saint-Germaine, appears to have been issued by senior officials within the Guardians’ technology division, perhaps by General Jamshidi himself. It is now being handled by their senior emissary in Berlin.”

  “Good work, Dr. Kayghobadi,” said Dominique. “We’ll look into the details of red mercury. You should continue filling in the blanks, and inform us when any new information comes your way.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  ***

  For the entire flight from Tehran to Schiphol Airport near Amsterdam, General Jamshidi remained deep in thought. He was traveling business class but refused the flight attendant’s offer of a beverage and passed up the lavish meal that Iran Air regularly served its more important passengers.

  The decision to pay a visit to Paris had been preceded by a period of great indecision. It was not the risk of his true identity being discovered that troubled him. The total transformation of his appearance by the Guardians’ makeup artists ensured that his cover would remain intact. He was worried about what he was leaving behind. He knew that the division would not function efficiently when he was out of the country, as Dr. Fakari had not yet established himself as a charismatic and authoritative leader. But more than anything, he was wary of his senior “colleagues” in the Guardians’ elite and the obstacles they would undoubtedly throw in the path of his staff when he was not in Tehran. He was particularly concerned that General Ja’afari might use his tremendous influence as commander of the Guardians to interfere in the management of his division. Nonetheless, to safeguard his independence and the reputation of his division, not to mention his own, he knew he had no choice but to go to Paris himself to oversee the effort to procure the special materials that now appeared to be so crucial to his division’s success.

  Jamshidi studied the small notepad that never left his possession. Its contents were written in a personal code he had learned from one of the young communication whizzes in his division. The list of issues to be dealt with was not long, but each posed a unique problem: 1) parts for the new missile’s steering mechanism, 2) avionic components, particularly a compact jet engine for the new large drone, 3) Kevlar fibers or carbon fibers for the new generation of uranium enrichment centrifuges, 4) clarifications regarding the mysterious substance known as red mercury, and 5) a meeting with the sleeper agent he had placed a few years ago, who had already started operating. And to deal with all of these issues, he had no more than two or three days.

  “That’s our car,” whispered Jamshidi’s assistant, motioning to an inconspicuous Peugeot 504 with French plates idling just outside the exit of the international arrivals terminal. “The driver is one of ours.”

  “Welcome,” the driver said in Persian as the two men slid into the back seat. “We’ll be driving directly to Paris. If you’d like, we can stop on the way to freshen up and get a light bite to eat.”

  “Thank you.” Jamshidi immediately took note of the skilled driving of the man behind the wheel. He knew that the driver was also the bodyguard that had been selected for him.

  “Europe has no internal borders these days,” the driver explained in response to an unasked question as they glided past the border marker between Holland and Belgium, on the way to France, without stopping.

  “Drive directly to Paris,” Jamshidi instructed. “We won’t be stopping on the way. We have a lot of work to do,” he explained to his assistant, who sat silently beside him. “I don’t want to waste time on anything unimportant.”

  “No problem, sir. The driver knows exactly where to go.”

  The Peugeot quickly traversed the more than five hundred kilometers between Amsterdam and Paris, affording its passengers a smooth and quiet ride. The driver, who looked like a true Frenchman, confidently navigated to the Périphérique, the ring road that encircles Paris, and from there made his way swiftly to Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie, a narrow, sleepy street in the city’s 4th Arrondissement. Three fashionable clothing stores, a nightclub, a restaurant, and two boulangeries displaying freshly baked bread and pastries were crammed onto the short street. Number eight looked l
ike the rest of the houses, with its four stories and huge wooden door. The driver knew the code, and the door opened to reveal a spacious internal courtyard that ended at a flight of stairs. Three quick knocks followed by a long pause and another knock caused the door on the third floor to open. Jamshidi and his assistant quickly entered, and the driver walked inside and closed the door behind them.

  “Welcome, sir!” Jamshidi was greeted by Farid Madani, the senior representative of the Guardians in Paris.

  “How are you, General Jamshidi?” asked Arash Jawad, who now joined Madani, extending his hand to the general.

  “I’m just fine,” said Jamshidi brusquely. “Enough with the pleasantries. We’re here to work, and there’s a lot to do. Where will we be meeting? Can we get started now?”

  “We’ll be meeting in the inner room, sir.” Madani led Jamshidi to the door. “It’s quiet, and there is no chance of anyone listening in on our conversations,” he promised, pulling out a chair for the general at the massive oak table that held a bowl teeming with a variety of fruits and a hammered copper tray bearing an assortment of Iranian sweets.

  “May I bring you some tea, sir?” Madani said quietly, not daring to look directly at the general.