When it was proposed that the persistent Westerner who knew the right people would have to journey to Beirut to meet with Iranian intelligence, Russ knew he could have balked. He could have asked for other arrangements, safer arrangements, to be made. Perhaps he could have gone to a third-party embassy or consulate in Denmark or Lithuania or Ukraine, maybe met agents there who would have then passed his message up the chain. Certainly, if his goal was to stay in character as Michael Harkin, there was no way in hell he would have come to Beirut.
But Russ thought a few moves ahead on the chessboard — he’d studied from a master, after all — so he agreed to the meeting. He was not Michael Harkin. In order for his “true” identity to be believed, he had to display confidence in his ability to travel anywhere in the world.
So here he was, sitting in front of Iranian intelligence in the center of the most dangerous part of Hezbollah-controlled Beirut.
With a relaxed smile on his face.
They offered him tea and he accepted; he’d spent enough time as a guest of Arabs and Persians to know how to behave.
They spoke in English. A little small talk began as he told them about his flight and the traffic from the airport; the conversation was completely driven by Russ and not the two wary men who wondered who the fuck this guy was and what the fuck this guy wanted.
Finally the older man said, “We were told by our colleagues in Tehran that a man who knew the right people and said the right things would be coming today. But we were warned that you have not given a credible reason as to why you chose to fly around the world and come here to talk to us. Something about computers, I understand?”
“I was vague, yes,” Russ acknowledged.
The younger of the two men — neither had offered his name — asked, “How can we be of service to an import/export consultant from Canada?”
Russ smiled. “I am not an import/export consultant from Canada.”
“Oh?” said the younger man with one raised bushy eyebrow.
“I can give you my real name.”
“You are not Michael Harkin? Do you realize you could be punished for applying for a Lebanese visa under a false identity?”
Russ laughed. Sitting on the sofa with his legs crossed now, he was the epitome of self-assuredness. “Do you want my name or not?”
“If you wish.”
Russ’s smile faded and he leaned forward a little. “My name is Courtland Gentry.”
TWENTY-TWO
The older man seemed unfazed, but the younger was not able to hide a reaction; his eyes widened just slightly, but he recovered. “Is that a name that should mean something to us?”
“If your organization is worth anything, then yes, it should mean quite a lot, in fact.”
The older man was genuinely confused; the younger turned to him and spoke low and fast in Farsi. Russ did not speak the language, but it, like Arabic, was a member of the Indo-European family of languages and he recognized the sound of it.
The older man asked his colleague for clarification, then turned to the American on the tattered sofa in front of him. With feigned nonchalance he reached for his tea and took a slow sip. “We are to believe that you are the Gray Man?”
“That name was given to me by others. There is nothing official to it.”
Both men looked incredulous, but the younger one said, “What is it that you want?”
“Your superiors at VEVAK have been pursuing a business relationship with me for some time. I wanted to discuss this with them, in person, but I did not want to just walk through the front door of an embassy. Your diplomatic buildings throughout the world are under surveillance by American intelligence, and I’d rather avoid our relationship coming to light. So I came through the back door, so to speak.”
Again the two men conferred for a moment in Farsi; Russ just watched them talk. They seemed to have no idea what to do, so he decided to help them out. “Gentlemen, I suggest you contact the highest-ranking member of your service you can get on the phone, and tell him I am here and ready to do business. They will send someone, someone who will verify my identity through whatever means VEVAK has to do so, and I will wait patiently until then.”
Without another word the younger of the two stood and headed out of the room, down a hall to the rear of the flat, pulling out his mobile phone as he walked. The older man sat in silence for a moment, then held up a finger to Russ, stood, and went into the hall. He left the door open as he conferred with the two security men standing there, and seconds later they entered, their jackets open and their eyes locked on the man on the couch. They took up positions near the doorway to the kitchen, some twenty feet away from where Russ sat.
Russ smiled at them and nodded, then turned to the older VEVAK officer. “I assure you, I am a friend.”
“Yes. I need you to wait, please.”
“Of course.”
“Would you like some more tea?”
“Love some.”
Russ Whitlock sat on the sofa alone for more than an hour. From the rear of the flat he heard conversation; it sounded like both VEVAK men were working telephones frantically, but neither popped his head out to let him know what was going on. The two security men in the living room were professionals; they did not even look directly at him but just stood there, doing their best to show themselves to be competent badasses who were ready for anything.
Russ passed the time brainstorming ways to kill them.
Finally there was a knock at the door. The guards looked concerned, but they did not move; it was the young intelligence officer who appeared from the back and opened it, then embraced the visitor, an attractive and well-groomed man in a blue double-breasted suit. He entered with a smile, car keys, sunglasses, and mobile phone in his hand, and he placed them on the counter by the kitchen with a delicate movement.
Russ could see instantly by the deference given to him that this man was the local power. Beirut was ground zero for Iranian intelligence outside Tehran, so Russ knew this man must be quite high on the food chain, indeed. Perhaps the local VEVAK assistant chief of station, Russ surmised, but he did not ask.
Russ stood to meet him, and they shook hands.
“My name is Ali Hussein.” This name was akin to John Smith in Iran, and Russ figured it was phony.
They shook hands. “Court Gentry.”
“That remains to be seen,” Ali said with a smile, and he held Whitlock’s hand for a long moment. The two men were close now, their faces a foot apart, and now Russ detected a hardness, a malevolence behind the polished veneer of nice clothes and nice manners. This man was no assistant station chief riding a desk for an intelligence agency. Instead, Russ determined very quickly that this man was Quds Force, a special unit of the Iranian Republican Guard tasked with exporting Iranian power around the world.
Ali Hussein was a dangerous hombre, indeed.
Good. This was the asshole Russ had come to see.
Ali and Russ sat down across from one another in the living room, and the Iranian retrieved a folded sheaf of papers from the breast pocket of his coat. “I have some information about the Gray Man. I am going to ask you some questions. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
Ali smiled. “I hope so.” He looked back to the kitchen just as the young VEVAK officer stepped out with tea on a tray.
“Mamnoon.” Thank you, he said, then returned his attention to the American across from him.