“Really, a castle? What kind of people belong?” Sir Dennis asked, sniffing the aroma of the single malt.
“You have to be a magician,” MacIntyre replied.
“Well, then, Sir Dennis certainly qualifies,” said a man MacIntyre had not noticed approaching.
“Russell MacIntyre, may I present the scoundrel Brian Douglas, from another clan, the SIS. Our man in Bahrain, on a brief trip home, is Brian,” Sir Dennis said, shaking hands and handing a glass to a man who looked twenty years younger and tanned. “I asked young Brian to drop by to meet you, as, from what Sol Rubenstein tells me about you, Russell, you and Brian have similar interests, including the three I’s — Iraq, Iran, and Islamyah. And Brian is about to become a traveler; I can say that to Russell, Brian, and he will not report it back to Langley or Foggy Bottom, will you, Russell?”
“He means I’m flying to Tehran under alias,” Douglas said softly over his Balvenie, looking uneasy.
“And who is it this time, just in case I read about you in the papers?” Sir Dennis persisted in pressing the younger man to reveal more than he appeared to be comfortable discussing.
“Ian Stuart, a South African rug dealer from Joburg. It’s a new legend, but well supported by our office there,” Douglas vamped, not wanting to tell the American the true cover, “and let’s hope you won’t be reading about me, at least not in the press.”
“Russell, Brian asked me something this morning that I couldn’t answer and thought you might,” Sir Dennis said, crossing his legs and turning toward the American. His manner was different now, brisker. “What was the Pentagon Under Secretary, Kashigian, doing at Christmas, meeting with the Rev Guards in Tehran? That’s not on the approved travel list for Defense officials, I would have thought. His legend was credible, Brian — an Armenian diplomat, was it not?”
Now Russell MacIntyre understood this meeting a bit more. It was a test on several levels. Could he be trusted not to report back to Washington that SIS was sending a senior officer into Iran under cover? Would he prove his bona fides by explaining a recent secret mission by a senior U.S. official, also to Tehran? The problem was, MacIntyre had not known about Ronald Kashigian’s going to Iran. Now he had to persuade his hosts of that without immediately appearing to be inconsequential.
“If Kashigian was in Iran at Christmas, I will tell you truthfully, I was not cleared to know that. Nor was Sol Rubenstein, I’m confident. Are you sure it was Kashigian and not really an Armenian diplomat?” MacIntyre said, trying to sound as honest as possible.
The two Brits looked at each other for a second. Sir Dennis nodded to Brian Douglas. “He flew in on a Pentagon Gulfstream, without markings,” Douglas said flatly. “His trip was arranged and coordinated by the U.S. defense attaché in Ankara.”
“Shit,” MacIntyre said, furrowing his brow. “Why would they— we — do that?”
“Precisely what we were wondering, Russell. Odd time to be doing an opening with the Persians, after forcing Old Europe to join in antinuclear sanctions just a few years ago,” Sir Dennis almost mumbled as he pushed back in his chair.
MacIntyre quickly replayed what had been said. “Wait a minute. The only way you could know this is if you’re tapping or spying on the U.S. defense attaché in Turkey. I thought we had an agreement in place that the U.K. and the U.S. didn’t spy on each other.”
“We don’t spy on America, Russell,” Sir Dennis said slowly. “As you do, we listen to others who sometimes report on what America is doing. Some such NSA reports do not always leave Fort Meade,” he added, referring to the Maryland headquarters of U.S. signals intelligence, the National Security Agency, “but they do get distributed to a few of us by our signals intelligence unit, GCHQ, which see everything NSA sees. It’s been that way since 1943.” Russell wondered who had the authority to tell NSA to sit on a report. Somebody evidently did.
“We’re convinced Iran is behind the hotel bombings in Bahrain, maybe even the hijacking of this LNG tanker, although those found on board were Iraqi of some sort,” Brian said quickly to MacIntyre. “I’m going back in there to rekindle a few embers quickly, because every bone in my body tells me the Iranians are up to something.
“The point is, MacIntyre, that if some people in Washington are talking to some people in Tehran, I would be at risk if anyone in Washington knew I was going in clandestinely.” Douglas spoke with his hand covering half of his mouth.
“So why tell me?” MacIntyre said, shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”
“We’re telling you this, Russell,” said Sir Dennis, “because Sol Rubenstein and I have been exchanging thoughts these last few months — very securely, of course — about our mutual concern that the Iranians are getting too assertive, exercising their mobile nuclear missile launchers, conducting amphibious maneuvers with tanks, enforcing their way in Baghdad, even inserting their people into the Iraqi government there under thin cover.
“And the situation in the Gulf is very fluid right now. Sol says you believe that we should not yet write off Islamyah, says you’re one of the only people in Washington to believe that, forcing old Sol to defend you with the Director of National Intelligence, SECDEF, and the White House crowd,” Sir Dennis went on, telling MacIntyre things that he had never heard from his boss.
“Well, we happen to agree with you, you see, despite some lower levels in Vauxhall Cross and elsewhere who may not. So this coincidental bumping into Mr. Douglas in the library at the Travellers is really an agent recruitment attempt of a sort.
“While Sol has you out of town cooling off, as it were, we thought we would place some intelligence collection requirements with you as a traveler. See if any of the U.S. diplomats or spooks or sailors in the Gulf will tell you more than we are getting out of them. See if some of the Bahrainis will open up to you, since your lot is paying much of their tab these days, not us anymore.”
Sir Dennis was no longer a pleasant, slightly distracted don. He had just revealed a personal transatlantic alliance with MacIntyre’s boss, Sol Rubenstein, that MacIntyre had not even guessed existed. He had also revealed that Rubenstein was spending time deflecting criticism of MacIntyre, without even letting the object of that criticism know about it.
Now Sir Dennis Penning-Smith revealed himself as a Brahmin executive, a tough, realistic British intellocrat. “What are the Iranians up to? Not that I doubt for a minute that Brian will reveal all upon his return from the Persian carpet stalls. How stable is Bahrain if the Iranian Rev Guards want to topple the King? If you’re right about the window of opportunity in Islamyah, what do we do with it? With whom do we speak? Who exactly is the Dr. Castro of this revolution in Islamyah? What do we say or do to prevent this Castro from becoming a nuisance now that his revolution has just succeeded, as it were? I don’t think we have much time before the window closes in Islamyah. If Douglas is right, we may not have time before the Iranians try something across the Gulf in Bahrain.” Sir Dennis rose and pulled a book off a shelf labeled only “By Members” and gave it to MacIntyre.
“It’s called Arabian Sands, written by a Traveller named Thesiger over half a century ago. Dressed up like a Bedouin, lived with them, loved the place. Laments the discovery of oil, says it ruined everything,” the JIC chairman said, apparently preparing to leave. “And I guess it did, too, unless, of course, you like to drive automobiles, fly aircraft, et cetera, et cetera.
“You two have a good bonding dinner downstairs. I am off to a dreadful dinner for my visiting Australian counterpart. Don’t worry about the book. I shall replace it.” With that, and with quick handshakes, he was gone, leaving the newly introduced Brian Douglas, Britain’s top spy in the Gulf, and Russell MacIntyre, the apparently controversial deputy director of America’s fledgling intelligence analysis agency, sitting amid the bookshelves with empty glasses.