Siro Page 11

  Anna had not realized, until these meetings with Dr. Marcus, the extent to which CIA operations were shaped by psychology. The more he talked, the more obvious it became that modern intelligence work was about understanding vulnerabilities and predispositions, about knowing how to spot the particular traits that made one person a perfect recruit and the other a walking disaster, and ultimately about using the positive and negative reinforcements that allow one human being to condition the behavior of another.

  “The Soviets teach their case officers that there are four methods of recruiting an agent,” Dr. Marcus had said one day. “They use an acronym: MISE. It stands for Money, Ideology, Sex, Ego. But the Soviets are wrong, Anna.”

  “Why?” Anna had asked. It sounded sensible enough. Money, ideology, sex and ego seemed as inescapable as the four points of the compass.

  “Because there is only one motivation that really matters, and that is ego. That is what leads someone to become a spy, to defect, to betray his country. He may rationalize it in other terms. He may see himself as serving a higher cause. Or he may be dreaming about all the money he’s been promised. Or he may think he wants to screw teenage girls in California for the rest of his life. But these are merely the conscious expressions of something deeper. Ideology is not a deep motive. It may be how an agent rationalizes his defection, but the real motivation is something more basic, involving response to authority.”

  Anna remembered the lecture almost word for word. And as she lay there in bed in her little flat in Notting Hill Gate thinking about what she would do the next day, she went back through Dr. Marcus’s advice the way a football player might review the play book in his mind the night before a big game.

  “There is a life cycle of treason,” Dr. Marcus had said. “Have you ever read Passages?”

  Anna nodded. Everybody had read Passages.

  “Then you know a lot about how to recruit an agent, because the same factors are at work. I’ve looked at the cases of dozens of spies and defectors, and I’ve found that the ripest time for someone to commit treason is when he’s in his late thirties to mid-forties. The time when he’s hitting mid-career and mid-marriage and taking stock. It’s a passage, of sorts.”

  “So treason is the ultimate mid-life crisis,” Anna joked. But Dr. Marcus didn’t laugh. She had it exactly right. Treason was the ultimate mid-life crisis.

  “If you spot a man who is doing well in his career,” Dr. Marcus continued, “who’s happily married and doesn’t seem to be having any mid-life anxieties, he’s probably not a likely target for recruitment. Treason happens when a man is frustrated. His ego is blocked. He decides he hasn’t accomplished all he had hoped to in one system, so he chooses another.”

  “How can you tell if someone is ready to jump?” Anna had asked.

  “You look for the indicators of mid-life blockage. A marriage that isn’t working. A career that isn’t rising as fast as it should. When you spot someone with those characteristics, you look more closely and try to find out what makes him tick, what he really wants out of life. Then you try to give it to him.”

  “How?”

  “In whatever ways you can think of. The Soviets once recruited a Swedish military officer who was angry that he hadn’t been promoted to colonel. The first thing they did when they had him on the line was to hold an elaborate secret ceremony where they made him a general in the KGB and gave him a medal. You do whatever it takes. Medals, plaques, testimonials. Whatever the ego craves. The point is to answer, in the mirror relationship you are creating, the particular need that is not being met in the man’s ordinary life.”

  “But how do you know who will make a good agent?” Anna had wondered.

  “You don’t,” the psychiatrist answered. “But you can make some good guesses. Treason is about rejecting authority, so you obviously need someone who is prepared to do that. But the particular form the rejection takes is extremely important, in operational terms.

  “Some people want to confront authority directly. An extreme case is someone like Solzhenitsyn, who hates the system and wants to tell the world about it, regardless of the risks. That sort of person is very brave and admirable, and might make a good novelist. But he’d make a lousy intelligence agent, because he’d be so obvious.”

  So much for recruiting Solzhenitsyn.

  “Then there’s the sort of person who wants to break with authority, but who isn’t quite so bombastic. Someone who would leave his wife or quit his job if he was unhappy. He’ll be a good defector—he wants out—but a lousy agent in place.”

  “What kind of person makes a good agent in place?” Anna asked.

  “Here’s a hint. Consider two men, both with bad marriages. One has noisy fights all the time. The other is completely calm on the surface, doesn’t tell a soul about his problems, but in secret is seeing a mistress. That man is your candidate for agent in place. He is showing you an ability to live with contradiction and a capacity for split loyalty.”

  “He sounds like a dreadful person.”

  “Perhaps, but in our game, he’s your man.”

  13

  Anna’s first thought when she saw Ali Ascari enter the restaurant was: What an ugly little man! He was short and stocky, with a big nose and bulging eyes that darted back and forth as he scanned the room. And he was very hairy—covered with hair, in fact—from his bristly black beard to the backs of his hirsute hands. It was a relief in some ways that he was so ugly. Anna had been half afraid that he would be a suave Omar Sharif type with bedroom eyes.

  Ascari approached the quiet corner table where Anna and SDFIBBER were sitting. He gave SDFIBBER a big hello, kissed him on both cheeks, and then turned to Anna. He was wobbling his head slightly and rustling his bottom like a preening pigeon. SDFIBBER made the introduction, using false names, according to instructions.

  “This is my friend who I mentioned to you on the phone, Allison James. She’s a banker.”

  “Hello, miss,” said Ascari.

  “How do you do,” said Anna, extending her hand. Ascari’s eyes, she noticed, were no longer meeting hers. He was looking at her chest. She moved her purse under her arm to partially block his view.

  “Mr. Farduz tells me you are interested in Iran,” said Ascari as he sat down next to Anna on the banquette, head still wobbling slightly.

  “Yes,” said Anna. “Very interested. We represent several large clients who have substantial interests in the Middle East. We’re looking for new business. Economic development. Especially now, with oil prices rising and development plans likely to change.”

  “Um-hum,” said Ascari, taking out his worry beads. He didn’t seem to be listening.

  “And loans,” Anna continued. “Some of our clients are commercial banks.”

  “That’s nice,” said Ascari. “Mr. Farduz didn’t tell me you were so pretty.”

  “Thank you,” said Anna courteously.

  Ascari turned to SDFIBBER and rattled off something in Farsi. Anna strained to listen to the conversation and, as she caught the drift of it, her temperature rose.

  “Look at that ass!” said Ascari.

  “And those long legs,” said SDFIBBER.

  Anna bit her tongue.

  “Her breasts are nice,” continued Ascari. “Not too big, but nice.”

  That’s enough, thought Anna. She cleared her throat and spoke carefully, in Farsi.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said, “but be careful what you say. You wouldn’t want to insult a lady.”

  There was a great commotion of embarrassment and apologies, mostly from SDFIBBER, who looked worried that Anna might do something to cut his retainer. They ordered drinks. Ascari, despite his mullah’s beard, requested a gin and tonic. SDFIBBER tried to be charming. He passed along the latest gossip about the Shah. The Empress Farah, it seemed, wasn’t liking exile in Morocco. She wanted to move on, to the United States. And the Shah’s sister, the harlot! She was in Paris, entertaining all comers and spending money by the barr
el. He went on like this for nearly thirty minutes of singsong chitchat. Ascari mostly stared at Anna and played with his worry beads.

  Eventually SDFIBBER looked at his watch.

  “What a nuisance!” he said. “I am sorry, but I must go.”

  “No,” said Anna firmly. “You should stay.”

  “I am sorry,” said SDFIBBER. “But truly I must go. I have an appointment. Why don’t you two stay and talk. About Iran.”

  “Can’t your appointment wait?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Perhaps I should go, too,” said Anna, looking at her watch, trying to think what proper tradecraft would dictate. What would an investment banker eager for business with Iran do? Stay, of course. But what would the same investment banker do if the client was ogling her tits? She rose from her chair.

  “Stay,” said SDFIBBER.

  “Please stay,” said Ascari. “There are some things I would like to tell you. About Iran.” He looked serious. His head wasn’t wobbling.

  Anna slid slowly back into the chair.

  “Good!” said SDFIBBER. “I’ll leave the two of you to talk, then. Goodbye!” He shook hands with Anna, kissed Ascari three times, and headed for the door. Watching him leave, Anna made a mental note to do what she could to make life miserable for SDFIBBER.

  When they were alone, Ascari turned to Anna with a look of great seriousness. He spoke in the nasally voice that Iranians seem to have in any language.

  “Are you from CIA, lady?”

  Anna sat up straight in her chair. Careful now. Nice and natural.

  “No,” she said. “I told you. I’m an investment banker. We’re interested in doing business with Iran.”

  “You are not from CIA?”

  “No.” She had recovered her balance enough to try a little laugh. “How silly. What makes you think that?”

  “You are not from CIA.” He said it this time as a statement of fact.

  “No,” she repeated.

  “That is big disappointment for me,” he said. “Very big.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to contact CIA. I have important things to tell them about Iran. I have been trying for three weeks, ever since Shah leave. I call embassy. I leave messages. No answer. So I thought maybe they send you.”

  He did look very disappointed. He was frowning and popping his worry beads back and forth on their string. Anna thought a moment. She couldn’t remember anything in training that covered this situation. In fact, she couldn’t remember anything in training that would apply to any aspect of this encounter. One thing did seem obvious, however. The goal in meeting Ascari was to find out what he had to say.

  “Mr. Ascari …” said Anna, pausing.

  “Yes, lady,” he answered glumly.

  “I do know a few people at the embassy. Would that help? Maybe I could pass your information along to them.”

  “You know embassy people?”

  Anna nodded. “Yes. A few people. They’re social friends.”

  “And these people, are they CIA?”

  “I don’t know,” said Anna. “But it’s all the same thing in the embassy, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, maybe so. Okay. Let’s talk.” As he said this, Ascari smiled and put his hand on Anna’s knee. She pushed it away but said nothing, pretending it hadn’t happened.

  “Okay, miss,” he said. “We talk about Iran. Then you tell your friends in embassy. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I work with Khomeini people. Security people. Spy people. You get me?”

  Anna was about to say yes when it occurred to her that she didn’t, in fact, understand him. “No,” she said, “I don’t get you.”

  “What is the problem?”

  “How can Khomeini have spies?” she asked quietly. “He just returned to Iran.”

  Ascari rolled his eyes and clucked his tongue. “Of course he has spies! What you think he been doing all these years? Just reading Koran?”

  “You needn’t talk so loud,” said Anna. She looked around the restaurant. Nobody seemed to be eavesdropping, but you never knew. “Maybe it would be better to speak in Farsi,” she said.

  “No. English okay,” said Ascari. “No problem.” He seemed uncomfortable at the thought of an American woman speaking his language.

  “Fine. Go ahead.”

  “So I work for Khomeini people. But I work for me, too. And I thought maybe Americans would like to meet a Khomeini man like me now. Because Americans only know Shah man, and they are finish. But I know things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “I know some big terrorists work for Khomeini. They train with PLO men in Lebanon. They train with Syrian moukhabarat. They train with Russians. I know who they are.”

  “Um-hum,” said Anna.

  “You tell embassy that, okay?”

  Anna nodded.

  “I know who these big terrorists are. I know where they have training camps. Exact location. Maybe I find out some of their plans, too. Who knows. What you think of that, lady?”

  “I’m sure the embassy would be very interested.”

  Ascari smiled. He put his hand on Anna’s leg again, this time higher up the thigh. He seemed to be giving himself a reward for the information he had just provided. Anna pushed his hand away again, more forcefully.

  “Keep talking,” she said. “And stop touching me.”

  “Okay. Okay. I tell you something interesting. Next month Khomeini men will send out their own spies to Iran embassy in London, in Paris, in Brussels. Very dangerous, these men. But easy to spot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they all have beards!”

  Anna smiled. She couldn’t tell if he was joking.

  Ascari wagged his finger at her. “Hey, lady. This is serious. You tell your friends at embassy to watch out for beards!”

  Anna’s smile vanished. “Right,” she said. “Who else is Khomeini sending out?”

  “He is sending men to buy guns. Arms dealers! One of them is my friend. His sister married to the brother of my sister’s husband. He is the leader.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “You tell embassy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hussein Madaressi.”

  “Hussein Madaressi,” repeated Anna, committing the name to memory.

  “You have beautiful eyes,” said Ascari.

  Anna ignored him. “What else should I tell them at the embassy?”

  “That’s enough. What, you think I do this for free? You tell them what I told you. I know lot more things. Too many things. Big things. This is free sample. If they want to talk to me, they can contact me.”

  “How?”

  “Here, come with me. I show you where I live.” He took her hand and tried to pull her to her feet.

  “Just give me the address,” said Anna. “And the telephone number.”

  Ascari wrote the information out on a piece of paper. Cover, Anna reminded herself. “What about the Iranian economy?” she asked earnestly as Ascari was writing. “What can you tell me that would be useful for my bank?”

  “I don’t know economy,” said Ascari. He looked bored again.

  “How many of the Shah’s big projects do you think the new government will continue?”

  “I don’t know economy,” repeated the Iranian. He was staring at Anna’s breasts.

  “What about oil? How high do you think prices will go?”

  “Hey, lady! You asking wrong man. How should Ali Ascari know what will happen to oil price?”

  “It’s very important to my bank.”

  “Hmmm,” said Ascari, putting his hand on Anna’s knee once more and stroking it. “I don’t know. But maybe I could find out for you.”

  This time Anna slapped his hand and stood up. “That’s enough,” she said. “It’s time for me to go. Waiter!” She called for the check.

  “I pay,” said the Iranian.

  “Waiter!”

  “S
hhh,” he said, “I tell you, I pay.”

  “All right,” said Anna. At this point, she simply wanted out. “Thank you very much.”

  “Your friends will call me, okay?”

  “Goodbye,” said Anna. She didn’t bother to shake his hand.

  What a loathsome little man! thought Anna as she walked out of the restaurant and into the gray chill of the London winter afternoon. What a vile toad of a man!

  Anna returned to the safe house at Stoke Newington that evening. The milkmen were home. Their vans were parked on the street. She had calmed down considerably from that afternoon. In fact, she had decided to omit references to Ascari’s appalling sexual behavior from her account of the meeting. It would only make her sound petty and bitchy, unable to control a prospective agent. She didn’t want to get a reputation in her first month on the job as a whiner. Besides, Anna decided, if what Ascari said was true, he might be worth the trouble.

  Anna summarized for Howard the main points of information that Ascari had passed along. The reference to Iranian terrorists and training camps. The warning that Khomeini’s operatives would be arriving at European embassies in March. The identification, by name, of the man who would be buying arms for Khomeini.

  “Not bad,” said Howard. Anna suspected that, from him, that was a rave. “How’d you get him to tell you all this?”

  Anna explained her little ploy about “friends at the embassy.” Howard rolled his eyes.

  “Not great,” he said. “But not awful.”

  “I couldn’t think of anything else.”

  “Does he believe that you’re really a banker?”

  “I think so,” said Anna, remembering the feel of his hand on her knee.

  “Good. At least your cover is intact, more or less. Which is important, because we don’t want direct USG contact with this guy yet. We don’t want Khomeini to think we’re looking up his asshole. Pardon my French.”

  “Forget it,” said Anna.

  “What kind of guy is Ascari anyway?”

  “A jerk.”