“Maybe, but they still lend their operatives out to other regional militant and terrorist groups all the time — Afghan and Pakistani Taliban, al-Qaeda, Haqqani Network, Hezbi Islami, take your pick — for the occasional bombing or assassination. Outsourcing terrorism. Anyone of them would love to get their hands on one of our station chiefs.”
“And that may be the full extent of IMU involvement here,” Avery conceded. “You said yourself that Babayev is a freelancer, a mercenary. The operations against your network were the work of professional intelligence operators. Maybe IMU assets were used or involved as smokescreen or to provide muscle, but it was at the direction of another player. I think we’re looking at a false flag op.”
“Iran?” asked Gerald. “We’ve investigated links between Babayev and Qods Force. We know they’ve met on at least two occasions within the last six months.”
“Possibly,” Avery said. “The Iranians are capable and have the resources.”
Iran was also known to covertly meddle in the affairs of the poor, unstable Central Asian republics, having previously launched a terrorist campaign to undermine the government in Azerbaijan, and maintained ties to a wide variety of terrorist groups around the globe. Iranian intelligence also maintained an active presence in Tajikistan.
“Frankly, it’s not worth the time discussing it until we learn more. Otherwise, it’s just speculation, conjecture, wasting time, and I’m not here for that. I’ll leave that to the analysts.”
“Hey, I was originally an analyst,” Gerald said defensively. “After Georgetown I started out in the Directorate of Intelligence, Near East Division. Then someone discovered I spoke Farsi and Pashtu like a native. There was a shortage of fluent speakers on the Operations side, so they put me through the Farm and sent me to Kabul as an interpreter. So here I am.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, what are you going to do from here?”
“The first thing I need is my own safe house. No way am I working out of the embassy.”
“Sideshow has already established a safe house.”
“Sideshow?” asked Avery.
“Codename for your back-up from the Point.” The designation for Poacher’s team changed with each deployment, and this was the first Avery heard of their current cryptonym. “They’re here on Canadian passports, and GKNB doesn’t give a shit about Canadians, especially if they’re writers and photojournalists researching a travel book on the Stans.”
That would work. Avery wanted to stay close to Poacher’s team in case he needed them.
“I can provide you with a vehicle and security escort,” Gerald offered.
“Like the shiny black tank with USG plates that picked me up from the airport? I’ll pass. I’d like to not have Ghazan’s goons watching my every move or give the IMU an easy target.”
“I’m sure we can arrange for more discrete transportation,” Gerald said.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“What about the security officer?”
Avery frowned. “What about the security officer?”
“New order from the director’s office. No Agency personnel are to leave the embassy or travel anywhere in the country without an armed security escort until further notice.”
“Yeah, see, I don’t go in for that kind of stupid shit.”
Avery had been in Iraq at the height of the insurgency war. Case officers meeting and recruiting agents travelled in Hummvees with an entourage of bodyguards in flak vests carrying assault rifles, sometimes with a helicopter escort if they were going into a really bad part of town. As a result, insurgents easily identified Iraqis collaborating with the American-led occupation.
“You may not have a choice,” Gerald said. “DCM and RSO want to meet with you to discuss your assignment here before you undertake any action.”
The deputy chief of mission was the second-in-command at the embassy, after the ambassador. And the ambassador was the president’s personally appointed representative and had authority over all US Government employees in the country, including CIA officers. The regional security officer came from the State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service and was the senior most law enforcement officer in the country.
Avery had no intention of speaking with either one. They would try to put him in his place, as they saw it, and control him, try to shoot him down before he even got off the ground, the way they likely did with any CIA officers on their turf. He was just surprised that they’d already been tipped off about his arrival.
Gerald seemed to read his thoughts. “Hey, I didn’t say anything, but it’s a small post, you know. Word gets around fast.”
“Yeah,” Avery said. “You think maybe that’s why we’re in this mess in the first place?”
SIX
Getting around the GKNB watchers didn’t prove to be terribly difficult, but it still cost valuable time. When Avery asked Gerald if the station had a JIB, he wasn’t surprised by the younger officer’s befuddled expression. Avery knew CIA’s Directorate of Science and Technology made its own jack-in-the-box and provided them to stations where officers were likely to encounter heavy surveillance from a hostile agency.
The CIA-manufactured version of a jack-in-the-box is a two dimensional cut-out of a man or woman’s upper torso and head that fits into a medium-sized briefcase and could be quickly erected inside a car. From a distance, it looked like a passenger. The purpose of a JIB was to allow someone to slip out of a car while in transit, so that the watchers won’t notice a missing head in the car.
But Dushanbe station didn’t have a JIB, so Avery improvised. Following a walk through the embassy, he was able to procure various odds-and-ends to assemble his own custom-made JIB. These items included a toilet plunger, wire coat hangers, packing tape, and glue, plus various articles of clothing from Gerald’s cooperative and amused colleagues.
The station kept various accessories for disguises, including a wig roughly matching the color and shade of Avery’s black hair. He trimmed the wig down to match his own close buzz-cut and used the scraps to shape together a short, unkempt looking beard. He assembled these hairpieces around a white balloon, which would serve as the head.
It didn’t matter that Avery’s decoy didn’t exactly look like a human being. It had the general appearance of one matching his description. Plus the GKNB watchers would be observing from a distance, and the Forerunner’s tinted windows would further help conceal his JIB.
Next, Avery sat down in the embassy’s Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility, or SCIF, literally a room within a room, with Gerald Rashid, an ops officer named Darren, and two marines from the security detail. Avery laid out what they needed to do.
They looked over a street map of Dushanbe and discussed what routes to take and where best to make the slip. Darren’s input was especially valuable here, as he knew the streets, traffic patterns, and layout of the city. However, this became overly confusing, because most Dushanbe streets do not have names. To navigate Dushanbe, you went by landmarks, not streets.
The biggest hurdle was going to be Avery’s equipment. He could easily take his backpack and duffel bag with him, but his two cases of gear would be cumbersome and potentially slow him down or even blow the whole maneuver. So these would be dropped off at a secondary location and quickly retrieved by one of Sideshow’s operators.