The Iran Deception

THE IRAN DECEPTION

Tony McManus

Copyright 2012 Tony McManus

Smashwords Edition

Ridge-Way Publications

1181 rue d’ Entremonts

Ste. Adele, Quebec J8B 2T7

Canada.

Website: www.Ridge-WayPublications.com

E-mail: downeastern@hotmail.com

A NOTE TO THE READER

This book is copyrighted by Anthony McManus. No portion of this book may be re-printed or re-produced in any way without the express permission of the author.

All contents of this book © 2012 To Anthony McManus. All rights reserved.

Purchase of this book entitles the buyer to keep one copy on his or her computer and to print out one copy only. Printing out more than one copy - or distributing it electronically – is prohibited by international and USA copyright laws and treaties and would subject the purchaser to penalties of $100,000 PER COPY distributed.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

The Iran Deception

The Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

THE IRAN DECEPTION

Tautly narrated in a terse, laconic style, The Iran Deception takes us into the seedy, pitiless world of international espionage, intrigue and betrayal.

A series of events leave Israel vilified and beleaguered. Long threatened from without, she now faces her greatest threat: from within.

Spymaster, David Zamir, determined to discover who Israel’s enemies are and destroy them, develops a plan that must succeed. Deploying disgraced Mossad Officer, Michael Eitan, he risks losing Israel’s greatest military secret.

Eitan, desperate, torn between two lovely women, seeks redemption by playing for high stakes with limited time. But the odds are stacked against him and time is running out.

THE AUTHOR

Tony McManus was born in Manchester, England. Apart from travelling the world, he pursues fitness and health, loves wilderness camping, canoeing, sea kayaking, cross country skiing and snowshoeing. He lives alternately in a log home in Quebec, Canada and in a country guesthouse in Chiang Mai, Thailand. Though he has been writing for many years on a variety of subjects, this is his first novel.

For Su

All warfare is based on deception.

Sun Tzu: The Art of War

By way of deception thou shalt do war.

Mossad motto

All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes, to make it possible.

T. E. Lawrence, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom

British soldier (1888 - 1935)

1

THEY CAME FOR RILEY IN the early evening and took him from his cell. Two men, unshaven, in blue denims and bright summer shirts, moved him through a maze of corridors and security doors to a room at the end of a short passageway. There were no windows in the room and the only illumination came from a lamp suspended above a steel, flat top desk. There was no ventilation and the air was dense with cigarette smoke.

A man sat behind the desk, studying Riley with an expression of such piercing curiosity that Riley felt transparent. On the table, lay a dark blue folder, a crumpled pack of cigarettes and an ashtray. The man took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaling deeply. He exhaled slowly and crushed the butt into the ashtray. Sit down, Mister Riley, he said.

Riley did so, leaning as far back as he could, out of the heat and glare of the lamp. The man put on reading glasses and opened the folder. My name is Dayan, he spoke softly without lifting his eyes of the page. No relation to the illustrious Moshe, but no less a warrior in my own right.

Riley made no reply. He peered into the darkness beyond the fierce light. The room was small and square with walls that seemed to have been constructed out of the peculiar white stone that he had observed in outcroppings in the arid hills of Judea around Jerusalem. It was, he thought, a room designed with interrogation in mind: a dead room, cold and silent. His gaze returned to Dayan. The Israeli was lean and muscular and looked at ease. He decided that Dayan could be very tough should the occasion require it.

Dayan finished reading, closed the folder and removed his glasses. Interesting, he smiled at Riley. Do you remember me?

No. Should I?

I’d be very surprised if you did, considering the state of mind you must have been in at the time. It was the time of your arrest. I was one of several: in at the kill as they say. You’ve lost a lot of weight, Mister Riley.

Yes, I have. Almost forty pounds.

Then you must feel a lot fitter than when you first came to Ramla.

I do as a matter of fact. I exercise regularly.

Dayan’s eyes widened and he grinned, revealing fine, well-spaced teeth. So, your incarceration has not been without its benefits?

It cost me enough.

You mean eight years lost liberty?

That, and the loss of my wife and daughter, my home, career. Things like that.

But these are the wages of espionage Mister Riley. You were found in illegal possession of top secret documents. And spies who get caught must expect to be punished. We were in fact lenient with you. You betrayed our trust, to say nothing of our hospitality. He looked carefully at Riley. Are you bitter? he asked.

Bitter? Oh, No. No, I learned long ago that bitterness merely consumes the vessel that contains it.

Dayan leaned back in his chair, smiling broadly, his hands clasped behind his head. Very wise, he said. And very philosophical. You also learned Hebrew, I understand. Fluently?

Yes, and Arabic.

The Israeli selected a fresh cigarette and offered the pack to Riley who declined. "You don’t smoke?

No.

Amazing. Twelve years in Israel, eight of them in jail, and you don’t smoke. Dayan blew rings at the light bulb. The great Israeli habit and you didn’t acquire it. I acquired it in the Israeli Defense Force: most Israelis do. We are the world’s greatest smokers. Did you know that? When Riley made no reply, Dayan continued. I think it’s because the profession of arms demands such long periods of training and preparation, much of it quite boring. But it’s the long days, waiting at some lonely desert outpost in battle array that gets to you. So you learn to smoke. And since all Israelis must serve in the I.D.F. they all must endure that boredom. So, they smoke.

That seems to be a very wise and philosophical explanation, Riley’s voice held a tired note and was heavy with sarcasm.

Dayan hunched forward over the table. He looked directly at Riley, searching his eyes. Mister Riley. Tomorrow, in the morning, you will be released from Ramla, that you know. You will, of course, be immediately deported back to Britain. I’m sure that you’re aware of that.

Yes, I am.

Good. Now, is there anything that you would like to tell me? Something that perhaps burdens you?

No.

Are you sure? Dayan’s fingers drummed a light rhythm on the desk top. Israel was good to you. You were made welcome. You were trusted. We made no restrictions on your movements. Would you not agree with me that Israel treated you well?

Yes. Yes, I do agree.

Then why not make a clean breast of it and go home with a clear conscience. Give me all the information you can recall. I want names, names of people, organizations, anything. These people used and betrayed you and left you to rot here in Ramla. Tell me of them. Tell me for your own safety’s sake and we’ll deal with them. If for nothing else, tell me for your peace of mind. You’ll feel much better.

Riley said nothing. Dayan smoked in silence for a while and appeared deep in thought. When he spoke his voice carried a sympathetic tone. You may, of course, have done it simply for money. We can understand that; it’s a human failing. A man can be tempted if he needs money and has access to things that others want and are prepared to pay for. So, you’ve been punished, but you didn’t complain. You accepted it. I’m told you were a model prisoner.

Riley sighed softly. Mister Dayan, I worked for no one. Neither individuals nor any organization. I did not betray my position of trust. I can only reiterate what I said at my trial. I was a victim of the scheming of others, and Israeli zeal.

We need to be zealous, Mister Riley, Dayan snapped. How do you explain the evidence found hidden in your car?

I can’t.

What about your meeting in Cyprus with those Arab terrorist characters?

It wasn’t a meeting. They were friends who happened to be Arabs. I had many Arab friends. We never discussed politics; I’m not very political. Their political beliefs were their concern.

Dayan laughed. "Some friends Mister Riley. All four had form, as your British police put it. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, picked up the folder and dropped it into an open attaché case beside the desk. Let us not waste any more time, he said, checking his watch. Tomorrow, at this time, you’ll be in London, drinking English beer no doubt. In the meantime, if you feel a need to talk, ask for me and I will come. Good bye."

In his cell, Riley sat at a small table and composed a long letter addressed to his daughter. He wrote carefully in a neat draughtsman’s hand. When he had finished, he read it through and placed it in an envelope, but did not seal it, knowing it would be opened and read before his release. He took a small, leather bound, Bible from a row of books at the back of the table and, using his pen, pushed a tightly rolled wad of paper out from inside the spine. It was a newspaper cutting which he unrolled and pinned it to the table with his fingers and read slowly, as if for the first time:

BRITON JAILED

Jerusalem (AP)

British aeronautics engineer, Ivor Toby Riley, was sentenced to ten years imprisonment by an Israeli court here today. He had been found guilty of espionage by the same court last week after a short, but dramatic, trial. Riley, who had fired his Israeli lawyer and conducted his own defense, had pleaded not guilty despite the overwhelming evidence against him. He had been arrested after hundreds of classified drawings and documents were found hidden behind the door panels of his car. At the time of his arrest, he had been about to leave Israel after completing a freelance contract on a defense project.

Riley screwed the paper into a ball and tossed it into a waste bin by the table. He slept poorly that last night in Ramla and rose at four a.m. After bathing at the wash basin in the corner of his cell, he put on the civilian clothes he had been given the night before: a pair of gray wool trousers and a blue, short sleeved cotton shirt. He sat down at his table and began reading a volume of Somerset Maugham’s short stories. He was still reading at six when pale shafts of light began to penetrate the high window of his cell, and he heard the jangle of keys and the opening of his cell door.

IN ANOTHER CELL, IN AN isolated wing of the jail, a prisoner sat on the corner of a desk by a window and watched the sun rise over a low hill that curved like the hull of a submarine. Though barred, the wide window offered a clear view of the land beyond the jail walls. In sandals, blue denims and a loose grey flannel work shirt, the man was of medium height, heavy set and firmly muscled with a slight inclination to fat around the middle.

The cell was big with the amenities of an apartment, a separate bedroom, a compact bathroom with shower and toilet and an alcove which contained a fully equipped kitchen. A television and stereo sound system sat in the center of a bookcase and beside it a small Yamaha piano keyboard was surrounded by scattered piles of sheet music. The pleasant quietness was disturbed only by the subdued hum of an air conditioner. Apart from the barred window, the only incongruity was the smooth face of the steel door, painted gray and flush with the wall.

When the sun was clear of the land, he sat down turned on the desk light and pored over a map of the south western coast of Iran. At the same time, using a magnifying glass, he examined high resolution aerial photographs of the coastline and, from time to time, made notes on a pad. By eight a.m. he had finished. He put the map and the photographs in a briefcase. He packed a small hold all and put on a wind cheater returned to his desk and was reading the previous day’s Jerusalem Post when he heard a jangle of keys and his cell door opened. A uniformed guard entered, smiling broadly. Good morning, Colonel, he said. Your escort is here. And for the first time in a month Michael Eitan walked free from his cell.

AT TEN THIRTY THAT MORNING, flight LY5317, El AL’s scheduled flight from Tel Aviv to London, was on time. Having counted the seated passengers three times, the cabin crew compared the count with the figures on the flight manifest and the baggage list; the numbers correlated and the attendants took their seats.

In seat A.64, Riley gazed out along the leading edge of the port wing as the aircraft rolled toward the takeoff point. He pondered on the strangeness of a penal system that having detained him in the strictest security for so long could dismiss him so quickly. Within fifteen minutes of leaving his cell, he had passed through the gates of Ramla on his way to Ben Gurion International Airport in the back of a police wagon.

After take off, the Boeing 747-400 turned to port, banked hard against the atmosphere and climbed North West. Riley watched the land fall away. Below the wingtip he could see the azure sheen of the Mediterranean and the sharp surf line of the beach at Tel Aviv. He turned away and closed his eyes. He felt suddenly drained and exhausted. At altitude, he decided, he would order a cold beer, his first in a very long time. Then he would sleep.

2

THE LOCKHEED C. 130 HERCULES turned hard to port and leveled off. The whine of the turboprops switched to a deeper resonance as power was reduced and the pitch blade refined. Michael Eitan awoke and the old fears returned. He stretched out his right leg which had gone numb, and eased his seat belt. Beside him Eli Zur sat in broody silence. At the rear of the aircraft, two men slept alongside a square wooden crate covered in sand colored webbing. The engine note changed again and the plane slowed and lost altitude. A crackle of radio static emitted from the speaker by the jump door and the jump master stood up. It’s time, he called and went aft to rouse the sleeping men. Eitan came to his feet, stretched and attached his parachute rip cord to the guide wire that ran along the roof. He gave the line a sharp tug to ensure the connection. The men by the crate strapped on body harness that was anchored by long lines to the floor. The jump master opened the door of a metal control box above his seat and turned a key; a motor whined, and, with a hydraulic hiss, the sloping floor descended as the massive aft door opened. The men in harness eased the crate onto the floor rollers and pushed it effortlessly toward the opening. They connected the ripcords of four parachutes that sat on the crate’s topsides to the static line. The jump master opened the door beside his seat. Let’s go, he said.

The men with the crate leaned hard and ran to the limit of their tethers and the crate shot out into the night. Simultaneously, Zur rolled out through the jump door. Eitan quickly followed, gripping the cold edge of the doorway and with a quick, deep breath, dived through the violent turbulence of the prop wash and down until the arresting tug of his harness told him it was over. It was his ninety-second jump and had felt like his first, but then, they all had. The aircraft turned west and droned away into the night.

Eitan’s fear of the jump was visceral: he’d never got used to it. He peered down through the blackness and caught the sharp scent of the sea and was thinking how pleasant a beach landing would be when the dark mass rushed up to him. He hit the ground firmly, his knees buckling beneath him, and he rolled in the direction of his drift, his parachute tumbling before him in a tangled heap. He was on the beach, two hundred meters from the surf line. Releasing his harness he gathered up his parachute, un-clipped a small transceiver from his belt and adjusted the dials, turning slowly until a clear hollow echo was emitted. He walked up the beach in the direction of the signal until he found the crate. It was perched on a rock above the beach, its four parachutes fluttering in a gusting breeze. He switched the transceiver to transmit and sat down and watched the white line of the breaking surf, the hot desert wind on his back.

After ten minutes, Zur arrived, his boots crunching across the loose gravel of the rock slab. He sat down beside Eitan.

Good landing? asked Eitan.

On my backside. Those ‘chutes are fast.

On the beach?

No. On the rocks above it. You?

On the sand.

You were lucky.

Eitan shrugged. Let’s set up camp, he said.

The crate was pulled down and torn open and the contents arrayed on the ground. They erected a sand colored tarp above them and arranged their sleeping bags. Then, after devouring their combat rations, they slept.

At five thirty Eitan awoke. The sun had risen behind them, bathing the beach in a rich, pink glow. The sea was black turning blue in the shallows where the surf broke and creamed along the gently shelving beach. He went down to the water. It was cool on his feet and he could see small fish playing in the clear turbulence. The beach was wide and flat with few rocks and the sand was almost white. Above the beach the land was forbidding. Lacking vegetation, the barren cliffs, broken by wadis, rose with increasing steepness to the east. He walked north. Two kilometers from the camp he placed a homing transponder in the sand, and went back to the camp.

Zur, who had broken out their rations and had coffee brewing on the stove, was busy assembling a heavy Nikon camera with a stubby macro lens. Eitan helped himself to a ration pack and a mug of coffee. He sipped the hot, sweet drink eagerly, clearing the dry salt from his mouth.

By ten a.m. the sun was high above them and the air had developed a dry, prickly feel. The men changed into shorts and tee shirts.

When’s he coming, asked Zur.

When he comes, replied Eitan. They didn’t give me a timetable, he added, sarcastically.

Zur grinned. Well, we have three days, he said, dryly.

Three days! Eitan stared out to sea. Three days on this beach, under this tarp with this heat. Unless he comes today. But then what was three uncomfortable days for two men compared to the six months of truly difficult and dangerous work on enemy territory that had made the operation possible. We get the heroics, but the men in Teheran, the combatants, the true spies took the real risks. They’d had to find the target, do the background checks to find the essential weakness and then make the approach. And now, Eitan mused, it’s our turn. Our turn to . . . his thoughts disintegrated as the silence was split by a shattering boom and a shock wave of wind that tore the tarp from its anchors and scattered camp equipment across the sand. On their feet, the Israelis watched the Russian MIG.29 fighter recede south, thirty meters above the beach, followed by a sound like rippling thunder. Abruptly, the plane snapped into a tight three hundred and sixty degree turn and flew northward, accelerating with a hollow scream over the water. North of the Israeli camp, the pilot repeated the maneuver and headed south again over the sand. Eitan trained heavy binoculars on the approaching fighter. In the livery of desert combat camouflage, it shimmered in the rising heat like a mirage, and the magnification of the glasses gave it a static illusion as if it were hovering. He noted that the ordnance racks were empty, the plane’s cannon being its sole remaining venom. The pilot brought the fighter low over the beach, increasing the angle of attack, stalling the plane. Then, as the aircraft kissed the ground, he killed the engines and the aircraft slid along the beach, a wave of sand rising over the nose and the leading edge of the wings. A braking parachute billowed from the tail, slowing the plane and preventing any tendency to yaw, and the fighter came to rest three hundred meters from the Israeli camp.

That guy’s got balls, Eitan said, lowering the glasses. Get the equipment and let’s go.

THE AIRMAN RAISED THE FIGHTER’S canopy and with the careful, deliberate movements of the professional, began disconnecting himself from the aircraft and its support systems. He scrutinized the men on the ground beneath him with a look that Eitan perceived to be disdainful. Freed from his harness, he swung his legs over the sill of the cockpit and dropped to the sand. He was tall, much taller than the Israelis, and very lean. He had a proud face, well shaped with sad, searching eyes. He’s very young, thought Eitan: almost a boy. The Iranian eyed the Israelis with a shy curiosity that turned to apprehension when he saw the submachine gun slung across the shoulder of Eli Zur.

Don’t be afraid, Eitan addressed the pilot in English. You have nothing to fear. He led him to the campsite leaving Zur with the plane. He handed him a ration pack and began to boil water on the stove.

My name is Ali, said the Iranian, opening the pack.

Yes, I know. Would you like coffee? It’s all we have other than water.

Yes, coffee would be good.

Tell me how you got away? I’m curious.

The young flyer smiled. He seemed to relax. It was easy. We attacked the Iraqi missile battery as planned, coming in low and fast from the east with the sunrise. We climbed quickly above them to confuse their radar. It’s a good, well-tried tactic and it worked and we destroyed most of the installation. But their shooting was good and they downed one of us. We were a group of six. I got rocked by a close call. It was my chance. I went down to deck level behind the battery and broke radio silence and told my leader I was in trouble. I believe he will report me lost.

That’s good.

How is my family? How is my son?

Your son left hospital two days ago. His operation was successful. He’s resting in a London hotel with your wife and daughter.

Does my government know where they are?

Of course. Everything has to appear normal. Your son even had a visit from your country’s representative in Britain. When you get there we’ll put you into hiding in a safe house we have.

I’ll be pleased when it’s over.

Don’t worry. Eitan handed him a mug of coffee. You’ve had a tough time. Just relax and try and get some sleep.

Eitan rejoined Zur who stood by the aircraft’s nose, naked to the waist, sweat rolling down his back, taking out rivets with a gun drill. The aluminum skin panels of the nose cone had been removed revealing a complex array of electronic hardware. Eitan alternated between photographing the equipment and helping Zur to remove it. By two in the afternoon they had finished. The entire battery of electronic hardware contained within the MIG had been photographed in situ, removed and bagged. They placed plastic explosive at various points of the plane and wired the detonators to a digital timer. Packs containing two French Nautiraid folding sea-kayaks were hauled from the crate and carried down to the water and assembled on the sand above the surf and the bagged gear loaded into the stowage space. Everything not essential was shoved beside the aircraft. At five thirty, they launched the boats, Eitan and the pilot in one double kayak, Gur paddled a single. Leaving the beach they pushed easily through the light surf and paddled south west toward the setting sun.

Ten minutes after six pm the sun slipped out of sight and the sea turned black as crude oil, the waves tipped with the star’s latent fire. The boats rafted up and Eitan handed around his water flask. He looked behind him. The desert cliffs above the beach were still visible, ragged edged but no longer yellow, dark now the color of slate. Darkness descended quickly then and the breeze freshened and Eitan shivered. Almost imperceptibly the calm sea state was changing, the waves becoming more pronounced. Looking anxious the Iranian turned to Eitan. Your friends, he asked. How will we find them?

Eitan shook his head. A submarine? We can’t. They’ll find us. I hope. They should have found us by now. He smiled at the pilot. Just look for a light. Let’s push on.

Gur saw it first, a flash faint, barely visible over a wave crests to the south-west of them. The kayaks broke apart and steered toward the light, Gur in the lead. The lamp was held by a sailor standing on the foredeck of a submarine. As the kayaks came alongside, other sailors rushed down from the conning tower. Lines and nets were tossed down the rounded hull and the men in the kayaks scrambled up onto the narrow deck. The kayaks were emptied of their contents, weighted and scuttled, and the vessel got under way, turned south west and slipped beneath the surface for the long journey to Israel and the port of Eilat.

At midnight, on the beach where the fighter lay, the digital clock sent its signal to the detonators, blowing it apart in a ball of orange flame.

3

BRILES WAS ASLEEP BEFORE A dying coal fire when the telephone rang. He awoke with a start, the open book that lay across his thigh, falling to the floor. A half-filled sherry glass and a bottle stood by the telephone. He drained the glass and picked up the receiver on the third ring.

Guildford 7596, he said, suppressing a yawn.

Terry Briles? The voice was strange, yet familiar.

Speaking.

Terry, this is Toby Riley. Remember me?

Briles came to his feet. He put down the empty glass and attempted to speak, but failed as though the words that came were inappropriate.

Terry, are you still there?

Yes. It’s a bit of a shock, Toby. Of course I remember you. Where are you? In England?

Yes. I came home yesterday. As a matter of fact I’m quite near you. I’m in Haleford.

Didn’t you have a place there once?

Still have it. It’s about all I do have now.

Briles sat down. You sound like you’re in a hotel, or a pub, he said.

"I’m in The Lamb, Trubshaw’s place on the old Guildford London Road. Nice place. You must know it."

Very well.

Look, Terry. I realize it’s Saturday night and short notice, but I need a little company. If you’re not doing anything would you care to join me? Bring Mary if you like.

Mary’s in Bristol visiting her mother. I have to pick her up in London tonight, around midnight, so I do have to pass by you. I’d love to join you, Toby. Give me an hour.

Good. I’ll see you about eight then. Thanks Terry.

Briles hung up. He raked the fire’s embers until flames appeared. He refilled his glass, sipped the sherry and watched the flames work among the coals, and recalled the last time he’d seen Toby Riley. It had been at Caesarea, the small coastal town north of Tel Aviv. They’d played golf, a threesome with Riley’s friend, Peter Kenworthy, Riley winning by two holes. Afterward, they’d had dinner in a seafood restaurant overlooking the Mediterranean before returning to Tel Aviv. He remembered it clearly because two days later Riley had been arrested in Haifa.

He finished his drink and