The Prince of the Marshes: And Other Occupational Hazards of a Year in Iraq, by Rory Stewart

This excellent review by William Grimes in the New York Times captures well my thoughts on the book by Rory Stewart describing his brief but eventful time in post-invasion Iraq from 2003 to 2004. In his book, Stewart describes his experiences as Coalition Provisional Authority Deputy Governor of the Iraqi province of Maysan and Senior Advisor in the province of Dhi Qar for one year starting in August 2003.

Stewart was 30 years old. Like so many other members of the CPA, he was too young, too inexperienced, and too temporary to be effective. The whole CPA idea -- the whole post invasion cluster fuck -- was illustrative of how the United States of America under George W. Bush blundered into the greatest strategic mistake in the history of U.S. military affairs.

Hami Gold Melon

I bought this melon at Fred Meyers last week and cut and diced it today, sampling it as I did. It was delicious; crispy flesh, refreshingly sweet, aromatic. I found a sprinkle of lime enhanced the flavor, but it wasn't really necessary. This is a great melon! It was labeled "Hami Gold." It originates in China, where it's called Hami-Gua.

The Hami-Gua melon was first cultivated in the Xinjiang region of northwest China. It is still primarily cultivated in China and several other Asian countries, though it can be found in limited markets in America in the Western states such as California and Oregon, and now, Washington.

In Xinjiang, China the Hami-Gua melon has long held a place of cultural significance. In ancient times the melons were sent from Hami to the Emperor and the imperial court as a tribute. The melon is celebrated in Xinjiang every summer at the annual Hami Melon Festival which features melon carving, painting, contests, folk art performances and tastings of over 100 different variates of Hami melon.

My first bite of this melon reminded me of a melon I had in Tehran, Iran, during an Air Force assignment there in 1978. It was probably the best tasting melon I'd ever eaten, and it almost cost my my life to get it. My team had been in Tehran about a week and three of us decided to look around on the first weekend. We came across a melon vendor on our walk and I decided to buy one. I'd learned a few words of Farsi, pointed a melon, and asked how much it was. The vendor, who'd been drinking tea with a couple of other guys, all dressed the same way in grayish, tattered galabeyas, told me ten Toman, but I didn't pick up on the Toman. I'd learned to count in Farsi, and I'd learned that the Iranian currency was denominated in Rials, and I handed the vendor ten Rials. What I didn't know was that Tomans had been the Persian currency, and many Iranians, especially the merchants still used the term Toman to mean ten Rials. So, when I handed the vendor ten Rials -- a tenth of what he'd asked -- he thought I was either trying to cheat him, or starting my bargaining so low that it was an insult. Whatever the case, he started hollering at me right off the bat. So I handed him another Rial. His hollering grew louder, and I noticed my two teammates sidling away down the sidewalk.

A crowd was forming at the melon booth as the vendor's shouting continued unabated by my putting another Rial on the melon stand, since the vendor was now refusing to take my proffered coin. Iranians were gathering around and I was looking for a way out. By now, I could care less about the damned melon, but the vendor kept pressing forward, now holding the melon in front of him as if it were his first born son -- a treasure I had demeaned by my paltry offer. Others joined in the verbal attack and although I couldn't understand a word of the vitriol being hurled at me, I knew I wasn't being feted as a valued American guest.

Eventually, an Iranian policeman appeared and giving me a sort of smirk, pulled a ten rail note from my hand, gave it to the vendor, who was by now shaking with anger, took the melon from the stand, put it in my arms, and ushered me away down the sidewalk.

As I said, the melon was delicious, but certainly not worth the near-death experience. I actually wanted to bring the seeds home, thinking I might grow the melons in my yard back in Ohio. I took the seeds up on the roof of the team house in Tehran and left them to dry in the sun. After work the next evening I went up to see if they were dry, and several crows flew off as I approached. They'd eaten all the seeds. Was I going to go back and buy another melon and harvest the seeds? Are you crazy!

The CIA Admits Role in Overthrow of Iran's Freely Elected Prime Minister -- But We Knew That!

The CIA has released documents which for the first time formally acknowledge its key role in the 1953 coup which ousted Iran's democratically elected Prime Minister, Mohammad Mossadeq.

CIA Documents Acknowledge its Role

Excerpt from The Lion and the Sun:

Conte remembered meeting Anatoly Balakirev for the first time at this reception. He wore the dark blue Parade uniform of a USSR Air Force officer, with epaulettes, a gold sash at the waist, and calf-high black leather boots. His chest was covered in medals, only a few of which Conte recognized, including medals for combat service, and for bravery. By comparison, Conte’s black Air Force mess dress uniform was drab, and Conte wore only a few medals, including the Air Force Cross, the Purple Heart, a National Defense Service Medal, and the Vietnam Service Medal.

Balakirev was direct with this new American, who seemed so sure of himself. The Russian blamed Britain and America for the overthrow of Iran’s elected Prime Minister, Mohammed Mosaddeq in 1953, claiming that the US was threatened by Mosaddeq’s plan to nationalize oil and acted accordingly.

Conte was very familiar with the CIA’s botched operation to overthrow Mosaddeq, but pointed out to Balakirev the Communist’s role in undermining Mosaddeq. Conte told Balakirev that he was sure the USSR was behind the Tudeh Party’s subversion. Balakirev countered that the USSR’s only interest in Iran was to aid a developing nation and create a future trading partner. This sparring was in reality cover for each trying to determine what the other was really up to in Tehran at that critical time in the Shah’s rule. But it was true. The seeds of discontent in Tehran today had been planted by the CIA and the British SIS in 1953, and before that, the occupying forces of the USSR in 1946.

The Lion and the Sun; Self Published

My novel, The Lion and the Son, has now been published in paperback and e-Book form, and is available from Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.it, Amazon.in, and Amazon.fr.

‘The Lion and the Sun’ is a story of intrigue, betrayal, and regret set against the threat of nuclear terrorism. The story spans the years 1978 to 2008, although the main action takes place in 1994 during the rise of the Russian Federation from the ashes of the Former Soviet Union, and immediately after the CIA agent Aldrich Ames was found to be a Russian mole. The story centers around Daniel Conte, a CIA field agent tracking the whereabouts of a missing Russian plutonium pit; a softball-sized hunk of plutonium that serves as the core of a nuclear weapon. Conte’s quest takes him first to Vienna, then Istanbul, and then Tehran, where a personal tragedy in 1979 still haunts him. Along the way he will come face-to-face with a shadowy group of terrorists that may be linked to Iranian intelligence. Conte’s mission will uncover repressed memories of past betrayals and lead to new ones that will challenge the very core of his beliefs in his mission, his country, and in himself. The author’s experience in intelligence and counter terrorism shows in this all-too realistic tale of nuclear smuggling, terrorism, and espionage. The plot is topical and engrossing, the characters well-developed, and the descriptions of Vienna, Istanbul, and Tehran could only have been written by someone who was there. ‘The Lion and the Sun’ is one of the books you continue to contemplate well after you’ve turned the last compelling page. The story will appeal to readers who enjoy espionage novels by Alan Furst, Charles McCarry, and John le Carre´.

Arrival in Tehran, October 2, 1978

Tehran traffic in 1970 and it only got worse by 1978 (Samuel Coulbourn photo)

I arrived at Tehran’s Maribad Airport on Wednesday, October 2nd at 10:30 pm, after a 16-hour flight from Dayton Ohio, with stops in JFK, London, and Frankfurt, Germany. The airport was dirty, crowded, and noisy, with a lot of shouting and gesturing. It seemed chaotic to me, but I was to learn later that things at the airport would get far worse.

Stone-faced soldiers were posted at all the entrances and exits. Passengers on our flight were directed to Customs, where agents, with soldiers looking over their shoulders, made a cursory check of passports and shot records. I was surprised when the agent didn’t my check bags, but just waved me through dismissively.

I was in Tehran to participate in something called “Peace Log;” a program sponsored by the US Military Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG)1 to train the Royal Iranian Air Force in the basics of logistics management. Peace Log was managed by Detachment 30 out of the San Antonio Air Logistics Center.

I was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force assigned to the Air Force Institute of Technology (AFIT), School of Systems and Logistics. I was 40 years-old, married, with two children; boys 13 and 12. I was scheduled to be gone for 5 weeks; the second time in my tour at AFIT that I would be on temporary duty (TDY) for that long.

The other three members of my team had arrived in Tehran several days ahead of me, because I had been delayed in my departure from AFIT. I had been instructed to wear civilian clothes, and to wait for pick up by a MAAG detachment driver or members of my team. A “lessons learned” that we’d been provided advised strongly against any single individual from the team taking a taxi from the airport.

I went into the baggage claim area, and then to main terminal of the airport, searching out a driver from the detachment, or members of my team. Failing to find one, I went outside the airport to check the arriving and departing cars. I was approached immediately by a very scruffy-looking Iranian man asking me in Farsi if I needed a taxi. I answered in Farsi and English, shook my head, and finally just turned away from the persistent man, only to be approached a few minutes later by another man offering taxi service, and then another. I’d been instructed to wait for a team car, so I waited, constantly harassed by taxi drivers, or wanna-be taxi drivers, or kidnappers, or whatever the hell these insistent men were. I worried about the soldiers who were posted along the airport drop off zone becoming suspicious about my “loitering.”

I waited 45 minutes, becoming more and more concerned about where my ride was. I went to the terminal counter and asked to use a phone to call the MAAG duty officer, but was told phone service was down. Just as I was about to risk accepting a taxi ride, I spotted several tall guys wearing checkered sports coats loading their luggage into station wagon. I sidled over and heard them speaking American English. It turned out they were going to the same hotel where I’d be staying my first night -- the Evin -- and I was able to hitch a ride with them. They were US Navy personnel who were to be consultants to the Royal Iranian Navy.

We had an animated conversation as we drove out of the airport and on to the main highway into the city, discussing our various military assistance and technical advisory missions, but conversation petered out when we saw the large military presence along the highway. We passed by the Shahyad Monument, which had been built in 1971 to celebrate the rule of the Pahlavi Dynasty. Sandbags and artillery were positioned all around the the floodlit, soaring, white stone monument. Army personnel carriers were parked there, and soldiers with machine guns slung over their shoulders stood about watching the traffic flow by. This scene was repeated at strategic intersections and buildings along our route to the hotel. That was probably the point when I realized that the situation in Iran was more tenuous then our State Department had led us to believe.

Traffic became heavy and chaotic as we neared the outskirts of Tehran. I wrote in my notebook, “Iranian drivers are crazy -- absolutely nuts!” There seemed to be no rules; speed limits appeared to be determined only by how fast a car would go. The right of way was determined by who got there first. Cutting in front of other drivers was done as a matter of pride, often by veering into the opposing traffic lane and racing the on-rushing cars to that moving space in front of a line of cars all observing the anything goes culture of driving in Tehran. One taxi driver I rode with later in my tour turned onto a one way street, and when I yelled at him and pointed to the sign, he turned his car 360 degrees, and backed down the street, presumably in the belief that backing down a one way street in opposition to traffic was consistent with the spirit of the law.

Recent photo of Evin Hotel in Tehran

The Evin Hotel was on the Vanak Parkway, west of the center of the city. We arrived at the hotel a little before Midnight. Despite the late hour the place was buzzing. I found the members of my team in the bar. Larry Smith, like me a lieutenant colonel, was our team leader, and greeted me with warmth and some relief. He told me that there were strikes and an escalation in civil unrest, martial law was still in effect in Tehran and other major cities in Iran, and all US personnel had been restricted to the city. Max Furrer, a big, red-headed Oklahoma boy lumbered over, put his meat hook of a hand on my shoulder and said, “Man, are we glad to see you.” Mac McChesney was right behind Max. “How the hell did you make it here?” he wanted to know. Max and Mac were majors, and like Larry and I, associate professors at AFIT.

I joined the team at the bar where we had a couple of beers, talked briefly about the “disturbances” in Tehran and across the country, made our plans for the next day, and retired to our rooms.

Despite feeling exhausted, I had trouble getting to sleep. I thought about where I was, how things would go, whether I'd have the opportunity to get away and see more of the country, whether our "students" would speak sufficient English to grasp our lectures, and what cultural problems we'd confront. I finally got to sleep telling myself that everything would work out. They did, but in ways I hadn't imagined.

The Lion and the Sun: A novel that's more topical than ever

Iran and its nuclear ambitions seems to be constantly in the news. How close is this oil rich, bellicose, unpredictable nation from building a nuclear weapon? Is that its intent, or is its purpose strictly peaceful, as its leaders claim?

I spent five weeks in Tehran in 1978 as part of a US Military Assistance Advisory Group. I was fortunate to get out on one of the last US commercial flight to leave Mehrabad Airport. Subsequently, I worked at the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) in Vienna, Austria, on nuclear safeguards, and followed that assignment up with work in the intelligence arena. After I retired, I wrote a novel, The Lion and the Sun, which drew upon that experience. The material in the novel comes from unclassified sources, but it is accurate in the way it paints the development of Iran's nuclear capabilities. Anyone who doubts Iran's real purpose will find that the tale told in this novel erases any doubt.

The Soviet Union’s house of cards finally came crashing down in 1991, sending the West near euphoria. Unfortunately, there were thousands of nuclear weapons stored in various locations in Russia and, as with the Russian ruble,  security at Russian weapons storage sites collapsed. The US spent hundreds of millions of dollars trying to shore it up. Despite its best efforts, something slipped through the cracks three years later; something that in the wrong hands, would put a great big crater in the middle of Manhattan.

Daniel Conte, a veteran of 25 years with a covert unit attached to the CIA, is getting old, he’s burned out, and he’s on the razor edge of being divorced. Conte has promised his wife he’ll participate in marriage counseling to get their troubled relationship back on track just in time for Christmas. But Conte is assigned the mission of tracking down the missing nuclear weapon component, and like the good soldier he is, he drops his domestic agenda and once again does the bidding of his CIA masters.

Conte’s mission takes him from Vienna, to Istanbul, to Tehran, where he’s in serious danger of returning home in a body bag. Along the way he reconnects with an old adversary from Russian intelligence, becomes involved with a beautiful MI6 agent, and comes up against a smart-mouthed Turkish intelligence intern who seeks advice from him on her love life.

Conte heads off on his globe trotting tour in November of 1994; just nine months after Aldrich Ames is revealed to be a Soviet mole in the CIA. The implications of Ames’ treachery will be felt by Daniel Conte in more ways than he can imagine as he puts his life at risk in the service of his country; ways that will challenge his core beliefs and test his courage and his values.

From The Lion and the Sun

From Chapter 6 of The Lion and the Sun

Conte waited for Kaitlyn on the platform at Heiligenstadt Wednesday morning, his arms wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the chill. He and Kaitlyn had arranged to visit the ancient monastery of Klosterneuburg in the Wienerwald. It was Kaitlyn’s idea to combine work with a pleasant outing. Unfortunately, the weather was chilly, overcast, and threatening rain. It matched his mood perfectly.

Conte thought about his meeting with Harold Wiggham the next day. He went over in his mind how much he would tell Wiggham about the missing Plutonium Pit. Certainly the US should continue to monitor the situation, as Conte wasn’t convinced that Balakirev was telling him the truth.

Conte also thought through yet again the prospects of recruiting Balakirev. The effort and cost involved in doing so would be worth it if he came over; Balakirev had a wealth of information about KGB tradecraft and details on the Russians’ transition of their intelligence services. Conte was fairly sure that the Russian also knew where some of the really scary skeletons were hidden in US intelligence closets. America was still losing agents; some right out of training. On the other hand, Balakirev continued to strike Conte as a dedicated and conscientious servant of Mother Russia. And he had a wife in Moscow that would have to be extracted along with Balakirev. What would it take to turn him?

Finally, Conte’s mind, or more accurately, his imagination returned to Kaitlyn. He was conflicted between professionalism and sexual longing; or was that all it was?

The rumble of the U-Bahn woke Conte from his reverie. He spotted Kaitlyn and watched her brisk, purposeful walk along the platform towards him. She was wearing a tan trench coat, closed at the waist with a belt, and she carried a huge handbag. Her heels clicked on the concrete. A smile formed on her lips as she approached. She looked gorgeous. Conte smiled back at her.

She walked right up to Conte and leaned forward to kiss him. He turned his head and kissed her on the cheek and again on the other cheek. Very European, but rather perfunctory.

“Hey,” she said, “You’re supposed to act like we’re lovers going on a holiday.”  

“Oh yeah? Who says? Maybe we’re just friends, or brother and sister.”

“Ha! With my peachy complexion and blond hair and your swarthy, Latin looks? Who’d believe it? Let’s get our cover story straight, Nathan.”

“Nathan?”

“The first of your kind we Brits hanged.”

The Schnelbahn pulled into the station with a whoosh, the doors slid open, and Conte and Kaitlyn boarded. Given the early hour and the lousy weather, it wasn’t surprising to find they had the car to themselves.

The train moved away from the station and Kaitlyn scooted over against Conte. “I’m cold,” she said with a shiver.

Conte offered to give her his scarf. She refused it. “You can put your arm around me, though.”

Conte slid his arm around her shoulder and she scrunched up closer. Looked up at him. “What’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Well, you aren’t acting very friendly.”

“I’m just a bit preoccupied, Kaitlyn. I need to get to the bottom of things and I need your help doing it.”

“Okay. That’s my job.” She sat back from him. “You want to go over things now? Maybe if we get through this before we arrive at the monastery we can have a nice walk in the Vienna woods, look around the monastery, and eat a nice lunch at the Stiftkeller. A glass of wine might make you less grumpy.”

Conte’s head was killing him. Probably a result of the gluwein Anatoly bought the previous night. He wasn’t sure he wanted more wine. “Um hmm,” he mumbled.

“So how did your meeting go?” Kaitlyn asked.

“I’m not sure. Balakirev is playing both ends against the middle, but he doesn’t see it that way. I have a hard time believing he’d knowingly help supply Iran with the wherewithal to develop nuclear weapons, but the information given me by my people points to someone doing just that.”

Kaitlyn turned and looked out the window. “Balakirev’s been meeting with Demitri Protopopov on a fairly regular basis. Protopopov’s division is responsible for the Middle East. He’s been working out modifications to the safeguards agreement with Iran. Balakirev may be trying to influence that somehow.”

The IAEA’s safeguards regime was burdened by a Kafkaesque system of political agreements, regulations, endlessly negotiated inspection plans that limited what portions of a facility IAEA inspectors could view, and other bureaucratic red tape that belied the Agency’s message of “assurance” against diversion of nuclear material for weapons purposes.

“Well, Russia is practically frothing at the mouth over getting the contract to finish Bushehr. Maybe Anatoly is just trying to figure out what inspections are going to be permitted under the new facility attachment.”

Kaitlyn just murmured “Hmm.” Conte looked over at her. She turned to him, sensing his scrutiny. “Dan, our intelligence service has information that Balakirev’s company, AET, is funneling nuclear weapons equipment to Iran and believes that Balakirev is involved.”

“We know about AET, but our people don’t think Anatoly knows what’s going on. And I know something about the top guy at AET. He’s a former scientist who headed up one of Russia’s premier weapons labs and he’s got a good rep with us. We’re puzzled about the AET connection.”

The train slid into the Nordbruck station. Doors opened. A blast of cold air hit their feet. No one got on the car.

“Kaitlyn, do you think you can find out what Balakirev really knows about AET’s play in this thing? Are they supplying weapons components to Iran? Is Balakirev the go between? How are they doing it? They’ve gotta be using a front company. Who is it?”

Conte knew what the CIA had concluded, but he wanted independent corroboration. Kaitlyn was in a position to get it for him.

Kaitlyn looked at her hands. Conte could imagine what she was thinking. She was acting as Balakirev’s secretary. How was she supposed to pump him for information on such sensitive matters? She looked up at Conte. “Okay, Daniel. I’ll see what I can find out.”

Conte looked at her. She had beautiful eyes. He thought he could read the look there, but he didn’t want to acknowledge it then. He wanted to say ‘don’t take any chances,’ or ‘don’t put yourself at risk,’ or ‘forget it, don’t do what I just asked you to do,’ but he didn’t say anything. He told himself, She’s a professional; she can handle it.

#

The train pulled into Wiedling; the last stop before Klosterneuburg. A couple with two young children boarded the train and took seats at the far end of the car. The woman had her little girl by the hand and carried a string bag. One of those great European inventions that scrunches up into nothing, but expands to hold an entire picnic. Conte could see bread, cheese, apples. It was a good bet there was a bottle of wine somewhere.

The man carried his little boy aboard, bounced him in the crook of his arm, pointing out the window, watching the boys face. The woman smiled at her husband and down at her excited daughter. Kaitlyn watched them, a gentle smile on her face. The doors slid shut and the train moved down the track towards Klosterneuburg.

They were passing through open country, the Wienerwald to the left, the tall trees snaking upwards in neat rows, and the Danube to the right, its grey waters reflecting the overcast sky.

Kaitlyn was looking out the window. “This reminds me of the town where I grew up.”

“Where was that?”

“Fairford, in the Cotswold. Northwest of London. It’s just a tiny village. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

“I’ve heard that the Cotswold is a beautiful area.”

“Yes.”

“Still have family there?”

“Me mum. And my uncle Pete and his family.”

“What about your dad?”

“Dead and gone.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Happened a long time ago. I was just a kid. But I remember him.” Kaitlyn paused, and then as if to herself she continued, “His feel, his smell, the sound of his voice; husky like.” She looked at Conte. “I felt happy when I was with him.”

“I’m sorry, Kate. What happened to him?”

“Killed in Belfast. He was Special Air Service, CRW. Went in on some black op. We never found out what. Only that something went wrong.”

“It’s a rotten business that way.”

The Special Air Service was the Brits principal special forces organization. It was one of the most elite military organizations in the world. And the Counter-Revolutionary Warfare unit, the CRW, pulled some of the most dangerous, most secretive, and in some cases, most controversial assignments of any military or intelligence organization.

“How did your mom handle your dad’s death; must have been awfully hard on her?”

“She was amazing. Sat me and my sis down and told us things would be okay. We’d make it. We’d work together, the three of us.” She paused. Looked at her hands. “Didn’t happen that way, though.”

“What happened?”

Kaitlyn dropped her head and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “My little sister took it hard. Got into drugs. Caused ma all kinds of grief. Then OD’d. Pete came by the house to tell mum. I can still see the look on her face.”

“Jesus, Katy.” Conte touched her shoulder.

“Yeah. My fault really. Should’ve paid her more attention. But she was into grunge and punk and all that shite and I was…” Kate did the quotation mark sign with her fingers. “…the good daughter. Truth is, my sister embarrassed me. So there it is.”

Conte wished he hadn’t been so nosy. “Kate, even when both parents are there to raise a child, things go wrong. Kids get it in their mind that they aren’t loved, or they’re different, or they’re just sad, and they do stupid things. You can’t blame yourself.”

“Yeah, well…” Tears had pooled in her eyes. She looked out the window. Let the phrase hang. “But my uncle was a saint. He helped us out. Helped me out. Got me into university. Found a spot for me after graduation in the firm. After that I made my own way.”

Conte studied Kaitlyn. “Remember that CT workshop we participated in years ago?

Kaitlyn smiled. “Counterterrorism? Yes. I had a bit of a crush on you.”

“Really?”

“It didn’t last,” Kaitlyn added, smiling.

#

The train pulled in to Klosterneuburg and Conte and Kaitlyn followed the family out and down the platform to the bus stop. The bus took only a few minutes to get up the hill and drop them at the Abby.

The dual towers of the abbey were in silhouette against a bank of high clouds; lit golden on top but dark, almost black underneath. Conte squinted up at the clouds. A vine of lighting snaked out and down towards the undulating vineyards.

They walked into a heaving wind past the Abby and on to the grotto and up behind it deeper into the woods. The beech trees were swaying and moaning as the last of their leaves were ripped from them. Wind-blown, the yellow and brown leaves skittered across and down the path in front of Conte and Kaitlyn.

The path branched back down towards the village and up again into the woods. There was a low rock wall along the side of the path. Beyond it, the woods climbed into darkness.

Conte climbed up. Kaitlyn followed him. The way was steep and as they turned into the woods towards a rock outcropping, Conte reached back to help Kaitlyn. Holding onto his hand tightly, she came up into his arms. Conte pulled her close and kissed her hard on the mouth.

Conte pushed Kaitlyn back against the rock outcropping. He undid her trench coat and reached inside pulling her hips against his.

“Yes,” she told him. “Yes.”

She had her hands around the back of his head. Now she moved them down and Conte felt her unzipping her slacks. Conte began working at his, but she took his hand and pushed it inside her slacks. He moved his hand down the smooth flesh of her stomach, down the mound, into the silken hair and then the wetness between her legs.

Conte heard Kaitlyn say things and felt her breath on his cheek, but everything was a blur. He stepped back and looked into her eyes. She remained with her back against the outcropping, foot braced against the rock, her white flesh exposed. Her eyes seemed more green than blue. Cat eyes. Her mouth was open.

Conte knelt in front of her, took her hips in his hands. Her hands found the back of his head. Her voice seemed far away. “Oh god, Danny.”

Conte rose to his feet and pressed against her. He felt her hand in his jeans, then she had his sex in her hand, and he was so hard it hurt as she guided him into her.

#

They leaned into each other waiting for their hearts to stop ramming against their chests. They heard talking. Two older women rounded the bend below them and walked on by, using their walking sticks and yakking in unison. Conte and Kaitlyn stood very quietly, pressed against each other.

Kaitlyn whispered in his ear. “If those alte frau had looked up and seen your bare behind. That cute, tight arse of yours, they would’ve been climbing up here after you, and I’d have to fight em off.”

She pushed him away. “Now turn around and give me some privacy. I want to get dressed and be taken to lunch. I’m starving!”

They pulled on their clothes and brushed each other off as best they could. As they made their way down the path towards the monastery Kaitlyn said, “We’ll eat in the keller. It’s dark there. Maybe they won’t notice the stupefied look on my face, or see the dirt on your knees.”

The Lion and the Sun -- An Excerpt

In this excerpt from the novel, The Lion and the Sun, Anatoly Balakirev, a Russian intelligence agent, who is working with Daniel Conte, an American intelligence agent, describes his meeting with the head of Iran's nuclear program. The action takes place in Tehran in 1994.

“So, Anatoly, you flew to Tehran Wednesday?”

“Late Wednesday night. We met with Director of Atomic Energy Research Division, Thursday morning, Dr. Nozar Aganazadeh. You know him?”

“I know of him. Never met the man. Who was with you?”

“Yousef Arbrogati and Wolfgang Hemming, the other two inspectors sent by Mr. Protopopov.”

“Just the three of you? I thought he was sending four inspectors.”

Balakirev waved a hand dismissively. “Malek Garlut came down with stomach flu and couldn’t make it. In any case, three was enough.”

Balakirev smiled. Conte knew Garlut. The team was better off without him.

Balakirev ran his fingers through his hair. He looked tired, but animated, and a little drunk. “Dr. Aganazadeh wanted to show that he was well connected with the Agency before getting down to business. He started by giving a little speech. I have committed to memory one of his most precious pronouncements.”

Balakirev stood straight and threw out his chest attempting, it appeared, to look directorial. “Gentlemen, let me just say, if you will, the Islamic Republic of Iran, has always condemned the possession of weapons of mass destruction. Our Islamic tents… Tents?”

“Tenets,” Conte said.

“Okay, ten-ents.” Balakirev put his hands out, palms up. “Then he says, our beliefs, and human affinity turn us away from such pursuits. When you have grown to know us better, you and your organization, you will see that our nuclear program is entirely peaceful. Inshallah.”

Conte laughed.

Balakirev momentarily basked in the glow of his own unreserved appreciation for his performance. Then he went on to describe his protracted negotiations with Aganazadeh over the team’s intention to inspect the Tehran Nuclear Research Center and the Jabr Ibn Hayan Multipurpose Laboratories located at TNRC -- laboratories that had not been declared by Iran.

Balakirev described the inspection that he and his team performed in the afternoon. “We examined the small research reactor originally supplied by the United States, I believe?”

He looked at Conte. Balakirev knew the answer, but was intent on making a point.

“Yeah, we put it in there in 1967,” Conte confirmed.

Balakirev smiled. “And you know it has been converted to burn 20 percent enriched uranium?”

“Yes.”

“And could produce up to 600 grams of plutonium per year in its spent fuel?”

“Yes, again.”

Balakirev gave Conte an ironic look. See what you did, he seemed to be implying.

Tehran, October - November 1978: Spiraling Towards Chaos

My experiences in Tehran, Iran, in October - November of 1978, served to inform my writing in Part III of my novel, The Lion and the Sun.

Newsweek Cover, November 20, 1978
Below: Front Pages of Tehran Newspapers in late October, 1978 

        

I arrived at Tehran’s Maribad Airport on Wednesday, October 2nd at 10:30 pm, after a 16-hour flight from Dayton Ohio, with stops in JFK, London, and Frankfurt, Germany.  The airport was dirty, crowded, and noisy, with a lot of shouting and gesturing. It seemed chaotic to me, but it was nothing compared to how it was five weeks later when I was trying to leave Iran.

Stone-faced soldiers were posted at all the entrances and exits. Passengers on our flight were directed to Customs, where agents, with soldiers looking over their shoulders, made a cursory check of passports and shot records. I was surprised when the agent didn’t my check bags, but just waved me through dismissively.

I was in Tehran to participate in something called “Peace Log;” a program sponsored by the US Military Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG) to train the Royal Iranian Air Force in the basics of logistics management. I was a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force assigned to the Air Force Institute of Technology (AFIT), School of Systems and Logistics. I was 40 years-old, married, with two children; boys 13 and 12. I was scheduled to be gone for 5 weeks; the second time in my tour at AFIT that I would be on temporary duty (TDY) for that long.

The other three members of my team had arrived in Tehran several days ahead of me, because I had been delayed in my departure from AFIT. I had been instructed to wear civilian clothes, and to wait for pick up by a MAAG detachment driver or members of my team. A “lessons learned” that we’d been provided advised strongly against any single individual from the team taking a taxi from the airport.

I went into the main terminal of the airport and dodged through the crowd searching out a detachment driver or member of my team. Failing to find one, I went outside the airport to check the cars arriving and departing the airport. I was approached immediately by a very scruffy-looking Iranian man asking me in Farsi if I needed a taxi. I answered in Farsi and English, shook my head, and finally just turned away from the persistent man, only to be approached a few minutes later by another man offering taxi service, and then another. I’d been instructed to wait for a team car, so I waited, constantly harassed by taxi drivers, or wanna-be taxi drivers, or kidnappers, or whatever the hell these, short, dark-skinned, mustachioed, insistent men were.

I waited 45 minutes, becoming more and more concerned about where my ride was. I worried about the soldiers who were posted along the airport drop off zone becoming suspicious about my “loitering.”  Just as I was about to risk accepting a taxi ride, I spotted several tall guys wearing checkered sports coats loading their luggage into station wagon. I sidled over and heard them speaking American English. It turned out they were going to the same hotel where I’d be staying my first night -- the Evin -- and I was able to hitch a ride with them.  They were US Navy personnel who were to be consultants to the Royal Iranian Navy.

We had an animated conversation as we drove out of the airport and on to the main highway into the city -- I don’t remember about what -- but conversation petered when we saw the large military presence along the highway. We passed by the Shahyad Monument, which had been built in 1971 to celebrate the rule of the Pahlavi Dynasty. Sandbags and artillery were positioned all around the the soaring, white stone monument.

We passed this at night on our way to the hotel from the airport.
It was surrounded by troops and gun emplacements.

Army personnel carriers were parked there, and soldiers with machine guns slung over their shoulders stood about watching the traffic flow by. This scene was repeated at strategic intersections and buildings along our route to the hotel. That was probably the point when I realized that the situation in Iran was more tenuous then our State Department had led us to believe.

The government declared martial law in Tehran and eleven other cities on the night of September 7-8, 1978. The next day, troops fired into a crowd of demonstrators at Tehran's Jaleh Square. A large number of protesters, certainly many more than the official figure of eighty-seven, were killed. The Jaleh Square shooting came to be known as "Black Friday."

I saw gun emplacements on most corners of the main streets during my assignment in Tehran.

From The Lion and the Sun

Balakirev glanced sideways at Conte. They kept walking. The Rathaus came into view, its four spires and soaring campanile lit by floodlights, the square in front filled with booths and milling people. The whole effect like a combination outdoor sale, flea market, and county fair all garbed in Christmas decorations.

For a while Conte and Balakirev just strolled about looking at the cured meats and Austrian cheeses in one booth, and the hand-painted eggs in another. A group of young men went by holding large cups of beer, laughing and singing what sounded like soccer chants, “Wir sind Zecken, asoziale Zecken, wir leben unter Brücken oder in der Bahnhofsmission!”

The two men followed the aroma of meat grilling and stopped at a booth selling bratwurst on Kaiser rolls. They smothered their sandwiches in hot Austrian mustard and walked on, wolfing them down and looking for someplace to buy beer.

Conte finished his bratwurst and walked to a trashcan to throw out the paper tray. A young girl, perhaps 16 or 17, maybe older, it was hard to tell, was digging through the trash. She was wearing what had once been a white evening gown, and had a dirty, cream-colored scarf wrapped around her neck and shoulders. The girl came out with a half eaten piece of roll, ate it and licked the mustard from the paper in which it had been wrapped. Her eyes darted here and there, and then came to rest on Conte. She pointed at him, smiled and put her index finger to her pursed lips.

Balakirev had stopped at a booth selling gluwein. He held the hot, steaming cup of spiced wine in his hands and blew on it. He looked up as Conte came over to him. “Something to warm us up” he said, pointing to a cup he’d purchased for Conte.

They walked across the front of the Rathaus and turned down Lichtenfelsgasse, sipping their gluwein as they went. Conte asked Balakirev whether Russia was going ahead with the sale of laser isotope separation technology to Iranian laboratories.
“It’s a matter under discussion,” he said, without elaboration.
Conte stopped walking and waited until Balakirev turned and looked at him. “I’ll say it again; that technology could be used for nuclear weapons development purposes.”
“We discuss these things, Daniel, and sometimes certain incentives are offered, oil for example, then we discuss them again, and finally we offer something else.”
"You're going to repair Bushehr?"
Balakirev smiled.
They started walking again.
“What condition is Bushehr in now?”

Bushehr was a nuclear power plant that Iran had started building in 1975. Iraq bombed the plant during the 1980-88 war with Iran. Intelligence suggested that Iran was negotiating with the Russians to repair and finish the plant after the Germans had backed out of the deal.

“Bushehr isn’t too bad. We can fix it,” Balakirev answered.
“Are you going to?”
“What is the expression so popular in the Arab World? Inshalla."

Art Imitates Life -- Again

In a confidential report to be presented to its governing board in March 2010, the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) will voice its concern that Iran is seeking to build a nuclear weapon. It’s unusual for the IAEA to be so blunt when it comes to the nuclear programs of its member states -- Iran became a member state in 1958.

Japanese lawyer and diplomat, Yukiya Amano, is the new Director General of the IAEA.

Iran's Safeguards Agreement came into effect in May 1974, under which Iran, as party to the Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weapons (NPT), agreed to declare its nuclear activities and allow inspections by IAEA inspectors.

Iran has violated its agreement and the subsidiary arrangements associated with it on a number of occasions that we know about. The most recent discovery was the enrichment facility being built near Qom on a mountaintop missile site of the former Iranian Revolutionary Guards. Construction on the secret facility probably started in mid-2006.

Iran’s decades long nuclear weapons development efforts are the backdrop for my novel, The Lion and the Sun. The primary action takes place in 1994, when, believe it or not, we already knew a lot about Iran’s nuclear weapons sites. The latest revelations about the enrichment facility northeast of Qom are not really revelations at all. This was also a period when ‘loose nucs’ in the Former Soviet Union were an urgent concern of the US Intelligence Community. The action in The Lion and the Sun begins with the discovery that a plutonium pit, the key component of a nuclear warhead, is missing from a Russian weapons lab.

There are flash backs in the novel to 1978-79, when the novel’s protagonist, Daniel Conte, a CIA operative, was working under cover as a member of a US Military Assistance Advisory Group. He was lucky to escape being taken hostage during the takeover of the American Embassy by Iranian militants. Not everyone was so lucky, including a young woman Conte recruited as an intelligence asset and with whom he was having an affair. Conte is haunted by the incident.

An epilogue brings the story up to 2008, when Conte discovers the fate of an MI6 agent with whom he worked to thwart the terrorist plot to obtain the nuclear weapons component.

Although on its surface, The Lion and the Sun is a story about espionage, it is really the story about a person beginning to question the sacrifices he’s made in the name of duty, honor, country. It is a story of intrigue, betrayal, and regret set against the threat of nuclear terrorism. It is a story that could be taken from today’s headlines, if only one could read between the lines.

Engineer's Arrest Exposes US Pursuit of Iranians

Iran's Nuclear Sites, from NTI

In an earlier post I discussed my novel, The Lion and the Sun, which deals with nuclear smuggling and Iran's drive towards the development of nuclear weapons. The plot includes material about the illegal transfer of weapons technology. The following story by THE ASSOCIATED PRESS, filed at 8:20 a.m. ET, January 22, 2010, details an actual case concerning such technology transfer. I have summarized it below.

PARIS (AP) -- The Iranian engineer flew to Paris with his wife, intending to see the Eiffel Tower and other tourist sites. Instead, he was arrested at the airport under a U.S. warrant -- suspected of evading export controls to buy U.S. technology for Iran's military.

The case of Majid Kakavand, accused of purchasing American electronics online and routing it to Iran via Malaysia, has shed light on increasing U.S. attempts to crack down on people outside American borders suspected of illegally buying U.S. supplies for Iran military programs.

The case is also pushing the justice system in France, which has grown increasingly tough on Iran's nuclear ambitions but also has trade and oil interests in the country, toward a stand that could have deep diplomatic and economic repercussions.

Kakavand's future could be decided at a Feb. 17 Paris hearing on whether to extradite him to the United States.

Iran's government spoke out about the case for the first time this week, accusing France of linking Kakavand's fate to that of a young French academic on trial in Iran. It says Kakavand is innocent and suggests he is being used as a bargaining chip in the diplomatic tug-of-war over 24-year-old Clotilde Reiss.

The United States says Kakavand, 37, and two colleagues ordered U.S. electronics -- including capacitors, inductors, resistors, sensors and connectors -- and had them shipped to Malaysia, from which they were dispatched to Iran without export licenses required by U.S. authorities.

Documents filed in the U.S. District Court in Northern California said they had set up a company called Evertop Services in Malaysia that dispatched the goods to its two main customers, Iran Electronics Industries and Iran Communication Industries.

Both companies ''were designated in 2008 by the United States for their role in Iran's nuclear and ballistic missile program,'' according to a summary of the case from the Department of Justice.

Kakavand is accused of conspiracy to export to an embargoed country, money laundering, smuggling goods and other counts.

Kakavand's lawyer acknowledges the company sold merchandise to the IEI and ICI, as they are known. But she denies he has any other ties to the Iranian military or nuclear industries. ''In trade, you purchase, you resell -- it's a normal trade act,'' lawyer Diane Francois said.

In many cases, suspects accused of violating the U.S. embargo on Iran have been apprehended in the United States. But some, including Kakavand and a man taken into custody in Germany last week, have been nabbed overseas. Kakavand has never set foot in the United States, his lawyer said -- all his U.S. business dealings were conducted via e-mail.

France under outspoken President Nicolas Sarkozy has helped lead Western efforts over the past two years to rein in Iran's nuclear program, which the U.S. and its allies suspect aims to produce weapons. Iran says the program is for peaceful energy production.

Iran released a list earlier this month of 11 Iranians it says are being held in the United States -- including a nuclear scientist who disappeared in Saudi Arabia and a former Defense Ministry official who vanished in Turkey.

The list also includes an Iranian arrested in Canada on charges of trying to obtain nuclear technology, as well as an Iranian who was arrested in the Caucasus nation of Georgia, handed over to the United States and convicted in a U.S. court in December on charges of plotting to ship sensitive U.S. military technology to Iran.

 

Life Imitating Art

A December 29, 2009, story published by NPR indicates that Iran is close to clinching a deal to clandestinely import 1,350 tons of purified uranium ore from Kazakhstan, according to an intelligence report obtained by The Associated Press. Diplomats said the assessment was heightening international concern about Tehran's nuclear activities.

My novel, The Lion and the Sun, includes a prologue that tells the story of an early attempt to determine whether Kazakhstan had stores of highly enriched uranium (HEU) at the time of the Soviet Union's fall. They did, and a secret project was executed to bring the HEU out of Kazakhstan and secure it in the US.

 

The Writing of The Lion and the Sun

I set out to write a spy novel, on the premise that one should write what one knows. I began with a time of great promise and even greater threat – the fall of the Soviet Union and Russia’s anarchic rebirth. The USSR’s vast nuclear arsenal was vulnerable in 1994 – the period in which the story takes place -- neglected by a demoralized military and coveted by a burgeoning band of Islamic extremists bent on destroying the West. With this as a backdrop, I developed a plot involving a missing Russian plutonium pit (the core component of a nuclear weapon), an obscure Iranian terrorist group, and an American CIA agent sent to discover the whereabouts of the pit and the intentions of its prospective new owners. I began writing, and then I discovered Daniel Conte, the protagonist in this twisted tale of intrigue, betrayal, and regret, and Conte took over the story.

I found Conte in the midst of a failed marriage, dealing with a nuclear-armed failed state, working with a Russian agent he couldn’t really trust, having an affair with a British agent he couldn’t afford to compromise, and under suspicion of being a traitor to the country for which he’d sacrificed so much – talk about a mid-life crisis.

The CIA’s Nuclear Proliferation Center believes that the missing Russian plutonium pit is either headed to Iran, or to terrorists sponsored by Iran. In either case, they are prepared to do whatever is necessary to recover the pit, even if it means working with the Russian intelligence service. That’s where Conte comes in. He has a long-standing professional relationship with a Russian agent named Anatoly Balakirev who, the CIA believes, is privy to sensitive information regarding the location of the pit. The Russian intelligence service has managed to place Balakirev in a key position with the International Atomic Energy Agency, the IAEA, in Vienna, and that’s where Conte is headed when we first meet him.

Conte’s contact in Vienna is a British MI6 agent, Kaitlyn Clarke, who is working under cover as Balakirev’s secretary at the IAEA -- a case of spies spying on spies. Kaitlyn is beautiful, brilliant, and single. Conte is divorced, despondent, and lonely. One thing leads to another. The conventional wisdom is that it’s bad practice to carry on an affair with a professional colleague. Conte’s not your most conventional operative, but in this case, he’d have been wise to abide by this homily.

Conte gets mugged in Vienna by a couple of thugs who turn out to be working for a Russian engineering firm for whom Balakirev just happens to be turning nuclear tricks. By the time Conte finds this out, he’s in Istanbul, Turkey, following up on a lead concerning a front company that may have the plutonium pit.

While in Istanbul, Conte and Balakirev, working with Turkish intelligence, learn that the plutonium pit has ended up in the hands of Islamic terrorists. The two agents devise a plan to determine the location of the pit and succeed in arranging a joint Russian-US recovery effort. It’s an unlikely collaboration and things go wrong from the start.

When Conte and Balakirev find themselves fighting the terrorists in Iran’s desolate Baluchestan region, it’s anyone’s guess who’ll be shooting at whom. Conte is seriously wounded during the action and is air evac’d back to the States, while Balakirev returns the plutonium pit to Russia. There are unpleasant surprises awaiting both men on their return home, and revelations going back to the 1979 Iranian Revolution will spell the end of one of the agents’ careers.

From Vienna, to Istanbul, to Tehran, Conte’s mission uncovers repressed memories of past betrayals and leads to new ones that challenge the very core of his beliefs in his mission, his country, and in himself.