Chapter Eight Presentation by CIA and NSA

“The CIA sees the following:
“Over the past five years, Iran has been benefiting from high profits in oil. They have made substantial amounts of money which they are investing in further developing their nuclear program. Our agency estimates that their current investment is in the billions of dollars, between locations and personnel they have acquired on the open market.”

McDonald turns on the overhead projector, then begins a PowerPoint presentation to underline her message. The first image, not surprisingly, is a map of Iran.

One at a time, she locates on the screen the sites CIA has designated as potentially nuclear sites. Karaj, Ab-Ali, Natanz, Arak, and another in Ardekan. “These are the sites they we are sure of,” she tells the group. “What we don’t know is if there are others. We do know of other sites that are necessary for the enrichment process, but which do not enrich uranium themselves.

“To date we have learned of approximately four hundred and fifty nuclear experts working in Iran who were hired from Russia, China, North Korea and Pakistan. We believe as well, as does the NSA, that Russia is Iran’s prime supplier of nuclear materials, know-how, and personnel to Iran. We suspect that Iran has become a major customer of Russia’s in arms dealings. Iran is probably Russia’s third or fourth largest customer for nuclear arms purchases of some type.” She paused to let this thought sink in.

“We know about the creation of Iran’s new Shahab-3 missile,” McDonald continued, as an image of one appeared on the screen, “and we are getting information that they plan to develop ways to launch it from their Kilo-class submarines, the same way we do cruise missiles. We have good evidence that they have ordered two more Kilo-class subs from Russia which when delivered will give them six that we know of.” The image on the screen of a Shahab-3 is replaced by that of a Kilo-class sub.

“Israel and the nations of Europe are already under threat. If Iran can deploy those missiles from submarines, then we have to accept the fact that American cities are no longer safe.”

Experiences with Publishing Part One

In January of 2008, I completed my novel “Behind The Lies” after twenty-six months of writing. Usually a writer who desires to get published immediately thinks of finding an agent in order to get published.

The next three months I contacted thirty-one agents. Six of them I found in published books of successful writers of military fiction. They had no interest in dealing with a beginner author.

Next, I contacted twenty-five agents who post themselves on the internet with interest in military thriller genre. Guess what, only twelve of them ever responded to my inquiry asking what they required to consider my manuscript. Ten of the twelve send me the standard rejection notice and the funny thing one of the rejection notices didn’t even have the book title correct.

However, two women agents responded by saying: the first one said, “She is not the right agent for this book but encouraged me to continue as she felt it is a good book.” The second one said, “She is not the right agent for the book but felt that the book is sellable.”

Going through this process I learned that even if you find an agent who will seek a publisher for you. It could take anywhere from a year to eighteen months for the book to be published. Plus the average royalty rate is 5%.

One of my wife’s clients who creates children’s books told me about the world of self-publishing. She said, “If you really feel your book is worthwhile for readers take a look at getting it self published.”

Next posting I will discuss my adventures in considering looking for an editor and the world of self publishing.

Chapter Seven Mossad Proposes

Entering, Wattenberg sees Prime Minister Yaakov Brumwell sitting in his favorite leather chair. A small man, he actually looks lost in it. Brumwell reminds Wattenberg of Israel’s first prime minister, David Ben-Gurion. Ben-Gurion was small of stature, with thinning hair and a stern look on his face most of the time. Regardless, he was a giant of a leader. Brumwell, however, has a way about him with people that Ben-Gurion never had. He listens, and he doesn’t jump to conclusions. “Come in, come in,” Brumwell says warmly, another trait in which he and Ben-Gurion would have differed.

“I’ve given Mossad’s proposal of a covert action a great deal of thought,” he says, settling back in his chair. “However, we need to iron out some issues before I can make a decision.”

Wattenberg sits down in an equally comfortable chair in front of Brumwell’s desk, wondering where this conversation is going to go. “What issues do we need to discuss?” Wattenberg asks noncommittally.

“Well, for one thing, Ariel, how much time do you estimate we’ll need for an operation such as you have proposed to bring us positive results?”

“We estimate that it will take us, at minimum, one and possibly as much as three months to get reliable information, Yaakov. Of course, we’ll with have contact with our team on a schedule that will allow us to make real-time decisions to continue or to withdraw.”

“Who will set up the itinerary for your team to follow, or are they going to have carte blanche?”

“Mossad will set up the itinerary. Yosef Bergman will be the team’s inside contact.”

“Have you invented identities for these two so they don’t end up on CNN exposed as Israeli spies?”

“Of course, Yaakov. Yosef and I will meet with them, first to simply see if they believe this plan of ours is really feasible. Right now it is only a brainstorm. We are simply asking for your permission to proceed, to see if this idea can become a reality.”

“How much money do you expect this little brainstorm of yours will cost us?” asks Brumwell.

“Will it be cheap? Certainly not,” replies Wattenberg. “Is it necessary? I would say very definitely.”

Brumwell looks down at his desk, then slowly raises his eyes to meet Wattenberg’s again. “What I want you to do, before I can give my final decision, my friend, is to meet with these gentlemen. Have them sign a Mossad secrecy document. Work up what their fees would be for three months, cost of equipment to do the job efficiently, cost of insertion and removal, plus an emergency extraction plan, should that become necessary.” The prime minister looks down momentarily, then looks back up at Wattenberg. “I have to tell you, Ariel, this idea of yours intrigues me.” Wattenberg dares to look hopeful, but Yaakov Brumwell raises a hand. “And it scares me to death.”

“I know,” Wattenberg says heavily. “I feel the same way.”

Chapter Six Beginning of May

Wednesday afternoon at one forty-five p.m., McDonald’s car pulls up before the National Security Agency’s headquarters. Inside, she approaches a guard, M. Malden, according to his ID badge, who dutifully checks his list of expected arrivals, but fails to find her name there.

“I have a two o’clock appointment with the director,” she states coldly.

M. Malden goes to check with his fellow guards, then returns to his station and informs her that none of the guards have her on their lists. McDonald feels her blood begin to simmer.

M. Malden picks up the phone at his station and calls the director’s office.

“That’s odd,” Janet says, flustered. John Walker rarely lets her in on his intended insults and manipulations, and she hates getting drawn into one of them. “It must be an oversight. Please tell the director I’ll be right down. I’ll escort Ms. McDonald to the conference room personally.”

M. Malden repeats Janet’s words verbatim. Gee,wonder why I have a bad feeling about how how this meeting’s going to go, McDonald’s brain mutters darkly.

Janet stays with her in the conference room until her boss arrives. McDonald’s brain’s mutterings grow darker with every minute she sits ignoring Janet’s minute-by-minute apologies for his delay. She finds herself looking at the clock’s second hand to see if her apologies actually spaced a minute apart, and smiles to herself when she finds that she’s right. Where do they find these people, she has to wonder

Chapter Five Recruits Will Travel

“So, how do our new recruits look?” Atwan asks the party to whom he speaks on the phone.

“Everything appears to be what we expect it to be. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nor are we are getting any word of them mentioning anything,” answers the caller.

“Good. Set their pick-ups in motion. Everything according to plan,” says Atwan, the man with the Supreme Leader’s ear. “Notify me when they have completed their training sessions, before they officially begin their assignments. I will wish to speak with them again.”

The phone rings four times before the sleeping Muhammad Abdullah wakes to answer it.
“Who is calling at this hour?” is all Abdullah can think to ask.

“You need to get used to the unexpected on your new assignment, Muhammad,” the caller says. “Tomorrow you must prepare to leave. Be ready to be picked up at 0200 the following morning. Pack enough clothing and toiletries for one week. The rest will be provided for you. A green jeep with a driver and a relief driver will take you to your first assignment,” continues the anonymous voice. “Be standing outside of your apartment. Don’t make them wait.”

“Can I ask where I will be going?”

“No, you cannot. Nor will you know when you arrive. Do not be late for the pick-up.” The phone line goes dead.

Relief driver? Where the hell are they taking me?

Within the next fifteen minutes, both Kamil Hussein and Hamid Dakham receive similar phone calls. They are told to be ready at 0400 hours the following night, that a red station wagon will be picking them up, Hussein first, Dakham ten minutes later. The caller emphasizes that they should not be late.

Chapter Four Later After The Meeting

Yosef Bergman is the last one to leave the meeting; Avi Singer and Shlomo Herzl have each gone their separate ways. It being very late, he decides not to phone the director of Mossad tonight. Rather, he will meet with him in his office first thing in the morning. Heading home allows him time to think, before he approaches the director with the idea the three of them have agreed upon.

Yosef Bergman is forty-five years of age, though he looks thirty. His six-foot height, broad shoulders, dark complexion and jet black hair all serve to reinforce his role as a leader within the organization. Bergman is a sabra, a native born Israeli.

In the Yom Kippur War, he saw the Arab armies’ treachery and ruthlessness first hand and made a promise to himself that he would dedicate his life to protecting his country’s security. He did not anticipate that his dedication would consume his whole life, leaving very little time for anything remotely resembling a personal life.

Tonight the pressures of leadership weigh heavily upon his mind. Israel must know what’s really happening inside of Iran. Can we pull it off by sending a couple of desert rats in search of evidence? Can these two obtain the factual proof that Israel must have? Or am I just sending two more Israelis to the slaughter, and probably causing another international incident in the attempt?

In spite of his serious mood, Bergman walks through the streets of Tel Aviv smiling, knowing that even with the constant threat of terrorism, he’s probably safer here than anywhere else in the world. He reaches the door of his apartment, enters, deactivates the security system, turns on the lights and throws his keys on the dining room table. Opening the refrigerator, he takes out a cold beer

Chapter Three CIA Presentation

“The reason I’ve called you all here this afternoon,” the president goes on, “is that Allison feels we all need to be brought up to speed on a critical situation she sees developing in Iran. A nuclear threat. Allison, the floor is yours.” And this better be good, my dear.

“Thank you, sir,” McDonald says, then gets right into the meat of her presentation with little preamble. “We are all aware of the rhetoric that the president of Iran has been putting out over Iran’s right to have nuclear capabilities for domestic use. This is nothing new. However, Iran’s recently elected president has an advantage that past presidents have not had. Iran is beginning to sit quite comfortably on a major influx of money because of the skyrocketing price of oil. And they appear to be using a great deal of that money for major expansion of their nuclear program.”

John Anderson, with short, thick grey hair, a receding hairline and a bulldog jaw, puts his elbows on the attaché case that sits across his lap. Locking his hands and dropping his chin upon them, he looks up at McDonald, consciously working to keep from appearing irritated. “Excuse me. Hasn’t the IAEA given Iran a clean bill of health, nuclear-wise?” he asks her pointedly. “The president of Iran’s toeing the line.” I’ve had it with you Central Intelligence types crying wolf.

McDonald has gotten used to John Anderson’s attitude when it comes to the CIA. She continues unrattled. “You’re right, John. But may I point out that the IAEA is the same agency that failed to detect Iran’s hidden nuclear program for over twenty years. So, are we to sit back and believe the IAEA, or do we look at the level of intelligence we’re gathering to make decisions in the best interest of the United States?”

“Whaddya got here, new information, or merely a comb-through of old intel?” John Walker interrupts. My people aren’t tellin’ me this, thinks the national security advisor, a burly, cantankerous, white-haired man who both speaks and thinks in the pronounced southern accent of a boy born and bred in southwest Georgia.

“Intelligence reports indicate that Iran has several nuclear development sites, as you know, John,” McDonald says with a slightly exaggerated politeness. “That, of course, is not new. However we now know that Iran has over four hundred fifty nuclear experts on their payroll, and that is new information.” Walker may look mollified, but he’s far from it.

“I certainly don’t have to remind any of you,” she goes on, looking around at all of them, “that their secret nuclear weapons program is being supervised by both the military and their Supreme Leader. The president is merely a mouthpiece. The Supreme Leader has all the control, the Supreme Leader and the mullahs he has chosen to serve as his Guardian Council."

Chapter Two Next Day in Iran

Morning prayers at the Rajab Ali mosque in the Darkhangah district of Tehran draw to a close. Three men stand at various points around the edge of the large assemblage of worshippers. Acknowledging each other’s presence by fleeting eye contact only, one nods and, one by one, they proceed to leave the mosque by different exits.

Each has been instructed that he will be picked up individually by a black Mercedes limousine. One of the men will be picked up directly in front of the mosque on Mostafa Khomeini Street. The second will walk three blocks to the right of the stairs at the front entrance. The third has been directed to make his way around the rear of the mosque and proceed four blocks to the right. Muhammad Abdullah, Kamil Hussein, and Hamid Dakham each wait as inconspicuously as possible at their appointed places according to the instructions each received late last night.

Muhammad Abdullah, twenty-six, is an engineer, his skills such that he honestly believes he can fix anything. A short, slim, confident man, his complexion is dark but ruddy, his eyes deep brown. He wears western dress, a plaid cotton shirt, a pair of khakis and sneakers. A tracery of black beard outlines his chin. A friend of Hussein and Dakham, he’s waiting as he was directed to but with no idea why.

Kamil Hussein and Hamid Dakham are both Iranian Secret Service operatives, both in their mid-twenties and single. Both believe that Iran will take its rightful place as leader of the Middle East and will one day fulfill its destiny, to conquer the West.

Hussein, fair complected for an Iranian, stands almost six feet tall, with dark brown eyes and short black hair. He’s clean shaven, and wears an embroidered tunic over loose grey pants. More than anything, Hussein waits for his opportunity to be a hero within the Islamic revolution. A passionate and fearless man, analytical thinking often takes a backseat to his emotions. In spite of this, the Iranian Secret Service considers him a valuable asset.

Dakham wears a white kufi hat over thick black hair that continues on into a shaggy full beard and mustache. Shorter and a bit stouter than Hussein, he’s dressed in an elongated black linen jacket, buttoned to the neck, over white pants. His is of deep olive complexion and he wears heavily-framed black glasses. Though he tends to follow rather than lead, he’s the clearer thinker of the two.

Chapter One Washington DC Same Time 7 Time Zones Away

Janet White shakes back her long auburn hair, a predictable, unconscious habit, as she stops what she’s doing to pick up the phone and bring it to her ear. “Good afternoon. The president’s secretary speaking.”

“Janet, this is Allison McDonald,” comes a crisp, no-nonsense woman’s voice on the other end. Allison McDonald is the director of the CIA. “Please put me through to the president. It’s imperative that I speak with him, immediately.”

“One moment.”

Sounds urgent – and I could use a stretch. Janet puts the director of the CIA on hold, gets up, works out a kink in her neck, crosses the office and takes the liberty of knocking on the door of the Oval Office, knowing the president is alone. If he were not, she would of course use the intercom. She hears the words “Come in,” opens the door quietly and pokes her head around it. “Mr. President, the director if the CIA is on line one. She says it is imperative that she speak with you. It sounds urgent.”

“Thank you, Janet. I’ll take it,” says William Egan, America’s first black president, reaching his long, lanky frame for the phone. “Allison, how are you?” he says into the receiver. His deep, smooth delivery carries a hint of the orator who honed his skills at Harvard.

“I’m fine, sir,” she replies. “Thank you for asking.”

“Janet tells me she sensed urgency when she answered your call. Has something critical come up?”

“Yes, sir, it has.” This president is so ready to face facts. What a difference a change of administration makes.

Egan had promoted Allison McDonald to CIA director from within the ranks upon his taking office, and has been entirely pleased with her performance in the two years since. She’d served as assistant director for five years prior. A petite brunette, five-foot-five, she has a figure of which she’s oblivious but which makes most men drool. Her ability to analyze and lead the CIA is second to none. As director, she has yet to overreact to a situation.

“Sources are telling us, Mr. President, that there’s imminent danger – nuclear danger – from Iran. I feel that you and your staff need to be brought up to speed. Quickly. I can make myself available for a meeting any time you choose.”

The president stands up, then begins to pace, as he usually does when taking calls that require his complete attention. He thinks best on his feet. “Allison, I thought that the IAEA reported finding no smoking guns in Iran in terms of a nuclear arms program – wasn’t that just a month ago?”

Excerpt from Prologue in "Behind The Lies" a military thriller

The room is fifty feet below ground level to avoid electronic listening devices. Maps of the Middle East hang on all four walls. Each map is pock-marked with various colored pins and flags designating armies, suspected terrorists camps and civilian locations.

Three men sit at a round teakwood table built for four, their faces close enough to smell each other’s breath. Sweat pours off them even though the air conditioning is running on high. The room is a miasma of cigarette smoke laced with the aroma of strong coffee.

One of the men is young, green, wet behind the ears; what wisdom he has acquired has come from the three years of training he has recently concluded. The two others are older. How much older is hard to say. Their hard, fit bodies give no clue. Theirs is the kind of aging that comes with the acquisition of wisdom from the streets, the desert, the sea, the air. The kind of wisdom that comes from making too many life-and-death decisions, too frequently, too fast. The three share one common feature, that being that they are all what most people, untrained in surveillance, would define as ‘nondescript.’

After a long pause in the conversation, Avi Singer, the youngster, pushes back from the table and heaves a sigh. “Well, all I can say is, it feels like déjà vu to me.” He throws his head back, perhaps just a bit too dramatically.

Oh, great, thinks Shlomo Herzl, who has been assigned as Singer’s mentor. They think I am Strasberg? They send me Peter Falk? Singer, in fact, does look like a young but taller Peter Falk, looks like he sleeps in his clothes, looks like he’s been chewing on the unlit cigar in his mouth for days. He will make a good ‘katsa,’ a good field agent, Herzl knows – some day. A perfectionist, Singer soaks up languages like a sponge. He’s no zealot, and he’s not in it for the money, that’s for sure. His motivation is an unquestionable love of Israel. His acting abilities will hold him in good stead – some day.

Herzl’s eyes swing to those of Yosef Bergman. Bergman, who had once mentored Herzl as Herzl now mentors Singer. Though Herzl had been older at the time – he hadn’t joined Mossad until he was almost thirty. Herzl and Bergman eyeball each other in silence for a few seconds. Bergman barely nods. His nod clearly communicates, he’s your responsibility, and you speak for the both of us. So Herzl turns to the younger man.

“Avi.” He pauses, waiting him out, his eyes locked on those of his protégé. Singer finally gets the message and pulls his chair back to the table. “Avi,” Herzl starts again, “how can it feel déjà? You were not even born in ’81.” His aggravation shows.

Your wings are open now

I feel like a butterfly
emerging from the chrysalis.
Just give me a little sunshine
My wings will open
and I'll fly.

©1989 Linda H. Feinberg

Mazel tov on your new creation. While this poem was written before I met you (probably around 1984), I felt it was appropriate for your new blog and your new venture. Retirement is truly a new beginning for you.

Welcome to Smiga Writes About

Greetings to Everyone,

My wife Linda Feinberg, who is the patient one in our marriage, took the time to learn and create her own blog a year ago this month. You can view her blog at http://avisiblevoice.blogspot.com. With a lot of assistance from her I created this blog to communicate my ideas, my writings and some humorous events in my life. Here’s hoping you will enjoy this blog and the excerpts from my novels.