Thérèse laughed, “You’re kidding right, a color printer?” Farrish squirmed at the criticism. “It’s not as if they have no local help,” he said in his defense.
They settled back with coffee and magazines. As Thérèse took a notebook from her travel bag, one of the body guards was reading The Clash of Civilizations by Samuel Huntington. How appropriate.
Her notes on things she needed to do in Manama soon turned to doodles. Was she being silly to spend any time at all contemplating a possible relationship, or worse a marriage, to Brian? Both were extremely independent and used to being in charge at the office and at home. Brian hadn’t had a home to speak of for years. Would that make him more or less adaptable?
She couldn’t believe the terrible timing of this trip. Brian, whose current home port was Fifth Fleet Headquarters in Manama, had a trip to the coast of Somalia pending, any day, he had said. He certainly wouldn’t be back until after Thérèse returned to Langley. It was an indicator of what life would be like married to a career navy officer. Of course, he might also be assigned to the Pentagon. That would work, she thought, and went back to her list.
She and Farrish needed to plan with the Navy to exfiltrate Steve and Kella. She turned to Jason and, pointing to the logo on his shirt, said, “Jason, great shirt. Is that what you get for the one hundred seventy thousand dollar initiation fee?”
He smiled. “I wish. It was a gift. Neither my golf nor my bank account are at the Congressional Country Club level.”
Thérèse smiled back. “Okay, in that case I’ll call off the counter intelligence people from investigating the source of all that wealth. In Manama, you need to talk to SEAL Team Three about Steve and Kella. They should be picked up in the next forty-eight hours, don’t you think? Your Special Operations background should help.”
Jason Farrish had come to the CIA from a short career with the Rangers and then with Special Forces. He had cut his career short to apply to the CIA after having participated in a CIA operation in Iraq. He had done Spec Ops and could talk Spec Ops, which would help in establishing rapport with the SEAL unit.
“Yes, I’ve already sent them an alert,” he said. “They’re expecting more information from us to plan the pickup. I’m also in touch with one of our Special Ops teams in Iran. They’re already in the Shiraz area on another operation. They’re using a Qashqai camp near Firuzabad, about two and a half hours south of Shiraz, as their temporary base. They should be able to pick up Steve and Kella, if they can solve the pass problem.”
Deuel looked up. “Yes, the Qashqai tribe. I recall when we renewed the tie with them the Oversight Committees were beside themselves. Of course, some members made their little notes in case they could score political points later if the relationship blew up in our face.”
“Renewed the tie, sir?” Farrish asked. “I didn’t know we had been in touch with them before.”
“Oh yes. The Qashqai have always been politically active. They’re the Metternichs of the Middle East, Balance of Power politics. The Kurds play the same game further north. The Qashqais are always siding with somebody to keep their independence from whoever is running Persia at the time. They’ve even been known to side with the central government against other tribes. But they’re much less nomadic now than they used to be. They’re finally being integrated in the large towns. With about four hundred thousand nationwide,” Deuel recited, “they’re still a political force to be reckoned with.
“During World War I and then World War II, they sided with the Germans and then with the Allies. Later, we were in touch with them. I’m sure other intelligence services were in touch with them as well, including the Mossad and the Brits, MI-6. Now, we’re in touch with sons and grandsons of the tribal leaders we knew a couple of generations ago. They have long memories. We must have done something right back then or Abdollah Mansour Khan, the current chief, wouldn’t have agreed to renew the connection.”
Thérèse stood up to go to the fridge. “Anyone want a drink, or a sandwich?” she asked. She came back with a plate of oranges and grapes and put it on a side table.
Deuel helped himself to several grapes and continued. “Anyway, Mansour Khan has been very helpful in the last couple of years. They’re a tight group. In all that time, there hasn’t been a leak. In Washington, a secret has a half-life of five minutes.” He shook his head.
Thérèse’s visit to the fridge had provoked a Pavlovian reaction; the coffee maker and the fridge became points of interest.
Deuel continued his history lesson. “When I left Laos as a young paramilitary officer—that’s what we called Special Operations then, P.M.—we had to leave our H’mong guerrillas high and dry to face the communists by themselves. Many lost their lives for having helped us. I hope that doesn’t happen to the Qashqais.” He looked out the window down at the clouds.
Farrish, sensing that his lack of knowledge on the CIA-Qashqai connection might have made him look less than sharp with the Director, tried to
