189: Chapter 170 Walsh

April 9, 1982, Istanbul, 3:00 PM.

Reza entered the hotel under a name that wasn't his own. The room was on the sixth floor, with windows facing the inner courtyard and no view—a choice made by the other party.

Standard operating procedure: disorient the visitor and establish psychological pressure within a confined space. Lesson one from the textbook.

Reza didn't need windows.

Peter Walsh was fifty-two, his hair half-gray, wearing an outdated suit. His hands rested on the table; there were no documents or recording devices in plain sight.

When Reza entered, Walsh didn't stand up; he simply nodded.

A translator sat in the corner. Walsh began in English, the translator didn't move, Reza replied in English, and the translator became nothing more than a prop.

"Your name appears in many files," Walsh said, "but I cannot confirm if those files refer to the same person."

"I cannot confirm who you are either," Reza said, "but that is not important."

"Then let's talk about something of value," Walsh said, "something of value to both parties."

"Answer me one question first," Reza said, "did the United States know about the Chemical weapons attack in Ahvaz in the early hours of April 3rd in advance?"

Walsh paused for a second. "I am not here to answer that question."

"I know," Reza said, "I just wanted to see your face."

Walsh watched him calmly, his face devoid of expression, but his eyelids tightened—a minute movement, lasting no more than a second.

Reza had gotten the answer he wanted.

"I have three things," Reza said, "if all are done, I will consider reducing the frequency of documents sent to the outside world."

"I'm listening."

"First, reduce the monthly quota of military procurement funds transferred to Iraq via Saudi Arabia by thirty percent. You have the ability to do this."

Walsh: "That is not within my authority."

"Second, the American technical personnel stationed at the Iraqi Air Force electronic warfare center in Mosul must be withdrawn within thirty days."

"These people you speak of..."

"Third," Reza said, "I want to know the extent of the intelligence the United States has recently shared with Iraq regarding Iran's oil infrastructure."

Walsh waited until he finished speaking, remaining silent for nearly ten seconds.

"You know I cannot agree to these here."

"I know, you go back and report," Reza said, "but answer me one question first: Do you know that Saddam Hussein is planning to strike the Khuzestan oil refining area next?"

Walsh didn't move.

"If you know, and you are prepared to let him strike, then we have nothing to talk about today," Reza said, "if you don't know, then this statement itself is something I am giving you, which you can verify when you return."

"What makes you think Iraq has this plan?"

"My judgment," Reza said, "it won't be wrong."

Walsh studied him again for a long time.

"You have an engineering background, not an intelligence officer or a military officer," he said, "yet what you do comes closer to the results than either of those two types of people. This makes many people feel uneasy."

"Including you."

"Including us," Walsh said, his tone as flat as if confirming the weather, "I am telling you this personally, it is not in any file: some people believe you are a variable that needs to be dealt with."

"Thanks for the warning," Reza said, "now let me tell you something that isn't in the files either."

He pushed a piece of paper across.

Account numbers, a summary of remittance records, a date.

"This money originated in Riyadh, passed through a shell company in Kuwait, and ended up in the account of a person named John Merryweather," Reza said, "U.S. Army Intelligence. Is that correct?"

Walsh's face didn't change, but his fingers, resting on the table, ceased all subtle movements.

"I don't recognize that name."

"You don't need to," Reza said, "copies of this document are in the hands of three people, all lawyers, not journalists. If anything happens to me after I leave this room, the documents will be delivered to three locations within seventy-two hours: Geneva, The Hague, London."

He stood up.

"This is not a threat, it is a structure," he said, "the relationship between you and me is structural, not adversarial. You have things you need to protect, and I have things I need to protect. I have no reason to be an enemy of the United States."

"You are protecting Iran," Walsh said.

"I am protecting one hundred and seventy-three names," Reza said, "Iran is incidental."

He nodded at the translator and walked out the door.

On the flight back, Reza leaned against the seat back, not closing his eyes.

He wasn't thinking about what Walsh had said, but what Walsh knew.

A few details made him frown: the development schedule for the Persia-5, a tactical judgment framework he had only mentioned in a three-person meeting, and specific troop numbers for a certain frontline position.

None of these three things were within Mirza's access level.

Mirza had been arrested four months ago. This was a new lead.

Reza opened his notebook and wrote down three names, the same three he had circled before leaving Ahvaz. Now he drew a very light line under one of the names, light enough to be erased at any time.

No rush; rushing would alert the target.

Let that person keep moving, keep leaving traces, and once there are enough traces, close the net.

The plane landed in Tehran, and he switched to a car to go to Ahvaz. On the way, he wrote a note for Karimi:

"Internal investigation initiated. All communication must be handwritten, without going through any electronic channels. I will inform you of the subjects involved in person when I return."

Then he flipped the notebook back to the first page.

On the left column, 'Known', two new items were added.

On the right column, 'Unique', he added a line:

"There are always more people who know you than you think."

He closed the notebook.

The three-month countdown was still running, the Persia-5 was still five months away, there was still a question mark over the oil refining area, and there was still an unnamed lead inside.

Reza leaned against the car window, looking at the empty night road outside.

He felt no anxiety, nor was he composed. He was simply calculating which matter had to be solved first, and how much resource to use to solve it.

This was already his only way of thinking.