Scorpion Deception by Andrew Kaplan Page B

with Rosoboronexport,” Schwegler said. “We immediately started full-time COMINT monitoring.”
    â€œSurveillance?” Scorpion said, asking if they put a twenty-four-hour watch on Norouzi, his mind going a mile a minute. No wonder Rabinowich had targeted Norouzi as their best bet for the cutout. Rosoboronexport was the big Russian missile company. They made some of the most advanced missiles in the world, including the kind of antiaircraft and antimissile systems Iran was desperate to get its hands on. If Norouzi was negotiating with Rosoboronexport, he had to be tied to the Revolutionary Guards.
    â€œWho has budget for surveillance these days?” Schwegler sighed. “The dummen accountants run the world now.”
    Even more intriguing, Scorpion thought, Jamaran was the neighborhood in northern Tehran where Ayatollah Khomeini, father of the Iranian Revolution, had lived. It could mean that Homer was a true believer or had connections with the Khomeini family.
    He leaned in closer.
    â€œDave’s a mathematician,” he murmured. “He wouldn’t’ve bet the bank on a pair of deuces. What aren’t you telling me?”
    Schwegler took a swig of his Eichhof beer and leaned closer as well.
    â€œGol ghermez,” he whispered. “The call was received by a cell phone somewhere in or around the Kreuzplatz in District 8.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œHomer’s office is on Kreuzstrasse,” Schwegler said. “You can walk to the square.”
    Bingo, Scorpion thought. “But it’s still thin,” he said aloud, nibbling halfheartedly at a salad, then pushing it away.
    â€œI am more worrying about Apple-cake. This is the most difficult,” Schwegler said. “What happens if Homer finds out?”
    â€œYou double him,” Scorpion said, wiping his mouth with a napkin, getting ready to leave. “We should have had weeks to set this up, not hours.” He leaned in. “Are your men tough enough?” asking would they be physical enough and believable enough to fool Norouzi.
    â€œTwo of them, Dieter and Marco, are veterans of Einsatzgruppe TIGRIS, Federal,” Schwegler whispered. Scorpion took his meaning. Einsatzgruppe TIGRIS was a special tactical unit of the Swiss Federal Police. The Swiss media had dubbed them “supercops.” He added, “What about the Gnomes?”
    â€œNone of them speaks German,” Scorpion said. “They’ve been told to keep their stupid mouths shut and stay out of sight as much as possible. Where’s the extraction?”
    â€œThis you will like.” Schwegler grinned like he had won the lottery. “Something irresistible. Homer thinks he’s hit it big.” He whispered the location to Scorpion.
    â€œYou’re right. I like it.” Scorpion smiled as he got up. But all he could think of were the million things that could go wrong.
    â€œAnd you?” Schwegler asked, meaning what was Scorpion’s next move.
    â€œApfelkuchen,” Scorpion said, tossing down a twenty CHF note. Apple-cake.
    T here are private clubs all over the world. Country clubs, golf and tennis clubs, men’s clubs, places behind guarded gates or in high rises where celebrities and movie stars go for privacy, knowing the only people they’ll run into are other celebrities. And then there’s the Club Baur au Lac.
    Located in a private mansion across a narrow canal from Zurich’s famous Baur au Lac Hotel, the club was a place for business lunches for faceless men in bespoke suits in private yellow salons with yellow awnings on windows overlooking a private garden and the gray waters of Lake Zurich. Members can also repair to the wood-paneled English bar for drinks and Cuban cigars served by silent, efficient Swiss bar men and waiters whose most important skill is their discretion. Membership was by invitation only, and mere millionaires, celebrities, sports stars, and women need not