It took him no more than a few seconds to adjust to the windowless room, in the center of which Saddeq saw a blindfolded man tied to a chair, his legs tied together and bent, his arms tied over his back, which was resting on the chair. Thus, the man’s pose resembled a banana. Behind this man stood two men in robes tied from the back, akin to those worn by surgeons, but these men had black balaclavas that covered their faces, save for two slits for the eyes. Each man wore a pair of disposable nitrile gloves.
The silence in the room was thick and heavy. One of the men pointed at a clothes hanger and gestured to Saddeq to move where it hung in the corner of the room. Saddeq went over, took off the robe that was hanging there, identical to the one those two men wore, and put it on. He donned the black headpiece and gloves. The man pointed to the floor, and Saddeq put both feet into a pair of canvas shoes.
The man who was silent until now made a gesture signaling to Saddeq to approach. he could now see that next to the man, who was tied down and contorted, stood a narrow desk with a 9 mm Beretta and a silencer. Using only his hand, the silent man instructed Saddeq to pick up the gun and aim at the back of the tied man. Saddeq followed each command like a robot. He felt absolutely nothing.
“Finish him.”
Those were the only two words uttered in that chamber of horrors.
The trigger responded softly, as the thick concrete walls and the silencer absorbed the sound. The man’s head fell forward, right before convulsing and dying.
The silent man pointed at the hanger. Saddeq took the robe off, removed the hat and gloves and took off the canvas shoes. The steel door flung open, seemingly on its own, only to reveal his escort outside.
“I was asked to convey the high command’s congratulations,” was all he said.
The elevator took them back up, where Saddeq was once again led via the long corridors to the exit. A Mercedes parked inside the building’s lot took him directly to the airport.
Air Iran’s flight to Tehran took off promptly at eleven o’clock. Untroubled in the slightest by the hit he had just perpetrated, Mehdi slept peacefully nearly the whole time. ‘Morals and a conscience are for the weak, not for leaders,’ he told himself. ‘And I am going to be a leader.’ He slept well all the way.
***
Back at the Tehran airport, Mehdi had enough time to update his surprised parents that he was back in Iran and to promise he’d come visit the first chance he got. A black car picked him up from the airport to VEVAK HQ. This time, he was not subjected to those humiliating inspections he remembered from his previous visit there but was rather taken directly to see the commander of Revolutionary Guard Quds Force (QF). When he entered the office, he was asked to return the passport he had used to leave Athens and was given his original passport back.
“We are proud of you and are glad to have you on board,” the senior commander began with a greeting. “You should know that our men spotted you and recognized your talents the very first days they got to know you. They quickly appreciated your courage and your devotion to our homeland and to holy Islam. They commended you in particular for favoring the good of the country over friendship. That is exactly what is expected of a leader and a commander.
“You have passed your final test in flying colors at the embassy in Athens, where you courageously eliminated, without any hesitation whatsoever, one of the worst traitors to our country, an American agent who worked tirelessly under the regime. His American handlers called him ‘Olympia.’ Based on all your achievements, QF high command has decided to appoint you chief of the special operations unit.”
Chapter Twelve
Revolutionary Guard Quds Force (QF) “special operations unit,” or ‘Special Ops’ was a euphemism of sorts for the VEVAK’s hit squad. The VEVAK resorted to the harshest and cruelest means against those who opposed the Islamic regime both at home and abroad. Immediately after the Islamic revolution began, thousands of officers and leaders who had served the ousted Shah were executed. This tough policy remained in place for years. QF, in charge of Iran’s security against threats from abroad, followed the same approach as the VEVAK and conducted extensive hits against numerous figures.
QF assassins eliminated dozens of people who opposed the regime worldwide. To achieve these hits, it relied on an extensive intelligence network, directed for the most part from Iran’s diplomatic missions worldwide. The intelligence that was gathered served the needs of VEVAK, which, in turn, issued QF its orders to kill. Mehdi’s appointment as head of Special Ops greatly boosted QF. The new commander soon consolidated all the elimination operations abroad and concentrated the unit, instead of having it scattered among QF’s various forces. Mehdi’s charismatic personality won him large budgets from HQ, which were allocated towards enhancing his unit with quality personnel, training and advanced technology. Under his command, the war between VEVAK and the Israeli Mossad intensified and unfolded into a genuine fight for life or death.
Mehdi was ambivalent about the Mossad. On the one hand, he knew it to be a staunch, unflinching organization that had set out to fight Iran and the assistance Iran provided terror and jihad organization worldwide. On the other, as a professional, he appreciated Mossad as the world’s finest secret service.
During the training courses and classes he gave, he always stressed before his men the importance of decisiveness and tenacity, of pursuing the target no matter what, and cited the Mossad as an example. “For instance,” he told the class once during one of his lessons, “in 1972, our Palestinian brothers carried out a heroic operation. They eliminated eleven Israeli athletes in Munich, thereby raising the issue of Palestine to the top of the public agenda. Under the premiership of Golda Meir, the government of Israel decided to have everyone involved in this courageous act eliminated. The Israelis had them killed one after the other. Nevertheless, they could not get their hands on our dear brother, Hassan Salameh, the commander of “Black September,” who was in charge of the entire operation.”
“The Israelis, however, did not relent. They chased Hassan Salameh for years. The Mossad chased him like a cat after a mouse, until, after years of this pursuit, they located him in Beirut and killed him. I am telling you all this so you’ll know what kind of stubborn, dangerous enemy we are up against.”
***
A.K., a man of average height with a pair of glasses, was a major sardines exporter. In eloquent Portuguese, he ran his business from his firm’s offices in Avenida de la Libertad. But this was not the whole truth about him.
Truth be told, A.K. was in charge of Mossad operations in western Europe. He chose Lisbon, way off the beaten track of the classic world of espionage, precisely in order to avoid any undue attention, in particular that of various European secret services, which were always keen to know as much as possible about Mossad activity in their respective countries. Their Portuguese counterparts, however, were far more lethargic about the Mossad, and, to begin with, how could sardines and spying possibly have to do one with another?
A.K., whose full name remains to this day under the strictest confidence, ran a highly intricate network of agents across Europe. He gathered a great deal of information on Iran’s activity in various European countries. The material was passed on to ‘the hill,’ Mossad HQ, where it was analyzed, sifted through and evaluated. Some of it was passed on to the relevant countries’ intelligence services, some was kept for further monitoring and surveillance, and some was simply not to speak of, perhaps read about here and there. Mind you, what one reads in the newspaper is not always true…
***
Tibriz Zakiri, a well-built man who never failed to sculpt his figure at the gym, did not sport a double identity. He had a threefold identity: assistant to Iran’s trade attaché at the embassy in the Hague, the person in charge, on Mehdi’s behalf, of a string of secret agents in Europe, and, more to our point, he was A.K.’s informant. He apprised the sardine man about all of Iran
’s elimination operations throughout Europe.
Tibriz passed the information he gathered onto A.K. using secure means. The intelligence he provided was always credible, important and relevant. Only three figures were privy to his existence: the head of Mossad, his deputy and A.K., of course.
Mehdi was the first person to become concerned about the intelligence leakage from VEVAK. Many of his own hit men were getting hit. His top agent in Istanbul was eliminated by two motorcyclists at the entrance of Kempinski, the well-known luxury hotel. Another agent’s car exploded while he drove on the fast lane from Copenhagen to the city’s airport. The testimonies gathered by the local police included an eyewitness account by one of the drivers, who said that he had noticed a motorcycle riding very close to the car seconds before the explosion, with one of the motorcyclists attaching something to the car. Another agent of Mehdi’s was shot dead while still in bed in Montparnasse, Paris. French police investigators, along with Iranian investigators who were allowed to take part in the case, could not track the assassin. They could not even figure out how the agent’s killer succeeded in getting through all the apartment security measures.
Among the improvements Mehdi introduced into his organization was installing a system of control over his men and over his communication with them. He tried to get to the bottom of the explosions and assassinations that had claimed the lives of his men but hit an impasse. Even a senior investigator Mehdi appointed in the strictest confidentiality to uncover what had had happened made no progress. Mehdi made yet another effort to find out what had happened to his operatives and set up a team comprising two highly discreet personal assistants. With their help, he began the process of scrutinizing the credibility of his agents in Europe by sending each of them contrived messages in the utmost secrecy.
One day, Tibriz got a coded message classified as ‘Top Secret,’ according to which there was to be an attempt on the life of the Israeli ambassador to the European Union. Unbeknownst to Tibriz, he was the only address. No other agent received this coded message from Mehdi. On the day that was scheduled for the planned assassination, Mehdi’s men, who were assigned to observe the complex where the Israeli delegation was headquartered in, noticed that security around the building had been heightened. The entire place had been surrounded by members of the Belgian security services and persons later identified as Mossad agents. Mehdi immediately realized the reason for this.
***
Tibriz realized he had been caught. Bound to a chair in a banana-like pose, he regretted his own indiscretion, the cause of his downfall and capture. He knew all too well what was about to befall him. Sheer torture. ‘First, my toenails, then, my balls, and ultimately, what’s left of my life… oh, how I’d wish it was the other way around, but I am no longer in charge.’
Tibriz was kept waiting in this position for hours. Much to his surprise, nothing happened. The guard who was standing watch next to him even gave him some water. Then, the door flung open. He couldn’t be more surprised to see his all-powerful boss, chief of special ops Mehdi Mohammad, entering the room. The look on Mehdi’s face beamed pride and self-importance.
“I came to bring you kind regards from your wife and kids. I saw them this morning. She asked to show you their picture.”
Upon being shown a photo of his wife from today’s newspaper, Tibriz, who was perfectly calm until that point, began shaking all over. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to save the life of your wife and save the future of your two kids,” Mehdi retorted.
“What do I have to do?”
Mehdi smiled, but his eyes were as cold as ice. “I will show you three things, so you’ll get the full picture.” He laid a Parabellum firearms cartridge on the table by the torture chair Tibriz was tied to. “This is exhibit one. Now, here’s exhibit two: a real Paraguayan passport under your name. exhibit three: a photo of a Paraguayan passport for your wife and your kids.”
“What do I have to do to get all these riches?”
“Take out your handler. This will atone for some of the crimes you’ve committed against our homeland, help save the life of your wife and save us the trouble of placing your kids in two separate orphanages. As a bonus, you would also be saving your own miserable life, may blessed, merciful Allah forgive me for that.”
***
The very next day, Tibriz flew to Lisbon for an urgent meeting he had set up with his handler, whom he met at their usual spot at the city’s boardwalk, right by Fernando’s café. A.K. approached him, smiling wholeheartedly but only briefly, for Tibriz pulled out his parabellum and noticed A.K.’s look of understanding right before sustaining three shots to his chest and falling onto the promenade’s pavement.
***
Back at the headquarters in Tehran, Mehdi and his team celebrated their victory over the Mossad. The next day, a special envoy from Iran’s president came to tell Mehdi he had been appointed QF commander as successor of the chief who had died a week earlier from cancer.
Mehdi knew the Mossad and figured its response for eliminating one of its top field operatives would not be late in coming. He just didn’t know where and when the retaliation would come, or how hard.
Chapter Thirteen
The sight was as powerful as it was mesmerizing. A red pillar of smoke rose over the bazaar, only to be followed by blue smoke a few second later and another pillar of yellow smoke within a few seconds after that. These pillars of smoke soon converged over the khana, the Mohammadi family’s commercial compound, to form a spectacular rainbow. Their store’s indigo, saffron and ochre burnt to cinder in no time, and the now black smoke was all that remained of all those marvelous handcrafted carpets and rugs.
Mehdi received word of the fire during a QF meeting with the topic of ‘preparing for an anticipated Mossad reprisal.’ He called the meeting to a halt. “I have to catch a flight to Tabriz. No need to discuss the possible ways the Mossad might strike back in response to our killing one of their top agents in Europe. They just beat us to it.”
***
The entire bazaar had celebrated the birth of Ali, Mehdi’s elder brother. Suleiman, the proud father, had run through the market streets and told everyone about the new heir to the Mohammadi family. His wife Fatimah had been right beside him, handing out homemade sweets to the shopkeepers and stall owners, as well as to the visitors. The entire course of Ali’s life was set at birth. Ever since he turned three-years old, he spent every moment he could spare in the khana, studying its secrets. He grew into a marvelous young man, tall, brown-eyed and with lovely, raven-black hair. He went to a local boxing gym twice a week and grew fitter. His lovely features and handsome figure won him the attraction of all the girls in Tabriz, who never tired from gazing at him from afar. After he graduated high school, the family sent him to Tehran to study business management, after which he went to a renowned college dedicated to the carpet trade. Upon completion of his studies there, it was only natural that he would join the family business, initially as a public relations and marketing manager.
Two years after Ali was born, his mother gave birth to Bahiz. The two brothers could not be more different. Unlike his elder brother, Bahiz was slim and introverted. He had to wear glasses at age six. The doctors advised Fatimah to administer all sorts of potions to make him stronger. He would spend his time thinking and playing elaborate games. He seemed to prefer those intricate pursuits to the company of other people.
“Bahiz will be our finance guy,” Ali determined before the boy was even six. The boy made good on this prediction when he graduated in Tabriz, then in Tehran.
When the fire erupted in the khana, both brothers were seated in their respective chambers on either side of the complex. The smell of smoke and the shouts of the staff drove both Ali and Bahiz out, but whereas Bahiz ran out with everyone from the burning building, Ali disappeared. All attempts to find him failed. One employee said he had seen
Ali running down the corridor and shouting he was going to save the carpet and that he’d be back soon. But he never returned.
Everyone knew which carpet he was referring to: a masterpiece three years in the making by a highly qualified weaver. Her as yet unfinished work had already been sold to the royal palace in Saudi Arabia for a huge fortune.
Concern for Ali increased as the hours went by. Several hours after the fire, the commander of the local emergency forces paid a visit to the family and told Suleiman solemnly, “We’ve recovered Ali’s body. A concrete beam fell on top of him. He died on the spot.”
The family’s grief was enormous. Traditional and close-knit, the Mohammadis’ loyalty and love for one another was known to all. Ali’s death was a serious blow as he was the eldest, the heir apparent to Suleiman, designated to head the next generation of carpet weavers.
The bazaar went on sabbatical on the day of the funeral. All the other merchants closed shop and paid their respects at the Blue Mosque. The lamenting muezzin eulogized Ali, his cries sounding across Tabriz over loudspeakers everywhere.
Grandma Suheila insisted on attending the funeral, despite the urgings of her doctors that she should stay in bed. Her age and various ailments were plainly visible. She could barely walk, so she leaned on Suleiman and Fatimah. Amid the tears and cries that poured out everywhere, Suheila kept a stern face, shed not a single tear and retained her composure. Regal to the last moment, she did not even sigh.
Deadly Ties Page 9