by Nathan Ronen
The limousine driver waiting for Iman al-Uzbeki in the arriving passengers’ lounge was carrying a cardboard sign bearing his cover name, “Ambassador Araque.”
Al-Uzbeki raised his hand and signaled the driver, who reached out to take Iman’s suitcase. He then ushered him to a VIP parking spot, where the Iranian ambassador to the United Kingdom’s car awaited him. Next to it stood a Neanderthal-looking bodyguard. He was short and very brawny, his face unreadable.
The limo sailed off to the Knightsbridge neighborhood, in which the Islamic Republic of Iran’s embassy was located on 16 Prince’s Gate Street. An MI551 surveillance vehicle, camouflaged as a black London taxi, followed the limousine, filming the event with hidden cameras.
“I think he’s going into the Iranian commercial attaché’s office,” said Sylvia Zilesnick, commander of the surveillance team.
“Why do they always call them ‘commercial attaché’ or ‘cultural attaché’?” her partner asked. “Why do their offices always have barred windows? Why do they never face the street, and are always shielded by heavy lead curtains, with Faraday cages inside to block electromagnetic signals? And they’re scanned for bugs twice a day.”
“Well, after all, everyone knows that the embassy’s supposed commercial attaché is Colonel Ghorbanali Hussein Rizkawi, commander of Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and National Security’s Third Department extension,” Sylvia replied, looking at the surveillance vehicle’s monitors.
***
“Welcome, sir,” said Colonel Rizkawi, commander of Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and National Security52 extension. He greeted Iman al-Uzbeki with a masculine hug, examining the new form into which his face had been sculpted with a smile. In his opinion, he looked nothing like the photo of the man with the Pashtun turban, the trademark of Afghani Taliban fighters. The blazing red beard, Iman al-Uzbeki’s personal trademark when he was commanding cells of Al Qaeda fighters in Afghanistan, was also gone. The man before him looked like an elegant Pakistani businessman.
“Nice work!” Colonel Rizkawi declared when he was done appraising Iman al-Uzbeki’s current face.
“Thank you very much,” Iman said, in a Farsi accented with Pashtun dialect, kissing both of the colonel’s cheeks in accordance with Pashtun tradition.
“I received instructions directly from the head of Intelligence and National Security, Minister Sayyid Alawi, to help you with anything you need,” Rizkawi said. “And you also have carte blanche to receive anything you want.”
Steaming, fragrant, sweet jasmine tea was poured into delicate glass cups and served along with trays of dried fruit, prepared in the traditional way, by being dried in the sun with salt crystals. Iranian pastries, hard sugar ābnabāt candy, poolaki wafers, and Persian nougat with pistachios were all served on small ceramic saucers.
Iman raised a cup of fragrant tea, expressing his appreciation for the Farsi refreshments, the likes of which he had not tasted for many years.
“Are you tired?” Rizkawi asked.
“Not too much. I slept on the plane. I flew first class. It’s actually very comfortable,” Iman said.
“I want to brief you a bit on London,” Rizkawi said. “I call it ‘Londistan,’ since these days it’s more Muslim than many Muslim countries. Two hundred and twenty-three new mosques were constructed here, mostly built on the ruins of English Christianity. The accepted assessment is that by 2020, the number of Muslims worshipping in the mosques will be 680,000, more than the number of Christians partaking in the weekly mass. Within a generation, the number of Muslim worshippers will triple that of their Christian counterparts.”
The expression of amazement on Iman’s face made Colonel Rizkawi grin.
“Equally important is the fact that there are already a hundred courts in London ruling according to Muslim Sharia law,” he continued. “The appearance of a parallel legal system was made possible thanks to Britain’s 1996 Arbitration Act and the growth of an alternative system of conflict resolution. These courts reject the absolute value of human rights, meaning the values of freedom and equality that constitute the basis of English law. London’s mayor is Muslim, as are the mayors of adjacent cities, such as Luton. Currently, there are eight Muslim members in the British House of Commons.
“It’s true, Muslims are in the lowest socio-economic strata of British society,” Rizkawi continued, “but that means there should be no problem recruiting members of the community who would agree to take part in action against the infidels, just as there were many Brits who joined ISIS’ Islamic State in Iraq. Muslims in the UK suffer from unsatisfactory living conditions, a low level of education, and severe unemployment.”
“In contrast, out of the two-and-a-half million Muslims living in Britain, let’s not forget that about 10,000 Muslims are defined as millionaires and that the Muslim business community is gathering strength and momentum,” Iman al-Uzbeki added, a piece of information that made the colonel smile.
“Good job, I see you did your homework before coming here,” he complimented his guest. “That will be our source of support when recruiting resources seemingly designated for enhancing Muslim values in education, and I expect some generous donations from the global Islamic missionary movement fund, Tablighi Jamaat.”
Rizkawi continued. “Currently, there are about 600 British warriors who have converted to Islam within the ranks of ISIS and Al Qaeda in Iraq and Syria. We want to return them to Britain, with some of them waiting for a chance to take action against the country in which they were raised. The main problem is that they’re Sunni and hate us Shiite Iranians. Therefore, we’ll have to handle them through an Islamic organization we’ve founded here, which will pretend to be a Sunni Salafi53 organization funded by Saudi Arabia. Don’t forget that there’s a secret, intense competition between us and the Saudis with regard to hegemony over England’s Muslim milieu.”
Iman al-Uzbeki walked over to the building’s windows overlooking the back garden. He examined the thick curtains, coated with lead to prevent surveillance, and gazed out apprehensively.
“Don’t worry,” Rizkawi assured him. “You can talk freely in this room. It’s equipped with systems to prevent outside surveillance. The walls in this room were built with impenetrable panels, and it’s equipped with sound-masking devices. There’s a one-way mirror adhered to the windows, protecting the room from video cameras and hidden wiretaps, and every day, the rooms are scanned for bugs. You can talk freely here.”
Iman al-Uzbeki relaxed.
“I want to see the personal files of all these fighters,” he said. “We have to suspect and take into account that some of them were already recruited and embedded among us as double agents by Western intelligence, particularly the British MI5. We have to stay ahead of British intelligence, which will undoubtedly arrest them the moment they return to the UK. I want to pick a select team for myself and join them in Turkey where we’ll set them up with passports of EU members or candidates for membership, like Albania and the Muslim Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina. In those countries there’s no problem arranging passports for our people, and so they’ll trickle in here under the radar of British security agencies.”
“Okay. I’ll prepare the candidates’ personal files for you,” Rizkawi said. “Due to compartmentalization practices, I’m personally excluded from the ‘grand goal’ that the Supreme Leader and the minister have assigned to you, but I was impressed hearing about the excellent work you did with Jihad al-Maghreb—the Maghreb Islamic Jihad in Morocco. I’m at your service here for any help you might need in terms of money, weapons, or explosives.”
He handed Iman a cardboard file with documents, including a three-year residency permit from the British Ministry of the Interior stating that Iman al-Uzbeki had been registered in the United Kingdom’s Ministry of the Interior under the name Mu’alem (meaning ‘teacher’) Ali Hassan Baraqat, a teacher of Islam in the prominent
East London Mosque in the Whitechapel neighborhood.
Iman took the documents and looked at his photo. His previous image, before the plastic surgery, a man wearing a Pashtun turban with a fire-colored beard, looked back at him. This created a problem with his current visage. He would have to dress up again.
“You’re owed congratulations, too,” Rizkawi added with a smile. “The chief imam of London has chosen a British girl of Pakistani origin to be your bride. She speaks Urdu, which I understand is your mother tongue. She’ll fulfill all your needs. She’s a devout Muslim girl and has already given her consent. Then we can begin preparations to apply for British citizenship for you as her partner, a process that takes a year. But in the meantime, you’ll have a work and residency permit, British ID, and the right to receive free health services. I suggest you go underground and start getting organized and becoming a familiar feature of your environment. We’ve arranged an apartment for you near the Grand Mosque in East London. The neighborhood is full of Bengali and Syrian immigrants from the Middle East. Here’s the address and the house keys, and there’s also an envelope with money for your personal needs.”
Iman peeked inside the swollen envelope. It contained 5,000 pounds in small used bills and two sets of keys. One was intended for the old Rover car waiting for him in a parking spot near his home, while another set was intended for the apartment rented for him.
He smiled to himself in satisfaction.
Rizkawi opened a drawer and extracted a small white rectangular box bearing the Apple logo, handing it to Iman. “I bought you a new cellular device,” he said. “It’s the most sophisticated iPhone, and I approved equipping it with the most important numbers you’ll need, including the ambassador’s and my cell phone numbers.”
Al-Uzbeki raised his hand in protest. “Sorry, I don’t use current-model cell phones. Why do you think they haven’t managed to catch me yet, despite the most sophisticated equipment in the world used by the American NSA, the British GCHQ,54 and the Israeli Unit 8200, as well as all the surveillance units of the Western intelligence agencies pursuing me?”
Rizkawi looked at him in disbelief.
“Your assumption should always be that every room is bugged, and every conversation is monitored,” al-Uzbeki explained. “Assume every person you come across doesn’t just happen to be there. They’ve been placed in your path, subject to the enemy’s control. Don’t look behind you, either; you’re never entirely alone. I’m not at all sure our conversation now isn’t being monitored.”
Rizkawi looked nervously through the large windows with their closed curtains, facing the courtyard.
“Our entire method of communication will be based on the approach I call ‘primitivism,’” al-Uzbeki continued. “That means we won’t use any device emitting electronic signals. We won’t talk on the phone. Instead, we can meet, or pass notes through carrier pigeons, for example.”
“Are you serious? Pigeons?” Rizkawi cracked up. “We’re in the twenty-first century, not the stone age.”
“Actually, primitive communication is still the most efficient way to mislead all the computer geniuses running the enemy’s surveillance, monitoring, and cyber systems,” al-Uzbeki insisted. “This method is right for us. We are a small, emerging, partisan organization that, at this stage, doesn’t need to coordinate activity on a large scale or at multiple centers simultaneously.”
Rizkawi looked at him in amazement.
“Don’t worry, if I have to call you urgently, I’ll find a way,” Iman said. “You should also remember that even if they can’t listen in on our conversations, it’s still very easy to pinpoint the location of the devices within a span of a few meters. The only way to avoid it is to separate the battery from the device and insert it only when you want to make a call.”
“So, are you taking the new iPhone I bought you?” Rizkawi didn’t quite understand Iman al-Uzbeki.
“No,” his colleague replied. “I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever sold you the device embedded surveillance software in there. I’ll buy us a few used old-school cell phones at Whitechapel Market, preferably stolen or prepaid burners, and send you two by courier. We can use those two devices to relay innocent messages through social networks like Facebook or Messenger, which will send notifications of a ‘pizza and beverage deal’ to your phone. This message will serve as an action instruction meaning ‘go activate the encrypted system.’ When you get this message, please retrieve the other device and briefly insert the battery of the second phone meant solely for receiving messages. Read the message I send you and immediately remove the battery from the device and extract its SIM card, in order to prevent identification and pinpointing my location as the message’s sender. If I need you urgently, I’ll call three times and hang up. Then you’ll go to the other phone and receive my message.
“When it comes to email, we’ll set up an innocuous Gmail account,” al-Uzbeki continued. “We’ll both have the same account, with an identical password. I’ll write you a short message but won’t send it over the web so it can’t be intercepted. It will be kept in the Drafts folder. You’ll log into the email account every day and so will I. We’ll leave brief messages, you or I will read the message saved in Drafts, and immediately delete it. The message will never be sent over the web and therefore, they’ll be unable to monitor us. I’ll also use an email program called LockWiper, which is email software that doesn’t leave any records. The moment you open the email, the sender’s name disappears and then the message itself disappears without a trace.”
“I see you’re very cautious.” Rizkawi was impressed. “Way to go. And how will I deposit money for you? Will you go to the bank and open a checking account?”
“Absolutely not,” Iman announced. “I’m very cautious regarding that topic, as well. When I was in Afghanistan, I had my closest assistant executed since I suspected he was on the Americans’ payroll. The Taliban’s security officers have often complained to me that money is the most successful weapon the Americans have brought to the battlefield.”
“What’s the meaning of what you’re saying?” Rizkawi asked, confused.
“I’ll never communicate with you directly. My people will call you through a landline or cell phone. I’ll contact you through an unknowing courier or by sending a carrier pigeon. I don’t want credit cards or a bank account. You’ll always convey cash only to my deputy, nicknamed ‘Ali Baba,’ through a courier to a predetermined shifting location.” Iman didn’t bother to inform Rizkawi that he already had ‘feet on the ground.’ An initial terrorist infrastructure, headed by his deputy, had already been set up in East London, funded by an initial 50,000 pounds transferred to them from the Iranian minister of intelligence in a cash briefcase.
“You’re very careful,” Rizkawi said appreciatively, while also feeling concerned about ten different things simultaneously, particularly the fact that Iman al-Uzbeki was taking control of the situation. He had no idea what the target was, what the timeframe was, or about the needs of this arch-terrorist, who seemed like a nice person. However, from reading Iman’s personal file, he knew he was facing a cold-blooded killer with no moral compunctions.
“So how will we meet?” he went on to ask.
“We’ll call you and let you know,” al-Uzbeki replied.
Nothing had been said to Colonel Rizkawi about this “we,” and he did not ask.
“I noticed on the way here that someone was right on our tail, a black taxi that stuck close to us,” Iman said.
“Yes, those are the MI5 dogs. They’re always tracking us Iranians,” Rizkawi complained.
“I don’t want them following me,” al-Uzbeki said. “Why don’t you get into the limousine and let them follow you, and I’ll leave on my own through the back door and get to the new place you’ve rented for me in Whitechapel by catching a taxi on the street.” He had secretly decided he would soon leave the apartment rented
for him by the Iranians, as he assumed Rizkawi had filled it with bugs and hidden cameras to control him. Therefore, he intended to rent an apartment for himself and not tell anyone about it.
Iman al-Uzbeki rose from his seat, signaling it was time for him to go ‘home,’ where the next day he would meet the woman intended to be his ‘wife’ and start getting ready for the major operation, which at this stage was to be concealed from the Iranian.
They split up. Colonel Rizkawi put on a large Borsalino hat, which obscured his face, as well as ‘Ambassador’ Iman’s large eggplant-colored raincoat and got into the limousine, which drove in the direction of northwest London. The black taxi drove after it immediately. Five minutes later, Iman left the embassy. He exited through the back service-door leading to Kensington Park, dragging his small wheeled suitcase and carrying the laptop case, which contained the envelope with the money and documents. He resembled many of the tourists who were taking leisurely strolls through Kensington Park.
Once outside, he looked at the London sky, so different from the star-strewn skies of the central-Asian countries in which he had spent most of his adult life. Heavy clouds padded the sky, illuminated by brief flashes of distant lightning. Gloomy moonlight flashed through the breaks between the clouds. A light drizzle moistened his face with microscopic droplets and a chilly wind infiltrated his thin business suit, making him shiver.
In Kensington’s bustling High Street, he raised his arm to a black, cube-like cab and instructed the Indian driver to head for the eastern part of the city, to the address of the apartment rented for him in the Whitechapel neighborhood, east of downtown London. He instructed the taxi to stop a few hundred yards from the apartment, paid, and exited. Entering the nighttime shopping center near the Muslim center, he bought himself some clothes that were befitting the character he would assume the following morning.