“Where were you all this time?”
“In Tehran, working at the headquarters of Atashbon. Rashtian said that my accent was too British.”
I asked Parviz directly, “How did you end up here?”
He shrugged. “I came to think the new regime wasn’t much better than the Shah’s. When I talked about it with my friends, or people I thought were my friends, I was accused of being an infidel and a betrayer of the faith and was expelled from the unit. Within three days I was taken from the camp by military police, drafted into the Iranian army, and sent to the front lines to fight the Iraqis.”
“When was that?”
“It was the end of the war, 1988. It took only two weeks for me to be captured. They held me until not long ago.”
Benny spoke up. “Our agents heard about him from a released prisoner and managed to buy his freedom and smuggle him out of Iraq just before this most recent war. He received political asylum in Israel in return for his cooperation.”
I excused myself and took Benny aside. “Why just now?” I asked Benny in Hebrew. “Where was he all this time?”
“We got him out only recently,” he answered quietly in Hebrew. That meant he’d just finished squeezing out every bit of information available.
“Can he identify all other members of Atashbon?”
“He says he can’t. He says he knew only two others by name. The rest were given code names, and he had never been in the same class with them at the American School.”
I didn’t buy that, but said nothing to Benny. Maybe Benny wanted that information fleshed out later and exchanged when he needed something from the CIA.
“And the two he knew?”
“We’re working on it with Casey.”
We returned to the sofa and joined Morad and Casey. “How many Atashbon members were ultimately sent to the U.S.?” asked Casey. He’d saved the most important question for the end, always a good tactic.
“I was there about eight years,” said Parviz. “I know for a fact that at least eight men were sent from Iran during that period.”
“All to the U.S.?”
“I think so. All were gradually transferred to a third country, mostly in Europe, for a few days, and from there they were sent individually to the U.S.”
“But you don’t have their names?”
“No. Other than the two I remembered from school, the rest were strangers. It was all extremely secretive. We were forbidden to use our real names and were given new Iranian names. I got so used to my new name that I sometimes get confused and still use it, although it’s been many years now.”
“And do you remember any real names of the members?” asked Casey.
“Just one.”
“And who was that?”
“Alec Simmons.”
“Anything else about him?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen Alec Simmons, I only heard of him. He was the second or the third catch of Rashtian.”
“Do you know anything about the person who assumed his identity?”
“His new Iranian name was Ibrahim Soleimani. I have no idea what his real name is.”
Casey intervened. “Do you know anything about him at all?” He was becoming impatient and dismissive.
“Very little. Although we lived together in the camp, we were forbidden to talk about our past. Once, one of us was overheard telling his friend about his grandfather. He was punished severely.”
“Meaning…?” Casey pressed harder.
“He was lashed, before all of us.”
“What did Ibrahim Soleimani look like?” I resumed control of the questioning.
“Well, it has been eighteen years. But back then he was chubby. He was five foot eight and weighed, to my estimate, two hundred and fifty pounds. Black hair and eyes.”
“Any special physical markings?”
“I don’t remember anything special about him. He spoke very good English and had a nice sense of humor. We were lucky to be living in Tehran under reasonable conditions, while others our age were fighting the Iraqis in the desert trenches. So we kept our mouths shut and obeyed our superiors.”
I continued interviewing Morad for two more hours until an aide to Benny arrived and took Morad with him.
“This is a transcript of his interrogation in Israel,” said Benny as he handed me a bound copy. “It can’t leave this place.” He showed me to another room with a desk and a sofa. “Here you can read and take notes. Avoid copying telltale sentences.”
“Do you trust him?” I asked Benny.
He gave me that look reserved for those born stupid who live to demonstrate it daily.
“Are you kidding? We use him as an intelligence source only, and not a very reliable one either. Read his story with a huge grain of salt.”
Casey’s mobile phone rang. Before moving to an adjacent room to take the call he told me that a Mossad veteran named Reuven would instruct me on Iranian customs and daily life on the following day.
After Benny and Casey left the safe apartment, I spent most of the evening and some of the night reading the transcript of Morad’s interrogation. I woke up on the sofa in the morning clutching the notebook, and gave it to a woman who’d politely asked me to return it to her.
I went back to my hotel for a change of clothes, and then walked in the chilly Vienna air to another safe apartment to meet Reuven. That safe apartment was located in a prewar building, just a few blocks from my hotel.
I rang the bell. A fifty-something woman with a sour face opened the door.
“Ja?”
“Ich bin Ian Pour Laval. Ich werde erwartet hier.” I’m Ian Pour Laval, I’m expected here.
She opened the door wider and let me in. I found myself in a big room with a high ceiling and a tall wooden door leading to other rooms. The apartment was sparsely decorated and had only minimal furniture. A long table with two computer monitors stood across the room, and an easel was next to the wall. I waited for the woman to say something, but she didn’t. She opened the door to an adjoining room and left. I just stood there. A moment later the inside door opened and a dark-skinned man with white hair appeared.
“Shalom,” he said. It sounded out of place here. “I’m Reuven Sofian. Pleased to meet you.” Reuven looked like an old eagle, with dark sunken black eyes trapped in a face of wrinkled ashen rock, and thick overgrown eyebrows. He shook my hand.
“Same here,” I answered in Hebrew.
“Sit down and relax,” he suggested, pointing at the sofa. “Relax? Why do you say that?” I asked in a mock surprise with a smile. But I knew he was reading my body language. He smiled at me genially.
“Because we’ll be spending a few days together discussing Iranian customs and routines, and I want you to feel comfortable. We’ll also work on the relevant portions of your legend.”
“The legend looks rather straightforward,” I said.
“True, but it needs to be embedded in your mind, since you’re going into Iran, not to Norway. The Iranian security services treat suspects somewhat differently, so you’d better have a cover story that will seem logical, plausible, and consistent. Most of all we’ll discuss how to stay out of trouble.”
We should, I thought. After all, it was my neck.
Reuven gave me a very detailed description of daily life in Tehran. That lasted four hours. We broke for coffee and tea.
“I guess you were born there,” I said, sensing he loved the country and the people but detested the regime. He nodded. “Have you ever been back since you left?” Reuven only smiled in answer.
We had to review the main cause for all of this conflict: the Iranian revolution itself. Reuven’s presentation was straightforward. By welcoming foreign companies and culture to Iran, the Shah had disenfranchised two power bases—the bazaar merchants and the clerics. Once Khomeini seized power, those who had actually empowered him were pushed aside in favor of an unusual coalition of fanatic mullahs and bazaar merchants. The war with Iraq further quel
led opposition, despite its terrible consequences for Iran. Reuven was thorough and precise. He concluded the political portion of his review within an hour, winding up with a gulp of coffee from his mug.
“What about Erikka?” I asked. “Any instructions?”
“Go over the rules with her, just in case, because she left Iran as the revolution started and may not be aware of the moral rules and dress code. Say you did some research. Tell her that you don’t think it will be helpful if she gets in trouble in Iran, because it may reflect on you as well. She must cover her body, including her feet. No bright colors are allowed. If you leave Tehran, I’d recommend she stick to black. If Erikka wants to swim at the hotel’s swimming pool, she must be covered completely. Women violating the dress code could be punished severely, even flogged.”
He continued. “Don’t offer a handshake to a woman, or touch a woman in public. Stay away from a religious debate—it can be dangerous. The Iranians are very fussy about their honor. What would be acceptable in Europe, or America, is forbidden in Iran.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as giving a thumbs-up.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the Iranian way of saying ‘fuck you.’ ” Definitely good to know.
“Crossing the street in Tehran is like swimming across a crocodile-infested river. Car drivers ignore all rules but their own, which change momentarily while they drive. Pedestrians are considered a nuisance by motorists. Be particularly wary of motorbikes. They take the liberty of riding on the sidewalks or against traffic. If you pass the former U.S. Embassy building, don’t attempt to take pictures.
“Ask Erikka to teach you some basic words and expressions in Farsi. She will like that, and it’s important in more than one manner. Not only will it become handy, since very few people speak English, but it will also endear you to them.
“Show interest in people, as an author is expected to. I repeat, in people, not installations or strategic points. Good places for you to meet people are the public parks. Go there on Thursday and Friday nights, at a late hour when many families and their young children assemble until after midnight. Summer nights are hot, and people escape the heat of their uninsulated homes.”
“I’ll be there in the winter, I presume, but just in case, any particular place in mind?”
“Yes. Park-e Mellat is located to the north of Vanak Square along Vali Asr Avenue, in northern Tehran. It’s very popular among young families who bring food baskets and picnic. If you’re hungry, cross the street; there are street vendors and also small coffee shops. Most people don’t have money to go to fancy restaurants. Iran is a rich country, but the population is poor. In 1977, the average personal income in Iran was $2,450, same as in Spain. However last year, Iran’s per capita income was less than $1,640, same as the Gaza Strip.
“You will be given escape-route instructions separately, but you should know that there’s a weekly train from Tehran to Damascus leaving Mondays at 18:35. A one-way ticket is 330,000 rials—about $40. The ride takes sixty-five hours, including long waits at each border crossing. One is while crossing from Iran to Turkey, and the second while crossing from Turkey to Syria.”
“Syria? Why would I want to go there?”
“If you need to escape, a train to Syria may be a good idea. Of course you’ll get off in Turkey, but buy the ticket all the way to Syria. The Agency personnel will discuss it with you in more detail. One more thing particular to Iran: Terminal 2 at Tehran Airport is the international departures terminal. It’s easily confused with the domestic departures. Make sure Erikka goes through the female gate.
“There are a few more things you should bear in mind about Iranians. They’re hospitable, but may not be candid with things they tell you. Concealment of facts and flexible definition of truth is a traditional way of life. Iranians trust only their family, no others, and definitely not stranieri—foreigners. Feel free to negotiate and bargain everywhere. That’s acceptable, even expected.”
Three detail-intensive hours later, Reuven looked at his watch. “John will join us in a few minutes.”
I heard the doorbell ring, the main door opened and closed, and an elderly man with a sprightly gait entered our room escorted by the sour-faced woman.
“Hi Dan. I’m John Sheehan,” he said as he shook my hand.
“John will bring you up to date on more recent political history,” said Reuven while collecting his papers. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Dan,” said John as we sat down, “we will spend the next few hours discussing the darker side of Iran, something I’ve been doing for the Agency for more than thirty years.”
“Shoot,” I said.
He leaned back on the couch. “Let me give you an overview of Iranian security agencies, your potential adversaries. There are six key entities for your purposes. The most notorious is the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps or IRGC, also known as Pasdaran. They’re entrusted with the responsibility of protecting the revolution, meaning being the muscle of the fanatic clerics to enforce their interpretation of Islamic rules.”
I stretched on the couch as he continued. “They grew from a regular small police force to a whopping several hundred thousand, organized independently or attached to military units. They even have small planes and boats. The Pasdaran were very zealous in monitoring the regime’s perceived inside enemies. To broaden their grasp over the lives of every Iranian, they recruited hundreds of thousands of volunteers, the Baseej. These volunteers report suspected behavior or activities of all citizens and arrest women who fail to follow the strict dress code that the revolution imposed.”
“What happens to violators?”
“If you’re lucky you get only an oral warning. Others receive written notices warning them of their ‘social corruption.’ Almost one hundred thousand people were actually arrested last year for violating the codes. Bear in mind that the Revolutionary Guards have other names for their units operating in foreign countries. That includes their subsidiary organizations, Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad. The names they use are the ‘Committee on Foreign Intelligence Abroad’ and the ‘Committee on Implementation of Actions Abroad.’ In essence, the Revolutionary Guards’ foreign units operate like any other clandestine intelligence operation. They mask their foreign activities by using front companies and nongovernmental organizations, trading companies, and banks.”
“I know the routine,” I said patiently. “While outside Iran, some of their agents operate out of the Iranian embassies to enjoy diplomatic immunity.” I remembered a case I’d been involved in earlier where Iranian agents in Europe had tried to shield themselves from arrest by using their diplomatic immunity. But they’d made one mistake: they’d worked at the embassy in Rome and operated in Munich. That transborder mistake had rendered their immunity worthless.
“Correct. They also started the ‘Foundation of the Oppressed and Dispossessed,’ or Bonyade-e-Mostafazan, used for infiltration into and then subsequent control of Islamic charities in many countries. Another clandestine unit of the Guards is the Qods—Jerusalem—Force. Our sources estimate that their size exceeds ten thousand men. They’re assigned to foreign activities, which include terror. The Qods Force maintains training facilities in Iran and in Sudan for the terrorists of the next generation. In addition to training, they also gather intelligence on potential targets for terror attacks and monitor dissidents of the Iranian regime.”
“Some of them sometimes mysteriously disappear,” I added cynically.
John smiled. “And some not so mysteriously. Tehran continues to provide logistic support and training to Lebanese Hezbollah and a variety of Palestinian groups such as Hamas and Islamic Jihad. What we need to discuss is the Ministry of Intelligence and Security, or MOIS, also known as Vezarat-e Ettela’at va Amniat-e Keshvar, or VEVAK. It’s the successor to SAVAK, the Shah’s notorious internal-security agency. Religious leaders had recruited former SAVAK agents to help the regime eliminate domestic opposition. Con
sequently, some intelligence officers and low-ranking SAVAK and army-intelligence officials were asked to return to government service because of their specialized knowledge of the Iranian left, which emerged as the only opposition. VEVAK extends its hold outside Iran as well. Its agents are disguised as diplomats in Iranian embassies and consular offices, or as employees of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance representatives. Light covers include employees of Iran Air, students, or businessmen. We even saw Iranian agents holding themselves out as members of the opposition groups.”
I could only imagine what happened to the poor souls who believed them and talked against Iran or participated in any anti-Iranian activities.
John continued with a thorough lecture on the other military and security organizations for three more hours. He poured coffee from a large thermos into a white mug and waited for my reaction. I was tired and becoming restless, and John could tell.
“OK. You’ll be picked up tomorrow morning for more Mossad briefing. At a later time I’ll give you reading material.”
I knew a fair amount of what they were telling me. But then again, knowledge was power, especially on these kinds of missions. It would up my odds of returning home alive.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
In the morning I returned to the safe apartment for an additional session with Reuven. The street next to the safe apartment was congested; a car with its hood open was idled in the middle of the road. That backed up traffic for the entire street. I entered the apartment. Reuven was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and smelled of a good aftershave lotion.
“Let’s begin,” I said. I was alert and eager.
Reuven started. “The leaders of the Iranian Islamic Revolution set the agenda for state-sponsored terrorism, making Iran the world’s most active sponsor of terrorism. Their strategy is first, to hit their political opponents—there were at least eighty assassinations of Iranian dissidents who fled Iran, mostly to Europe. Next, to expand their influence throughout the Gulf region and the Islamic world.”
The Chameleon Conspiracy Page 22