The Chameleon Conspiracy (22 page)

“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 quelled 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. Consequently, 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.

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.”

“And then?”

“The world. We have already heard the Iranian president saying that. The regime has planned or encouraged suicide
bombings of American military targets. But recently they have changed course. Sensing the world’s growing disgust with state-sponsored
terrorism and an increased political pressure by foreign countries, Tehran’s official new line is that they provide only humanitarian
and cultural assistance to radical movements such as Islamic Jihad, Hezbollah, and Hamas.”

“Do you believe them? I don’t,” I said.

“Of course not,” said Reuven. “These are empty statements. In fact nothing has changed. Nonetheless, they vehemently deny
any military or financial assistance to these organizations. They apply
Taqiyya
and
kitman
.”

“You mean religious and historical concepts?” I asked, remembering learning about it at the Mossad Academy.
Taqiyya
is a precautionary dissimulation or deception and keeping one’s beliefs secret, and
kitman
means more mental reservation and disguising malicious intentions.
Taqiyya
and
kitman
, or “holy hypocrisy,” were used by Shiite Muslims centuries ago in their conflict with Sunni Muslims. Hundreds of years ago
Taqiyya
had been used by Persian warriors to confuse the enemy. One tactic was “deceptive triangulation”: to make your enemies believe
that jihad wasn’t aimed at them, but at another enemy.

“Yes,” he said. “The Iranian government has turned them into political tools. By applying it to their plan of plausible denial,
present-day clerics resurrected a theological doctrine to make it a tactical political tool. We’ve found Al-Qaeda training
manuals with instructions on the use of deception to achieve terrorist goals.”

“I read in a brief I received last week that Iranian government spokesmen commonly use
Taqiyya
as a form of ‘outwitting,’ ” I said. “The rule is, if you’re faced with an unpleasant situation or with damaging facts, avoid
the debate. You should ‘outwit’ your opponent through the use of
Taqiyya
, diverting your opponent and obfuscating the issue being discussed. Another form of distraction and ‘outsmarting’ is claiming
to be the ‘victim’ of religious discrimination and intolerance during debate or discussion.”

“Right,” said Reuven. “You will see it in practice everywhere you go in Iran, in the bazaar or in daily conversations, and
of course by government officials.”

“I already have,” I said. “In previous cases when I had contacts with Iranian officials, it was abundantly clear that they
were employing manipulative ambiguity tactics. Rather than admit that some of the things you say can be true, they adamantly
denied it. They used double-talk that left me with no answer, even to the simplest of my questions,” I concluded, remembering
how frustrated I’d become.

We continued talking for two more hours. During lunch break I decided to walk to my hotel. The stranded car was gone, and
traffic was flowing. I suddenly sensed that a late-model Japanese-made car was slowly following me. At the next street corner
I “dry-cleaned” it, intel lingo for maneuvering tactically to shake off a follower, by entering a one-way street, and the
car disappeared. To be on the safe side I changed my plans. Instead of returning directly to my hotel, I entered a café, ordered
hot chocolate, left a a5 bill on the table, and went to the men’s room before my order came in. I used the service entrance
and went out to the street. When I arrived at my hotel, I entered through the service entrance at the back.

In the late afternoon I used the service entrance again and took a cab, telling the cabby to take me for an hour tour of Vienna,
and when I was sure we weren’t followed, I told him to take me to a street adjacent to the safe apartment. I walked a block
and entered the building. I rang the doorbell, but nobody answered. I took out my mobile phone to call. The display showed
that I had two missed calls. I dialed the most-recent number. It was John. “Ian, I’m glad you called back. Don’t go to the
safe apartment.”

“Why?”

“It has been compromised.”

“Meaning?”

“I’ll explain later. Just don’t go there.”

“I’m already there. I tried the door, but there was no answer.”

“Where are you now?”

“Next to the door.”

“Have you noticed anyone surveying you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Anyone see you entering the building?”

“I don’t know. The street was empty, but that means nothing.” I told him about the car I’d thought was trailing me.

“You can’t use the front door again,” he said decisively. “Go down the stairs, pass the main entry door to the building, and
continue to the basement. You’ll see a big black metal door leading to the machine room. It’s unlocked. Get inside and lock
it behind you with the metal bar. Walk toward the back of the basement. There’s a glass window behind the central heating
burner. Climb to the window—it’s only about seven feet from the floor—and exit the basement through that window. You’ll
find yourself in the backyard of the building. There’s a low fence separating the building from the back of the adjacent building,
which faces a parallel street. Cross that fence, pass through the backyard of the other building, exit to the street, and
take a taxi. Don’t return to your hotel. Call me when you’re in the cab for more instructions.”

I felt the adrenaline rush, just like in the old action-filled Mossad days. I went down to the basement. I had difficulty
climbing up to the small window. I couldn’t climb using the boiler as a step, because its surface was too hot, and the window
was right behind it. I went to the adjacent laundry room, dragged out an old wooden table used for ironing, and climbed on
it. As soon as I was halfway through the window, the table collapsed under my weight.
I should go on a diet again,
I promised myself, struggling to make it the rest of the way out. In five minutes I was on another street. I stopped a cab
and called John.

“Now, take your cab on a twenty-minute ride around Vienna. After you have established that you aren’t being followed, tell
the cabby to take you to a nearby tram station. Take the tram to Stephansplatz. You will be about ten minutes from the city
center. Get off and take a cab to your hotel, NH

Wien hotel at Mariahilfer Strasse 32–34. It is located on a very long shopping boulevard, at the Spittelberg area. I’ll meet
you there.”

When I exited the tram I saw an empty cab approaching, but I ignored it. I waited for a few more to pass and stopped the fifth
cab. Mossad Academy training. Never take a cab when the driver approaches you, and while in a street, never stop the first
or second cabs that pass by you. They could be dispatched for you by the opposition. I perfected the rule and usually take
only the fifth cab.

I checked into the hotel and went up to my room with John following. The room was small and decorated with light oak furniture.

“What happened?” I asked as soon as I closed my room door.

“We were riding shotgun. We placed a countersurveillance team in a building opposite the safe apartment to protect the rendezvous.
They spotted suspicious activity. First a car that didn’t have any mechanical problem was made to look like it did.”

“How could they tell?”

“Simple. The driver stopped the car in the middle of the street, lifted the hood, and made himself appear as if he were fixing
something. But he didn’t touch anything. His hands were clean when he went back behind the wheel, purportedly to wait for
help. Ten minutes later, he just closed the hood, started the engine, and left. That happened right across from the safe apartment.”

“I saw that car too,” I said, forgetting to mention that it looked odd to me, but didn’t rise to the level of a suspicion,
when it should have. “Is that all?”

“No. There was another car cruising the neighborhood repeatedly for no apparent reason. Then Benny reported he was spotted
yesterday as he returned to his hotel.”

“Is he still there?”

“No. He checked out. Finally, Parviz Morad was discovered
making a call from a pay phone in the men’s room of his hotel lobby.”

“Was he unattended?” I was surprised at how that could have happened.

“No. He was under Mossad’s supervision at all times, but during dinner he went to the men’s room, and the Mossad agent waited
behind the outside door. When Parviz didn’t exit immediately, the agent entered and saw him on the phone. These hotels sometime
install pay phones inside the bathrooms.”

“Has Parviz been doubled?”

“I don’t know. Mossad is interrogating him. I’ve just heard he swore that he only called his uncle in Hamburg, Germany. Parviz
claimed the uncle was a known dissident of the Iranian government.”

“What do we do now?”

“We wait for the result of the investigation and see if these incidents are directed at us or connected to Parviz’s phone
call. If he double-crossed us, we may have to conduct a thorough damage control. Anyway, you’re not returning to the Holiday
Inn. I’ll go out and buy you some toiletries and overnight stuff,” he said.

“Why don’t you just send someone to remove my luggage from the Holiday Inn?”

“Because the hotel and your room are under our observation. I want to create the impression that you still live in that hotel.
Maybe these guys will be stupid enough to go there and give us a better idea who they are. Anyway, I don’t think you should
leave this room until we assess the situation. Order room service,” he said, reading my mind.

An hour later John returned with a shopping bag. “There’s a change of underwear here”—he handed me the bag—“and shaving cream,
disposable razors, a toothbrush, a comb, and toothpaste. That’ll keep you for a few days.” I looked at the bag; the underwear
was oversized and looked ridiculous.

“Thanks,” I said without sharing my thoughts on his taste in clothing.

“Let’s continue with our original plan,” suggested John. “OK.”

I sat on the bed, and John took a chair next to the small desk and dragged it to face me.

“Let me go into the political structure of Iran.”

My mind was elsewhere, trying to analyze the unexpected turn of events. But John ignored my hollow look and continued. I had
to listen—I was his captive audience.

“The Islamic Republic of Iran embodies Khomeini’s doctrine of
Velayat-e Faqih
, or ‘Islamic Rule.’ He advocated exporting revolution to extend his absolute authority over all Muslims. Central to the concept
is the doctrine that all Muslims, wherever they are, belong to the Islamic nation, the
Ummah
—and therefore must obey the authority of the religious leader. It’s interesting to note that his followers attempted to
broaden the definition of Islam. While most, if not all, Muslims consider Islam as their religion, while they belong to different
nations, the Iranian doctrine tried to classify all Muslims as members of a nation.”

“Because the Iranians aren’t Arabs, and in fact are a minority in Islam,” I said.

“Exactly,” said John. “This is their sneaky way to install themselves as leaders of a group a billion people strong, rather
than limiting their grip to only seventy million Iranians. They wrote a new constitution, which gives this immense power to
one person to become the head of the
faqih
, the ruling council. Ayatollah Khomeini was the first head of the
faqih
. The supreme religious leader has almost unlimited powers. He appoints the chief judges of the judicial branch; the chief
of staff of the armed forces; the commander of the Pasdaran; the personal representatives of the
faqih
to the Supreme Defense Council; and the commanders of the army, air force, and navy.”

“Democracy is dead, long live theocracy.”

“Obviously. The will of the individual has no meaning. For example, the
faqih
authorizes the candidates for presidential elections. If the supreme religious leader doesn’t approve, then a candidate cannot
run. There’s no appeal.”

“Did the Iranian people accept that?”

“Many of them didn’t. Soon after the Islamic Revolution approximately fifty people were executed daily. On some days the number
doubled. Many of the executions were public. We estimate that in two years the new regime executed seven to eight thousand
people. Realizing that it would be only a question of time before a popular uprising would topple the new regime, they eased
their grip a bit. But Iran continues to be a country where human rights—including women’s rights, the way we understand them—
mean nothing.”

John’s mobile phone rang. He exchanged a few sentences and flipped the phone’s cover.

“OK. The number Parviz has called belongs to Mehrang Pahlbod, a sixty-year-old Iranian exile who has been a vocal opponent
of the current Iranian regime. Parviz claimed that Mehrang Pahlbod is his uncle, and the pay-phone call he made was just to
say hello.”

“I don’t trust this guy, and even if he’s clean, and even if the relative checks out OK, his phone could be tapped by the
opposition,” I said.

“Right. We give zero weight to his explanation. But regardless, we had additional suspicious activities here that cannot be
ignored. We’ll have to keep low for a while until we determine if these events are connected with our plan, or were just a
part of their general monitoring of the activities of the Agency and Mossad personnel, without knowing what is brewing. Security
says this hotel is unmonitored, so your curfew is partially over, and you may leave your room, but not the hotel.”