The Volunteer (25 page)

South Africa's changeover to majority black rule in 1994 was a victory for racial equality and democracy. But it was not exactly a triumph in the more banal area of bureaucratic efficiency. Many of the functionaries in the new South African government were former ANC activists with little or no experience in government, some of whom hadn't lived in the country for many years. Exiled or jailed poets, writers, and guerrillas were being thrust into leadership posts at government ministries—the most famous among them, of course, being the country's new president, Nelson Mandela. The upper echelons of the security services were compromised by incompetents. The former white-run South Africa may have been racist and despotic, but the hard men who ran security made sure they knew what they were doing, if only out of a sense of self-preservation. In the new South Africa, things were chaotic, with different agencies and agents operating at cross-purposes and often with no shared communication. For my purposes, the chaos was perfect.

No spy, no matter how skilled, can function effectively without the help of good local people on the ground. The man who picked me up at Joburg's busy airport was very good.

“Howzit, China?” he invariably greeted me in the breezy South African way.
China
was short for “china plate,” which according to the bizarre logic of white South African slang is a rough-and-ready approximation of “mate.”

I'm five foot eleven. At six-five, Russ always made me feel like a shrimp. He also made me feel plain. He was handsome in a fair, classically Afrikaans kind of way, the sort of guy a movie director would cast to lead a safari. More importantly for my purposes, he was a rugby star and bush war veteran who knew how to take care of himself and any friends in the vicinity. Attired in a dark suit and Oakleys, he looked very much the man from the apartheid regime's feared and hated Bureau of State Security, known as BOSS. Russ was actually a nice Jewish boy and had never served in that hated branch of pro-apartheid state security. An Anglo South African who'd inherited his faith from a convert mother, he was genuinely ashamed of his country's racist past, as were most of the country's whites.

We went for a coffee in Sandton, Joburg's new white enclave, and I went over my plan. He eyed me closely. Nothing in his face suggested he was frightened or put off, but he looked concerned, I suspect about me. He had the good manners to keep his worries to himself.

We left, wandered around the mall in Sandton Square, found a sporting goods store, and bought some neoprene workout gloves, the kind weightlifters wear. Then I went back to the hotel and had a swim. I didn't sleep well that night, but managed a few hours.

Russ picked me up in the morning, both of us wearing our dark suits. We were trying hard to project the aura of uncompromising officialdom that translates as “We are from the government—do not fuck with us.” I'd been with the Mossad for a decade by this time but I felt like a nervous rookie: this type of close-quarters engagement with the enemy isn't something that happens every day in the spy business. Russ looked cool, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. I suspect he had his own butterflies, but his innate South African stoicism and his sheer physical presence made him seem invulnerable. He winked at me and said, “This should be interesting.”

We arrived at the three-star hotel, and Russ asked the drowsy reception clerk for house security with a tone of authority. She looked confused and Russ flashed a set of dated police credentials. The receptionist whispered into a telephone and a stunned-looking black man in a red suit jacket appeared. We'd obviously woken him up. Again, Russ flashed his expired ID and demanded that the man escort us to our targets' room. I kept quiet. Though I can fake a South African accent for non-South Africans, it wouldn't fool a local. Russ took the lead. He was in his element.

The security guard answered, “Yes, boss,” pronouncing it bass like the fish. Like I said, old instincts die hard in Africa. This was one of those tiny daily clues that remind you it will take years before the psychological yoke of white rule is fully removed from this country.

We entered the elevator and the guard asked what the trouble was. Russ opened his notebook with a policeman's officious manner. He told the man that a certain Mr. Mortazavi and Mr. Nemati had overstayed their welcome. Russ then added that this was a confidential matter, one implicating “South African national security.” In my impromptu role as the good cop, I offered a thin, vague smile.

Russ warned the guard not to discuss the matter with anyone else, especially the manager, who, Russ assured him, had also been sworn to secrecy. The guard just stared and said nothing. He looked burdened by this new secret, and was clearly anxious to get back into bed and put the episode behind him. We took his master key and told him to hold the elevator. I didn't want him in earshot.

We had no idea whether Nemati and Mortazavi would be awake, armed, or both. We opened the door as quietly as we could, eager to maintain the element of surprise. Our GLOCKs were drawn. We didn't plan to shoot anyone, but on the off chance it came to that, the two men would have to die and we would get out of the building quickly.

I was following Israeli weapons-handling procedure: my pistol was loaded, but not cocked, with chambers empty. Some Israeli military men grumble that the practice slows a shooter down, but I disagree. I've seen members of the Israel Security Agency put a tight cluster of twelve rounds down range in less than five seconds—including drawing and cocking. Walking around with a cocked pistol is unnecessary if you know how to handle it.

It's also risky. If a round is in the chamber, pressure on the trigger can set off the weapon. If it gets caught on something or a protruding object gets into the trigger guard, disaster can result. The Australian Federal Police—responsible for domestic VIP protection—had a cocked-pistol policy when I was in the Mossad (which I always found ironic, given the way they fussed about the risks involved with Israel deploying armed agents to protect its athletes at the 2000 Sydney Olympics). Once, they almost shot their own prime minister, John Howard, on his plane. They also almost shot the former Israeli ambassador Garbi Levi in his blue Volvo S80. In both cases, the two were barely missed by accidental discharges that went into seats where their behinds had been parked seconds before.

A lot of rules go out the window when you're overseas. But not this one. And so I'd come prepared. Russ and I were using Fobus holsters, composite plastic paddles that sit inside your waistband, with the weapon secured on the outside. It makes for a cleaner draw, and is far more comfortable than having a weapon jammed into your pants. Israeli ingenuity in action.

Our two targets were in the same room—as we knew they would be. (The Islamic Republic is often a frugal republic.) The first thing that struck me was the smell, which suggested hygiene was not an operational priority. Mortazavi and Nemati were in separate queen-sized beds. The room was dark, but the intense early morning African sunlight was streaming through breaks in the curtains. Both men stirred vaguely as we entered. Russ followed me into the room and covered the groggy Iranians as they began to waken and mutter. I checked the bathroom and closets, weapon ready.

Nemati and Mortazavi didn't seem particularly surprised. I was wondering if this sort of thing happens to them a lot when they travelled, and then realized that they thought we were hotel staff. They brought us into focus, and the expression on their faces changed as it became clear we were not there to check the mini-bar and change their towels.

I asked who was Mortazavi and who was Nemati. I knew already—the dossier I'd been given included photos from previous visa applications. But I wanted to see how co-operative they were going to be.

They identified themselves correctly. Mortazavi was the betterlooking one, mid-thirties, slim, with a trim beard and black shiny hair. Nemati was medium height, chunky, early forties, and had a huge forelock of wavy black hair. Nemati's beard was not as successful as his partner's, however, and I guessed it was Mortazavi who got all the girls.

Speaking English, I told them we were from South African security and that they had five minutes to dress and pack. After a few seconds of confusion, Mortazavi began protesting in whiny Farsi-accented English. His command of the language was pretty good, and I guessed he'd probably studied it outside of Iran. His friend began chiming in as well.

I cut them off quickly. “Shut your fucking mouths or it'll be a whole lot worse for you than it already is.”

There was no telling if the guard would get curious and swing by again, so we couldn't let them stall us. Russ covered me with his weapon, and I threw a forceful kick into Mortazavi's midsection. He let out an
oooof
and fell backward onto the bed he'd just evacuated. I stood over him and pointed the GLOCK at his forehead.

I told him I was using 9mm Black Talon ammunition, which is banned by most Western police departments because it can penetrate a Kevlar vest. I added that when it enters the human body, it acts like a miniature buzz saw. Even if I aimed at an extremity, the least he could expect was amputation. Adding some local color, I told him I'd make sure he was sewn up at a crummy clinic I knew in Alexandria township, where he'd get tainted blood or Ebola. It was all total nonsense. But if the increased volume of their blubbering was any guide, they bought it.

To a fly on the wall, all of this would have sounded like something out of a grade-B action movie. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes a real-life intelligence officer has a chance to spout off like a leading man in a Hollywood spy flick. I wasn't hamming it up for the hell of it, though; scaring these guys was the whole point of the mission. I wanted them to know we were enforcers, not negotiators.

They dressed and packed in a matter of minutes, while I examined their service passports and airline tickets. Russ took out disposable plastic handcuffs and cuffed them. We told them we had a car waiting outside and were heading directly to the airport.

Though I was trying hard not to show it, I was still nervous. My hands felt greasy and my throat was in a knot. There were a lot of things that could go wrong. The biggest risk was that someone—the guard, the hotel manager, some random bystander—would get on the phone and call in some real cops. We had prepared for this. I was on foreign documents, and our cover story was pretty good. Essentially, we'd try to bluff any locals with a complex story about a business deal gone wrong. But once local law enforcement gets involved, all sorts of things can happen. It wasn't a problem I wanted to face.

Fortunately, things went smoothly in the lobby. I asked the guard to help us with the Iranians' bags, and he proved eager to assist. Russ handed him a bundle of South African rand, and told him the government was grateful for his co-operation—and his silence. He also told him the hotel should check the men out on whatever credit card they'd put down when they arrived. I didn't want the Islamic Republic to get a free ride.

We all walked out calmly to our parked car. Russ and I shoved the pair in the back and I took the front passenger seat. I turned and pointed my weapon toward the back seat, wanting to give them another Clint Eastwood speech. But all I could think of was the scene in
Pulp Fiction
where John Travolta shoots the informer by mistake. What a mess.

Russ drove cautiously to an industrial park off a freeway, where he'd secured a small, windowless warehouse space. The Iranians started to protest as we pulled up. They wanted to know what had happened to the airport. Then Mortazavi got a whiff of courage and demanded access to the Iranian embassy. I told him they were in the custody of the South African government and had no diplomatic rights. “The rules are different in Africa,” I said. “We have our own way of dealing with things.” I was making it up as I went along by this point. It was fun being on the other side of the fence. No wonder the domestic intelligence guys enjoy their jobs so much.

On arriving at the warehouse we took our charges inside quickly and sat them on two chairs in a plain room with no other furniture. On the floor was a black gym bag. I removed some duct tape, the quintessential multi-purpose solution to all nagging problems—leaks, tears, rips, IRGC thugs. I was careful not to let them see what else I had in there. I covered them with my weapon while Russ taped them to the chairs. They tried to resist, but a cuff from Russ stopped the chatter. His hand was like a catcher's mitt.

I removed my jacket and put on the gloves. I was breathing deeply, getting as much oxygen into my lungs as I could. I took out a small length of stiff black rubber hose about three feet long, and without any fanfare or foreplay brought it hard against Nemati's left upper arm. He howled, and then I brought it down on Mortazavi's thigh. They both started to yell and I told them to shut up. Russ stood back, impassive.

I started my speech. “Listen and listen well,” I told them. “While the tinpot terrorists who run your country may think that they have a friend in Pretoria, they're mistaken.” I told them that diplomats may say one thing, but on the ground, it was us—the National Intelligence Agency—who controlled access to South Africa.

It was all very puffed up and melodramatic. But that was the point. I wanted these two to think I was a sadistic cop—just like their friends back in Tehran—the sort of guy who gets off beating a defenseless foreigner tied to a chair. They had to take the message home that the South Africans are mean-assed bastards who were not to be trifled with.