Professor Dionysus, deputy head of the hospital’s genetics department and a much sought-after lecturer at the med school, began his short review.
“Two days ago, I was asked by Dr. Supiniades to come down to ER, where I met the patient, who was undergoing various tests and treatments. The ER doctor alerted me to a lesion, about one-inch square in size, under the patient’s armpit. Having obtained the patient’s consent, I ordered the lesion be surgically removed and then analyzed. A histological test was made on a sample. The results proved it was benign.”
“Any questions?” asked Dr. Supiniades.
“Yes,” one of the students braved a question. “What does the hospital lab do with the results of the histological test?”
“The results are sent to whomever ordered them. If the results are positive, they are also sent to oncology for follow-up treatment. In either case, the block of paraffin containing the sample goes into the hospital archives.”
“Thank you, my dear colleague. You are now dismissed to carry on your important duties,” said Professor Siasu and addressed his students once again. “Now, what do you think was the point of this lesson? If you think it was to learn how we treat the victim of a car accident or what a histological test is, you are mistaken.”
The room became completely still. The professor continued, “The point was to demonstrate to you, using a practical, real-life case example, the hospital’s policy when it comes to treating a patient. In this case, the hospital would have done its duty by the patient had we limited ourselves to treating him for the injuries he had sustained as a result of the car crash. But our view in this hospital is that we are obliged to make full use of the patient having been admitted, to conduct a comprehensive test and to check the patient thoroughly. These tests brought to light his lesion, which we’ve summarily checked. Had, God forbid, the test proved positive, we could have dealt with the findings and pursued a course of treatment as he was already hospitalized. That’s it for today. Thank you.”
***
“You’ve got another visitor,” the nurse told Mehdi when the doctors finished their rounds.
The man who entered seemed to be in his forties. Short with white sideburns with occasional black patches, he had on a suit like those Mehdi had seen in the window shops of Thessaloniki’s main shopping district, which featured the best in menswear.
The visitor introduced himself, “Suleiman Tehrani, Consulate General of the Islamic Republic in Thessaloniki.” He took his seat on the plastic chair by Mehdi’s bed. He thanked the nurse who handed him a glass of water and continued, “I hope they’re taking good care of you here at the hospital, Mehdi. I meant to visit you earlier. In the meantime, I received some details about you from back home and was glad to learn about your esteemed family and its contribution to the revolution. You are probably aware your parents are on their way. I’ve arranged for them to be picked up at the airport and brought straight here by the consulate car. Once you are feeling better, I expect you at the consulate office. There are some people here who would like to meet you.”
Before he left, the consul left him a Quran bound in a green cover decorated in gold letters, along with his business card and the consulate office phone. The consul added his personal number in his own handwriting.
Mehdi waited for his parents in the sitting room all the way at the end of the hospital corridor. This was the first time he got up and off his hospital bed since the operation and this in itself, along with the ensuing ten-yard walk proved difficult for him, but his father’s sigh of relief and the joy in his mother’s eyes were indeed worth the pain in Mehdi’s ribs. His parents, having expected the worst, saw him seated in a big armchair, wrapped in a blue hospital gown and smiling at them expectantly, thrilled to see them. And so, they rushed over to hug him. Their tearful exchanges soon abated after they met the doctor in charge of Mehdi’s ward, and composure took over. Even Mehdi’s mother, always concerned and fearful of the worst, smiled calmly. Mehdi told them he was feeling fine and took in their own stories about the family and the family business.
The following day, Mehdi bid a warm farewell to the medical staff and travelled with his father by a special taxi to the luxury suite his parents had reserved at the Excelsior Hotel, just off Aristotelous Square, right in the center of Thessaloniki. And what a surprise awaited him there! In the suite, the entire dining area was filled with bowls upon bowls of the most sumptuous dishes from home, which Mehdi had longed for. Somewhat sheepishly, his father told him how he had to bribe the Iran Airways staff to let him bring all that on board with them, and how the airline’s security officer was obliged to inspect the cabin and the entire plane after some passengers complained about “the strange smells” in the course of the flight, despite the plastic containers Suleiman and Fatimah took special care to check all the food in...
While Mehdi was piling his plate up with gourmet sabzi (herb stew, qormet or ghormeh means fried in Azeri, a major local language in Iran), polow (or polo, a rice dish) and gondi (dumplings) brought over directly from the family kitchen back in Tabriz, his mother told him how much Suheila, his grandmother, missed him, but as much as she had wanted to go, her own doctors forbade her due to her heart condition in recent months. Fatimah also told her son how much his sisters Shahnaz and Yasmin were missing him and how devoted they were to the care of their grandmother, who was also their great weaving teacher.
Suleiman told his son about the factory. Not wishing to upset Mehdi, he kept it very general. Speaking in broad terms, he recounted how the revolution had ushered in no economic improvement to Iran’s economy and that the carpet sector, too, was plagued with a decline in revenue.
A week had gone by before Suleiman had to return to the family business in Tabriz, but Mehdi’s mother stayed for another week, dividing her time between preparing his meals at the suite kitchen and helping her son take short walks and cope with the pain. When Mehdi got better, his mother made him enough food to last him many days and returned to the rest of the family back in Tabriz. Mehdi, for his part, checked out of the luxury suite and moved back in with his friend Ali at the university dorms.
Prior to Suleiman’s return to Tabriz, Mehdi and his parents agreed that as soon as his doctors cleared him to fly back, he would return home, where the entire family council would agree on his future. The day his mom went home, Mehdi received the following call: “Hi, this is Tehrani, the Consulate. Surely you remember me. I see your parents are back in Iran.”
‘How could he possibly know that?! I just hugged Mom good-bye.’
“Tomorrow at eleven am, a consulate car will bring you by. There are some people here who would like to meet you.”
Tehrani hung up before Mehdi could get a word in.
The following day, Mehdi carried himself over to the front of the dorm at the appointed hour. A black car with a CC next to the license plate was already waiting for him. The driver opened the back door for him and helped him get in. It was a short ride. The gate camera IDed the car and cleared its entry. As the car slid into the parking lot at the back, a large wooden door opened, and out came an impressive, tall man in a Western-style suit, albeit with a revolutionary-style beard. He shook Mehdi by the hand and invited him in. They walked into a spacious room at the far end of the corridor.
A man in Revolutionary Guard uniform rose from behind a mahogany desk to greet them. His beard reached all the way down to the middle of his chest. “I am Iraz. The person who brought you over here is my aide, Nasser. We represent the Revolutionary Guard in Greece. We came especially from Athens to meet you, having heard all sorts of good things about you. You come highly recommended.”
Iraz continued. “We’re glad to see you are feeling better. We know you had a nice time with your parents at the Excelsior. We are also in the know about your doctor’s approval to fly to Tabriz. He will give you the all clear tomorrow.”
‘How could they know
so much?’ He noticed the camera that captured everything in that room as did the tape recorder, plain for all to see, right there on the desk.
Iraz then said, “We know you’re about to go on a visit to Iran. We wish to speak with you about what you will get up to once you return to Thessaloniki. As you know, the Revolutionary Guard is fighting in various arenas worldwide, as well as within Iran, to protect the revolution. We are up against many hostile elements, including the supporters of the Shah, the U.S. and Zionism.”
Only a brief pause preceded the rest. “In order to win our war, we must have people like you on our side. With your consent, we shall get you in touch with important figures in Tehran, where we will coordinate the continuation of our association. I am sure you know full well that your contribution will be of great help not only to the revolution but also to your family.”
Mehdi didn’t even require a respite. He barely finished his glass of water before taking them up on their offer. He accepted the Revolutionary Guard representatives’ proposal.
***
The building that had constituted “SEVAK” headquarters was built in 1957, back in the days of the Shah, when this organization had formed the regime’s secret police. Its name was derived from the acronym for Sazman-e Etela’at Va Amniat Keshvar, which stood for (the) Organization of Intelligence and Security of the Country. Its main building was purposely located on the southern outskirts of Tehran after consultations with the FBI and with Israel’s Mossad. All in all, it comprised hundreds of thousands of square feet and its staff was estimated at dozens of thousands.
Very few changes ensued following the Islamic revolution of 1979. The organization was renamed the Ministry of Intelligence and Security, Vezarat-e Ettela’at Va Amniat-e Keshvar, more commonly known by its acronym: VEVAK. Also, its insignia was replaced, and SEVAK prisoners became VEVAK jailors. Other than that, the more things changed around, the more it stayed the same: the cells at the basement were still being kept full at all times, and the gallows worked overtime.
VEVAK was placed under the command of a cleric and divided into two wings, one in charge of internal security, and the other, Quds Force or QF, was put in charge of security abroad. QF was assigned handling agents worldwide, eliminating opposition, gathering intelligence and all types of ‘special missions’ at the behest of Iran’s president.
Mehdi arrived at VEVAK HQ three days after his return to Tabriz, by direct flight from Thessaloniki. He had spent three days of utter bliss, basking in the warmth shown by family and friends when he felt everyone wrapping him with love and tenderness that knew no bounds.
Then had come the phone call.
“We’re expecting you at HQ tomorrow morning. Your flight ticket from Tabriz to Tehran will be waiting for you at the Tehran Airways counter at the Tabriz airport. Do not forget to bring your ID with you.”
The building was surrounded by a concrete wall over eighteen feet tall, topped by barbed wire rumored to made of steel and watchtowers about ten yards apart from each other, constantly staffed with armed guards. The front of VEVAK HQ had an electric steel gate for vehicles and another pedestrian gate.
Mehdi identified himself to the gatekeeper, who proceeded to check for his name in the ledger. He was told to wait in the nearby sitting room. A few minutes later, a man in Revolutionary Guard uniform asked Mehdi to follow him.
Mehdi was ushered into a nearby structure whose door slid open at the flicker of an automatic peephole. He found himself in a large, empty room. A voice, loud and clear from a loudspeaker in the ceiling, ordered him to remove his clothes, his shoes, too, and place them in the container by the corner. Mehdi noticed there was also a camera, capturing the whole process, in the ceiling. As soon as he removed everything, a side door opened and a man in uniform took the container and told Mehdi to wait. The man returned a few moments later and asked him to follow him to the next room, where Mehdi found his clothes next to a magnetometer at the center of the room. The man in uniform instructed him to put his clothes back on and pass through another door there.
On the other side of the door, Mehdi met a tall man who was wearing a green head band. The man smiled at him. “I apologize for the discomfort we caused you, but after the recent attempt on the life of one of our operatives, we have had to resort to the most stringent precautions in order to safeguard the revolution.”
Mehdi was then led into yet another spacious room, where smiling but unfamiliar faces apologized for having inconvenienced him. The room’s walls were covered with handwoven rugs. The center of the room was dominated by lavish SEVAK-era furniture. Three men were waiting for him. They rose to greet him and shook him warmly by the hand.
“Khosh amadid (welcome),” said a tall man with white stubble. “I am Suheil Barazi,” he introduced himself. “We are members of the Quds Force. We are in charge of maintaining the revolution. You should know we have our work cut out for us. Our friends and colleagues are fighting reactionary forces within Iran, whereas we are tasked with keeping the revolution safe from any danger coming from abroad. We heard about you and your family. We’ve also made all the necessary inquiries and have concluded you are suitable to join our special forces.”
“My name is Sallie Lakhian,” one of the men seated there joined the conversation. “I head the counterintelligence desk in Europe. We have good intelligence about cells of opposition to our government that have sprouted in various universities in Europe. These cells also attract Iranian nationals. Some of them pose as students while some actually are. They are bankrolled by the CIA and the Mossad is training them. We discovered one of these cells in Thessaloniki. As you are well aware, this city has thousands of students, many of whom are overseas students from Iran.”
“This is where you come in,” a third person joined the conversation. “I am Suheil Murhabi. I am to be your handler in Thessaloniki. We need eyes and ears on the ground, complete with a sharp mind and a keen heart, to help us stamp out the resistance to the revolution in the city’s campuses.”
Suheil Barazi did not wait for Mehdi to reply. “We’re glad you’ve agreed to join the ranks of the revolution. Go spend time with your family in Tabriz. This Sunday, come back here to Tehran and report to a weeklong basic intelligence course, after which you’ll return to Thessaloniki. Thank you, Mehdi.”
He then added, “I wish us all ruze xubi daste basid (a nice day).
Chapter Ten
VEVAK’s school of intelligence was situated in a separate wing of its HQ. The school comprised a basic course of three months and an intelligence and operations school whose courses and training were six months long. Its curriculum, lesson plans and training courses were based on material dating back to SEVAK-era days. The Islamist revolutionaries had found the brochures and books neatly numbered in the classes and library.
“Mossad’s operations and training staff did such a good job, it would be a shame not to use this stuff,” the heads of VEVAK had told themselves right after they assumed control of the intelligence school.
In a stroke of genius, the Islamist revolutionaries changed their mind about executing the person in charge of the library and archive. Grateful for hanging on to his head, unlike most of his friends and colleagues, whom the revolutionaries hanged, the chief collaborated with his new masters and helped them internalize the array of training material and familiarize themselves with it, no small feat, given that it comprised thousands of manuals and books filled with lesson plans. He also helped them find their way through the dozens of rooms and dungeons that were jam-packed with a never-ending assortment of training aids and paraphernalia that formerly served the operatives the Shah employed.
This time, Mehdi’s visit was more dignified. They did not waive the requirement to pass through the magnetometer at the entrance to the training compound, but he was led directly to one of the meeting rooms immediately afterward.
“I am Mahmid. I will be your personal
mentor,” a tall, stocky man with a black beard, as black as the uniform he wore, greeted him. “I was assigned to teach you in the course of one week what other cadets learn during three whole months, so no time for chit-chat or any niceties. Let’s get straight to work.”
Mahmid guided Mehdi during an entire week, eighteen hours a day, often taking him through numerous guides and instructors, who taught him, among many things, the fundamentals of intelligence and combat, surveillance, how to “shake” a surveillance, how to establish contact with agents and handlers, how to conduct drop-offs, the primary method of written communication between an agent and a handler. They also taught him about transmissions and how to use code. A special guide trained Mehdi in hand-to-hand combat, whilst another showed him how to use various weapons, including an Uzi, the famous Israeli-made submachine gun, thousands of units of which the Revolutionary Guards had captured, mostly in their original shipments.
Mehdi’s course also comprised theoretical lessons. “The topic of our lesson today is how Zionism has taken over the Middle East and the risk this poses for Iran,” began an expert on International Relations who came to give his lecture from the University of Tehran exclusively to Mehdi. “Zionist ideology, American money and English treachery came together nearly one hundred years ago in order to take over the Middle East. In their cunning ways, the Zionists began arriving in Palestine as early as the turn of the nineteenth century. Over the years, they kept sending more and more Jews over there, and used the Holocaust in order to gain further strength and win over the world’s approval for their control over Palestine. As early as 1917, the British gave their backing to the Jews, in the form of a declaration by some Lord called Balfour. They completed their treachery in 1948, when they conspired with the Zionists to surrender control of Palestine to them and drive our Arab brethren out.”
Deadly Ties Page 7
