“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 sur
prised 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.”
The next day, I was having a hearty breakfast in the dining room when a young man came to my table.
“Mr. Pour Laval?”
It took me only a second to respond to my new name. After all these years of using assumed names, I wondered why I had never become confused. My only fear was that I could one day bump into someone I had met while on assignment and forget what name I’d used then. What would I do? Ask him, Excuse me, can you remind me of my name? As a worst-case scenario he might think I was demented and suggest that I ask the nurse when I return to the institution for the feeble-minded.
“Casey asked that you please go out to a blue van parked near the service entrance.” He gave me the security password verifying the instructions that had come from Casey.
I went outside through the back door and made sure, as much as I could, that nobody paid attention to the ten seconds it took me to get to the van. The driver drove me to a new safe apartment in a residential area in the outskirts of Vienna.
“Please go to the second floor. Ring the doorbell of the Kraus family.”
Casey Bauer was waiting for me inside the apartment with John and another person.
“This is Tony DaSilva,” he said, pointing at a middle-aged man with a dark complexion. “Reuven reported that you successfully passed the test on the Iranian way of life.” Not a word about the sudden events of the past day.
“Test? I never took any test,” I said instinctively.
DaSilva smiled. “Well, you did. Not all tests are identified by the person being tested. Think about your exchange with Reuven in retrospect, and you’ll see what we mean.” During the segments of my training when we were playing mock scenarios of me being confronted by Iranian security officers, I had suspected I was being videotaped and that my behavior was being analyzed by experts.
“Do you also have it on video?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “But for instructional purposes only, to learn from our mistakes, if something goes wrong,” he answered unexpectedly.
What a bureaucratic way of thinking, I thought. If I’m caught, they’ll need the video to cover their asses and show to any investigating commission that there was nothing wrong in my training or in the instructions they had given me.
Knowing that the present meeting was probably also videotaped, I kept my notorious big mouth shut. For now.
“Are you comfortable with the legend?” asked Tony.
“I’ll tell you when I return alive. But from what I see now, I need to be convinced that Ian Pour Laval is a fail-safe identity. Can you confirm that?”
“I think we can,” he said. “The passport you received is genuine. It was issued to Ian Pour Laval by Passport Canada, the government agency responsible for issuing Canadian passports. Canadian passports are va
lid for five years only, and a new passport must be obtained upon expiration. The one you’re getting is valid for two more years. In 2002 Passport Canada introduced new passports with enhanced security, but we decided to use a version that predated the change, although we made no changes to the passport.”
“What do you mean no changes?”
“The personal information page that carries the photo and signature is digitally printed and embedded in the page, and a thin security film displays an intricate pattern of images that are revealed as the page is moved.”
“If no changes were made, then why did you mention that it had to be an old version?”
“Officially and publicly, the Canadians are saying that these are the only added security measures, but there could be additional hidden safety features that they didn’t tell us about. Why take a chance? We simply used the available passport, which is an older version. Forgers need to worry about the new passports. You don’t, because it wasn’t forged or changed.”
“Is there a real person by that name?”
“Yes.”
“And where is he?”
“In the U.S.”
I weighed the information. “People don’t know that? I mean his friends and family?”
“No. In the last ten years everyone knew him under a different name. Prior to that he was a freelance journalist working in and out of Europe for European newspapers. That fits your new résumé and legend. He now has a different identity. For all intents and purposes, you’re Ian Pour Laval.”
“And what about the passport photo?”
“You two look very much alike,” said DaSilva.
I was a bit angry. “Look alike?” I asked bitterly. “Have you looked at the passport?”
Tony didn’t lose his temper. “I’ve seen it and I’m looking at you. I see a resemblance. Anyway, the process we applied was more scientific. Ian’s photo was taken three years ago when the passport was issued. People change in three years. My ex-wife in particular,” he added with a smile. “Then we took your photo from that period, and a computer measured the similarities and the disparities.”
The Chameleon Conspiracy Page 23
