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 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
