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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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 cafe, 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?”
