The Volunteer (10 page)

Because I quit fieldwork before the Internet took off, I can't comment on how it's revolutionized tradecraft. But the effect, I imagine, must be enormous. Had an operation like this been performed today, Charles and I would have been able to access an abundance of information—including satellite photos of the dock area, chat rooms devoted to mariners and security experts, even video snippets from tourists—from our hotel room. Thanks to Google and the like, your average backpacker has access to more background information on short notice these days than the spies of 1991 did.

The story we'd concocted had us looking for warehouse facilities to process goods en route from Southeast Asia to southern Europe. In particular, we were looking for a location near the port that would permit storage, repackaging, and redistribution.

Commercial enterprises in the Arab world were always eager to solicit business from Western business representatives. Not only would they do their best to meet your needs, but they'd try to interest you in unrelated business ventures that required outside financing or a Western distribution partner. I did my best to follow up on these proposals, since they often provided golden opportunities to develop business cover for future intelligence operations. I could only take these relationships so far, of course. Since I didn't have any real business operations—in Southeast Asia, southern Europe, or anywhere else—I had to be deliberately vague as to my commercial activities.

Casablanca, a port city on the Atlantic coast, is a nervous, chaotic place mythologized by travellers and Hollywood movies. It is a city of desert air, blue skies, and heavy scents. Open-air markets are piled high with rugs and handmade woodcarvings, and the strong smells of spicy North African cooking are pervasive. It's the smells that stir my memory: each neighborhood seemed to have its own.

We met with a garrulous shipping agent who spoke French-accented English and gave him our spiel. He was friendly and we drank tea in his office while the hot Moroccan sun poured in. We asked him if we could see the port facilities, and he agreed. In fact, he offered to take us to lunch and we happily accepted. North African cuisine is outstanding, and Morocco's is, in my opinion, the best of the genre. There are few nations on earth where food is prepared more artfully, served more proudly, or consumed more enthusiastically.
⁶

After lunch, the three of us walked to the port, where Charles and I immediately spotted our quarry docked among a line of freighters. She was right where Kerouac told us she'd be: tied up against one of the long quays that stretch out from the port. Charles and I had memorized her lines and features, but a five-year-old could have picked her out: the ship's name was written on the bow in the Roman and Arabic alphabets.

As we had hoped, security was light, and we realized we would have little difficulty slipping into the port area that night. It was fenced, but with gaps. This was before 9/ 11; many port officials barely even read the ships' manifests or checked them against the boats' contents.

Later, we returned to the hotel and called our HQ to report our sighting. We got the green light and started planning our incursion and cover options. I suggested we bring a small bottle of Scotch (which we had purchased earlier in Europe) in the hope that, if caught, we might pass ourselves off as a couple of drunken crew members. We could splash our clothes with whisky and take a swig for good measure. Being a single malt Scotch man, Charles agreed, and even suggested we buy a good bottle since it was on expenses. “I mean, I don't want to have to spit it out,” he added.

After another cover meeting with a second shipping company, we made our final preparations and set out from the hotel for the port at around ten o'clock at night. We were both attired in dark clothing, and Charles carried a small knapsack containing the Scotch, a towel, a change of clothes, swimming goggles, twenty-five feet of blackened rope attached to a grappling hook, a small underwater flashlight, and the beacon itself, which had been painted to blend in with the ship's surface. The beacon had been hidden away. The tricky part was the slow-dissolving adhesive that we planned to use to attach the beacon to the ship. It would last for a few days in sea water before loosening so that the beacon would fall off if the mission were aborted. We didn't want the thing discovered months or years later when the ship was in dry dock.

Carefully, we walked to the port-access point closest to the ship. We avoided the lights and moved quietly. I felt almost as if I was in the army again and my unit was approaching a town held by hostile forces.

We edged up to the rail line that trains used to transport cargo and supplies to and from the ships, and followed it out to the
Al-Yarmouk
. We stopped when we reached the point where the stern was tied, some one hundred fifty feet from the end of the ship. We crouched behind some railcars and prepared the beacon and adhesive. When it was ready, Charles put on the swim goggles, grabbed the flashlight, and headed off for the stern line.

Cover has its limits; in many operations, there comes a point where cover is useless because there simply is no credible innocent explanation for what you're doing. On the other hand, the plain truth—“I'm a Mossad agent. We're helping to blow up this here boat.”—is never an option. And so I always made a point of having some kind of tall tale ready. In this case, Charles and I were going to claim that we'd been drinking with some sailors on board the
Al-Yarmouk
, and that Charles had fallen in the water as we were trying to get back to shore. Not particularly believable and easily debunked. But many people—including security guards and cops—are lazy: if you give them a half-decent pretext to end their investigations, they'll take it.

As Charles edged out to the stern line, I could see interior lights on the ship, but nobody on deck. Like all freighters, it reeked of salty diesel. With an audible splash, Charles lowered himself into the water. I kept watch and held the knapsack. He was gone for what seemed a long time, but then I heard him resurface quietly. I edged over to the water and lowered the blackened rope into it, attaching the hook to the lip of the quay. If anyone showed up, I'd unhook it and let it sink, and Charles would have to get out another way.

Charles is a strong guy as well as a good swimmer and diver. And from what I know of special forces training, they spend a lot of time climbing ropes. He grabbed hold of the rope and was out of the water in seconds. Immediately, we retreated to an inconspicuous spot near the rail line.

“The beacon's attached under the stern,” Charles whispered in between gasps. “But I had a bugger of a time. It's all crusty with barnacles and crap.”

“Good job,” was all I could think to say.

He quickly towelled off and changed. Then we each took a swig of the Scotch—for purely professional reasons, of course. It burned gloriously all the way down.

Our retreat from the port was uneventful, and we made it back to the hotel well before midnight. We called in and reported that the mission was completed and that the beacon was on. We were both wired, but retired as soon as we could to rest up for the long flight home the next day.

After breakfast, we headed out to the airport and made our connection to Paris, relieved to be out of the operational arena. We reported in to HQ and were told we'd be meeting a representative from HQ after we arrived at one of our safe houses.

I was glad to have the mission behind me. The Gulf War was still on, and I was looking forward to the chance to fly home and see my family. The U.S.-led coalition's relentless air campaign wasn't lessening the Scud launches, and we were still worried that Saddam, in his desperation, would go into genocide mode.

A week or so later, we were told abruptly that the mission to sink the ship had been cancelled. When I asked why, somewhat disappointed, I was told that Prime Minister Shamir himself had made the call. He'd decided that blowing up the
Al-Yarmouk
might be construed by the Syrians as an act of war. Under normal circumstances, that might not be a deal breaker. But given the sensitivities at play with the Gulf War still on, he wouldn't chance it. The Americans would have been furious.

I think Shamir also didn't like the fact that innocent lives would have been lost. And I have to admit that this would have bothered me as well. The crew of the ship—impoverished third world men trying to make a buck or two to send home, no doubt—couldn't have known what the ship was carrying. And Shamir himself had cancelled less important missions in the past on the grounds that there was even a slight chance innocent bystanders might be killed.

I'd run into this scenario before during an aborted operation to assassinate the leader of the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, Fathi Shiqaqi. He was the first terrorist leader to publish a booklet that—in his own mind at least—legitimized the justification of suicide bombings to further the cause of jihad. In 1995, Shiqaqi was assassinated in Malta outside the Diplomat Hotel while breaking his journey from Syria to Libya, but that wasn't the first operational scenario conceived to ease his way into premature “martyrdom.”

I played an integral part in a plan to assassinate Shiqaqi as early as 1993, and the mission was only aborted after an assessment of the situation determined that his assassination would have probably left a lot of hats on the ground and possibly civilian casualties. We were very close to getting the green light to launch the operation, and I have to admit that I was somewhat relieved when it was decided to wait for a better opportunity—even if that meant years. One of the guiding principles that carried me through my work, and convinced me that the Mossad was both moral and ethical, was respect for civilian life, no matter how hostile to Israel's existence those civilians seemed to be.

So, though I was angered that Syria would now have a couple dozen more Scuds to aim at Israel, I was relieved that I would not have any “collateral damage” on my conscience.

Unless they read this book, the captain and crew of the
Al-Yarmouk
may never know how close they came to being sent to Davy Jones' locker. As for the Scuds, on March 13, 1991, the
Al-Yarmouk
docked in Lattakia. The ship arrived the exact same day U.S. Secretary of State James Baker arrived in Damascus to meet with Syrian President Hafez Assad for the first time.

I would rather discover one true cause than gain the kingdom of Persia.

DEMOCRITUS

T
hat's not an EEI. That's a black hole!”

Charles took out a pen and, with a dramatic flourish, scrawled “black hole” across the Iran dossier the three of us were studying. Effi sat impassively, absent-mindedly fiddling with his cigarette lighter. He seemed annoyed by Charles's usual drama-queen antics, but said nothing.

“He's right,” I added. “The first question here really should be, Where is Iran? We haven't had an agent in the country since the days of the Shah.”

Every intelligence service in the world produces some version of an EEI, a document that catalogues “essential elements of intelligence”—in other words, the things your government needs to know about a particular target, but doesn't. In the case of Iran, that meant, most crucially, the country's first-strike capability and the state of its advanced weapons programs.

It was 1993, two years after Iraq's defeat in the First Gulf War. Though Saddam Hussein was a menace to the region, Israel had relied on him to supply a military counterweight to Iran. With Saddam's army and air force decimated, that counterweight was now gone.

In fact, it was becoming obvious that Iran was emerging as Israel's main threat. The country's current president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, may have grabbed headlines with his recent threats to wipe Israel off the map, but he is merely rehashing established policy set down by Iranian leaders going back to Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini himself. To find out if Tehran had the know-how to make good on its long-standing creed of exterminating Israel, the Mossad needed to restart its dormant Persian operations. Charles and I were the two agents picked for the inaugural foray.

According to the plan Effi laid out for us, Charles and I would fly into Tehran together under our usual commercial cover, then split up to investigate designated industrial sites in the Iranian hinterland. My task was to travel 150 miles southwest, to the environs of the nowinfamous Natanz Uranium Enrichment Facility (or, as it is known in the Israeli intelligence community, Kashan, after a nearby city), take some photos and soil samples, and then return to Europe. It was a brief mission, but at least it would help put an end to the Mossad's Iranian “black hole.” Charles's assignment involved individuals who still play a valuable role in ongoing Israeli intelligence operations, and I cannot disclose details of his mission. Suffice it to say that, between the two of us, he got the more important and complicated task. This was par for the course, and I did not begrudge him. We'd been working as a team for three years now, and it was clear to all concerned that Charles was simply the better combatant. Charles and I knew we were in for an interesting experience when the pilot's voice came on the cabin speaker during our descent. After perfunctory instructions advising us to restore our trays to the locked position and buckle up, he added: “All women are kindly requested to don headscarves and adopt a moderate manner of dress so as to avoid any unnecessary difficulties with local authorities.”

Unnecessary difficulties
was a euphemism for “being arrested.” The women seated around me needed little reminder; as is the custom among well-travelled Iranians, they'd already discreetly used the lavatories to effect the transformation from jet-setting sophisticates to shrouded Muslim matrons.

Tehran is a sprawling metropolis of closely packed buildings set in the shadow of the beautiful Alburz Mountains. The volume and speed of the morning traffic astonished me. I've driven in some crazy places, but Tehran may take the prize for sheer white-knuckle insanity. Breathing can be a challenge, too. Most of the cars you see on the road are old-fashioned jalopies, and the air is thick with pollution.

Like many royal dynasties, the Pahlavi family who ruled Iran up until the Islamic revolution in 1979 had a fondness for grand architectural design. The most prominent example we passed on our way from the airport was the Azadi Tower, a marble structure built by the Shah in 1971 to commemorate the 2,500th anniversary of the Persian Empire. Azadi Square, where the tower is located, was the site of the popular demonstrations that led to the 1979 revolution. Along with Enghelab Square (literally, “Revolution Square”), it carries the same symbolic value in postrevolutionary Iran as did Red Square to Soviet Russians. In its propaganda, the government exploits such symbols relentlessly. Like many radical third world tyrants, the mullahs of Tehran try to get as much mileage as they can out of their aging revolutionary bona fides.

On the streets, the heavy hand of the theocracy was everywhere. We saw paramilitary forces cruising in pickup trucks, looking for any outward displays of libertine decadence. In our hotel, as outside it, posters of a glaring, Big Brotheresque Ayatollah Khomeini (who'd died four years earlier) were a common sight.

Our hotel lobby also featured a rug made to look like the U.S. flag. Its central position encouraged guests to wipe their feet on the Great Satan—a terrible insult in this part of the world. (Rather than draw attention to myself by steering clear of the Stars and Stripes, I reluctantly passed directly over the rug, offering a silent apology to my American friends as I did so.) Whether such petty gestures are a symbol of the mullahs' genuine antipathy or a demagogic ploy to keep people riled up against a foreign enemy is hard to say. Most experts would tell you it's a combination of both.

But despite the obscurantist world view espoused by the country's clergy, many Iranians are well educated (often in good Western schools), sophisticated, and knowledgeable about world affairs. Most roll their eyes at the propaganda emited by Tehran, and hold a sympathetic attitude toward Westerners, including Americans.

In fact, if you want to avoid unpleasantness when speaking with an Iranian, remember this: Iran may be located in the Middle East, but it is
not
an Arab country. While they share the same religion and much of the same geopolitical world view as Arabs, Iranians have their own language, culture, and history. As many Iranians are quick to point out, by the time Mohammed rescued Arab nomads from their pagan backwardness, the Persians had already been building empires for two millennia. Unlike their tradition-bound Arab neighbors, ordinary Iranians are eager to embrace modern technology. Even in the early 1990s, it took me hours to place a long distance call from Damascus. Iran, on the other hand, long ago adopted a state-of-the-art European-designed telecommunications system. The trend continued with the Internet, which young Iranians have embraced en masse. (Farsi is now the fourth most popular language among bloggers.)

After unpacking, Charles and I had lunch at a nearby restaurant. Our pale skin and Western clothes made us stand out, but no one regarded us with more than passing curiosity. While enjoying lamb and rice, we played a game: as women dressed head-to-toe in black sailed past, we tried to guess their age, based only on their gait and speed. Like the infidel I am, I imagined there were beautiful women buried beneath those chadors.

We headed off to a scheduled cover meeting at an office of the Bonyad-e Shahid (Martyrs Foundation)—one of several governmentsubsidized tax-exempt trusts that answer directly to Iran's supreme leader. In the aftermath of the Islamic Revolution, these entities were established to redistribute oil income to families of the country's war dead. But as anyone might have predicted, they were quickly coopted by corrupt regime apparatchiks, and now function as bloated, overstaffed dispensaries of patronage. Their dominant place in the nation's economy is one of the leading sources of resentment among ordinary Iranians.

During our cross-town taxi ride, it was all I could do to fight off the nausea induced by the carbon monoxide fumes and our driver's erratic driving style. Charles, on the other hand, was in his usual fine form, bonding with the man using his rudimentary Farsi. By the time the trip was over, they had become best friends.With his self-assured manner, Charles had a superficial charisma that worked on everyone from minor Arab royalty to fish sellers in Lattakia. (Only I seemed immune to the spell. As is often said, no man is a hero to his valet—nor to those they treat as their valet.) Annoying as it was, Charles's slick personality was a major professional asset, allowing him to cultivate intelligence sources by the bushel. Sometimes I thought the man would be able to rule the Levant if he were somehow able to keep his ego in check.

We met with the Martyrs Foundation executives in a dingy conference room. They all wore neatly trimmed beards, navy blue suits, and white Chinese-collared shirts done up to the neck. Ties are considered symbols of the West, so no Iranian man wears one. Knowing this, we went open-collared so as not to offend.

The meeting was courteous and professional. Charles and I discussed the usual commercial concerns—quality, price, delivery schedule—as if our outfit were just a normal shipping company looking to gain a commission. For their part, the Iranians showed themselves to be shrewd negotiators. When it was over, they presented me with a huge paper bag of pistachios—which made a fine gift for Dahlia when the trip was over. Such was the surreal nature of my job. One day, I was glad-handing with a bunch of Islamists on Tehran's payroll. A few days later, my Israeli family was munching on their finely wrapped pistachios while we sat watching a rerun of
Seinfeld
.

After the meeting, Charles and I retired to our hotel, where we were scheduled to receive a shortwave radio message from HQ authorizing the next phase of our operation. Like all such public-broadcast transmissions received from the Mossad, this one required the use of a “one-time pad” to decode.

Essentially, a one-time pad is an algorithm that has been widely used to transmit encoded information since the Second World War. (Study the history of intelligence tradecraft and you will find that many of the techniques still in common use date to this period. If you could pass one over on the Nazis' counterintelligence apparatus, chances are you were on to a good thing.) Each one-time pad provides a unique code that maps the text you want to encrypt to seemingly random alphanumeric characters and back again. Only two copies of any one code exist—one held by the transmitting entity (in my case, Mossad HQ) and the other by the field agent. Each combatant is assigned his own one-time pad, which means you can't hack an entire network merely by seizing a single code.

Armed with our pads, all we had to do was tune in to a specified shortwave radio frequency at the appointed time, wait for the appropriate call-sign (mine was Victor-Lima-Bravo), note the sequences transmitted by the computerized voice, and decipher the messages.

There are lots of things that can go wrong when using the onetime pad system, such as radio interference and bad reception. And because the method relies on a one-way broadcast, the transmitting party has no way of knowing if his message has been received. Which invites the question, why use such an old-fashioned, laborious method in an era of instantaneous digital communication? Wouldn't it be simpler to use the sort of devices every ten-year-old now takes for granted—cellphones, text messaging, e-mail, or an Internet chat room?

The answer is simple. Unlike all of these rival methods, shortwave radio broadcasts provide an eavesdropper with no means of identifying the person receiving the message, or, indeed, of determining if anyone is receiving the message. Moreover, the communication leaves no electronic residue and requires no specially configured gadgets; all you need is the sort of shortwave radio you can buy for fifty dollars at your local discount electronics store. Contrast this with e-mail and telephone lines, which are an open book to any counterintelligence service worth its salt (including, we now know, America's National Security Agency). Even in the case of anonymous pay-as-you-go cellphones, government snoopers can use voice recognition, calling patterns, and signal tracking to zero in on a suspect user, especially in a totalitarian state such as Iran.

Once Charles and I had received authorization from HQ, he left to take a second flight to a smaller Iranian city and I hopped in a rental car and set off for Natanz. My cover story was that I was visiting a picturesque oasis town south of Tehran. To back up my tale, I brought along a European tourist book with the town's entry circled and annotated with enthusiastic scribblings. The hotel kitchen staff had packed me a lunch, and I made sure I blabbed to the concierge and desk clerk about my purported destination.

As for my true target, the Natanz area, the truth is that I knew little about it at the time of my mission. I hadn't even been informed that the site was connected with Iran's nuclear program. All Effi gave me in his rudimentary briefing were a set of coordinates and a barebones geographical description.

It may seem odd that a spy would be provided with so little background information about his target. But in the intelligence trade, this is hardly unusual. During my career as a combatant, I often was sent to photograph a house, collect a soil sample, or visually confirm the coordinates of a set of antennae on a building—but for what rhyme or reason, I was seldom told.

It's not that we were treated as brainless drones incapable of understanding complex projects; it was simply a matter of operational security. The expression “need-to-know” describes an important principle of intelligence work.
⁷
Given the ruthless nature of Israel's enemies, this adage is particularly appropriate to Mossad operations. Terrorist outfits and rogue nations such as Iran have sadists on their payroll who can extract information from the most stoic combatant with ease. The key, therefore, is to ensure the agent has nothing sensitive to divulge in the first place.