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extra dose of that heart-racing hormone.  Benny, however, continued with his dry recounting of these otherwise very intelligence-juicy details. “Madani then became an assistant to Hojjatoleslam Ali Fallahian, head of the Ministry of Intelligence and National Security, Vezarat-e Ettela'at va Amniat-e Keshvar.”
    There was no need to introduce that “ministry.” It is the central intelligence and security agency of Iran, commonly known by its English acronym MOIS and Farsi acronym, VEVAK.  I didn’t need to be reminded who Ali Fallahian was either. He was frequently mentioned in secret intelligence reports. He also starred in the published Interpol Red Notice list for “ crimes against life and health, hooliganism, vandalism and damage.” Such laundered words in fact hardly described his activities—rather, atrocities. They put him on the short list of “people we’ll be happy to meet in a dark corner” of many intelligence services around the world, with dreams of offering him instant rough justice, by bullet or bomb.
    Benny continued. “In 2003, Madani uncovered several cases of embezzlement in the Republican Guard that made him unpopular, and officials involved in the thefts turned against him and forced him to resign. A year later, whatever friends he had left in the government tried unsuccessfully to win him back by offering him work as a consultant. But his enemies were still in power. Madani's chances to re-kindle his government career were finally killed in 2005 when his old-time rival, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, became Iran’s president. So Madani retired.”
                  “And he didn’t take up gardening.” I said sardonically.
    “Right. After retiring, Madani tried to inject himself into the arms trade and weapons industry. He was trying to peddle his connections with the Iranian government to foreign companies who wanted a piece of the action.”
    “But let me guess,“ I said, “Madani was dead in the water.” Retired generals, I knew, often successfully touted their government connections after retiring—but what could Madani say? “Oh, and by the way, although the president is my chief enemy, you can hire me anyway.”
    “Right,” Benny said. “It became pretty clear to any potential client that, as long as Ahmadinejad was president, Madani’s “connections” were worthless. Angry and bitter, he started a small business trading in textiles. However, with his credentials, Madani became ripe for recruitment by foreign intelligence services. They scout for exactly such individuals, like sharks smelling blood a thousand miles away. Before Iran learned of Madani’s dissatisfaction and put him on a watch list, Madani got permission and made a trip to Italy while he was still trying to peddle his military connections. When he was finally realizing that he wouldn’t be able to, we had our opportunity. My men made a cold approach in subterfuge, and after a long and slow recruiting process, we persuaded him to work for us. Now, obviously, my case officers couldn’t risk asking him to spy for Israel.”
    “Right,” I said. “An Iranian general spying on Israel, his country’s arch-enemy? It’s a possibility, but it could also be too big a bait to swallow.”
    Benny nodded in accord, “Exactly. We decided not to take the risk, and therefore Madani was led to believe he was being offered work for NATO. No specific member country was mentioned.” Finally, Benny let out, for the first time, a fleeting smile. It lasted only a second, but in that second I could sense some of Benny’s pride. Madani was, after all, huge. Huge!
    “General Madani is no fool,” Benny continued. His tone remained serious, even a little grave. I knew that tone. Benny’s work, our work, had only just begun.  “I think he suspected that his recruiters worked for the U.S., and of course we did nothing to dissuade him from that thought. In fact it was partially true: this was our joint operation with