The Chameleon Conspiracy dg-3

by Haggai Harmon

  I opened the envelope. The computer-printed message was short. “We’re expecting you tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

  I looked up at the receptionist. “Could you help me get oriented here? What are we near?”

  “We are close to the State Opera, St. Stephan’s Cathedral, and the famous buildings along the Ringstrasse. We are also not far from the Messegelande, our fairgrounds,” she answered.

  I went up to my room and was asleep within minutes.

  The harshly ringing phone woke me up. I thought it was the middle of the night. “Ian?” asked the voice. I was about to yell, You’ve got the wrong idiot you number, and slam the phone with an added variety of juicy expletives in select languages, when I suddenly remembered that I was in fact Ian Pour Laval.

  “Yes,” I mumbled.

  “Welcome to Vienna,” said the voice. “When you leave your room, don’t leave anything behind.”

  “You mean I should pack up and leave with my luggage?” I wasn’t quite awake.

  “No. Just apply the usual field security.”

  For that he woke me up? I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was already seven thirty a.m.

  I had a quick-meaning forty-minute-Austrian-style break fast, and went outside. A cabby approached me.

  “Herr Pour Laval, I’ve got instructions to drive you.”

  I bristled. “No thanks, I’ll walk.” Who the hell was he, and how did he know my name? “Please, Herr Pour Laval,” he insisted. “Herr Casey Bauer told me to bring you over. Your meeting isn’t at Margaretenstrasse, but at another location.”

  I hesitated only for a moment. It was cold outside; he knew my name, Casey’s name, and the original location of my meeting.

  What the hell, I said to myself. I’ve got no opposition in this game.

  On second thought, I added, For now.

  “Please give me the address,” I said. I returned to the hotel and left through the rear exit to another street. I hailed a cab, which drove me through small streets of a residential area and stopped next to a three-story building. I went up to the second floor.

  I checked the building and its vicinity. Other than a crying baby, there was no sound. I walked up worn, circular stairs to the second floor, rang the doorbell, and climbed ten stairs up, in case an unfriendly goon answered the door. Casey Bauer opened the heavy oak door. “Hi, Dan,” he said in an apologetic tone. “We had a change of plans and I didn’t want to call you or be seen with you. So I sent Johann to bring you over.”

  “Well, I’m here.” I didn’t tell him any more details.

  “Good. Please come in.”

  I entered the apartment and followed him to a spacious living room. “You will soon meet Steve Corcoran, a graduate of the American School in Tehran, class of 1978. Currently he’s employed by the State Department in Washington and has agreed to help us.”

  “To do what?” I asked.

  “Spotting. During the past two months we’ve identified Steve as the most suitable person for the task.”

  “I’m listening.” It had been a long time since I’d heard that term. Spotter was intelligence-community jargon for an individual who locates and assesses individuals suitable for potential recruitment. I was appreciative. Getting the State Department to agree to participate in this operation would have taken an unprecedented amount of cooperation. Or, more likely, intercession at the very top.

  “We’ve been working on the plan and the graduate list you and Nicole obtained, and we came up with a potential candidate. Erikka Buhler. Steve will introduce you and withdraw. Bear in mind that Steve knows nothing about this case and shouldn’t be told anything unrelated to the tactics of meeting Erikka.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A Swiss woman, a graduate of the American School in Tehran, class of 1978. She lived in Tehran ages three through eighteen. At the time her father was a representative of a Swiss bank in Tehran. Erikka currently lives in Vienna and has just been through an ugly divorce that put her financially in the red. She’s out of a job. We selected Erikka because we preferred a female. That gives us some assurance that we didn’t stumble on a member of the men-only Department 81. And we selected Steve not only because he was her classmate, but because he was hired just weeks ago and has received security certification following substantial security checks before he started working for the State Department. None of his friends know about his new job.”

  Casey handed me three printed pages and as usual got straight to the point. “Read it-that’s your legend.”

  I was a Canadian citizen and had lived most of my life in various locations, where my father, an agricultural expert, was employed by the United Nations helping farmers in poor countries to improve their crops. During my childhood we had lived in Uganda, Peru, Nepal, and Sri Lanka. Now I lived in Europe writing freelance articles for various magazines. My next big project was a novel.

  “Should she know that I currently live in no special place in Europe?” I asked.

  “Yes, a little in London, Paris, Oslo-no place is permanent for you. Just like when you were a child. We don’t want your legend to fail a background investigation. If you only lived in a city for a short period, people aren’t expected to remember you and you aren’t expected to be familiar with small details every longtime resident would know.”

  We spent two more hours covering all contingencies.

  A doorbell rang, and a minute later a clean-shaven man just on the edge of fifty, but still young looking, joined us. He was dressed in a button-down light blue shirt with a striped tie, khaki pants, and a blue blazer. Classic.

  “Hi, Casey,” he said. Turning to me he added, “I’m Steve Corcoran.” We shook hands.

  “Hi, Steve,” said Casey, and led us to a dining table across the room. “Let’s sit here. I’ve just discussed your agreement to introduce Erikka to Ian Pour Laval.” He pointed at me. “Ian is a Canadian author who is writing a novel that takes place in Iran. He’s interested in Iran, since his paternal grandfather-who was born in Iran-left Tehran when he was about twenty years old. Therefore, Ian needs help from a person who knows Tehran very well, speaks Farsi and English fluently.” If he hadn’t become a CIA case officer, Casey could have been an acting coach. He spouted off my cover story so convincingly that he almost had me believing that I really was Ian Pour Laval.

  “A personal assistant to help find relatives?” asked Steve.

  “Yes, exactly,” said Casey. “As well as helping him with his book research.”

  “And who am I?” asked Steve, understanding the nature of his role.

  “You’re an executive of an international publishing house. You’re assigned to their branch in India, which covers all of Asia. They signed Ian up for the publishing of his novel.”

  “Got you,” said Steve. “That was in fact my job until a month ago, so it’ll be easy.” Casey smiled knowingly and gave him additional details. It became clear to me that they built Steve’s legend around his genuine resume, leaving out only his new government job.

  “How long has it been since you last saw Erikka?” I asked Steve.

  “Fifteen years. I bumped into her on the street in Zurich once.”

  “Your next meeting will also look like it happened by chance,” said Casey. “We know she frequents a certain cafe in central Vienna. Steve will just happen to bump into her.” He handed us a printed sheet of paper with an attached photo. “Here are Erikka’s details.”

  I viewed the photo. Erikka looked her age. She had blonde hair and gray eyes, and seemed a bit overweight. The text described her only briefly. “You’ll have to get more details from her. I don’t want you to know anything about her and slip in a conversation.”

  If he’d meant to offend me, it didn’t show, and contrary to my infamous short fuse, I didn’t react. Thirty minutes later, Casey said, “Let’s move on. Go to Cafe Central this afternoon at five p.m.” He handed me a note with an address scribbled. “Sit at a table toward the back. Our observatio
ns have shown that Erikka comes to that cafe on Mondays and Thursdays at about five fifteen p.m. after an hour of tutoring a twelve-year-old girl who lives in the neighborhood. Steve will enter the cafe five or ten minutes after our scout signals that Erikka has arrived and sat down. Steve, you walk inside and stop next to her table, as if trying to make sure you’re recognizing your classmate. If she doesn’t recognize you immediately, introduce yourself. If she asks you to join her, say that you’ve actually come to the cafe to meet someone, but you’ll sit with her for five minutes. If she doesn’t ask you to sit down, don’t insist. You can try again when you pass by her table, saying that the person you expected to meet didn’t show up yet. She may ask you to join her then.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  “Don’t push her. Just wish her well and leave. We’ll find another spotter to introduce Ian. Once you sit at her table, if you do, show genuine interest in her. Ask her what she has been doing through the years, ask about other classmates. If she tells you about her personal problems, show sympathy. Ask her how you can help. Conduct yourself as you’d behave without our intervention. Keep the conversation focused on her, but don’t question her in a manner that makes her feel she’s being interrogated. Just be nice to her.

  “As you can see from the fact sheet I gave you, you’re in Vienna to meet Ian for the first time and get a personal impression. The book Ian is writing that your company will publish is a novel about a love story between an Iranian man and an Austrian woman, against the backdrop of the cultural differences between people in Austria and post-Islamic Revolution Iran. When you have spent ten minutes with her, excuse yourself and say you think you’ve noticed the person you’ve come to meet. Go to Ian’s table. Hold a conversation with him, order tea or coffee and cakes.” He smiled. “They’re actually very good.”

  “And then?” I asked.

  “Then, Steve, you will go over to Erikka’s table and suggest that she join you and meet Ian.”

  “If she refuses?” asked Steve.

  “The only reason for her to refuse will be that she’s waiting to meet someone else. However, I can tell you that in all likelihood she’ll not refuse. She’s very lonely and bitter. Most of her friends in Vienna sided with her husband during their divorce battle. He’s a local guy, and she’s Swiss. He has the money and the influence. She had nothing to offer him. Trust me, she’ll gladly join your table.”

  “And then?” Steve asked.

  “Leave the floor to Ian. Thirty minutes into the meeting with Erikka and Ian, I’ll call your mobile phone and ask you to leave the cafe. Make up an excuse and ask for her phone number to call her later. If she hesitates, don’t push. Give up. We have the number. Leave the cafe and return to your hotel. I’ll call you there later.”

  Bauer got up. “OK, Steve, if you have no further questions, then we’re done.”

  Steve left.

  “Ian,” said Bauer. “After Steve leaves the cafe, you stay and talk about yourself. Don’t ask her any personal questions. Bear in mind that the purpose of the meeting is to recruit her to work for you as an assistant on your book project. But don’t suggest it immediately. Mention casually the book and your need to do a lot of research regarding Iran. Ask her about her life experience in Iran. She lived there for fifteen years, which were her formative years. I’m sure she’d be happy to show you how much she knows about Iran for no particular reason-just to make conversation.”

  “I shouldn’t offer her the job even if she says she could help me?”

  “Right. Even if she does suggest helping you, smile and say that it sounds like an interesting idea to consider, and thank her for that. Don’t commit. Get her phone number and promise to call. Leave twenty minutes later. You cannot appear to be too interested in her-just a bit, out of curiosity.”

  “No personal interest?”

  “You mean becoming a honey trap and charming her pants off? Maybe later; definitely not now. What ever the circumstances may be, she cannot-and I repeat, cannot-be recruited to work for you during your first meeting. Any questions?”

  I shook my head. I thought of her picture. She was definitely not my idea of someone to spend a steamy Sunday afternoon with.

  “OK. Then I’ll see you this afternoon at the cafe.”

  “See me?”

  “Well, metaphorically. I’ll be listening in. Steve will carry a microphone.”

  At the time set, I entered the cafe.

  “Guten Tag,” said the Hauptkellner, or headwaiter, who was wearing a tuxedo that badly needed dry cleaning.

  “Table for one?”

  “For two, please. I’m expecting someone”-so Steve would have a chair when he arrived. He nodded, took a menu, and I followed him to the back of the cafe. A strong aroma of coffee, foamed milk, and cigarette smoke filled the air.

  I sat at a small table covered with a white tablecloth underneath a thick glass top. I looked around. Most of the guests were older men dressed in jackets and ties, or ladies of advanced age dressed to go out. I scoured the place but couldn’t identify Erikka. I glanced at my watch; it was still five minutes short of her usual time. I went to the corner and took the day’s newspaper, which was spread over a wooden frame-a European trick to prevent the guests from taking the newspaper when leaving. The frame made reading a bit clumsy. It felt like holding a placard in a picket line. I punched a small hole in the newspaper and pretended to be busy reading, but in fact I was peeping through the hole.

  Ten minutes later Erikka entered the cafe and sat four tables away from me. She seemed to be a regular, because the waiter greeted her and they seemed to have a friendly conversation for a minute or two. Erikka was dressed in a brown skirt and a light-brown tweed jacket. Her wide, pale face looked like her picture, but her hair had been dyed since the photo was taken. She was medium height and about fifteen pounds overweight-nothing, compared to me. For me, fifteen pounds too heavy would be downright anorexic.

  A few minutes later Steve walked in. He stopped next to her table, and from what I could gather they had a jovial conversation. I glanced over the framed newspaper and saw Steve sitting at her table.

  OK, step one has been accomplished.

  I put down the framed newspaper to allow Steve to locate me. As planned, a few minutes later Steve came over to my table. I got up and shook his hand in a formal manner, as if we were meeting for the first time. Steve sat down. We ordered coffee for him and tea for me. I didn’t hesitate long before acquiescing to the waiter’s suggestion to order Apfelstrudel, paper-thin dough filled with cooked apples. The portion was too big, and covered with rich, icy whipped cream.

  “How was it?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Not a problem,” said Steve. “She was friendlier than I expected. I told her about our meeting and promised to talk to her again when I’m done talking business with you.”

  We just sat there talking about nothing for half an hour. Steve got up and said, “I’m going to the bathroom, and on my way back to our table, I’ll stop at her table and suggest that she join us.”

  Moments later Steve returned to our table with Erikka. I got up. “Ian, I want to introduce my classmate. Erikka, this is Ian Pour Laval, a Canadian author whose novel my company is about to publish.”

  I shook her hand. It was small and tender. She smiled shyly. “Erikka and I were students at the American School in Tehran until the Islamic Revolution,” he said.

  “Really.” I sounded interested. “I didn’t know you had an Iranian past. Please, please sit down.” Steve grabbed another chair and they sat at my table.

  “Yes, I studied there for five years, but Erikka was a lifer-K through twelfth grade, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Yes. All my childhood and adolescence was spent there.”

  “Have you seen each other since you left Tehran?”

  Erikka tried to remember. “Yes, I think we met once in Zurich, right, Steve?”

  “Yes,” he said. “What a small world.”

&nbs
p; “Does the fact that you spent time in Iran have anything to do with your management’s decision to send you to meet me?” I asked, as if I had just discovered America.

  “A lot to do with it,” answered Steve. And turning to Erikka he said, “Ian is writing a novel on an impossible love relationship between a Muslim Iranian man and a Catholic Austrian woman.”

  “Really,” said Erikka with a spark of interest in her eyes. “Where does it take place?”

  “Mostly in Tehran in the early 1980s.”

  “At the height of Khomeini’s period,” said Erikka. “That type of romance during that time was really problematic. Are you here also for the book?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “To do some research about Vienna and meet with Steve.”

  “Are you familiar with Iran? Have you ever been there?” “No,” I conceded. “But I’ve got Iranian roots.”

  “Now, this is a surprise,” said Steve. “How?”

  “My paternal grandfather was born in Iran, but left the country when he was nineteen or twenty years old and never returned.”

  “So, I’m sure you must have relatives in Iran. Do you know of them?”

  “I think I’ve got a few second or third cousins, but I’ve got no idea what their names are or where they live.”

  Steve’s mobile phone rang. Steve listened and said, “I’ll be right over.”

  “I apologize,” he said. “I must leave, but you should stay. Erikka, where can I get hold of you? I’d love to see you again sometime.”

  “How long will you be in Vienna?”

  “Just one more day, but I intend to be back with my wife next spring.”

  Erikka wrote her number and gave it to Steve. “While I’m at it,” she told me, writing again, “here is my number. I’ll be happy to answer any of your questions regarding Iran.”

  “Thanks,” I said and put the note in my pocket. “I may call you on your kind offer.”

  “Please do,” she said in a friendly manner. “And I could help you regarding Vienna as well. I’ve been living here for the past nine years.” There was a slight tone of despair in her voice, a yearning for human contact, or I was imagining things.