The Chameleon Conspiracy dg-3

by Haggai Harmon

  “There’s one thing I need to add,” said Mrs. Nazeri. “Reza had to change his name. He told me it was better for business. In fact he changed it twice. His first new name was Christopher Gonda.”

  I felt heart palpitations and hoped Mrs. Nazeri and Erikka wouldn’t notice my excitement. In my mind I vividly saw the picture of Christopher Gonda, a good-looking young American man who disappeared in the early 1980s without a trace. Now I was having tea with the mother of an Atashbon member.

  “And then he changed it again?” I queried, praying that my voice wouldn’t betray me.

  “Yes, he told me that there was another person with that name who ran into trouble, so he decided to change it again, this time to Philip Montreau.”

  When we returned to our hotel, Erikka noticed I was behaving differently. “What happened?” she asked. “Are you OK?”

  “Of course I’m OK,” I quickly answered. “I was deeply touched by Mrs. Nazeri’s grief. Losing her only son in such a ghastly accident. I sympathize with her.”

  Erikka gave me one of those “I don’t know if I should believe that” looks. When we arrived at the hotel’s driveway, she said, “I’m going to meet another graduate, Hasan Lotfi. You’re welcome to join us.”

  I was going to politely reject the offer, but when I saw a chauffeured black Mercedes just behind us and a distinguished looking man exit, I changed my mind. Erikka looked back and said, “My God, it’s Hasan.” She walked over to him and held out her hand in excitement to shake his. But he pulled away from her without touching. I was afraid that Erikka was going to get in trouble-all that touching. He nonetheless smiled at her. I just stood there. They came over to me, and Erikka made the introduction.

  “Why don’t you join us?” he asked. “As a matter of fact, I insist.”

  There was a slight tone of command in his voice. His demeanor was that of a man of authority. He was of medium height and build, with a trimmed beard, dressed in a mix of Iranian and Western-style clothing. I looked at his shoes and wristwatch. They looked expensive. I remembered one of my Mossad instructor’s comments: “If you want to quickly assess a person’s financials, look at his watch and shoes. Wealthy people don’t scrimp on these items.”

  “Thanks, I’d be happy to,” I said.

  We sat in the lobby and Hasan and Erikka spoke in a combination of English and Farsi about the school and their mutual friends. I felt like a fifth wheel, and quietly sipped my cherry juice and listened.

  Erikka sensed my boredom. She switched back to English and said, “Hasan made it big. He’s now a high-ranking officer in the Revolutionary Guards.”

  I breathed deep to mask the immediate change in my vital signs. Hasan didn’t smile when he said, “They agreed to ignore the fact that I was educated by infidels.”

  Erikka smiled guilelessly, although to me it wasn’t funny at all. I wasn’t going to ask him any questions and instead let him speak. But Erikka was the one to ask him directly what he was doing at the Revolutionary Guards.

  “I started as a supervisor at the Intelligence Department of the Revolutionary Guards. Then I moved to the Security Ministry and became in charge of the Secretariat, and then returned to the Revolutionary Guards as its chief of intelligence.”

  “That’s very interesting,” said Erikka, as if Hasan just told her he was working at the local zoo training birds to sing. She had no idea how important this man was or how dangerous and treacherous his organization was. We were sitting and drinking juice in a fancy hotel with a man whose organization was responsible for catching, marinating, and frying guys like me.

  “Do you get to travel?”

  “Unfortunately not,” he said. “I used to, but now I’m a bureaucrat in an organization that enforces the rule of Islamic law and exports the Islamic Revolution, among other things,” he said, looking at me enigmatically. I tried not to break under his glare. The only comparison that came to my mind was of a cannibal ogling and drooling at a fat tourist lost in the jungle. Had he insisted I participate in his meeting with Erikka only because he didn’t want to be seen with a woman at a hotel? Or did it have to do with his ministry’s instruction to Khan in Islamabad to lure me into Iran-and now I had walked into his trap willingly? I kept to my training: cool and relaxed, not revealing my thoughts and fears.

  “Mr. Pour Laval, please tell me about your book. Erikka mentioned it’s romantic and dramatic at the same time.”

  “Yes, in a way,” I said.

  “Have you started writing it?”

  Now that was a direct question that an interrogator asks, not a polite curious bystander. I decided to pick up on that.

  “As a matter of fact I’ve gotten a lot of writing done lately. Are you interested in literature?” I asked.

  “Sometimes. It’s sometimes interesting to see what people from other countries think of our country and our culture.”

  “Well, this person,” I said, pointing a finger at my chest, “thinks very highly of your country.” Kissing up never hurt anyone.

  “I’d like to read what you’ve written,” he said, and softening the tone of command, he added, “If you don’t mind, of course.”

  “Well, it’s just a rough draft, and I wrote a lot before coming here. I expect to make many changes. I’ve learned so much since I came to Iran.”

  He tightened the screws. “Good. When can I see it?”

  “Can you wait for the book to come out? It will be edited and updated after I conclude my visit.”

  “Only if you force me,” he said lightly with a smile, exposing perfect white teeth. I let him lead the direction of the conversation. “You’ll be making good changes after your visit, I hope?”

  “Certainly,” I confirmed. “The manuscript is here, in my room. If you promise to return it to me by the end of the week, with your sincere and critical comments, I can let you read it. I could use an early critical review.”

  “I’d like that,” he said.

  “Let’s go to my room then,” I said and got up.

  Erikka remained sitting. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea for me to go to a room with two men.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Hasan calmly. “You have nothing to worry about when I’m here.” This was his subtle way of showing us how powerful his position was.

  There was a moment of silence. Erikka didn’t respond. Apparently the wee-hours encounter with the moral police had left its mark on her.

  “OK,” I said easily. “I’ll just go upstairs and bring it here.”

  I went up to my room and took the bound manuscript the ghostwriters of the CIA had prepared for me. There were many handwritten comments on the text that I’d inserted to make it look like it had been worked on at different times with different pens.

  “Here it is,” I said as I handed him the bound copy.

  “I have additional copies at home and on my computer, but that copy is the only one with my comments. Some of them were made during this visit, so please return it.”

  “No problem,” he said, and I sensed that he was somewhat surprised that I had met his challenge.

  After awhile, I excused myself, saying I thought they would like some time to catch up, and that I could use some rest. An hour later, my room phone rang. “Ian,” said Erikka. “I didn’t realize you already finished your book. You never told me.”

  “It’s just a first draft,” I said, wondering whether she suspected anything. “In fact I’ve just written another page which isn’t included in the printed draft.”

  “I’m so curious-can I see it?”

  “Sure, meet me in the lobby.”

  I quickly copied longhand from a printed page the CIA had prepared for such a contingency. I tore the printed page to pieces and flushed it in the toilet. I couldn’t give her a printed page I said I’d just written.

  A few minutes later we sat on the soft couches in the lobby and I gave her the text. “Razak, can I ask you a personal question?” she asked shyly, ignoring the staring looks of
guests at the restaurant. Abelina felt encouraged that Razak had agreed to meet her publicly. “I think so, but I don’t promise an answer.” “Have you ever loved a woman that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with?” “I thought I did, but I was wrong.” “Do you think it could ever happen again? I mean, falling in love?” Abelina clenched her fists in anticipation. “I hope so, but it hasn’t happened yet…” Razak thought of the too-many introductions his family made to eligible young females. He was tired of the futile efforts and the not-so-subtle pressure of his family to marry. They had to realize that times had changed. “What would she have to be like?” Razak hesitated. The questions were too direct. Iranian women didn’t discuss these matters with men who are not family, but he felt mysteriously drawn to this fair-skinned woman with the soft voice, making him forego custom. “It’s difficult,” he said, looking at her blue eyes, resisting the urge to hold her hand. “Because there are rules I set for myself that I must follow before I bind myself forever.” “Rules? What rules?” asked Abelina as she looked him in the eye. She bent over the table and he smelled her perfume. Razak took a deep breath. “I must love her with all my heart so that I will never make her cry from sorrow. God counts her tears.” “That is so nice,” said Abelina softly. “Any other rules? “Yes, equality,” he said. “I read in the Bible you gave me that Eve was created from Adam’s rib, not from his feet, nor from his head. Therefore my loved one, who loves the Bible so much, cannot be below me or superior to me, but at my side to be my equal. She’ll be under my arm to be protected, and next to my heart to be loved. But she’ll always have to remember my tradition and follow my lead through it.” Abelina sent her hand under the table and held his hand.

  Erikka gave me back the page. “You’re so talented,” she exclaimed. “It’s so romantic. I can’t wait to read the rest of the novel.”

  “This piece is also just a first draft.”

  If Erikka had had any suspicion of me, I think reading that page shelved it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The jangling telephone woke me up. The sunrise was just beginning to send rays through my window.

  “Hello, Ian. This is Hasan. Remember me?” His tone was unnaturally friendly. “I read most of your book last night, and enjoyed it immensely.” I felt proud until I remembered I hadn’t written it, and that in fact I didn’t believe he’d read it, maybe just flipped through it.

  “Thank you, it’s very kind of you. I need every bit of criticism to fine-tune it, but people seem just to compliment me rather than criticize.”

  “Of course there’s always room for change,” he quickly agreed. “Although I’m not a professional writer or reviewer, I think that as an Iranian I could draw your attention to a few points that could be better explained.”

  “I’d like that,” I said.

  “Good, then we’ll have lunch and talk about it.” A Revolutionary Guard top executive moonlights as a literary critic? Hello? Add the sense that he was too eager, though in a polite and subtle way, and the conclusion could be ominous. Was I the mouse in Aesop’s fable about the lion and the mouse? I didn’t care to think what usually happens in these rendezvous. In the fable they live together in friendship and in harmony forever after, but in reality I knew who got devoured. Never the lion.

  Hasan, all smiles, came to my hotel at noon. He drove me to Shandiz Jordan Persian Restaurant on Jordan Street. Where was his driver? I wondered. Hasan was warmly and enthusiastically welcomed by the owner, who practically bowed and danced around him. I felt embarrassed. We sat at a corner table without ordering anything, and a school of waiters started loading our table with delicious Iranian chello kebab and shishlik. Contrary to a rule of thumb I’d coined after eating in fancy restaurants in Europe and the U.S., where the bigger the plate was, the smaller the portion, here both the plates and the portions were huge.

  “What I like about your book…,” said Hasan, as he dipped naneh sangak, the Irani an flat bread, in a plate containing a white sauce and placed a small piece of shishlik on the bread. I waited for him to continue, but his mouth was full. He swallowed and said, “As I was saying, I like the candor and the realism with which the novel describes present-day Iran. It doesn’t criticize our culture and the Islamic direction the Iranian people have decided to take, but rather tries to understand it and yet bridge the differences between the man’s and the woman’s respective cultures. I hope many people read your book and that more people will come here to see the real Iran, rather than listen to political propaganda.”

  “Like what?”

  “I hear false accusations distributed by the Zionists and America that Iran is sponsoring terrorist organizations. I can tell you that these rumors are baseless.”

  Why was he kissing up, talking about “my” novel? Why was he mentioning terror when it wasn’t even in the book? This person didn’t strike me as a man who wasted words for no purpose. What was going on?

  “I didn’t get the impression that Iran was encouraging tourism,” I said cautiously.

  “Oh yes, we do, but many don’t seem to be convinced to come.”

  “So what do you suggest doing?”

  “If people don’t come here, maybe we should bring the message to them, to the place where they live, so that they’ll see we aren’t lepers.”

  “Who do you think can do that?”

  “We have cultural attaches at our embassies in Europe,” said Hasan. “But they aren’t trained in public appearance.”

  Sure, I thought. These undercover agents are trained to recruit informers and shoot dissidents; therefore, they have no time to promote cultural events.

  “Why don’t you go?” I suggested. That was a bold question, and the answer would define who the lion was and who was the mouse.

  He paused. “I would think about it, if I received an invitation.”

  “From whom?”

  “From an academic institution, such as a university. It could assemble hundreds or even thousands of students to listen to an open debate about the true vision of Iran’s Islamic Revolution.”

  “Any university? I can ask some leading Canadian universities if they’d be interested.”

  “It’s important that the inviting entity will be respectable and fair enough to let me voice the truth. It doesn’t have to be a university; it could also be a cultural association or a research institute.” He paused for a moment to mea sure my reaction and continued. “It would serve Iran’s interests best if an invitation were arranged soon. Some matters need to be brought to the public’s attention before things happen for which Iran could be blamed-incorrectly, of course.”

  If he was sending an unspoken message, I think I got it.

  “How soon?”

  “A month or so.”

  “That certainly sounds like a bold and interesting idea. If you’d like, why don’t you send me your resume and a synopsis of your lecture? Upon my return to Canada, I’ll be happy to make a few phone calls to cultural and academic institutions and see what they have to say.”

  “When are you returning?” There was certain urgency to the question.

  “I haven’t made plans yet. Maybe in two weeks-I have an open ticket.”

  “Then perhaps you can communicate with the universities while you’re still here, and if they have questions, I could answer through you, while you’re still here.”

  “We can do that,” I agreed.

  “I like your writing,” he suddenly said, changing the subject. “I read your article in European Public Policy magazine about the liberation movements in Africa and your article on the Indian-Pakistani conflict in Political Science and Influence.”

  It was obvious he had done his homework and had run a search on Ian Pour Laval before coming to meet me. If he wanted to discuss the articles, I was prepared. I had read them all. But why was he mentioning them, other than to hint that he’d checked my background? Though I had no clear answer, I did have ideas. Thus far it seemed that the legend the CIA had buil
t for my new identity as Ian Pour Laval was holding water. We continued eating and talking, but it was clear, at least to me, that the essential messages had already been exchanged, and the rest of the time spent now was just a waste of it.

  He drove me back to my hotel. I couldn’t stop wondering what it was all about. Was he performing a counterintelligence routine by checking me out to make sure I was a bona fide Canadian author, and not a spy? Was he trying to recruit me to work for him? Given his government position, was he sending me another message I was hesitant to accept as plausible?

  Alex, my Mossad Academy instructor, had used a metaphor to illustrate recruitment of a source. Think of cattle ushered to the slaughter. They’re made to approach the chute to the stunning pen area through a narrow gangway that has solid sides. Therefore each animal can only see the rear of the animal in front of it, and will not be distracted by what is happening outside the chute. The chute isn’t wide enough for animals to turn around. The animal cannot go back or stop, it must proceed to its ultimate end. Create a situation whereby your source will have no other option than to work for you.

  I thought that Hasan followed that rule, although I wasn’t sure who was the target. Nonetheless I decided that I needed money, and in case my guess was valid and imminent, I hit the ATM for a quite particular amount. I made several other transactions, but some messages were not included in the short list of commands. I needed to find an alternate manner to convey a very important message that could be urgent, but I had no clue how. I knew it had to be sent immediately; time seemed to be of the essence. I considered several options and discarded them all. The subject was too sensitive to risk apprehension en route. I had to wait until I heard back from the Agency following the messages I’d just sent through the ATM.

  After two more days and eight or ten more meetings with alumni, it became more and more boring. How many times did I have to listen to quarter century-old gossip? I decided to travel to Neyshabur the following day. I was curious to see if the rumors I’d heard had any basis. I could score additional points at home if I were successful. I decided not to think what would happen if I failed. Things were going well, I thought, but I immediately remembered the lesson we’d learned at the Mossad: if things seem to be going well, make sure you haven’t overlooked a small detail that will fail you, because only rarely do things go well without a hitch.