Very early that morning, when the only sound heard was of birds just starting to chirp, I dimly heard a per sis tent tapping on my door. Half asleep, I walked to the door and saw through the viewer a short dark man with a trimmed beard.
“Mr. Ian,” he whispered. “Please open up. I came here for the Kashan carpets you wanted to buy cheap.”
It was four a.m. and I wasn’t buying any carpets. But he came close to the contact code, and I sensed the urgency. I opened the door. He entered and I shut the door.
“Padas? sent me. You must leave at once,” he said urgently.
“What happened?”
“The VEVAK is rounding up dozens of English-speaking men who’ve arrived in Tehran during the past two weeks. You fit their profile; we want you to leave immediately.”
“Do you know why they’re arresting them?”
“The VEVAK caught an American mole in the Iranian president’s office in Tehran.”
“So what does that have to do with me? I have no connection whatsoever to any mole or to the Iranian President. I’m just an author from Canada.” I wasn’t going to concede who I really was, even under these circumstances. You could never be too careful.
“I know, I know,” he said dismissively, in the same tone I’d last heard from my teacher when I tried to concoct some story about why I hadn’t prepared my homework. In plain English it meant, “Don’t bullshit me.”
“We just heard that Javad Sadegh Kharazi, a senior council member, was arrested. They caught him using a sophisticated, U.S.-made long-distance transmitter during a secret Iranian leadership meeting. The Iranian security forces are trying to discover if it was the Americans who controlled Javad Sadegh Kharazi, or someone else.”
“Which meeting was it?”
“The mullahs’ secret meeting on Iran’s nuclear and terrorist activities. They’re furious. It’s the most embarrassing espionage case in Iran since the Islamic Revolution began.”
“And just because I’m an English-speaking male who arrived here during the past two weeks, I need to leave? Aren’t you guys a bit paranoid? I have no connection with these matters. I’m staying. Tell Padas? I said thanks anyway.”
“Mr. Ian, there’s something else you should consider,” he said in the tone of a poker player realizing that no one had noticed him drawing the winning ace from up his sleeve.
“What is it?”
“You met too many people here. That caused some problems.”
“Like who?’
“Hasan Lotfi, to begin with.”
“Yes, I met him last week and had lunch with him the next day. He’s a classmate of my assistant. Why?”
“He disappeared.”
I was stunned, but continued with my resistance, though weakened, based on what I’d just heard.
“Why is that any of my concern? Do all people who met him need to flee? What if he took a vacation or locked himself in a room with a young woman who doesn’t meticulously observe the Iranian dress and undress behavioral codes for unmarried women? He could be anywhere.”
“Do you want to explain that to the VEVAK?” he asked patiently. “They know you met him both times.”
“How do you know that?”
“We’re always behind you.”
“And how do you know that he was a suspect?”
“Lotfi had been under VEVAK surveillance for a few months. Anyone who met with him is also a suspect.”
“But you haven’t answered my question. How do you know that Lotfi became a suspect?”
“Mr. Ian, we have loyal members everywhere. You also met Mrs. Nazeri.”
“So what? Is she a spy too?”
“No. But her son was a very important person who died mysteriously. Any stranger who attempts to talk to Nazeri’s family is an immediate suspect.”
“Important how?”
“Something very secretive, we don’t know exactly. But these things put together are serious enough for you to leave immediately. I’ll alert Miss Erikka as well. She’ll leave through one border exit and you through another. A person named Sammy will come to your room in thirty minutes. Leave your luggage behind and take just an overnight bag.”
There was no point in arguing. My instructions were to take my contact’s advice in case of emergency. From what I’d heard, I was convinced that this was an emergency. I wondered how Erikka would react.
“Can I call Erikka and tell her we must leave? She knows nothing about the carpets. She may not believe you.”
“Just tell her you have to leave,” he said. Apparently he didn’t know that Erikka wasn’t in the loop.
I couldn’t risk using the phone. I went up to her room after making sure the hallway was empty. I knocked lightly on her door. After a few minutes of per sis tent knocking, she opened the door dressed in a white nightgown. I slipped inside her room before she could resist.
“Erikka, please listen to me,” I said in a calm voice, although I wasn’t calm inside. “We must leave Iran immediately. A person will come to your room in a few minutes and will instruct you. Please do exactly as he says.”
“Ian, what are you talking about?” She sounded frightened.
“It has nothing to do with me or you. But the Iranian VEVAK is very nervous. They think Hasan Lotfi disappeared. Anyone who’s been in contact with him will be questioned.”
“But we only spoke about our school days.”
“I’m sure you did, but I think we should protect ourselves from any forthcoming investigation. Remember how upset you were after the Komiteh stopped you? That was ten minutes. This time it could last weeks or months. Take nothing but your money and documents, and a few things for overnight. The rest can be sent for later. Start packing, and don’t call or talk to anyone.”
“How do you know all this?” she asked, and for the first time I sensed doubt in her voice.
“The bank called me. They bought an all-risks policy to cover our visit in Iran, a standard procedure of risk management. A security advisory company, hired by the insurance company, just alerted them of these developments and suggested they remove all their insured individuals from Iran. That means you and me, and maybe others.”
“But Ian, you aren’t working for the bank. I am.” Her brow furrowed.
“Right, I asked them the same question. Lucky for me, the insurance policy said ‘Erikka Buhler and Ian Pour Laval, companion’- so they called me.”
“OK,” she said faintly, “I’ll be ready.”
I returned to my room. “Go ahead,” I told the man. “Go to her room. She’s in 411. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
“OK, she’ll be taken by another member of our team who’s waiting outside. I’ll bring her over to him.”
I quickly filled a small backpack and waited for Sammy. He arrived sooner than I expected, tapping lightly, and when I let him in, he slipped inside like a shadow. His voice was low.
“Please follow me. And make sure you have your documents and your money.”
He opened the door cautiously and, after checking the hallway, signaled me to follow him. When the elevator arrived, he ducked in and pressed a series of buttons for higher floors. “We’re taking the stairs,” he said brusquely, allowing the elevator door to close behind him. We took them all the way to the ground floor. “Where’s Erikka?” I asked, catching my breath.
“She’s OK. My man is moving her now.”
He used a key card to open a ground-level bedroom, and when I followed him in, I saw that it was empty. He strode across the room to a sliding door, which he thrust open, peering out at the swimming pool. Walking out calmly, as if he were the maintenance man, he motioned unobtrusively for me. I followed him through the bushes surrounding the pool area into the parking lot. A sleepy guard didn’t even raise his head. Sammy opened a car door and I jumped in.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Isn’t this my rental car?”
“Indeed it is. We’ve left a bunch of brochures in your room suggesting that you left ear
ly and drove to Mashhad.”
“But I was going to go to Mashhad anyway. How did you know?”
“When you rented the car you told them you were going there. Your shadow was standing right next to you in the line.”
I never bothered asking him how he got my car keys.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I learned to drive a car in Tel Aviv, where drivers fully believe they’re driving tanks, and the Mediterranean hand gestures make steering secondary. I live in New York, where stoplights are informational only, and anarchic taxi drivers set their own traffic rules every minute. But driving in Tehran made those cities look like Des Moines. Nothing had prepared me for the dangers of Tehran traffic in the early-morning hours. Heavy trucks, small cars, motorbikes, and even horse-drawn carts cross through all directions, honking their horns, regardless of any reason or rule. It seemed to be one of the few places in Iran where you could break the law and get away with it. No wonder Tehran ranks at the top of the list of world vehicle-fatality rates. I thought of a saying I’d heard from my driving instructor: “A man who drives like hell is bound to get there.”
Sammy glanced at the rearview mirror. “We’ve got company,” he said. “This time they’re not our men.”
He jerked open the glove compartment and tossed a. 38 gun into my lap. I grabbed it between my fingers. Our car suddenly tilted and stopped. We had been broadsided. Heart racing, I swiveled my head to see what had happened. A small car with what looked like two passengers had hit us. I slipped the gun under my windbreaker and took a better look. The other car wasn’t badly damaged.
Sammy, swearing under his breath, swung open the door and jumped out to examine the car. I heard the shouting, but understood nothing, staying in the car even as a small crowd quickly assembled to watch. Traffic whizzed by, and the Iranians shook their fists, their voices escalating.
With a shrug and an angry gesture, Sammy turned away from them and jumped back into our car. “They’re just con men,” he told me, starting the engine. The damage wasn’t that bad after all. “They stage accidents and try to blackmail unsuspecting drivers. Let’s go.” As he accelerated and pushed through, he nearly ran over one of the men, who was still yelling.
“Better to leave before the police get here,” Sammy explained tersely. “That’ll start a silent bidding war-who’s gonna bribe the cop with more money. We can’t risk that.” He made a left turn into another busy street and maneuvered through commercial areas. After driving for ten minutes in the congested streets, I noticed through the side-view mirror a beige sedan following us. I saw two men in the front seat, but there could have been others in the back seat.
“Sammy, are these guys behind us your men?”
He glanced at his mirror. “Shit. No, they’re the VEVAK. I recognize their car.”
It was a challenge to get through the thicket of jaywalkers, bike riders, and reckless car drivers, but Sammy found a way. Nonetheless, it was a grotesquely slow chase, at no more than ten or fifteen miles an hour. The VEVAK car was about six or seven car distances behind us. Through a quick and abrupt maneuver Sammy managed to pass a big truck, leaving our followers behind it, blocking their view. He continued passing cars on their right and left, stealing quick glances at the rearview mirror.
“I think we lost them,” he said. About two miles later he suddenly turned right into a large unpaved parking lot. “Come on, quick,” he said. “We’ll leave the car here.”
“Are we walking?” I asked, swinging the door closed.
“Not to worry, we won’t be overexerting ourselves,” he said wryly, pointing to a beat-up blue sedan, Japanese made, parked at the corner of the lot. “Jump in, and keep down.” I complied, watching Sammy with head down and eyes raised as he put a hat on and tore off a fake mustache. He started the engine and drove away through the other end of the parking lot, spraying gravel and leaving a cloud of dust behind us.
Keeping my head down, I heard Sammy dial a number and begin speaking in what sounded like Kurdish.
He snapped the phone shut. “They’re on to you,” he said swiftly. “The VEVAK is looking for you all over, including at the airport and train stations. We’ll have to change plans. You can’t leave through the airport, and we can’t smuggle you through the mountains to Turkey-the roads leading to the border are still blocked by snow. We’ll go to Plan B.”
I was lying on the back seat, alternately cursing the secret police, the Tehran city engineers who didn’t bother to maintain the roads, and the lousy car manufacturer who hadn’t managed to engineer a car that didn’t lurch over every pebble. I said nothing. What was there to say?
Thirty minutes of driving felt like eternity. Finally, the car stopped. Sammy got out and I heard a metal gate screeching. Sammy opened my door.
“You can come out now. You’ll be safe here.”
I looked around. We were in an enclosed yard, blocked from the street by a plate-metal gate, surrounded by a high stone wall.
“What is this place?”
“Your hideout until their search cools down or the weather warms up, whichever comes first,” said Sammy with a grim smile. I followed him into the dilapidated building. He produced a key to the wooden door from his pocket, and hinges squeaked as we entered into what looked like a deserted factory, perhaps for textiles. Rusty machines stood idle, like statues sculpted by an avant-garde artist. Remnants of textile bales were piled on the floor. Sammy went behind a huge machine and opened an inconspicuous trapdoor just underneath it.
“Come,” he said when he saw my hesitation.
I slowly went down wooden stairs. He closed the trapdoor above us and turned on the light inside by pulling a cord. I found myself in a spacious, windowless basement, with simple carpets on the concrete floor, a bed with once-clean linen, and a small kitchen with a table and an ancient refrigerator. I also saw a small radio and an old television set, probably black-and-white.
“What is this place?” I asked again. I was wary.
“Your hiding place,” said Sammy. “We use it occasionally to hide people sought by the security services. As you know, Kurds aren’t exactly beloved around these parts.” He walked into the kitchen area. “There’s enough food here.” He opened a wall closet that was full of canned food supplies. “You have these”-he pointed at an electric stove and a refrigerator-“and running water.” He opened the kitchen faucet, letting water out, adding, “And a toilet, but no shower and no hot water. Sorry.”
“Looks good. But it’s cold in here,” I said.
“Use this.” He pointed at an oil radiator on wheels. “I’ll come to see how you’re doing every three days.”
“How do I communicate with you?” I asked.
“Use the cell phone you rented at the hotel, but only if your life is in danger. The police can trace you though the phone’s signals. Take the battery out. The phone transmits signals even when you aren’t calling anyone.”
“I did that when we were leaving the hotel,” I said. “One question. How do you get away with using electricity and water? If VEVAK is worth its salt, it knows how to monitor deserted places by checking power use.”
“We hooked the power and the water to the next building, where one of our men lives. There’s no movement on the factory’s electric and water meters. He’ll also keep an eye on this building from his apartment, which overlooks the yard. There’s a side door between his building and the factory, so the metal gate we just used to enter from the street is rarely opened. Even if this location is observed from the outside, no movement will be detected.”
He handed me a torn white cloth. “If you’re in distress, display this above the machine on the factory level. Our guy can see it through his window.” He paused. “Keep the gun. You may need it here.” He reached into his shoulder bag and produced a small box with twenty-four rounds.
After giving me additional technical instructions concerning the toilet, waste disposal, and maintenance, Sammy said his good-byes. “I’ll see you in
three days. I’ll enter the yard through the side door. If you hear the metal gate open, that means trouble.”
I sat on the bed. It was only with Sammy gone that I realized how quiet this place was.
I sighed. I had always managed to extricate myself from trouble, and I had an abiding faith that I’d continue to do just that. There was no reason to be sure now, but what the hell. A fall into a ditch makes you wiser. I turned on the TV on low volume- nothing but programs in Farsi. I tried the radio; no luck.
Well, might as well go to sleep.
I curled up on the bed, wondering for a moment what they had done with Erikka, what they had told her.
A few hours later, I stretched awake, hungry. I opened cans of tuna and sardines, and ate them with a few stale crackers. I was bored. I tried the radio again. Nothing. I listened to random noises coming from the outside world. Cars passing and honking, or airplanes approaching. I wished I had something to read.
My thoughts turned toward my kids. Were they worried about me? Probably not. At least not yet. They were used to me being out of the country for long stretches on assignments. Actually, I was thankful they had no idea what a bind I’d gotten myself into. It would have worried them, of course, and that would have meant that I was making my problem their problem. That was the last thing I would have wanted. I prided myself in always being able to separate my work life and my family life.
Three days later Sammy came and brought me three cucumbers, two tomatoes, five oranges, and more canned food. To my delight he also brought English-language newspapers.
“What’s up?” I asked. I was glad to see him.
“Things aren’t great,” he said. “The VEVAK is searching for you everywhere. They say that you’re an American spy. They posted your picture in public places-train and bus terminals, and even at the bazaar.”
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