“Such as what?”
“Such as the distance between the eyes, or the skull structure.”
“And the result?”
“Satisfactory,” said Tony. “If a comparison is made by an expert at a lab, there could be a slight problem. But this isn’t the issue here. There are no biometric identifiers on the passport, so the passport photo will survive a visual comparison.”
“For both purposes?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
I told them about my concerns. I knew that biometrics is used for two distinct purposes. First, to verify that the passport I carry is indeed mine. This is a “one-to-one match or verification.” But the system can also identify or confirm my identity as it appears on the passport by searching a database of biometric records for a match. This is known as “one-to-many match or identification.”
“We know for sure that the passport is clean and does not contain any additional information, such as biometrics, other than the printed personal data,” said Casey in an assuring tone.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because they’d have had to mea sure your biometrics and record them. Ian has never undergone that procedure.” Their answers confirmed that Ian Laval was cooperating with the CIA, and that the passport wasn’t lost or stolen.
“OK, let’s move on. Once we enter Iran safely, then what?” “Once at the hotel, Erikka should look for her incoming mail to contact the alumni who answered our ad I told you about.”
He handed me a printed page of an ad the bank placed in local Tehran newspapers. “This is the English translation. Erikka already knows about it, after the bank agreed to sponsor the reunion she’s organizing. She knows it was the bank’s idea to make her visit more efficient and fruitful.”
I looked at the page.
Remember the good old times? The Iranian, Asian, and European students of the American School in Tehran have scheduled a reunion. Alumni, please send contact information to Erikka Buhler (’78) c/o Azadi Grand Hotel on Chamran, Evin Cross Road Expressway, Tehran 19837. And let your fellow alums know about the reunion!
“Let Erikka communicate with those who respond. You can volunteer to help her find and meet her classmates, but don’t make it appear as if you’re in it as well. Deliberately miss one or two meetings she holds, and show only a passing interest in what she’s doing. The same rule applies to how interested you’ll appear to the alums. But watch, because they’re the principal targets. You’re going to increase how interested you are in Erikka’s activities, but first have her suggest that you get more involved. You’re her handler, but don’t make her feel pushed or controlled. She might get suspicious—or worse, others might.”
“Right, so I’m just manipulating her.” It seemed so patently obvious, I wondered why it was being repeated.
“I know you know this, but you know I need to repeat it so there’s no misunderstanding. The immediate goal is to identify and locate the names and whereabouts of all ethnic-Iranian males born between 1954 and 1962 who graduated from the American School in Tehran before it was shut down in 1979. The delimiters make them seventeen to twenty-five years old during the Islamic Revolution and their subsequent recruitment. Therefore, their current ages range between forty-two and fifty. From that list we will try to identify the members of Atashbon.”
“Right.”
“We, or rather Erikka, will ask each of the alumni she locates to fill out a short questionnaire with current contact information, year of graduation, current occupation, marital status, children, hobbies, and a short résumé telling everyone what they have been doing since graduation. The pretext will be that the information is needed for a brochure that will be distributed to all participants, like a present-day yearbook.”
I objected, “Isn’t it a bit simplistic to assume that alums in Iran right now weren’t Atashbon sleeper agents in the U.S.? They could have just returned to Iran.”
He nodded. “We’ve got to account for all eighteen or so original members whose locations we don’t know. But in principle you’re right. We want to use the initially traced graduates as a conduit to identify and find the others. Anyway, even the ones who lived in the United States and came back will probably put that down on the biographical profile.”
“How do we make the initial contact?” I asked.
“I think you should encourage Erikka to set up individual meetings and manage the entire matter the way she sees fit. Don’t make her suspect you of having an ulterior motive. If she feels lost and asks for your advice, you can direct her subtly by asking questions.”
“Such as, Are you preparing a questionnaire?” I stopped for a moment to arrange my thoughts. “We could prepare a courtesy folder for all graduates who respond. Make it a fancy leather-bound folder—a calculator, a nice pen, whatever—all embossed with the bank’s logo.”
“We can also include one or two brochures about the international services of the bank,” said John, warming to the idea.
“And Erikka will tell everyone who contacts her that they’ll get a free gift,” I finished.
“Good call,” said Casey. “I’ll get it going.”
I still had some questions about the operational wisdom behind their planning. “What’s the reason for not sending Erikka by herself?”
“We discussed that, but it was scrapped for several reasons. First and foremost, since Erikka doesn’t know the real reason for your and her visit, she’s likely to miss things that you’d never overlook as her controller. From the Iranians’ perspective, she’s your research assistant. She also has a side job of organizing the reunion. Besides, sending a blonde Western woman by herself to Iran isn’t a good idea. She’d be limited in her movements in a conservative society, which believes that the place of the woman is at home with her children, not in a five-star hotel talking to strange men.”
“OK,” I said moving on. “Do I need an Iranian visa?”
“Yes,” said Tony. “Your first option will be at the Iranian Embassy in Vienna.” He handed me a visa application form already filled out. “Please read it carefully, and if you’re interviewed, don’t make comments on the application form’s poor English or its spelling mistakes.”
Had my bigmouthed reputation preceded me?
“Let’s talk about formalities,” continued John. “You’ll arrive on a commercial airline. Lucky for you, Iran’s got a “Commercially Important Persons” clubroom that only costs $50. They meet you on the tarmac and drive you to a lounge while all the formalities are completed. Unluckily for you, you’re not using that service.”
“Great. I love bureaucracy.”
“Because it’d immediately identify you as a businessman or a VIP. We need you to pass as an ordinary tourist. Before you arrive in Tehran, the airline will give the passengers an immigration landing card, customs-clearance form, and foreign-currency declaration form to fill out. Here are the forms already filled in. Keep a carbon copy of the landing-card form and surrender it when leaving Iran. We’ll inspect your luggage before you leave, but at any rate don’t buy alcohol, or any magazines at the airport. They might contain pictures that the Iranians consider offensive. Don’t bring playing cards; gambling is forbidden. Make sure that the customs officers register your camera in your passport. When you leave, show them the camera, and insist that the record be deleted from your passport, as any tourist would.”
“Gotcha. Where are we staying?”
“The Azadi Grand Hotel in Tehran. The details are in the folder. You’ll get two separate rooms, of course. Let’s keep it professional. The hotel should have a courtesy van, but if it doesn’t come through, take a taxi from the station that has a dispatcher. Erikka will help you communicate with them. But don’t look as if you’re taking instructions from a woman—you’ll attract attention. And Erikka left Iran when the Islamic Revolution started and might not fully appreciate the radical changes since then.”
“What about communication?” I asked.
&n
bsp; “There will be two methods. One for Ian and Erikka the tourists, and the second for your reporting and distress. As tourists, go occasionally to Internet cafés and use their voice-over-Internet service to call numbers we are providing you with to chitchat with your friends—Agency personnel. Tell them how much you’re thrilled with Iran. No criticism. You can talk about the food, weather, what ever. Use your hotel room’s phone to call your publisher in India, or to look for your Iranian roots. But let’s be clear: no calling anyone else, not even your kids. We can’t control what they might say or who listens in.”
“OK. What about money?” I asked.
“We’ve opened an account for you at the Frankfurt, Germany, branch of Bank Melli, the Iranian bank. Your travel folder includes an ATM card that you can freely use throughout Iran, charging the withdrawals to your German bank account. Every two days you must visit an ATM to withdraw money. Additionally, whenever you move outside Tehran, the first thing you do is look for the nearest ATM and withdraw more money.”
“Even if I don’t need to?”
“Yes, just withdraw a minimal amount. But it has to be an amount that does not include the number five, like fifty, a hundred and fifty, fifteen hundred, and so on. If the number five appears it will signal to us that your ATM card—or, even worse, you—has been captured. All other number amounts will signal that you’re OK, and where you are at that moment. Also, every fifth withdrawal, make a small cash deposit with an envelope through the machine. Look at that,” he said, and handed me a sheet of paper. “Learn it by heart.”
I glanced at the one-page document. It instructed me on how to deliver messages by making innocuous-looking cash deposits through an ATM.
He continued. “The withdrawals and deposits and all other ATM activities will immediately appear on your German branch account, which we’ll be monitoring all the time. We’ll replenish the account by wire-transfer deposits.”
“From where? I lost you.”
“From your publisher’s bank account in India, of course. If for any reason you cannot make a cash deposit through the machine, but still need to send a message, here are the instructions.” He handed me another one-page document with short messages and instructions for how to use the ATM keypad to instruct the bank to carry out routine banking activities, which included an alphanumeric conversion table.
“How do I get instructions while in Iran?”
“We will convey only emergency messages, such as if you need to leave immediately. We’ll use Padas¸. If he’s unavailable, we’ll call your hotel, and a person with an Indian accent will give you a message on behalf of your publisher in India. For example, if the message is that your publisher wants to discuss copyright issues of translated editions, and he asks if that night will be a good time to call, that will mean ‘leave immediately.’ It’s all in here,” he said, and handed me another printed page. “Memorize it; your life may depend on it.”
We spent the next two days rehearsing communication methods, escape routes, and various contingencies. You always hope things will go smoothly, yet plan for the worst.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I traveled to the United States for a family visit and additional briefing. When I returned to Vienna I went to the Iranian Embassy at Jauresgasse 9, a nineteenth-century three-story building across the street from the British Embassy. Three stern, unshaved security personnel were standing near the entrance. After telling them I needed a visa, I was led to the consular section. I handed my Canadian passport with my visa application form to the consular officer, a young man dressed in black pants and a collarless white shirt. Like the other men I saw in the building, he also had a three-or four-day-old beard. He looked like he should still be in college.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?” he asked politely with a strong Iranian accent, as he sifted through my passport and glimpsed the attached application form.
“Tourism, mainly. I’m writing a novel and I need more inspiration.”
“A book?”
I nodded.
“What kind of book?”
“A fiction. A love story between an Iranian man and an Austrian woman.”
“Whom will you be meeting?”
“Nobody in particular, just people on the street, everyday people who could tell me about your culture and heritage. Maybe do a little shopping, visit some monuments.”
“Where will you stay?”
“I’ve made reservations at the Azadi Grand Hotel in Tehran.” “How do you intend to pay for your stay?”
“I have sufficient means, and my publisher covers all costs associated with this visit.” I showed him a letter with an attached bank letter confirming the publisher’s ability to bear all costs of my travel.
“How long do you intend to stay?”
“Just a few weeks, two to four.”
“Do you have a round-trip ticket?”
I showed him my ticket.
What the hell, I thought, do they suspect any Westerner would want to remain in present-day Iran voluntarily? Last I heard it was more like a penal colony for foreigners who like to feel safe in a democracy. Not to mention having a drink at a bar with a local woman.
“I see you have an Iranian name,” he said in a tone I couldn’t immediately decipher.
“Yes, my grandfather emigrated from Iran to Canada more than eighty years ago.”
“So you have family in Iran?”
“I’m not aware of any, but I might have distant relatives. I thought of maybe trying to find them.”
“We’ll transfer your visa application to Tehran to receive an authorization letter from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
“How long will that take?” I asked, expecting him to say two to three days.
But he was noncommittal. “I don’t know. It could take three weeks, or even three months. It’s up to them.”
“Why does it take so long?”
“I see a problem,” said the consular officer. “You’re a Canadian applying out of your country.”
“I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t know about this requirement. I’ve already made hotel and airline reservations, and there could be a penalty for changing them. Is there a way to overcome this problem?” I recited the apology my briefers had suggested I use in case such a question arose.
I considered, then rejected, offering him a a100 bill as my modest contribution to his personal financial needs. There was too much at stake, and I couldn’t risk a refusal.
He gave me a long look. “Wait here,” he said and entered into a back office. I was left wondering under the video camera mounted on the opposite wall and the prying eyes of a fat guard who stood silently nearby.
He returned fifteen minutes later. “The consul will see you now.”
I was led by the consular officer through a narrow staircase to the second floor.
The consular officer knocked respectfully on the door, opened it gingerly after a moment. On the far end of a majestic room, behind a king-size desk, sat a man in his midforties with gray hair, a beard, and clever eyes behind rimless eyeglasses. We crossed the room walking on a soft Persian carpet.
“Please sit down,” he said, pointing at a chair, and signaled to the consular officer to leave.
“What can I do for you?”
I told him briefly why I needed the visa soon and couldn’t wait a few months for an authorization to come from Tehran.
“Why don’t you return to Canada and apply for a visa there?” he asked. It was the most logical question, the one I’d feared he would ask. Luckily, I had prepared an answer.
“Well…” I said hesitantly. “I’m reluctant to do it. I have a dispute with my ex-wife over support payments, and I’m afraid she’ll attempt to ask the court to keep me in Canada until the matter settles. I hope maybe there could be a way to spare me the unnecessary cost and legal risk of flying to Canada just for the visa.”
“If Tehran approves your visa,” he said. “I’m sure that after your visit
you will be able to describe our country in a favorable manner, as opposed to the hateful propaganda that the politicians and the media are so fond of.”
“While of course I will offer my honest impressions, I assure you that politics isn’t my field. I would like to get to know your country’s traditions and culture, to make my novel more realistic.”
“I see,” he said, giving me a pensive look. “Maybe I could expedite the visa matter. I could explain to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs how important for Iran your visit is.” He wrote something on the application form. “Leave your passport here and come back in a week.” Although I was happy to hear his comment, I felt uncomfortable. Nothing I’d said indicated that this would be favorable for Iran. Why would the consul put himself out there for me so quickly? The little suspicious devil in me woke up.
He handed me his card and shook my hand. His card gave me his name and title: behrooz mesbah, counselor.
“Mot’sha’keram,” I said, thanking him.
He raised his eyes and gave me a surprised smile.
“I’ve learned a few words in Farsi,” I explained. “My grandfather was born in Iran, and I’m really excited to visit the land of my ancestors.”
I left the embassy feeling odd. Counselor? My foot. That only enhanced my earlier suspicion. I decided to talk to John Sheehan about it.
I went on a long cab ride, changed cabs several times, and when I was sure I wasn’t trailed, I went back to the safe apartment.
“How was it?” asked John.
“I can’t really tell. I’m sure the walls had ears and eyes. The visa consul was mildly suspicious when I wanted the visa expedited. I had to meet another higher-ranking person. Although his card said he was a ‘counselor,’ my hunch says an ‘intelligence officer’; there’s no question he was sizing me up. We’ll probably know more about the visa in a week.”
“Getting a visa for Iran can be a difficult matter,” said John. “But if they’ve given you a hard time, we’ve made a contingency plan to fly you to Dushanbe, in Tajikistan, where the process is simpler for us.” He didn’t elaborate.
The Chameleon Conspiracy Page 24
