“Don’t jump to early conclusions,” I said smoothly. “Why don’t you call those who answered and get additional names of their classmates? I’m sure many alumni just missed your ad. If I were you, I’d get on the phone and start networking. Your schmoozing skills will get them all together in no time.”
Erikka smiled. “You already know me,” she said. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”
“I think I’ll take a tour of Tehran, just to get a feel for it. I’ll meet you here to night.” I wanted to leave my room available for the Iranian security services to do anything they wanted. I needed to know whether I had indeed attracted their attention. Who had the man with sunglasses at the restaurant been? A routine counterintelligence mea sure? Evaluating me as a potential recruit? Was I a conduit to lead them to a target? The answer wasn’t likely to change my conduct—I remained Ian Pour Laval, an innocent author. It would help me plan ahead—but plan what? Here my thoughts hit a brick wall. I had no idea. But I had to figure it out.
I went outside through the lobby and asked the dispatcher to find me a cabdriver who spoke some English. He returned a few minutes later. “Sorry, nobody speaks English, but there’s one who speaks a little German.”
“That will do,” I said. When the nightingale is too busy to sing, even a crow will do.
“Take me to see the city,” I told the driver as I got into his Mercedes taxi. “Let’s start with Golestan Palace.” He started the engine and we left the hotel.
I looked at the guidebook. “During the reign of the Safavid Shah Abbas the First, a vast garden called Chahar Bagh (Four Gardens), a governmental residence, and a Chenarestan (a grove) were created on the present site of the Golestan Palace and its surroundings,” it read. I looked through the cab’s side mirror to see if we had company. Not a big surprise. There was a car just behind us at all times, with two men. Why were they so close? It seemed too obvious, rather unprofessional. Maybe they wanted me to know I was being watched. But why? Obviously, they didn’t know who I was, because if they’d had just a shred of suspicion, I would have been in prison with mice and cockroaches as my cellmates. I continued to play along, taking several pictures of the palace with my camera.
“Please take me to the bazaar—I’ve heard so much about it.” Situated in the heart of southern Tehran, built under a roof, the bazaar is a city within the city, at once beautiful and chaotic. When the Shah razed old but precious traditional buildings during the oil boom in the seventies and replaced them with ugly high-rise buildings, the bazaar had been spared.
After getting dropped off, I walked slowly, mindful of the crowds and the slippery pavement. There were unwritten traffic rules, I noticed: people kept to the right to avoid porters of merchandise, who sped through the crowd. I was overwhelmed by the different faces I saw. Iranians and Arabs, Mongols and Azeri, a very colorful and exciting mix of colors, smells, and cultures.
There were two types of people in the bazaar: oglers and hagglers. I crossed the definition line and bought a few pieces of bric-a-brac, and bargained on the prices like a typical tourist, using sign language or the little English a few merchants knew.
“These things are from Abadan,” said one merchant. “My family came from there. Believe me, they’re special.”
A well-built young man in jeans and sunglasses stood next to me watching me haggle with the shop keep er. Not wanting to lose another customer, the merchant interrupted our conversation and asked the man something in Farsi, and he responded in two or three words. I picked up one word, but that was enough. “Adadish,” he said—police.
I took a deep breath, turned my back to the young man, showed particular interest in a backgammon set, and left the store. From the corner of my eye I could see him following me. I was still just an innocent tourist returning to his hotel.
Erikka was standing near the reception desk in the lobby. “Good timing,” she said. “I’m expecting a classmate. Want to join us?”
As a well-dressed man walked into the lobby, Erikka whispered, “Here he is. Farshad Shahab!” she exclaimed and ran toward him with her arms stretched to embrace him.
Visibly uncomfortable, the man stepped back. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “It’s not allowed in public.”
“I’m sorry,” said Erikka. “It’s just that I’m so glad to see you.” I was uneasy. How could she be so heedless?
“Same here,” he said. “But things have changed.”
“Farshad,” said Erikka. “I want you to meet Ian Pour Laval. Ian is an author who is currently writing a novel on a romance between an Iranian Muslim man and an Austrian Catholic woman. I’m helping him with his cultural research.” We sat in the lobby and ordered cherry juice. Erikka excused herself and went to the ladies’ room.
“Difficult subject,” said Farshad, looking at me with interest. “Why?” I asked.
“Because of the cultural gap and the religious clash. Where does the romance take place?” he asked.
“In Tehran,” I answered.
“That makes it particularly complex,” he said. “The love must be very strong and the couple very per sis tent for the relationship to survive.”
“The Iranian society, as a whole, will not accept a European woman marrying an Iranian man?”
“Many will accept, to an extent,” he said. “But the price for the woman will be high. She’ll have to convert and adopt all tenets of our religion and culture. That means she’ll have to give up her past and become a Muslim woman, not only by adopting our traditions and religion, but also in the way she conducts herself and raises her children. She’ll have to forego many of her values, her culture, and—most of all—her beliefs on women’s place in the society.”
“Will there ever be a change?” I asked. “I mean, will Iranian women ever be treated as we treat women in Canada…equally?”
He shook his head. “The Muslim Revolution gave us pride, but it also took us back in time, as far as human rights and women’s rights are concerned. Religions don’t change.”
That was a bold statement, I thought. The little devil in me took notice. “Back in time?”
“Yes. I’m not criticizing it, of course. The so-called ‘modernity’ that the Shah and his corrupt followers brought exposed the Iranian society to Western-style ‘values,’ but the Iranian people much prefer the old style.” He uttered the word values with visible disgust. I sensed it was an overkill gesture, as if he knew somebody was watching.
Erikka returned, and she and Farshad commenced with their conversation reminiscing about old times. I didn’t want to interrupt. I excused myself and returned to my room.
An hour later I went back to the lobby. Farshad and Erikka were still chatting.
“Ian,” said Erikka. “Farshad just started telling me about what it was like to be here during the Islamic Revolution. Why don’t you come listen? Could be interesting background for your book.”
With a serious face Farshad said, “Please don’t mention you’ve met me, and don’t use my name in your book.”
The request was odd, given that they had been chatting publicly in a hotel lobby for more than an hour. I was sure the Iranian security services already knew about his contact with foreigners.
“Of course, you have my word,” I said. “I just need background information to understand the political and social atmosphere at the time. My novel starts about a year after the revolution.”
Farshad relented. “It was exciting and frightening at the same time,” he said. “As a young Iranian I was proud that there was a popular uprising hoping to topple the crooked regime of the Shah, but as a moderate Muslim I was concerned at hatred I saw in the extremists. Instead of promoting a political change, which most Iranians supported, the mullahs took over, and instituted a theocracy intolerant of any other opinion.”
I registered surprise, in my suspicious mind, to hear that. “Where were you when the unrest began?” asked Erikka. “That whole period is so blurred in my memory, but I remember
well the beginning. It was on ‘Black Friday,’ September 8, 1978. I was a senior at our high school and had plans to go to the U.S. for college.”
“Yes, I think you told me about that plan at the time,” said Erikka.
“I was in my room at home and heard noises—gunfire and shouting. My parents didn’t allow me to leave the house; I was under a family-imposed curfew. So I climbed to our rooftop and saw flames. Parts of southern Tehran were on fire. The student-led revolution against the Shah had begun, but I didn’t know it then. The Shah had declared martial law, and a citywide curfew was enforced by armed soldiers. Just to make sure he’d maintain control, the Shah also turned off the power every evening to the entire city of Tehran. That made the nights very quiet, except for bursts of gunfire.”
“I remember that,” said Erikka. “I was so frightened.”
“The uprising was spreading,” continued Farshad. “Other citizens joined the students. Most people were staying home and obeying the curfew. But many others climbed on their rooftops chanting and praying. Angry soldiers loyal to the Shah interpreted that as defiance and were shooting anyone seen on the roofs. I heard people chanting ‘Allaahu Akbar’—‘God is Great.’ Those incidents spread from southern Tehran, which is heavily populated by poor people, to the northern parts, where the rich and powerful live. My father was an ethnic Iranian, but he was fearful for our safety, because my mother is Italian. So two weeks later he sent me with my mother to Rome to stay with my maternal grandparents.”
“That means you weren’t here when the revolution toppled the Shah?” I asked.
“I returned to Tehran six months later when his regime was already doomed.”
“From what I know, the hatred was directed against the U.S.” I said.
Farshad nodded. “But those who captured the U.S. Embassy weren’t the real fanatics.”
You can say that again, I thought. Even he doesn’t believe it. I saw their hatred on TV. If that mob wasn’t fanatic, then I’d like to see who are fanatics, in his opinion.
“They were protesting against the U.S. for agreeing to let the Shah undergo cancer treatment in the U.S.”
“What happened to your plans to go to college in the U.S.? Did they ever materialize?”
“Yes, I was lucky. I went to the University of Nebraska in Lincoln.”
I smiled. “Not too many people like to leave that beautiful state, unless they have to. But you returned to Iran.”
I regretted that statement immediately. It was too sarcastic. But he didn’t seem to mind.
“I agree,” he said. “It was difficult, but my family needed me here, so after spending just two more years in Nebraska after my graduation, I returned home.”
“Was it hard? I mean shifting from the Western-style society in Nebraska to a different culture in Iran?” I chose my words carefully to make them as benign as possible.
“Only for a short period. After all, I’m Iranian, and I was returning home.”
“Farshad is a mechanical engineer and works for an oil company,” said Erikka, looking at me. Turning her head toward him, she added, “You’ll prepare the list for me, won’t you?”
“Sure,” he said. “But I know only a handful of graduates who are in Iran. Many who were brought up in a school such as ours couldn’t cope with the changing atmosphere in Iran and left.”
“Where to?” I was really curious.
“Some went to the Gulf States, some to India and Pakistan, and some went to the U.S.” A boxing-ring bell rang in my head. However, I decided not to press the issue at this time. In that kind of subtle questioning, less is more. I hoped that Erikka wouldn’t pose the follow-up question, Who went to the U.S.?
“Who is sponsoring the reunion?” he asked. “Seems that you’re spending money on that project.”
“A Swiss bank,” said Erikka. “They want to be able to sell their services to the alumni and their businesses, and besides, the expenses are really low so far. My trip here was paid for by Ian’s publisher.”
There was a moment of silence, and then he said in a friendly tone of voice, “I’ve always wanted to visit Canada, but never managed to do it, although I lived in Nebraska. Where did you grow up?”
I had my script meticulously rehearsed, so I was able to answer the questions that followed without missing a beat. Still, I had the feeling that I wasn’t being questioned, but rather subtly interrogated. I was becoming even more suspicious. Why was he so openly critical of the regime, daring to talk about it with a complete stranger in public? Hoping to provoke me to jump on the bandwagon and say something negative? And those questions about my background…I would have to remember his name.
I excused myself again to go to my room. I’d be wiser when I saw the list he promised. When I crossed the lobby on my way to the elevator I had that funny feeling that I was being watched. I entered the gift shop and walked around, pretending to look at the merchandise. There was no mistake; a man was standing outside the store looking at me, making no effort to disguise his interest. I had to react contrary to my training, which said, Dry-clean him. But if I did that, I’d expose myself as a trained intelligence officer, rather than remaining Ian Pour Laval, a bona fide author. So I continued with the normal behavior expected of a tourist. I bought a local English-language newspaper and went up to my room.
It was clear that if a follower had been assigned to monitor my movements, there could also be electronic devices planted in my room. The author wouldn’t care less, but the intelligence expert under my skin was on the alert. However, with no countermeasures to discover any hidden microphones or cameras, and with no suspicious activity or material to conceal, I crawled into bed, acting out the “I couldn’t care less” attitude. Good thing they couldn’t read my mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next day, we had to run errands. First, a visit to the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance to see if the note I received at the Iranian Embassy in Vienna was sufficient to conduct book interviews in Iran. They told me that legally, if I wanted to travel outside Tehran or visit any university or museum, among other sites, I first had to obtain a permit. I had to undergo a one-hour interview by a stern-looking bureaucrat about the content of my book, and supply a list of people I wanted to interview.
“We will let you know,” he said at the end.
Next, I suggested that Erikka help me trace my roots in Iran. We went to the Civil Registration Department, which manages Iran’s data related to births, deaths, marriages, and divorces.
“You’d have to be more specific,” the skinny and short clerk behind the counter said with Erikka translating. “‘Pour’ is a very common Iranian name, and if your grandfather left Iran in the 1920s, I don’t believe we can help you, unless you remember names of other family members.”
I rolled up my eyes, pretending that I was trying to remember. I thought about using the information I memorized from the brief “family tree” with which the Agency had equipped me, but I thought I should first try showing him that I was un-prepared, as not to arouse suspicion.
“I remember my mother telling me, from stories she heard from my father, that my grandfather was a shoemaker in southern Tehran. Will that help?”
“No, I’m sorry, we don’t record professions. Do you know any cousins on your father’s side?”
“I only heard of one cousin, who went to France. I think his name was Javad Yaghmaie,” I ventured, hoping my earlier research was accurate.
“Now, that’s a beginning,” said the clerk, who turned out to be a fairly friendly fellow. “I’ll try to find this person. Do you know how old he should be now?”
I hesitated. “I know he was related to my father somehow, but I’m not sure how. Can we search his name first?”
The clerk went through a side door to the archive. Ten minutes later he returned holding a dusty carton file. “I may have found something,” he said joyfully. He opened the file. “This is the file of Javad Yaghmaie.” He leafed through the th
in file and said, “Javad Yaghmaie was born on 16 Azar 1309 in Neyshābūr, in northeastern Iran.”
“It’s not far from Mashhad, the second largest city in the country,” volunteered Erikka.
I gave the clerk a puzzled look. “1309?”
“That’s December 7, 1930,” he said. “His father was Ibrahim, and his mother Fatima. That’s all we have.”
I wrote down the information, thanked him and left. Now, I’d at least satisfied the initial appearance of a person genuinely seeking his roots.
“We may have to go there,” I told Erikka.
“I’d like that,” she said. I made a half turn, and from the corner of my eye I could see my shadow staring at me. I said nothing to Erikka.
“There’s a rally that is starting in about an hour,” said Erikka. “President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is speaking. I think we should attend.”
We had the cabdriver let us off about a mile from Freedom Square, and then walked along with the huge crowd heading into the square. The sound was insistent: people chanting “Marg bar Amrika”—death to America—and to make sure that any non-Farsi speakers wouldn’t miss the message, the protesters also carried banners in English cursing George W. Bush, the United States, and Israel.
“That’s for the television cameras,” said Erikka when she saw me looking at the banners. “This is all choreographed.” From the looks of the crowd—tens of thousands strong—this was quite the show to stage-manage.
“That square is where the 22nd of Bahman march was, where they declared the Islamic Republic in ’79,” said Erikka. “I don’t think we should get too close.”
Looking at the red-faced, bearded men punch the air with their fists and scream about death to America and Allaahu Akbar, it seemed a fairly unorchestrated hatred. I saw women in black chadors, clerics with turbans, and bearded religious students— many people who didn’t look particularly well-off. In a makeshift parking lot, buses and trucks were bringing in additional demonstrators.
“Marg bar Amrika,” they chanted, sending chills down my spine. In the eyes of some there was a fiery hatred. Passing my eyes over the crowd, I saw a few indifferent or gloomy faces. But most were in an ecstatic state of anger. The crowd was closing in on us. Uniformed police emerged, and probably double their number of plainclothes security men. Children stomped on images of Uncle Sam. A big placard said, BUSH IS SATAN. A crowd of chanting Iranians were burning an American flag and stomping on its ashes. A colorful, paper, distorted picture of George W. Bush hovered above the crowd. Enterprising street vendors were selling everything and loudly announcing their merchandise. I continued hearing the crowds chanting, “America cannot do anything. Iran is full of Baseejis!”
The Chameleon Conspiracy Page 26
