The Chameleon Conspiracy

by Haggai Carmon

  I saw a big effigy of George W. Bush as a mouse, mush in Farsi, swallowing up Afghanistan. I tried to blend in with the flood of people around us. I couldn’t move. I was cramped between bearded men there after a day’s work, who had no time to take a shower and no money to buy deodorant. There was nothing I could say or do. Worse, the crowd had seeped between Erikka and me, and I was having trouble getting closer to her. Definitely not a good idea for her, so obviously foreign, to be let loose in this crowd.

  “Marg Bar Amrika!” It wouldn’t end. Then the leader yelled “Marg bar Israel!” and the crowd followed suit. I looked at the people around me and couldn’t avoid wondering what their role, if any, had been in burning the American Embassy in Tehran, or in sponsoring and financing terrorism. It was enough that their collective hatred was fueling those actions.

  Re united in a small clearing, Erikka and I loosed ourselves from the suffocating grip. We stepped back, more safely out of the action. Even from there, we could see President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, wearing a light, tieless suit, ascend the podium.

  “Can you translate?” I said, glancing at Erikka.

  She shrugged. “Same as ever. America, Bush,” she said quietly. “He says Iranians should join in the battle against America and defend Islam and the revolution.”

  “He’s inflaming the crowd.” I concluded the obvious.

  Still listening, Erikka continued, “He’s now talking about rooting out corruption. Ahmadinejad is promising to support the private sector and reduce the size of the public sector to help growth. That theme is likely to be accepted by the bazaar merchants.”

  As the president closed, the crowd let out a massive shriek of affirmation. We had seen enough; it was time to go.

  Back at the hotel, Erikka told me she was planning on meeting some school friends at their home. “I hope you don’t mind if I go by myself—it will probably all be in Farsi,” said Erikka apologetically. “They’re classmates, so I’ll be able to get more names to night.”

  “Not to worry,” I said quickly. “I’m exhausted, and it’ll be a good chance to catch up on my writing.” It had been awhile since I’d had a night to myself.

  The next thing I knew, I was in bed and heavy knocks on my door were jerking me awake. I looked at the clock on the night table: four thirty a.m. Gingerly, I went to the door and peeped through the viewer. I saw Erikka. I opened the door and found her crying and shaking.

  “Come in,” I said instantly. Under the circumstances, I’d risk it. She entered my room and sat on the couch. I didn’t know what to do or say. I didn’t really know Erikka, and there was no user’s manual to consult. I gave her a glass of water. “Please stop crying and tell me what happened.”

  She sobbed. “I’d heard about it—the Komiteh, the moral police—and the way they harass people in the streets, or round up and jail them. I read how lucky people were just to pay a fine and avoid being lashed. But that’s just not how I remembered Iran. That’s why I wanted to come back. I didn’t think it would really affect me.”

  “Please tell me what happened,” I repeated.

  “I left my friend’s house at around three in the morning. She begged me to stay overnight, but I was too foolhardy to accept, thinking everything would be OK. So she called me a cab. Next thing I knew, the cabdriver looked in his rearview mirror, and said, ‘They’re following us.’ So I turned around, and there was a car right there. He said it was Komiteh. I didn’t know what to think. I was alone, it was three a.m., but that would have been fine anywhere else. I thought maybe they were targeting him, not me. We got pulled over, and a guy—he didn’t have a uniform—wanted the cabdriver’s papers. That was it, and then he told us to move on. But I’d barely started breathing again when he changed his mind. He told me to step outside.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes. I stepped out of the car and walked up to their Jeep.”

  “Why? You could have stayed next to the cabby, at least until you were sure they were indeed police.” I knew it wasn’t exactly the most supportive thing to say, second-guessing a decision that was too late to change. But even at the risk of making me seem like kind of a jerk, I had to be sure that her story was true and that the incident was not related to my mission.

  “Well, the cabdriver said they were Komiteh. And I figured he would know.”

  “Did the cabby do anything?”

  “He was trying to protect me. He stepped out of his cab and walked toward them, but they yelled at him to step back.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Two men sat in the Jeep, and I was standing next to them. I asked them in Farsi what the problem was.”

  “Were they surprised to hear you speak Farsi?”

  “I think so, because they changed their tone a bit, but then they interrogated me about where I’d been at that time of night and why I was traveling alone without the supervision of a man.” She paused to wipe her eyes. “One of them was really aggressive. I told him about my meeting with my classmates. He asked, if he went to my friend’s house, would she verify my story? I told him yes, of course. But had I done anything wrong? He told me that Islamic law forbade an unchaperoned woman to be alone with a man who isn’t a close relative.

  “The whole encounter was surreal. I was standing in the middle of the street answering questions about my private life to two strangers. They said nothing. I wasn’t sure what to do or say. Then it dawned on me—maybe they were expecting payment. But I wasn’t going to bribe them and risk serious trouble. I just wouldn’t do that anyway. They copied my name from my passport and suddenly said, ‘You can go.’ And that was it. They drove off, and I got back in the cab. The cabdriver was really nice. And he said it wasn’t my fault, that I was dressed modestly enough, but that the police had been looking for a brothel that was supposed to be around there.”

  Erikka broke into tears again. “I was so humiliated.”

  My suspicious nature came into gear again. Was the encounter incidental or, given the fact that I had a permanent shadow, was it now Erikka’s turn to be harassed? I knew that when the Iranian government established the moral police, they’d justified it by quoting the Islamic concept of amr bil ma’rouf nahi anil munkar, “join the right, and forbid the wrong.” That was also used to encourage people to report the suspicious activities of others. The result was a seventy-million-strong intelligence force. Even the Stasi, East Germany’s feared Ministry for State Security, wasn’t that successful in its heyday. For the average Iranian, mutual trust had all but disappeared. You now suspected your neighbor, your friend, and your grocer of being informers. And you were probably right.

  “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I said gently. “It sounds awful. But I guess there’s a whole set of rules here that we need to learn….”

  She nodded, sighing. “It’s nothing like I remember,” she said softly. “Anyway. I should get some sleep.”

  “Do you want me to walk you back to your room?” I offered.

  She grimaced. “Normally I would, but who knows? The morality police might still be watching.” She held my hand for a minute. “Sorry to barge in on you like this.” I shook my head, signaling that it was nothing, and with that she was gone.

  I returned to my bed, restless and unable to sleep. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that this was all tied together somehow. To distract myself, I pulled out “my” novel, Dead End Love: An Impossible Love Affair, courtesy of some particularly creative CIA employee turned ghostwriter.

  “Not bad,” I mumbled, “not bad at all. I didn’t know I could write that well…” and fell asleep.

  I met Erikka in the dining room for a late breakfast. Other than slightly red eyes, she looked fine.

  “How are you feeling?” She smiled wanly and nodded to say everything was OK.

  “If you don’t mind me bringing up a little business,” I began, “did you accomplish anything last night? I mean getting new names and addresses?”

  She seemed happy to be bac
k at a task. “Yes. I already have a total of ninety-five names of people still living in Iran, with addresses and phone numbers.”

  “That’s great,” I said eagerly. “How did you manage to get so many?”

  “The news spread,” she said. “Everybody’s very excited about the reunion.”

  “So are they all ethnic Iranians? I read that everyone else left here, right? After the revolution, I mean.”

  “Yes, all of the alums responding are ethnic Iranians. I also have a list of thirty-one alumni who live in Europe, Japan, and the U.S. I found out last night that one of them just died in the U.S. So awful—I remember him.”

  I paused for a moment to let her compose herself. “How do you intend to manage it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean administratively. Did you create a table with all the names?”

  “I haven’t thought of that yet,” she said, embarrassed. “Everything happened so quickly. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Not particularly.” I paused to show I hadn’t thought about it earlier. “Why don’t you just draw up a table to include all personal details, such as current address and year of graduation? Then you can ask the bank to send the people on the list an invitation to the reunion and ask them to confirm and attach their short résumé. You know, tell in a few sentences what they’ve been doing since they graduated.”

  “Good idea,” said Erikka. “I’ll do that after breakfast.”

  “I have another idea,” I said. “Why don’t you prepare a separate list of all the alums you located that live outside Iran? Maybe the bank would want to use their connections in their respective countries. Didn’t they say in the briefing, part of their marketing strategy is to get a piece of the Iranian overseas business, because they want to set it up bilaterally?”

  “I’m one step ahead of you,” she said. “Look.” She handed me two handwritten pages with many names.

  Next to the name Reza Nazeri, in the space left for a current address, she’d written “deceased.” Although his name rang a bell, I couldn’t remember if he was on the list of students we had received from the State Department. Obviously, I hadn’t brought the list to Iran. It’d have to wait until I returned to Europe.

  “Maybe you should send a copy to the bank.”

  “But it’s incomplete, isn’t it?”

  “I know, but it would be good to show them that you’re already getting results.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Are you going to contact any of the people on that foreign list?”

  “No, not right now anyway. There’s no point in my calling long-distance from Iran to other countries. It can wait until I return to Europe. The reunion is a few months away. We have time.”

  “You’re right,” I conceded. “What about the deceased alumnus, do you know what happened to him?”

  “I heard he had an accident.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Yes. He was a really good friend. We used to have play-dates when we were young. I also knew his mother very well. He grew up without a father, so he spent a lot of time at our house.”

  “I see,” I said contemplatively. I needed time to plot.

  “Will you need me today?” she asked.

  “I was thinking of going to Mashhad to search for my roots. Maybe stopping in Neyshābūr, where I think I might have family. It says in the guide that Hakim Omar Khayyám was born there—you know, the poet. Could be interesting.”

  “Ian, it’s almost six hundred miles away,” she said in surprise. “We need to make travel arrangements and hotel reservations. Do you want to take a train or drive?”

  “Well, don’t be alarmed, and I’m sorry that I didn’t consult you, but I sort of planned it yesterday when you were out. I’ve actually already rented a car, and made a hotel reservation at”—I stopped to look at the note I’d prepared—“Homa Hotel on Taleghani Square in Ahmad Abad Street.”

  “How long do you want us to stay there?”

  “Two or three days. Is it OK with you?”

  “I guess so.” She didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “When do you want to leave?

  “Well…whenever you’re ready?”

  She hesitated, “I scheduled six meetings with alums, but I can cancel. My work for you comes first.”

  “No, please don’t cancel,” I said quickly. “Keep the meetings; we’ll go on another day.” After a quick glance at the list Erikka had prepared, I no longer wanted to make that trip that day. But I had to at least pretend that I was sticking to my original idea to search for my roots. We would have to go soon.

  I went outside the main entrance. A white Peugeot Persia was parked in the hotel’s driveway. A rental agreement was left on the driver’s seat. I drove the car to the parking lot and entered the gift shop in the hotel lobby.

  As I was pulling out a copy of Tehran Times in English from the display rack, I felt a man brushing his arm against my right arm. “I’m sorry,” I said, and moved to the left. He brushed against my arm again. I turned around to look at him. He was a well-built man in his early forties with intense black eyes and a black mustache.

  “Mr. Ian, please go outside,” he said in a low voice.

  I froze. “Who are you?”

  “Padas¸ sent me.”

  “Padas¸? I don’t know any Padas¸,” I said. I needed to hear the passwords.

  “I know where to find nice carpets made by hand in Kāshān. Very cheap.”

  It was the right code at the right time. “Oh, I’d like that,” I said innocently. “Where are they?”

  “I can take you now.” He walked slowly to the exit.

  I paid for the newspaper and followed him outside.

  “You must be careful,” I said quietly. “I think I’m being followed.”

  “No, you are not.”

  “But I detected followers,” I insisted.

  “They were my men watching you,” he said calmly.

  “I saw one at the restaurant, and another one in a car that followed me.”

  He smiled mischievously. “You missed the others. We are always behind you. Unless the Iranian VEVAK is smarter than us, we didn’t notice any interest in you.”

  “How do I contact you? I mean in case of emergency?” “For one, we’ll see any emergency and will come to your help. But if we lose contact for any reason, call this number and say that you’d like to purchase Kāshān carpets.” He handed me a piece of paper.

  “Who gave me that number, in case someone asks?”

  “An Iranian you met on the plane coming here. You don’t know his name.”

  “Do I identify myself on the phone?”

  “No.”

  “What about Erikka?”

  “We aren’t following or protecting her, unless she’s with you.” He opened the car’s trunk, and I saw three rolled carpets. “I’ll show you these carpets now. Look as if you’re interested.”

  “I thought you said I’m not being watched.”

  “Just in case.” He pulled the carpets out and laid them on the pavement.

  The carpets were magnificent. For a moment I even entertained the idea of actually purchasing them. Bad timing for shopping, I told myself. I stood there for a few more minutes admiring their beauty.

  “Kāshān is a city in north-central Iran that was producing Persian carpets at royal workshops at least since the seventeenth century,” he said. “But the best Kāshāns come from Ardistān. These carpets came from Yazd, but they’re almost as good.” He rolled up the carpets and put them back in the trunk. He shook my hand and drove away.

  In the afternoon, I got hold of Erikka in the lobby.

  “I have two cancellations,” she said. “They postponed our meetings until tomorrow.”

  “In that case, I’ve got an idea,” I said. Why don’t we visit the family of Reza Nazeri? They’ll probably hear about the reunion you’ve got coming up, and it might hurt them to be left out. The right thing to do is pay them a personal
visit.”

  “You mean right now?” asked Erikka.

  “Yes, why not? We have time. I’m sure they and the rest of the alumni will appreciate the gesture.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. You know, I’d love to see his mom again. She was always so kind to me.”

  “Visiting an Iranian family at home will be a good experience for me—it’d help me understand a lot for my book,” I added.

  “I still remember where he lived, after all these years. It was on Darband Street, in northern Tehran,” said Erikka. She called information for the telephone number. It was unlisted. “Do you want to take the chance they’re still living at the same address?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Let’s do it,” I said. “Cab?”

  It took us through Imam Khomeini Boulevard, past the National Archaeological Museum of Iran, and arrived at a pleasant residential area. Erikka buzzed the intercom and a woman answered. Erikka said something in Farsi, and after a pause, the door opened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Inside the spacious, well-appointed apartment, Mrs. Nazeri stood alongside her maid. She appeared to be nearly seventy, and was clad in a black dress without a head covering. Her eyes were puffy and lined. When she saw Erikka they both burst into tears and embraced, murmuring in Farsi.

  After a moment, they seemed to remember I was there, and stepped apart politely.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” said Mrs. Nazeri, in English. Erikka smiled. “I forgot how good your English was.” “You haven’t changed a bit,” Mrs. Nazeri told Erikka. Erikka smiled again. “I’m not that young anymore. My daughter is already nineteen years old.”