The Chameleon Conspiracy

by Haggai Carmon

  “You’re lucky,” said Mrs. Nazeri.

  They continued talking, shifting from Farsi to English and back, until the maid brought a tray with silverware, a teapot, and delicious-looking cookies sprinkled with white powdered sugar.

  Many long minutes later, during which they talked in both languages about personal things, Erikka said, “As I was saying, I’m using a professional visit to Iran to help Mr. Pour Laval in his book research, to organize a school reunion.”

  “It’s a nice idea,” said Mrs. Nazeri, turning to me.

  “I only heard yesterday about Reza,” said Erikka delicately. “I wanted to come and see how you were, and to offer my condolences.”

  “That’s so kind of you.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to include some information about Reza in the brochure they’ll be making,” I suggested. “They have a Swiss bank sponsoring the event, and one of the ideas is to collect pictures of alumni taken during their school years, include a short résumé, and publish it in a bound format, like a yearbook. It might be a good opportunity to commemorate the memory of Reza.”

  Erikka looked at me, surprised. I had again broken the rule of not leading the direction in the alumni matter, but I just couldn’t resist that opportunity.

  “I’d love that,” said Mrs. Nazeri. “Let me see, just one moment…” She went to the other room and returned carrying two photo albums. “It’s all here. I’ve been left only with memories.”

  I leafed through the pages of the albums and saw Reza, a skinny, light-complexioned young man, at family events, smiling and happy.

  “What happened to him?” asked Erikka in a soft voice.

  “Last month he was killed in an accident in New York.”

  “Did he live in America?” asked Erikka.

  “He left Iran soon after the revolution. He said he was hired by a company to do business in Switzerland and America. I didn’t understand much of it.”

  “It’s so sad. Careless drivers are everywhere,” I said.

  She looked at me with sad dark eyes. “It wasn’t a car accident. Some crazy person pushed him off the subway platform while Reza was waiting for the train.”

  There was a shocked silence. “How awful,” I said after a moment. “Did they catch the lunatic?”

  “No, he escaped.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Was Reza married?” asked Erikka.

  “No. He told me it was difficult having a family with his lifestyle.”

  “You mean traveling a lot?”

  “Yes, between Switzerland and the U.S., but he used to come to visit me every few months.” She looked at me. “He was my only son. His father died when Reza was just a young child. Now I have nothing.”

  Erikka wiped a tear away.

  “Take any photos that you like, but please return them, as I have no copies,” Mrs. Nazeri said.

  Erikka began poring over the photos. I suggested that she take photos depicting Reza when he was in his twenties and thirties.

  “This is how I’d think people will remember him,” I said. When I saw a picture that looked recent, I added, “And show his friends who haven’t seen him in many years how he looked just before he died.”

  “Mr. Pour Laval…” said Mrs. Nazeri hesitantly. “I need some help in the United States; perhaps you can help me. It is very difficult for us to get information from the United States. Because of the animosity between the countries, communications are slow and unreliable. Here they open many letters sent from foreign countries, and it delays delivery for days or even weeks.”

  “Well, I’m Canadian, but I visit New York frequently, and I’ll be happy to help you.”

  “I need a lawyer in New York to handle Reza’s estate. Can you recommend a good one?”

  This was a golden opportunity I wasn’t going to miss. This was my entry card into Reza’s life and activities in the U.S.

  “Of course—you mean a wills-and-estates lawyer? I know a very good one who doesn’t charge a lot.”

  “Can I trust him?”

  “I do,” I said. “He handles all my American friends’ estate matters. I know he’s very reliable. I intend to be in New York soon and can call him.”

  “In that case, let me give you some information the lawyer may need.” She opened a black leather folder with documents. “Reza lived at 45 East 78th Street in Manhattan. He owned the apartment. He had at least one bank account that I know about in Chase Bank, but there could be others. Apart from that, I know very little about his business affairs.”

  “Did he leave a will?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but I hardly think so. He didn’t expect to die so soon, and other than me he had no family.”

  “Did he leave any papers with you, such as business correspondence or letters that may help locate his assets?”

  She thought for a minute and said, “Yes, in fact he did.” She went to the other room and returned with a big brown envelope. “That’s all I have,” she said, and handed me the envelope. I went through its contents. Inside were a few handwritten letters in Arabic script, business cards, used airline tickets, and the like. Nothing looked immediately important. As I was casually going through the papers I saw a business card with the logo of Al Taqwa. I looked at it indifferently but put it aside with trembling hands.

  “I don’t see anything particularly important here. Maybe just in case, I’ll copy some business cards to give the lawyer. Maybe these people did business with Reza and they owe him money.”

  “No need to copy,” she said. “You can just take them.” I put the cards in my pocket.

  “What are these letters?”

  “Oh, letters he had written asking me to do a few things for him. I don’t know why I put them in that envelope.” She excused herself and went to the other room. Erikka went to the bathroom. They returned a few minutes later.

  “What about Switzerland? You mentioned he was working there?” I asked Mrs. Nazeri.

  “Yes, for some bank or something, but he never actually lived in Switzerland. He just visited it for long periods.”

  “If the lawyer asks me about any property in Switzerland, what should I say?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the lawyer will find things in Reza’s apartment that will give him more information.”

  “OK, I think I could do that.” I paused. “I have an idea. I’ll simply call the lawyer and tell him to expect your letter. And I’ll ask him what he needs from you to start working.”

  “Good,” she said. “What’s his name?”

  “Dan Gordon,” I said, and regretted it immediately. I just couldn’t think fast enough of any other name. It was a bad answer, but I couldn’t take it back. I’d have to make arrangements.

  “I’ll have him write you. He’ll probably need a power of attorney to be appointed as administrator of the estate of Reza.”

  “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 be
fore 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.”