“I’d like that,” I said.
“Good, then we’ll have lunch and talk about it.” A Revolutionary Guard top executive moonlights as a literary critic? Hello? Add the sense that he was too eager, though in a polite and subtle way, and the conclusion could be ominous. Was I the mouse in Aesop’s fable about the lion and the mouse? I didn’t care to think what usually happens in these rendezvous. In the fable they live together in friendship and in harmony forever after, but in reality I knew who got devoured. Never the lion.
Hasan, all smiles, came to my hotel at noon. He drove me to Shandiz Jordan Persian Restaurant on Jordan Street. Where was his driver? I wondered. Hasan was warmly and enthusiastically welcomed by the owner, who practically bowed and danced around him. I felt embarrassed. We sat at a corner table without ordering anything, and a school of waiters started loading our table with delicious Iranian chello kebab and shishlik. Contrary to a rule of thumb I’d coined after eating in fancy restaurants in Europe and the U.S., where the bigger the plate was, the smaller the portion, here both the plates and the portions were huge.
“What I like about your book…,” said Hasan, as he dipped naneh sangak, the Irani an flat bread, in a plate containing a white sauce and placed a small piece of shishlik on the bread. I waited for him to continue, but his mouth was full. He swallowed and said, “As I was saying, I like the candor and the realism with which the novel describes present-day Iran. It doesn’t criticize our culture and the Islamic direction the Iranian people have decided to take, but rather tries to understand it and yet bridge the differences between the man’s and the woman’s respective cultures. I hope many people read your book and that more people will come here to see the real Iran, rather than listen to political propaganda.”
“Like what?”
“I hear false accusations distributed by the Zionists and America that Iran is sponsoring terrorist organizations. I can tell you that these rumors are baseless.”
Why was he kissing up, talking about “my” novel? Why was he mentioning terror when it wasn’t even in the book? This person didn’t strike me as a man who wasted words for no purpose. What was going on?
“I didn’t get the impression that Iran was encouraging tourism,” I said cautiously.
“Oh yes, we do, but many don’t seem to be convinced to come.”
“So what do you suggest doing?”
“If people don’t come here, maybe we should bring the message to them, to the place where they live, so that they’ll see we aren’t lepers.”
“Who do you think can do that?”
“We have cultural attachés at our embassies in Europe,” said Hasan. “But they aren’t trained in public appearance.”
Sure, I thought. These undercover agents are trained to recruit informers and shoot dissidents; therefore, they have no time to promote cultural events.
“Why don’t you go?” I suggested. That was a bold question, and the answer would define who the lion was and who was the mouse.
He paused. “I would think about it, if I received an invitation.”
“From whom?”
“From an academic institution, such as a university. It could assemble hundreds or even thousands of students to listen to an open debate about the true vision of Iran’s Islamic Revolution.”
“Any university? I can ask some leading Canadian universities if they’d be interested.”
“It’s important that the inviting entity will be respectable and fair enough to let me voice the truth. It doesn’t have to be a university; it could also be a cultural association or a research institute.” He paused for a moment to mea sure my reaction and continued. “It would serve Iran’s interests best if an invitation were arranged soon. Some matters need to be brought to the public’s attention before things happen for which Iran could be blamed—incorrectly, of course.”
If he was sending an unspoken message, I think I got it.
“How soon?”
“A month or so.”
“That certainly sounds like a bold and interesting idea. If you’d like, why don’t you send me your résumé and a synopsis of your lecture? Upon my return to Canada, I’ll be happy to make a few phone calls to cultural and academic institutions and see what they have to say.”
“When are you returning?” There was certain urgency to the question.
“I haven’t made plans yet. Maybe in two weeks—I have an open ticket.”
“Then perhaps you can communicate with the universities while you’re still here, and if they have questions, I could answer through you, while you’re still here.”
“We can do that,” I agreed.
“I like your writing,” he suddenly said, changing the subject. “I read your article in European Public Policy magazine about the liberation movements in Africa and your article on the Indian-Pakistani conflict in Political Science and Influence.”
It was obvious he had done his homework and had run a search on Ian Pour Laval before coming to meet me. If he wanted to discuss the articles, I was prepared. I had read them all. But why was he mentioning them, other than to hint that he’d checked my background? Though I had no clear answer, I did have ideas. Thus far it seemed that the legend the CIA had built for my new identity as Ian Pour Laval was holding water. We continued eating and talking, but it was clear, at least to me, that the essential messages had already been exchanged, and the rest of the time spent now was just a waste of it.
He drove me back to my hotel. I couldn’t stop wondering what it was all about. Was he performing a counterintelligence routine by checking me out to make sure I was a bona fide Canadian author, and not a spy? Was he trying to recruit me to work for him? Given his government position, was he sending me another message I was hesitant to accept as plausible?
Alex, my Mossad Academy instructor, had used a metaphor to illustrate recruitment of a source.
Think of cattle ushered to the slaughter. They’re made to approach the chute to the stunning pen area through a narrow gangway that has solid sides. Therefore each animal can only see the rear of the animal in front of it, and will not be distracted by what is happening outside the chute. The chute isn’t wide enough for animals to turn around. The animal cannot go back or stop, it must proceed to its ultimate end. Create a situation whereby your source will have no other option than to work for you.
I thought that Hasan followed that rule, although I wasn’t sure who was the target. Nonetheless I decided that I needed money, and in case my guess was valid and imminent, I hit the ATM for a quite particular amount. I made several other transactions, but some messages were not included in the short list of commands. I needed to find an alternate manner to convey a very important message that could be urgent, but I had no clue how. I knew it had to be sent immediately; time seemed to be of the essence. I considered several options and discarded them all. The subject was too sensitive to risk apprehension en route. I had to wait until I heard back from the Agency following the messages I’d just sent through the ATM.
After two more days and eight or ten more meetings with alumni, it became more and more boring. How many times did I have to listen to quarter century–old gossip? I decided to travel to Neyshābūr the following day. I was curious to see if the rumors I’d heard had any basis. I could score additional points at home if I were successful. I decided not to think what would happen if I failed. Things were going well, I thought, but I immediately remembered the lesson we’d learned at the Mossad: if things seem to be going well, make sure you haven’t overlooked a small detail that will fail you, because only rarely do things go well without a hitch.
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 Kāshān 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 early 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, whe
re 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.
The Chameleon Conspiracy Page 29
