The Chameleon Conspiracy

by Haggai Carmon

  “Sammy, are these guys behind us your men?”

  He glanced at his mirror. “Shit. No, they’re the VEVAK. I recognize their car.”

  It was a challenge to get through the thicket of jaywalkers, bike riders, and reckless car drivers, but Sammy found a way. Nonetheless, it was a grotesquely slow chase, at no more than ten or fifteen miles an hour. The VEVAK car was about six or seven car distances behind us. Through a quick and abrupt maneuver Sammy managed to pass a big truck, leaving our followers behind it, blocking their view. He continued passing cars on their right and left, stealing quick glances at the rearview mirror.

  “I think we lost them,” he said. About two miles later he suddenly turned right into a large unpaved parking lot. “Come on, quick,” he said. “We’ll leave the car here.”

  “Are we walking?” I asked, swinging the door closed.

  “Not to worry, we won’t be overexerting ourselves,” he said wryly, pointing to a beat-up blue sedan, Japanese made, parked at the corner of the lot. “Jump in, and keep down.” I complied, watching Sammy with head down and eyes raised as he put a hat on and tore off a fake mustache. He started the engine and drove away through the other end of the parking lot, spraying gravel and leaving a cloud of dust behind us.

  Keeping my head down, I heard Sammy dial a number and begin speaking in what sounded like Kurdish.

  He snapped the phone shut. “They’re on to you,” he said swiftly. “The VEVAK is looking for you all over, including at the airport and train stations. We’ll have to change plans. You can’t leave through the airport, and we can’t smuggle you through the mountains to Turkey—the roads leading to the border are still blocked by snow. We’ll go to Plan B.”

  I was lying on the back seat, alternately cursing the secret police, the Tehran city engineers who didn’t bother to maintain the roads, and the lousy car manufacturer who hadn’t managed to engineer a car that didn’t lurch over every pebble. I said nothing. What was there to say?

  Thirty minutes of driving felt like eternity. Finally, the car stopped. Sammy got out and I heard a metal gate screeching. Sammy opened my door.

  “You can come out now. You’ll be safe here.”

  I looked around. We were in an enclosed yard, blocked from the street by a plate-metal gate, surrounded by a high stone wall.

  “What is this place?”

  “Your hideout until their search cools down or the weather warms up, whichever comes first,” said Sammy with a grim smile. I followed him into the dilapidated building. He produced a key to the wooden door from his pocket, and hinges squeaked as we entered into what looked like a deserted factory, perhaps for textiles. Rusty machines stood idle, like statues sculpted by an avant-garde artist. Remnants of textile bales were piled on the floor. Sammy went behind a huge machine and opened an inconspicuous trapdoor just underneath it.

  “Come,” he said when he saw my hesitation.

  I slowly went down wooden stairs. He closed the trapdoor above us and turned on the light inside by pulling a cord. I found myself in a spacious, windowless basement, with simple carpets on the concrete floor, a bed with once-clean linen, and a small kitchen with a table and an ancient refrigerator. I also saw a small radio and an old television set, probably black-and-white.

  “What is this place?” I asked again. I was wary.

  “Your hiding place,” said Sammy. “We use it occasionally to hide people sought by the security services. As you know, Kurds aren’t exactly beloved around these parts.” He walked into the kitchen area. “There’s enough food here.” He opened a wall closet that was full of canned food supplies. “You have these”—he pointed at an electric stove and a refrigerator—“and running water.” He opened the kitchen faucet, letting water out, adding, “And a toilet, but no shower and no hot water. Sorry.”

  “Looks good. But it’s cold in here,” I said.

  “Use this.” He pointed at an oil radiator on wheels. “I’ll come to see how you’re doing every three days.”

  “How do I communicate with you?” I asked.

  “Use the cell phone you rented at the hotel, but only if your life is in danger. The police can trace you though the phone’s signals. Take the battery out. The phone transmits signals even when you aren’t calling anyone.”

  “I did that when we were leaving the hotel,” I said. “One question. How do you get away with using electricity and water? If VEVAK is worth its salt, it knows how to monitor deserted places by checking power use.”

  “We hooked the power and the water to the next building, where one of our men lives. There’s no movement on the factory’s electric and water meters. He’ll also keep an eye on this building from his apartment, which overlooks the yard. There’s a side door between his building and the factory, so the metal gate we just used to enter from the street is rarely opened. Even if this location is observed from the outside, no movement will be detected.”

  He handed me a torn white cloth. “If you’re in distress, display this above the machine on the factory level. Our guy can see it through his window.” He paused. “Keep the gun. You may need it here.” He reached into his shoulder bag and produced a small box with twenty-four rounds.

  After giving me additional technical instructions concerning the toilet, waste disposal, and maintenance, Sammy said his good-byes. “I’ll see you in three days. I’ll enter the yard through the side door. If you hear the metal gate open, that means trouble.”

  I sat on the bed. It was only with Sammy gone that I realized how quiet this place was.

  I sighed. I had always managed to extricate myself from trouble, and I had an abiding faith that I’d continue to do just that. There was no reason to be sure now, but what the hell. A fall into a ditch makes you wiser. I turned on the TV on low volume— nothing but programs in Farsi. I tried the radio; no luck.

  Well, might as well go to sleep.

  I curled up on the bed, wondering for a moment what they had done with Erikka, what they had told her.

  A few hours later, I stretched awake, hungry. I opened cans of tuna and sardines, and ate them with a few stale crackers. I was bored. I tried the radio again. Nothing. I listened to random noises coming from the outside world. Cars passing and honking, or airplanes approaching. I wished I had something to read.

  My thoughts turned toward my kids. Were they worried about me? Probably not. At least not yet. They were used to me being out of the country for long stretches on assignments. Actually, I was thankful they had no idea what a bind I’d gotten myself into. It would have worried them, of course, and that would have meant that I was making my problem their problem. That was the last thing I would have wanted. I prided myself in always being able to separate my work life and my family life.

  Three days later Sammy came and brought me three cucumbers, two tomatoes, five oranges, and more canned food. To my delight he also brought English-language newspapers.

  “What’s up?” I asked. I was glad to see him.

  “Things aren’t great,” he said. “The VEVAK is searching for you everywhere. They say that you’re an American spy. They posted your picture in public places—train and bus terminals, and even at the bazaar.”

  My heart sank. My picture? When had it been taken? When I’d met with Lotfi last week, in Vienna, or even in Pakistan? The answer to that could help me build a new legend if I were caught. But who did I ask?

  “God. Well, it looks like I’ll be stuck here for a while.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Sammy.

  I thought for a moment. “Can you get me one of the wanted posters?

  “I’ll try.”

  “Does anyone know I’m safe here?” I asked. I didn’t know how much Sammy knew about my identity.

  “We reported that you’re OK. Everyone at home knows we’ll take good care of you. Do you need anything else?”

  “Just reading material in English and fresh food. Everything else I already have. Thanks for everything.”

  “It’s noth
ing,” said Sammy. As he was about to climb the stairs, he turned around and asked, “Did you really want to go to Mashhad in search of your roots?”

  I sensed that the question was loaded. I knew even less about Sammy than he knew about me, so I had to tread carefully.

  “Yes,” I said nonchalantly. “I was also planning to stop in Neyshābūr, you know, to see the birthplace of Hakim Omar Khayyám. I think I have a relative there.”

  “What an interesting coincidence,” he said, with an edge I didn’t expect. “Neyshābūr is also the ultrasecret future birthplace of the Iranian nuclear bomb.”

  “Really?” I said, striving to keep my voice level. I didn’t know where the conversation was going.

  “Yes,” he continued. “They are secretly building a low-level enrichment plant with a capacity to supply enough uranium to build three to five nuclear bombs a year.”

  “I read someplace that their plant is in Nat¸anz.”

  “Nat¸anz is for the UN inspectors to visit. Neyshābūr is the real plant. It is built five hundred feet deep into the ground. It’s called Shahid Moradian, after some guy who died in the war.”

  “Interesting,” I said, trying to sound uninterested.

  “The Neyshābūr plant was built by Russians. Very recently, Bulgarian transport planes brought tens of thousands of centrifuges from Belarus and Ukraine. Soon Ukrainian engineers will install them. Some of their families are already there.”

  “Wow. I know so little about that stuff, since I write fiction,” I said blandly. “I’m useless on science.”

  He gave me that look again. “So the only reason VEVAK is looking for you is because you met some people in connection with a book you are writing?”

  I shrugged. “I guess so. But who knows what goes through their heads?”

  “Maybe VEVAK suspects you had plans to go to Neyshābūr for more than just tourism or family business.”

  “They would be wrong. I was going to visit Khayyám’s tomb. Look at some art.”

  “You couldn’t get near the plant even if you wanted to,” said Sammy matter-of-factly. “Neyshābūr plant is protected by the special Revolutionary Guards Corps elite Ansar al-Mahdi unit.”

  “I had no intention whatsoever to go near any strategic installation I didn’t even know existed until you told me,” I said firmly. What I didn’t say though, was that I had wanted to become friendly with the Ukrainian families. Spouses always talk, regardless of their gender. Promising contacts could be developed by people with money and an agenda with people who come from a poor country like Ukraine and who have no particular allegiance to Iran.

  Sammy sighed, realizing that there was no confession forthcoming. “Be well,” he said curtly.

  Obviously he didn’t believe a word I said. On the other hand, I believed every word he said. The news about the Iranian Plan B, created in case the known locations were bombed, had been slowly trickling out. Now, Sammy’s words supported it. I had no way of knowing the weight of Sammy’s account, nor could I relay the intel home. Maybe Sammy had already done that. Or had he? Had the solitude of the stinking basement made me paranoid? Or maybe my healthy instincts had finally kicked in. Was I really hiding from VEVAK? Did I have proof, other than Sammy’s words? How could I be sure and believe him? Something about our recent conversation had jarred me. It had sounded like an interrogation.

  Was my escape and hiding a contingency well planned by the CIA in case of an emergency, or rather a well-orchestrated ploy by the Iranian secret services to extricate information from me, using a Kurdish contact to pose as my guardian angel? Perhaps the real Sammy was caught and he’d talked, and the person I was seeing now was an agent of the Iranian services. I quickly made a mental roster of my conversations with Sammy. Had I told him anything revealing? Had I disclosed my true identity? I was sure I hadn’t. I decided not to use Sammy’s messenger services to relay the messages that were burning in my head. The risk was too high.

  I was torn from the inside. The hint Hasan Lotfi had given me left me with no doubt. There was a major terrorist attack on the United States that Hasan, as chief of intelligence of the Revolutionary Guards, was planning, or at least knew about, and now he was using this information as a bargaining chip. Could I trust Sammy to convey the message? What if he was an Iranian agent, and the messages were to be stopped, or worse, altered? What if my assessment of Hasan was accurate, and now his arrest would frustrate a major intelligence achievement, too big to even think of? I had to find a way to send the message. I even toyed with the idea of letting the Iranians intercept my message. Fearing detection of their plan, or even being ambushed perpetrating it, they might abort the mission. The doubts were tearing me from the inside. I was also worried about Erikka and hoped she made a safe departure.

  Days went by, and I got used to my daily routine. Wake up at dawn, eat a small breakfast, boil hot water and wash up with makeshift towels I was collecting from the factory’s floor, and throughout the day read books Sammy brought me. I tried to exercise—pushups and crunches. At night I ventured outside to the yard to breathe fresh air. I grew a beard out of boredom. I hooked up a loose wire I found on the factory floor to the radio to enhance reception. That helped me tune in to an English-language radio broadcast from the Gulf States. But the news edition was short and general, except for Gulf-area local news. Still, if a major terrorist attack had hit the U.S., they surely would have reported it in their newscasts. So I knew for now that nothing major had unfolded yet.

  But that didn’t help ease my anxiety about the situation. In fact, it heightened it. It made me feel useless sitting there twiddling my thumbs in my little hole-in-the-ground hideout while the bad guys were probably putting their plot into action. I needed to get the hell out of there, but I was effectively trapped for now.

  It was also vital to hear the Tehran local news, and that I got only twice a week from Sammy, who brought me copies of the Tehran Times in English. I combed each copy to see if there was a mention of the manhunt for me. But I found nothing. I marked the passing days on the wall with a pencil. Forty-eight days had passed. Sammy never gave me more details on the manhunt and never got me copies of the wanted posters. That didn’t help increase my level of trust in him. I said nothing, though; I was completely at his mercy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I stirred awake. I glanced at my watch, but it was too dark to see the time. I turned on the light. It was three thirty a.m. “Shit,” I muttered, and turned off the light. Then I heard the same slow screeching metal noise with another muffled sound that woke me up.

  The gate? I raised my head from my stinking, lumpy pillow. The noise was too distinct to ignore. I quietly left my bed, climbed the steps to the factory floor, and peeked through the window. It was a crisp-cold and bright night. Other than the occasional noise of a passing car, I heard nothing. The area of the factory yard leading to the metal exit gate was empty. The gate was closed. Solitude was driving me crazy, I told myself. I was imagining things. I crawled back into my bed, which was still warm. I fell asleep.

  But it didn’t last long. I woke up again, unable to ignore a different sound coming from the outside. I decided not to venture to the factory floor again. I might have been going crazy in isolation, but the sounds I was hearing were definitely not a figment of my imagination. They were muffled, but very real. Maybe it wasn’t the gate. I couldn’t tell whether the sounds were coming from the yard, the factory main floor, or the neighboring houses. As always, I had to hope for the best, but prepare for the worse. I held on to my gun. Other than keeping quiet, like a mouse in danger, there was nothing I could do. I heard steps right above me. They were too obvious to ignore. I wasn’t imagining things. Somebody was walking on the factory floor.

  I clenched the gun, tiptoed to the kitchen to grab the sharpest knife I had, and hid behind the stairs. I tried to identify the steps. Was it one person, or more? I held my breath. I heard “my” name called.

  “Mr. Ian, where are you?”r />
  I didn’t answer. It was definitely not Sammy. I never had middle-of-the-night visits from Sammy. Was there an emergency that brought about the sudden visit? This person knew I was somewhere around here and knew my name. Should I venture out? I just sat there with the wheels of my mind racing trying to figure out what to do next. I decided to wait. Eagles may soar, but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines.

  Padas¸’s men knew exactly where I was hiding. There was no need to call out my name. One of them could go directly to the trapdoor and walk down the wooden stairs. I felt the adrenaline rush. This visit was not friendly. The trapdoor was the only way out of my underground shit hole, and venturing out could be devastating. I unplugged the electric power cable feeding the basement and just sat there looking up at the ceiling as if my eyes could see anything other than complete darkness. I measured the location and sound of the steps. They were probably made by one person. I didn’t hear talk. Ten minutes later the noises stopped, and a minute later I heard the gate screeching. This person left, or maybe wanted me to think he left. I stayed put, and fell asleep sitting on the floor with my head leaning against the wall.

  This time I woke up from the cold. The heat wasn’t working—my fault, having unplugged the power—and the temperature was near freezing. I hooked up the power again and the basement slowly warmed up. I still didn’t feel like venturing out to peep from the factory floor’s window. I vowed to stay in the basement the entire next day. Only during the following night did I quietly climb out to the factory floor. I needed fresh air, even if that air was the stale smell of an abandoned factory. To me it smelled like a field of roses. Under the entry door I saw a handwritten note.