The Chameleon Conspiracy (19 page)

“Based on our problem in Iran regarding lack of human assets, the answer is probably no,” said Kyle. “So we can’t build a
legend that will require bidirectional verifiable contacts.”

“Or,” I said, “we build the relationship from scratch with a genuine Iranian company seeking to do business with Europe. But
that will take time, since a relationship with an Iranian company that has little past and no track record could be suspicious
if you scratch the surface.”

“How about another option we suggested?” said Nicole. “An in de pen dent German TV production company does a
Roots
-style program and sends a crew to Tehran, together with a European whose father, or rather grandfather, was born in
Tehran and later emigrated. Now the son or the grandson looks for the roots of his heritage.”

“I guess you suggested a German company on purpose,” said Benny.

“Right, because of all the European countries, the Germans have a history of good relationships with the Iranians.”

Kyle intervened. “OK, we can work later on these aspects. Let’s assume our men are in Tehran. Then what? How do they find
traces of Farhadi and his comrades twenty years after the fact?” He looked at Nicole.

Nicole said, “Ask Dan, I think he’s locked on one option.” “Dan?”

“We suspect that there could be additional graduates of the American School in Tehran who are members of Department 81. That’s
the single most identifying common denominator. So why go far? Other than the security services of Iran, nobody knows of that
connection. Also, they don’t know what we suspect. Twenty years went by, and we didn’t catch any of them. There are several
groups in the U.S., and maybe elsewhere, of former students of the school who like to communicate and reminisce. Why don’t
we build a legend around that?”

“You mean bring an American into Tehran to meet his classmates? It’d be tantamount to putting a small live animal in a snake
pit,” said Kyle.

“No, not an American necessarily. There were many students who came from other countries while their fathers worked in Iran—
Germans, Swiss, French, Italian. Look at the list of students we have. They came from plenty of nationalities. We can recruit
a German or a Japanese former student, send him or her to Iran to organize a reunion. Under that pretext, he or she could
compile a list of the current addresses of the graduates. And if we narrow the list to the particular age group of the Chameleon,
say those born from 1960 to 1962, for example, then we’re likely to get current addresses of some. If we are still left with
a group of unknowns, then we can compare that list to our existing list and come up with likely names of Department
81 members.” The more I talked about it, the more I became convinced it might actually work.

“OK,” said Bob. “Suppose you found 60 percent, or even 80 percent of the graduates. Then what?” As always, there was an edge
of skepticism in his voice, but I now understood that this only meant he wanted me to talk him into agreeing with what I was
saying.

“We get their pictures and vital statistics and ask the victims to identify them. Once we lock on an identified individual
as a possible member of Department 81, we look for him in the U.S. We also put him on Interpol’s alert list in case he ever
travels outside Iran. Next comes the list of people who, according to their friends or family, no longer live in Iran. That
list will be a hot list. If we get addresses from their families, we verify them. It’s absolutely possible that these people
emigrated to other countries and are law-abiding citizens. But at the end of the day, we’ll end up with a list of unknowns,
graduates of the school whose friends don’t know where they are. That small and exclusive list will be our target for intensified
and individualized search. At least we’ll have twenty people on that list, not thousands. The State Department already gave
us a short list of unknowns, but beyond that, we have no way of unveiling any other Atashbon members.”

“So what do you suggest we do next?” asked Bob. I realized he took the initiative to ask leading questions to emphasize the
initiative of his office in this matter—undoubtedly his first.

I took the bait. “As a first stage, I’d start the process while still in Europe and recruit a graduate of the school to be
our unwitting spearhead. Then after a preparatory period, we send him or her for a visit to Tehran to prepare a successful
reunion.”

“OK,” said Kyle. “We’ll be in touch.”

I returned to the U.S. two days later and went on vacation with my children for a week in the Ca rib be an islands. Especially
since we don’t get to spend as much time together as we’d
like to, we crammed a lot of activity into that one week: scuba diving, sailing, swimming, and some great food. During one
of several walks on the beach, my mind wandered back to my past. As I looked at my son Tom, nineteen years old, tall and strong,
walking beside me, in my mind’s eye I could see myself walking with my own father, long since deceased, on the warm beaches
of Tel Aviv. I was a small child of maybe four or five, doing my best to put my tiny feet into his big footprints in the sand,
because I looked up to that man as if he were a giant who could do no wrong. I wondered what my own kids thought of me. Were
they proud? Had I been a good father to them? Maybe every father has these thoughts now and then. As for me, I rarely have
enough time to dwell on such things as I spend my days chasing bad guys across the globe.

Back in my office with a suntan, I immersed myself in my routine work on other cases. The Chameleon had almost slipped out
of my mind.

A year went by, and I was sure the plan was shelved, maybe to allow the next generations of moths to consume what was left
of the twenty-plus-year-old case. I went to Panama on a routine assignment, and when I traveled to Washington, DC, to attend
an office meeting, Esther welcomed me with her warm smile.

“I hope you won’t mind traveling some more,” she said. “Why’s that?”

“I guess you’ll have to. This has just come in.” She handed me a memo.

Top Secret. Interim decision has been made. Please report within four days to Apartment 6B, Margaretenstrasse 153A, Vienna,
A-1050 Austria, for training. Be prepared to be away from the U.S. for at least thirty days. Casey Bauer.

Esther gave me a travel folder with a passport. “You’re leaving in three days.”

I opened the bio page. My new name was Anton Spitzer.

So, they hadn’t given the moths or the maggots a chance. But what exactly was “training”? And for what? Had someone forgotten
to copy me on the memo for some operation? I couldn’t ask Bob—he was out of the country. I called Casey’s secretary.

“I can’t discuss it,” she said cryptically. “Mr. Bauer has asked that you be there. Once you’re TDY’ed to us for an assignment,
I believe you’re expected to take instructions from Mr. Bauer.”

Formally she was right, but I wanted to be informal. What was going on? With imposed confidentiality, and with no one to call,
I answered, “Please ask Mr. Bauer to call me. I need to make arrangements for my children and my dog. I also have pending
matters in my office that need to be assigned to others while I’m gone.”

The next day I received Bob Holliday’s note, dictated over the phone to Esther. “Dan, please follow your instructions. It’ll
be clearer once you’re out there. Bob.”

I packed my bags and flew to London as originally scheduled. At the airport an Agency representative took my Anton Spitzer
passport and gave me an airline ticket to Vienna and a Canadian passport carrying the name Ian Pour Laval. I opened the passport
to look at Ian’s photo. I saw some similarities between us, but I definitely didn’t look exactly like him. I boarded an Austrian
Airlines flight to Vienna. Was the lack of communication with me a result of bureaucratic apathy? Or maybe the nature of the
assignment was so secretive that it couldn’t be discussed over the phone, even the secure phone? On second thought, I concluded
that both reasons were probably valid and could coexist. Nonetheless, from a simple human-relations point of view, this was
an excellent way to alienate someone.

Vienna, Austria, December 2005

I arrived late in Vienna. I was tired, hungry, and particularly curious as to what was coming up next. My travel folder included
a reservation confirmation slip at the Holiday Inn.

“
Guten Abend
, Herr Pour Laval,” said the receptionist at the desk. “We’ve been expecting you.” She quickly completed the formalities and
handed me a room key card and an envelope. “This is a message for you.”

I opened the envelope. The computer-printed message was short. “We’re expecting you tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

I looked up at the receptionist. “Could you help me get oriented here? What are we near?”

“We are close to the State Opera, St. Stephan’s Cathedral, and the famous buildings along the Ringstrasse. We are also not
far from the Messegelände, our fairgrounds,” she answered.

I went up to my room and was asleep within minutes.

The harshly ringing phone woke me up. I thought it was the middle of the night. “Ian?” asked the voice. I was about to yell,
You’ve got the wrong idiot you number,
and slam the phone with an added variety of juicy expletives in select languages, when I suddenly remembered that I was in
fact Ian Pour Laval.

“Yes,” I mumbled.

“Welcome to Vienna,” said the voice. “When you leave your room, don’t leave anything behind.”

“You mean I should pack up and leave with my luggage?” I wasn’t quite awake.

“No. Just apply the usual field security.”

For that he woke me up? I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was already seven thirty a.m.

I had a quick—meaning forty-minute—Austrian-style break fast, and went outside. A cabby approached me.

“Herr Pour Laval, I’ve got instructions to drive you.”

I bristled. “No thanks, I’ll walk.” Who the hell was he, and how did he know my name? “Please, Herr Pour Laval,” he insisted.
“Herr Casey Bauer told me to bring you over. Your meeting isn’t at Margaretenstrasse, but at another location.”

I hesitated only for a moment. It was cold outside; he knew my name, Casey’s name, and the original location of my meeting.

What the hell,
I said to myself.
I’ve got no opposition in this game.

On second thought, I added,
For now.

“Please give me the address,” I said. I returned to the hotel and left through the rear exit to another street. I hailed a
cab, which drove me through small streets of a residential area and stopped next to a three-story building. I went up to the
second floor.

I checked the building and its vicinity. Other than a crying baby, there was no sound. I walked up worn, circular stairs to
the second floor, rang the doorbell, and climbed ten stairs up, in case an unfriendly goon answered the door. Casey Bauer
opened the heavy oak door. “Hi, Dan,” he said in an apologetic tone. “We had a change of plans and I didn’t want to call you
or be seen with you. So I sent Johann to bring you over.”

“Well, I’m here.” I didn’t tell him any more details.

“Good. Please come in.”

I entered the apartment and followed him to a spacious living room. “You will soon meet Steve Corcoran, a graduate of the
American School in Tehran, class of 1978. Currently he’s employed by the State Department in Washington and has agreed to
help us.”

“To do what?” I asked.

“Spotting. During the past two months we’ve identified Steve as the most suitable person for the task.”

“I’m listening.” It had been a long time since I’d heard that term.
Spotter
was intelligence-community jargon for an individual who locates and assesses individuals suitable for potential recruitment.
I was appreciative. Getting the State Department to agree to participate in this operation would have taken an unprecedented
amount of cooperation. Or, more likely, intercession at the very top.

“We’ve been working on the plan and the graduate list you and Nicole obtained, and we came up with a potential candidate.
Erikka Buhler. Steve will introduce you and withdraw. Bear in mind that Steve knows nothing about this case and shouldn’t
be told anything unrelated to the tactics of meeting Erikka.”

“Who is she?”

“A Swiss woman, a graduate of the American School in Tehran, class of 1978. She lived in Tehran ages three through eighteen.
At the time her father was a representative of a Swiss bank in Tehran. Erikka currently lives in Vienna and has just been
through an ugly divorce that put her financially in the red. She’s out of a job. We selected Erikka because we preferred a
female. That gives us some assurance that we didn’t stumble on a member of the men-only Department 81. And we selected Steve
not only because he was her classmate, but because he was hired just weeks ago and has received security certification following
substantial security checks before he started working for the State Department. None of his friends know about his new job.”

Casey handed me three printed pages and as usual got straight to the point. “Read it—that’s your legend.”

I was a Canadian citizen and had lived most of my life in various locations, where my father, an agricultural expert, was
employed by the United Nations helping farmers in poor countries to improve their crops. During my childhood we had lived
in Uganda, Peru, Nepal, and Sri Lanka. Now I lived in Europe writing freelance articles for various magazines. My next big
project was a novel.

“Should she know that I currently live in no special place in Europe?” I asked.

“Yes, a little in London, Paris, Oslo—no place is permanent for you. Just like when you were a child. We don’t want your
legend to fail a background investigation. If you only lived in a city for a short period, people aren’t expected to remember
you and you aren’t expected to be familiar with small details every longtime resident would know.”

We spent two more hours covering all contingencies.

A doorbell rang, and a minute later a clean-shaven man just on the edge of fifty, but still young looking, joined us. He was
dressed in a button-down light blue shirt with a striped tie, khaki pants, and a blue blazer. Classic.

“Hi, Casey,” he said. Turning to me he added, “I’m Steve Corcoran.” We shook hands.

“Hi, Steve,” said Casey, and led us to a dining table across the room. “Let’s sit here. I’ve just discussed your agreement
to introduce Erikka to Ian Pour Laval.” He pointed at me. “Ian is a Canadian author who is writing a novel that takes place
in Iran. He’s interested in Iran, since his paternal grandfather—who was born in Iran—left Tehran when he was about twenty
years old. Therefore, Ian needs help from a person who knows Tehran very well, speaks Farsi and English fluently.” If he hadn’t
become a CIA case officer, Casey could have been an acting coach. He spouted off my cover story so convincingly that he almost
had me believing that I really was Ian Pour Laval.

“A personal assistant to help find relatives?” asked Steve.

“Yes, exactly,” said Casey. “As well as helping him with his book research.”

“And who am I?” asked Steve, understanding the nature of his role.

“You’re an executive of an international publishing house. You’re assigned to their branch in India, which covers all of Asia.
They signed Ian up for the publishing of his novel.”

“Got you,” said Steve. “That was in fact my job until a
month ago, so it’ll be easy.” Casey smiled knowingly and gave him additional details. It became clear to me that they built
Steve’s legend around his genuine résumé, leaving out only his new government job.

“How long has it been since you last saw Erikka?” I asked Steve.

“Fifteen years. I bumped into her on the street in Zürich once.”

“Your next meeting will also look like it happened by chance,” said Casey. “We know she frequents a certain café in central
Vienna. Steve will just happen to bump into her.” He handed us a printed sheet of paper with an attached photo. “Here are
Erikka’s details.”

I viewed the photo. Erikka looked her age. She had blonde hair and gray eyes, and seemed a bit overweight. The text described
her only briefly. “You’ll have to get more details from her. I don’t want you to know anything about her and slip in a conversation.”

If he’d meant to offend me, it didn’t show, and contrary to my infamous short fuse, I didn’t react. Thirty minutes later,
Casey said, “Let’s move on. Go to Café Central this afternoon at five p.m.” He handed me a note with an address scribbled.
“Sit at a table toward the back. Our observations have shown that Erikka comes to that café on Mondays and Thursdays at about
five fifteen p.m. after an hour of tutoring a twelve-year-old girl who lives in the neighborhood. Steve will enter the café
five or ten minutes after our scout signals that Erikka has arrived and sat down. Steve, you walk inside and stop next to
her table, as if trying to make sure you’re recognizing your classmate. If she doesn’t recognize you immediately, introduce
yourself. If she asks you to join her, say that you’ve actually come to the café to meet someone, but you’ll sit with her
for five minutes. If she doesn’t ask you to sit down, don’t insist. You can try again when you pass by her table, saying that
the person you expected to meet didn’t show up yet. She may ask you to join her then.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Don’t push her. Just wish her well and leave. We’ll find another spotter to introduce Ian. Once you sit at her table, if
you do, show genuine interest in her. Ask her what she has been doing through the years, ask about other classmates. If she
tells you about her personal problems, show sympathy. Ask her how you can help. Conduct yourself as you’d behave without our
intervention. Keep the conversation focused on her, but don’t question her in a manner that makes her feel she’s being interrogated.
Just be nice to her.

“As you can see from the fact sheet I gave you, you’re in Vienna to meet Ian for the first time and get a personal impression.
The book Ian is writing that your company will publish is a novel about a love story between an Iranian man and an Austrian
woman, against the backdrop of the cultural differences between people in Austria and post–Islamic Revolution Iran. When you
have spent ten minutes with her, excuse yourself and say you think you’ve noticed the person you’ve come to meet. Go to Ian’s
table. Hold a conversation with him, order tea or coffee and cakes.” He smiled. “They’re actually very good.”

“And then?” I asked.

“Then, Steve, you will go over to Erikka’s table and suggest that she join you and meet Ian.”

“If she refuses?” asked Steve.

“The only reason for her to refuse will be that she’s waiting to meet someone else. However, I can tell you that in all likelihood
she’ll not refuse. She’s very lonely and bitter. Most of her friends in Vienna sided with her husband during their divorce
battle. He’s a local guy, and she’s Swiss. He has the money and the influence. She had nothing to offer him. Trust me, she’ll
gladly join your table.”

“And then?” Steve asked.

“Leave the floor to Ian. Thirty minutes into the meeting with Erikka and Ian, I’ll call your mobile phone and ask you to leave
the café. Make up an excuse and ask for her phone number to call her later. If she hesitates, don’t push. Give up. We have
the number. Leave the café and return to your hotel. I’ll call you there later.”

Bauer got up. “OK, Steve, if you have no further questions, then we’re done.”

Steve left.

“Ian,” said Bauer. “After Steve leaves the café, you stay and talk about yourself. Don’t ask her any personal questions. Bear
in mind that the purpose of the meeting is to recruit her to work for you as an assistant on your book project. But don’t
suggest it immediately. Mention casually the book and your need to do a lot of research regarding Iran. Ask her about her
life experience in Iran. She lived there for fifteen years, which were her formative years. I’m sure she’d be happy to show
you how much she knows about Iran for no particular reason—just to make conversation.”

“I shouldn’t offer her the job even if she says she could help me?”

“Right. Even if she does suggest helping you, smile and say that it sounds like an interesting idea to consider, and thank
her for that. Don’t commit. Get her phone number and promise to call. Leave twenty minutes later. You cannot appear to be
too interested in her—just a bit, out of curiosity.”

“No personal interest?”

“You mean becoming a honey trap and charming her pants off? Maybe later; definitely not now. What ever the circumstances may
be, she cannot—and I repeat, cannot—be recruited to work for you during your first meeting. Any questions?”

I shook my head. I thought of her picture. She was definitely not my idea of someone to spend a steamy Sunday afternoon with.

“OK. Then I’ll see you this afternoon at the café.”

“See me?”

“Well, metaphorically. I’ll be listening in. Steve will carry a microphone.”

At the time set, I entered the café.

“Guten Tag,”
said the
Hauptkellner
, or headwaiter, who was wearing a tuxedo that badly needed dry cleaning.

“Table for one?”

“For two, please. I’m expecting someone”—so Steve would have a chair when he arrived. He nodded, took a menu, and I followed
him to the back of the café. A strong aroma of coffee, foamed milk, and cigarette smoke filled the air.

I sat at a small table covered with a white tablecloth underneath a thick glass top. I looked around. Most of the guests were
older men dressed in jackets and ties, or ladies of advanced age dressed to go out. I scoured the place but couldn’t identify
Erikka. I glanced at my watch; it was still five minutes short of her usual time. I went to the corner and took the day’s
newspaper, which was spread over a wooden frame—a European trick to prevent the guests from taking the newspaper when leaving.
The frame made reading a bit clumsy. It felt like holding a placard in a picket line. I punched a small hole in the newspaper
and pretended to be busy reading, but in fact I was peeping through the hole.