The Chameleon Conspiracy (20 page)

Ten minutes later Erikka entered the café and sat four tables away from me. She seemed to be a regular, because the waiter
greeted her and they seemed to have a friendly conversation for a minute or two. Erikka was dressed in a brown skirt and a
light-brown tweed jacket. Her wide, pale face looked like her picture, but her hair had been dyed since the photo was taken.
She was medium height and about fifteen pounds overweight—nothing, compared to me. For me, fifteen pounds too heavy would
be downright anorexic.

A few minutes later Steve walked in. He stopped next to her table, and from what I could gather they had a jovial conversation.
I glanced over the framed newspaper and saw Steve sitting at her table.

OK, step one has been accomplished.

I put down the framed newspaper to allow Steve to locate me. As planned, a few minutes later Steve came over to my table.
I got up and shook his hand in a formal manner, as if we were meeting for the first time. Steve sat down. We ordered coffee
for him and tea for me. I didn’t hesitate long before
acquiescing to the waiter’s suggestion to order
Apfelstrudel
, paper-thin dough filled with cooked apples. The portion was too big, and covered with rich, icy whipped cream.

“How was it?” I asked in a low voice.

“Not a problem,” said Steve. “She was friendlier than I expected. I told her about our meeting and promised to talk to her
again when I’m done talking business with you.”

We just sat there talking about nothing for half an hour. Steve got up and said, “I’m going to the bathroom, and on my way
back to our table, I’ll stop at her table and suggest that she join us.”

Moments later Steve returned to our table with Erikka. I got up. “Ian, I want to introduce my classmate. Erikka, this is Ian
Pour Laval, a Canadian author whose novel my company is about to publish.”

I shook her hand. It was small and tender. She smiled shyly. “Erikka and I were students at the American School in Tehran
until the Islamic Revolution,” he said.

“Really.” I sounded interested. “I didn’t know you had an Iranian past. Please, please sit down.” Steve grabbed another chair
and they sat at my table.

“Yes, I studied there for five years, but Erikka was a lifer—K through twelfth grade, wasn’t it?”

She nodded. “Yes. All my childhood and adolescence was spent there.”

“Have you seen each other since you left Tehran?”

Erikka tried to remember. “Yes, I think we met once in Zürich, right, Steve?”

“Yes,” he said. “What a small world.”

“Does the fact that you spent time in Iran have anything to do with your management’s decision to send you to meet me?” I
asked, as if I had just discovered America.

“A lot to do with it,” answered Steve. And turning to Erikka he said, “Ian is writing a novel on an impossible love relationship
between a Muslim Iranian man and a Catholic Austrian woman.”

“Really,” said Erikka with a spark of interest in her eyes. “Where does it take place?”

“Mostly in Tehran in the early 1980s.”

“At the height of Khomeini’s period,” said Erikka. “That type of romance during that time was really problematic. Are you
here also for the book?”

“Yes,” I confirmed. “To do some research about Vienna and meet with Steve.”

“Are you familiar with Iran? Have you ever been there?” “No,” I conceded. “But I’ve got Iranian roots.”

“Now, this is a surprise,” said Steve. “How?”

“My paternal grandfather was born in Iran, but left the country when he was nineteen or twenty years old and never returned.”

“So, I’m sure you must have relatives in Iran. Do you know of them?”

“I think I’ve got a few second or third cousins, but I’ve got no idea what their names are or where they live.”

Steve’s mobile phone rang. Steve listened and said, “I’ll be right over.”

“I apologize,” he said. “I must leave, but you should stay. Erikka, where can I get hold of you? I’d love to see you again
sometime.”

“How long will you be in Vienna?”

“Just one more day, but I intend to be back with my wife next spring.”

Erikka wrote her number and gave it to Steve. “While I’m at it,” she told me, writing again, “here is my number. I’ll be happy
to answer any of your questions regarding Iran.”

“Thanks,” I said and put the note in my pocket. “I may call you on your kind offer.”

“Please do,” she said in a friendly manner. “And I could help you regarding Vienna as well. I’ve been living here for the
past nine years.” There was a slight tone of despair in her voice, a yearning for human contact, or I was imagining things.

“Great, I’ll certainly call you.” We continued chatting for ten or fifteen more minutes. I paid for the drinks and cakes.
“I need to leave. Thank you very much for your offer,” I said, and left. She stayed behind.

Later on that night I was driven to meet Casey.

“It went smoothly,” I said. “She sounded eager to talk to anyone about anything. I don’t think we’ll face major difficulties
in recruiting her.”

Two days later I called her.

“Hi, this is Ian Pour Laval. Steve Corcoran introduced us the other evening at the café.”

“Of course I remember our meeting. How are you?” “I’m fine, thanks; gaining weight on the Austrian food.” “Unfortunately I’ve
experienced it too,” she said in acceptance.

“Well, it looks nice on you and bad on me. Anyway, I’ve got a quick question for you concerning Iran. I hope you don’t mind
the short intrusion.”

“Not at all, I’m actually happy you called. I like talking about Iran.”

“I’m lucky I met you,” I said. “My question concerns family customs in Iran, and how a traditional family would treat a Muslim
member of the family who dates a Catholic woman.”

“Just dating? No marriage plans are announced?”

“Well, at the beginning it was just a date—I need to fine-tune the dynamics of the reaction of people in the respective cultures
when they see what develops between the two. Does the couple hear objections, or do people just talk behind their backs? Once
I get a better feeling for that potential conflict, I’ll move on to the issue of marriage, and how society and their respective
families treat them.”

“Generally speaking, Iranian society, like that of any other ethnic group, cannot be regarded as homogeneous,” said Erikka.
“For example, Iranian farmers in the south have different family values and religious beliefs from city people. So
you’ll have to tell me more about the familial background before I can attempt to answer your question.”

“The man is a Shiite Muslim, born and educated in Iran. He works as a pharmacist in a pharmaceutical firm in Tehran. The woman
is a Catholic Austrian who came to Tehran to teach German in a local school. Her parents are farmers in southern Austria.
By Iranian standards, due to his education and exposure to Western values, the man is considered modern. His family follows
the traditional Islamic customs of marrying within the religion and according men superiority in the family. He’s torn between
his love for her and his loyalty to his family and his up-bringing and culture.

“These are the general pa ram e ters. But obviously there are nuances when they’re faced with changing circumstances in Iran,
and when her ideas on equal rights for women in the society clash with what she sees in his family and in Iran in general.
Although I’m writing fiction, I want the book to be as accurate as possible as it concerns facts on Iran and its people’s
daily life.”

“I think I can help you if you describe a particular event, and tell me from what perspective you want my answer—from the
European woman’s or the Iranian man’s. I could do both.”

“Well, it seems that you’re more qualified to help me than I thought. Can we have dinner, at a place of your choosing, and
we can chat?”

“Of course. When do you have in mind?”

I had the impression that she was available at any time I’d suggest. All I needed to do was set it up.

“How about tomorrow night?” I wanted to suggest to-night, but I didn’t want to look too eager, or embarrass her by suggesting
that I knew that she had no other things to do.

“Fine, I’ll meet you at Figlmüller’s at seven thirty. Is that a good time?”

“Yes, but where is it?”

“Just opposite St. Stephan’s Cathedral. Any cabdriver will know the place. They serve genuine Viennese food, and there are
even some Swiss dishes.”

When I arrived at the restaurant at exactly seven thirty, Erikka was already waiting for me at the bar. The place had a beautiful
decor of vaulted arches and wood-paneled walls. Erikka was dressed in a low-cut black dress and had put makeup on her rosy
cheeks. She looked radiant, ready for a date, not the professional meeting I had in mind.

“Thanks for agreeing to help me,” I said as I sat down. The smell of food made me almost drool.

“I’m happy to be needed.” She smiled. “Look at the blackboard,” she said. “This restaurant is famous for its old-style gigantic
Wiener schnitzels.”

My drooling stage went from potential to reality. These area rug–sized schnitzels are my favorite. Erikka ordered salad and
local wine, and I ordered the biggest veal schnitzel they had.

“How long will you be in Vienna?”

“I’ve got no timetable. I want to spend enough time to feel the city and talk to people. Although the plot takes place in
Tehran, I want to understand the culture that the woman in my novel brings with her.”

“Does she already have a name?”

“Abelina. But that may change; I have only early drafts.” “I gave some thought to our conversation, particularly if the situation
were reversed and the events took place in Vienna,” she said. “Then one would expect that Austrians would be more tolerant
of a Muslim trying to marry a local woman than Iranians in Iran would be when faced with your story line.”

“Why?”

“Because Islam is the second-largest religion in Austria. Muslims amount to more than 5 percent of the Austrian population,
500,000 out of 8.1 million. I think Austrians would basically react in the exact same manner as the Iranians would react,
though expressed differently, given the disparities in the respective cultures.”

“You mean rejection and opposition, unless there’s a complete assimilation into their culture?”

“Exactly.”

We discussed in detail Austrian history and its relationship with Muslims until I felt we’d exhausted the subject. “I’m sorry,”
I said in an apologetic tone. “I meant to ask you questions about Iran, and yet I realize that you’re so knowledgeable in
Austrian matters as well. Can we talk about Iran? Do you speak Farsi?”

“Of course,” she said proudly with a happy smile. “I grew up there. My father was the vice president of a Swiss bank’s branch
in Tehran. I came to Iran at the age of three and left when I became eighteen. At home we spoke Swiss German, of course. At
the American school we spoke English, but anywhere else I spoke Farsi. Nobody can tell I’m not Iranian.”

I grinned hearing that from a blonde-haired, gray-eyed, and pale-skinned woman with typical European features.

She caught up with me and smiled. “I mean by listening to me speak Farsi. There’s nothing I can do about my Teutonic ancestors.”

“Are your parents still living?” I asked.

“No, my father died two years after we left Tehran, and my mother died five years later.”

I left it at that—no more personal questions, since I had to build some expectations in her for continued contact. If Erikka
had other thoughts, she didn’t mention them. Un-prompted, she spoke about her childhood in northern Tehran and her friends.
An hour later I felt it was time to stop, or I’d have to pose the question. But it was premature.

I looked at my watch. “It’s getting late. I still need to make some calls.”

“At this late hour? People here go to sleep pretty early,” she said, signaling she wanted to keep talking.

“It’s still early afternoon in the U.S.,” I said briskly.

Back at the hotel, I wrote in my report, “Subject is already ripe for the move. I think I should suggest employment during
our next contact. Since hiring her isn’t expected to raise any suspicion or doubts, I see no forthcoming obstacles.”

It was all déjà vu. In my Mossad years, my unit was sent to Austria to recruit a potential source spotted by a Mossad veteran
skiing in Austria. Heinrich was a ski instructor on the slopes near Kitzbühel, popular among rich vacationing Arabs. We were
supposedly Dutchmen and South Africans working for a large South African manufacturer of military equipment. Heinrich’s students—
Arab government officials, Arab military men, and Arab private-sector businessmen—were the ultimate targets.

We’d thought it would be a walk in the park, convincing a ski instructor who could work only a few months a year to introduce
manufacturers of military equipment to his clients, thus earning a commission. The legend had been designed to give credence
to our presentation. Since apartheid had led to an embargo on goods from South Africa during the late sixties and early seventies,
personal contacts were key. Once introduced by Heinrich, we would “convince” the Arab officials to attend our sales presentation
with a wad of cash just to listen. If these government officials agreed to take our cash, they would demonstrate their corruptibility.
It would only take a few smaller, carefully planned steps for them to become ours for all intents and purposes.

After a few lessons with Heinrich, we asked him to join us for drinks, and a few rounds of beer later, Alon, my supervisor,
made the first move and asked Heinrich about his other ski students. Heinrich was unexpectedly guarded; he didn’t drop famous
names, and, in fact, there were no names of Arab countries in the list of countries he mentioned whose citizens had hired
him. On the other hand, it seemed that Heinrich was more interested in our background and in our business activities.

“There’s something odd about this guy,” said Alon later. And indeed, the following morning Alon told us to pack. “We are leaving,”
he said. “Heinrich is already contracted.”