The Chameleon Conspiracy (21 page)

The office had just received a warning that Heinrich was on an alert list of BND, the German Federal Intelligence Ser vice
(Bundesnachrichtendienst)
, as working for a communist Eastern
Bloc country’s intelligence service. He had perhaps been trying to recruit us.

That experience taught me an important lesson. In the intelligence world, there are no sure things. What seems like a slam
dunk could turn up empty.

The next morning I called Erikka. If she was glad to hear my voice, she didn’t sound like it.

“Are you OK?” I couldn’t help but asking.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m going through a difficult time.”

“Anything I can do to help?” She hesitated. “You can tell me,” I said. “Maybe I can help.”

“Well…” She paused again.

“Yes?”

“I need a job,” she said abruptly, hesitation gone.

“Oh.” I gave it time to sound surprised. “Well, that’s funny. I was calling you about just that. I’ve been thinking about
our conversation. I was really impressed with your knowledge of Austria and Iran, and I think I could use your talents.”

“You mean hire me?”

“That’s right. I consulted with Steve about it. I can offer you a2,500 a month, guaranteed for a period of six months.” She
was silent. “Are you still there?” I asked.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “It’s really a generous offer.”

“Yeah, well, Steve also liked the idea, so the company’s picking up the tab.”

“What would I be doing?”

“You’d be assisting me, mostly in research. And traveling—I hope that’d be OK. Obviously, all travel expenses are covered.”

“Travel where? To Iran?” Excitement suddenly entered her voice.

“Probably. Is that OK?”

“It’s wonderful. I’d love to go back.”

“Well, it’s definitely an option. You know I want to find my Iranian roots—maybe write another book. Is there anything here
that’d prevent you from traveling?”

“Only my cat. I have a grown daughter who lives in Zürich, and I can easily get another tutor to teach my only student.”

“Good. So we’re on. I need to leave Vienna for a few days, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s a done deal. I’ll put a letter
to you in the mail with an advance for the first month. Is that OK?”

“Super.”

The following morning, after a too-rich Austrian breakfast, the driver took me to a meeting at a modest-looking house in a
residential area. The driver nodded towards the house and indicated he would wait.

I went through the gate and knocked on the heavy, dark, wooden door. A young man opened the door, and without saying anything,
signaled me to follow him to a sitting room. I sat on the couch and waited. The wooden floor was clean, but worn out. There
was hardly any furniture in the room and no personal items. Moments later Casey Bauer and Benny Friedman arrived.

They sat on the black leather couch opposite me, and Casey got right to it.

“I hear you’ve already successfully accomplished getting Erikka on board.”

How did he know that? I hadn’t reported it yet. Was her phone tapped, or maybe mine? Why was he revealing the fact that he
knew?

“Yes. It wasn’t difficult. She was very eager, as you said. We need to mail her a check.” I gave Casey the details.

“Dan,” said Casey in a serious tone. “We’ve got a tentative go-ahead for the plan that was discussed.”

“Mossad is cooperating with the U.S. on that,” added Benny.

“Dan,” said Casey. “You will fly with Erikka from Vienna to Tehran.”

I nodded. “When?”

“A date hasn’t been set yet, because we need to train you in Iranian customs, get a designated contact to be ready for you,
and make sure Erikka is ready to travel when the final approval is issued.”

Casey opened a briefcase and pulled out a thick folder. “During your next meeting with Erikka, tell her that you have a pleasant
surprise for her. While you were away from Vienna, you met Swiss bankers on a social occasion and told them about your forthcoming
trip to Iran. When the language-barrier issue came up, you mentioned that you’d be accompanied by a European woman who graduated
from the American School in Tehran and is fluent in Farsi. One of the bankers called you a few days later with an offer. He
wanted to use your assistant’s contact with the former graduates of the school as an opportunity to introduce his bank’s services
to Iranian businesses. He told you that he believed that graduates of that school will now be employed in high-ranking positions
in the Iranian economy, and that he would finance efforts to locate alumni of the school who live in Tehran, and perhaps arrange
a reunion to showcase the bank’s services. Tell her that the bank’s representative wants to interview her, and if she meets
the bank’s needs, they will pay her a1,500 a month, guaranteed for seven months, to locate the alumni and coordinate the reunion.”

“Isn’t a1,500 a month too little?”

“No. If she’s paid too much, she might lose interest in your book project.”

“Gotcha. By the way, she’s gonna want to know the bank’s name. She is, after all, Swiss.”

“Tempelhof Bank.”

I couldn’t help but grin. Benny’s bank. Benny kept a straight face, but the spark in his eyes said it all.

Casey turned to me. “We will provide you with a short family tree of your paternal grandfather’s side to memorize and use
in searching for your relatives.” I would get a mission kit for review, he said, and would go to Iran as Ian Pour Laval.

I was told my new family history. My paternal grandfather was Ali Akbar Pour. He was born in Tehran and immigrated to Canada
in the 1920s, where he owned a small candy and
cigarettes store. He married a local woman, and they had one son, my purported father, Pierre Pour. Upon his marriage and
my birth, my mother’s maiden name was added to my father’s family name, as is customary in many societies. I was the only
living family member, making my legend airtight.

A local contact, Kurdish intelligence officer Padas¸ Acun, would be my weapon of last resort in case of emergency. Probably
another Mossad contribution.

“Padas¸’s men will look after you as guardian angels, but from a distance,” said Casey. “They don’t know who you are, and
shouldn’t know, as well. The legend is that they’re indirectly hired by an insurance company to protect you from kidnapping
for ransom because you married a wealthy heiress. Your wife’s family took out an insurance policy, and the insurance company
hired a security consulting company to protect you, and they outsourced the job to Padas¸. He thinks that he knows the ‘real
story,’ that your wife’s relatives are also important contributors to the ruling party in Canada, and therefore any harm threatened
will immediately get the Canadian government to intervene. But that legend is really thin, so he may guess who you’re working
for. If he asks, deny. Although he’s likely to suspect that you’re more than just a writer and even guess that you’re an intelligence
officer, he has no idea about your allegiance or purpose of mission. By being at a distance his men will also be able to monitor
and report if you have attracted the attention of any branch of VEVAK.” The Iranian security service.

“So I’m married?” I tried to remember if I’d said anything to Erikka about my personal life.

“Only legally. You are separated, but until a divorce decree is entered, your wife’s lawyers didn’t want to take any chance,
especially because you have children, so they had an insurance policy issued.”

“If my Kurdish guardian angels establish the potential rivals to be Iranian security, what then?”

“They’ll report any attention you might attract. They were told that kidnappers may use contacts within the Iranian
security establishment to inform them of your movements. Therefore, they should regard any interest you’re attracting as hostile,
even if it comes from Iranian VEVAK.”

I nodded. “How do I make contact with Padas¸?”

“You don’t initiate the contact. He’ll introduce himself soon after you arrive and will tell you how to contact him in an
emergency. Make sure that all your book-research contacts are made openly with people who would have no connection with government,
military, defense, or anything strategic. Talk to shoemakers, bazaar merchants, teachers, farmers. Write down what they say,
without attribution. If your notes are ever reviewed, they should show nothing but innocuous conversations on daily life and
family customs of Iran. Same goes for your search for your roots. Try to get invited to homes, but wait for the second or
third repetition of the invitation to accept. Keep in mind an Iranian proverb that may become handy:
‘Bi aedisheh aez du:zaeh ya: behesht sa:degh ba:sh’
—‘Be honest without the thought of heaven or hell.’ ”

“Why are you mentioning it?”

“Because we don’t want you to do anything a regular tourist wouldn’t. I’m sure you’ll be rewarded.”

“I didn’t know you spoke Farsi,” I said.

“I don’t. I learned that proverb from a wise man.” Funny, Casey didn’t strike me as a proverb-quoting kind of guy. Maybe I
wasn’t as good at pegging people as I thought I was.

“What about Erikka?” I asked.

“What about her?”

“Any instructions?”

“Nothing that concerns the real reason why she’s going to Iran. Obviously she should never learn who you are or what the real
purpose of your visit is. Let her suggest ways she could help you in your book research and your search for your roots. If
you can, escort her to her meetings with her alumni, but don’t take center stage.”

“Where will the reunion take place?”

“Europe would have been ideal, but since some of these people could be part of the current government or even the
security establishment, they might become suspicious, or the government itself might. So we’ll probably have it in Tehran.”

“What about the American alumni who can’t or won’t return to Iran?”

“The American graduates came out squeaky clean in our check, so we don’t need them. We’ll say the reunion is regional—‘Asian-European.’
We can have alums from countries that have diplomatic relationships with Iran, so no one will think it’s for ethnic Iranians
only and get suspicious.”

Three hours of instruction later, Benny said calmly, “I brought you a present.” Casey Bauer smiled knowingly.

“What? A farewell gift? You don’t expect to see me back?” I found myself sounding like the Jewish mother in all the jokes.

“Oh, stop,” Benny said, signaling to Casey to open the door. A short, very thin, dark-skinned man in his sixties with wavy
black hair walked in with a demure demeanor.

“Please meet Parviz Morad,” said Benny. I looked at the stranger. He was wearing clothes that were about one or two sizes
bigger than his frame. His dark eyes were sunken and his wrinkled cheeks fallen. His face was gloomy. He seemed so humble,
looking at us as if he were waiting for instructions.

Benny touched the man’s shoulder and said, “Please sit here with us.” The man complied.

“Mr. Parviz Morad was born in Tehran in 1962 to an army col o nel who had been the Iranian military attaché in London for
two years during the reign of the Shah. Parviz attended the American School in Tehran from first grade through fourth, and
from seventh through twelfth grades. He attended fifth and sixth grades in London.”

Born in 1962? He was only forty-three, but looked decades older.

At Benny’s prompting, Morad began to speak, in English with a slight British accent. “In late 1979 I was drafted into a highly
selective unit of young Iranian men. We were sent to a heavily guarded location in northern Tehran, which before the revolution
was used as a club for foreign military officers.
We were subjected to daily religious indoctrination and teaching of strict rules of Islamic behavior according to Ayatollah
Khomeini’s interpretation of Islam.”

“Please tell my friend the name of that unit,” said Benny.

“It was code-named Atashbon, Farsi for
the guardians of fire
,” he answered, lowering his eyes.

I was staggered. So that’s what Benny had meant. Parviz Morad was my farewell present.

I hid my surprise. “How many of you were in Atashbon?” I asked.

“Eighteen or twenty, I don’t remember exactly.”

“Was it all religious indoctrination?” I asked.

“No. After the religious immersion that lasted six months, we were given military training and an additional six-month course
in intelligence gathering and communications.”

“Where were you located?”

“Department 81 maintained a top-secret center in the suburbs of Tehran, code-named Agdassieh Post, and another satellite office,
Shiraz Post.”

“Were you the only group to be trained there?”

He shook his head. “No. We discovered later that this place was used also for training combatants to carry out terrorist attacks,
assassinations, and kidnappings outside Iran. We were also trained at Imam Hussein Post, usually used by a regional unit attached
to the Revolutionary Guards—Pasdaran-e Enghelab-e Islami. That location was also used as a training center for sabotage and
other terrorist activities in foreign countries.”

“When you were selected, did you know why?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

“They never told you why you were assembled together, separated from your families and friends?” His soundtrack sounded untrustworthy.

“We immediately recognized that we were all graduates of the American School in Tehran. We speculated that we were sent there
for reeducation to rid us of the satanic doctrines of America. When we asked why we were selected, we were told that we would
soon find out. We then had military and clandestine-operation training. We realized they had specific tasks for us.”

“Did you already know the other cadets?” I asked.

“Just two or three, and not even by name.” He moved his eyes and looked toward the window.
We have a problem here,
I thought.

“What happened after the training ended?”

“We were taken to a meeting with an ayatollah, who told us how we should be proud to be chosen to fight for the Islamic Revolution,”
he answered. “He said that the Americans are infidel pigs and sons of monkeys who think that with the might of the Great Satan
they can bring true believers down. ‘They have no honor,’ he said. ‘You will give them a lesson they’ll remember.’ ”

“And what was that lesson? Did he say?”

“No, he only said that our instructors would tell us. We returned to our base, and Bahman Hossein Rashtian, our commander,
told us what was expected of us.”

“And?” I said, struggling to keep the impatience out of my voice.

“Rashtian told us that the revolution was counting on us to destroy America. We were going to be sent to the United States
using stolen identities and establish ourselves as regular U.S. citizens. Once we were immersed in a community, we were to
receive instructions from Tehran.”

“Did he tell you specifically how you would assume American identities?”

“Yes, we actually had training classes on that. They told us how they got the first American passport. Our instructor told
us about the German archaeological team and its request to allow an American photographer to enter Iran. That request was
brought to the attention of our commander, Bahman Hossein Rashtian. He boasted that he immediately identified the potential.
Since the capture of the American Embassy and its diplomats, no American dared set foot in Iran. But if that photographer
would agree to come to Iran, Atashbon’s first project could be launched. He told us that since all the outgoing and incoming
mail of foreigners in Iran was opened, he knew exactly what to do.

“Rashtian called the American photographer, posing as a member of the archaeological group, and offered Ward a job for $500
a month for three months. Rashtian told us that according to the visa application filed by the archaeological expedition,
Ward’s parents were no longer living. Rashtian then questioned Fischer about Albert’s finances under the guise of investigating
Albert’s ability to support himself in Iran. Fischer told him that Albert was living on $5 a day. That, Rashtian told us,
gave him the idea how to lure Albert into Iran.”

“Wasn’t Ward hesitant?” I asked.

“Yes, but when he heard that the first month’s salary would be paid up front, directly into his bank account outside Iran,
he gave in.”

“Do you know what happened to Ward?”

“He was killed by Rashtian’s men. We heard from Rashtian that before killing Ward they had extracted from him information
about his life. It took some time, because he stuttered.”

“And then?”

“Kourosh Alireza Farhadi, a member of Atashbon, with physical characteristics similar to Ward’s, was chosen to step into Ward’s
identity.”

“Tell us about Atashbon and Department 81,” said Casey. “Department 81 had several hundred staff members. Our unit of American
School graduates was Atashbon. Both were operated under the overall command and supervision of Bahman Hossein Rashtian.”

“Did Department 81 have other missions?”

“Yes, but I have no specific knowledge. We were kept apart from the others.”

“How do you know all this about Ward?” I asked. It seemed suspicious that the Iranians hadn’t compartmentalized the information,
a must in any intelligence operation.

“Since it was the first case, we were all participating in the process to learn how to do it with the next American that was
caught.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“After viewing Ward’s five-hour eight-millimeter film interview many times, and rehearsing his new role as Albert Ward, Kourosh
Alireza Farhadi was given Ward’s passport and other documents and was flown from Europe to Toronto, Canada.”

“Do you know which country in Europe?”

“No. They didn’t tell us. Later on, we were told that after a few days in Toronto, Farhadi, now posing as Albert Ward, boarded
a bus and crossed the border to the U.S.”

It had been that easy, I realized. In those days, there had been very little or no inspection at the U.S.-Canadian border.
At many border crossings, there had been no immigration inspection, only customs officers interested if the passenger was
bringing any fresh food from Canada. No entry stamps had been used for returning U.S. citizens, and no record of the entry
had been made.

“Did they tell you how Kourosh immersed himself in the U.S.?” asked Casey.

Parviz nodded. “In our training class. Although he spoke perfect English, he’d never actually visited the U.S. They wanted
us to learn from his mistakes and difficulties.”

I immediately thought about the immersion training at Mossad. Those chosen to be sent into hostile countries were called “combatants,”
not agents, and were trained separately from the rest of us, who were intended to become case officers. During a period of
preparation that lasted one to three years, most of the combatants were initially sent to a nonhostile third country to familiarize
themselves with the country’s daily routines—riding a bus, buying groceries, watching popular TV
shows, and reading the sports columns. Only when the controllers were confident that a combatant was ready was he planted
in the target country. From what Parviz was describing, it seems that the Iranians weren’t that sophisticated, and had sent
Kourosh Alireza Farhadi directly to the U.S. with only a brief stopover in Canada. I now understood why Louis Romano, the
drama teacher from Gary, Indiana, had been surprised at the Chameleon’s lack of familiarity with terms that any Wisconsin
resident would know.

Still, I had to concede that the Iranians’ mistakes hadn’t harmed their mission much.

“Despite all that, they told us in the update meetings that Farhadi was able to pull off a series of scams, mostly against
U.S. banks, eventually exceeding $100 million. The Iranian security-service officers in our camp were elated and said that
they had awarded Farhadi with two medals that would be kept in his file until he returned to Tehran.”

“Where were you all this time?”

“In Tehran, working at the headquarters of Atashbon. Rashtian said that my accent was too British.”

I asked Parviz directly, “How did you end up here?”

He shrugged. “I came to think the new regime wasn’t much better than the Shah’s. When I talked about it with my friends, or
people I thought were my friends, I was accused of being an infidel and a betrayer of the faith and was expelled from the
unit. Within three days I was taken from the camp by military police, drafted into the Iranian army, and sent to the front
lines to fight the Iraqis.”

“When was that?”

“It was the end of the war, 1988. It took only two weeks for me to be captured. They held me until not long ago.”

Benny spoke up. “Our agents heard about him from a released prisoner and managed to buy his freedom and smuggle him out of
Iraq just before this most recent war. He received political asylum in Israel in return for his cooperation.”

I excused myself and took Benny aside. “Why just now?” I asked Benny in Hebrew. “Where was he all this time?”

“We got him out only recently,” he answered quietly in Hebrew. That meant he’d just finished squeezing out every bit of information
available.

“Can he identify all other members of Atashbon?”

“He says he can’t. He says he knew only two others by name. The rest were given code names, and he had never been in the same
class with them at the American School.”

I didn’t buy that, but said nothing to Benny. Maybe Benny wanted that information fleshed out later and exchanged when he
needed something from the CIA.

“And the two he knew?”

“We’re working on it with Casey.”

We returned to the sofa and joined Morad and Casey. “How many Atashbon members were ultimately sent to the U.S.?” asked Casey.
He’d saved the most important question for the end, always a good tactic.

“I was there about eight years,” said Parviz. “I know for a fact that at least eight men were sent from Iran during that period.”

“All to the U.S.?”

“I think so. All were gradually transferred to a third country, mostly in Europe, for a few days, and from there they were
sent individually to the U.S.”

“But you don’t have their names?”

“No. Other than the two I remembered from school, the rest were strangers. It was all extremely secretive. We were forbidden
to use our real names and were given new Iranian names. I got so used to my new name that I sometimes get confused and still
use it, although it’s been many years now.”

“And do you remember any real names of the members?” asked Casey.

“Just one.”

“And who was that?”

“Alec Simmons.”

“Anything else about him?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen Alec Simmons, I only heard of him. He was the second or the third catch of Rashtian.”

“Do you know anything about the person who assumed his identity?”

“His new Iranian name was Ibrahim Soleimani. I have no idea what his real name is.”

Casey intervened. “Do you know anything about him at all?” He was becoming impatient and dismissive.

“Very little. Although we lived together in the camp, we were forbidden to talk about our past. Once, one of us was overheard
telling his friend about his grandfather. He was punished severely.”

“Meaning…?” Casey pressed harder.

“He was lashed, before all of us.”

“What did Ibrahim Soleimani look like?” I resumed control of the questioning.

“Well, it has been eighteen years. But back then he was chubby. He was five foot eight and weighed, to my estimate, two hundred
and fifty pounds. Black hair and eyes.”

“Any special physical markings?”

“I don’t remember anything special about him. He spoke very good English and had a nice sense of humor. We were lucky to be
living in Tehran under reasonable conditions, while others our age were fighting the Iraqis in the desert trenches. So we
kept our mouths shut and obeyed our superiors.”

I continued interviewing Morad for two more hours until an aide to Benny arrived and took Morad with him.

“This is a transcript of his interrogation in Israel,” said Benny as he handed me a bound copy. “It can’t leave this place.”
He showed me to another room with a desk and a sofa. “Here you can read and take notes. Avoid copying telltale sentences.”

“Do you trust him?” I asked Benny.

He gave me that look reserved for those born stupid who live to demonstrate it daily.

“Are you kidding? We use him as an intelligence source only, and not a very reliable one either. Read his story with a huge
grain of salt.”

Casey’s mobile phone rang. Before moving to an adjacent
room to take the call he told me that a Mossad veteran named Reuven would instruct me on Iranian customs and daily life on
the following day.

After Benny and Casey left the safe apartment, I spent most of the evening and some of the night reading the transcript of
Morad’s interrogation. I woke up on the sofa in the morning clutching the notebook, and gave it to a woman who’d politely
asked me to return it to her.

I went back to my hotel for a change of clothes, and then walked in the chilly Vienna air to another safe apartment to meet
Reuven. That safe apartment was located in a prewar building, just a few blocks from my hotel.

I rang the bell. A fifty-something woman with a sour face opened the door.

“Ja?”

“Ich bin
Ian Pour Laval
. Ich werde erwartet hier.”
I’m Ian Pour Laval, I’m expected here.

She opened the door wider and let me in. I found myself in a big room with a high ceiling and a tall wooden door leading to
other rooms. The apartment was sparsely decorated and had only minimal furniture. A long table with two computer monitors
stood across the room, and an easel was next to the wall. I waited for the woman to say something, but she didn’t. She opened
the door to an adjoining room and left. I just stood there. A moment later the inside door opened and a dark-skinned man with
white hair appeared.

“Shalom,” he said. It sounded out of place here. “I’m Reuven Sofian. Pleased to meet you.” Reuven looked like an old eagle,
with dark sunken black eyes trapped in a face of wrinkled ashen rock, and thick overgrown eyebrows. He shook my hand.