The Chameleon Conspiracy (23 page)

The next day, I was having a hearty breakfast in the dining room when a young man came to my table.

“Mr. Pour Laval?”

It took me only a second to respond to my new name. After all these years of using assumed names, I wondered why I had never
become confused. My only fear was that I could one day bump into someone I had met while on assignment
and forget what name I’d used then. What would I do? Ask him,
Excuse me, can you remind me of my name?
As a worst-case scenario he might think I was demented and suggest that I ask the nurse when I return to the institution
for the feeble-minded.

“Casey asked that you please go out to a blue van parked near the service entrance.” He gave me the security password verifying
the instructions that had come from Casey.

I went outside through the back door and made sure, as much as I could, that nobody paid attention to the ten seconds it took
me to get to the van. The driver drove me to a new safe apartment in a residential area in the outskirts of Vienna.

“Please go to the second floor. Ring the doorbell of the Kraus family.”

Casey Bauer was waiting for me inside the apartment with John and another person.

“This is Tony DaSilva,” he said, pointing at a middle-aged man with a dark complexion. “Reuven reported that you successfully
passed the test on the Iranian way of life.” Not a word about the sudden events of the past day.

“Test? I never took any test,” I said instinctively.

DaSilva smiled. “Well, you did. Not all tests are identified by the person being tested. Think about your exchange with Reuven
in retrospect, and you’ll see what we mean.” During the segments of my training when we were playing mock scenarios of me
being confronted by Iranian security officers, I had suspected I was being videotaped and that my behavior was being analyzed
by experts.

“Do you also have it on video?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “But for instructional purposes only, to learn from our mistakes, if something goes wrong,” he answered
unexpectedly.

What a bureaucratic way of thinking,
I thought.
If I’m caught, they’ll need the video to cover their asses and show to any investigating commission that there was nothing
wrong in my training or in the instructions they had given me.

Knowing that the present meeting was probably also videotaped, I kept my notorious big mouth shut. For now.

“Are you comfortable with the legend?” asked Tony.

“I’ll tell you when I return alive. But from what I see now, I need to be convinced that Ian Pour Laval is a fail-safe identity.
Can you confirm that?”

“I think we can,” he said. “The passport you received is genuine. It was issued to Ian Pour Laval by Passport Canada, the
government agency responsible for issuing Canadian passports. Canadian passports are valid for five years only, and a new
passport must be obtained upon expiration. The one you’re getting is valid for two more years. In 2002 Passport Canada introduced
new passports with enhanced security, but we decided to use a version that predated the change, although we made no changes
to the passport.”

“What do you mean no changes?”

“The personal information page that carries the photo and signature is digitally printed and embedded in the page, and a thin
security film displays an intricate pattern of images that are revealed as the page is moved.”

“If no changes were made, then why did you mention that it had to be an old version?”

“Officially and publicly, the Canadians are saying that these are the only added security measures, but there could be additional
hidden safety features that they didn’t tell us about. Why take a chance? We simply used the available passport, which is
an older version. Forgers need to worry about the new passports. You don’t, because it wasn’t forged or changed.”

“Is there a real person by that name?”

“Yes.”

“And where is he?”

“In the U.S.”

I weighed the information. “People don’t know that? I mean his friends and family?”

“No. In the last ten years everyone knew him under a different name. Prior to that he was a freelance journalist working
in and out of Europe for European newspapers. That fits your new résumé and legend. He now has a different identity. For all
intents and purposes, you’re Ian Pour Laval.”

“And what about the passport photo?”

“You two look very much alike,” said DaSilva.

I was a bit angry. “Look alike?” I asked bitterly. “Have you looked at the passport?”

Tony didn’t lose his temper. “I’ve seen it and I’m looking at you. I see a resemblance. Anyway, the process we applied was
more scientific. Ian’s photo was taken three years ago when the passport was issued. People change in three years. My ex-wife
in particular,” he added with a smile. “Then we took your photo from that period, and a computer measured the similarities
and the disparities.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as the distance between the eyes, or the skull structure.”

“And the result?”

“Satisfactory,” said Tony. “If a comparison is made by an expert at a lab, there could be a slight problem. But this isn’t
the issue here. There are no biometric identifiers on the passport, so the passport photo will survive a visual comparison.”

“For both purposes?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

I told them about my concerns. I knew that biometrics is used for two distinct purposes. First, to verify that the passport
I carry is indeed mine. This is a “one-to-one match or verification.” But the system can also identify or confirm my identity
as it appears on the passport by searching a database of biometric records for a match. This is known as “one-to-many match
or identification.”

“We know for sure that the passport is clean and does not contain any additional information, such as biometrics, other than
the printed personal data,” said Casey in an assuring tone.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because they’d have had to mea sure your biometrics and
record them. Ian has never undergone that procedure.” Their answers confirmed that Ian Laval was cooperating with the CIA,
and that the passport wasn’t lost or stolen.

“OK, let’s move on. Once we enter Iran safely, then what?” “Once at the hotel, Erikka should look for her incoming mail to
contact the alumni who answered our ad I told you about.”

He handed me a printed page of an ad the bank placed in local Tehran newspapers. “This is the English translation. Erikka
already knows about it, after the bank agreed to sponsor the reunion she’s organizing. She knows it was the bank’s idea to
make her visit more efficient and fruitful.”

I looked at the page.

Remember the good old times? The Iranian, Asian, and European students of the American School in Tehran have scheduled a reunion.
Alumni, please send contact information to Erikka Buhler (’78) c/o Azadi Grand Hotel on Chamran, Evin Cross Road Expressway,
Tehran 19837. And let your fellow alums know about the reunion!

“Let Erikka communicate with those who respond. You can volunteer to help her find and meet her classmates, but don’t make
it appear as if you’re in it as well. Deliberately miss one or two meetings she holds, and show only a passing interest in
what she’s doing. The same rule applies to how interested you’ll appear to the alums. But watch, because they’re the principal
targets. You’re going to increase how interested you are in Erikka’s activities, but first have her suggest that you get more
involved. You’re her handler, but don’t make her feel pushed or controlled. She might get suspicious—or worse, others might.”

“Right, so I’m just manipulating her.” It seemed so patently obvious, I wondered why it was being repeated.

“I know you know this, but you know I need to repeat it so
there’s no misunderstanding. The immediate goal is to identify and locate the names and whereabouts of all ethnic-Iranian
males born between 1954 and 1962 who graduated from the American School in Tehran before it was shut down in 1979. The delimiters
make them seventeen to twenty-five years old during the Islamic Revolution and their subsequent recruitment. Therefore, their
current ages range between forty-two and fifty. From that list we will try to identify the members of Atashbon.”

“Right.”

“We, or rather Erikka, will ask each of the alumni she locates to fill out a short questionnaire with current contact information,
year of graduation, current occupation, marital status, children, hobbies, and a short résumé telling everyone what they have
been doing since graduation. The pretext will be that the information is needed for a brochure that will be distributed to
all participants, like a present-day yearbook.”

I objected, “Isn’t it a bit simplistic to assume that alums in Iran right now weren’t Atashbon sleeper agents in the U.S.?
They could have just returned to Iran.”

He nodded. “We’ve got to account for all eighteen or so original members whose locations we don’t know. But in principle you’re
right. We want to use the initially traced graduates as a conduit to identify and find the others. Anyway, even the ones who
lived in the United States and came back will probably put that down on the biographical profile.”

“How do we make the initial contact?” I asked.

“I think you should encourage Erikka to set up individual meetings and manage the entire matter the way she sees fit. Don’t
make her suspect you of having an ulterior motive. If she feels lost and asks for your advice, you can direct her subtly by
asking questions.”

“Such as,
Are you preparing a questionnaire?
” I stopped for a moment to arrange my thoughts. “We could prepare a courtesy folder for all graduates who respond. Make it
a fancy leather-bound folder—a calculator, a nice pen, whatever—all embossed with the bank’s logo.”

“We can also include one or two brochures about the international services of the bank,” said John, warming to the idea.

“And Erikka will tell everyone who contacts her that they’ll get a free gift,” I finished.

“Good call,” said Casey. “I’ll get it going.”

I still had some questions about the operational wisdom behind their planning. “What’s the reason for not sending Erikka by
herself?”

“We discussed that, but it was scrapped for several reasons. First and foremost, since Erikka doesn’t know the real reason
for your and her visit, she’s likely to miss things that you’d never overlook as her controller. From the Iranians’ perspective,
she’s your research assistant. She also has a side job of organizing the reunion. Besides, sending a blonde Western woman
by herself to Iran isn’t a good idea. She’d be limited in her movements in a conservative society, which believes that the
place of the woman is at home with her children, not in a five-star hotel talking to strange men.”

“OK,” I said moving on. “Do I need an Iranian visa?”

“Yes,” said Tony. “Your first option will be at the Iranian Embassy in Vienna.” He handed me a visa application form already
filled out. “Please read it carefully, and if you’re interviewed, don’t make comments on the application form’s poor English
or its spelling mistakes.”

Had my bigmouthed reputation preceded me?

“Let’s talk about formalities,” continued John. “You’ll arrive on a commercial airline. Lucky for you, Iran’s got a “Commercially
Important Persons” clubroom that only costs $50. They meet you on the tarmac and drive you to a lounge while all the formalities
are completed. Unluckily for you, you’re not using that service.”

“Great. I love bureaucracy.”

“Because it’d immediately identify you as a businessman or a VIP. We need you to pass as an ordinary tourist. Before you arrive
in Tehran, the airline will give the passengers an immigration landing card, customs-clearance form, and foreign-currency
declaration form to fill out. Here are the forms
already filled in. Keep a carbon copy of the landing-card form and surrender it when leaving Iran. We’ll inspect your luggage
before you leave, but at any rate don’t buy alcohol, or any magazines at the airport. They might contain pictures that the
Iranians consider offensive. Don’t bring playing cards; gambling is forbidden. Make sure that the customs officers register
your camera in your passport. When you leave, show them the camera, and insist that the record be deleted from your passport,
as any tourist would.”

“Gotcha. Where are we staying?”

“The Azadi Grand Hotel in Tehran. The details are in the folder. You’ll get two separate rooms, of course. Let’s keep it professional.
The hotel should have a courtesy van, but if it doesn’t come through, take a taxi from the station that has a dispatcher.
Erikka will help you communicate with them. But don’t look as if you’re taking instructions from a woman—you’ll attract attention.
And Erikka left Iran when the Islamic Revolution started and might not fully appreciate the radical changes since then.”

“What about communication?” I asked.

“There will be two methods. One for Ian and Erikka the tourists, and the second for your reporting and distress. As tourists,
go occasionally to Internet cafés and use their voice-over-Internet service to call numbers we are providing you with to chitchat
with your friends—Agency personnel. Tell them how much you’re thrilled with Iran. No criticism. You can talk about the food,
weather, what ever. Use your hotel room’s phone to call your publisher in India, or to look for your Iranian roots. But let’s
be clear: no calling anyone else, not even your kids. We can’t control what they might say or who listens in.”

“OK. What about money?” I asked.

“We’ve opened an account for you at the Frankfurt, Germany, branch of Bank Melli, the Iranian bank. Your travel folder includes
an ATM card that you can freely use throughout Iran, charging the withdrawals to your German bank account. Every two days
you must visit an ATM to withdraw
money. Additionally, whenever you move outside Tehran, the first thing you do is look for the nearest ATM and withdraw more
money.”

“Even if I don’t need to?”