The Chameleon Conspiracy (26 page)

“Same here,” he said. “But things have changed.”

“Farshad,” said Erikka. “I want you to meet Ian Pour Laval. Ian is an author who is currently writing a novel on a romance
between an Iranian Muslim man and an Austrian Catholic woman. I’m helping him with his cultural research.” We sat in the lobby
and ordered cherry juice. Erikka excused herself and went to the ladies’ room.

“Difficult subject,” said Farshad, looking at me with interest. “Why?” I asked.

“Because of the cultural gap and the religious clash. Where does the romance take place?” he asked.

“In Tehran,” I answered.

“That makes it particularly complex,” he said. “The love must be very strong and the couple very per sis tent for the relationship
to survive.”

“The Iranian society, as a whole, will not accept a European woman marrying an Iranian man?”

“Many will accept, to an extent,” he said. “But the price for the woman will be high. She’ll have to convert and adopt all
tenets of our religion and culture. That means she’ll have to give up her past and become a Muslim woman, not only by adopting
our traditions and religion, but also in the way she conducts herself and raises her children. She’ll have to forego many
of her values, her culture, and—most of all—her beliefs on women’s place in the society.”

“Will there ever be a change?” I asked. “I mean, will Iranian women ever be treated as we treat women in Canada…equally?”

He shook his head. “The Muslim Revolution gave us pride, but it also took us back in time, as far as human rights and women’s
rights are concerned. Religions don’t change.”

That was a bold statement,
I thought. The little devil in me took notice. “Back in time?”

“Yes. I’m not criticizing it, of course. The so-called ‘modernity’ that the Shah and his corrupt followers brought exposed
the Iranian society to Western-style ‘values,’ but the Iranian people much prefer the old style.” He uttered the word
values
with visible disgust. I sensed it was an overkill gesture, as if he knew somebody was watching.

Erikka returned, and she and Farshad commenced with their conversation reminiscing about old times. I didn’t want to interrupt.
I excused myself and returned to my room.

An hour later I went back to the lobby. Farshad and Erikka were still chatting.

“Ian,” said Erikka. “Farshad just started telling me about what it was like to be here during the Islamic Revolution. Why
don’t you come listen? Could be interesting background for your book.”

With a serious face Farshad said, “Please don’t mention you’ve met me, and don’t use my name in your book.”

The request was odd, given that they had been chatting publicly in a hotel lobby for more than an hour. I was sure the Iranian
security services already knew about his contact with foreigners.

“Of course, you have my word,” I said. “I just need background information to understand the political and social atmosphere
at the time. My novel starts about a year after the revolution.”

Farshad relented. “It was exciting and frightening at the same time,” he said. “As a young Iranian I was proud that there
was a popular uprising hoping to topple the crooked regime of the Shah, but as a moderate Muslim I was concerned at hatred
I saw in the extremists. Instead of promoting a political change, which most Iranians supported, the mullahs took over, and
instituted a theocracy intolerant of any other opinion.”

I registered surprise, in my suspicious mind, to hear that. “Where were you when the unrest began?” asked Erikka. “That whole
period is so blurred in my memory, but I remember well the beginning. It was on ‘Black Friday,’ September 8, 1978. I was a
senior at our high school and had plans to go to the U.S. for college.”

“Yes, I think you told me about that plan at the time,” said Erikka.

“I was in my room at home and heard noises—gunfire and shouting. My parents didn’t allow me to leave the house; I was under
a family-imposed curfew. So I climbed to our rooftop and saw flames. Parts of southern Tehran were on fire. The student-led
revolution against the Shah had begun, but I didn’t know it then. The Shah had declared martial law, and a citywide curfew
was enforced by armed soldiers. Just to make sure he’d maintain control, the Shah also turned off the power every evening
to the entire city of Tehran. That made the nights very quiet, except for bursts of gunfire.”

“I remember that,” said Erikka. “I was so frightened.”

“The uprising was spreading,” continued Farshad. “Other citizens joined the students. Most people were staying home and obeying
the curfew. But many others climbed on their rooftops chanting and praying. Angry soldiers loyal to the Shah interpreted that
as defiance and were shooting anyone seen on the roofs. I heard people chanting
‘Allaahu Akbar’
—‘God is
Great.’ Those incidents spread from southern Tehran, which is heavily populated by poor people, to the northern parts, where
the rich and powerful live. My father was an ethnic Iranian, but he was fearful for our safety, because my mother is Italian.
So two weeks later he sent me with my mother to Rome to stay with my maternal grandparents.”

“That means you weren’t here when the revolution toppled the Shah?” I asked.

“I returned to Tehran six months later when his regime was already doomed.”

“From what I know, the hatred was directed against the U.S.” I said.

Farshad nodded. “But those who captured the U.S. Embassy weren’t the real fanatics.”

You can say that again,
I thought.
Even he doesn’t believe it. I saw their hatred on TV. If that mob wasn’t fanatic, then I’d like to see who are fanatics, in
his opinion.

“They were protesting against the U.S. for agreeing to let the Shah undergo cancer treatment in the U.S.”

“What happened to your plans to go to college in the U.S.? Did they ever materialize?”

“Yes, I was lucky. I went to the University of Nebraska in Lincoln.”

I smiled. “Not too many people like to leave that beautiful state, unless they have to. But you returned to Iran.”

I regretted that statement immediately. It was too sarcastic. But he didn’t seem to mind.

“I agree,” he said. “It was difficult, but my family needed me here, so after spending just two more years in Nebraska after
my graduation, I returned home.”

“Was it hard? I mean shifting from the Western-style society in Nebraska to a different culture in Iran?” I chose my words
carefully to make them as benign as possible.

“Only for a short period. After all, I’m Iranian, and I was returning home.”

“Farshad is a mechanical engineer and works for an oil company,” said Erikka, looking at me. Turning her head toward
him, she added, “You’ll prepare the list for me, won’t you?”

“Sure,” he said. “But I know only a handful of graduates who are in Iran. Many who were brought up in a school such as ours
couldn’t cope with the changing atmosphere in Iran and left.”

“Where to?” I was really curious.

“Some went to the Gulf States, some to India and Pakistan, and some went to the U.S.” A boxing-ring bell rang in my head.
However, I decided not to press the issue at this time. In that kind of subtle questioning, less is more. I hoped that Erikka
wouldn’t pose the follow-up question,
Who went to the U.S.?

“Who is sponsoring the reunion?” he asked. “Seems that you’re spending money on that project.”

“A Swiss bank,” said Erikka. “They want to be able to sell their services to the alumni and their businesses, and besides,
the expenses are really low so far. My trip here was paid for by Ian’s publisher.”

There was a moment of silence, and then he said in a friendly tone of voice, “I’ve always wanted to visit Canada, but never
managed to do it, although I lived in Nebraska. Where did you grow up?”

I had my script meticulously rehearsed, so I was able to answer the questions that followed without missing a beat. Still,
I had the feeling that I wasn’t being questioned, but rather subtly interrogated. I was becoming even more suspicious. Why
was he so openly critical of the regime, daring to talk about it with a complete stranger in public? Hoping to provoke me
to jump on the bandwagon and say something negative? And those questions about my background…I would have to remember
his name.

I excused myself again to go to my room. I’d be wiser when I saw the list he promised. When I crossed the lobby on my way
to the elevator I had that funny feeling that I was being watched. I entered the gift shop and walked around, pretending to
look at the merchandise. There was no mistake; a
man was standing outside the store looking at me, making no effort to disguise his interest. I had to react contrary to my
training, which said,
Dry-clean him
. But if I did that, I’d expose myself as a trained intelligence officer, rather than remaining Ian Pour Laval, a bona fide
author. So I continued with the normal behavior expected of a tourist. I bought a local English-language newspaper and went
up to my room.

It was clear that if a follower had been assigned to monitor my movements, there could also be electronic devices planted
in my room. The author wouldn’t care less, but the intelligence expert under my skin was on the alert. However, with no countermeasures
to discover any hidden microphones or cameras, and with no suspicious activity or material to conceal, I crawled into bed,
acting out the “I couldn’t care less” attitude. Good thing they couldn’t read my mind.

The next day, we had to run errands. First, a visit to the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance to see if the note I received
at the Iranian Embassy in Vienna was sufficient to conduct book interviews in Iran. They told me that legally, if I wanted
to travel outside Tehran or visit any university or museum, among other sites, I first had to obtain a permit. I had to undergo
a one-hour interview by a stern-looking bureaucrat about the content of my book, and supply a list of people I wanted to interview.

“We will let you know,” he said at the end.

Next, I suggested that Erikka help me trace my roots in Iran. We went to the Civil Registration Department, which manages
Iran’s data related to births, deaths, marriages, and divorces.

“You’d have to be more specific,” the skinny and short
clerk behind the counter said with Erikka translating. “‘Pour’ is a very common Iranian name, and if your grandfather left
Iran in the 1920s, I don’t believe we can help you, unless you remember names of other family members.”

I rolled up my eyes, pretending that I was trying to remember. I thought about using the information I memorized from the
brief “family tree” with which the Agency had equipped me, but I thought I should first try showing him that I was un-prepared,
as not to arouse suspicion.

“I remember my mother telling me, from stories she heard from my father, that my grandfather was a shoemaker in southern Tehran.
Will that help?”

“No, I’m sorry, we don’t record professions. Do you know any cousins on your father’s side?”

“I only heard of one cousin, who went to France. I think his name was Javad Yaghmaie,” I ventured, hoping my earlier research
was accurate.

“Now, that’s a beginning,” said the clerk, who turned out to be a fairly friendly fellow. “I’ll try to find this person. Do
you know how old he should be now?”

I hesitated. “I know he was related to my father somehow, but I’m not sure how. Can we search his name first?”

The clerk went through a side door to the archive. Ten minutes later he returned holding a dusty carton file. “I may have
found something,” he said joyfully. He opened the file. “This is the file of Javad Yaghmaie.” He leafed through the thin file
and said, “Javad Yaghmaie was born on 16 Azar 1309 in Neyshābūr, in northeastern Iran.”

“It’s not far from Mashhad, the second largest city in the country,” volunteered Erikka.

I gave the clerk a puzzled look. “1309?”

“That’s December 7, 1930,” he said. “His father was Ibrahim, and his mother Fatima. That’s all we have.”

I wrote down the information, thanked him and left. Now, I’d at least satisfied the initial appearance of a person genuinely
seeking his roots.

“We may have to go there,” I told Erikka.

“I’d like that,” she said. I made a half turn, and from the corner of my eye I could see my shadow staring at me. I said nothing
to Erikka.

“There’s a rally that is starting in about an hour,” said Erikka. “President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is speaking. I think we should
attend.”

We had the cabdriver let us off about a mile from Freedom Square, and then walked along with the huge crowd heading into the
square. The sound was insistent: people chanting
“Marg bar Amrika”
—death to America—and to make sure that any non-Farsi speakers wouldn’t miss the message, the protesters also carried banners
in English cursing George W. Bush, the United States, and Israel.

“That’s for the television cameras,” said Erikka when she saw me looking at the banners. “This is all choreographed.” From
the looks of the crowd—tens of thousands strong—this was quite the show to stage-manage.

“That square is where the 22nd of Bahman march was, where they declared the Islamic Republic in ’79,” said Erikka. “I don’t
think we should get too close.”

Looking at the red-faced, bearded men punch the air with their fists and scream about death to America and
Allaahu Akbar
, it seemed a fairly unorchestrated hatred. I saw women in black chadors, clerics with turbans, and bearded religious students—
many people who didn’t look particularly well-off. In a makeshift parking lot, buses and trucks were bringing in additional
demonstrators.

“Marg bar Amrika,”
they chanted, sending chills down my spine. In the eyes of some there was a fiery hatred. Passing my eyes over the crowd,
I saw a few indifferent or gloomy faces. But most were in an ecstatic state of anger. The crowd was closing in on us. Uniformed
police emerged, and probably double their number of plainclothes security men. Children stomped on images of Uncle Sam. A
big placard said, BUSH IS SATAN. A crowd of chanting Iranians were burning
an American flag and stomping on its ashes. A colorful, paper, distorted picture of George W. Bush hovered above the crowd.
Enterprising street vendors were selling everything and loudly announcing their merchandise. I continued hearing the crowds
chanting, “America cannot do anything. Iran is full of Baseejis!”

I saw a big effigy of George W. Bush as a mouse,
mush
in Farsi, swallowing up Afghanistan. I tried to blend in with the flood of people around us. I couldn’t move. I was cramped
between bearded men there after a day’s work, who had no time to take a shower and no money to buy deodorant. There was nothing
I could say or do. Worse, the crowd had seeped between Erikka and me, and I was having trouble getting closer to her. Definitely
not a good idea for her, so obviously foreign, to be let loose in this crowd.

“Marg Bar Amrika!”
It wouldn’t end. Then the leader yelled
“Marg bar Israel!”
and the crowd followed suit. I looked at the people around me and couldn’t avoid wondering what their role, if any, had been
in burning the American Embassy in Tehran, or in sponsoring and financing terrorism. It was enough that their collective hatred
was fueling those actions.

Re united in a small clearing, Erikka and I loosed ourselves from the suffocating grip. We stepped back, more safely out of
the action. Even from there, we could see President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, wearing a light, tieless suit, ascend the podium.

“Can you translate?” I said, glancing at Erikka.

She shrugged. “Same as ever. America, Bush,” she said quietly. “He says Iranians should join in the battle against America
and defend Islam and the revolution.”

“He’s inflaming the crowd.” I concluded the obvious.

Still listening, Erikka continued, “He’s now talking about rooting out corruption. Ahmadinejad is promising to support the
private sector and reduce the size of the public sector to help growth. That theme is likely to be accepted by the bazaar
merchants.”

As the president closed, the crowd let out a massive shriek of affirmation. We had seen enough; it was time to go.

Back at the hotel, Erikka told me she was planning on meeting some school friends at their home. “I hope you don’t mind if
I go by myself—it will probably all be in Farsi,” said Erikka apologetically. “They’re classmates, so I’ll be able to get
more names to night.”

“Not to worry,” I said quickly. “I’m exhausted, and it’ll be a good chance to catch up on my writing.” It had been awhile
since I’d had a night to myself.

The next thing I knew, I was in bed and heavy knocks on my door were jerking me awake. I looked at the clock on the night
table: four thirty a.m. Gingerly, I went to the door and peeped through the viewer. I saw Erikka. I opened the door and found
her crying and shaking.

“Come in,” I said instantly. Under the circumstances, I’d risk it. She entered my room and sat on the couch. I didn’t know
what to do or say. I didn’t really know Erikka, and there was no user’s manual to consult. I gave her a glass of water. “Please
stop crying and tell me what happened.”

She sobbed. “I’d heard about it—the Komiteh, the moral police—and the way they harass people in the streets, or round up
and jail them. I read how lucky people were just to pay a fine and avoid being lashed. But that’s just not how I remembered
Iran. That’s why I wanted to come back. I didn’t think it would really affect me.”

“Please tell me what happened,” I repeated.

“I left my friend’s house at around three in the morning. She begged me to stay overnight, but I was too foolhardy to accept,
thinking everything would be OK. So she called me a cab. Next thing I knew, the cabdriver looked in his rearview mirror, and
said, ‘They’re following us.’ So I turned around, and there was a car right there. He said it was Komiteh. I didn’t know what
to think. I was alone, it was three a.m., but that would have been fine anywhere else. I thought maybe they were targeting
him, not me. We got pulled over, and a guy—he
didn’t have a uniform—wanted the cabdriver’s papers. That was it, and then he told us to move on. But I’d barely started
breathing again when he changed his mind. He told me to step outside.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. I stepped out of the car and walked up to their Jeep.”

“Why? You could have stayed next to the cabby, at least until you were sure they were indeed police.” I knew it wasn’t exactly
the most supportive thing to say, second-guessing a decision that was too late to change. But even at the risk of making me
seem like kind of a jerk, I had to be sure that her story was true and that the incident was not related to my mission.

“Well, the cabdriver said they were Komiteh. And I figured he would know.”

“Did the cabby do anything?”

“He was trying to protect me. He stepped out of his cab and walked toward them, but they yelled at him to step back.”

“What happened then?”

“Two men sat in the Jeep, and I was standing next to them. I asked them in Farsi what the problem was.”

“Were they surprised to hear you speak Farsi?”

“I think so, because they changed their tone a bit, but then they interrogated me about where I’d been at that time of night
and why I was traveling alone without the supervision of a man.” She paused to wipe her eyes. “One of them was really aggressive.
I told him about my meeting with my classmates. He asked, if he went to my friend’s house, would she verify my story? I told
him yes, of course. But had I done anything wrong? He told me that Islamic law forbade an unchaperoned woman to be alone with
a man who isn’t a close relative.

“The whole encounter was surreal. I was standing in the middle of the street answering questions about my private life to
two strangers. They said nothing. I wasn’t sure what to do or say. Then it dawned on me—maybe they were expecting payment.
But I wasn’t going to bribe them and risk serious trouble. I just wouldn’t do that anyway. They copied my name from my passport
and suddenly said, ‘You can go.’ And
that was it. They drove off, and I got back in the cab. The cabdriver was really nice. And he said it wasn’t my fault, that
I was dressed modestly enough, but that the police had been looking for a brothel that was supposed to be around there.”

Erikka broke into tears again. “I was so humiliated.”

My suspicious nature came into gear again. Was the encounter incidental or, given the fact that I had a permanent shadow,
was it now Erikka’s turn to be harassed? I knew that when the Iranian government established the moral police, they’d justified
it by quoting the Islamic concept of
amr bil ma’rouf nahi anil munkar
, “join the right, and forbid the wrong.” That was also used to encourage people to report the suspicious activities of others.
The result was a seventy-million-strong intelligence force. Even the Stasi, East Germany’s feared Ministry for State Security,
wasn’t that successful in its heyday. For the average Iranian, mutual trust had all but disappeared. You now suspected your
neighbor, your friend, and your grocer of being informers. And you were probably right.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I said gently. “It sounds awful. But I guess there’s a whole set of rules here that we
need to learn….”

She nodded, sighing. “It’s nothing like I remember,” she said softly. “Anyway. I should get some sleep.”

“Do you want me to walk you back to your room?” I offered.

She grimaced. “Normally I would, but who knows? The morality police might still be watching.” She held my hand for a minute.
“Sorry to barge in on you like this.” I shook my head, signaling that it was nothing, and with that she was gone.

I returned to my bed, restless and unable to sleep. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that this was all tied together somehow.
To distract myself, I pulled out “my” novel,
Dead End Love: An Impossible Love Affair
, courtesy of some particularly creative CIA employee turned ghostwriter.

“Not bad,” I mumbled, “not bad at all. I didn’t know I could write that well…” and fell asleep.

I met Erikka in the dining room for a late breakfast. Other than slightly red eyes, she looked fine.

“How are you feeling?” She smiled wanly and nodded to say everything was OK.

“If you don’t mind me bringing up a little business,” I began, “did you accomplish anything last night? I mean getting new
names and addresses?”

She seemed happy to be back at a task. “Yes. I already have a total of ninety-five names of people still living in Iran, with
addresses and phone numbers.”

“That’s great,” I said eagerly. “How did you manage to get so many?”

“The news spread,” she said. “Everybody’s very excited about the reunion.”

“So are they all ethnic Iranians? I read that everyone else left here, right? After the revolution, I mean.”

“Yes, all of the alums responding are ethnic Iranians. I also have a list of thirty-one alumni who live in Europe, Japan,
and the U.S. I found out last night that one of them just died in the U.S. So awful—I remember him.”

I paused for a moment to let her compose herself. “How do you intend to manage it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean administratively. Did you create a table with all the names?”

“I haven’t thought of that yet,” she said, embarrassed. “Everything happened so quickly. Do you have any suggestions?”