The Chameleon Conspiracy (27 page)

“Not particularly.” I paused to show I hadn’t thought about it earlier. “Why don’t you just draw up a table to include all
personal details, such as current address and year of graduation? Then you can ask the bank to send the people on the list
an invitation to the reunion and ask them to confirm and attach
their short résumé. You know, tell in a few sentences what they’ve been doing since they graduated.”

“Good idea,” said Erikka. “I’ll do that after breakfast.”

“I have another idea,” I said. “Why don’t you prepare a separate list of all the alums you located that live outside Iran?
Maybe the bank would want to use their connections in their respective countries. Didn’t they say in the briefing, part of
their marketing strategy is to get a piece of the Iranian overseas business, because they want to set it up bilaterally?”

“I’m one step ahead of you,” she said. “Look.” She handed me two handwritten pages with many names.

Next to the name Reza Nazeri, in the space left for a current address, she’d written “deceased.” Although his name rang a
bell, I couldn’t remember if he was on the list of students we had received from the State Department. Obviously, I hadn’t
brought the list to Iran. It’d have to wait until I returned to Europe.

“Maybe you should send a copy to the bank.”

“But it’s incomplete, isn’t it?”

“I know, but it would be good to show them that you’re already getting results.”

“Good idea.”

“Are you going to contact any of the people on that foreign list?”

“No, not right now anyway. There’s no point in my calling long-distance from Iran to other countries. It can wait until I
return to Europe. The reunion is a few months away. We have time.”

“You’re right,” I conceded. “What about the deceased alumnus, do you know what happened to him?”

“I heard he had an accident.”

“Did you know him?”

“Yes. He was a really good friend. We used to have play-dates when we were young. I also knew his mother very well. He grew
up without a father, so he spent a lot of time at our house.”

“I see,” I said contemplatively. I needed time to plot.

“Will you need me today?” she asked.

“I was thinking of going to Mashhad to search for my roots. Maybe stopping in Neyshābūr, where I think I might have family.
It says in the guide that Hakim Omar Khayyám was born there—you know, the poet. Could be interesting.”

“Ian, it’s almost six hundred miles away,” she said in surprise. “We need to make travel arrangements and hotel reservations.
Do you want to take a train or drive?”

“Well, don’t be alarmed, and I’m sorry that I didn’t consult you, but I sort of planned it yesterday when you were out. I’ve
actually already rented a car, and made a hotel reservation at”—I stopped to look at the note I’d prepared—“Homa Hotel on
Taleghani Square in Ahmad Abad Street.”

“How long do you want us to stay there?”

“Two or three days. Is it OK with you?”

“I guess so.” She didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “When do you want to leave?

“Well…whenever you’re ready?”

She hesitated, “I scheduled six meetings with alums, but I can cancel. My work for you comes first.”

“No, please don’t cancel,” I said quickly. “Keep the meetings; we’ll go on another day.” After a quick glance at the list
Erikka had prepared, I no longer wanted to make that trip that day. But I had to at least pretend that I was sticking to my
original idea to search for my roots. We would have to go soon.

I went outside the main entrance. A white Peugeot Persia was parked in the hotel’s driveway. A rental agreement was left on
the driver’s seat. I drove the car to the parking lot and entered the gift shop in the hotel lobby.

As I was pulling out a copy of
Tehran Times
in English from the display rack, I felt a man brushing his arm against my right arm. “I’m sorry,” I said, and moved to the
left. He brushed against my arm again. I turned around to look at him. He was a well-built man in his early forties with intense
black eyes and a black mustache.

“Mr. Ian, please go outside,” he said in a low voice.

I froze. “Who are you?”

“Padas¸ sent me.”

“Padas¸? I don’t know any Padas¸,” I said. I needed to hear the passwords.

“I know where to find nice carpets made by hand in Kāshān. Very cheap.”

It was the right code at the right time. “Oh, I’d like that,” I said innocently. “Where are they?”

“I can take you now.” He walked slowly to the exit.

I paid for the newspaper and followed him outside.

“You must be careful,” I said quietly. “I think I’m being followed.”

“No, you are not.”

“But I detected followers,” I insisted.

“They were my men watching you,” he said calmly.

“I saw one at the restaurant, and another one in a car that followed me.”

He smiled mischievously. “You missed the others. We are always behind you. Unless the Iranian VEVAK is smarter than us, we
didn’t notice any interest in you.”

“How do I contact you? I mean in case of emergency?” “For one, we’ll see any emergency and will come to your help. But if
we lose contact for any reason, call this number and say that you’d like to purchase Kāshān carpets.” He handed me a piece
of paper.

“Who gave me that number, in case someone asks?”

“An Iranian you met on the plane coming here. You don’t know his name.”

“Do I identify myself on the phone?”

“No.”

“What about Erikka?”

“We aren’t following or protecting her, unless she’s with you.” He opened the car’s trunk, and I saw three rolled carpets.
“I’ll show you these carpets now. Look as if you’re interested.”

“I thought you said I’m not being watched.”

“Just in case.” He pulled the carpets out and laid them on the pavement.

The carpets were magnificent. For a moment I even entertained the idea of actually purchasing them.
Bad timing for shopping,
I told myself. I stood there for a few more minutes admiring their beauty.

“Kāshān is a city in north-central Iran that was producing Persian carpets at royal workshops at least since the seventeenth
century,” he said. “But the best Kāshāns come from Ardistān. These carpets came from Yazd, but they’re almost as good.” He
rolled up the carpets and put them back in the trunk. He shook my hand and drove away.

In the afternoon, I got hold of Erikka in the lobby.

“I have two cancellations,” she said. “They postponed our meetings until tomorrow.”

“In that case, I’ve got an idea,” I said. Why don’t we visit the family of Reza Nazeri? They’ll probably hear about the reunion
you’ve got coming up, and it might hurt them to be left out. The right thing to do is pay them a personal visit.”

“You mean right now?” asked Erikka.

“Yes, why not? We have time. I’m sure they and the rest of the alumni will appreciate the gesture.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You know, I’d love to see his mom again. She was always so kind to me.”

“Visiting an Iranian family at home will be a good experience for me—it’d help me understand a lot for my book,” I added.

“I still remember where he lived, after all these years. It was on Darband Street, in northern Tehran,” said Erikka. She called
information for the telephone number. It was unlisted. “Do you want to take the chance they’re still living at the same address?”
she asked hesitantly.

“Let’s do it,” I said. “Cab?”

It took us through Imam Khomeini Boulevard, past the National Archaeological Museum of Iran, and arrived at a pleasant residential
area. Erikka buzzed the intercom and a woman answered. Erikka said something in Farsi, and after a pause, the door opened.

Inside the spacious, well-appointed apartment, Mrs. Nazeri stood alongside her maid. She appeared to be nearly seventy, and
was clad in a black dress without a head covering. Her eyes were puffy and lined. When she saw Erikka they both burst into
tears and embraced, murmuring in Farsi.

After a moment, they seemed to remember I was there, and stepped apart politely.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” said Mrs. Nazeri, in English. Erikka smiled. “I forgot how good your English was.” “You haven’t
changed a bit,” Mrs. Nazeri told Erikka. Erikka smiled again. “I’m not that young anymore. My daughter is already nineteen
years old.”

“You’re lucky,” said Mrs. Nazeri.

They continued talking, shifting from Farsi to English and back, until the maid brought a tray with silverware, a teapot,
and delicious-looking cookies sprinkled with white powdered sugar.

Many long minutes later, during which they talked in both languages about personal things, Erikka said, “As I was saying,
I’m using a professional visit to Iran to help Mr. Pour Laval in his book research, to organize a school reunion.”

“It’s a nice idea,” said Mrs. Nazeri, turning to me.

“I only heard yesterday about Reza,” said Erikka delicately. “I wanted to come and see how you were, and to offer my condolences.”

“That’s so kind of you.”

“Perhaps you’d like to include some information about Reza in the brochure they’ll be making,” I suggested. “They have a
Swiss bank sponsoring the event, and one of the ideas is to collect pictures of alumni taken during their school years, include
a short résumé, and publish it in a bound format, like a yearbook. It might be a good opportunity to commemorate the memory
of Reza.”

Erikka looked at me, surprised. I had again broken the rule of not leading the direction in the alumni matter, but I just
couldn’t resist that opportunity.

“I’d love that,” said Mrs. Nazeri. “Let me see, just one moment…” She went to the other room and returned carrying two
photo albums. “It’s all here. I’ve been left only with memories.”

I leafed through the pages of the albums and saw Reza, a skinny, light-complexioned young man, at family events, smiling and
happy.

“What happened to him?” asked Erikka in a soft voice.

“Last month he was killed in an accident in New York.”

“Did he live in America?” asked Erikka.

“He left Iran soon after the revolution. He said he was hired by a company to do business in Switzerland and America. I didn’t
understand much of it.”

“It’s so sad. Careless drivers are everywhere,” I said.

She looked at me with sad dark eyes. “It wasn’t a car accident. Some crazy person pushed him off the subway platform while
Reza was waiting for the train.”

There was a shocked silence. “How awful,” I said after a moment. “Did they catch the lunatic?”

“No, he escaped.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Was Reza married?” asked Erikka.

“No. He told me it was difficult having a family with his lifestyle.”

“You mean traveling a lot?”

“Yes, between Switzerland and the U.S., but he used to come to visit me every few months.” She looked at me. “He was my only
son. His father died when Reza was just a young child. Now I have nothing.”

Erikka wiped a tear away.

“Take any photos that you like, but please return them, as I have no copies,” Mrs. Nazeri said.

Erikka began poring over the photos. I suggested that she take photos depicting Reza when he was in his twenties and thirties.

“This is how I’d think people will remember him,” I said. When I saw a picture that looked recent, I added, “And show his
friends who haven’t seen him in many years how he looked just before he died.”

“Mr. Pour Laval…” said Mrs. Nazeri hesitantly. “I need some help in the United States; perhaps you can help me. It is
very difficult for us to get information from the United States. Because of the animosity between the countries, communications
are slow and unreliable. Here they open many letters sent from foreign countries, and it delays delivery for days or even
weeks.”

“Well, I’m Canadian, but I visit New York frequently, and I’ll be happy to help you.”

“I need a lawyer in New York to handle Reza’s estate. Can you recommend a good one?”

This was a golden opportunity I wasn’t going to miss. This was my entry card into Reza’s life and activities in the U.S.

“Of course—you mean a wills-and-estates lawyer? I know a very good one who doesn’t charge a lot.”

“Can I trust him?”

“I do,” I said. “He handles all my American friends’ estate matters. I know he’s very reliable. I intend to be in New York
soon and can call him.”

“In that case, let me give you some information the lawyer may need.” She opened a black leather folder with documents. “Reza
lived at 45 East 78th Street in Manhattan. He owned the apartment. He had at least one bank account that I know about in Chase
Bank, but there could be others. Apart from that, I know very little about his business affairs.”

“Did he leave a will?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but I hardly think so. He didn’t expect to die so soon, and other than me he had no family.”

“Did he leave any papers with you, such as business correspondence or letters that may help locate his assets?”

She thought for a minute and said, “Yes, in fact he did.” She went to the other room and returned with a big brown envelope.
“That’s all I have,” she said, and handed me the envelope. I went through its contents. Inside were a few handwritten letters
in Arabic script, business cards, used airline tickets, and the like. Nothing looked immediately important. As I was casually
going through the papers I saw a business card with the logo of Al Taqwa. I looked at it indifferently but put it aside with
trembling hands.

“I don’t see anything particularly important here. Maybe just in case, I’ll copy some business cards to give the lawyer. Maybe
these people did business with Reza and they owe him money.”

“No need to copy,” she said. “You can just take them.” I put the cards in my pocket.

“What are these letters?”

“Oh, letters he had written asking me to do a few things for him. I don’t know why I put them in that envelope.” She excused
herself and went to the other room. Erikka went to the bathroom. They returned a few minutes later.

“What about Switzerland? You mentioned he was working there?” I asked Mrs. Nazeri.

“Yes, for some bank or something, but he never actually lived in Switzerland. He just visited it for long periods.”

“If the lawyer asks me about any property in Switzerland, what should I say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the lawyer will find things in Reza’s apartment that will give him more information.”

“OK, I think I could do that.” I paused. “I have an idea. I’ll simply call the lawyer and tell him to expect your letter.
And I’ll ask him what he needs from you to start working.”

“Good,” she said. “What’s his name?”

“Dan Gordon,” I said, and regretted it immediately. I just couldn’t think fast enough of any other name. It was a bad answer,
but I couldn’t take it back. I’d have to make arrangements.

“I’ll have him write you. He’ll probably need a power of attorney to be appointed as administrator of the estate of Reza.”

“There’s one thing I need to add,” said Mrs. Nazeri. “Reza had to change his name. He told me it was better for business.
In fact he changed it twice. His first new name was Christopher Gonda.”

I felt heart palpitations and hoped Mrs. Nazeri and Erikka wouldn’t notice my excitement. In my mind I vividly saw the picture
of Christopher Gonda, a good-looking young American man who disappeared in the early 1980s without a trace. Now I was having
tea with the mother of an Atashbon member.

“And then he changed it again?” I queried, praying that my voice wouldn’t betray me.

“Yes, he told me that there was another person with that name who ran into trouble, so he decided to change it again, this
time to Philip Montreau.”

When we returned to our hotel, Erikka noticed I was behaving differently. “What happened?” she asked. “Are you OK?”

“Of course I’m OK,” I quickly answered. “I was deeply touched by Mrs. Nazeri’s grief. Losing her only son in such a ghastly
accident. I sympathize with her.”

Erikka gave me one of those “I don’t know if I should believe that” looks. When we arrived at the hotel’s driveway, she said,
“I’m going to meet another graduate, Hasan Lotfi. You’re welcome to join us.”

I was going to politely reject the offer, but when I saw a chauffeured black Mercedes just behind us and a distinguished looking
man exit, I changed my mind. Erikka looked back and said, “My God, it’s Hasan.” She walked over to him and held out her hand
in excitement to shake his. But he pulled away
from her without touching. I was afraid that Erikka was going to get in trouble—all that touching. He nonetheless smiled
at her. I just stood there. They came over to me, and Erikka made the introduction.

“Why don’t you join us?” he asked. “As a matter of fact, I insist.”

There was a slight tone of command in his voice. His demeanor was that of a man of authority. He was of medium height and
build, with a trimmed beard, dressed in a mix of Iranian and Western-style clothing. I looked at his shoes and wristwatch.
They looked expensive. I remembered one of my Mossad instructor’s comments: “If you want to quickly assess a person’s financials,
look at his watch and shoes. Wealthy people don’t scrimp on these items.”

“Thanks, I’d be happy to,” I said.

We sat in the lobby and Hasan and Erikka spoke in a combination of English and Farsi about the school and their mutual friends.
I felt like a fifth wheel, and quietly sipped my cherry juice and listened.

Erikka sensed my boredom. She switched back to English and said, “Hasan made it big. He’s now a high-ranking officer in the
Revolutionary Guards.”

I breathed deep to mask the immediate change in my vital signs. Hasan didn’t smile when he said, “They agreed to ignore the
fact that I was educated by infidels.”

Erikka smiled guilelessly, although to me it wasn’t funny at all. I wasn’t going to ask him any questions and instead let
him speak. But Erikka was the one to ask him directly what he was doing at the Revolutionary Guards.

“I started as a supervisor at the Intelligence Department of the Revolutionary Guards. Then I moved to the Security Ministry
and became in charge of the Secretariat, and then returned to the Revolutionary Guards as its chief of intelligence.”

“That’s very interesting,” said Erikka, as if Hasan just told her he was working at the local zoo training birds to sing.
She had no idea how important this man was or how dangerous and
treacherous his organization was. We were sitting and drinking juice in a fancy hotel with a man whose organization was responsible
for catching, marinating, and frying guys like me.

“Do you get to travel?”

“Unfortunately not,” he said. “I used to, but now I’m a bureaucrat in an organization that enforces the rule of Islamic law
and exports the Islamic Revolution, among other things,” he said, looking at me enigmatically. I tried not to break under
his glare. The only comparison that came to my mind was of a cannibal ogling and drooling at a fat tourist lost in the jungle.
Had he insisted I participate in his meeting with Erikka only because he didn’t want to be seen with a woman at a hotel? Or
did it have to do with his ministry’s instruction to Khan in Islamabad to lure me into Iran—and now I had walked into his
trap willingly? I kept to my training: cool and relaxed, not revealing my thoughts and fears.

“Mr. Pour Laval, please tell me about your book. Erikka mentioned it’s romantic and dramatic at the same time.”

“Yes, in a way,” I said.

“Have you started writing it?”

Now that was a direct question that an interrogator asks, not a polite curious bystander. I decided to pick up on that.

“As a matter of fact I’ve gotten a lot of writing done lately. Are you interested in literature?” I asked.

“Sometimes. It’s sometimes interesting to see what people from other countries think of our country and our culture.”

“Well, this person,” I said, pointing a finger at my chest, “thinks very highly of your country.” Kissing up never hurt anyone.

“I’d like to read what you’ve written,” he said, and softening the tone of command, he added, “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“Well, it’s just a rough draft, and I wrote a lot before coming here. I expect to make many changes. I’ve learned so much
since I came to Iran.”

He tightened the screws. “Good. When can I see it?”

“Can you wait for the book to come out? It will be edited and updated after I conclude my visit.”

“Only if you force me,” he said lightly with a smile, exposing perfect white teeth. I let him lead the direction of the conversation.
“You’ll be making good changes after your visit, I hope?”

“Certainly,” I confirmed. “The manuscript is here, in my room. If you promise to return it to me by the end of the week, with
your sincere and critical comments, I can let you read it. I could use an early critical review.”

“I’d like that,” he said.

“Let’s go to my room then,” I said and got up.

Erikka remained sitting. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea for me to go to a room with two men.”

“Don’t worry,” said Hasan calmly. “You have nothing to worry about when I’m here.” This was his subtle way of showing us how
powerful his position was.

There was a moment of silence. Erikka didn’t respond. Apparently the wee-hours encounter with the moral police had left its
mark on her.

“OK,” I said easily. “I’ll just go upstairs and bring it here.”

I went up to my room and took the bound manuscript the ghostwriters of the CIA had prepared for me. There were many handwritten
comments on the text that I’d inserted to make it look like it had been worked on at different times with different pens.