The Chameleon Conspiracy (28 page)

“Here it is,” I said as I handed him the bound copy.

“I have additional copies at home and on my computer, but that copy is the only one with my comments. Some of them were made
during this visit, so please return it.”

“No problem,” he said, and I sensed that he was somewhat surprised that I had met his challenge.

After awhile, I excused myself, saying I thought they would like some time to catch up, and that I could use some rest. An
hour later, my room phone rang. “Ian,” said Erikka. “I didn’t realize you already finished your book. You never told me.”

“It’s just a first draft,” I said, wondering whether she suspected anything. “In fact I’ve just written another page which
isn’t included in the printed draft.”

“I’m so curious—can I see it?”

“Sure, meet me in the lobby.”

I quickly copied longhand from a printed page the CIA had prepared for such a contingency. I tore the printed page to pieces
and flushed it in the toilet. I couldn’t give her a printed page I said I’d just written.

A few minutes later we sat on the soft couches in the lobby and I gave her the text.

“Razak, can I ask you a personal question?” she asked shyly, ignoring the staring looks of guests at the restaurant. Abelina
felt encouraged that Razak had agreed to meet her publicly.

“I think so, but I don’t promise an answer.”

“Have you ever loved a woman that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with?”

“I thought I did, but I was wrong.”

“Do you think it could ever happen again? I mean, falling in love?” Abelina clenched her fists in anticipation.

“I hope so, but it hasn’t happened yet….” Razak thought of the too-many introductions his family made to eligible young
females. He was tired of the futile efforts and the not-so-subtle pressure of his family to marry. They had to realize that
times had changed.

“What would she have to be like?”

Razak hesitated. The questions were too direct. Iranian women didn’t discuss these matters with men who are not family, but
he felt mysteriously drawn to this fair-skinned woman with the soft voice, making him forego custom.

“It’s difficult,” he said, looking at her blue eyes, resisting the urge to hold her hand. “Because there are rules I set for
myself that I must follow before I bind myself forever.”

“Rules? What rules?” asked Abelina as she looked him in the eye. She bent over the table and he smelled her perfume.

Razak took a deep breath. “I must love her with all
my heart so that I will never make her cry from sorrow. God counts her tears.”

“That is so nice,” said Abelina softly. “Any other rules? “Yes, equality,” he said. “I read in the Bible you gave me that
Eve was created from Adam’s rib, not from his feet, nor from his head. Therefore my loved one, who loves the Bible so much,
cannot be below me or superior to me, but at my side to be my equal. She’ll be under my arm to be protected, and next to my
heart to be loved. But she’ll always have to remember my tradition and follow my lead through it.”

Abelina sent her hand under the table and held his hand.

Erikka gave me back the page. “You’re so talented,” she exclaimed. “It’s so romantic. I can’t wait to read the rest of the
novel.”

“This piece is also just a first draft.”

If Erikka had had any suspicion of me, I think reading that page shelved it.

The jangling telephone woke me up. The sunrise was just beginning to send rays through my window.

“Hello, Ian. This is Hasan. Remember me?” His tone was unnaturally friendly. “I read most of your book last night, and enjoyed
it immensely.” I felt proud until I remembered I hadn’t written it, and that in fact I didn’t believe he’d read it, maybe
just flipped through it.

“Thank you, it’s very kind of you. I need every bit of criticism to fine-tune it, but people seem just to compliment me rather
than criticize.”

“Of course there’s always room for change,” he quickly agreed. “Although I’m not a professional writer or reviewer, I think
that as an Iranian I could draw your attention to a few points that could be better explained.”

“I’d like that,” I said.

“Good, then we’ll have lunch and talk about it.” A Revolutionary Guard top executive moonlights as a literary critic? Hello?
Add the sense that he was too eager, though in a polite and subtle way, and the conclusion could be ominous. Was I the mouse
in Aesop’s fable about the lion and the mouse? I didn’t care to think what usually happens in these rendezvous. In the fable
they live together in friendship and in harmony forever after, but in reality I knew who got devoured. Never the lion.

Hasan, all smiles, came to my hotel at noon. He drove me to Shandiz Jordan Persian Restaurant on Jordan Street. Where was
his driver? I wondered. Hasan was warmly and enthusiastically welcomed by the owner, who practically bowed and danced around
him. I felt embarrassed. We sat at a corner table without ordering anything, and a school of waiters started loading our table
with delicious Iranian
chello
kebab and
shishlik
. Contrary to a rule of thumb I’d coined after eating in fancy restaurants in Europe and the U.S., where the bigger the plate
was, the smaller the portion, here both the plates and the portions were huge.

“What I like about your book…,” said Hasan, as he dipped
naneh sangak
, the Irani an flat bread, in a plate containing a white sauce and placed a small piece of
shishlik
on the bread. I waited for him to continue, but his mouth was full. He swallowed and said, “As I was saying, I like the candor
and the realism with which the novel describes present-day Iran. It doesn’t criticize our culture and the Islamic direction
the Iranian people have decided to take, but rather tries to understand it and yet bridge the differences between the man’s
and the woman’s respective cultures. I hope many people read your book and that more people will come here to see the real
Iran, rather than listen to political propaganda.”

“Like what?”

“I hear false accusations distributed by the Zionists and America that Iran is sponsoring terrorist organizations. I can tell
you that these rumors are baseless.”

Why was he kissing up, talking about “my” novel? Why was he mentioning terror when it wasn’t even in the book? This person
didn’t strike me as a man who wasted words for no purpose. What was going on?

“I didn’t get the impression that Iran was encouraging tourism,” I said cautiously.

“Oh yes, we do, but many don’t seem to be convinced to come.”

“So what do you suggest doing?”

“If people don’t come here, maybe we should bring the message to them, to the place where they live, so that they’ll see we
aren’t lepers.”

“Who do you think can do that?”

“We have cultural attachés at our embassies in Europe,” said Hasan. “But they aren’t trained in public appearance.”

Sure,
I thought.
These undercover agents are trained to recruit informers and shoot dissidents; therefore, they have no time to promote cultural
events.

“Why don’t you go?” I suggested. That was a bold question, and the answer would define who the lion was and who was the mouse.

He paused. “I would think about it, if I received an invitation.”

“From whom?”

“From an academic institution, such as a university. It could assemble hundreds or even thousands of students to listen to
an open debate about the true vision of Iran’s Islamic Revolution.”

“Any university? I can ask some leading Canadian universities if they’d be interested.”

“It’s important that the inviting entity will be respectable and fair enough to let me voice the truth. It doesn’t have to
be a university; it could also be a cultural association or a research
institute.” He paused for a moment to mea sure my reaction and continued. “It would serve Iran’s interests best if an invitation
were arranged soon. Some matters need to be brought to the public’s attention before things happen for which Iran could be
blamed—incorrectly, of course.”

If he was sending an unspoken message, I think I got it.

“How soon?”

“A month or so.”

“That certainly sounds like a bold and interesting idea. If you’d like, why don’t you send me your résumé and a synopsis of
your lecture? Upon my return to Canada, I’ll be happy to make a few phone calls to cultural and academic institutions and
see what they have to say.”

“When are you returning?” There was certain urgency to the question.

“I haven’t made plans yet. Maybe in two weeks—I have an open ticket.”

“Then perhaps you can communicate with the universities while you’re still here, and if they have questions, I could answer
through you, while you’re still here.”

“We can do that,” I agreed.

“I like your writing,” he suddenly said, changing the subject. “I read your article in
European Public Policy
magazine about the liberation movements in Africa and your article on the Indian-Pakistani conflict in
Political Science and Influence
.”

It was obvious he had done his homework and had run a search on Ian Pour Laval before coming to meet me. If he wanted to discuss
the articles, I was prepared. I had read them all. But why was he mentioning them, other than to hint that he’d checked my
background? Though I had no clear answer, I did have ideas. Thus far it seemed that the legend the CIA had built for my new
identity as Ian Pour Laval was holding water. We continued eating and talking, but it was clear, at least to me, that the
essential messages had already been exchanged, and the rest of the time spent now was just a waste of it.

He drove me back to my hotel. I couldn’t stop wondering what it was all about. Was he performing a counterintelligence
routine by checking me out to make sure I was a bona fide Canadian author, and not a spy? Was he trying to recruit me to
work for him? Given his government position, was he sending me another message I was hesitant to accept as plausible?

Alex, my Mossad Academy instructor, had used a metaphor to illustrate recruitment of a source.

Think of cattle ushered to the slaughter. They’re made to approach the chute to the stunning pen area through a narrow gangway
that has solid sides. Therefore each animal can only see the rear of the animal in front of it, and will not be distracted
by what is happening outside the chute. The chute isn’t wide enough for animals to turn around. The animal cannot go back
or stop, it must proceed to its ultimate end. Create a situation whereby your source will have no other option than to work
for you.

I thought that Hasan followed that rule, although I wasn’t sure who was the target. Nonetheless I decided that I needed money,
and in case my guess was valid and imminent, I hit the ATM for a quite particular amount. I made several other transactions,
but some messages were not included in the short list of commands. I needed to find an alternate manner to convey a very important
message that could be urgent, but I had no clue how. I knew it had to be sent immediately; time seemed to be of the essence.
I considered several options and discarded them all. The subject was too sensitive to risk apprehension en route. I had to
wait until I heard back from the Agency following the messages I’d just sent through the ATM.

After two more days and eight or ten more meetings with alumni, it became more and more boring. How many times did I have
to listen to quarter century–old gossip? I decided to travel to Neyshābūr the following day. I was curious to see if the rumors
I’d heard had any basis. I could score additional points at home if I were successful. I decided not to think
what would happen if I failed. Things were going well, I thought, but I immediately remembered the lesson we’d learned at
the Mossad: if things seem to be going well, make sure you haven’t overlooked a small detail that will fail you, because only
rarely do things go well without a hitch.

Very early that morning, when the only sound heard was of birds just starting to chirp, I dimly heard a per sis tent tapping
on my door. Half asleep, I walked to the door and saw through the viewer a short dark man with a trimmed beard.

“Mr. Ian,” he whispered. “Please open up. I came here for the Kāshān carpets you wanted to buy cheap.”

It was four a.m. and I wasn’t buying any carpets. But he came close to the contact code, and I sensed the urgency. I opened
the door. He entered and I shut the door.

“Padas¸ sent me. You must leave at once,” he said urgently.

“What happened?”

“The VEVAK is rounding up dozens of English-speaking men who’ve arrived in Tehran during the past two weeks. You fit their
profile; we want you to leave immediately.”

“Do you know why they’re arresting them?”

“The VEVAK caught an American mole in the Iranian president’s office in Tehran.”

“So what does that have to do with me? I have no connection whatsoever to any mole or to the Iranian President. I’m just an
author from Canada.” I wasn’t going to concede who I really was, even under these circumstances. You could never be too careful.

“I know, I know,” he said dismissively, in the same tone I’d last heard from my teacher when I tried to concoct some story
about why I hadn’t prepared my homework. In plain English it meant, “Don’t bullshit me.”

“We just heard that Javad Sadegh Kharazi, a senior council member, was arrested. They caught him using a sophisticated, U.S.-made
long-distance transmitter during a secret Iranian leadership meeting. The Iranian security forces are trying to discover if
it was the Americans who controlled Javad Sadegh Kharazi, or someone else.”

“Which meeting was it?”

“The mullahs’ secret meeting on Iran’s nuclear and terrorist activities. They’re furious. It’s the most embarrassing espionage
case in Iran since the Islamic Revolution began.”

“And just because I’m an English-speaking male who arrived here during the past two weeks, I need to leave? Aren’t you guys
a bit paranoid? I have no connection with these matters. I’m staying. Tell Padas¸ I said thanks anyway.”

“Mr. Ian, there’s something else you should consider,” he said in the tone of a poker player realizing that no one had noticed
him drawing the winning ace from up his sleeve.

“What is it?”

“You met too many people here. That caused some problems.”

“Like who?’

“Hasan Lotfi, to begin with.”

“Yes, I met him last week and had lunch with him the next day. He’s a classmate of my assistant. Why?”

“He disappeared.”

I was stunned, but continued with my resistance, though weakened, based on what I’d just heard.

“Why is that any of my concern? Do all people who met him need to flee? What if he took a vacation or locked himself in a
room with a young woman who doesn’t meticulously observe the Iranian dress and undress behavioral codes for unmarried women?
He could be anywhere.”

“Do you want to explain that to the VEVAK?” he asked patiently. “They know you met him both times.”

“How do you know that?”

“We’re always behind you.”

“And how do you know that he was a suspect?”

“Lotfi had been under VEVAK surveillance for a few months. Anyone who met with him is also a suspect.”

“But you haven’t answered my question. How do you know that Lotfi became a suspect?”

“Mr. Ian, we have loyal members everywhere. You also met Mrs. Nazeri.”

“So what? Is she a spy too?”

“No. But her son was a very important person who died mysteriously. Any stranger who attempts to talk to Nazeri’s family is
an immediate suspect.”

“Important how?”

“Something very secretive, we don’t know exactly. But these things put together are serious enough for you to leave immediately.
I’ll alert Miss Erikka as well. She’ll leave through one border exit and you through another. A person named Sammy will come
to your room in thirty minutes. Leave your luggage behind and take just an overnight bag.”

There was no point in arguing. My instructions were to take my contact’s advice in case of emergency. From what I’d heard,
I was convinced that this was an emergency. I wondered how Erikka would react.

“Can I call Erikka and tell her we must leave? She knows nothing about the carpets. She may not believe you.”

“Just tell her you have to leave,” he said. Apparently he didn’t know that Erikka wasn’t in the loop.

I couldn’t risk using the phone. I went up to her room after making sure the hallway was empty. I knocked lightly on her door.
After a few minutes of per sis tent knocking, she opened the door dressed in a white nightgown. I slipped inside her room
before she could resist.

“Erikka, please listen to me,” I said in a calm voice, although I wasn’t calm inside. “We must leave Iran immediately. A person
will come to your room in a few minutes and will instruct you. Please do exactly as he says.”

“Ian, what are you talking about?” She sounded frightened.

“It has nothing to do with me or you. But the Iranian VEVAK is very nervous. They think Hasan Lotfi disappeared. Anyone who’s
been in contact with him will be questioned.”

“But we only spoke about our school days.”

“I’m sure you did, but I think we should protect ourselves from any forthcoming investigation. Remember how upset you were
after the Komiteh stopped you? That was ten minutes. This time it could last weeks or months. Take nothing but your
money and documents, and a few things for overnight. The rest can be sent for later. Start packing, and don’t call or talk
to anyone.”