The Chameleon Conspiracy (29 page)

“How do you know all this?” she asked, and for the first time I sensed doubt in her voice.

“The bank called me. They bought an all-risks policy to cover our visit in Iran, a standard procedure of risk management.
A security advisory company, hired by the insurance company, just alerted them of these developments and suggested they remove
all their insured individuals from Iran. That means you and me, and maybe others.”

“But Ian, you aren’t working for the bank. I am.” Her brow furrowed.

“Right, I asked them the same question. Lucky for me, the insurance policy said ‘Erikka Buhler and Ian Pour Laval, companion’—
so they called me.”

“OK,” she said faintly, “I’ll be ready.”

I returned to my room. “Go ahead,” I told the man. “Go to her room. She’s in 411. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

“OK, she’ll be taken by another member of our team who’s waiting outside. I’ll bring her over to him.”

I quickly filled a small backpack and waited for Sammy. He arrived sooner than I expected, tapping lightly, and when I let
him in, he slipped inside like a shadow. His voice was low.

“Please follow me. And make sure you have your documents and your money.”

He opened the door cautiously and, after checking the hallway, signaled me to follow him. When the elevator arrived, he ducked
in and pressed a series of buttons for higher floors. “We’re taking the stairs,” he said brusquely, allowing the elevator
door to close behind him. We took them all the way to the ground floor. “Where’s Erikka?” I asked, catching my breath.

“She’s OK. My man is moving her now.”

He used a key card to open a ground-level bedroom, and when I followed him in, I saw that it was empty. He strode across the
room to a sliding door, which he thrust open, peering
out at the swimming pool. Walking out calmly, as if he were the maintenance man, he motioned unobtrusively for me. I followed
him through the bushes surrounding the pool area into the parking lot. A sleepy guard didn’t even raise his head. Sammy opened
a car door and I jumped in.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Isn’t this my rental car?”

“Indeed it is. We’ve left a bunch of brochures in your room suggesting that you left early and drove to Mashhad.”

“But I was going to go to Mashhad anyway. How did you know?”

“When you rented the car you told them you were going there. Your shadow was standing right next to you in the line.”

I never bothered asking him how he got my car keys.

I learned to drive a car in Tel Aviv, where drivers fully believe they’re driving tanks, and the Mediterranean hand gestures
make steering secondary. I live in New York, where stoplights are informational only, and anarchic taxi drivers set their
own traffic rules every minute. But driving in Tehran made those cities look like Des Moines. Nothing had prepared me for
the dangers of Tehran traffic in the early-morning hours. Heavy trucks, small cars, motorbikes, and even horse-drawn carts
cross through all directions, honking their horns, regardless of any reason or rule. It seemed to be one of the few places
in Iran where you could break the law and get away with it. No wonder Tehran ranks at the top of the list of world vehicle-fatality
rates. I thought of a saying I’d heard from my driving instructor: “A man who drives like hell is bound to get there.”

Sammy glanced at the rearview mirror. “We’ve got company,” he said. “This time they’re not our men.”

He jerked open the glove compartment and tossed a .38 gun into my lap. I grabbed it between my fingers. Our car suddenly tilted
and stopped. We had been broadsided. Heart racing, I swiveled my head to see what had happened. A small car with what looked
like two passengers had hit us. I slipped the gun under my windbreaker and took a better look. The other car wasn’t badly
damaged.

Sammy, swearing under his breath, swung open the door and jumped out to examine the car. I heard the shouting, but understood
nothing, staying in the car even as a small crowd quickly assembled to watch. Traffic whizzed by, and the Iranians shook their
fists, their voices escalating.

With a shrug and an angry gesture, Sammy turned away from them and jumped back into our car. “They’re just con men,” he told
me, starting the engine. The damage wasn’t that bad after all. “They stage accidents and try to blackmail unsuspecting drivers.
Let’s go.” As he accelerated and pushed through, he nearly ran over one of the men, who was still yelling.

“Better to leave before the police get here,” Sammy explained tersely. “That’ll start a silent bidding war—who’s gonna bribe
the cop with more money. We can’t risk that.” He made a left turn into another busy street and maneuvered through commercial
areas. After driving for ten minutes in the congested streets, I noticed through the side-view mirror a beige sedan following
us. I saw two men in the front seat, but there could have been others in the back seat.

“Sammy, are these guys behind us your men?”

He glanced at his mirror. “Shit. No, they’re the VEVAK. I recognize their car.”

It was a challenge to get through the thicket of jaywalkers, bike riders, and reckless car drivers, but Sammy found a way.
Nonetheless, it was a grotesquely slow chase, at no more than ten or fifteen miles an hour. The VEVAK car was about six or
seven car distances behind us. Through a quick and abrupt maneuver Sammy managed to pass a big truck, leaving our followers
behind it, blocking their view. He continued passing
cars on their right and left, stealing quick glances at the rearview mirror.

“I think we lost them,” he said. About two miles later he suddenly turned right into a large unpaved parking lot. “Come on,
quick,” he said. “We’ll leave the car here.”

“Are we walking?” I asked, swinging the door closed.

“Not to worry, we won’t be overexerting ourselves,” he said wryly, pointing to a beat-up blue sedan, Japanese made, parked
at the corner of the lot. “Jump in, and keep down.” I complied, watching Sammy with head down and eyes raised as he put a
hat on and tore off a fake mustache. He started the engine and drove away through the other end of the parking lot, spraying
gravel and leaving a cloud of dust behind us.

Keeping my head down, I heard Sammy dial a number and begin speaking in what sounded like Kurdish.

He snapped the phone shut. “They’re on to you,” he said swiftly. “The VEVAK is looking for you all over, including at the
airport and train stations. We’ll have to change plans. You can’t leave through the airport, and we can’t smuggle you through
the mountains to Turkey—the roads leading to the border are still blocked by snow. We’ll go to Plan B.”

I was lying on the back seat, alternately cursing the secret police, the Tehran city engineers who didn’t bother to maintain
the roads, and the lousy car manufacturer who hadn’t managed to engineer a car that didn’t lurch over every pebble. I said
nothing. What was there to say?

Thirty minutes of driving felt like eternity. Finally, the car stopped. Sammy got out and I heard a metal gate screeching.
Sammy opened my door.

“You can come out now. You’ll be safe here.”

I looked around. We were in an enclosed yard, blocked from the street by a plate-metal gate, surrounded by a high stone wall.

“What is this place?”

“Your hideout until their search cools down or the weather warms up, whichever comes first,” said Sammy with a grim smile.
I followed him into the dilapidated building. He produced
a key to the wooden door from his pocket, and hinges squeaked as we entered into what looked like a deserted factory, perhaps
for textiles. Rusty machines stood idle, like statues sculpted by an avant-garde artist. Remnants of textile bales were piled
on the floor. Sammy went behind a huge machine and opened an inconspicuous trapdoor just underneath it.

“Come,” he said when he saw my hesitation.

I slowly went down wooden stairs. He closed the trapdoor above us and turned on the light inside by pulling a cord. I found
myself in a spacious, windowless basement, with simple carpets on the concrete floor, a bed with once-clean linen, and a small
kitchen with a table and an ancient refrigerator. I also saw a small radio and an old television set, probably black-and-white.

“What is this place?” I asked again. I was wary.

“Your hiding place,” said Sammy. “We use it occasionally to hide people sought by the security services. As you know, Kurds
aren’t exactly beloved around these parts.” He walked into the kitchen area. “There’s enough food here.” He opened a wall
closet that was full of canned food supplies. “You have these”—he pointed at an electric stove and a refrigerator—“and running
water.” He opened the kitchen faucet, letting water out, adding, “And a toilet, but no shower and no hot water. Sorry.”

“Looks good. But it’s cold in here,” I said.

“Use this.” He pointed at an oil radiator on wheels. “I’ll come to see how you’re doing every three days.”

“How do I communicate with you?” I asked.

“Use the cell phone you rented at the hotel, but only if your life is in danger. The police can trace you though the phone’s
signals. Take the battery out. The phone transmits signals even when you aren’t calling anyone.”

“I did that when we were leaving the hotel,” I said. “One question. How do you get away with using electricity and water?
If VEVAK is worth its salt, it knows how to monitor deserted places by checking power use.”

“We hooked the power and the water to the next building, where one of our men lives. There’s no movement on the factory’s
electric and water meters. He’ll also keep an eye on this building from his apartment, which overlooks the yard. There’s a
side door between his building and the factory, so the metal gate we just used to enter from the street is rarely opened.
Even if this location is observed from the outside, no movement will be detected.”

He handed me a torn white cloth. “If you’re in distress, display this above the machine on the factory level. Our guy can
see it through his window.” He paused. “Keep the gun. You may need it here.” He reached into his shoulder bag and produced
a small box with twenty-four rounds.

After giving me additional technical instructions concerning the toilet, waste disposal, and maintenance, Sammy said his good-byes.
“I’ll see you in three days. I’ll enter the yard through the side door. If you hear the metal gate open, that means trouble.”

I sat on the bed. It was only with Sammy gone that I realized how quiet this place was.

I sighed. I had always managed to extricate myself from trouble, and I had an abiding faith that I’d continue to do just that.
There was no reason to be sure now, but what the hell. A fall into a ditch makes you wiser. I turned on the TV on low volume—
nothing but programs in Farsi. I tried the radio; no luck.

Well, might as well go to sleep.

I curled up on the bed, wondering for a moment what they had done with Erikka, what they had told her.

A few hours later, I stretched awake, hungry. I opened cans of tuna and sardines, and ate them with a few stale crackers.
I was bored. I tried the radio again. Nothing. I listened to random noises coming from the outside world. Cars passing and
honking, or airplanes approaching. I wished I had something to read.

My thoughts turned toward my kids. Were they worried about me? Probably not. At least not yet. They were used to
me being out of the country for long stretches on assignments. Actually, I was thankful they had no idea what a bind I’d
gotten myself into. It would have worried them, of course, and that would have meant that I was making my problem their problem.
That was the last thing I would have wanted. I prided myself in always being able to separate my work life and my family life.

Three days later Sammy came and brought me three cucumbers, two tomatoes, five oranges, and more canned food. To my delight
he also brought English-language newspapers.

“What’s up?” I asked. I was glad to see him.

“Things aren’t great,” he said. “The VEVAK is searching for you everywhere. They say that you’re an American spy. They posted
your picture in public places—train and bus terminals, and even at the bazaar.”

My heart sank. My picture? When had it been taken? When I’d met with Lotfi last week, in Vienna, or even in Pakistan? The
answer to that could help me build a new legend if I were caught. But who did I ask?

“God. Well, it looks like I’ll be stuck here for a while.”

“Unfortunately,” said Sammy.

I thought for a moment. “Can you get me one of the wanted posters?

“I’ll try.”

“Does anyone know I’m safe here?” I asked. I didn’t know how much Sammy knew about my identity.

“We reported that you’re OK. Everyone at home knows we’ll take good care of you. Do you need anything else?”

“Just reading material in English and fresh food. Everything else I already have. Thanks for everything.”

“It’s nothing,” said Sammy. As he was about to climb the stairs, he turned around and asked, “Did you really want to go to
Mashhad in search of your roots?”

I sensed that the question was loaded. I knew even less about Sammy than he knew about me, so I had to tread carefully.

“Yes,” I said nonchalantly. “I was also planning to stop in Neyshābūr, you know, to see the birthplace of Hakim Omar Khayyám.
I think I have a relative there.”

“What an interesting coincidence,” he said, with an edge I didn’t expect. “Neyshābūr is also the ultrasecret future birthplace
of the Iranian nuclear bomb.”

“Really?” I said, striving to keep my voice level. I didn’t know where the conversation was going.

“Yes,” he continued. “They are secretly building a low-level enrichment plant with a capacity to supply enough uranium to
build three to five nuclear bombs a year.”

“I read someplace that their plant is in Nat¸anz.”

“Nat¸anz is for the UN inspectors to visit. Neyshābūr is the real plant. It is built five hundred feet deep into the ground.
It’s called Shahid Moradian, after some guy who died in the war.”

“Interesting,” I said, trying to sound uninterested.

“The Neyshābūr plant was built by Russians. Very recently, Bulgarian transport planes brought tens of thousands of centrifuges
from Belarus and Ukraine. Soon Ukrainian engineers will install them. Some of their families are already there.”

“Wow. I know so little about that stuff, since I write fiction,” I said blandly. “I’m useless on science.”

He gave me that look again. “So the only reason VEVAK is looking for you is because you met some people in connection with
a book you are writing?”

I shrugged. “I guess so. But who knows what goes through their heads?”

“Maybe VEVAK suspects you had plans to go to Neyshābūr for more than just tourism or family business.”

“They would be wrong. I was going to visit Khayyám’s tomb. Look at some art.”

“You couldn’t get near the plant even if you wanted to,” said Sammy matter-of-factly. “Neyshābūr plant is protected by the
special Revolutionary Guards Corps elite Ansar al-Mahdi unit.”

“I had no intention whatsoever to go near any strategic installation I didn’t even know existed until you told me,” I said
firmly. What I didn’t say though, was that I had wanted to become friendly with the Ukrainian families. Spouses always talk,
regardless of their gender. Promising contacts could be developed by people with money and an agenda with people who come
from a poor country like Ukraine and who have no particular allegiance to Iran.

Sammy sighed, realizing that there was no confession forthcoming. “Be well,” he said curtly.

Obviously he didn’t believe a word I said. On the other hand, I believed every word he said. The news about the Iranian Plan
B, created in case the known locations were bombed, had been slowly trickling out. Now, Sammy’s words supported it. I had
no way of knowing the weight of Sammy’s account, nor could I relay the intel home. Maybe Sammy had already done that. Or had
he? Had the solitude of the stinking basement made me paranoid? Or maybe my healthy instincts had finally kicked in. Was I
really hiding from VEVAK? Did I have proof, other than Sammy’s words? How could I be sure and believe him? Something about
our recent conversation had jarred me. It had sounded like an interrogation.

Was my escape and hiding a contingency well planned by the CIA in case of an emergency, or rather a well-orchestrated ploy
by the Iranian secret services to extricate information from me, using a Kurdish contact to pose as my guardian angel? Perhaps
the real Sammy was caught and he’d talked, and the person I was seeing now was an agent of the Iranian services. I quickly
made a mental roster of my conversations with Sammy. Had I told him anything revealing? Had I disclosed my true identity?
I was sure I hadn’t. I decided not to use Sammy’s messenger services to relay the messages that were burning in my head. The
risk was too high.