The Chameleon Conspiracy (31 page)

I found a nearby bank and made a cash withdrawal through the ATM. I also punched a few additional strokes on the keypad, again
frustrated by the short list of coded messages I’d been given. I returned to my hotel. Other than venturing out to eat, I
stayed in my room most of the time. I patiently looked through the window to see if my ATM messages had gone through.

It was two days later that a short and stocky mustachioed man approached me in the street, just as I was about to enter the
hotel after having dinner.

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

At last.

He signaled me to follow him to a waiting car. Two other men were seated inside. I recoiled for a second. Perhaps it was a
trap. But reason took over. It was unlikely that the VEVAK could intercept my communications with the Agency back home. Although
there was a slight change in the code words, I wasn’t alarmed. If they were VEVAK, they could have arrested me without the
introductions. I entered the car.

“Where is Sammy?” I asked.

They didn’t answer. “No English,” said a tough-looking
guy behind the wheel. I quickly assessed my options to escape. There were none. Two gorilla-size men were blocking the doors.
I was in their net. I tried to figure out a good legend, fearing that the author’s cover would not hold water. Where had I
been during the past six weeks? What did they know about my true identity? Had Hasan Lotfi had me arrested when I failed to
deliver? I felt like a trapped animal.

After an hour of driving in utter silence, we entered a small villa on the outskirts of town. Sammy came out of the front
door and hugged me.

“What happened?” I asked, still confused.
Should I be happy or suspicious?

“Your next-door neighbor was apprehended by VEVAK. I couldn’t come for you, not knowing how much he’d talked. You know, at
the hands of VEVAK everyone talks. I figured you’d identify the danger and leave that place. I’m glad you did.”

“What did the neighbor know?”

“Luckily, he only knew that you were hiding at the factory, but didn’t know exactly where, because he wasn’t supposed to know.
His duty was to observe the factory and alert us if there was an emergency. Did the VEVAK try to find you there?”

I told him about the strange noises and the note I found. I had to.

“That means he managed to send somebody to warn you,” Sammy said.

“Or maybe he had to tell them about my hideout, and they tried to lure me out.”

“Unlikely,” said Sammy. “If VEVAK were there, they’d come with full brute force and turn the place upside down. But what ever
it was, it’s time to move. We think we can whisk you out now. Let me have all your documents; just keep your money.” He handed
me a used Armenian identity card with my photo. “Use this only in an emergency—some cop may be stupid enough to accept this
as genuine.” He handed me a hat that smelled bad and an ethnic-looking jacket.

“Put them on.”

“What are these?”

“Qashqai clothes,” he said. “We’ll smuggle you over the mountains to Turkey with the help of our Qashqai friends. You must
look like them and blend with the others.” Qashqai men wear a typical felt hat with rims considerably raised over the top.
The jacket was also typical Qashqai.

I knew from my briefings who the Qashqai were. A semi-nomadic tribe mainly located in Fārs Province in southwestern Iran,
they were the second largest Turkic group in the country, after the Azerbaijanis.

“Can I trust them to get me safely to Turkey?”

“Of course, they’re very experienced. In the winter they move from the highlands north of Shiraz to the lowlands north of
the Persian Gulf, and now they return to the highlands.”

“I’m sure about that, but can I trust them not to turn me in?” I knew loyalties in this part of the world could quickly change.

“They don’t know who you are, and I don’t think they care. They know you’re under our protection, and that’s all that matters.”
He smiled. I wasn’t sure I could return the smile.

Sammy drove me to the parking lot next to Tarehbar Square, the wholesale fruit and vegetable market in south Tehran. He stopped
next to an old truck and pointed at the driver. “He’ll take you across the border to Turkey. Be prepared for a long ride.”

“How long?”

“A nonstop trip from Tehran to the crossing point to Turkey would take about twenty-four hours, maybe a little longer depending
on road conditions, since the snow is melting. But in this case, your entire trip across the border may take four to six
days, including stops, because part of the way will be off-road on horse back.”

I looked at the grizzled truck driver standing next to his shabby 1963 Mercedes Benz truck. Its sixteen-foot bed was covered
with a canvas tarp with several patches, but new holes were in the making.

“There’s no planned route, because if road conditions, police roadblocks, or the weather change, the driver will look for
alternative routes.” Sammy chuckled. “There’s no itinerary of sites to visit or hotel reservations to worry about.”

“Who are these people?” I asked when I saw three men climb into the truck.

“Other passengers he’s smuggling. In fact, it serves our purpose, because you can blend with them.”

“Blend?” I snorted. “I’m fair skinned and six foot four, and they’re dark and a foot shorter. I’ll be the obvious outsider.”

“Not necessarily. We can’t do anything about your height, but your beard and these clothes do a good job of masking your appearance.”
He pointed at a short man with a hat similar to mine. He smiled at me. “This is your driver. His name is Kashkuli Buzurg.
He’ll take good care of you.” Sammy and the driver exchanged a few sentences.

“What language does he speak?”

“A dialect of Turkish. But like most Qashqais, he also speaks Farsi.”

“And how do I communicate with him?”

“Let this be the least of your concerns. You’ll manage. Use your hands and body language,” Sammy answered.

“When you get closer to the Bazargan border crossing to Turkey, police activity will increase. He’ll use dirt roads to bring
you to a Qashqai camp. From there, they’ll take you on horse-back across the Zāgros Mountains in western Iran into the vicinity
of Doğubayazit, Turkey.”

“The Iranian police and military don’t supervise that border area?” I asked.

“They know that the nomadic Qashqais move their herds
twice a year in this area, so the police and army aren’t expected to immediately suspect such movement. The Qashqais summer
location is about ten thousand feet above sea level. It’s still cold up there—not all the snow has melted.”

The name “Doğubayazit” sounded familiar. Then I remembered: it was the city next to the Ararat mountain range, where the remains
of Noah’s Ark were alleged to have been found. A strange thought passed through my mind. The
Titanic
was built by professionals, while Noah’s Ark was built by an amateur. Some people believe that a symmetrical, streamlined
stone structure near there has the right dimensions and interior configuration, and symmetrically arranged traces of metal,
consistent with its being the Ark. Also, anchor stones have been found near there. I always wondered, whenever I was scratching
my aching skin in summer mornings spent outside the city, why Noah didn’t let the pair of mosquitoes stay behind and drown.
He probably never experienced having a bloodthirsty mosquito in his bedroom at two in the morning that cannot be smashed or
cast out. I looked at Sammy and felt a pang for having suspected him. I took a thick stack of U.S. hundred-dollar bills and
offered it to Sammy.

“Here, please take it. I can’t thank you enough.”

“No,” he said firmly, pushing my hand away. “You’re very kind, but I can’t take it. Your people are helping us in many ways,
and helping you is just a duty of honor for us.”

Sammy shook my hand. “Good luck.” I hugged him. He walked to his car.
Thank you very much,
I wanted to say again, but he was already out of hearing range.

I climbed into the back of the truck. I sat on a pile of old blankets padded with sheep’s wool, wrapped myself with one, and
offered a broad smile to my new travel companions. They nodded and said something I couldn’t understand. So I just nodded
back. The engine roared and the truck left the parking lot.

I was troubled by not being able to communicate in any language with the driver or my travel companions. That could be hazardous
in case of emergency, when reaction to perils needed to be immediate.

I had to try my best. I blurted out,
“Salaam Aleikum”
—hello, or peace on you.

“Aleikum Salaam,”
they returned the greeting, without the least look of surprise on their faces.
“Maen kaemi farsi baelaedaem”
—I speak a little Persian.
“Haletun chetoreh?”
—How are you? They burst into laughter; I guess my accent wasn’t perfect, or maybe not even close. I thanked Erikka in my
heart for teaching me these few sentences. Where was she now?

“Aez ashnai tun khosh baek taem”
—Nice to meet you!
“Saelam ba ba! maenaem, adriyan.”

“To bozorgi.”
I didn’t know what he meant until he used his hands to gesture: you’re big. His friends burst out laughing. I grinned.

From the position of the rising sun I realized that the truck was going northwest. We left the madness of the city behind
and soon found ourselves moving along a busy highway. About an hour’s drive out of Tehran, we started to gain steadily in
elevation into the mountains. I put my head on a blanket, covered myself with another torn blanket, and thought of my children.
It was times like this that I missed them the most. They were used to months going by without word, but still I wondered if
they worried.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next time I looked outside I saw nothing but vast, empty land. What always struck me
in countries like Iran was how drastically the line between city and country was drawn. One moment you could be risking your
life in mad city traffic and the next be in calm country surroundings with no lights, no pollution, but a timeless scenery
all around.

Apart from a few stops for fueling, the ride was monotonous and without incident. At about eight p.m. we pulled off to sleep
for the night. I couldn’t sleep just yet. I’d had my share during the day, so I decided to take a short walk in the moonlight
to ease my tension. The hillsides were dotted with trees, and the hills sloped gently down into canyons. It was
breathtaking. After my months of indoor living, I relished the outdoors.

On first light the next morning, we continued. The landscape became higher and wilder, until the boulders grew to the size
of mountains. The major roads disappeared and gave way to tracks populated by people who cared only about tomorrow’s meal,
and not about terrorism or international politics. From the looks of it, they were living as their ancestors had lived for
hundreds, or even thousands, of years.

The scenery appeared to have been molded by endless earthquakes, with enormous boulders and uneven cliffs coming right to
the edge of the road. Occasionally we would catch a quick glimpse of a mud-brick village. I saw several waterways carved in
the rocks flowing down the slopes to the village for drinking and irrigating.

An hour later, I felt the truck shudder. A car had rear-ended us. I peered over the side of the truck to see if we’d suffered
any damage. Nothing serious. The men near me called to our driver, evidently telling him there was no need to stop. He continued
driving, ignoring the impact and leaving the colliding car behind us.

Our next stop was Mākū, an Azeri town along the road close to the Turkish border. It didn’t appear to consist of much. The
landscape, though, was amazing. Volcanic cliffs rose around the town, giving it an aura of mystery. The small mud shacks ascending
the cliff looked fascinating. Our driver had stopped for food. Since the truck couldn’t be locked and all of our meager belongings
were in the truck bed, someone had to stay behind when the others took off. It was clear I was to be the one, lest I attract
attention.

I lay back on the truck bed, letting my eyes range over the signs. sina bairamzadeh internet café. Internet! I was considering
running over and sending a message, but I changed my mind when I saw a police squad car parked right across the street. I
hadn’t come this close to the border to be apprehended. Disappointed, I sat on the dingy blankets until our driver returned
with a big plate of pilaf rice with lamb chops and warm naan, the local pita bread.

“Maem nunaem,”
I said. Thank you.

“Khahesh mikonaem.”
You’re welcome.

We headed out of town and kept on until after dark before camping for the night in an off-road valley. My mind was still on
that faraway Internet café. What news was waiting for me in my e-mail account?

The new day began with a bright blue sky. Powerful winds made billowy clouds fly around the surrounding peaks and slide down
the mountainsides. As we were still heading northwest towards Turkey, the mountain range that we were crossing seemed to be
a slender backbone rising from the flat terrain; its peaks were still covered with snow. I couldn’t tell if we were a few
hours or a few days away, and my efforts to communicate with our driver beyond basic greetings were to no avail.

The villages in this region made more use of lumber in their buildings, and the terraced villages were abundantly green, making
good use of the snowmelt I saw streaming down from the mountains into rivers and streams. I’m always a little disoriented
for a short period in a foreign country with a different climate and people.

Toward noon, the air became warmer once again, although the elevation was high. On the left, I saw a tartan green stretch
of rice paddies, in terraces up toward the rugged slope of the mountains.

We stopped, and everyone on the truck headed to the nearby stream for the first bath in days. It was bracingly cold, but we
were all grateful to wash off the dust and filth of the road. I wondered how I looked to the world. It had been days since
I’d seen a mirror. Was the grime helping me blend in?

Three men on horses approached us. I stiffened, sensing trouble. Instinctively I looked for my gun, but it was buried in the
pile of clothes I’d left on the water’s edge just a few feet away. But our driver spoke with them in a friendly enough
manner, and pointed at me. He signaled me to come closer. I put my clothes on and walked shivering from the cold toward them.
Our driver waved his hand toward me and then signaled at the horse riders. “Turkey, Turkey,” he said nodding his head, signaling
me to join them. I retrieved my daypack and shrugged it on. I heard car engine noises. Two military Jeeps were approaching
us, signaling with their lights to stay put. I didn’t have to look twice to realize that this time it was real trouble, and
that I was their target. How had they found me here? I needed to move quickly.

One of the horse men slipped his foot briefly out of one stirrup so I could use it, gave me his hand, and pulled me up to
sit on the blanket behind him. My companions during the past three days waved at me.

“Ba aman-I-Khuda”
—May God protect you—they said with their hands over their hearts.
“Baerat doa mikonaem”
—I’ll pray for you—said the eldest man.

I was so tense that I forgot the farewell words I’d toiled so hard to remember. I was too busy thinking how long it’d take
before the Jeeps would catch up with us. My guide was cool and undeterred. He quickly steered his horse toward the dense woods
up the hill on a narrow pathway. The Jeeps stopped, but not before we heard shots and angry yelling in Farsi.

We galloped away through the woods, the thicket scratching my face and arms. I held the rider tightly. An eternity later,
just when I thought that every muscle in my body, even ones I didn’t know existed, would never loosen again, we arrived at
a simple mud-brick hut. We got off the horses and entered the hut. I felt I was dragging myself along every step. It was clean,
with no running water or electricity. There were no beds in the hut, just old blankets on the floor. My hosts gave me pita
bread with goat yogurt. No words were spoken, but warm hospitality was abundant.

In the early morning, I shuddered awake, cognizant of light streaming into the hut. There was a smell of burning wood.

One of the men was making coffee on a small fire in the middle of the room. He offered me a small, ornamented, bronze-colored
cup with thick, bittersweet coffee. It was no time to be picky. I held the cup in my hands to warm them up and emptied it
in one gulp. Slowly, tentatively, I walked outside. Two of the men followed me and when they saw me looking around, they pointed
at the huge mountain range ahead of us and said, “Ararat!”

We were in a landscape of jagged stone high up above the timberline. Outside our hut I saw about a hundred tribesmen camping
on the grounds.

“Turkey,” said my host, pointing toward the ground. “Turkey.” That explained why he didn’t seem to be worried that the Iranian
military Jeeps would continue their man-hunt. Although there’d been no checkpoint and no change in the terrain for the past
few days, we were in a different country.

I’m out of Iran! I’m in Turkey!
I wanted to yell. Thank god. A pickup truck came through a dirt road to the hut, and my hosts signaled me to enter the truck’s
cabin. I waved good-bye to them. We had barely exchanged a word, and I had no idea who they were. But they had saved my life,
part of a team of anonymous lifesavers.

The truck was driven by a small-framed, chain-smoking man in his late fifties. After a six-hour drive off-road we finally
hit a paved road. The first sights that struck me with the reality of having finally left Iran were signs on a roadside gas
station and restaurant in the Latin alphabet: kredi, with the capital
I
dotted. In his quest to modernize Turkey, Kemal Atatürk had made all Turks convert from the ornate Arabic script to the far
more efficient Latin in six intense months in the 1920s.