“Great, I’ll certainly call you.” We continued chatting for ten or fifteen more minutes. I paid for the drinks and cakes. “I need to leave. Thank you very much for your offer,” I said, and left. She stayed behind.
Later on that night I was driven to meet Casey.
“It went smoothly,” I said. “She sounded eager to talk to anyone about anything. I don’t think we’ll face major difficulties in recruiting her.”
Two days later I called her.
“Hi, this is Ian Pour Laval. Steve Corcoran introduced us the other evening at the cafe.”
“Of course I remember our meeting. How are you?” “I’m fine, thanks; gaining weight on the Austrian food.” “Unfortunately I’ve experienced it too,” she said in acceptance.
“Well, it looks nice on you and bad on me. Anyway, I’ve got a quick question for you concerning Iran. I hope you don’t mind the short intrusion.”
“Not at all, I’m actually happy you called. I like talking about Iran.”
“I’m lucky I met you,” I said. “My question concerns family customs in Iran, and how a traditional family would treat a Muslim member of the family who dates a Catholic woman.”
“Just dating? No marriage plans are announced?”
“Well, at the beginning it was just a date-I need to fine-tune the dynamics of the reaction of people in the respective cultures when they see what develops between the two. Does the couple hear objections, or do people just talk behind their backs? Once I get a better feeling for that potential conflict, I’ll move on to the issue of marriage, and how society and their respective families treat them.”
“Generally speaking, Iranian society, like that of any other ethnic group, cannot be regarded as homogeneous,” said Erikka. “For example, Iranian farmers in the south have different family values and religious beliefs from city people. So you’ll have to tell me more about the familial background before I can attempt to answer your question.”
“The man is a Shiite Muslim, born and educated in Iran. He works as a pharmacist in a pharmaceutical firm in Tehran. The woman is a Catholic Austrian who came to Tehran to teach German in a local school. Her parents are farmers in southern Austria. By Iranian standards, due to his education and exposure to Western values, the man is considered modern. His family follows the traditional Islamic customs of marrying within the religion and according men superiority in the family. He’s torn between his love for her and his loyalty to his family and his up-bringing and culture.
“These are the general pa ram e ters. But obviously there are nuances when they’re faced with changing circumstances in Iran, and when her ideas on equal rights for women in the society clash with what she sees in his family and in Iran in general. Although I’m writing fiction, I want the book to be as accurate as possible as it concerns facts on Iran and its people’s daily life.”
“I think I can help you if you describe a particular event, and tell me from what perspective you want my answer-from the European woman’s or the Iranian man’s. I could do both.”
“Well, it seems that you’re more qualified to help me than I thought. Can we have dinner, at a place of your choosing, and we can chat?”
“Of course. When do you have in mind?”
I had the impression that she was available at any time I’d suggest. All I needed to do was set it up.
“How about tomorrow night?” I wanted to suggest to-night, but I didn’t want to look too eager, or embarrass her by suggesting that I knew that she had no other things to do.
“Fine, I’ll meet you at Figlmuller’s at seven thirty. Is that a good time?”
“Yes, but where is it?”
“Just opposite St. Stephan’s Cathedral. Any cabdriver will know the place. They serve genuine Viennese food, and there are even some Swiss dishes.”
When I arrived at the restaurant at exactly seven thirty, Erikka was already waiting for me at the bar. The place had a beautiful decor of vaulted arches and wood-paneled walls. Erikka was dressed in a low-cut black dress and had put makeup on her rosy cheeks. She looked radiant, ready for a date, not the professional meeting I had in mind.
“Thanks for agreeing to help me,” I said as I sat down. The smell of food made me almost drool.
“I’m happy to be needed.” She smiled. “Look at the blackboard,” she said. “This restaurant is famous for its old-style gigantic Wiener schnitzels.”
My drooling stage went from potential to reality. These area rug-sized schnitzels are my favorite. Erikka ordered salad and local wine, and I ordered the biggest veal schnitzel they had.
“How long will you be in Vienna?”
“I’ve got no timetable. I want to spend enough time to feel the city and talk to people. Although the plot takes place in Tehran, I want to understand the culture that the woman in my novel brings with her.”
“Does she already have a name?”
“Abelina. But that may change; I have only early drafts.” “I gave some thought to our conversation, particularly if the situation were reversed and the events took place in Vienna,” she said. “Then one would expect that Austrians would be more tolerant of a Muslim trying to marry a local woman than Iranians in Iran would be when faced with your story line.”
“Why?”
“Because Islam is the second-largest religion in Austria. Muslims amount to more than 5 percent of the Austrian population, 500,000 out of 8.1 million. I think Austrians would basically react in the exact same manner as the Iranians would react, though expressed differently, given the disparities in the respective cultures.”
“You mean rejection and opposition, unless there’s a complete assimilation into their culture?”
“Exactly.”
We discussed in detail Austrian history and its relationship with Muslims until I felt we’d exhausted the subject. “I’m sorry,” I said in an apologetic tone. “I meant to ask you questions about Iran, and yet I realize that you’re so knowledgeable in Austrian matters as well. Can we talk about Iran? Do you speak Farsi?”
“Of course,” she said proudly with a happy smile. “I grew up there. My father was the vice president of a Swiss bank’s branch in Tehran. I came to Iran at the age of three and left when I became eighteen. At home we spoke Swiss German, of course. At the American school we spoke English, but anywhere else I spoke Farsi. Nobody can tell I’m not Iranian.”
I grinned hearing that from a blonde-haired, gray-eyed, and pale-skinned woman with typical European features.
She caught up with me and smiled. “I mean by listening to me speak Farsi. There’s nothing I can do about my Teutonic ancestors.”
“Are your parents still living?” I asked.
“No, my father died two years after we left Tehran, and my mother died five years later.”
I left it at that-no more personal questions, since I had to build some expectations in her for continued contact. If Erikka had other thoughts, she didn’t mention them. Un-prompted, she spoke about her childhood in northern Tehran and her friends. An hour later I felt it was time to stop, or I’d have to pose the question. But it was premature.
I looked at my watch. “It’s getting late. I still need to make some calls.”
“At this late hour? People here go to sleep pretty early,” she said, signaling she wanted to keep talking.
“It’s still early afternoon in the U.S.,” I said briskly.
Back at the hotel, I wrote in my report, “Subject is already ripe for the move. I think I should suggest employment during our next contact. Since hiring her isn’t expected to raise any suspicion or doubts, I see no forthcoming obstacles.”
It was all deja vu. In my Mossad years, my unit was sent to Austria to recruit a potential source spotted by a Mossad veteran skiing in Austria. Heinrich was a ski instructor on the slopes near Kitzbuhel, popular among rich vacationing Arabs. We were supposedly Dutchmen and South Africans working for a large South African manufacturer of military equipment. Heinrich’s students- Arab governm
ent officials, Arab military men, and Arab private-sector businessmen-were the ultimate targets.
We’d thought it would be a walk in the park, convincing a ski instructor who could work only a few months a year to introduce manufacturers of military equipment to his clients, thus earning a commission. The legend had been designed to give credence to our presentation. Since apartheid had led to an embargo on goods from South Africa during the late sixties and early seventies, personal contacts were key. Once introduced by Heinrich, we would “convince” the Arab officials to attend our sales presentation with a wad of cash just to listen. If these government officials agreed to take our cash, they would demonstrate their corruptibility. It would only take a few smaller, carefully planned steps for them to become ours for all intents and purposes.
After a few lessons with Heinrich, we asked him to join us for drinks, and a few rounds of beer later, Alon, my supervisor, made the first move and asked Heinrich about his other ski students. Heinrich was unexpectedly guarded; he didn’t drop famous names, and, in fact, there were no names of Arab countries in the list of countries he mentioned whose citizens had hired him. On the other hand, it seemed that Heinrich was more interested in our background and in our business activities.
“There’s something odd about this guy,” said Alon later. And indeed, the following morning Alon told us to pack. “We are leaving,” he said. “Heinrich is already contracted.”
The office had just received a warning that Heinrich was on an alert list of BND, the German Federal Intelligence Ser vice (Bundesnachrichtendienst), as working for a communist Eastern Bloc country’s intelligence service. He had perhaps been trying to recruit us.
That experience taught me an important lesson. In the intelligence world, there are no sure things. What seems like a slam dunk could turn up empty.
The next morning I called Erikka. If she was glad to hear my voice, she didn’t sound like it.
“Are you OK?” I couldn’t help but asking.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m going through a difficult time.”
“Anything I can do to help?” She hesitated. “You can tell me,” I said. “Maybe I can help.”
“Well…” She paused again.
“Yes?”
“I need a job,” she said abruptly, hesitation gone.
“Oh.” I gave it time to sound surprised. “Well, that’s funny. I was calling you about just that. I’ve been thinking about our conversation. I was really impressed with your knowledge of Austria and Iran, and I think I could use your talents.”
“You mean hire me?”
“That’s right. I consulted with Steve about it. I can offer you a2,500 a month, guaranteed for a period of six months.” She was silent. “Are you still there?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “It’s really a generous offer.”
“Yeah, well, Steve also liked the idea, so the company’s picking up the tab.”
“What would I be doing?”
“You’d be assisting me, mostly in research. And traveling-I hope that’d be OK. Obviously, all travel expenses are covered.”
“Travel where? To Iran?” Excitement suddenly entered her voice.
“Probably. Is that OK?”
“It’s wonderful. I’d love to go back.”
“Well, it’s definitely an option. You know I want to find my Iranian roots-maybe write another book. Is there anything here that’d prevent you from traveling?”
“Only my cat. I have a grown daughter who lives in Zurich, and I can easily get another tutor to teach my only student.”
“Good. So we’re on. I need to leave Vienna for a few days, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s a done deal. I’ll put a letter to you in the mail with an advance for the first month. Is that OK?”
“Super.”
The following morning, after a too-rich Austrian breakfast, the driver took me to a meeting at a modest-looking house in a residential area. The driver nodded towards the house and indicated he would wait.
I went through the gate and knocked on the heavy, dark, wooden door. A young man opened the door, and without saying anything, signaled me to follow him to a sitting room. I sat on the couch and waited. The wooden floor was clean, but worn out. There was hardly any furniture in the room and no personal items. Moments later Casey Bauer and Benny Friedman arrived.
They sat on the black leather couch opposite me, and Casey got right to it.
“I hear you’ve already successfully accomplished getting Erikka on board.”
How did he know that? I hadn’t reported it yet. Was her phone tapped, or maybe mine? Why was he revealing the fact that he knew?
“Yes. It wasn’t difficult. She was very eager, as you said. We need to mail her a check.” I gave Casey the details.
“Dan,” said Casey in a serious tone. “We’ve got a tentative go-ahead for the plan that was discussed.”
“Mossad is cooperating with the U.S. on that,” added Benny.
“Dan,” said Casey. “You will fly with Erikka from Vienna to Tehran.”
I nodded. “When?”
“A date hasn’t been set yet, because we need to train you in Iranian customs, get a designated contact to be ready for you, and make sure Erikka is ready to travel when the final approval is issued.”
Casey opened a briefcase and pulled out a thick folder. “During your next meeting with Erikka, tell her that you have a pleasant surprise for her. While you were away from Vienna, you met Swiss bankers on a social occasion and told them about your forthcoming trip to Iran. When the language-barrier issue came up, you mentioned that you’d be accompanied by a European woman who graduated from the American School in Tehran and is fluent in Farsi. One of the bankers called you a few days later with an offer. He wanted to use your assistant’s contact with the former graduates of the school as an opportunity to introduce his bank’s services to Iranian businesses. He told you that he believed that graduates of that school will now be employed in high-ranking positions in the Iranian economy, and that he would finance efforts to locate alumni of the school who live in Tehran, and perhaps arrange a reunion to showcase the bank’s services. Tell her that the bank’s representative wants to interview her, and if she meets the bank’s needs, they will pay her a1,500 a month, guaranteed for seven months, to locate the alumni and coordinate the reunion.”
“Isn’t a1,500 a month too little?”
“No. If she’s paid too much, she might lose interest in your book project.”
“Gotcha. By the way, she’s gonna want to know the bank’s name. She is, after all, Swiss.”
“Tempelhof Bank.”
I couldn’t help but grin. Benny’s bank. Benny kept a straight face, but the spark in his eyes said it all.
Casey turned to me. “We will provide you with a short family tree of your paternal grandfather’s side to memorize and use in searching for your relatives.” I would get a mission kit for review, he said, and would go to Iran as Ian Pour Laval.
I was told my new family history. My paternal grandfather was Ali Akbar Pour. He was born in Tehran and immigrated to Canada in the 1920s, where he owned a small candy and cigarettes store. He married a local woman, and they had one son, my purported father, Pierre Pour. Upon his marriage and my birth, my mother’s maiden name was added to my father’s family name, as is customary in many societies. I was the only living family member, making my legend airtight.
A local contact, Kurdish intelligence officer Padas? Acun, would be my weapon of last resort in case of emergency. Probably another Mossad contribution.
“Padas?’s men will look after you as guardian angels, but from a distance,” said Casey. “They don’t know who you are, and shouldn’t know, as well. The legend is that they’re indirectly hired by an insurance company to protect you from kidnapping for ransom because you married a wealthy heiress. Your wife’s family took out an insurance policy, and the insurance company hired a security consulting company to protect you, and they o
utsourced the job to Padas?. He thinks that he knows the ‘real story,’ that your wife’s relatives are also important contributors to the ruling party in Canada, and therefore any harm threatened will immediately get the Canadian government to intervene. But that legend is really thin, so he may guess who you’re working for. If he asks, deny. Although he’s likely to suspect that you’re more than just a writer and even guess that you’re an intelligence officer, he has no idea about your allegiance or purpose of mission. By being at a distance his men will also be able to monitor and report if you have attracted the attention of any branch of VEVAK.” The Iranian security service.
“So I’m married?” I tried to remember if I’d said anything to Erikka about my personal life.
“Only legally. You are separated, but until a divorce decree is entered, your wife’s lawyers didn’t want to take any chance, especially because you have children, so they had an insurance policy issued.”
“If my Kurdish guardian angels establish the potential rivals to be Iranian security, what then?”
“They’ll report any attention you might attract. They were told that kidnappers may use contacts within the Iranian security establishment to inform them of your movements. Therefore, they should regard any interest you’re attracting as hostile, even if it comes from Iranian VEVAK.”
I nodded. “How do I make contact with Padas??”
“You don’t initiate the contact. He’ll introduce himself soon after you arrive and will tell you how to contact him in an emergency. Make sure that all your book-research contacts are made openly with people who would have no connection with government, military, defense, or anything strategic. Talk to shoemakers, bazaar merchants, teachers, farmers. Write down what they say, without attribution. If your notes are ever reviewed, they should show nothing but innocuous conversations on daily life and family customs of Iran. Same goes for your search for your roots. Try to get invited to homes, but wait for the second or third repetition of the invitation to accept. Keep in mind an Iranian proverb that may become handy: ‘Bi aedisheh aez du: zaeh ya: behesht sa: degh ba: sh’ -‘Be honest without the thought of heaven or hell.’ ”
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