The Chameleon Conspiracy dg-3

by Haggai Harmon

  “Why are you mentioning it?”

  “Because we don’t want you to do anything a regular tourist wouldn’t. I’m sure you’ll be rewarded.”

  “I didn’t know you spoke Farsi,” I said.

  “I don’t. I learned that proverb from a wise man.” Funny, Casey didn’t strike me as a proverb-quoting kind of guy. Maybe I wasn’t as good at pegging people as I thought I was.

  “What about Erikka?” I asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Any instructions?”

  “Nothing that concerns the real reason why she’s going to Iran. Obviously she should never learn who you are or what the real purpose of your visit is. Let her suggest ways she could help you in your book research and your search for your roots. If you can, escort her to her meetings with her alumni, but don’t take center stage.”

  “Where will the reunion take place?”

  “Europe would have been ideal, but since some of these people could be part of the current government or even the security establishment, they might become suspicious, or the government itself might. So we’ll probably have it in Tehran.”

  “What about the American alumni who can’t or won’t return to Iran?”

  “The American graduates came out squeaky clean in our check, so we don’t need them. We’ll say the reunion is regional-‘Asian-European.’ We can have alums from countries that have diplomatic relationships with Iran, so no one will think it’s for ethnic Iranians only and get suspicious.”

  Three hours of instruction later, Benny said calmly, “I brought you a present.” Casey Bauer smiled knowingly.

  “What? A farewell gift? You don’t expect to see me back?” I found myself sounding like the Jewish mother in all the jokes.

  “Oh, stop,” Benny said, signaling to Casey to open the door. A short, very thin, dark-skinned man in his sixties with wavy black hair walked in with a demure demeanor.

  “Please meet Parviz Morad,” said Benny. I looked at the stranger. He was wearing clothes that were about one or two sizes bigger than his frame. His dark eyes were sunken and his wrinkled cheeks fallen. His face was gloomy. He seemed so humble, looking at us as if he were waiting for instructions.

  Benny touched the man’s shoulder and said, “Please sit here with us.” The man complied.

  “Mr. Parviz Morad was born in Tehran in 1962 to an army col o nel who had been the Iranian military attache in London for two years during the reign of the Shah. Parviz attended the American School in Tehran from first grade through fourth, and from seventh through twelfth grades. He attended fifth and sixth grades in London.”

  Born in 1962? He was only forty-three, but looked decades older.

  At Benny’s prompting, Morad began to speak, in English with a slight British accent. “In late 1979 I was drafted into a highly selective unit of young Iranian men. We were sent to a heavily guarded location in northern Tehran, which before the revolution was used as a club for foreign military officers. We were subjected to daily religious indoctrination and teaching of strict rules of Islamic behavior according to Ayatollah Khomeini’s interpretation of Islam.”

  “Please tell my friend the name of that unit,” said Benny.

  “It was code-named Atashbon, Farsi for the guardians of fire,” he answered, lowering his eyes.

  I was staggered. So that’s what Benny had meant. Parviz Morad was my farewell present.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I hid my surprise. “How many of you were in Atashbon?” I asked.

  “Eighteen or twenty, I don’t remember exactly.”

  “Was it all religious indoctrination?” I asked.

  “No. After the religious immersion that lasted six months, we were given military training and an additional six-month course in intelligence gathering and communications.”

  “Where were you located?”

  “Department 81 maintained a top-secret center in the suburbs of Tehran, code-named Agdassieh Post, and another satellite office, Shiraz Post.”

  “Were you the only group to be trained there?”

  He shook his head. “No. We discovered later that this place was used also for training combatants to carry out terrorist attacks, assassinations, and kidnappings outside Iran. We were also trained at Imam Hussein Post, usually used by a regional unit attached to the Revolutionary Guards-Pasdaran-e Enghelab-e Islami. That location was also used as a training center for sabotage and other terrorist activities in foreign countries.”

  “When you were selected, did you know why?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “They never told you why you were assembled together, separated from your families and friends?” His soundtrack sounded untrustworthy.

  “We immediately recognized that we were all graduates of the American School in Tehran. We speculated that we were sent there for reeducation to rid us of the satanic doctrines of America. When we asked why we were selected, we were told that we would soon find out. We then had military and clandestine-operation training. We realized they had specific tasks for us.”

  “Did you already know the other cadets?” I asked.

  “Just two or three, and not even by name.” He moved his eyes and looked toward the window. We have a problem here, I thought.

  “What happened after the training ended?”

  “We were taken to a meeting with an ayatollah, who told us how we should be proud to be chosen to fight for the Islamic Revolution,” he answered. “He said that the Americans are infidel pigs and sons of monkeys who think that with the might of the Great Satan they can bring true believers down. ‘They have no honor,’ he said. ‘You will give them a lesson they’ll remember.’ ”

  “And what was that lesson? Did he say?”

  “No, he only said that our instructors would tell us. We returned to our base, and Bahman Hossein Rashtian, our commander, told us what was expected of us.”

  “And?” I said, struggling to keep the impatience out of my voice.

  “Rashtian told us that the revolution was counting on us to destroy America. We were going to be sent to the United States using stolen identities and establish ourselves as regular U.S. citizens. Once we were immersed in a community, we were to receive instructions from Tehran.”

  “Did he tell you specifically how you would assume American identities?”

  “Yes, we actually had training classes on that. They told us how they got the first American passport. Our instructor told us about the German archaeological team and its request to allow an American photographer to enter Iran. That request was brought to the attention of our commander, Bahman Hossein Rashtian. He boasted that he immediately identified the potential. Since the capture of the American Embassy and its diplomats, no American dared set foot in Iran. But if that photographer would agree to come to Iran, Atashbon’s first project could be launched. He told us that since all the outgoing and incoming mail of foreigners in Iran was opened, he knew exactly what to do.

  “Rashtian called the American photographer, posing as a member of the archaeological group, and offered Ward a job for $500 a month for three months. Rashtian told us that according to the visa application filed by the archaeological expedition, Ward’s parents were no longer living. Rashtian then questioned Fischer about Albert’s finances under the guise of investigating Albert’s ability to support himself in Iran. Fischer told him that Albert was living on $5 a day. That, Rashtian told us, gave him the idea how to lure Albert into Iran.”

  “Wasn’t Ward hesitant?” I asked.

  “Yes, but when he heard that the first month’s salary would be paid up front, directly into his bank account outside Iran, he gave in.”

  “Do you know what happened to Ward?”

  “He was killed by Rashtian’s men. We heard from Rashtian that before killing Ward they had extracted from him information about his life. It took some time, because he stuttered.”

  “And then?”

  “Kourosh Alireza Farhadi, a membe
r of Atashbon, with physical characteristics similar to Ward’s, was chosen to step into Ward’s identity.”

  “Tell us about Atashbon and Department 81,” said Casey. “Department 81 had several hundred staff members. Our unit of American School graduates was Atashbon. Both were operated under the overall command and supervision of Bahman Hossein Rashtian.”

  “Did Department 81 have other missions?”

  “Yes, but I have no specific knowledge. We were kept apart from the others.”

  “How do you know all this about Ward?” I asked. It seemed suspicious that the Iranians hadn’t compartmentalized the information, a must in any intelligence operation.

  “Since it was the first case, we were all participating in the process to learn how to do it with the next American that was caught.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked.

  “After viewing Ward’s five-hour eight-millimeter film interview many times, and rehearsing his new role as Albert Ward, Kourosh Alireza Farhadi was given Ward’s passport and other documents and was flown from Europe to Toronto, Canada.”

  “Do you know which country in Europe?”

  “No. They didn’t tell us. Later on, we were told that after a few days in Toronto, Farhadi, now posing as Albert Ward, boarded a bus and crossed the border to the U.S.”

  It had been that easy, I realized. In those days, there had been very little or no inspection at the U.S.-Canadian border. At many border crossings, there had been no immigration inspection, only customs officers interested if the passenger was bringing any fresh food from Canada. No entry stamps had been used for returning U.S. citizens, and no record of the entry had been made.

  “Did they tell you how Kourosh immersed himself in the U.S.?” asked Casey.

  Parviz nodded. “In our training class. Although he spoke perfect English, he’d never actually visited the U.S. They wanted us to learn from his mistakes and difficulties.”

  I immediately thought about the immersion training at Mossad. Those chosen to be sent into hostile countries were called “combatants,” not agents, and were trained separately from the rest of us, who were intended to become case officers. During a period of preparation that lasted one to three years, most of the combatants were initially sent to a nonhostile third country to familiarize themselves with the country’s daily routines-riding a bus, buying groceries, watching popular TV shows, and reading the sports columns. Only when the controllers were confident that a combatant was ready was he planted in the target country. From what Parviz was describing, it seems that the Iranians weren’t that sophisticated, and had sent Kourosh Alireza Farhadi directly to the U.S. with only a brief stopover in Canada. I now understood why Louis Romano, the drama teacher from Gary, Indiana, had been surprised at the Chameleon’s lack of familiarity with terms that any Wisconsin resident would know.

  Still, I had to concede that the Iranians’ mistakes hadn’t harmed their mission much.

  “Despite all that, they told us in the update meetings that Farhadi was able to pull off a series of scams, mostly against U.S. banks, eventually exceeding $100 million. The Iranian security-service officers in our camp were elated and said that they had awarded Farhadi with two medals that would be kept in his file until he returned to Tehran.”

  “Where were you all this time?”

  “In Tehran, working at the headquarters of Atashbon. Rashtian said that my accent was too British.”

  I asked Parviz directly, “How did you end up here?”

  He shrugged. “I came to think the new regime wasn’t much better than the Shah’s. When I talked about it with my friends, or people I thought were my friends, I was accused of being an infidel and a betrayer of the faith and was expelled from the unit. Within three days I was taken from the camp by military police, drafted into the Iranian army, and sent to the front lines to fight the Iraqis.”

  “When was that?”

  “It was the end of the war, 1988. It took only two weeks for me to be captured. They held me until not long ago.”

  Benny spoke up. “Our agents heard about him from a released prisoner and managed to buy his freedom and smuggle him out of Iraq just before this most recent war. He received political asylum in Israel in return for his cooperation.”

  I excused myself and took Benny aside. “Why just now?” I asked Benny in Hebrew. “Where was he all this time?”

  “We got him out only recently,” he answered quietly in Hebrew. That meant he’d just finished squeezing out every bit of information available.

  “Can he identify all other members of Atashbon?”

  “He says he can’t. He says he knew only two others by name. The rest were given code names, and he had never been in the same class with them at the American School.”

  I didn’t buy that, but said nothing to Benny. Maybe Benny wanted that information fleshed out later and exchanged when he needed something from the CIA.

  “And the two he knew?”

  “We’re working on it with Casey.”

  We returned to the sofa and joined Morad and Casey. “How many Atashbon members were ultimately sent to the U.S.?” asked Casey. He’d saved the most important question for the end, always a good tactic.

  “I was there about eight years,” said Parviz. “I know for a fact that at least eight men were sent from Iran during that period.”

  “All to the U.S.?”

  “I think so. All were gradually transferred to a third country, mostly in Europe, for a few days, and from there they were sent individually to the U.S.”

  “But you don’t have their names?”

  “No. Other than the two I remembered from school, the rest were strangers. It was all extremely secretive. We were forbidden to use our real names and were given new Iranian names. I got so used to my new name that I sometimes get confused and still use it, although it’s been many years now.”

  “And do you remember any real names of the members?” asked Casey.

  “Just one.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Alec Simmons.”

  “Anything else about him?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen Alec Simmons, I only heard of him. He was the second or the third catch of Rashtian.”

  “Do you know anything about the person who assumed his identity?”

  “His new Iranian name was Ibrahim Soleimani. I have no idea what his real name is.”

  Casey intervened. “Do you know anything about him at all?” He was becoming impatient and dismissive.

  “Very little. Although we lived together in the camp, we were forbidden to talk about our past. Once, one of us was overheard telling his friend about his grandfather. He was punished severely.”

  “Meaning…?” Casey pressed harder.

  “He was lashed, before all of us.”

  “What did Ibrahim Soleimani look like?” I resumed control of the questioning.

  “Well, it has been eighteen years. But back then he was chubby. He was five foot eight and weighed, to my estimate, two hundred and fifty pounds. Black hair and eyes.”

  “Any special physical markings?”

  “I don’t remember anything special about him. He spoke very good English and had a nice sense of humor. We were lucky to be living in Tehran under reasonable conditions, while others our age were fighting the Iraqis in the desert trenches. So we kept our mouths shut and obeyed our superiors.”

  I continued interviewing Morad for two more hours until an aide to Benny arrived and took Morad with him.

  “This is a transcript of his interrogation in Israel,” said Benny as he handed me a bound copy. “It can’t leave this place.” He showed me to another room with a desk and a sofa. “Here you can read and take notes. Avoid copying telltale sentences.”

  “Do you trust him?” I asked Benny.

  He gave me that look reserved for those born stupid who live to demonstrate it daily.

  “Are you kidding? We use him as an intelligence source only, and not a v
ery reliable one either. Read his story with a huge grain of salt.”

  Casey’s mobile phone rang. Before moving to an adjacent room to take the call he told me that a Mossad veteran named Reuven would instruct me on Iranian customs and daily life on the following day.

  After Benny and Casey left the safe apartment, I spent most of the evening and some of the night reading the transcript of Morad’s interrogation. I woke up on the sofa in the morning clutching the notebook, and gave it to a woman who’d politely asked me to return it to her.

  I went back to my hotel for a change of clothes, and then walked in the chilly Vienna air to another safe apartment to meet Reuven. That safe apartment was located in a prewar building, just a few blocks from my hotel.

  I rang the bell. A fifty-something woman with a sour face opened the door.

  “Ja?”

  “Ich bin Ian Pour Laval. Ich werde erwartet hier.” I’m Ian Pour Laval, I’m expected here.

  She opened the door wider and let me in. I found myself in a big room with a high ceiling and a tall wooden door leading to other rooms. The apartment was sparsely decorated and had only minimal furniture. A long table with two computer monitors stood across the room, and an easel was next to the wall. I waited for the woman to say something, but she didn’t. She opened the door to an adjoining room and left. I just stood there. A moment later the inside door opened and a dark-skinned man with white hair appeared.

  “Shalom,” he said. It sounded out of place here. “I’m Reuven Sofian. Pleased to meet you.” Reuven looked like an old eagle, with dark sunken black eyes trapped in a face of wrinkled ashen rock, and thick overgrown eyebrows. He shook my hand.

  “Same here,” I answered in Hebrew.

  “Sit down and relax,” he suggested, pointing at the sofa. “Relax? Why do you say that?” I asked in a mock surprise with a smile. But I knew he was reading my body language. He smiled at me genially.

  “Because we’ll be spending a few days together discussing Iranian customs and routines, and I want you to feel comfortable. We’ll also work on the relevant portions of your legend.”