The Chameleon Conspiracy dg-3

by Haggai Harmon

  “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I said gently. “It sounds awful. But I guess there’s a whole set of rules here that we need to learn…”

  She nodded, sighing. “It’s nothing like I remember,” she said softly. “Anyway. I should get some sleep.”

  “Do you want me to walk you back to your room?” I offered.

  She grimaced. “Normally I would, but who knows? The morality police might still be watching.” She held my hand for a minute. “Sorry to barge in on you like this.” I shook my head, signaling that it was nothing, and with that she was gone.

  I returned to my bed, restless and unable to sleep. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that this was all tied together somehow. To distract myself, I pulled out “my” novel, Dead End Love: An Impossible Love Affair, courtesy of some particularly creative CIA employee turned ghostwriter.

  “Not bad,” I mumbled, “not bad at all. I didn’t know I could write that well…” and fell asleep.

  I met Erikka in the dining room for a late breakfast. Other than slightly red eyes, she looked fine.

  “How are you feeling?” She smiled wanly and nodded to say everything was OK.

  “If you don’t mind me bringing up a little business,” I began, “did you accomplish anything last night? I mean getting new names and addresses?”

  She seemed happy to be back at a task. “Yes. I already have a total of ninety-five names of people still living in Iran, with addresses and phone numbers.”

  “That’s great,” I said eagerly. “How did you manage to get so many?”

  “The news spread,” she said. “Everybody’s very excited about the reunion.”

  “So are they all ethnic Iranians? I read that everyone else left here, right? After the revolution, I mean.”

  “Yes, all of the alums responding are ethnic Iranians. I also have a list of thirty-one alumni who live in Europe, Japan, and the U.S. I found out last night that one of them just died in the U.S. So awful-I remember him.”

  I paused for a moment to let her compose herself. “How do you intend to manage it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean administratively. Did you create a table with all the names?”

  “I haven’t thought of that yet,” she said, embarrassed. “Everything happened so quickly. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Not particularly.” I paused to show I hadn’t thought about it earlier. “Why don’t you just draw up a table to include all personal details, such as current address and year of graduation? Then you can ask the bank to send the people on the list an invitation to the reunion and ask them to confirm and attach their short resume. You know, tell in a few sentences what they’ve been doing since they graduated.”

  “Good idea,” said Erikka. “I’ll do that after breakfast.”

  “I have another idea,” I said. “Why don’t you prepare a separate list of all the alums you located that live outside Iran? Maybe the bank would want to use their connections in their respective countries. Didn’t they say in the briefing, part of their marketing strategy is to get a piece of the Iranian overseas business, because they want to set it up bilaterally?”

  “I’m one step ahead of you,” she said. “Look.” She handed me two handwritten pages with many names.

  Next to the name Reza Nazeri, in the space left for a current address, she’d written “deceased.” Although his name rang a bell, I couldn’t remember if he was on the list of students we had received from the State Department. Obviously, I hadn’t brought the list to Iran. It’d have to wait until I returned to Europe.

  “Maybe you should send a copy to the bank.”

  “But it’s incomplete, isn’t it?”

  “I know, but it would be good to show them that you’re already getting results.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Are you going to contact any of the people on that foreign list?”

  “No, not right now anyway. There’s no point in my calling long-distance from Iran to other countries. It can wait until I return to Europe. The reunion is a few months away. We have time.”

  “You’re right,” I conceded. “What about the deceased alumnus, do you know what happened to him?”

  “I heard he had an accident.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “Yes. He was a really good friend. We used to have play-dates when we were young. I also knew his mother very well. He grew up without a father, so he spent a lot of time at our house.”

  “I see,” I said contemplatively. I needed time to plot.

  “Will you need me today?” she asked.

  “I was thinking of going to Mashhad to search for my roots. Maybe stopping in Neyshabur, where I think I might have family. It says in the guide that Hakim Omar Khayyam was born there-you know, the poet. Could be interesting.”

  “Ian, it’s almost six hundred miles away,” she said in surprise. “We need to make travel arrangements and hotel reservations. Do you want to take a train or drive?”

  “Well, don’t be alarmed, and I’m sorry that I didn’t consult you, but I sort of planned it yesterday when you were out. I’ve actually already rented a car, and made a hotel reservation at”-I stopped to look at the note I’d prepared-“Homa Hotel on Taleghani Square in Ahmad Abad Street.”

  “How long do you want us to stay there?”

  “Two or three days. Is it OK with you?”

  “I guess so.” She didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “When do you want to leave?

  “Well…whenever you’re ready?”

  She hesitated, “I scheduled six meetings with alums, but I can cancel. My work for you comes first.”

  “No, please don’t cancel,” I said quickly. “Keep the meetings; we’ll go on another day.” After a quick glance at the list Erikka had prepared, I no longer wanted to make that trip that day. But I had to at least pretend that I was sticking to my original idea to search for my roots. We would have to go soon.

  I went outside the main entrance. A white Peugeot Persia was parked in the hotel’s driveway. A rental agreement was left on the driver’s seat. I drove the car to the parking lot and entered the gift shop in the hotel lobby.

  As I was pulling out a copy of Tehran Times in English from the display rack, I felt a man brushing his arm against my right arm. “I’m sorry,” I said, and moved to the left. He brushed against my arm again. I turned around to look at him. He was a well-built man in his early forties with intense black eyes and a black mustache.

  “Mr. Ian, please go outside,” he said in a low voice.

  I froze. “Who are you?”

  “Padas? sent me.”

  “Padas?? I don’t know any Padas?,” I said. I needed to hear the passwords.

  “I know where to find nice carpets made by hand in Kashan. Very cheap.”

  It was the right code at the right time. “Oh, I’d like that,” I said innocently. “Where are they?”

  “I can take you now.” He walked slowly to the exit.

  I paid for the newspaper and followed him outside.

  “You must be careful,” I said quietly. “I think I’m being followed.”

  “No, you are not.”

  “But I detected followers,” I insisted.

  “They were my men watching you,” he said calmly.

  “I saw one at the restaurant, and another one in a car that followed me.”

  He smiled mischievously. “You missed the others. We are always behind you. Unless the Iranian VEVAK is smarter than us, we didn’t notice any interest in you.”

  “How do I contact you? I mean in case of emergency?” “For one, we’ll see any emergency and will come to your help. But if we lose contact for any reason, call this number and say that you’d like to purchase Kashan carpets.” He handed me a piece of paper.

  “Who gave me that number, in case someone asks?”

  “An Iranian you met on the plane coming here. You don’t know his name.”

  “Do I identify myself on th
e phone?”

  “No.”

  “What about Erikka?”

  “We aren’t following or protecting her, unless she’s with you.” He opened the car’s trunk, and I saw three rolled carpets. “I’ll show you these carpets now. Look as if you’re interested.”

  “I thought you said I’m not being watched.”

  “Just in case.” He pulled the carpets out and laid them on the pavement.

  The carpets were magnificent. For a moment I even entertained the idea of actually purchasing them. Bad timing for shopping, I told myself. I stood there for a few more minutes admiring their beauty.

  “Kashan is a city in north-central Iran that was producing Persian carpets at royal workshops at least since the seventeenth century,” he said. “But the best Kashans come from Ardistan. These carpets came from Yazd, but they’re almost as good.” He rolled up the carpets and put them back in the trunk. He shook my hand and drove away.

  In the afternoon, I got hold of Erikka in the lobby.

  “I have two cancellations,” she said. “They postponed our meetings until tomorrow.”

  “In that case, I’ve got an idea,” I said. Why don’t we visit the family of Reza Nazeri? They’ll probably hear about the reunion you’ve got coming up, and it might hurt them to be left out. The right thing to do is pay them a personal visit.”

  “You mean right now?” asked Erikka.

  “Yes, why not? We have time. I’m sure they and the rest of the alumni will appreciate the gesture.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. You know, I’d love to see his mom again. She was always so kind to me.”

  “Visiting an Iranian family at home will be a good experience for me-it’d help me understand a lot for my book,” I added.

  “I still remember where he lived, after all these years. It was on Darband Street, in northern Tehran,” said Erikka. She called information for the telephone number. It was unlisted. “Do you want to take the chance they’re still living at the same address?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Let’s do it,” I said. “Cab?”

  It took us through Imam Khomeini Boulevard, past the National Archaeological Museum of Iran, and arrived at a pleasant residential area. Erikka buzzed the intercom and a woman answered. Erikka said something in Farsi, and after a pause, the door opened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Inside the spacious, well-appointed apartment, Mrs. Nazeri stood alongside her maid. She appeared to be nearly seventy, and was clad in a black dress without a head covering. Her eyes were puffy and lined. When she saw Erikka they both burst into tears and embraced, murmuring in Farsi.

  After a moment, they seemed to remember I was there, and stepped apart politely.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” said Mrs. Nazeri, in English. Erikka smiled. “I forgot how good your English was.” “You haven’t changed a bit,” Mrs. Nazeri told Erikka. Erikka smiled again. “I’m not that young anymore. My daughter is already nineteen years old.”

  “You’re lucky,” said Mrs. Nazeri.

  They continued talking, shifting from Farsi to English and back, until the maid brought a tray with silverware, a teapot, and delicious-looking cookies sprinkled with white powdered sugar.

  Many long minutes later, during which they talked in both languages about personal things, Erikka said, “As I was saying, I’m using a professional visit to Iran to help Mr. Pour Laval in his book research, to organize a school reunion.”

  “It’s a nice idea,” said Mrs. Nazeri, turning to me.

  “I only heard yesterday about Reza,” said Erikka delicately. “I wanted to come and see how you were, and to offer my condolences.”

  “That’s so kind of you.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to include some information about Reza in the brochure they’ll be making,” I suggested. “They have a Swiss bank sponsoring the event, and one of the ideas is to collect pictures of alumni taken during their school years, include a short resume, and publish it in a bound format, like a yearbook. It might be a good opportunity to commemorate the memory of Reza.”

  Erikka looked at me, surprised. I had again broken the rule of not leading the direction in the alumni matter, but I just couldn’t resist that opportunity.

  “I’d love that,” said Mrs. Nazeri. “Let me see, just one moment…” She went to the other room and returned carrying two photo albums. “It’s all here. I’ve been left only with memories.”

  I leafed through the pages of the albums and saw Reza, a skinny, light-complexioned young man, at family events, smiling and happy.

  “What happened to him?” asked Erikka in a soft voice.

  “Last month he was killed in an accident in New York.”

  “Did he live in America?” asked Erikka.

  “He left Iran soon after the revolution. He said he was hired by a company to do business in Switzerland and America. I didn’t understand much of it.”

  “It’s so sad. Careless drivers are everywhere,” I said.

  She looked at me with sad dark eyes. “It wasn’t a car accident. Some crazy person pushed him off the subway platform while Reza was waiting for the train.”

  There was a shocked silence. “How awful,” I said after a moment. “Did they catch the lunatic?”

  “No, he escaped.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Was Reza married?” asked Erikka.

  “No. He told me it was difficult having a family with his lifestyle.”

  “You mean traveling a lot?”

  “Yes, between Switzerland and the U.S., but he used to come to visit me every few months.” She looked at me. “He was my only son. His father died when Reza was just a young child. Now I have nothing.”

  Erikka wiped a tear away.

  “Take any photos that you like, but please return them, as I have no copies,” Mrs. Nazeri said.

  Erikka began poring over the photos. I suggested that she take photos depicting Reza when he was in his twenties and thirties.

  “This is how I’d think people will remember him,” I said. When I saw a picture that looked recent, I added, “And show his friends who haven’t seen him in many years how he looked just before he died.”

  “Mr. Pour Laval…” said Mrs. Nazeri hesitantly. “I need some help in the United States; perhaps you can help me. It is very difficult for us to get information from the United States. Because of the animosity between the countries, communications are slow and unreliable. Here they open many letters sent from foreign countries, and it delays delivery for days or even weeks.”

  “Well, I’m Canadian, but I visit New York frequently, and I’ll be happy to help you.”

  “I need a lawyer in New York to handle Reza’s estate. Can you recommend a good one?”

  This was a golden opportunity I wasn’t going to miss. This was my entry card into Reza’s life and activities in the U.S.

  “Of course-you mean a wills-and-estates lawyer? I know a very good one who doesn’t charge a lot.”

  “Can I trust him?”

  “I do,” I said. “He handles all my American friends’ estate matters. I know he’s very reliable. I intend to be in New York soon and can call him.”

  “In that case, let me give you some information the lawyer may need.” She opened a black leather folder with documents. “Reza lived at 45 East 78th Street in Manhattan. He owned the apartment. He had at least one bank account that I know about in Chase Bank, but there could be others. Apart from that, I know very little about his business affairs.”

  “Did he leave a will?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, but I hardly think so. He didn’t expect to die so soon, and other than me he had no family.”

  “Did he leave any papers with you, such as business correspondence or letters that may help locate his assets?”

  She thought for a minute and said, “Yes, in fact he did.” She went to the other room and returned with a big brown envelope. “That’s all I have,” she said, and handed me the envelo
pe. I went through its contents. Inside were a few handwritten letters in Arabic script, business cards, used airline tickets, and the like. Nothing looked immediately important. As I was casually going through the papers I saw a business card with the logo of Al Taqwa. I looked at it indifferently but put it aside with trembling hands.

  “I don’t see anything particularly important here. Maybe just in case, I’ll copy some business cards to give the lawyer. Maybe these people did business with Reza and they owe him money.”

  “No need to copy,” she said. “You can just take them.” I put the cards in my pocket.

  “What are these letters?”

  “Oh, letters he had written asking me to do a few things for him. I don’t know why I put them in that envelope.” She excused herself and went to the other room. Erikka went to the bathroom. They returned a few minutes later.

  “What about Switzerland? You mentioned he was working there?” I asked Mrs. Nazeri.

  “Yes, for some bank or something, but he never actually lived in Switzerland. He just visited it for long periods.”

  “If the lawyer asks me about any property in Switzerland, what should I say?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the lawyer will find things in Reza’s apartment that will give him more information.”

  “OK, I think I could do that.” I paused. “I have an idea. I’ll simply call the lawyer and tell him to expect your letter. And I’ll ask him what he needs from you to start working.”

  “Good,” she said. “What’s his name?”

  “Dan Gordon,” I said, and regretted it immediately. I just couldn’t think fast enough of any other name. It was a bad answer, but I couldn’t take it back. I’d have to make arrangements.

  “I’ll have him write you. He’ll probably need a power of attorney to be appointed as administrator of the estate of Reza.”