“OK.”
During the following three days, I met Erikka several times, making sure she understood the rules of conduct in present-day Iran. We discussed traditions, cultures, and the American School. I also broke the news about the Swiss bank’s deal.
“That’s wonderful,” she exclaimed.
Contrary to my earlier expectations she didn’t ask too many questions.
I flew to the U.S. to see my children and receive more CIA briefing. Ten days later when I returned, I met Erikka and she showed me her Swiss passport. “They gave me a visa in no time,” she boasted. “I spoke Farsi and my visa was issued.”
Four days after my visit to the Iranian Embassy I called Behrooz Mesbah, the “counselor.”
“Mr. Pour Laval, how are you?” He was exceedingly friendly. “I’ve got good news. Your passport is stamped with a visa. You may come anytime during business hours to pick it up. Iran welcomes you.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I’ll come by today.”
I alerted Casey and took a cab to the embassy. The consular officer gave me my passport. “You have a sixty-day visa,” he said. “That’s double the time we usually grant to tourists.” He sounded as if he had just announced a winning lottery ticket.
“I’ve got more good news. The Iranian Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance has given you an invitation to call them with any of your questions. You may find it useful. Their telephone number and address are in the envelope with your passport.”
I thanked him and left. I had gotten what I wanted, and yet I felt like live prey pushed into the lion’s den. I took a cab, made the usual circle around the city for an hour, and when I felt safe to return to my hotel, I reported to Casey and John from a pay phone located a block away. After completing the calls, I dialed a random number and hung up.
Three days later Casey called my mobile phone. “Take a cab immediately to Café Vienna. Enter the main entrance, but leave right away through the back door past the men’s room. A white Mercedes taxi will wait for you. Ask the driver if he can take you to the train station. If he says he’s waiting for Herr Zauber, tell him you’re Mr. Zauber and ask him to drive you to 98 Porzellengasse. Once there, get out of the taxi, pay him, and wait for him to drive away. Then walk to 106, repeat, 106 Porzellengasse, second floor. Take extreme precautions.”
That address was new to me. Casey was signaling that it was a safe house.
When I arrived, I saw Benny Friedman, Reuven Sofian, Casey Bauer, Tony DaSilva, and John Sheehan. The attendance was too broad to be just another briefing.
“Is it happy hour?” I asked. “Where are the drinks?”
Casey smiled at first but then changed his expression to dead serious. “Dan, you’re leaving tomorrow morning. You’re staying here to night. Your luggage will be here momentarily.”
My stomach moved nervously. “What about Erikka?” I asked.
“We sent her tickets by messenger from the travel agency and attached a note asking to confirm. She called the travel agent to confirm and asked if you’d be on the same flight. I suggest you call her now.”
He handed me a cell phone. I called Erikka, and we agreed to meet at the airport.
“You should also know that she met our men posing as the bank’s representatives. She signed a contract and received an advance.” He gave me a travel folder with my airline tickets, five million Iranian rials, a8,000, and $5,000.
“Why American dollars, when I’m a Canadian?” “Because the U.S. currency is more popular. Many Iranians have probably never seen a Canadian dollar. Everyone, even people who’ve never been to the U.S., carries U.S. dollars.”
“Yeah, but isn’t this a lot? It could get people suspicious.”
“No. There are the two of you for a month or two. You are engaged by a well-known publishing house, and Erikka is under a contract with a Swiss bank, so you can account for the money if asked. That money could help you out of Iran in case of an emergency.” He also gave me a Visa credit card, an ATM card, and pocket debris. “The rials are worth only $500; use them to pay your initial expenses.” I looked at the stack of bills that filled up a big bag. In the bag was also a receipt from Melli Bank.
“Keep the receipt. It’s proof that you bought the rials at a bank, and didn’t exchange your dollars on the Iranian black market.”
Benny shook my hand. “Dan, I trust you. Return safely.” He hugged me. For a minute I felt he was saying good-bye for good. It didn’t help my mood.
If I had doubts whether what I’d got myself into was the right thing to do, certainly it was too late to air them. I knew I was assuming a huge risk. If the khans in Islamabad got my photo and transmitted it to Iran, I’d be toast. Iran wanted them to lure me in, and now I was going there voluntarily? Did this entire operation make sense? Knowing that only mediocrity makes sense, because then you don’t invade anybody’s turf, didn’t make me feel more relaxed. It sounds great as a proverb, but now how was I supposed to feel in reality when I had doubts? I sat down on the couch and took control of my mental hesitation.
I suppressed that hesitant devil in me. Hey, you live only once. I don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, don’t gamble or drink excessively, so what am I to do for that little extra excitement and fun? Not that—I still get a chance for that here and there. I mean what this job gives me. The thrill of the hunter focusing on his prey when it’s close, when there’s nothing in the world that you want more than the kill, the score, the success…although recognizing that after basking in it for a while, you return to mediocre life, to another low…until you start looking to get that fix again.
I thought of my father, who had always told me, “Bravery is being the only one who knows you’re afraid.” I kept on a brave face as everybody hugged me and left.
In the morning I was driven to the airport by a driver who apparently had taken a vow of silence. At eleven a.m. I took a deep breath and checked into Lufthansa flight LH6334/LH6447 coming from Frankfurt to Vienna, continuing to Tehran. Erikka was waiting for me at the airline counter. She looked and sounded really excited, though for a different reason. The plane was only half-full. Some of the passengers seemed to be European businessmen, but most were probably Iranians dressed in European attire. Only a few wore collarless, buttoned white shirts. We were scheduled to arrive at three a.m. on the following day. Two hours before landing, I saw the cabin crew collect all liquor bottles, full or empty, and lock them in the galley.
The flight service manager announced on the PA, “Under the law of Iran, all female passengers must have their hair covered.” About a dozen fashionably dressed women with makeup went to the bathroom holding plastic garment bags, emerging later dressed in black chadors, the one-piece cloak. They had their hair covered, nail polish removed, and faces clean of makeup. They were transformed to black, nearly indistinguishable masses. I overheard Erikka talk with a European-looking woman sitting next to her about the dress code.
“Don’t worry,” said Erikka to the woman, who had also noticed that several Iranian women had changed their clothes in the bathroom. “Foreign women aren’t expected to wear the chador. Just make sure that you cover all parts of your body except your hands, feet, and face. As for your head, remember the rule, ‘from hairline to neckline.’ I’d also make sure,” added Erikka as she saw that the woman was dressed in a tight skirt, “that your clothes don’t reveal the shape of your body.”
The woman rushed to the bathroom with a fashionable handbag. Moments later she emerged wearing a long dress.
“My friend gave it to me before leaving and suggested I carry it on board. I thought she was teasing me, I thought the cover-all dresses were only for Iranian women.”
“No, she wasn’t joking,” said Erikka. “What you’re wearing is a manteau, a dress many Iranian women use instead of the chador.”
From the aircraft’s window I saw Tehran approaching through the haze, a city of nine million located in the foothills of the Alborz Mountains, with elevations i
ncreasing towards the north and sloping lower to the south. Pollution was bad during that afternoon hour of early winter, with yellow-gray clouds of smog.
I thought of the rule I’d discovered. In an underdeveloped country I can’t drink the water, and in a developed country I can’t breathe the air. With that thick smog, can I still drink the water here?
At touchdown, I felt my tension rise again. Erikka, who had slept most of the flight, didn’t leave me with much time to be concerned. “I’m so glad to be back,” she said. “I haven’t been here for twenty-five years!”
I couldn’t say I exactly shared her enthusiasm. But at least the time had come to get things started.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tehran, February 5, 2006
As we taxied bumpily to the terminal on the worn-out tarmac, I saw through the cabin’s windows the sign mehrabad international airport. The terminal’s building looked small, unfit for a nation of seventy million. Since the capture of the U.S. Embassy staff in 1979 and the sanctions imposed on Iran by many countries, there weren’t many incoming flights to Iran. I saw only a few planes of Iran Air, Gulf Air, and Air France.
I walked with Erikka toward the passport-control booths with my heart pounding hard. Erikka walked toward the booths reserved for women. I thought of my instructions.
When you arrive, the passport-control officer might ask you questions concerning the purpose of your visit and the length of your stay. Give him the routine tourist answers. Look him in the eye and don’t avoid his. Give short answers, and don’t smile or act as if you’re hiding something. These guys are very experienced in detecting suspicious behavior and maneuvering tactics employed by people who hope to avoid a thorough inspection.
I looked around. A big mural of Ayatollah Khomeini was displayed on the wall. The immigration officer, in a uniform that seemed as if he’d slept in it for a week, gave a very quick glance at my face and keyed a few strokes into his computer. I waited for him to stamp my passport and ease my accelerated heartbeat, but instead two men in plainclothes entered the booth. He gave them my passport, and they exchanged a few sentences in Farsi. The man holding my passport flipped through the pages and returned it to the officer and nodded. The officer stamped my passport without giving me a second look. I wanted to let out a deep breath, but I waited until I was out of his sight.
That’s it? I thought. Were these all the security checks? I guess the Iranians didn’t expect terrorism. I didn’t have to wonder why.
After Erikka and I met again in the customs hall, spent almost an hour waiting for our luggage, and went through customs and currency control, we were finally outside the terminal building—three hours after landing. When we exited the arrival terminal we were hassled by endless numbers of people offering to change money and sell us stuff. Self-appointed tour guides and unauthorized taxi drivers told us that the last bus had already left the terminal and suggested they drive us to town. We ignored them. A courtesy van sent by the hotel was waiting for us and within less than an hour delivered us to the Azadi Grand Hotel, a five-star hotel.
When I exited the van, I looked up at the tall building. To my estimate it had several hundred rooms. But the empty lobby during the early-evening hour signaled that the hotel wasn’t fully occupied. After a quick check-in we were taken to our rooms. Mine was on the third floor and Erikka’s on the fourth.
“I’ll see you in two hours for dinner,” she said before I got off the elevator.
I opened my room’s window curtains to view the Alborz Mountains, to the north of Tehran, and waited. Erikka tapped on the door of my room two hours later dressed in black pants, with a white manteau over them. She wore a black scarf that covered her hair and neck. The black and white combination was dominolike.
“Has anyone seen you coming here?” I asked. I didn’t need unnecessary attention.
“Don’t worry, I was careful,” she said with a smile, sounding like a high school student escaping through her bedroom window to meet a boyfriend. I joined her in the hall, wary that she not enter my room.
“It’s beautiful out there,” I said, nodding back toward the window as I closed the door behind me.
“The view? I agree. Did you know that the name Tehran means ‘warm slopes’ in Farsi? Maybe they meant these slopes.”
“Where are we going to have dinner?” I asked.
“I’d love to have Persian food,” said Erikka. “How about you?”
“Fine with me.” Usually, I blame jet lag for confusing me after a ten-hour flight. When I go to dinner I feel sexy, and when I go to bed I’m hungry. But not now. I was neither. I was too tense and focused.
We went outside and the doorman hailed a cab. “Please ask him to take us to a good restaurant,” I said.
Erikka spoke with the driver in Farsi. The driver’s face lighted up, and they continued with what sounded to me like a friendly conversation.
“He suggests Sofreh Khaneh Aban, a Persian dining room, on Aban Street,” she translated. “He says they have a live band playing traditional Persian music, although the price may be high.”
“How much is high?” I asked thinking about my per diem, forgetting that there are completely different rules in these situations.
“A meal for two might cost as much as 200,000 rials.”
As I made a quick calculation, I smiled. “It’s about $20. What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
Half an hour into the ride, the driver said with a smug expression, “This is where we gave the Americans a lesson,” and pointed the building that housed the U.S. Embassy until 1979. Erikka was translating. “This was the den of spies.” I had no reaction. I glanced at Erikka, who held a deadpan expression and gazed at the people on the street. We played the part of tourists to perfection.
The restaurant was packed with families, some with young children, and the noise was almost unbearable. My eyes were burning immediately. Most men were smoking cigarettes; others were using a hookah, a “narghile” in Farsi, with a water-pipe filter that flavors the smoke with cool water. But only the smoker enjoys it. What he exhales to the neighborhood is churning smog mixed with his CO2, not recommended.
A courteous waiter offered us a table near the string orchestra. Erikka shouted into my ear, “He recognized us as tourists and gave us the best table in the house.”
The noise was excruciating. I smiled at him with a virtual thank-you, and with my eyes tearing from the smoke I said, “Please thank him, and ask him for a table where we can talk without using a PA system or oxygen masks.” We were moved to a corner table near an open window and away from the orchestra.
The waiter gave me a menu in Farsi. I could read most of the Arabic script and even understand some words, but there were additional letters I couldn’t identify. I gave up.
“He says they serve the best chello kebab. Do you want to try it?” suggested Erikka.
“Just order anything good. I put my faith in you,” I said, realizing I could contribute nothing to the meal choice.
“Well…there are these superlong skewers of chicken kebab with fresh chilies—they’re really succulent, and they’re for real kebab lovers. Or the baghali-polo, an oven-baked lamb shank in sauce, served with basmati rice; or sabzi-polo-ba-mahi, a fish grilled on a skewer, served with basmati rice, Persian herbs, dill, broccoli, and almonds.”
“Can’t decide—let’s order a couple and share,” I suggested. Two waiters brought trays with huge amounts of food.
“I don’t think we can eat that much,” I said.
“Let’s take our time, eat slowly, and enjoy the music,” she said. It was clear that Erikka was captivated by memories and was enjoying talking about them and reliving her Iranian experience. My mind was somewhere else. I was curious to know whether there were any responses to our ads in the paper. We’d have to wait until tomorrow when the hotel’s business office opened to find out.
I looked around us. People were having good meals and conversation. There were no alcoholic beverages
of any kind on the tables. All waiters, and most male guests, looked unshaven, with two-to three-day beards.
How do they do it? I wondered. For a three-day beard, you must shave every three days. Then how come I don’t see many clean-shaven men? I looked around and saw one clean-shaven man. He was wearing a Western-style suit and an outdated black tie. He was wearing dark sunglasses. But it was nighttime.
Maybe he’s blind, I thought for a second, but then he appeared to read the menu as he spoke with the waiter.
For dessert we had falude, a tasteless dish that looks like white noodles, served with bastani sonnati, a Persian traditional ice cream with rose syrup and cherry and lime juices. When we were done with dinner, it was almost midnight, but the restaurant was still packed, and many more people kept coming in.
So not everyone in Tehran is poor, I thought. We returned to our hotel.
The following morning we went to the hotel’s business center. A surprise was waiting for us. There were forty-two letters responding to the newspaper ads.
“Ian, care to help me sort them out?” Erikka asked. “Sure, I’d be glad to.”
We sat at a desk at the business center and opened the envelopes. After an hour we had a better picture. Twenty-two letters came from alumni of the American School living in Iran. Two letters came from alumni living in the Gulf States. Three letters came from former teachers, who were elated to hear about the reunion and wanted to participate. Fourteen letters were from companies offering us services such as live music or catering for the event, and one letter came from a Shiraz man asking us to find him a suitable American woman to marry. He attached his photo.
Erikka went quickly over the names of the responding alumni. “I think I recognize some names,” she said. “But I’m afraid the group is too small for the Swiss bank to be interested in. I wonder where the others are.”
The Chameleon Conspiracy Page 25