The Chameleon Conspiracy (24 page)

“Yes, just withdraw a minimal amount. But it has to be an amount that does not include the number five, like fifty, a hundred
and fifty, fifteen hundred, and so on. If the number five appears it will signal to us that your ATM card—or, even worse,
you—has been captured. All other number amounts will signal that you’re OK, and where you are at that moment. Also, every
fifth withdrawal, make a small cash deposit with an envelope through the machine. Look at that,” he said, and handed me a
sheet of paper. “Learn it by heart.”

I glanced at the one-page document. It instructed me on how to deliver messages by making innocuous-looking cash deposits
through an ATM.

He continued. “The withdrawals and deposits and all other ATM activities will immediately appear on your German branch account,
which we’ll be monitoring all the time. We’ll replenish the account by wire-transfer deposits.”

“From where? I lost you.”

“From your publisher’s bank account in India, of course. If for any reason you cannot make a cash deposit through the machine,
but still need to send a message, here are the instructions.” He handed me another one-page document with short messages and
instructions for how to use the ATM keypad to instruct the bank to carry out routine banking activities, which included an
alphanumeric conversion table.

“How do I get instructions while in Iran?”

“We will convey only emergency messages, such as if you need to leave immediately. We’ll use Padas¸. If he’s unavailable,
we’ll call your hotel, and a person with an Indian accent will give you a message on behalf of your publisher in India. For
example, if the message is that your publisher wants to discuss copyright issues of translated editions, and he asks if that
night will be a good time to call, that will mean ‘leave immediately.’
It’s all in here,” he said, and handed me another printed page. “Memorize it; your life may depend on it.”

We spent the next two days rehearsing communication methods, escape routes, and various contingencies. You always hope things
will go smoothly, yet plan for the worst.

I traveled to the United States for a family visit and additional briefing. When I returned to Vienna I went to the Iranian
Embassy at Jauresgasse 9, a nineteenth-century three-story building across the street from the British Embassy. Three stern,
unshaved security personnel were standing near the entrance. After telling them I needed a visa, I was led to the consular
section. I handed my Canadian passport with my visa application form to the consular officer, a young man dressed in black
pants and a collarless white shirt. Like the other men I saw in the building, he also had a three-or four-day-old beard. He
looked like he should still be in college.

“What’s the purpose of your visit?” he asked politely with a strong Iranian accent, as he sifted through my passport and glimpsed
the attached application form.

“Tourism, mainly. I’m writing a novel and I need more inspiration.”

“A book?”

I nodded.

“What kind of book?”

“A fiction. A love story between an Iranian man and an Austrian woman.”

“Whom will you be meeting?”

“Nobody in particular, just people on the street, everyday people who could tell me about your culture and heritage. Maybe
do a little shopping, visit some monuments.”

“Where will you stay?”

“I’ve made reservations at the Azadi Grand Hotel in Tehran.” “How do you intend to pay for your stay?”

“I have sufficient means, and my publisher covers all costs associated with this visit.” I showed him a letter with an attached
bank letter confirming the publisher’s ability to bear all costs of my travel.

“How long do you intend to stay?”

“Just a few weeks, two to four.”

“Do you have a round-trip ticket?”

I showed him my ticket.

What the hell,
I thought,
do they suspect any Westerner would want to remain in present-day Iran voluntarily? Last I heard it was more like a penal
colony for foreigners who like to feel safe in a democracy. Not to mention having a drink at a bar with a local woman.

“I see you have an Iranian name,” he said in a tone I couldn’t immediately decipher.

“Yes, my grandfather emigrated from Iran to Canada more than eighty years ago.”

“So you have family in Iran?”

“I’m not aware of any, but I might have distant relatives. I thought of maybe trying to find them.”

“We’ll transfer your visa application to Tehran to receive an authorization letter from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

“How long will that take?” I asked, expecting him to say
two to three days
.

But he was noncommittal. “I don’t know. It could take three weeks, or even three months. It’s up to them.”

“Why does it take so long?”

“I see a problem,” said the consular officer. “You’re a Canadian applying out of your country.”

“I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t know about this requirement. I’ve already made hotel and airline reservations, and there
could be a penalty for changing them. Is there a way to overcome this problem?” I recited the apology my briefers had suggested
I use in case such a question arose.

I considered, then rejected, offering him a a100 bill as my
modest contribution to his personal financial needs. There was too much at stake, and I couldn’t risk a refusal.

He gave me a long look. “Wait here,” he said and entered into a back office. I was left wondering under the video camera mounted
on the opposite wall and the prying eyes of a fat guard who stood silently nearby.

He returned fifteen minutes later. “The consul will see you now.”

I was led by the consular officer through a narrow staircase to the second floor.

The consular officer knocked respectfully on the door, opened it gingerly after a moment. On the far end of a majestic room,
behind a king-size desk, sat a man in his midforties with gray hair, a beard, and clever eyes behind rimless eyeglasses. We
crossed the room walking on a soft Persian carpet.

“Please sit down,” he said, pointing at a chair, and signaled to the consular officer to leave.

“What can I do for you?”

I told him briefly why I needed the visa soon and couldn’t wait a few months for an authorization to come from Tehran.

“Why don’t you return to Canada and apply for a visa there?” he asked. It was the most logical question, the one I’d feared
he would ask. Luckily, I had prepared an answer.

“Well…” I said hesitantly. “I’m reluctant to do it. I have a dispute with my ex-wife over support payments, and I’m afraid
she’ll attempt to ask the court to keep me in Canada until the matter settles. I hope maybe there could be a way to spare
me the unnecessary cost and legal risk of flying to Canada just for the visa.”

“If Tehran approves your visa,” he said. “I’m sure that after your visit you will be able to describe our country in a favorable
manner, as opposed to the hateful propaganda that the politicians and the media are so fond of.”

“While of course I will offer my honest impressions, I assure you that politics isn’t my field. I would like to get to know
your country’s traditions and culture, to make my novel more realistic.”

“I see,” he said, giving me a pensive look. “Maybe I could expedite the visa matter. I could explain to the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs how important for Iran your visit is.” He wrote something on the application form. “Leave your passport here and come
back in a week.” Although I was happy to hear his comment, I felt uncomfortable. Nothing I’d said indicated that this would
be favorable for Iran. Why would the consul put himself out there for me so quickly? The little suspicious devil in me woke
up.

He handed me his card and shook my hand. His card gave me his name and title: behrooz mesbah, counselor.

“Mot’sha’keram,”
I said, thanking him.

He raised his eyes and gave me a surprised smile.

“I’ve learned a few words in Farsi,” I explained. “My grandfather was born in Iran, and I’m really excited to visit the land
of my ancestors.”

I left the embassy feeling odd. Counselor? My foot. That only enhanced my earlier suspicion. I decided to talk to John Sheehan
about it.

I went on a long cab ride, changed cabs several times, and when I was sure I wasn’t trailed, I went back to the safe apartment.

“How was it?” asked John.

“I can’t really tell. I’m sure the walls had ears and eyes. The visa consul was mildly suspicious when I wanted the visa expedited.
I had to meet another higher-ranking person. Although his card said he was a ‘counselor,’ my hunch says an ‘intelligence officer’;
there’s no question he was sizing me up. We’ll probably know more about the visa in a week.”

“Getting a visa for Iran can be a difficult matter,” said John. “But if they’ve given you a hard time, we’ve made a contingency
plan to fly you to Dushanbe, in Tajikistan, where the process is simpler for us.” He didn’t elaborate.

“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-f. 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.