The Chameleon Conspiracy (25 page)

“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 increasing 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.

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 CO
₂
, 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.”

“Don’t jump to early conclusions,” I said smoothly. “Why don’t you call those who answered and get additional names of their
classmates? I’m sure many alumni just missed your ad. If I were you, I’d get on the phone and start networking. Your schmoozing
skills will get them all together in no time.”

Erikka smiled. “You already know me,” she said. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

“I think I’ll take a tour of Tehran, just to get a feel for it. I’ll meet you here to night.” I wanted to leave my room available
for the Iranian security services to do anything they wanted. I needed to know whether I had indeed attracted their attention.
Who had the man with sunglasses at the restaurant been? A routine counterintelligence mea sure? Evaluating me as a potential
recruit? Was I a conduit to lead them to a target? The answer wasn’t likely to change my conduct—I remained Ian Pour Laval,
an innocent author. It would help me plan ahead—but plan what? Here my thoughts hit a brick wall. I had no idea. But I had
to figure it out.

I went outside through the lobby and asked the dispatcher to find me a cabdriver who spoke some English. He returned a few
minutes later. “Sorry, nobody speaks English, but there’s one who speaks a little German.”

“That will do,” I said. When the nightingale is too busy to sing, even a crow will do.

“Take me to see the city,” I told the driver as I got into his Mercedes taxi. “Let’s start with Golestan Palace.” He started
the engine and we left the hotel.

I looked at the guidebook. “During the reign of the Safavid Shah Abbas the First, a vast garden called Chahar Bagh (Four Gardens),
a governmental residence, and a Chenarestan (a grove) were created on the present site of the Golestan Palace and its surroundings,”
it read. I looked through the cab’s side mirror to see if we had company. Not a big surprise. There was a car just behind
us at all times, with two men. Why were they so close? It seemed too obvious, rather unprofessional. Maybe they wanted me
to know I was being watched. But why? Obviously, they didn’t know who I was, because if they’d had just a shred of suspicion,
I would have been in prison with mice and cockroaches as my cellmates. I continued to play along, taking several pictures
of the palace with my camera.

“Please take me to the bazaar—I’ve heard so much about it.” Situated in the heart of southern Tehran, built under a roof,
the bazaar is a city within the city, at once beautiful and chaotic. When the Shah razed old but precious traditional buildings
during the oil boom in the seventies and replaced them with ugly high-rise buildings, the bazaar had been spared.

After getting dropped off, I walked slowly, mindful of the crowds and the slippery pavement. There were unwritten traffic
rules, I noticed: people kept to the right to avoid porters of merchandise, who sped through the crowd. I was overwhelmed
by the different faces I saw. Iranians and Arabs, Mongols and Azeri, a very colorful and exciting mix of colors, smells, and
cultures.

There were two types of people in the bazaar: oglers and hagglers. I crossed the definition line and bought a few pieces of
bric-a-brac, and bargained on the prices like a typical tourist, using sign language or the little English a few merchants
knew.

“These things are from Abadan,” said one merchant. “My family came from there. Believe me, they’re special.”

A well-built young man in jeans and sunglasses stood next to me watching me haggle with the shop keep er. Not wanting to lose
another customer, the merchant interrupted our conversation and asked the man something in Farsi, and he responded in two
or three words. I picked up one word, but that was enough.
“Adadish,”
he said—police.

I took a deep breath, turned my back to the young man, showed particular interest in a backgammon set, and left the store.
From the corner of my eye I could see him following me. I was still just an innocent tourist returning to his hotel.

Erikka was standing near the reception desk in the lobby. “Good timing,” she said. “I’m expecting a classmate. Want to join
us?”

As a well-dressed man walked into the lobby, Erikka whispered, “Here he is. Farshad Shahab!” she exclaimed and ran toward
him with her arms stretched to embrace him.

Visibly uncomfortable, the man stepped back. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “It’s not allowed in public.”

“I’m sorry,” said Erikka. “It’s just that I’m so glad to see you.” I was uneasy. How could she be so heedless?