Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

She quickly backtracked with a smile. “Well, if you don’t mind. It’s just that it’s perfect for my needs.”

As a gentleman, I acquiesced, returning her smile. “Fine,” I said.

The other bedrooms were smaller, but I found one with a king-size bed. The third room was empty but for two desks and office chairs, with a combined fax, copier, scanner, and printer and a digital telephone, both hooked up to a signal scrambler that made them secure.

“That will be our communication room,” said Nicole. “I need to shower and change. I’ll see you in a little while.”

I wondered who watched the safe apartment while it was empty. Or was it ever empty? Obviously, the classified communication equipment could not be left there without security. I went outside. I’d always liked the area for its cultural attractions- the Bois de Boulogne, Champs Elysees, Arc de Triomphe, Musee d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, and Musee Marmottan Monet were all within walking distance. There were many cafes and restaurants to explore. I strolled along the narrow rue St. Didier with its boulangeries, fruit and vegetable shops, and flower shops. I continued to Androuet, the famous cheese store.

I’ll be back here soon, I promised myself, once I’m done with my chores with Nicole.

I returned to the apartment. Nicole sat on the sofa with her bare feet on the coffee table. In blue jeans, she looked miles away from her strictly business appearance at the convention.

“This is a great area,” I said companionably. “Lots of interesting places to visit.”

“We’re here to crack a case,” she said severely. “We aren’t tourists.” She wasn’t kidding. I nodded. “Let’s start by defining the perimeter,” she said.

She’s perfect, I thought-in other words, boring.

“I need to trace Ward’s movements,” I said, masking some anger.

“Right. Professor Manfred Krieger the archaeologist is our most solid anchor at this time.”

“I agree.”

“OK, we could start with him right now,” said Nicole. “Shouldn’t be hard to track him down, although we don’t know if he’s still alive.”

“I sure hope he is,” I said. Even in a world of hunters and targets, sometimes people aged and died of natural causes.

Nicole clicked at her laptop, briskly accessing the Net through encrypted wireless. “Here it is. Professor Krieger published an article on archaeology of the Orient in 2003, in Archaeology and Heritage, an academic journal published in London. So, unless the article was written a long time ago, then at least in 2003 he was still alive. It says here that he teaches at the University of Berlin.”

It took only a few minutes to find Professor Krieger’s address and phone number in Berlin.

“So what do we want from this guy?” she queried.

“I want to pick his memory, or even his records concerning his staff during his 1980 excavations in Iran.”

“And do you think he’d still have them?”

“Nicole, archaeologists rummage through records left thousands of years ago. It’s kind of against their religion for them to throw out their own papers, don’t you think?” I was trying to reintroduce levity into the room.

Nicole allowed a smile. “OK. What’s the suggested legend? We need to make it plausible and pitch it to Langley. We can’t approach him without their authorization.”

“Just for making a phone call you need Langley’s approval?” I thought of the improvisational manner in which we operated at the Mossad, and the social-engineering methods I applied during my tenure as a lone wolf at the Department of Justice while hunting money launderers. We were working with totally different institutional cultures.

“We should bear in mind that the legend must hold water not only with the professor, but elsewhere. We don’t know the types of connections the professor has in Iran. If there’s a hole in our story and he suspects us, and tells the Iranians about our snooping, the doors will shut in our faces. And maybe some metal doors behind us, if they ever get us.”

“On second thought, you’re right,” I conceded. “The source of information leading us to Krieger is a dubious character in Islamabad. We don’t really know who he is, and why he was telling me this story for only the $300 I gave him. Definitely something rotten there. Getting me to contact Krieger could be one of his ulterior motives. Who knows, maybe he’s more conniving than I thought.” I decided not to tell Nicole about the information Benny gave me linking Ahmed Khan to the Iranian intelligence services. Not just yet.

For the next hour we raised and rejected several options, and finally came up with the one we thought would be reasonably plausible. Nicole e-mailed an encrypted message to Langley to get approval. She slammed shut her laptop computer, got up from her chair, and stretched her arms, revealing a flat, tanned stomach. “We’re done here. It will be a day or so until we hear from them.”

I went out to the street and walked straight to the boulangerie, bought two baguettes, and ended up in Androuet, the cheese shrine. The aroma was overwhelming.

“We sell 340 different kinds of cheese,” said a friendly salesperson in a green apron, who realized I was besieged. I bought Camembert, Brie, and Fontainebleau cheese.

“Monsieur,” he said, “may I suggest you take also Vacherin? We sell it only from October to March.”

I stopped at the corner wine store and got a bottle of a promising Cotes du Rhone. I went back to the apartment, resisting an urge to start devouring the food en route. We feasted until I felt the wine pulling down my eyelids.

By the following morning, an encrypted message had come in: “Legend approved, mode of approach at your discretion.”

“Do you think we should call him or pay a personal visit?” I asked Nicole.

“I think we should start with calling him. A personal visit could be intimidating or suspicious. Why would an American come to Berlin to ask a few questions for a family memorial book for a person who’s been missing for twenty-some years?”

I dialed.

“Krieger,” announced a man’s voice.

“Professor Krieger?”

“Ja.” He answered in German.

“My name is Stanley Ward. I hope you speak English.” “Yes.”

“I’m sorry to bother you on a small matter, but I wonder if you remember Albert Ward, a member of my family?”

“Remind me.”

“He was a young photographer who worked for you in the excavations in Tal-e Malyan, Iran, in the early 1980s.”

“I remember that name very vaguely.”

“As I said earlier, I’m Stanley Ward, his cousin. We’re preparing a family history pamphlet and want to dedicate a page to his memory.” I paused upon mentioning that Ward had died, hoping he’d reveal something he might know about it. But he kept silent, and I continued.

“Since he mentioned your name in a postcard he sent my parents, I thought you might be able to tell me about his work. It’ll take only a few minutes of your time.”

“There isn’t anything to tell,” he said. “Dagmar Fischer, my assistant at the time, suggested bringing him over. If I’m not mistaken, she said she had met him some place in Africa. But at the end, he never came to work for us. The truth is, those volunteers are really good for nothing. Unless they are getting academic credit, lots of them don’t show up, and some of those who do come behave like they’re in a summer camp and forget we are involved in serious scientific research.”

“Did he expect to be paid for his work?”

“Of course not, nobody did. We had a limited bud get mostly spent on local diggers and food supplies for my staff and students. He was expected to be a volunteer like all others.”