Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

“Do you remember anything special about him?”

“Nothing. I never met him. I remember the name only because we had to sponsor an Iranian visa for him.”

“Where can I find Ms. Dagmar Fischer?”

“She teaches at the University of London’s Archaeology Department.”

I thanked him and hung up the phone. Nicole, who had been recording the conversation, stopped the tape recorder. Next, we called Dagmar Fischer, who was found after a few tries and proved more pleasant than the grumpy Professor Krieger.

“Yes, I knew Al Ward pretty well. I remember him as a kind person.”

“That’s nice to hear,” I said. “Have you been in contact?” “No. I last saw him many years ago. While I was a student, I went on vacation to South Africa, where I met him in a youth hostel. We spent some time together, and I even went with him on a safari, where he took magnificent photos.”

“I understand he had plans to follow you to Iran.”

She laughed. “You make it sound romantic. It wasn’t, at least not from my perspective. While still in South Africa I heard from my classmate that a German archaeology expedition was planning a dig in Iran and was looking for students willing to volunteer. I called the department and they agreed to take me. I flew from Johannesburg to Tehran and joined Professor Krieger’s team. When the site of Anshan in Tal-e Malyan was discovered, we needed a professional photographer, but with a very small bud get, we wanted a volunteer. I told Professor Krieger about Ward being a good photographer who was looking for adventure. Professor Krieger asked me to invite Ward. I had his next address in a youth hostel in Islamabad, Pakistan, and sent him a letter.”

“Did he respond?”

“Yes, but it took some time, and his letter was very short, like one or two sentences-‘Coming on that date,’ or something like that. I was a bit surprised that he didn’t even ask about the terms or anything else.”

“Maybe he wanted to be in your company more than anything else?”

“Maybe,” she giggled.

“Was anyone worried about bringing an American to Iran, considering it was after the revolution?”

“Well, we told the Iranians that we were planning to invite a young American photographer to join the group’s excavations in return for room and board. Which for us meant, you know, a tent in the desert and canned food.”

“So what’d they say?”

“You know, I have no idea. I was really just rank and file-I was helping Professor Krieger with some administrative chores. But I guess it wasn’t OK, because Ward never actually showed up.”

“Do you know who handled the visa matter for the Iranians? Perhaps he will know.”

“I’m not sure I remember. It’s been so long. But I think I saw the Iranian officer twice at the camp. Actually, I’m sure I did, because he came back about a month later. He told us they’d hold us responsible for attempting to bring Ward over. He said they’d discovered that Ward was a spy.”

“He said Ward was a spy?” I tried to sound surprised. “That’s shocking. And besides, even if that ridiculous story were true, why would you be responsible?”

“Because his visa application to Iran was sponsored by the expedition. Well, he said Ward was an American spy. We were pretty upset. Plus we were left without a photographer.”

“Was Albert a spy?” I repeated in disbelief, sounding a complete novice.

“I hardly think so. He was too simple to be anything but what he was, just a kid wandering around. Why don’t you ask Albert?”

“I can’t,” I said. “He disappeared. He never returned from wherever he was.”

“Oh my god,” she said. “I can’t believe that!’

“Can you remember now the name of the officer? Maybe he could tell us if he knew where Albert went instead of coming to Iran after his entry was refused.”

“Well, I guess I could look it up in my records. It’s possible that maybe I wrote his name down in my log of the excavation.”

“Thanks, that would be great. So while we’re talking, what happened next?”

“What happened? Nothing, I guess. We completed the excavation and returned to Germany. Professor Krieger’s paper on the excavation was very well received. I finished my studies, and the excavation site is now open to tourists.”

“Have you seen or heard from Albert again?”

“No, and I did find it odd. I don’t know why he would vanish like that. Though I suppose he could have been upset because…” She trailed off.

“Because…?” I prompted, hoping I wasn’t pushing her too far.

“It’s kind of personal, but you know, I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s been twenty years. I…rebuffed his advances because I didn’t find him attractive in a personal way.”

A day later, when I called Dr. Fischer back, she had the officer’s name: Bahman Hossein Rashtian. He was working in Iranian state security.

I consulted Nicole.

“What we should do is go to London,” she said immediately, “to see what the NSA has to offer on the Iranian connection to our case.”

“Why London?”

“Because their UK base is the largest outside the U.S. There’s no point in asking the French station for broadscale assistance- they’ll just send us to London, or even to Washington.”

I called Bob Holliday, my new boss. David had just retired. To add to my other bones to pick with the Chameleon, he’d made me miss David’s retirement party.

“Bob, we need NSA assistance.”

“Why?”

“We need unrestricted international communications-intelligence reach, the kind of air sniffing that only NSA can provide.” I gave him the details and answered his many questions. Each time we spoke I could see more clearly that working with him was going to be a world of difference from having David as my boss. He had a way of firing questions at me that sometimes made me feel as if I were performing under the baleful eye of a strict but very cordial schoolteacher.

After he exhaustively interrogated me, he agreed to see what he could do.

The following morning Bob called. “OK, an NSA connection is established. You’ll be picked up tomorrow at nine a.m. from your London hotel.” He gave me the details. “We expect a nice and sunny day.”

The journey to London was fast. Bob was wrong on the weather. The next day brought us the typical English weather of rain and fog, and a new friend: a slim African-American woman in a black pantsuit. “Hi, I’m Pamela Johnson. I’ll be taking you to Menwith Hill.”

“What’s in Menwith Hill?” I asked.

“That’s the major station of NSA, operated jointly with the British Government Communications Headquarters, GCHQ.”

“And what about the sunny weather you promised?” I asked. “Well, you know. Weather forecasts are horoscopes with numbers.”

After a three-hour drive ending amid the green meadows of Yorkshire, we arrived at a heavily fenced and guarded area. Following thorough security screening, we were brought to a round, windowless building.

“Welcome to NSA,” said a man with an accent that smacked of the American South, as we entered his small office. “I’m Dr. Ted Feldman, and I’ll do my best to help you. What’s going on here?”

He and Pamela took notes as Nicole quickly explained.

“I see,” Feldman said. “We’ll try to do what we can, once formalities are satisfied.”

The NSA picked up where others were bound by legal restrictions. As I well knew, they operated in cyberspace, where there were few rules, breaking encrypted communications and transferring the messages to linguists to analyze the messages in more than 110 languages.

“What do you have in mind?” I asked.

“We can engage Echelon, our global surveillance network,” he said briskly. “It’s the most comprehensive and sophisticated signals intelligence ever made. It can monitor every communication transmitted through satellite, micro wave, cellular, and fiber optics. That includes communications to and from North America.”