Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

Vienna, Austria, December 2005

I arrived late in Vienna. I was tired, hungry, and particularly curious as to what was coming up next. My travel folder included a reservation confirmation slip at the Holiday Inn.

“ Guten Abend, Herr Pour Laval,” said the receptionist at the desk. “We’ve been expecting you.” She quickly completed the formalities and handed me a room key card and an envelope. “This is a message for you.”

I opened the envelope. The computer-printed message was short. “We’re expecting you tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

I looked up at the receptionist. “Could you help me get oriented here? What are we near?”

“We are close to the State Opera, St. Stephan’s Cathedral, and the famous buildings along the Ringstrasse. We are also not far from the Messegelande, our fairgrounds,” she answered.

I went up to my room and was asleep within minutes.

The harshly ringing phone woke me up. I thought it was the middle of the night. “Ian?” asked the voice. I was about to yell, You’ve got the wrong idiot you number, and slam the phone with an added variety of juicy expletives in select languages, when I suddenly remembered that I was in fact Ian Pour Laval.

“Yes,” I mumbled.

“Welcome to Vienna,” said the voice. “When you leave your room, don’t leave anything behind.”

“You mean I should pack up and leave with my luggage?” I wasn’t quite awake.

“No. Just apply the usual field security.”

For that he woke me up? I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was already seven thirty a.m.

I had a quick-meaning forty-minute-Austrian-style break fast, and went outside. A cabby approached me.

“Herr Pour Laval, I’ve got instructions to drive you.”

I bristled. “No thanks, I’ll walk.” Who the hell was he, and how did he know my name? “Please, Herr Pour Laval,” he insisted. “Herr Casey Bauer told me to bring you over. Your meeting isn’t at Margaretenstrasse, but at another location.”

I hesitated only for a moment. It was cold outside; he knew my name, Casey’s name, and the original location of my meeting.

What the hell, I said to myself. I’ve got no opposition in this game.

On second thought, I added, For now.

“Please give me the address,” I said. I returned to the hotel and left through the rear exit to another street. I hailed a cab, which drove me through small streets of a residential area and stopped next to a three-story building. I went up to the second floor.

I checked the building and its vicinity. Other than a crying baby, there was no sound. I walked up worn, circular stairs to the second floor, rang the doorbell, and climbed ten stairs up, in case an unfriendly goon answered the door. Casey Bauer opened the heavy oak door. “Hi, Dan,” he said in an apologetic tone. “We had a change of plans and I didn’t want to call you or be seen with you. So I sent Johann to bring you over.”

“Well, I’m here.” I didn’t tell him any more details.

“Good. Please come in.”

I entered the apartment and followed him to a spacious living room. “You will soon meet Steve Corcoran, a graduate of the American School in Tehran, class of 1978. Currently he’s employed by the State Department in Washington and has agreed to help us.”

“To do what?” I asked.

“Spotting. During the past two months we’ve identified Steve as the most suitable person for the task.”

“I’m listening.” It had been a long time since I’d heard that term. Spotter was intelligence-community jargon for an individual who locates and assesses individuals suitable for potential recruitment. I was appreciative. Getting the State Department to agree to participate in this operation would have taken an unprecedented amount of cooperation. Or, more likely, intercession at the very top.

“We’ve been working on the plan and the graduate list you and Nicole obtained, and we came up with a potential candidate. Erikka Buhler. Steve will introduce you and withdraw. Bear in mind that Steve knows nothing about this case and shouldn’t be told anything unrelated to the tactics of meeting Erikka.”

“Who is she?”

“A Swiss woman, a graduate of the American School in Tehran, class of 1978. She lived in Tehran ages three through eighteen. At the time her father was a representative of a Swiss bank in Tehran. Erikka currently lives in Vienna and has just been through an ugly divorce that put her financially in the red. She’s out of a job. We selected Erikka because we preferred a female. That gives us some assurance that we didn’t stumble on a member of the men-only Department 81. And we selected Steve not only because he was her classmate, but because he was hired just weeks ago and has received security certification following substantial security checks before he started working for the State Department. None of his friends know about his new job.”

Casey handed me three printed pages and as usual got straight to the point. “Read it-that’s your legend.”

I was a Canadian citizen and had lived most of my life in various locations, where my father, an agricultural expert, was employed by the United Nations helping farmers in poor countries to improve their crops. During my childhood we had lived in Uganda, Peru, Nepal, and Sri Lanka. Now I lived in Europe writing freelance articles for various magazines. My next big project was a novel.

“Should she know that I currently live in no special place in Europe?” I asked.

“Yes, a little in London, Paris, Oslo-no place is permanent for you. Just like when you were a child. We don’t want your legend to fail a background investigation. If you only lived in a city for a short period, people aren’t expected to remember you and you aren’t expected to be familiar with small details every longtime resident would know.”

We spent two more hours covering all contingencies.

A doorbell rang, and a minute later a clean-shaven man just on the edge of fifty, but still young looking, joined us. He was dressed in a button-down light blue shirt with a striped tie, khaki pants, and a blue blazer. Classic.

“Hi, Casey,” he said. Turning to me he added, “I’m Steve Corcoran.” We shook hands.

“Hi, Steve,” said Casey, and led us to a dining table across the room. “Let’s sit here. I’ve just discussed your agreement to introduce Erikka to Ian Pour Laval.” He pointed at me. “Ian is a Canadian author who is writing a novel that takes place in Iran. He’s interested in Iran, since his paternal grandfather-who was born in Iran-left Tehran when he was about twenty years old. Therefore, Ian needs help from a person who knows Tehran very well, speaks Farsi and English fluently.” If he hadn’t become a CIA case officer, Casey could have been an acting coach. He spouted off my cover story so convincingly that he almost had me believing that I really was Ian Pour Laval.

“A personal assistant to help find relatives?” asked Steve.

“Yes, exactly,” said Casey. “As well as helping him with his book research.”

“And who am I?” asked Steve, understanding the nature of his role.

“You’re an executive of an international publishing house. You’re assigned to their branch in India, which covers all of Asia. They signed Ian up for the publishing of his novel.”

“Got you,” said Steve. “That was in fact my job until a month ago, so it’ll be easy.” Casey smiled knowingly and gave him additional details. It became clear to me that they built Steve’s legend around his genuine resume, leaving out only his new government job.

“How long has it been since you last saw Erikka?” I asked Steve.

“Fifteen years. I bumped into her on the street in Zurich once.”