Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

My drooling stage went from potential to reality. These area rug-sized schnitzels are my favorite. Erikka ordered salad and local wine, and I ordered the biggest veal schnitzel they had.

“How long will you be in Vienna?”

“I’ve got no timetable. I want to spend enough time to feel the city and talk to people. Although the plot takes place in Tehran, I want to understand the culture that the woman in my novel brings with her.”

“Does she already have a name?”

“Abelina. But that may change; I have only early drafts.” “I gave some thought to our conversation, particularly if the situation were reversed and the events took place in Vienna,” she said. “Then one would expect that Austrians would be more tolerant of a Muslim trying to marry a local woman than Iranians in Iran would be when faced with your story line.”

“Why?”

“Because Islam is the second-largest religion in Austria. Muslims amount to more than 5 percent of the Austrian population, 500,000 out of 8.1 million. I think Austrians would basically react in the exact same manner as the Iranians would react, though expressed differently, given the disparities in the respective cultures.”

“You mean rejection and opposition, unless there’s a complete assimilation into their culture?”

“Exactly.”

We discussed in detail Austrian history and its relationship with Muslims until I felt we’d exhausted the subject. “I’m sorry,” I said in an apologetic tone. “I meant to ask you questions about Iran, and yet I realize that you’re so knowledgeable in Austrian matters as well. Can we talk about Iran? Do you speak Farsi?”

“Of course,” she said proudly with a happy smile. “I grew up there. My father was the vice president of a Swiss bank’s branch in Tehran. I came to Iran at the age of three and left when I became eighteen. At home we spoke Swiss German, of course. At the American school we spoke English, but anywhere else I spoke Farsi. Nobody can tell I’m not Iranian.”

I grinned hearing that from a blonde-haired, gray-eyed, and pale-skinned woman with typical European features.

She caught up with me and smiled. “I mean by listening to me speak Farsi. There’s nothing I can do about my Teutonic ancestors.”

“Are your parents still living?” I asked.

“No, my father died two years after we left Tehran, and my mother died five years later.”

I left it at that-no more personal questions, since I had to build some expectations in her for continued contact. If Erikka had other thoughts, she didn’t mention them. Un-prompted, she spoke about her childhood in northern Tehran and her friends. An hour later I felt it was time to stop, or I’d have to pose the question. But it was premature.

I looked at my watch. “It’s getting late. I still need to make some calls.”

“At this late hour? People here go to sleep pretty early,” she said, signaling she wanted to keep talking.

“It’s still early afternoon in the U.S.,” I said briskly.

Back at the hotel, I wrote in my report, “Subject is already ripe for the move. I think I should suggest employment during our next contact. Since hiring her isn’t expected to raise any suspicion or doubts, I see no forthcoming obstacles.”

It was all deja vu. In my Mossad years, my unit was sent to Austria to recruit a potential source spotted by a Mossad veteran skiing in Austria. Heinrich was a ski instructor on the slopes near Kitzbuhel, popular among rich vacationing Arabs. We were supposedly Dutchmen and South Africans working for a large South African manufacturer of military equipment. Heinrich’s students- Arab government officials, Arab military men, and Arab private-sector businessmen-were the ultimate targets.

We’d thought it would be a walk in the park, convincing a ski instructor who could work only a few months a year to introduce manufacturers of military equipment to his clients, thus earning a commission. The legend had been designed to give credence to our presentation. Since apartheid had led to an embargo on goods from South Africa during the late sixties and early seventies, personal contacts were key. Once introduced by Heinrich, we would “convince” the Arab officials to attend our sales presentation with a wad of cash just to listen. If these government officials agreed to take our cash, they would demonstrate their corruptibility. It would only take a few smaller, carefully planned steps for them to become ours for all intents and purposes.

After a few lessons with Heinrich, we asked him to join us for drinks, and a few rounds of beer later, Alon, my supervisor, made the first move and asked Heinrich about his other ski students. Heinrich was unexpectedly guarded; he didn’t drop famous names, and, in fact, there were no names of Arab countries in the list of countries he mentioned whose citizens had hired him. On the other hand, it seemed that Heinrich was more interested in our background and in our business activities.

“There’s something odd about this guy,” said Alon later. And indeed, the following morning Alon told us to pack. “We are leaving,” he said. “Heinrich is already contracted.”

The office had just received a warning that Heinrich was on an alert list of BND, the German Federal Intelligence Ser vice (Bundesnachrichtendienst), as working for a communist Eastern Bloc country’s intelligence service. He had perhaps been trying to recruit us.

That experience taught me an important lesson. In the intelligence world, there are no sure things. What seems like a slam dunk could turn up empty.

The next morning I called Erikka. If she was glad to hear my voice, she didn’t sound like it.

“Are you OK?” I couldn’t help but asking.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m going through a difficult time.”

“Anything I can do to help?” She hesitated. “You can tell me,” I said. “Maybe I can help.”

“Well…” She paused again.

“Yes?”

“I need a job,” she said abruptly, hesitation gone.

“Oh.” I gave it time to sound surprised. “Well, that’s funny. I was calling you about just that. I’ve been thinking about our conversation. I was really impressed with your knowledge of Austria and Iran, and I think I could use your talents.”

“You mean hire me?”

“That’s right. I consulted with Steve about it. I can offer you a2,500 a month, guaranteed for a period of six months.” She was silent. “Are you still there?” I asked.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “It’s really a generous offer.”

“Yeah, well, Steve also liked the idea, so the company’s picking up the tab.”

“What would I be doing?”

“You’d be assisting me, mostly in research. And traveling-I hope that’d be OK. Obviously, all travel expenses are covered.”

“Travel where? To Iran?” Excitement suddenly entered her voice.

“Probably. Is that OK?”

“It’s wonderful. I’d love to go back.”

“Well, it’s definitely an option. You know I want to find my Iranian roots-maybe write another book. Is there anything here that’d prevent you from traveling?”

“Only my cat. I have a grown daughter who lives in Zurich, and I can easily get another tutor to teach my only student.”

“Good. So we’re on. I need to leave Vienna for a few days, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s a done deal. I’ll put a letter to you in the mail with an advance for the first month. Is that OK?”

“Super.”

The following morning, after a too-rich Austrian breakfast, the driver took me to a meeting at a modest-looking house in a residential area. The driver nodded towards the house and indicated he would wait.

I went through the gate and knocked on the heavy, dark, wooden door. A young man opened the door, and without saying anything, signaled me to follow him to a sitting room. I sat on the couch and waited. The wooden floor was clean, but worn out. There was hardly any furniture in the room and no personal items. Moments later Casey Bauer and Benny Friedman arrived.