Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

“Obviously. The will of the individual has no meaning. For example, the faqih authorizes the candidates for presidential elections. If the supreme religious leader doesn’t approve, then a candidate cannot run. There’s no appeal.”

“Did the Iranian people accept that?”

“Many of them didn’t. Soon after the Islamic Revolution approximately fifty people were executed daily. On some days the number doubled. Many of the executions were public. We estimate that in two years the new regime executed seven to eight thousand people. Realizing that it would be only a question of time before a popular uprising would topple the new regime, they eased their grip a bit. But Iran continues to be a country where human rights-including women’s rights, the way we understand them- mean nothing.”

John’s mobile phone rang. He exchanged a few sentences and flipped the phone’s cover.

“OK. The number Parviz has called belongs to Mehrang Pahlbod, a sixty-year-old Iranian exile who has been a vocal opponent of the current Iranian regime. Parviz claimed that Mehrang Pahlbod is his uncle, and the pay-phone call he made was just to say hello.”

“I don’t trust this guy, and even if he’s clean, and even if the relative checks out OK, his phone could be tapped by the opposition,” I said.

“Right. We give zero weight to his explanation. But regardless, we had additional suspicious activities here that cannot be ignored. We’ll have to keep low for a while until we determine if these events are connected with our plan, or were just a part of their general monitoring of the activities of the Agency and Mossad personnel, without knowing what is brewing. Security says this hotel is unmonitored, so your curfew is partially over, and you may leave your room, but not the hotel.”

The next day, I was having a hearty breakfast in the dining room when a young man came to my table.

“Mr. Pour Laval?”

It took me only a second to respond to my new name. After all these years of using assumed names, I wondered why I had never become confused. My only fear was that I could one day bump into someone I had met while on assignment and forget what name I’d used then. What would I do? Ask him, Excuse me, can you remind me of my name? As a worst-case scenario he might think I was demented and suggest that I ask the nurse when I return to the institution for the feeble-minded.

“Casey asked that you please go out to a blue van parked near the service entrance.” He gave me the security password verifying the instructions that had come from Casey.

I went outside through the back door and made sure, as much as I could, that nobody paid attention to the ten seconds it took me to get to the van. The driver drove me to a new safe apartment in a residential area in the outskirts of Vienna.

“Please go to the second floor. Ring the doorbell of the Kraus family.”

Casey Bauer was waiting for me inside the apartment with John and another person.

“This is Tony DaSilva,” he said, pointing at a middle-aged man with a dark complexion. “Reuven reported that you successfully passed the test on the Iranian way of life.” Not a word about the sudden events of the past day.

“Test? I never took any test,” I said instinctively.

DaSilva smiled. “Well, you did. Not all tests are identified by the person being tested. Think about your exchange with Reuven in retrospect, and you’ll see what we mean.” During the segments of my training when we were playing mock scenarios of me being confronted by Iranian security officers, I had suspected I was being videotaped and that my behavior was being analyzed by experts.

“Do you also have it on video?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “But for instructional purposes only, to learn from our mistakes, if something goes wrong,” he answered unexpectedly.

What a bureaucratic way of thinking, I thought. If I’m caught, they’ll need the video to cover their asses and show to any investigating commission that there was nothing wrong in my training or in the instructions they had given me.

Knowing that the present meeting was probably also videotaped, I kept my notorious big mouth shut. For now.

“Are you comfortable with the legend?” asked Tony.

“I’ll tell you when I return alive. But from what I see now, I need to be convinced that Ian Pour Laval is a fail-safe identity. Can you confirm that?”

“I think we can,” he said. “The passport you received is genuine. It was issued to Ian Pour Laval by Passport Canada, the government agency responsible for issuing Canadian passports. Canadian passports are valid for five years only, and a new passport must be obtained upon expiration. The one you’re getting is valid for two more years. In 2002 Passport Canada introduced new passports with enhanced security, but we decided to use a version that predated the change, although we made no changes to the passport.”

“What do you mean no changes?”

“The personal information page that carries the photo and signature is digitally printed and embedded in the page, and a thin security film displays an intricate pattern of images that are revealed as the page is moved.”

“If no changes were made, then why did you mention that it had to be an old version?”

“Officially and publicly, the Canadians are saying that these are the only added security measures, but there could be additional hidden safety features that they didn’t tell us about. Why take a chance? We simply used the available passport, which is an older version. Forgers need to worry about the new passports. You don’t, because it wasn’t forged or changed.”

“Is there a real person by that name?”

“Yes.”

“And where is he?”

“In the U.S.”

I weighed the information. “People don’t know that? I mean his friends and family?”

“No. In the last ten years everyone knew him under a different name. Prior to that he was a freelance journalist working in and out of Europe for European newspapers. That fits your new resume and legend. He now has a different identity. For all intents and purposes, you’re Ian Pour Laval.”

“And what about the passport photo?”

“You two look very much alike,” said DaSilva.

I was a bit angry. “Look alike?” I asked bitterly. “Have you looked at the passport?”

Tony didn’t lose his temper. “I’ve seen it and I’m looking at you. I see a resemblance. Anyway, the process we applied was more scientific. Ian’s photo was taken three years ago when the passport was issued. People change in three years. My ex-wife in particular,” he added with a smile. “Then we took your photo from that period, and a computer measured the similarities and the disparities.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as the distance between the eyes, or the skull structure.”

“And the result?”

“Satisfactory,” said Tony. “If a comparison is made by an expert at a lab, there could be a slight problem. But this isn’t the issue here. There are no biometric identifiers on the passport, so the passport photo will survive a visual comparison.”

“For both purposes?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

I told them about my concerns. I knew that biometrics is used for two distinct purposes. First, to verify that the passport I carry is indeed mine. This is a “one-to-one match or verification.” But the system can also identify or confirm my identity as it appears on the passport by searching a database of biometric records for a match. This is known as “one-to-many match or identification.”

“We know for sure that the passport is clean and does not contain any additional information, such as biometrics, other than the printed personal data,” said Casey in an assuring tone.