Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

“Who is sponsoring the reunion?” he asked. “Seems that you’re spending money on that project.”

“A Swiss bank,” said Erikka. “They want to be able to sell their services to the alumni and their businesses, and besides, the expenses are really low so far. My trip here was paid for by Ian’s publisher.”

There was a moment of silence, and then he said in a friendly tone of voice, “I’ve always wanted to visit Canada, but never managed to do it, although I lived in Nebraska. Where did you grow up?”

I had my script meticulously rehearsed, so I was able to answer the questions that followed without missing a beat. Still, I had the feeling that I wasn’t being questioned, but rather subtly interrogated. I was becoming even more suspicious. Why was he so openly critical of the regime, daring to talk about it with a complete stranger in public? Hoping to provoke me to jump on the bandwagon and say something negative? And those questions about my background…I would have to remember his name.

I excused myself again to go to my room. I’d be wiser when I saw the list he promised. When I crossed the lobby on my way to the elevator I had that funny feeling that I was being watched. I entered the gift shop and walked around, pretending to look at the merchandise. There was no mistake; a man was standing outside the store looking at me, making no effort to disguise his interest. I had to react contrary to my training, which said, Dry-clean him. But if I did that, I’d expose myself as a trained intelligence officer, rather than remaining Ian Pour Laval, a bona fide author. So I continued with the normal behavior expected of a tourist. I bought a local English-language newspaper and went up to my room.

It was clear that if a follower had been assigned to monitor my movements, there could also be electronic devices planted in my room. The author wouldn’t care less, but the intelligence expert under my skin was on the alert. However, with no countermeasures to discover any hidden microphones or cameras, and with no suspicious activity or material to conceal, I crawled into bed, acting out the “I couldn’t care less” attitude. Good thing they couldn’t read my mind.

The next day, we had to run errands. First, a visit to the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance to see if the note I received at the Iranian Embassy in Vienna was sufficient to conduct book interviews in Iran. They told me that legally, if I wanted to travel outside Tehran or visit any university or museum, among other sites, I first had to obtain a permit. I had to undergo a one-hour interview by a stern-looking bureaucrat about the content of my book, and supply a list of people I wanted to interview.

“We will let you know,” he said at the end.

Next, I suggested that Erikka help me trace my roots in Iran. We went to the Civil Registration Department, which manages Iran’s data related to births, deaths, marriages, and divorces.

“You’d have to be more specific,” the skinny and short clerk behind the counter said with Erikka translating. “‘Pour’ is a very common Iranian name, and if your grandfather left Iran in the 1920s, I don’t believe we can help you, unless you remember names of other family members.”

I rolled up my eyes, pretending that I was trying to remember. I thought about using the information I memorized from the brief “family tree” with which the Agency had equipped me, but I thought I should first try showing him that I was un-prepared, as not to arouse suspicion.

“I remember my mother telling me, from stories she heard from my father, that my grandfather was a shoemaker in southern Tehran. Will that help?”

“No, I’m sorry, we don’t record professions. Do you know any cousins on your father’s side?”

“I only heard of one cousin, who went to France. I think his name was Javad Yaghmaie,” I ventured, hoping my earlier research was accurate.

“Now, that’s a beginning,” said the clerk, who turned out to be a fairly friendly fellow. “I’ll try to find this person. Do you know how old he should be now?”

I hesitated. “I know he was related to my father somehow, but I’m not sure how. Can we search his name first?”

The clerk went through a side door to the archive. Ten minutes later he returned holding a dusty carton file. “I may have found something,” he said joyfully. He opened the file. “This is the file of Javad Yaghmaie.” He leafed through the thin file and said, “Javad Yaghmaie was born on 16 Azar 1309 in Neyshabur, in northeastern Iran.”

“It’s not far from Mashhad, the second largest city in the country,” volunteered Erikka.

I gave the clerk a puzzled look. “1309?”

“That’s December 7, 1930,” he said. “His father was Ibrahim, and his mother Fatima. That’s all we have.”

I wrote down the information, thanked him and left. Now, I’d at least satisfied the initial appearance of a person genuinely seeking his roots.

“We may have to go there,” I told Erikka.

“I’d like that,” she said. I made a half turn, and from the corner of my eye I could see my shadow staring at me. I said nothing to Erikka.

“There’s a rally that is starting in about an hour,” said Erikka. “President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is speaking. I think we should attend.”

We had the cabdriver let us off about a mile from Freedom Square, and then walked along with the huge crowd heading into the square. The sound was insistent: people chanting “Marg bar Amrika” -death to America-and to make sure that any non-Farsi speakers wouldn’t miss the message, the protesters also carried banners in English cursing George W. Bush, the United States, and Israel.

“That’s for the television cameras,” said Erikka when she saw me looking at the banners. “This is all choreographed.” From the looks of the crowd-tens of thousands strong-this was quite the show to stage-manage.

“That square is where the 22nd of Bahman march was, where they declared the Islamic Republic in ’79,” said Erikka. “I don’t think we should get too close.”

Looking at the red-faced, bearded men punch the air with their fists and scream about death to America and Allaahu Akbar, it seemed a fairly unorchestrated hatred. I saw women in black chadors, clerics with turbans, and bearded religious students- many people who didn’t look particularly well-off. In a makeshift parking lot, buses and trucks were bringing in additional demonstrators.

“Marg bar Amrika,” they chanted, sending chills down my spine. In the eyes of some there was a fiery hatred. Passing my eyes over the crowd, I saw a few indifferent or gloomy faces. But most were in an ecstatic state of anger. The crowd was closing in on us. Uniformed police emerged, and probably double their number of plainclothes security men. Children stomped on images of Uncle Sam. A big placard said, BUSH IS SATAN. A crowd of chanting Iranians were burning an American flag and stomping on its ashes. A colorful, paper, distorted picture of George W. Bush hovered above the crowd. Enterprising street vendors were selling everything and loudly announcing their merchandise. I continued hearing the crowds chanting, “America cannot do anything. Iran is full of Baseejis!”

I saw a big effigy of George W. Bush as a mouse, mush in Farsi, swallowing up Afghanistan. I tried to blend in with the flood of people around us. I couldn’t move. I was cramped between bearded men there after a day’s work, who had no time to take a shower and no money to buy deodorant. There was nothing I could say or do. Worse, the crowd had seeped between Erikka and me, and I was having trouble getting closer to her. Definitely not a good idea for her, so obviously foreign, to be let loose in this crowd.