Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

“You mean right now?” asked Erikka.

“Yes, why not? We have time. I’m sure they and the rest of the alumni will appreciate the gesture.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You know, I’d love to see his mom again. She was always so kind to me.”

“Visiting an Iranian family at home will be a good experience for me-it’d help me understand a lot for my book,” I added.

“I still remember where he lived, after all these years. It was on Darband Street, in northern Tehran,” said Erikka. She called information for the telephone number. It was unlisted. “Do you want to take the chance they’re still living at the same address?” she asked hesitantly.

“Let’s do it,” I said. “Cab?”

It took us through Imam Khomeini Boulevard, past the National Archaeological Museum of Iran, and arrived at a pleasant residential area. Erikka buzzed the intercom and a woman answered. Erikka said something in Farsi, and after a pause, the door opened.

Inside the spacious, well-appointed apartment, Mrs. Nazeri stood alongside her maid. She appeared to be nearly seventy, and was clad in a black dress without a head covering. Her eyes were puffy and lined. When she saw Erikka they both burst into tears and embraced, murmuring in Farsi.

After a moment, they seemed to remember I was there, and stepped apart politely.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” said Mrs. Nazeri, in English. Erikka smiled. “I forgot how good your English was.” “You haven’t changed a bit,” Mrs. Nazeri told Erikka. Erikka smiled again. “I’m not that young anymore. My daughter is already nineteen years old.”

“You’re lucky,” said Mrs. Nazeri.

They continued talking, shifting from Farsi to English and back, until the maid brought a tray with silverware, a teapot, and delicious-looking cookies sprinkled with white powdered sugar.

Many long minutes later, during which they talked in both languages about personal things, Erikka said, “As I was saying, I’m using a professional visit to Iran to help Mr. Pour Laval in his book research, to organize a school reunion.”

“It’s a nice idea,” said Mrs. Nazeri, turning to me.

“I only heard yesterday about Reza,” said Erikka delicately. “I wanted to come and see how you were, and to offer my condolences.”

“That’s so kind of you.”

“Perhaps you’d like to include some information about Reza in the brochure they’ll be making,” I suggested. “They have a Swiss bank sponsoring the event, and one of the ideas is to collect pictures of alumni taken during their school years, include a short resume, and publish it in a bound format, like a yearbook. It might be a good opportunity to commemorate the memory of Reza.”

Erikka looked at me, surprised. I had again broken the rule of not leading the direction in the alumni matter, but I just couldn’t resist that opportunity.

“I’d love that,” said Mrs. Nazeri. “Let me see, just one moment…” She went to the other room and returned carrying two photo albums. “It’s all here. I’ve been left only with memories.”

I leafed through the pages of the albums and saw Reza, a skinny, light-complexioned young man, at family events, smiling and happy.

“What happened to him?” asked Erikka in a soft voice.

“Last month he was killed in an accident in New York.”

“Did he live in America?” asked Erikka.

“He left Iran soon after the revolution. He said he was hired by a company to do business in Switzerland and America. I didn’t understand much of it.”

“It’s so sad. Careless drivers are everywhere,” I said.

She looked at me with sad dark eyes. “It wasn’t a car accident. Some crazy person pushed him off the subway platform while Reza was waiting for the train.”

There was a shocked silence. “How awful,” I said after a moment. “Did they catch the lunatic?”

“No, he escaped.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“Was Reza married?” asked Erikka.

“No. He told me it was difficult having a family with his lifestyle.”

“You mean traveling a lot?”

“Yes, between Switzerland and the U.S., but he used to come to visit me every few months.” She looked at me. “He was my only son. His father died when Reza was just a young child. Now I have nothing.”

Erikka wiped a tear away.

“Take any photos that you like, but please return them, as I have no copies,” Mrs. Nazeri said.

Erikka began poring over the photos. I suggested that she take photos depicting Reza when he was in his twenties and thirties.

“This is how I’d think people will remember him,” I said. When I saw a picture that looked recent, I added, “And show his friends who haven’t seen him in many years how he looked just before he died.”

“Mr. Pour Laval…” said Mrs. Nazeri hesitantly. “I need some help in the United States; perhaps you can help me. It is very difficult for us to get information from the United States. Because of the animosity between the countries, communications are slow and unreliable. Here they open many letters sent from foreign countries, and it delays delivery for days or even weeks.”

“Well, I’m Canadian, but I visit New York frequently, and I’ll be happy to help you.”

“I need a lawyer in New York to handle Reza’s estate. Can you recommend a good one?”

This was a golden opportunity I wasn’t going to miss. This was my entry card into Reza’s life and activities in the U.S.

“Of course-you mean a wills-and-estates lawyer? I know a very good one who doesn’t charge a lot.”

“Can I trust him?”

“I do,” I said. “He handles all my American friends’ estate matters. I know he’s very reliable. I intend to be in New York soon and can call him.”

“In that case, let me give you some information the lawyer may need.” She opened a black leather folder with documents. “Reza lived at 45 East 78th Street in Manhattan. He owned the apartment. He had at least one bank account that I know about in Chase Bank, but there could be others. Apart from that, I know very little about his business affairs.”

“Did he leave a will?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but I hardly think so. He didn’t expect to die so soon, and other than me he had no family.”

“Did he leave any papers with you, such as business correspondence or letters that may help locate his assets?”

She thought for a minute and said, “Yes, in fact he did.” She went to the other room and returned with a big brown envelope. “That’s all I have,” she said, and handed me the envelope. I went through its contents. Inside were a few handwritten letters in Arabic script, business cards, used airline tickets, and the like. Nothing looked immediately important. As I was casually going through the papers I saw a business card with the logo of Al Taqwa. I looked at it indifferently but put it aside with trembling hands.

“I don’t see anything particularly important here. Maybe just in case, I’ll copy some business cards to give the lawyer. Maybe these people did business with Reza and they owe him money.”

“No need to copy,” she said. “You can just take them.” I put the cards in my pocket.

“What are these letters?”

“Oh, letters he had written asking me to do a few things for him. I don’t know why I put them in that envelope.” She excused herself and went to the other room. Erikka went to the bathroom. They returned a few minutes later.

“What about Switzerland? You mentioned he was working there?” I asked Mrs. Nazeri.

“Yes, for some bank or something, but he never actually lived in Switzerland. He just visited it for long periods.”

“If the lawyer asks me about any property in Switzerland, what should I say?”