Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

“I don’t know. Maybe the lawyer will find things in Reza’s apartment that will give him more information.”

“OK, I think I could do that.” I paused. “I have an idea. I’ll simply call the lawyer and tell him to expect your letter. And I’ll ask him what he needs from you to start working.”

“Good,” she said. “What’s his name?”

“Dan Gordon,” I said, and regretted it immediately. I just couldn’t think fast enough of any other name. It was a bad answer, but I couldn’t take it back. I’d have to make arrangements.

“I’ll have him write you. He’ll probably need a power of attorney to be appointed as administrator of the estate of Reza.”

“There’s one thing I need to add,” said Mrs. Nazeri. “Reza had to change his name. He told me it was better for business. In fact he changed it twice. His first new name was Christopher Gonda.”

I felt heart palpitations and hoped Mrs. Nazeri and Erikka wouldn’t notice my excitement. In my mind I vividly saw the picture of Christopher Gonda, a good-looking young American man who disappeared in the early 1980s without a trace. Now I was having tea with the mother of an Atashbon member.

“And then he changed it again?” I queried, praying that my voice wouldn’t betray me.

“Yes, he told me that there was another person with that name who ran into trouble, so he decided to change it again, this time to Philip Montreau.”

When we returned to our hotel, Erikka noticed I was behaving differently. “What happened?” she asked. “Are you OK?”

“Of course I’m OK,” I quickly answered. “I was deeply touched by Mrs. Nazeri’s grief. Losing her only son in such a ghastly accident. I sympathize with her.”

Erikka gave me one of those “I don’t know if I should believe that” looks. When we arrived at the hotel’s driveway, she said, “I’m going to meet another graduate, Hasan Lotfi. You’re welcome to join us.”

I was going to politely reject the offer, but when I saw a chauffeured black Mercedes just behind us and a distinguished looking man exit, I changed my mind. Erikka looked back and said, “My God, it’s Hasan.” She walked over to him and held out her hand in excitement to shake his. But he pulled away from her without touching. I was afraid that Erikka was going to get in trouble-all that touching. He nonetheless smiled at her. I just stood there. They came over to me, and Erikka made the introduction.

“Why don’t you join us?” he asked. “As a matter of fact, I insist.”

There was a slight tone of command in his voice. His demeanor was that of a man of authority. He was of medium height and build, with a trimmed beard, dressed in a mix of Iranian and Western-style clothing. I looked at his shoes and wristwatch. They looked expensive. I remembered one of my Mossad instructor’s comments: “If you want to quickly assess a person’s financials, look at his watch and shoes. Wealthy people don’t scrimp on these items.”

“Thanks, I’d be happy to,” I said.

We sat in the lobby and Hasan and Erikka spoke in a combination of English and Farsi about the school and their mutual friends. I felt like a fifth wheel, and quietly sipped my cherry juice and listened.

Erikka sensed my boredom. She switched back to English and said, “Hasan made it big. He’s now a high-ranking officer in the Revolutionary Guards.”

I breathed deep to mask the immediate change in my vital signs. Hasan didn’t smile when he said, “They agreed to ignore the fact that I was educated by infidels.”

Erikka smiled guilelessly, although to me it wasn’t funny at all. I wasn’t going to ask him any questions and instead let him speak. But Erikka was the one to ask him directly what he was doing at the Revolutionary Guards.

“I started as a supervisor at the Intelligence Department of the Revolutionary Guards. Then I moved to the Security Ministry and became in charge of the Secretariat, and then returned to the Revolutionary Guards as its chief of intelligence.”

“That’s very interesting,” said Erikka, as if Hasan just told her he was working at the local zoo training birds to sing. She had no idea how important this man was or how dangerous and treacherous his organization was. We were sitting and drinking juice in a fancy hotel with a man whose organization was responsible for catching, marinating, and frying guys like me.

“Do you get to travel?”

“Unfortunately not,” he said. “I used to, but now I’m a bureaucrat in an organization that enforces the rule of Islamic law and exports the Islamic Revolution, among other things,” he said, looking at me enigmatically. I tried not to break under his glare. The only comparison that came to my mind was of a cannibal ogling and drooling at a fat tourist lost in the jungle. Had he insisted I participate in his meeting with Erikka only because he didn’t want to be seen with a woman at a hotel? Or did it have to do with his ministry’s instruction to Khan in Islamabad to lure me into Iran-and now I had walked into his trap willingly? I kept to my training: cool and relaxed, not revealing my thoughts and fears.

“Mr. Pour Laval, please tell me about your book. Erikka mentioned it’s romantic and dramatic at the same time.”

“Yes, in a way,” I said.

“Have you started writing it?”

Now that was a direct question that an interrogator asks, not a polite curious bystander. I decided to pick up on that.

“As a matter of fact I’ve gotten a lot of writing done lately. Are you interested in literature?” I asked.

“Sometimes. It’s sometimes interesting to see what people from other countries think of our country and our culture.”

“Well, this person,” I said, pointing a finger at my chest, “thinks very highly of your country.” Kissing up never hurt anyone.

“I’d like to read what you’ve written,” he said, and softening the tone of command, he added, “If you don’t mind, of course.”

“Well, it’s just a rough draft, and I wrote a lot before coming here. I expect to make many changes. I’ve learned so much since I came to Iran.”

He tightened the screws. “Good. When can I see it?”

“Can you wait for the book to come out? It will be edited and updated after I conclude my visit.”

“Only if you force me,” he said lightly with a smile, exposing perfect white teeth. I let him lead the direction of the conversation. “You’ll be making good changes after your visit, I hope?”

“Certainly,” I confirmed. “The manuscript is here, in my room. If you promise to return it to me by the end of the week, with your sincere and critical comments, I can let you read it. I could use an early critical review.”

“I’d like that,” he said.

“Let’s go to my room then,” I said and got up.

Erikka remained sitting. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea for me to go to a room with two men.”

“Don’t worry,” said Hasan calmly. “You have nothing to worry about when I’m here.” This was his subtle way of showing us how powerful his position was.

There was a moment of silence. Erikka didn’t respond. Apparently the wee-hours encounter with the moral police had left its mark on her.

“OK,” I said easily. “I’ll just go upstairs and bring it here.”

I went up to my room and took the bound manuscript the ghostwriters of the CIA had prepared for me. There were many handwritten comments on the text that I’d inserted to make it look like it had been worked on at different times with different pens.

“Here it is,” I said as I handed him the bound copy.

“I have additional copies at home and on my computer, but that copy is the only one with my comments. Some of them were made during this visit, so please return it.”