Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

If he was sending an unspoken message, I think I got it.

“How soon?”

“A month or so.”

“That certainly sounds like a bold and interesting idea. If you’d like, why don’t you send me your resume and a synopsis of your lecture? Upon my return to Canada, I’ll be happy to make a few phone calls to cultural and academic institutions and see what they have to say.”

“When are you returning?” There was certain urgency to the question.

“I haven’t made plans yet. Maybe in two weeks-I have an open ticket.”

“Then perhaps you can communicate with the universities while you’re still here, and if they have questions, I could answer through you, while you’re still here.”

“We can do that,” I agreed.

“I like your writing,” he suddenly said, changing the subject. “I read your article in European Public Policy magazine about the liberation movements in Africa and your article on the Indian-Pakistani conflict in Political Science and Influence.”

It was obvious he had done his homework and had run a search on Ian Pour Laval before coming to meet me. If he wanted to discuss the articles, I was prepared. I had read them all. But why was he mentioning them, other than to hint that he’d checked my background? Though I had no clear answer, I did have ideas. Thus far it seemed that the legend the CIA had built for my new identity as Ian Pour Laval was holding water. We continued eating and talking, but it was clear, at least to me, that the essential messages had already been exchanged, and the rest of the time spent now was just a waste of it.

He drove me back to my hotel. I couldn’t stop wondering what it was all about. Was he performing a counterintelligence routine by checking me out to make sure I was a bona fide Canadian author, and not a spy? Was he trying to recruit me to work for him? Given his government position, was he sending me another message I was hesitant to accept as plausible?

Alex, my Mossad Academy instructor, had used a metaphor to illustrate recruitment of a source. Think of cattle ushered to the slaughter. They’re made to approach the chute to the stunning pen area through a narrow gangway that has solid sides. Therefore each animal can only see the rear of the animal in front of it, and will not be distracted by what is happening outside the chute. The chute isn’t wide enough for animals to turn around. The animal cannot go back or stop, it must proceed to its ultimate end. Create a situation whereby your source will have no other option than to work for you.

I thought that Hasan followed that rule, although I wasn’t sure who was the target. Nonetheless I decided that I needed money, and in case my guess was valid and imminent, I hit the ATM for a quite particular amount. I made several other transactions, but some messages were not included in the short list of commands. I needed to find an alternate manner to convey a very important message that could be urgent, but I had no clue how. I knew it had to be sent immediately; time seemed to be of the essence. I considered several options and discarded them all. The subject was too sensitive to risk apprehension en route. I had to wait until I heard back from the Agency following the messages I’d just sent through the ATM.

After two more days and eight or ten more meetings with alumni, it became more and more boring. How many times did I have to listen to quarter century-old gossip? I decided to travel to Neyshabur the following day. I was curious to see if the rumors I’d heard had any basis. I could score additional points at home if I were successful. I decided not to think what would happen if I failed. Things were going well, I thought, but I immediately remembered the lesson we’d learned at the Mossad: if things seem to be going well, make sure you haven’t overlooked a small detail that will fail you, because only rarely do things go well without a hitch.

Very early that morning, when the only sound heard was of birds just starting to chirp, I dimly heard a per sis tent tapping on my door. Half asleep, I walked to the door and saw through the viewer a short dark man with a trimmed beard.

“Mr. Ian,” he whispered. “Please open up. I came here for the Kashan carpets you wanted to buy cheap.”

It was four a.m. and I wasn’t buying any carpets. But he came close to the contact code, and I sensed the urgency. I opened the door. He entered and I shut the door.

“Padas? sent me. You must leave at once,” he said urgently.

“What happened?”

“The VEVAK is rounding up dozens of English-speaking men who’ve arrived in Tehran during the past two weeks. You fit their profile; we want you to leave immediately.”

“Do you know why they’re arresting them?”

“The VEVAK caught an American mole in the Iranian president’s office in Tehran.”

“So what does that have to do with me? I have no connection whatsoever to any mole or to the Iranian President. I’m just an author from Canada.” I wasn’t going to concede who I really was, even under these circumstances. You could never be too careful.

“I know, I know,” he said dismissively, in the same tone I’d last heard from my teacher when I tried to concoct some story about why I hadn’t prepared my homework. In plain English it meant, “Don’t bullshit me.”

“We just heard that Javad Sadegh Kharazi, a senior council member, was arrested. They caught him using a sophisticated, U.S.-made long-distance transmitter during a secret Iranian leadership meeting. The Iranian security forces are trying to discover if it was the Americans who controlled Javad Sadegh Kharazi, or someone else.”

“Which meeting was it?”

“The mullahs’ secret meeting on Iran’s nuclear and terrorist activities. They’re furious. It’s the most embarrassing espionage case in Iran since the Islamic Revolution began.”

“And just because I’m an English-speaking male who arrived here during the past two weeks, I need to leave? Aren’t you guys a bit paranoid? I have no connection with these matters. I’m staying. Tell Padas? I said thanks anyway.”

“Mr. Ian, there’s something else you should consider,” he said in the tone of a poker player realizing that no one had noticed him drawing the winning ace from up his sleeve.

“What is it?”

“You met too many people here. That caused some problems.”

“Like who?’

“Hasan Lotfi, to begin with.”

“Yes, I met him last week and had lunch with him the next day. He’s a classmate of my assistant. Why?”

“He disappeared.”

I was stunned, but continued with my resistance, though weakened, based on what I’d just heard.

“Why is that any of my concern? Do all people who met him need to flee? What if he took a vacation or locked himself in a room with a young woman who doesn’t meticulously observe the Iranian dress and undress behavioral codes for unmarried women? He could be anywhere.”

“Do you want to explain that to the VEVAK?” he asked patiently. “They know you met him both times.”

“How do you know that?”

“We’re always behind you.”

“And how do you know that he was a suspect?”

“Lotfi had been under VEVAK surveillance for a few months. Anyone who met with him is also a suspect.”

“But you haven’t answered my question. How do you know that Lotfi became a suspect?”

“Mr. Ian, we have loyal members everywhere. You also met Mrs. Nazeri.”

“So what? Is she a spy too?”

“No. But her son was a very important person who died mysteriously. Any stranger who attempts to talk to Nazeri’s family is an immediate suspect.”

“Important how?”

“Something very secretive, we don’t know exactly. But these things put together are serious enough for you to leave immediately. I’ll alert Miss Erikka as well. She’ll leave through one border exit and you through another. A person named Sammy will come to your room in thirty minutes. Leave your luggage behind and take just an overnight bag.”