Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

Keeping my head down, I heard Sammy dial a number and begin speaking in what sounded like Kurdish.

He snapped the phone shut. “They’re on to you,” he said swiftly. “The VEVAK is looking for you all over, including at the airport and train stations. We’ll have to change plans. You can’t leave through the airport, and we can’t smuggle you through the mountains to Turkey-the roads leading to the border are still blocked by snow. We’ll go to Plan B.”

I was lying on the back seat, alternately cursing the secret police, the Tehran city engineers who didn’t bother to maintain the roads, and the lousy car manufacturer who hadn’t managed to engineer a car that didn’t lurch over every pebble. I said nothing. What was there to say?

Thirty minutes of driving felt like eternity. Finally, the car stopped. Sammy got out and I heard a metal gate screeching. Sammy opened my door.

“You can come out now. You’ll be safe here.”

I looked around. We were in an enclosed yard, blocked from the street by a plate-metal gate, surrounded by a high stone wall.

“What is this place?”

“Your hideout until their search cools down or the weather warms up, whichever comes first,” said Sammy with a grim smile. I followed him into the dilapidated building. He produced a key to the wooden door from his pocket, and hinges squeaked as we entered into what looked like a deserted factory, perhaps for textiles. Rusty machines stood idle, like statues sculpted by an avant-garde artist. Remnants of textile bales were piled on the floor. Sammy went behind a huge machine and opened an inconspicuous trapdoor just underneath it.

“Come,” he said when he saw my hesitation.

I slowly went down wooden stairs. He closed the trapdoor above us and turned on the light inside by pulling a cord. I found myself in a spacious, windowless basement, with simple carpets on the concrete floor, a bed with once-clean linen, and a small kitchen with a table and an ancient refrigerator. I also saw a small radio and an old television set, probably black-and-white.

“What is this place?” I asked again. I was wary.

“Your hiding place,” said Sammy. “We use it occasionally to hide people sought by the security services. As you know, Kurds aren’t exactly beloved around these parts.” He walked into the kitchen area. “There’s enough food here.” He opened a wall closet that was full of canned food supplies. “You have these”-he pointed at an electric stove and a refrigerator-“and running water.” He opened the kitchen faucet, letting water out, adding, “And a toilet, but no shower and no hot water. Sorry.”

“Looks good. But it’s cold in here,” I said.

“Use this.” He pointed at an oil radiator on wheels. “I’ll come to see how you’re doing every three days.”

“How do I communicate with you?” I asked.

“Use the cell phone you rented at the hotel, but only if your life is in danger. The police can trace you though the phone’s signals. Take the battery out. The phone transmits signals even when you aren’t calling anyone.”

“I did that when we were leaving the hotel,” I said. “One question. How do you get away with using electricity and water? If VEVAK is worth its salt, it knows how to monitor deserted places by checking power use.”

“We hooked the power and the water to the next building, where one of our men lives. There’s no movement on the factory’s electric and water meters. He’ll also keep an eye on this building from his apartment, which overlooks the yard. There’s a side door between his building and the factory, so the metal gate we just used to enter from the street is rarely opened. Even if this location is observed from the outside, no movement will be detected.”

He handed me a torn white cloth. “If you’re in distress, display this above the machine on the factory level. Our guy can see it through his window.” He paused. “Keep the gun. You may need it here.” He reached into his shoulder bag and produced a small box with twenty-four rounds.

After giving me additional technical instructions concerning the toilet, waste disposal, and maintenance, Sammy said his good-byes. “I’ll see you in three days. I’ll enter the yard through the side door. If you hear the metal gate open, that means trouble.”

I sat on the bed. It was only with Sammy gone that I realized how quiet this place was.

I sighed. I had always managed to extricate myself from trouble, and I had an abiding faith that I’d continue to do just that. There was no reason to be sure now, but what the hell. A fall into a ditch makes you wiser. I turned on the TV on low volume- nothing but programs in Farsi. I tried the radio; no luck.

Well, might as well go to sleep.

I curled up on the bed, wondering for a moment what they had done with Erikka, what they had told her.

A few hours later, I stretched awake, hungry. I opened cans of tuna and sardines, and ate them with a few stale crackers. I was bored. I tried the radio again. Nothing. I listened to random noises coming from the outside world. Cars passing and honking, or airplanes approaching. I wished I had something to read.

My thoughts turned toward my kids. Were they worried about me? Probably not. At least not yet. They were used to me being out of the country for long stretches on assignments. Actually, I was thankful they had no idea what a bind I’d gotten myself into. It would have worried them, of course, and that would have meant that I was making my problem their problem. That was the last thing I would have wanted. I prided myself in always being able to separate my work life and my family life.

Three days later Sammy came and brought me three cucumbers, two tomatoes, five oranges, and more canned food. To my delight he also brought English-language newspapers.

“What’s up?” I asked. I was glad to see him.

“Things aren’t great,” he said. “The VEVAK is searching for you everywhere. They say that you’re an American spy. They posted your picture in public places-train and bus terminals, and even at the bazaar.”

My heart sank. My picture? When had it been taken? When I’d met with Lotfi last week, in Vienna, or even in Pakistan? The answer to that could help me build a new legend if I were caught. But who did I ask?

“God. Well, it looks like I’ll be stuck here for a while.”

“Unfortunately,” said Sammy.

I thought for a moment. “Can you get me one of the wanted posters?

“I’ll try.”

“Does anyone know I’m safe here?” I asked. I didn’t know how much Sammy knew about my identity.

“We reported that you’re OK. Everyone at home knows we’ll take good care of you. Do you need anything else?”

“Just reading material in English and fresh food. Everything else I already have. Thanks for everything.”

“It’s nothing,” said Sammy. As he was about to climb the stairs, he turned around and asked, “Did you really want to go to Mashhad in search of your roots?”

I sensed that the question was loaded. I knew even less about Sammy than he knew about me, so I had to tread carefully.

“Yes,” I said nonchalantly. “I was also planning to stop in Neyshabur, you know, to see the birthplace of Hakim Omar Khayyam. I think I have a relative there.”

“What an interesting coincidence,” he said, with an edge I didn’t expect. “Neyshabur is also the ultrasecret future birthplace of the Iranian nuclear bomb.”

“Really?” I said, striving to keep my voice level. I didn’t know where the conversation was going.

“Yes,” he continued. “They are secretly building a low-level enrichment plant with a capacity to supply enough uranium to build three to five nuclear bombs a year.”

“I read someplace that their plant is in Nat?anz.”