Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

“Nat?anz is for the UN inspectors to visit. Neyshabur is the real plant. It is built five hundred feet deep into the ground. It’s called Shahid Moradian, after some guy who died in the war.”

“Interesting,” I said, trying to sound uninterested.

“The Neyshabur plant was built by Russians. Very recently, Bulgarian transport planes brought tens of thousands of centrifuges from Belarus and Ukraine. Soon Ukrainian engineers will install them. Some of their families are already there.”

“Wow. I know so little about that stuff, since I write fiction,” I said blandly. “I’m useless on science.”

He gave me that look again. “So the only reason VEVAK is looking for you is because you met some people in connection with a book you are writing?”

I shrugged. “I guess so. But who knows what goes through their heads?”

“Maybe VEVAK suspects you had plans to go to Neyshabur for more than just tourism or family business.”

“They would be wrong. I was going to visit Khayyam’s tomb. Look at some art.”

“You couldn’t get near the plant even if you wanted to,” said Sammy matter-of-factly. “Neyshabur plant is protected by the special Revolutionary Guards Corps elite Ansar al-Mahdi unit.”

“I had no intention whatsoever to go near any strategic installation I didn’t even know existed until you told me,” I said firmly. What I didn’t say though, was that I had wanted to become friendly with the Ukrainian families. Spouses always talk, regardless of their gender. Promising contacts could be developed by people with money and an agenda with people who come from a poor country like Ukraine and who have no particular allegiance to Iran.

Sammy sighed, realizing that there was no confession forthcoming. “Be well,” he said curtly.

Obviously he didn’t believe a word I said. On the other hand, I believed every word he said. The news about the Iranian Plan B, created in case the known locations were bombed, had been slowly trickling out. Now, Sammy’s words supported it. I had no way of knowing the weight of Sammy’s account, nor could I relay the intel home. Maybe Sammy had already done that. Or had he? Had the solitude of the stinking basement made me paranoid? Or maybe my healthy instincts had finally kicked in. Was I really hiding from VEVAK? Did I have proof, other than Sammy’s words? How could I be sure and believe him? Something about our recent conversation had jarred me. It had sounded like an interrogation.

Was my escape and hiding a contingency well planned by the CIA in case of an emergency, or rather a well-orchestrated ploy by the Iranian secret services to extricate information from me, using a Kurdish contact to pose as my guardian angel? Perhaps the real Sammy was caught and he’d talked, and the person I was seeing now was an agent of the Iranian services. I quickly made a mental roster of my conversations with Sammy. Had I told him anything revealing? Had I disclosed my true identity? I was sure I hadn’t. I decided not to use Sammy’s messenger services to relay the messages that were burning in my head. The risk was too high.

I was torn from the inside. The hint Hasan Lotfi had given me left me with no doubt. There was a major terrorist attack on the United States that Hasan, as chief of intelligence of the Revolutionary Guards, was planning, or at least knew about, and now he was using this information as a bargaining chip. Could I trust Sammy to convey the message? What if he was an Iranian agent, and the messages were to be stopped, or worse, altered? What if my assessment of Hasan was accurate, and now his arrest would frustrate a major intelligence achievement, too big to even think of? I had to find a way to send the message. I even toyed with the idea of letting the Iranians intercept my message. Fearing detection of their plan, or even being ambushed perpetrating it, they might abort the mission. The doubts were tearing me from the inside. I was also worried about Erikka and hoped she made a safe departure.

Days went by, and I got used to my daily routine. Wake up at dawn, eat a small breakfast, boil hot water and wash up with makeshift towels I was collecting from the factory’s floor, and throughout the day read books Sammy brought me. I tried to exercise-pushups and crunches. At night I ventured outside to the yard to breathe fresh air. I grew a beard out of boredom. I hooked up a loose wire I found on the factory floor to the radio to enhance reception. That helped me tune in to an English-language radio broadcast from the Gulf States. But the news edition was short and general, except for Gulf-area local news. Still, if a major terrorist attack had hit the U.S., they surely would have reported it in their newscasts. So I knew for now that nothing major had unfolded yet.

But that didn’t help ease my anxiety about the situation. In fact, it heightened it. It made me feel useless sitting there twiddling my thumbs in my little hole-in-the-ground hideout while the bad guys were probably putting their plot into action. I needed to get the hell out of there, but I was effectively trapped for now.

It was also vital to hear the Tehran local news, and that I got only twice a week from Sammy, who brought me copies of the Tehran Times in English. I combed each copy to see if there was a mention of the manhunt for me. But I found nothing. I marked the passing days on the wall with a pencil. Forty-eight days had passed. Sammy never gave me more details on the manhunt and never got me copies of the wanted posters. That didn’t help increase my level of trust in him. I said nothing, though; I was completely at his mercy.

I stirred awake. I glanced at my watch, but it was too dark to see the time. I turned on the light. It was three thirty a.m. “Shit,” I muttered, and turned off the light. Then I heard the same slow screeching metal noise with another muffled sound that woke me up.

The gate? I raised my head from my stinking, lumpy pillow. The noise was too distinct to ignore. I quietly left my bed, climbed the steps to the factory floor, and peeked through the window. It was a crisp-cold and bright night. Other than the occasional noise of a passing car, I heard nothing. The area of the factory yard leading to the metal exit gate was empty. The gate was closed. Solitude was driving me crazy, I told myself. I was imagining things. I crawled back into my bed, which was still warm. I fell asleep.

But it didn’t last long. I woke up again, unable to ignore a different sound coming from the outside. I decided not to venture to the factory floor again. I might have been going crazy in isolation, but the sounds I was hearing were definitely not a figment of my imagination. They were muffled, but very real. Maybe it wasn’t the gate. I couldn’t tell whether the sounds were coming from the yard, the factory main floor, or the neighboring houses. As always, I had to hope for the best, but prepare for the worse. I held on to my gun. Other than keeping quiet, like a mouse in danger, there was nothing I could do. I heard steps right above me. They were too obvious to ignore. I wasn’t imagining things. Somebody was walking on the factory floor.

I clenched the gun, tiptoed to the kitchen to grab the sharpest knife I had, and hid behind the stairs. I tried to identify the steps. Was it one person, or more? I held my breath. I heard “my” name called.

“Mr. Ian, where are you?”

I didn’t answer. It was definitely not Sammy. I never had middle-of-the-night visits from Sammy. Was there an emergency that brought about the sudden visit? This person knew I was somewhere around here and knew my name. Should I venture out? I just sat there with the wheels of my mind racing trying to figure out what to do next. I decided to wait. Eagles may soar, but weasels don’t get sucked into jet engines.