Haggai Harmon - The Chameleon Conspiracy

“They don’t know who you are, and I don’t think they care. They know you’re under our protection, and that’s all that matters.” He smiled. I wasn’t sure I could return the smile.

Sammy drove me to the parking lot next to Tarehbar Square, the wholesale fruit and vegetable market in south Tehran. He stopped next to an old truck and pointed at the driver. “He’ll take you across the border to Turkey. Be prepared for a long ride.”

“How long?”

“A nonstop trip from Tehran to the crossing point to Turkey would take about twenty-four hours, maybe a little longer depending on road conditions, since the snow is melting. But in this case, your entire trip across the border may take four to six days, including stops, because part of the way will be off-road on horse back.”

I looked at the grizzled truck driver standing next to his shabby 1963 Mercedes Benz truck. Its sixteen-foot bed was covered with a canvas tarp with several patches, but new holes were in the making.

“There’s no planned route, because if road conditions, police roadblocks, or the weather change, the driver will look for alternative routes.” Sammy chuckled. “There’s no itinerary of sites to visit or hotel reservations to worry about.”

“Who are these people?” I asked when I saw three men climb into the truck.

“Other passengers he’s smuggling. In fact, it serves our purpose, because you can blend with them.”

“Blend?” I snorted. “I’m fair skinned and six foot four, and they’re dark and a foot shorter. I’ll be the obvious outsider.”

“Not necessarily. We can’t do anything about your height, but your beard and these clothes do a good job of masking your appearance.” He pointed at a short man with a hat similar to mine. He smiled at me. “This is your driver. His name is Kashkuli Buzurg. He’ll take good care of you.” Sammy and the driver exchanged a few sentences.

“What language does he speak?”

“A dialect of Turkish. But like most Qashqais, he also speaks Farsi.”

“And how do I communicate with him?”

“Let this be the least of your concerns. You’ll manage. Use your hands and body language,” Sammy answered.

“When you get closer to the Bazargan border crossing to Turkey, police activity will increase. He’ll use dirt roads to bring you to a Qashqai camp. From there, they’ll take you on horse-back across the Zagros Mountains in western Iran into the vicinity of Dogubayazit, Turkey.”

“The Iranian police and military don’t supervise that border area?” I asked.

“They know that the nomadic Qashqais move their herds twice a year in this area, so the police and army aren’t expected to immediately suspect such movement. The Qashqais summer location is about ten thousand feet above sea level. It’s still cold up there-not all the snow has melted.”

The name “Dogubayazit” sounded familiar. Then I remembered: it was the city next to the Ararat mountain range, where the remains of Noah’s Ark were alleged to have been found. A strange thought passed through my mind. The Titanic was built by professionals, while Noah’s Ark was built by an amateur. Some people believe that a symmetrical, streamlined stone structure near there has the right dimensions and interior configuration, and symmetrically arranged traces of metal, consistent with its being the Ark. Also, anchor stones have been found near there. I always wondered, whenever I was scratching my aching skin in summer mornings spent outside the city, why Noah didn’t let the pair of mosquitoes stay behind and drown. He probably never experienced having a bloodthirsty mosquito in his bedroom at two in the morning that cannot be smashed or cast out. I looked at Sammy and felt a pang for having suspected him. I took a thick stack of U.S. hundred-dollar bills and offered it to Sammy.

“Here, please take it. I can’t thank you enough.”

“No,” he said firmly, pushing my hand away. “You’re very kind, but I can’t take it. Your people are helping us in many ways, and helping you is just a duty of honor for us.”

Sammy shook my hand. “Good luck.” I hugged him. He walked to his car. Thank you very much, I wanted to say again, but he was already out of hearing range.

I climbed into the back of the truck. I sat on a pile of old blankets padded with sheep’s wool, wrapped myself with one, and offered a broad smile to my new travel companions. They nodded and said something I couldn’t understand. So I just nodded back. The engine roared and the truck left the parking lot.

I was troubled by not being able to communicate in any language with the driver or my travel companions. That could be hazardous in case of emergency, when reaction to perils needed to be immediate.

I had to try my best. I blurted out, “Salaam Aleikum” -hello, or peace on you.

“Aleikum Salaam,” they returned the greeting, without the least look of surprise on their faces. “Maen kaemi farsi baelaedaem” -I speak a little Persian. “Haletun chetoreh?” -How are you? They burst into laughter; I guess my accent wasn’t perfect, or maybe not even close. I thanked Erikka in my heart for teaching me these few sentences. Where was she now?

“Aez ashnai tun khosh baek taem” -Nice to meet you! “Saelam ba ba! maenaem, adriyan.”

“To bozorgi.” I didn’t know what he meant until he used his hands to gesture: you’re big. His friends burst out laughing. I grinned.

From the position of the rising sun I realized that the truck was going northwest. We left the madness of the city behind and soon found ourselves moving along a busy highway. About an hour’s drive out of Tehran, we started to gain steadily in elevation into the mountains. I put my head on a blanket, covered myself with another torn blanket, and thought of my children. It was times like this that I missed them the most. They were used to months going by without word, but still I wondered if they worried.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next time I looked outside I saw nothing but vast, empty land. What always struck me in countries like Iran was how drastically the line between city and country was drawn. One moment you could be risking your life in mad city traffic and the next be in calm country surroundings with no lights, no pollution, but a timeless scenery all around.

Apart from a few stops for fueling, the ride was monotonous and without incident. At about eight p.m. we pulled off to sleep for the night. I couldn’t sleep just yet. I’d had my share during the day, so I decided to take a short walk in the moonlight to ease my tension. The hillsides were dotted with trees, and the hills sloped gently down into canyons. It was breathtaking. After my months of indoor living, I relished the outdoors.

On first light the next morning, we continued. The landscape became higher and wilder, until the boulders grew to the size of mountains. The major roads disappeared and gave way to tracks populated by people who cared only about tomorrow’s meal, and not about terrorism or international politics. From the looks of it, they were living as their ancestors had lived for hundreds, or even thousands, of years.

The scenery appeared to have been molded by endless earthquakes, with enormous boulders and uneven cliffs coming right to the edge of the road. Occasionally we would catch a quick glimpse of a mud-brick village. I saw several waterways carved in the rocks flowing down the slopes to the village for drinking and irrigating.

An hour later, I felt the truck shudder. A car had rear-ended us. I peered over the side of the truck to see if we’d suffered any damage. Nothing serious. The men near me called to our driver, evidently telling him there was no need to stop. He continued driving, ignoring the impact and leaving the colliding car behind us.