Vienna, Austria, December 2005
I arrived late in Vienna. I was tired, hungry, and particularly curious as to what was coming up next. My travel folder included a reservation confirmation slip at the Holiday Inn.
“ Guten Abend, Herr Pour Laval,” said the receptionist at the desk. “We’ve been expecting you.” She quickly completed the formalities and handed me a room key card and an envelope. “This is a message for you.”
I opened the envelope. The computer-printed message was short. “We’re expecting you tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
I looked up at the receptionist. “Could you help me get oriented here? What are we near?”
“We are close to the State Opera, St. Stephan’s Cathedral, and the famous buildings along the Ringstrasse. We are also not far from the Messegelande, our fairgrounds,” she answered.
I went up to my room and was asleep within minutes.
The harshly ringing phone woke me up. I thought it was the middle of the night. “Ian?” asked the voice. I was about to yell, You’ve got the wrong idiot you number, and slam the phone with an added variety of juicy expletives in select languages, when I suddenly remembered that I was in fact Ian Pour Laval.
“Yes,” I mumbled.
“Welcome to Vienna,” said the voice. “When you leave your room, don’t leave anything behind.”
“You mean I should pack up and leave with my luggage?” I wasn’t quite awake.
“No. Just apply the usual field security.”
For that he woke me up? I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was already seven thirty a.m.
I had a quick-meaning forty-minute-Austrian-style break fast, and went outside. A cabby approached me.
“Herr Pour Laval, I’ve got instructions to drive you.”
I bristled. “No thanks, I’ll walk.” Who the hell was he, and how did he know my name? “Please, Herr Pour Laval,” he insisted. “Herr Casey Bauer told me to bring you over. Your meeting isn’t at Margaretenstrasse, but at another location.”
I hesitated only for a moment. It was cold outside; he knew my name, Casey’s name, and the original location of my meeting.
What the hell, I said to myself. I’ve got no opposition in this game.
On second thought, I added, For now.
“Please give me the address,” I said. I returned to the hotel and left through the rear exit to another street. I hailed a cab, which drove me through small streets of a residential area and stopped next to a three-story building. I went up to the second floor.
I checked the building and its vicinity. Other than a crying baby, there was no sound. I walked up worn, circular stairs to the second floor, rang the doorbell, and climbed ten stairs up, in case an unfriendly goon answered the door. Casey Bauer opened the heavy oak door. “Hi, Dan,” he said in an apologetic tone. “We had a change of plans and I didn’t want to call you or be seen with you. So I sent Johann to bring you over.”
“Well, I’m here.” I didn’t tell him any more details.
“Good. Please come in.”
I entered the apartment and followed him to a spacious living room. “You will soon meet Steve Corcoran, a graduate of the American School in Tehran, class of 1978. Currently he’s employed by the State Department in Washington and has agreed to help us.”
“To do what?” I asked.
“Spotting. During the past two months we’ve identified Steve as the most suitable person for the task.”
“I’m listening.” It had been a long time since I’d heard that term. Spotter was intelligence-community jargon for an individual who locates and assesses individuals suitable for potential recruitment. I was appreciative. Getting the State Department to agree to participate in this operation would have taken an unprecedented amount of cooperation. Or, more likely, intercession at the very top.
“We’ve been working on the plan and the graduate list you and Nicole obtained, and we came up with a potential candidate. Erikka Buhler. Steve will introduce you and withdraw. Bear in mind that Steve knows nothing about this case and shouldn’t be told anything unrelated to the tactics of meeting Erikka.”
“Who is she?”
“A Swiss woman, a graduate of the American School in Tehran, class of 1978. She lived in Tehran ages three through eighteen. At the time her father was a representative of a Swiss bank in Tehran. Erikka currently lives in Vienna and has just been through an ugly divorce that put her financially in the red. She’s out of a job. We selected Erikka because we preferred a female. That gives us some assurance that we didn’t stumble on a member of the men-only Department 81. And we selected Steve not only because he was her classmate, but because he was hired just weeks ago and has received security certification following substantial security checks before he started working for the State Department. None of his friends know about his new job.”
Casey handed me three printed pages and as usual got straight to the point. “Read it-that’s your legend.”
I was a Canadian citizen and had lived most of my life in various locations, where my father, an agricultural expert, was employed by the United Nations helping farmers in poor countries to improve their crops. During my childhood we had lived in Uganda, Peru, Nepal, and Sri Lanka. Now I lived in Europe writing freelance articles for various magazines. My next big project was a novel.
“Should she know that I currently live in no special place in Europe?” I asked.
“Yes, a little in London, Paris, Oslo-no place is permanent for you. Just like when you were a child. We don’t want your legend to fail a background investigation. If you only lived in a city for a short period, people aren’t expected to remember you and you aren’t expected to be familiar with small details every longtime resident would know.”
We spent two more hours covering all contingencies.
A doorbell rang, and a minute later a clean-shaven man just on the edge of fifty, but still young looking, joined us. He was dressed in a button-down light blue shirt with a striped tie, khaki pants, and a blue blazer. Classic.
“Hi, Casey,” he said. Turning to me he added, “I’m Steve Corcoran.” We shook hands.
“Hi, Steve,” said Casey, and led us to a dining table across the room. “Let’s sit here. I’ve just discussed your agreement to introduce Erikka to Ian Pour Laval.” He pointed at me. “Ian is a Canadian author who is writing a novel that takes place in Iran. He’s interested in Iran, since his paternal grandfather-who was born in Iran-left Tehran when he was about twenty years old. Therefore, Ian needs help from a person who knows Tehran very well, speaks Farsi and English fluently.” If he hadn’t become a CIA case officer, Casey could have been an acting coach. He spouted off my cover story so convincingly that he almost had me believing that I really was Ian Pour Laval.
“A personal assistant to help find relatives?” asked Steve.
“Yes, exactly,” said Casey. “As well as helping him with his book research.”
“And who am I?” asked Steve, understanding the nature of his role.
“You’re an executive of an international publishing house. You’re assigned to their branch in India, which covers all of Asia. They signed Ian up for the publishing of his novel.”
“Got you,” said Steve. “That was in fact my job until a month ago, so it’ll be easy.” Casey smiled knowingly and gave him additional details. It became clear to me that they built Steve’s legend around his genuine resume, leaving out only his new government job.
“How long has it been since you last saw Erikka?” I asked Steve.
“Fifteen years. I bumped into her on the street in Zurich once.”
“Your next meeting will also look like it happened by chance,” said Casey. “We know she frequents a certain cafe in central Vienna. Steve will just happen to bump into her.” He handed us a printed sheet of paper with an attached photo. “Here are Erikka’s details.”
I viewed the photo. Erikka looked her age. She had blonde hair and gray eyes, and seemed a bit overweight. The text described her only briefly. “You’ll have to get more details from her. I don’t want you to know anything about her and slip in a conversation.”
If he’d meant to offend me, it didn’t show, and contrary to my infamous short fuse, I didn’t react. Thirty minutes later, Casey said, “Let’s move on. Go to Cafe Central this afternoon at five p.m.” He handed me a note with an address scribbled. “Sit at a table toward the back. Our observations have shown that Erikka comes to that cafe on Mondays and Thursdays at about five fifteen p.m. after an hour of tutoring a twelve-year-old girl who lives in the neighborhood. Steve will enter the cafe five or ten minutes after our scout signals that Erikka has arrived and sat down. Steve, you walk inside and stop next to her table, as if trying to make sure you’re recognizing your classmate. If she doesn’t recognize you immediately, introduce yourself. If she asks you to join her, say that you’ve actually come to the cafe to meet someone, but you’ll sit with her for five minutes. If she doesn’t ask you to sit down, don’t insist. You can try again when you pass by her table, saying that the person you expected to meet didn’t show up yet. She may ask you to join her then.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Don’t push her. Just wish her well and leave. We’ll find another spotter to introduce Ian. Once you sit at her table, if you do, show genuine interest in her. Ask her what she has been doing through the years, ask about other classmates. If she tells you about her personal problems, show sympathy. Ask her how you can help. Conduct yourself as you’d behave without our intervention. Keep the conversation focused on her, but don’t question her in a manner that makes her feel she’s being interrogated. Just be nice to her.
“As you can see from the fact sheet I gave you, you’re in Vienna to meet Ian for the first time and get a personal impression. The book Ian is writing that your company will publish is a novel about a love story between an Iranian man and an Austrian woman, against the backdrop of the cultural differences between people in Austria and post-Islamic Revolution Iran. When you have spent ten minutes with her, excuse yourself and say you think you’ve noticed the person you’ve come to meet. Go to Ian’s table. Hold a conversation with him, order tea or coffee and cakes.” He smiled. “They’re actually very good.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Then, Steve, you will go over to Erikka’s table and suggest that she join you and meet Ian.”
“If she refuses?” asked Steve.
“The only reason for her to refuse will be that she’s waiting to meet someone else. However, I can tell you that in all likelihood she’ll not refuse. She’s very lonely and bitter. Most of her friends in Vienna sided with her husband during their divorce battle. He’s a local guy, and she’s Swiss. He has the money and the influence. She had nothing to offer him. Trust me, she’ll gladly join your table.”
“And then?” Steve asked.
“Leave the floor to Ian. Thirty minutes into the meeting with Erikka and Ian, I’ll call your mobile phone and ask you to leave the cafe. Make up an excuse and ask for her phone number to call her later. If she hesitates, don’t push. Give up. We have the number. Leave the cafe and return to your hotel. I’ll call you there later.”
Bauer got up. “OK, Steve, if you have no further questions, then we’re done.”
Steve left.
“Ian,” said Bauer. “After Steve leaves the cafe, you stay and talk about yourself. Don’t ask her any personal questions. Bear in mind that the purpose of the meeting is to recruit her to work for you as an assistant on your book project. But don’t suggest it immediately. Mention casually the book and your need to do a lot of research regarding Iran. Ask her about her life experience in Iran. She lived there for fifteen years, which were her formative years. I’m sure she’d be happy to show you how much she knows about Iran for no particular reason-just to make conversation.”
“I shouldn’t offer her the job even if she says she could help me?”
“Right. Even if she does suggest helping you, smile and say that it sounds like an interesting idea to consider, and thank her for that. Don’t commit. Get her phone number and promise to call. Leave twenty minutes later. You cannot appear to be too interested in her-just a bit, out of curiosity.”
“No personal interest?”
“You mean becoming a honey trap and charming her pants off? Maybe later; definitely not now. What ever the circumstances may be, she cannot-and I repeat, cannot-be recruited to work for you during your first meeting. Any questions?”
I shook my head. I thought of her picture. She was definitely not my idea of someone to spend a steamy Sunday afternoon with.
“OK. Then I’ll see you this afternoon at the cafe.”
“See me?”
“Well, metaphorically. I’ll be listening in. Steve will carry a microphone.”
At the time set, I entered the cafe.
“Guten Tag,” said the Hauptkellner, or headwaiter, who was wearing a tuxedo that badly needed dry cleaning.
“Table for one?”
“For two, please. I’m expecting someone”-so Steve would have a chair when he arrived. He nodded, took a menu, and I followed him to the back of the cafe. A strong aroma of coffee, foamed milk, and cigarette smoke filled the air.
I sat at a small table covered with a white tablecloth underneath a thick glass top. I looked around. Most of the guests were older men dressed in jackets and ties, or ladies of advanced age dressed to go out. I scoured the place but couldn’t identify Erikka. I glanced at my watch; it was still five minutes short of her usual time. I went to the corner and took the day’s newspaper, which was spread over a wooden frame-a European trick to prevent the guests from taking the newspaper when leaving. The frame made reading a bit clumsy. It felt like holding a placard in a picket line. I punched a small hole in the newspaper and pretended to be busy reading, but in fact I was peeping through the hole.
Ten minutes later Erikka entered the cafe and sat four tables away from me. She seemed to be a regular, because the waiter greeted her and they seemed to have a friendly conversation for a minute or two. Erikka was dressed in a brown skirt and a light-brown tweed jacket. Her wide, pale face looked like her picture, but her hair had been dyed since the photo was taken. She was medium height and about fifteen pounds overweight-nothing, compared to me. For me, fifteen pounds too heavy would be downright anorexic.
A few minutes later Steve walked in. He stopped next to her table, and from what I could gather they had a jovial conversation. I glanced over the framed newspaper and saw Steve sitting at her table.
OK, step one has been accomplished.
I put down the framed newspaper to allow Steve to locate me. As planned, a few minutes later Steve came over to my table. I got up and shook his hand in a formal manner, as if we were meeting for the first time. Steve sat down. We ordered coffee for him and tea for me. I didn’t hesitate long before acquiescing to the waiter’s suggestion to order Apfelstrudel, paper-thin dough filled with cooked apples. The portion was too big, and covered with rich, icy whipped cream.
“How was it?” I asked in a low voice.
“Not a problem,” said Steve. “She was friendlier than I expected. I told her about our meeting and promised to talk to her again when I’m done talking business with you.”
We just sat there talking about nothing for half an hour. Steve got up and said, “I’m going to the bathroom, and on my way back to our table, I’ll stop at her table and suggest that she join us.”
Moments later Steve returned to our table with Erikka. I got up. “Ian, I want to introduce my classmate. Erikka, this is Ian Pour Laval, a Canadian author whose novel my company is about to publish.”
I shook her hand. It was small and tender. She smiled shyly. “Erikka and I were students at the American School in Tehran until the Islamic Revolution,” he said.
“Really.” I sounded interested. “I didn’t know you had an Iranian past. Please, please sit down.” Steve grabbed another chair and they sat at my table.
“Yes, I studied there for five years, but Erikka was a lifer-K through twelfth grade, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “Yes. All my childhood and adolescence was spent there.”
“Have you seen each other since you left Tehran?”
Erikka tried to remember. “Yes, I think we met once in Zurich, right, Steve?”
“Yes,” he said. “What a small world.”
“Does the fact that you spent time in Iran have anything to do with your management’s decision to send you to meet me?” I asked, as if I had just discovered America.
“A lot to do with it,” answered Steve. And turning to Erikka he said, “Ian is writing a novel on an impossible love relationship between a Muslim Iranian man and a Catholic Austrian woman.”
“Really,” said Erikka with a spark of interest in her eyes. “Where does it take place?”
“Mostly in Tehran in the early 1980s.”
“At the height of Khomeini’s period,” said Erikka. “That type of romance during that time was really problematic. Are you here also for the book?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. “To do some research about Vienna and meet with Steve.”
“Are you familiar with Iran? Have you ever been there?” “No,” I conceded. “But I’ve got Iranian roots.”
“Now, this is a surprise,” said Steve. “How?”
“My paternal grandfather was born in Iran, but left the country when he was nineteen or twenty years old and never returned.”
“So, I’m sure you must have relatives in Iran. Do you know of them?”
“I think I’ve got a few second or third cousins, but I’ve got no idea what their names are or where they live.”
Steve’s mobile phone rang. Steve listened and said, “I’ll be right over.”
“I apologize,” he said. “I must leave, but you should stay. Erikka, where can I get hold of you? I’d love to see you again sometime.”
“How long will you be in Vienna?”
“Just one more day, but I intend to be back with my wife next spring.”
Erikka wrote her number and gave it to Steve. “While I’m at it,” she told me, writing again, “here is my number. I’ll be happy to answer any of your questions regarding Iran.”
“Thanks,” I said and put the note in my pocket. “I may call you on your kind offer.”
“Please do,” she said in a friendly manner. “And I could help you regarding Vienna as well. I’ve been living here for the past nine years.” There was a slight tone of despair in her voice, a yearning for human contact, or I was imagining things.
“Great, I’ll certainly call you.” We continued chatting for ten or fifteen more minutes. I paid for the drinks and cakes. “I need to leave. Thank you very much for your offer,” I said, and left. She stayed behind.
Later on that night I was driven to meet Casey.
“It went smoothly,” I said. “She sounded eager to talk to anyone about anything. I don’t think we’ll face major difficulties in recruiting her.”
Two days later I called her.
“Hi, this is Ian Pour Laval. Steve Corcoran introduced us the other evening at the cafe.”
“Of course I remember our meeting. How are you?” “I’m fine, thanks; gaining weight on the Austrian food.” “Unfortunately I’ve experienced it too,” she said in acceptance.
“Well, it looks nice on you and bad on me. Anyway, I’ve got a quick question for you concerning Iran. I hope you don’t mind the short intrusion.”
“Not at all, I’m actually happy you called. I like talking about Iran.”
“I’m lucky I met you,” I said. “My question concerns family customs in Iran, and how a traditional family would treat a Muslim member of the family who dates a Catholic woman.”
“Just dating? No marriage plans are announced?”
“Well, at the beginning it was just a date-I need to fine-tune the dynamics of the reaction of people in the respective cultures when they see what develops between the two. Does the couple hear objections, or do people just talk behind their backs? Once I get a better feeling for that potential conflict, I’ll move on to the issue of marriage, and how society and their respective families treat them.”
“Generally speaking, Iranian society, like that of any other ethnic group, cannot be regarded as homogeneous,” said Erikka. “For example, Iranian farmers in the south have different family values and religious beliefs from city people. So you’ll have to tell me more about the familial background before I can attempt to answer your question.”
“The man is a Shiite Muslim, born and educated in Iran. He works as a pharmacist in a pharmaceutical firm in Tehran. The woman is a Catholic Austrian who came to Tehran to teach German in a local school. Her parents are farmers in southern Austria. By Iranian standards, due to his education and exposure to Western values, the man is considered modern. His family follows the traditional Islamic customs of marrying within the religion and according men superiority in the family. He’s torn between his love for her and his loyalty to his family and his up-bringing and culture.
“These are the general pa ram e ters. But obviously there are nuances when they’re faced with changing circumstances in Iran, and when her ideas on equal rights for women in the society clash with what she sees in his family and in Iran in general. Although I’m writing fiction, I want the book to be as accurate as possible as it concerns facts on Iran and its people’s daily life.”
“I think I can help you if you describe a particular event, and tell me from what perspective you want my answer-from the European woman’s or the Iranian man’s. I could do both.”
“Well, it seems that you’re more qualified to help me than I thought. Can we have dinner, at a place of your choosing, and we can chat?”
“Of course. When do you have in mind?”
I had the impression that she was available at any time I’d suggest. All I needed to do was set it up.
“How about tomorrow night?” I wanted to suggest to-night, but I didn’t want to look too eager, or embarrass her by suggesting that I knew that she had no other things to do.
“Fine, I’ll meet you at Figlmuller’s at seven thirty. Is that a good time?”
“Yes, but where is it?”
“Just opposite St. Stephan’s Cathedral. Any cabdriver will know the place. They serve genuine Viennese food, and there are even some Swiss dishes.”
When I arrived at the restaurant at exactly seven thirty, Erikka was already waiting for me at the bar. The place had a beautiful decor of vaulted arches and wood-paneled walls. Erikka was dressed in a low-cut black dress and had put makeup on her rosy cheeks. She looked radiant, ready for a date, not the professional meeting I had in mind.
“Thanks for agreeing to help me,” I said as I sat down. The smell of food made me almost drool.
“I’m happy to be needed.” She smiled. “Look at the blackboard,” she said. “This restaurant is famous for its old-style gigantic Wiener schnitzels.”
My drooling stage went from potential to reality. These area rug-sized schnitzels are my favorite. Erikka ordered salad and local wine, and I ordered the biggest veal schnitzel they had.
“How long will you be in Vienna?”
“I’ve got no timetable. I want to spend enough time to feel the city and talk to people. Although the plot takes place in Tehran, I want to understand the culture that the woman in my novel brings with her.”
“Does she already have a name?”
“Abelina. But that may change; I have only early drafts.” “I gave some thought to our conversation, particularly if the situation were reversed and the events took place in Vienna,” she said. “Then one would expect that Austrians would be more tolerant of a Muslim trying to marry a local woman than Iranians in Iran would be when faced with your story line.”
“Why?”
“Because Islam is the second-largest religion in Austria. Muslims amount to more than 5 percent of the Austrian population, 500,000 out of 8.1 million. I think Austrians would basically react in the exact same manner as the Iranians would react, though expressed differently, given the disparities in the respective cultures.”
“You mean rejection and opposition, unless there’s a complete assimilation into their culture?”
“Exactly.”
We discussed in detail Austrian history and its relationship with Muslims until I felt we’d exhausted the subject. “I’m sorry,” I said in an apologetic tone. “I meant to ask you questions about Iran, and yet I realize that you’re so knowledgeable in Austrian matters as well. Can we talk about Iran? Do you speak Farsi?”
“Of course,” she said proudly with a happy smile. “I grew up there. My father was the vice president of a Swiss bank’s branch in Tehran. I came to Iran at the age of three and left when I became eighteen. At home we spoke Swiss German, of course. At the American school we spoke English, but anywhere else I spoke Farsi. Nobody can tell I’m not Iranian.”
I grinned hearing that from a blonde-haired, gray-eyed, and pale-skinned woman with typical European features.
She caught up with me and smiled. “I mean by listening to me speak Farsi. There’s nothing I can do about my Teutonic ancestors.”
“Are your parents still living?” I asked.
“No, my father died two years after we left Tehran, and my mother died five years later.”
I left it at that-no more personal questions, since I had to build some expectations in her for continued contact. If Erikka had other thoughts, she didn’t mention them. Un-prompted, she spoke about her childhood in northern Tehran and her friends. An hour later I felt it was time to stop, or I’d have to pose the question. But it was premature.
I looked at my watch. “It’s getting late. I still need to make some calls.”
“At this late hour? People here go to sleep pretty early,” she said, signaling she wanted to keep talking.
“It’s still early afternoon in the U.S.,” I said briskly.
Back at the hotel, I wrote in my report, “Subject is already ripe for the move. I think I should suggest employment during our next contact. Since hiring her isn’t expected to raise any suspicion or doubts, I see no forthcoming obstacles.”
It was all deja vu. In my Mossad years, my unit was sent to Austria to recruit a potential source spotted by a Mossad veteran skiing in Austria. Heinrich was a ski instructor on the slopes near Kitzbuhel, popular among rich vacationing Arabs. We were supposedly Dutchmen and South Africans working for a large South African manufacturer of military equipment. Heinrich’s students- Arab government officials, Arab military men, and Arab private-sector businessmen-were the ultimate targets.
We’d thought it would be a walk in the park, convincing a ski instructor who could work only a few months a year to introduce manufacturers of military equipment to his clients, thus earning a commission. The legend had been designed to give credence to our presentation. Since apartheid had led to an embargo on goods from South Africa during the late sixties and early seventies, personal contacts were key. Once introduced by Heinrich, we would “convince” the Arab officials to attend our sales presentation with a wad of cash just to listen. If these government officials agreed to take our cash, they would demonstrate their corruptibility. It would only take a few smaller, carefully planned steps for them to become ours for all intents and purposes.
After a few lessons with Heinrich, we asked him to join us for drinks, and a few rounds of beer later, Alon, my supervisor, made the first move and asked Heinrich about his other ski students. Heinrich was unexpectedly guarded; he didn’t drop famous names, and, in fact, there were no names of Arab countries in the list of countries he mentioned whose citizens had hired him. On the other hand, it seemed that Heinrich was more interested in our background and in our business activities.
“There’s something odd about this guy,” said Alon later. And indeed, the following morning Alon told us to pack. “We are leaving,” he said. “Heinrich is already contracted.”
The office had just received a warning that Heinrich was on an alert list of BND, the German Federal Intelligence Ser vice (Bundesnachrichtendienst), as working for a communist Eastern Bloc country’s intelligence service. He had perhaps been trying to recruit us.
That experience taught me an important lesson. In the intelligence world, there are no sure things. What seems like a slam dunk could turn up empty.
The next morning I called Erikka. If she was glad to hear my voice, she didn’t sound like it.
“Are you OK?” I couldn’t help but asking.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m going through a difficult time.”
“Anything I can do to help?” She hesitated. “You can tell me,” I said. “Maybe I can help.”
“Well…” She paused again.
“Yes?”
“I need a job,” she said abruptly, hesitation gone.
“Oh.” I gave it time to sound surprised. “Well, that’s funny. I was calling you about just that. I’ve been thinking about our conversation. I was really impressed with your knowledge of Austria and Iran, and I think I could use your talents.”
“You mean hire me?”
“That’s right. I consulted with Steve about it. I can offer you a2,500 a month, guaranteed for a period of six months.” She was silent. “Are you still there?” I asked.
“Yes, yes,” she said. “It’s really a generous offer.”
“Yeah, well, Steve also liked the idea, so the company’s picking up the tab.”
“What would I be doing?”
“You’d be assisting me, mostly in research. And traveling-I hope that’d be OK. Obviously, all travel expenses are covered.”
“Travel where? To Iran?” Excitement suddenly entered her voice.
“Probably. Is that OK?”
“It’s wonderful. I’d love to go back.”
“Well, it’s definitely an option. You know I want to find my Iranian roots-maybe write another book. Is there anything here that’d prevent you from traveling?”
“Only my cat. I have a grown daughter who lives in Zurich, and I can easily get another tutor to teach my only student.”
“Good. So we’re on. I need to leave Vienna for a few days, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s a done deal. I’ll put a letter to you in the mail with an advance for the first month. Is that OK?”
“Super.”
The following morning, after a too-rich Austrian breakfast, the driver took me to a meeting at a modest-looking house in a residential area. The driver nodded towards the house and indicated he would wait.
I went through the gate and knocked on the heavy, dark, wooden door. A young man opened the door, and without saying anything, signaled me to follow him to a sitting room. I sat on the couch and waited. The wooden floor was clean, but worn out. There was hardly any furniture in the room and no personal items. Moments later Casey Bauer and Benny Friedman arrived.
They sat on the black leather couch opposite me, and Casey got right to it.
“I hear you’ve already successfully accomplished getting Erikka on board.”
How did he know that? I hadn’t reported it yet. Was her phone tapped, or maybe mine? Why was he revealing the fact that he knew?
“Yes. It wasn’t difficult. She was very eager, as you said. We need to mail her a check.” I gave Casey the details.
“Dan,” said Casey in a serious tone. “We’ve got a tentative go-ahead for the plan that was discussed.”
“Mossad is cooperating with the U.S. on that,” added Benny.
“Dan,” said Casey. “You will fly with Erikka from Vienna to Tehran.”
I nodded. “When?”
“A date hasn’t been set yet, because we need to train you in Iranian customs, get a designated contact to be ready for you, and make sure Erikka is ready to travel when the final approval is issued.”
Casey opened a briefcase and pulled out a thick folder. “During your next meeting with Erikka, tell her that you have a pleasant surprise for her. While you were away from Vienna, you met Swiss bankers on a social occasion and told them about your forthcoming trip to Iran. When the language-barrier issue came up, you mentioned that you’d be accompanied by a European woman who graduated from the American School in Tehran and is fluent in Farsi. One of the bankers called you a few days later with an offer. He wanted to use your assistant’s contact with the former graduates of the school as an opportunity to introduce his bank’s services to Iranian businesses. He told you that he believed that graduates of that school will now be employed in high-ranking positions in the Iranian economy, and that he would finance efforts to locate alumni of the school who live in Tehran, and perhaps arrange a reunion to showcase the bank’s services. Tell her that the bank’s representative wants to interview her, and if she meets the bank’s needs, they will pay her a1,500 a month, guaranteed for seven months, to locate the alumni and coordinate the reunion.”
“Isn’t a1,500 a month too little?”
“No. If she’s paid too much, she might lose interest in your book project.”
“Gotcha. By the way, she’s gonna want to know the bank’s name. She is, after all, Swiss.”
“Tempelhof Bank.”
I couldn’t help but grin. Benny’s bank. Benny kept a straight face, but the spark in his eyes said it all.
Casey turned to me. “We will provide you with a short family tree of your paternal grandfather’s side to memorize and use in searching for your relatives.” I would get a mission kit for review, he said, and would go to Iran as Ian Pour Laval.
I was told my new family history. My paternal grandfather was Ali Akbar Pour. He was born in Tehran and immigrated to Canada in the 1920s, where he owned a small candy and cigarettes store. He married a local woman, and they had one son, my purported father, Pierre Pour. Upon his marriage and my birth, my mother’s maiden name was added to my father’s family name, as is customary in many societies. I was the only living family member, making my legend airtight.
A local contact, Kurdish intelligence officer Padas? Acun, would be my weapon of last resort in case of emergency. Probably another Mossad contribution.
“Padas?’s men will look after you as guardian angels, but from a distance,” said Casey. “They don’t know who you are, and shouldn’t know, as well. The legend is that they’re indirectly hired by an insurance company to protect you from kidnapping for ransom because you married a wealthy heiress. Your wife’s family took out an insurance policy, and the insurance company hired a security consulting company to protect you, and they outsourced the job to Padas?. He thinks that he knows the ‘real story,’ that your wife’s relatives are also important contributors to the ruling party in Canada, and therefore any harm threatened will immediately get the Canadian government to intervene. But that legend is really thin, so he may guess who you’re working for. If he asks, deny. Although he’s likely to suspect that you’re more than just a writer and even guess that you’re an intelligence officer, he has no idea about your allegiance or purpose of mission. By being at a distance his men will also be able to monitor and report if you have attracted the attention of any branch of VEVAK.” The Iranian security service.
“So I’m married?” I tried to remember if I’d said anything to Erikka about my personal life.
“Only legally. You are separated, but until a divorce decree is entered, your wife’s lawyers didn’t want to take any chance, especially because you have children, so they had an insurance policy issued.”
“If my Kurdish guardian angels establish the potential rivals to be Iranian security, what then?”
“They’ll report any attention you might attract. They were told that kidnappers may use contacts within the Iranian security establishment to inform them of your movements. Therefore, they should regard any interest you’re attracting as hostile, even if it comes from Iranian VEVAK.”
I nodded. “How do I make contact with Padas??”
“You don’t initiate the contact. He’ll introduce himself soon after you arrive and will tell you how to contact him in an emergency. Make sure that all your book-research contacts are made openly with people who would have no connection with government, military, defense, or anything strategic. Talk to shoemakers, bazaar merchants, teachers, farmers. Write down what they say, without attribution. If your notes are ever reviewed, they should show nothing but innocuous conversations on daily life and family customs of Iran. Same goes for your search for your roots. Try to get invited to homes, but wait for the second or third repetition of the invitation to accept. Keep in mind an Iranian proverb that may become handy: ‘Bi aedisheh aez du: zaeh ya: behesht sa: degh ba: sh’ -‘Be honest without the thought of heaven or hell.’ ”
“Why are you mentioning it?”
“Because we don’t want you to do anything a regular tourist wouldn’t. I’m sure you’ll be rewarded.”
“I didn’t know you spoke Farsi,” I said.
“I don’t. I learned that proverb from a wise man.” Funny, Casey didn’t strike me as a proverb-quoting kind of guy. Maybe I wasn’t as good at pegging people as I thought I was.
“What about Erikka?” I asked.
“What about her?”
“Any instructions?”
“Nothing that concerns the real reason why she’s going to Iran. Obviously she should never learn who you are or what the real purpose of your visit is. Let her suggest ways she could help you in your book research and your search for your roots. If you can, escort her to her meetings with her alumni, but don’t take center stage.”
“Where will the reunion take place?”
“Europe would have been ideal, but since some of these people could be part of the current government or even the security establishment, they might become suspicious, or the government itself might. So we’ll probably have it in Tehran.”
“What about the American alumni who can’t or won’t return to Iran?”
“The American graduates came out squeaky clean in our check, so we don’t need them. We’ll say the reunion is regional-‘Asian-European.’ We can have alums from countries that have diplomatic relationships with Iran, so no one will think it’s for ethnic Iranians only and get suspicious.”
Three hours of instruction later, Benny said calmly, “I brought you a present.” Casey Bauer smiled knowingly.
“What? A farewell gift? You don’t expect to see me back?” I found myself sounding like the Jewish mother in all the jokes.
“Oh, stop,” Benny said, signaling to Casey to open the door. A short, very thin, dark-skinned man in his sixties with wavy black hair walked in with a demure demeanor.
“Please meet Parviz Morad,” said Benny. I looked at the stranger. He was wearing clothes that were about one or two sizes bigger than his frame. His dark eyes were sunken and his wrinkled cheeks fallen. His face was gloomy. He seemed so humble, looking at us as if he were waiting for instructions.
Benny touched the man’s shoulder and said, “Please sit here with us.” The man complied.
“Mr. Parviz Morad was born in Tehran in 1962 to an army col o nel who had been the Iranian military attache in London for two years during the reign of the Shah. Parviz attended the American School in Tehran from first grade through fourth, and from seventh through twelfth grades. He attended fifth and sixth grades in London.”
Born in 1962? He was only forty-three, but looked decades older.
At Benny’s prompting, Morad began to speak, in English with a slight British accent. “In late 1979 I was drafted into a highly selective unit of young Iranian men. We were sent to a heavily guarded location in northern Tehran, which before the revolution was used as a club for foreign military officers. We were subjected to daily religious indoctrination and teaching of strict rules of Islamic behavior according to Ayatollah Khomeini’s interpretation of Islam.”
“Please tell my friend the name of that unit,” said Benny.
“It was code-named Atashbon, Farsi for the guardians of fire,” he answered, lowering his eyes.
I was staggered. So that’s what Benny had meant. Parviz Morad was my farewell present.