discretion.”
“Do you think we should call him or pay a personal visit?” I asked Nicole.
“I think we should start with calling him. A personal visit could be intimidating or suspicious. Why would an American come to Berlin to ask a few questions for a family memorial book for a person who’s been missing for twenty-some years?”
I dialed.
“Krieger,” announced a man’s voice.
“Professor Krieger?”
“Ja.” He answered in German.
“My name is Stanley Ward. I hope you speak English.” “Yes.”
“I’m sorry to bother you on a small matter, but I wonder if you remember Albert Ward, a member of my family?”
“Remind me.”
“He was a young photographer who worked for you in the excavations in Tal-e Malyan, Iran, in the early 1980s.”
“I remember that name very vaguely.”
“As I said earlier, I’m Stanley Ward, his cousin. We’re preparing a family history pamphlet and want to dedicate a page to his memory.” I paused upon mentioning that Ward had died, hoping he’d reveal something he might know about it. But he kept silent, and I continued.
“Since he mentioned your name in a postcard he sent my parents, I thought you might be able to tell me about his work. It’ll take only a few minutes of your time.”
“There isn’t anything to tell,” he said. “Dagmar Fischer, my assistant at the time, suggested bringing him over. If I’m not mistaken, she said she had met him some place in Africa. But at the end, he never came to work for us. The truth is, those volunteers are really good for nothing. Unless they are getting academic credit, lots of them don’t show up, and some of those who do come behave like they’re in a summer camp and forget we are involved in serious scientific research.”
“Did he expect to be paid for his work?”
“Of course not, nobody did. We had a limited bud get mostly spent on local diggers and food supplies for my staff and students. He was expected to be a volunteer like all others.”
“Do you remember anything special about him?”
“Nothing. I never met him. I remember the name only because we had to sponsor an Iranian visa for him.”
“Where can I find Ms. Dagmar Fischer?”
“She teaches at the University of London’s Archaeology Department.”
I thanked him and hung up the phone. Nicole, who had been recording the conversation, stopped the tape recorder. Next, we called Dagmar Fischer, who was found after a few tries and proved more pleasant than the grumpy Professor Krieger.
“Yes, I knew Al Ward pretty well. I remember him as a kind person.”
“That’s nice to hear,” I said. “Have you been in contact?” “No. I last saw him many years ago. While I was a student, I went on vacation to South Africa, where I met him in a youth hostel. We spent some time together, and I even went with him on a safari, where he took magnificent photos.”
“I understand he had plans to follow you to Iran.”
She laughed. “You make it sound romantic. It wasn’t, at least not from my perspective. While still in South Africa I heard from my classmate that a German archaeology expedition was planning a dig in Iran and was looking for students willing to volunteer. I called the department and they agreed to take me. I flew from Johannesburg to Tehran and joined Professor Krieger’s team. When the site of Anshan in Tal-e Malyan was discovered, we needed a professional photographer, but with a very small bud get, we wanted a volunteer. I told Professor Krieger about Ward being a good photographer who was looking for adventure. Professor Krieger asked me to invite Ward. I had his next address in a youth hostel in Islamabad, Pakistan, and sent him a letter.”
“Did he respond?”
“Yes, but it took some time, and his letter was very short, like one or two sentences-‘Coming on that date,’ or something like that. I was a bit surprised that he didn’t even ask about the terms or anything else.”
“Maybe he wanted to be in your company more than anything else?”
“Maybe,” she giggled.
“Was anyone worried about bringing an American to Iran, considering it was after the revolution?”
“Well, we told the Iranians that we were planning to invite a young American photographer to join the group’s excavations in return for room and board. Which for us meant, you know, a tent in the desert and canned food.”
“So what’d they say?”
“You know, I have no idea. I was really just rank and file-I was helping Professor Krieger with some administrative chores. But I guess it wasn’t OK, because Ward never actually showed up.”
“Do you know who handled the visa matter for the Iranians? Perhaps he will know.”
“I’m not sure I remember. It’s been so long. But I think I saw the Iranian officer twice at the camp. Actually, I’m sure I did, because he came back about a month later. He told us they’d hold us responsible for attempting to bring Ward over. He said they’d discovered that Ward was a spy.”
“He said Ward was a spy?” I tried to sound surprised. “That’s shocking. And besides, even if that ridiculous story were true, why would you be responsible?”
“Because his visa application to Iran was sponsored by the expedition. Well, he said Ward was an American spy. We were pretty upset. Plus we were left without a photographer.”
“Was Albert a spy?” I repeated in disbelief, sounding a complete novice.
“I hardly think so. He was too simple to be anything but what he was, just a kid wandering around. Why don’t you ask Albert?”
“I can’t,” I said. “He disappeared. He never returned from wherever he was.”
“Oh my god,” she said. “I can’t believe that!’
“Can you remember now the name of the officer? Maybe he could tell us if he knew where Albert went instead of coming to Iran after his entry was refused.”
“Well, I guess I could look it up in my records. It’s possible that maybe I wrote his name down in my log of the excavation.”
“Thanks, that would be great. So while we’re talking, what happened next?”
“What happened? Nothing, I guess. We completed the excavation and returned to Germany. Professor Krieger’s paper on the excavation was very well received. I finished my studies, and the excavation site is now open to tourists.”
“Have you seen or heard from Albert again?”
“No, and I did find it odd. I don’t know why he would vanish like that. Though I suppose he could have been upset because…” She trailed off.
“Because…?” I prompted, hoping I wasn’t pushing her too far.
“It’s kind of personal, but you know, I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s been twenty years. I…rebuffed his advances because I didn’t find him attractive in a personal way.”
A day later, when I called Dr. Fischer back, she had the officer’s name: Bahman Hossein Rashtian. He was working in Iranian state security.
I consulted Nicole.
“What we should do is go to London,” she said immediately, “to see what the NSA has to offer on the Iranian connection to our case.”
“Why London?”
“Because their UK base is the largest outside the U.S. There’s no point in asking the French station for broadscale assistance- they’ll just send us to London, or even to Washington.”
I called Bob Holliday, my new boss. David had just retired. To add to my other bones to pick with the Chameleon, he’d made me miss David’s retirement party.
“Bob, we need NSA assistance.”
