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.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I hid my surprise. “How many of you were in Atashbon?” I asked.
“Eighteen or twenty, I don’t remember exactly.”
“Was it all religious indoctrination?” I asked.
“No. After the religious immersion that lasted six months, we were given military training and an additional six-month course in intelligence gathering and communications.”
“Where were you located?”
