the real reason for your and her visit, she’s likely to miss things that you’d never overlook as her controller. From the Iranians’ perspective, she’s your research assistant. She also has a side job of organizing the reunion. Besides, sending a blonde Western woman by herself to Iran isn’t a good idea. She’d be limited in her movements in a conservative society, which believes that the place of the woman is at home with her children, not in a five-star hotel talking to strange men.”
“OK,” I said moving on. “Do I need an Iranian visa?”
“Yes,” said Tony. “Your first option will be at the Iranian Embassy in Vienna.” He handed me a visa application form already filled out. “Please read it carefully, and if you’re interviewed, don’t make comments on the application form’s poor English or its spelling mistakes.”
Had my bigmouthed reputation preceded me?
“Let’s talk about formalities,” continued John. “You’ll arrive on a commercial airline. Lucky for you, Iran’s got a “Commercially Important Persons” clubroom that only costs $50. They meet you on the tarmac and drive you to a lounge while all the formalities are completed. Unluckily for you, you’re not using that service.”
“Great. I love bureaucracy.”
“Because it’d immediately identify you as a businessman or a VIP. We need you to pass as an ordinary tourist. Before you arrive in Tehran, the airline will give the passengers an immigration landing card, customs- clearance form, and foreign-currency declaration form to fill out. Here are the forms already filled in. Keep a carbon copy of the landing-card form and surrender it when leaving Iran. We’ll inspect your luggage before you leave, but at any rate don’t buy alcohol, or any magazines at the airport. They might contain pictures that the Iranians consider offensive. Don’t bring playing cards; gambling is forbidden. Make sure that the customs officers register your camera in your passport. When you leave, show them the camera, and insist that the record be deleted from your passport, as any tourist would.”
“Gotcha. Where are we staying?”
“The Azadi Grand Hotel in Tehran. The details are in the folder. You’ll get two separate rooms, of course. Let’s keep it professional. The hotel should have a courtesy van, but if it doesn’t come through, take a taxi from the station that has a dispatcher. Erikka will help you communicate with them. But don’t look as if you’re taking instructions from a woman-you’ll attract attention. And Erikka left Iran when the Islamic Revolution started and might not fully appreciate the radical changes since then.”
“What about communication?” I asked.
“There will be two methods. One for Ian and Erikka the tourists, and the second for your reporting and distress. As tourists, go occasionally to Internet cafes and use their voice-over-Internet service to call numbers we are providing you with to chitchat with your friends-Agency personnel. Tell them how much you’re thrilled with Iran. No criticism. You can talk about the food, weather, what ever. Use your hotel room’s phone to call your publisher in India, or to look for your Iranian roots. But let’s be clear: no calling anyone else, not even your kids. We can’t control what they might say or who listens in.”
“OK. What about money?” I asked.
“We’ve opened an account for you at the Frankfurt, Germany, branch of Bank Melli, the Iranian bank. Your travel folder includes an ATM card that you can freely use throughout Iran, charging the withdrawals to your German bank account. Every two days you must visit an ATM to withdraw money. Additionally, whenever you move outside Tehran, the first thing you do is look for the nearest ATM and withdraw more money.”
“Even if I don’t need to?”
“Yes, just withdraw a minimal amount. But it has to be an amount that does not include the number five, like fifty, a hundred and fifty, fifteen hundred, and so on. If the number five appears it will signal to us that your ATM card-or, even worse, you-has been captured. All other number amounts will signal that you’re OK, and where you are at that moment. Also, every fifth withdrawal, make a small cash deposit with an envelope through the machine. Look at that,” he said, and handed me a sheet of paper. “Learn it by heart.”
I glanced at the one-page document. It instructed me on how to deliver messages by making innocuous- looking cash deposits through an ATM.
He continued. “The withdrawals and deposits and all other ATM activities will immediately appear on your German branch account, which we’ll be monitoring all the time. We’ll replenish the account by wire-transfer deposits.”
“From where? I lost you.”
“From your publisher’s bank account in India, of course. If for any reason you cannot make a cash deposit through the machine, but still need to send a message, here are the instructions.” He handed me another one- page document with short messages and instructions for how to use the ATM keypad to instruct the bank to carry out routine banking activities, which included an alphanumeric conversion table.
“How do I get instructions while in Iran?”
“We will convey only emergency messages, such as if you need to leave immediately. We’ll use Padas?. If he’s unavailable, we’ll call your hotel, and a person with an Indian accent will give you a message on behalf of your publisher in India. For example, if the message is that your publisher wants to discuss copyright issues of translated editions, and he asks if that night will be a good time to call, that will mean ‘leave immediately.’ It’s all in here,” he said, and handed me another printed page. “Memorize it; your life may depend on it.”
We spent the next two days rehearsing communication methods, escape routes, and various contingencies. You always hope things will go smoothly, yet plan for the worst.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I traveled to the United States for a family visit and additional briefing. When I returned to Vienna I went to the Iranian Embassy at Jauresgasse 9, a nineteenth-century three-story building across the street from the British Embassy. Three stern, unshaved security personnel were standing near the entrance. After telling them I needed a visa, I was led to the consular section. I handed my Canadian passport with my visa application form to the consular officer, a young man dressed in black pants and a collarless white shirt. Like the other men I saw in the building, he also had a three-or four-day-old beard. He looked like he should still be in college.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?” he asked politely with a strong Iranian accent, as he sifted through my passport and glimpsed the attached application form.
“Tourism, mainly. I’m writing a novel and I need more inspiration.”
“A book?”
I nodded.
“What kind of book?”
“A fiction. A love story between an Iranian man and an Austrian woman.”
“Whom will you be meeting?”
“Nobody in particular, just people on the street, everyday people who could tell me about your culture and heritage. Maybe do a little shopping, visit some monuments.”
“Where will you stay?”
“I’ve made reservations at the Azadi Grand Hotel in Tehran.” “How do you intend to pay for your stay?”
“I have sufficient means, and my publisher covers all costs associated with this visit.” I showed him a letter with an attached bank letter confirming the publisher’s ability to bear all costs of my travel.
“How long do you intend to stay?”
“Just a few weeks, two to four.”
“Do you have a round-trip ticket?”
I showed him my ticket.
What the hell, I thought, do they suspect any Westerner would want to remain in present-day Iran voluntarily? Last I heard it was more like a penal colony for foreigners who like to feel safe in a democracy. Not to mention having a drink at a bar with a local woman.
“I see you have an Iranian name,” he said in a tone I couldn’t immediately decipher.
“Yes, my grandfather emigrated from Iran to Canada more than eighty years ago.”
“So you have family in Iran?”
