“I’m not aware of any, but I might have distant relatives. I thought of maybe trying to find them.”
“We’ll transfer your visa application to Tehran to receive an authorization letter from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”
“How long will that take?” I asked, expecting him to say two to three days.
But he was noncommittal. “I don’t know. It could take three weeks, or even three months. It’s up to them.”
“Why does it take so long?”
“I see a problem,” said the consular officer. “You’re a Canadian applying out of your country.”
“I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t know about this requirement. I’ve already made hotel and airline reservations, and there could be a penalty for changing them. Is there a way to overcome this problem?” I recited the apology my briefers had suggested I use in case such a question arose.
I considered, then rejected, offering him a a100 bill as my modest contribution to his personal financial needs. There was too much at stake, and I couldn’t risk a refusal.
He gave me a long look. “Wait here,” he said and entered into a back office. I was left wondering under the video camera mounted on the opposite wall and the prying eyes of a fat guard who stood silently nearby.
He returned fifteen minutes later. “The consul will see you now.”
I was led by the consular officer through a narrow staircase to the second floor.
The consular officer knocked respectfully on the door, opened it gingerly after a moment. On the far end of a majestic room, behind a king-size desk, sat a man in his midforties with gray hair, a beard, and clever eyes behind rimless eyeglasses. We crossed the room walking on a soft Persian carpet.
“Please sit down,” he said, pointing at a chair, and signaled to the consular officer to leave.
“What can I do for you?”
I told him briefly why I needed the visa soon and couldn’t wait a few months for an authorization to come from Tehran.
“Why don’t you return to Canada and apply for a visa there?” he asked. It was the most logical question, the one I’d feared he would ask. Luckily, I had prepared an answer.
“Well…” I said hesitantly. “I’m reluctant to do it. I have a dispute with my ex-wife over support payments, and I’m afraid she’ll attempt to ask the court to keep me in Canada until the matter settles. I hope maybe there could be a way to spare me the unnecessary cost and legal risk of flying to Canada just for the visa.”
“If Tehran approves your visa,” he said. “I’m sure that after your visit you will be able to describe our country in a favorable manner, as opposed to the hateful propaganda that the politicians and the media are so fond of.”
“While of course I will offer my honest impressions, I assure you that politics isn’t my field. I would like to get to know your country’s traditions and culture, to make my novel more realistic.”
“I see,” he said, giving me a pensive look. “Maybe I could expedite the visa matter. I could explain to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs how important for Iran your visit is.” He wrote something on the application form. “Leave your passport here and come back in a week.” Although I was happy to hear his comment, I felt uncomfortable. Nothing I’d said indicated that this would be favorable for Iran. Why would the consul put himself out there for me so quickly? The little suspicious devil in me woke up.
He handed me his card and shook my hand. His card gave me his name and title: behrooz mesbah, counselor.
“Mot’sha’keram,” I said, thanking him.
He raised his eyes and gave me a surprised smile.
“I’ve learned a few words in Farsi,” I explained. “My grandfather was born in Iran, and I’m really excited to visit the land of my ancestors.”
I left the embassy feeling odd. Counselor? My foot. That only enhanced my earlier suspicion. I decided to talk to John Sheehan about it.
I went on a long cab ride, changed cabs several times, and when I was sure I wasn’t trailed, I went back to the safe apartment.
“How was it?” asked John.
“I can’t really tell. I’m sure the walls had ears and eyes. The visa consul was mildly suspicious when I wanted the visa expedited. I had to meet another higher-ranking person. Although his card said he was a ‘counselor,’ my hunch says an ‘intelligence officer’; there’s no question he was sizing me up. We’ll probably know more about the visa in a week.”
“Getting a visa for Iran can be a difficult matter,” said John. “But if they’ve given you a hard time, we’ve made a contingency plan to fly you to Dushanbe, in Tajikistan, where the process is simpler for us.” He didn’t elaborate.
“OK.”
During the following three days, I met Erikka several times, making sure she understood the rules of conduct in present-day Iran. We discussed traditions, cultures, and the American School. I also broke the news about the Swiss bank’s deal.
“That’s wonderful,” she exclaimed.
Contrary to my earlier expectations she didn’t ask too many questions.
I flew to the U.S. to see my children and receive more CIA briefing. Ten days later when I returned, I met Erikka and she showed me her Swiss passport. “They gave me a visa in no time,” she boasted. “I spoke Farsi and my visa was issued.”
Four days after my visit to the Iranian Embassy I called Behrooz Mesbah, the “counselor.”
“Mr. Pour Laval, how are you?” He was exceedingly friendly. “I’ve got good news. Your passport is stamped with a visa. You may come anytime during business hours to pick it up. Iran welcomes you.”
“Thank you so much,” I said. “I’ll come by today.”
I alerted Casey and took a cab to the embassy. The consular officer gave me my passport. “You have a sixty-day visa,” he said. “That’s double the time we usually grant to tourists.” He sounded as if he had just announced a winning lottery ticket.
“I’ve got more good news. The Iranian Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance has given you an invitation to call them with any of your questions. You may find it useful. Their telephone number and address are in the envelope with your passport.”
I thanked him and left. I had gotten what I wanted, and yet I felt like live prey pushed into the lion’s den. I took a cab, made the usual circle around the city for an hour, and when I felt safe to return to my hotel, I reported to Casey and John from a pay phone located a block away. After completing the calls, I dialed a random number and hung up.
Three days later Casey called my mobile phone. “Take a cab immediately to Cafe Vienna. Enter the main entrance, but leave right away through the back door past the men’s room. A white Mercedes taxi will wait for you. Ask the driver if he can take you to the train station. If he says he’s waiting for Herr Zauber, tell him you’re Mr. Zauber and ask him to drive you to 98 Porzellengasse. Once there, get out of the taxi, pay him, and wait for him to drive away. Then walk to 106, repeat, 106 Porzellengasse, second floor. Take extreme precautions.”
That address was new to me. Casey was signaling that it was a safe house.
When I arrived, I saw Benny Friedman, Reuven Sofian, Casey Bauer, Tony DaSilva, and John Sheehan. The attendance was too broad to be just another briefing.
“Is it happy hour?” I asked. “Where are the drinks?”
Casey smiled at first but then changed his expression to dead serious. “Dan, you’re leaving tomorrow morning. You’re staying here to night. Your luggage will be here momentarily.”
My stomach moved nervously. “What about Erikka?” I asked.
“We sent her tickets by messenger from the travel agency and attached a note asking to confirm. She called the travel agent to confirm and asked if you’d be on the same flight. I suggest you call her now.”
He handed me a cell phone. I called Erikka, and we agreed to meet at the airport.
“You should also know that she met our men posing as the bank’s representatives. She signed a contract and received an advance.” He gave me a travel folder with my airline tickets, five million Iranian rials, a8,000, and $5,000.
“Why American dollars, when I’m a Canadian?” “Because the U.S. currency is more popular. Many Iranians
