have probably never seen a Canadian dollar. Everyone, even people who’ve never been to the U.S., carries U.S. dollars.”
“Yeah, but isn’t this a lot? It could get people suspicious.”
“No. There are the two of you for a month or two. You are engaged by a well-known publishing house, and Erikka is under a contract with a Swiss bank, so you can account for the money if asked. That money could help you out of Iran in case of an emergency.” He also gave me a Visa credit card, an ATM card, and pocket debris. “The rials are worth only $500; use them to pay your initial expenses.” I looked at the stack of bills that filled up a big bag. In the bag was also a receipt from Melli Bank.
“Keep the receipt. It’s proof that you bought the rials at a bank, and didn’t exchange your dollars on the Iranian black market.”
Benny shook my hand. “Dan, I trust you. Return safely.” He hugged me. For a minute I felt he was saying good-bye for good. It didn’t help my mood.
If I had doubts whether what I’d got myself into was the right thing to do, certainly it was too late to air them. I knew I was assuming a huge risk. If the khans in Islamabad got my photo and transmitted it to Iran, I’d be toast. Iran wanted them to lure me in, and now I was going there voluntarily? Did this entire operation make sense? Knowing that only mediocrity makes sense, because then you don’t invade anybody’s turf, didn’t make me feel more relaxed. It sounds great as a proverb, but now how was I supposed to feel in reality when I had doubts? I sat down on the couch and took control of my mental hesitation.
I suppressed that hesitant devil in me. Hey, you live only once. I don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, don’t gamble or drink excessively, so what am I to do for that little extra excitement and fun? Not that-I still get a chance for that here and there. I mean what this job gives me. The thrill of the hunter focusing on his prey when it’s close, when there’s nothing in the world that you want more than the kill, the score, the success…although recognizing that after basking in it for a while, you return to mediocre life, to another low…until you start looking to get that fix again.
I thought of my father, who had always told me, “Bravery is being the only one who knows you’re afraid.” I kept on a brave face as everybody hugged me and left.
In the morning I was driven to the airport by a driver who apparently had taken a vow of silence. At eleven a.m. I took a deep breath and checked into Lufthansa flight LH6334/LH6447 coming from Frankfurt to Vienna, continuing to Tehran. Erikka was waiting for me at the airline counter. She looked and sounded really excited, though for a different reason. The plane was only half-full. Some of the passengers seemed to be European businessmen, but most were probably Iranians dressed in European attire. Only a few wore collarless, buttoned white shirts. We were scheduled to arrive at three a.m. on the following day. Two hours before landing, I saw the cabin crew collect all liquor bottles, full or empty, and lock them in the galley.
The flight service manager announced on the PA, “Under the law of Iran, all female passengers must have their hair covered.” About a dozen fashionably dressed women with makeup went to the bathroom holding plastic garment bags, emerging later dressed in black chadors, the one-piece cloak. They had their hair covered, nail polish removed, and faces clean of makeup. They were transformed to black, nearly indistinguishable masses. I overheard Erikka talk with a European-looking woman sitting next to her about the dress code.
“Don’t worry,” said Erikka to the woman, who had also noticed that several Iranian women had changed their clothes in the bathroom. “Foreign women aren’t expected to wear the chador. Just make sure that you cover all parts of your body except your hands, feet, and face. As for your head, remember the rule, ‘from hairline to neckline.’ I’d also make sure,” added Erikka as she saw that the woman was dressed in a tight skirt, “that your clothes don’t reveal the shape of your body.”
The woman rushed to the bathroom with a fashionable handbag. Moments later she emerged wearing a long dress.
“My friend gave it to me before leaving and suggested I carry it on board. I thought she was teasing me, I thought the cover-all dresses were only for Iranian women.”
“No, she wasn’t joking,” said Erikka. “What you’re wearing is a manteau, a dress many Iranian women use instead of the chador.”
From the aircraft’s window I saw Tehran approaching through the haze, a city of nine million located in the foothills of the Alborz Mountains, with elevations increasing towards the north and sloping lower to the south. Pollution was bad during that afternoon hour of early winter, with yellow-gray clouds of smog.
I thought of the rule I’d discovered. In an underdeveloped country I can’t drink the water, and in a developed country I can’t breathe the air. With that thick smog, can I still drink the water here?
At touchdown, I felt my tension rise again. Erikka, who had slept most of the flight, didn’t leave me with much time to be concerned. “I’m so glad to be back,” she said. “I haven’t been here for twenty-five years!”
I couldn’t say I exactly shared her enthusiasm. But at least the time had come to get things started.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Tehran, February 5, 2006
As we taxied bumpily to the terminal on the worn-out tarmac, I saw through the cabin’s windows the sign mehrabad international airport. The terminal’s building looked small, unfit for a nation of seventy million. Since the capture of the U.S. Embassy staff in 1979 and the sanctions imposed on Iran by many countries, there weren’t many incoming flights to Iran. I saw only a few planes of Iran Air, Gulf Air, and Air France.
I walked with Erikka toward the passport-control booths with my heart pounding hard. Erikka walked toward the booths reserved for women. I thought of my instructions. When you arrive, the passport-control officer might ask you questions concerning the purpose of your visit and the length of your stay. Give him the routine tourist answers. Look him in the eye and don’t avoid his. Give short answers, and don’t smile or act as if you’re hiding something. These guys are very experienced in detecting suspicious behavior and maneuvering tactics employed by people who hope to avoid a thorough inspection.
I looked around. A big mural of Ayatollah Khomeini was displayed on the wall. The immigration officer, in a uniform that seemed as if he’d slept in it for a week, gave a very quick glance at my face and keyed a few strokes into his computer. I waited for him to stamp my passport and ease my accelerated heartbeat, but instead two men in plainclothes entered the booth. He gave them my passport, and they exchanged a few sentences in Farsi. The man holding my passport flipped through the pages and returned it to the officer and nodded. The officer stamped my passport without giving me a second look. I wanted to let out a deep breath, but I waited until I was out of his sight.
That’s it? I thought. Were these all the security checks? I guess the Iranians didn’t expect terrorism. I didn’t have to wonder why.
After Erikka and I met again in the customs hall, spent almost an hour waiting for our luggage, and went through customs and currency control, we were finally outside the terminal building-three hours after landing. When we exited the arrival terminal we were hassled by endless numbers of people offering to change money and sell us stuff. Self-appointed tour guides and unauthorized taxi drivers told us that the last bus had already left the terminal and suggested they drive us to town. We ignored them. A courtesy van sent by the hotel was waiting for us and within less than an hour delivered us to the Azadi Grand Hotel, a five-star hotel.
When I exited the van, I looked up at the tall building. To my estimate it had several hundred rooms. But the empty lobby during the early-evening hour signaled that the hotel wasn’t fully occupied. After a quick check-in we were taken to our rooms. Mine was on the third floor and Erikka’s on the fourth.
“I’ll see you in two hours for dinner,” she said before I got off the elevator.
I opened my room’s window curtains to view the Alborz Mountains, to the north of Tehran, and waited. Erikka tapped on the door of my room two hours later dressed in black pants, with a white manteau over them. She wore a black scarf that covered her hair and neck. The black and white combination was dominolike.
“Has anyone seen you coming here?” I asked. I didn’t need unnecessary attention.
“Don’t worry, I was careful,” she said with a smile, sounding like a high school student escaping through her bedroom window to meet a boyfriend. I joined her in the hall, wary that she not enter my room.
“It’s beautiful out there,” I said, nodding back toward the window as I closed the door behind me.
