“I have another idea,” I said. “Why don’t you prepare a separate list of all the alums you located that live outside Iran? Maybe the bank would want to use their connections in their respective countries. Didn’t they say in the briefing, part of their marketing strategy is to get a piece of the Iranian overseas business, because they want to set it up bilaterally?”
“I’m one step ahead of you,” she said. “Look.” She handed me two handwritten pages with many names.
Next to the name Reza Nazeri, in the space left for a current address, she’d written “deceased.” Although his name rang a bell, I couldn’t remember if he was on the list of students we had received from the State Department. Obviously, I hadn’t brought the list to Iran. It’d have to wait until I returned to Europe.
“Maybe you should send a copy to the bank.”
“But it’s incomplete, isn’t it?”
“I know, but it would be good to show them that you’re already getting results.”
“Good idea.”
“Are you going to contact any of the people on that foreign list?”
“No, not right now anyway. There’s no point in my calling long-distance from Iran to other countries. It can wait until I return to Europe. The reunion is a few months away. We have time.”
“You’re right,” I conceded. “What about the deceased alumnus, do you know what happened to him?”
“I heard he had an accident.”
“Did you know him?”
“Yes. He was a really good friend. We used to have play-dates when we were young. I also knew his mother very well. He grew up without a father, so he spent a lot of time at our house.”
“I see,” I said contemplatively. I needed time to plot.
“Will you need me today?” she asked.
“I was thinking of going to Mashhad to search for my roots. Maybe stopping in Neyshabur, where I think I might have family. It says in the guide that Hakim Omar Khayyam was born there-you know, the poet. Could be interesting.”
“Ian, it’s almost six hundred miles away,” she said in surprise. “We need to make travel arrangements and hotel reservations. Do you want to take a train or drive?”
“Well, don’t be alarmed, and I’m sorry that I didn’t consult you, but I sort of planned it yesterday when you were out. I’ve actually already rented a car, and made a hotel reservation at”-I stopped to look at the note I’d prepared-“Homa Hotel on Taleghani Square in Ahmad Abad Street.”
“How long do you want us to stay there?”
“Two or three days. Is it OK with you?”
“I guess so.” She didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “When do you want to leave?
“Well…whenever you’re ready?”
She hesitated, “I scheduled six meetings with alums, but I can cancel. My work for you comes first.”
“No, please don’t cancel,” I said quickly. “Keep the meetings; we’ll go on another day.” After a quick glance at the list Erikka had prepared, I no longer wanted to make that trip that day. But I had to at least pretend that I was sticking to my original idea to search for my roots. We would have to go soon.
I went outside the main entrance. A white Peugeot Persia was parked in the hotel’s driveway. A rental agreement was left on the driver’s seat. I drove the car to the parking lot and entered the gift shop in the hotel lobby.
As I was pulling out a copy of Tehran Times in English from the display rack, I felt a man brushing his arm against my right arm. “I’m sorry,” I said, and moved to the left. He brushed against my arm again. I turned around to look at him. He was a well-built man in his early forties with intense black eyes and a black mustache.
“Mr. Ian, please go outside,” he said in a low voice.
I froze. “Who are you?”
“Padas? sent me.”
“Padas?? I don’t know any Padas?,” I said. I needed to hear the passwords.
“I know where to find nice carpets made by hand in Kashan. Very cheap.”
It was the right code at the right time. “Oh, I’d like that,” I said innocently. “Where are they?”
“I can take you now.” He walked slowly to the exit.
I paid for the newspaper and followed him outside.
“You must be careful,” I said quietly. “I think I’m being followed.”
“No, you are not.”
“But I detected followers,” I insisted.
“They were my men watching you,” he said calmly.
“I saw one at the restaurant, and another one in a car that followed me.”
He smiled mischievously. “You missed the others. We are always behind you. Unless the Iranian VEVAK is smarter than us, we didn’t notice any interest in you.”
“How do I contact you? I mean in case of emergency?” “For one, we’ll see any emergency and will come to your help. But if we lose contact for any reason, call this number and say that you’d like to purchase Kashan carpets.” He handed me a piece of paper.
“Who gave me that number, in case someone asks?”
“An Iranian you met on the plane coming here. You don’t know his name.”
“Do I identify myself on the phone?”
“No.”
“What about Erikka?”
“We aren’t following or protecting her, unless she’s with you.” He opened the car’s trunk, and I saw three rolled carpets. “I’ll show you these carpets now. Look as if you’re interested.”
“I thought you said I’m not being watched.”
“Just in case.” He pulled the carpets out and laid them on the pavement.
The carpets were magnificent. For a moment I even entertained the idea of actually purchasing them. Bad timing for shopping, I told myself. I stood there for a few more minutes admiring their beauty.
“Kashan is a city in north-central Iran that was producing Persian carpets at royal workshops at least since the seventeenth century,” he said. “But the best Kashans come from Ardistan. These carpets came from Yazd, but they’re almost as good.” He rolled up the carpets and put them back in the trunk. He shook my hand and drove away.
In the afternoon, I got hold of Erikka in the lobby.
“I have two cancellations,” she said. “They postponed our meetings until tomorrow.”
“In that case, I’ve got an idea,” I said. Why don’t we visit the family of Reza Nazeri? They’ll probably hear about the reunion you’ve got coming up, and it might hurt them to be left out. The right thing to do is pay them a personal visit.”
“You mean right now?” asked Erikka.
“Yes, why not? We have time. I’m sure they and the rest of the alumni will appreciate the gesture.”
“Yeah, you’re right. You know, I’d love to see his mom again. She was always so kind to me.”
“Visiting an Iranian family at home will be a good experience for me-it’d help me understand a lot for my book,” I added.
“I still remember where he lived, after all these years. It was on Darband Street, in northern Tehran,” said Erikka. She called information for the telephone number. It was unlisted. “Do you want to take the chance they’re still living at the same address?” she asked hesitantly.
“Let’s do it,” I said. “Cab?”
It took us through Imam Khomeini Boulevard, past the National Archaeological Museum of Iran, and arrived at a pleasant residential area. Erikka buzzed the intercom and a woman answered. Erikka said something in Farsi, and after a pause, the door opened.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
