Erikka broke into tears again. “I was so humiliated.”
My suspicious nature came into gear again. Was the encounter incidental or, given the fact that I had a permanent shadow, was it now Erikka’s turn to be harassed? I knew that when the Iranian government established the moral police, they’d justified it by quoting the Islamic concept of amr bil ma’rouf nahi anil munkar, “join the right, and forbid the wrong.” That was also used to encourage people to report the suspicious activities of others. The result was a seventy-million-strong intelligence force. Even the Stasi, East Germany’s feared Ministry for State Security, wasn’t that successful in its heyday. For the average Iranian, mutual trust had all but disappeared. You now suspected your neighbor, your friend, and your grocer of being informers. And you were probably right.
“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I said gently. “It sounds awful. But I guess there’s a whole set of rules here that we need to learn…”
She nodded, sighing. “It’s nothing like I remember,” she said softly. “Anyway. I should get some sleep.”
“Do you want me to walk you back to your room?” I offered.
She grimaced. “Normally I would, but who knows? The morality police might still be watching.” She held my hand for a minute. “Sorry to barge in on you like this.” I shook my head, signaling that it was nothing, and with that she was gone.
I returned to my bed, restless and unable to sleep. I couldn’t shake the suspicion that this was all tied together somehow. To distract myself, I pulled out “my” novel, Dead End Love: An Impossible Love Affair, courtesy of some particularly creative CIA employee turned ghostwriter.
“Not bad,” I mumbled, “not bad at all. I didn’t know I could write that well…” and fell asleep.
I met Erikka in the dining room for a late breakfast. Other than slightly red eyes, she looked fine.
“How are you feeling?” She smiled wanly and nodded to say everything was OK.
“If you don’t mind me bringing up a little business,” I began, “did you accomplish anything last night? I mean getting new names and addresses?”
She seemed happy to be back at a task. “Yes. I already have a total of ninety-five names of people still living in Iran, with addresses and phone numbers.”
“That’s great,” I said eagerly. “How did you manage to get so many?”
“The news spread,” she said. “Everybody’s very excited about the reunion.”
“So are they all ethnic Iranians? I read that everyone else left here, right? After the revolution, I mean.”
“Yes, all of the alums responding are ethnic Iranians. I also have a list of thirty-one alumni who live in Europe, Japan, and the U.S. I found out last night that one of them just died in the U.S. So awful-I remember him.”
I paused for a moment to let her compose herself. “How do you intend to manage it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean administratively. Did you create a table with all the names?”
“I haven’t thought of that yet,” she said, embarrassed. “Everything happened so quickly. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Not particularly.” I paused to show I hadn’t thought about it earlier. “Why don’t you just draw up a table to include all personal details, such as current address and year of graduation? Then you can ask the bank to send the people on the list an invitation to the reunion and ask them to confirm and attach their short resume. You know, tell in a few sentences what they’ve been doing since they graduated.”
“Good idea,” said Erikka. “I’ll do that after breakfast.”
“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.”