The Peregrine Spy (14 page)

“You are not easy to follow,” said Frank.

“I do not intend to be, but I count on you to follow me.”

“Then I guess I’ll follow you.”

“A word, or two, before we enter. I’ve already told your driver you may be here for quite a while. However long it takes, he and I will wait to return you to your office. You and I will, of course, wait on His Majesty’s imperial pleasure. In an outer office. The guards who patrol the palace area will recognize your car’s American manufacture and armor plating. The ambassador’s car is similar, but a Chrysler rather than a—how do you say it?—a Chevy, but they will know enough to ask their superiors before challenging your driver. There will be no problem.”

“Thank you,” said Ali.

“Ghabel na-dareh,”
said Nazih. “Your driver insists on speaking to me in English.”

“Perhaps,” said Frank, “in deference to my ignorance of Farsi.”

“Clearly. Once we are inside, though I appreciate the American spirit of independence, I must ask you to put yourself totally in my hands. At least until your meeting with His Imperial Majesty begins, at which point you may rest assured I will leave you. That is what he wishes.”

Nazih spoke to Ali again in Farsi, and Ali answered, “Yes, major.” Ali swiveled out of the car and opened the rear door. Frank followed Nazih.

The blue-tiled halls echoed their footsteps. A seated guard in a uniform Frank now recognized as that of the Imperial Bodyguard nodded wordlessly to Nazih and cocked his head toward a door off to their right. Nazih opened the door and gestured to Frank. They entered a small room with a few chairs against the wall and the bust of an imperious-looking man in military regalia.

“The father?” asked Frank.

“The father. Reza Shah Pahlavi. Founder of the dynasty. Let us be seated and wait.”

They sat and waited, facing a door opposite the one they had entered. Nazih made no attempt at conversation, convincing Frank the room had been bugged. Sooner than Frank expected, the door he faced opened. The tall, slender, white-haired but youthful-looking man who entered wore a formal gray morning coat and said, in impeccable English, “Major Nazih and, I presume, Major Sullivan, will you kindly come with me?”

Nazih stood and with a gesture let Frank know he need no longer follow him. The white-haired man who had greeted them led the way into a vast and exquisitely furnished room, but Frank at first noticed little but the figure of the Shah. He stood in the center of the room, facing the door. He seemed much shrunken from the last time Frank had seen him, perhaps a decade before in Addis Ababa. Frank bowed.

“Your Imperial Majesty.”

The Shah smiled, cracking his lips but showing no teeth. Not at all the smile Frank remembered.

“Shall we call you Major Sullivan? Or may we again call you Frank?”

“Frank sounds good to me.” He took a step closer. The Shah extended his hand. Frank remembered how shy he was of being touched, except when they put on boxing gloves and sparred. The Shah nodded. Frank reached out. Damp, cool, the Shah’s fingers barely brushed Frank’s palm.

Frank quickly surveyed the room. There were three doors, arranged, he suspected, so visitors could be shuttled in and out without encountering each other. A huge map covered one wall. There were beveled mirrors in gilt frames, three phones, two gold-plated and one sky blue, gold cigarette boxes studded with jewels but no ashtrays or lighters, an oak desk, and a table and chairs in a style Frank guessed to be Louis XIV. Video surveillance cameras peeked out from behind the paneling of at least two walls. Frank could hear them creak when they turned. He suspected their visibility was intentional.

“We shall never forgive our great, deceased friend, the Conquering Lion of Judah, for not bringing you to Persepolis.”

“I’ve heard it was a great celebration.”

“You would have enjoyed. A much better time to have seen Iran than these recent days you have been here.”

“I’m deeply honored to have this opportunity to see you.”

“May we be seated?” said the Shah. He lowered himself into a tall, straight-backed oak chair behind a bare oak table. “Major Nazih, thank you.”

“Your Imperial Majesty.” Bowing, Nazih backed out the door held open for him by the Shah’s majordomo, who followed Nazih out, shutting the door so softly Frank barely heard it.

He sat across from the Shah in an identical oak chair. The Shah’s appearance shocked him. When they’d first met in Addis Ababa, the slender, broad-shouldered Shah moved like an athlete and exuded robust health. Even at five-eight, he had towered over the diminutive Haile Selassie. Despite their lack of height, Frank recognized in each a presence that made him every inch an emperor. But now, slumped in his chair, the Shah seemed a faint shadow of the man Frank had met in Ethiopia. He wore a gray business suit that drooped off his shoulders, a blue shirt, and a paisley tie. Heavy lids veiled the flashing dark eyes Frank remembered.

“How many years has it been since we met?”

“Just about ten years, sir.”

“A decade does not seem so long, but these are strange times,” said the Shah. “What brings you to Iran?”

“To work with your military, the Supreme Commander’s military, on ways to improve relations with the people.”

“Not unlike the work you did in Ethiopia.”

“Very similar.”

“But ten years ago, in Ethiopia, you were not a major in the United States Air Force.”

“It’s more or less … an honorary title.”

“We understand. When you were in Ethiopia, did Haile Selassie know your honorary title?”

“Different circumstances, sir. There my primary work was with the Ethiopian journalists, the mass media. My work with the military was secondary.”

“Did you know Ato Nebiyah?”

“Ato Nebiyah?” The question had surprised him.

“Head of the emperor’s personal intelligence unit.”

“Ah … yes. We had common friends.”

“He greatly admired you. He said to us once he couldn’t understand why the Americans didn’t recruit you, since you knew Ethiopia better than most Ethiopians. He said he urged his friend, the head of CIA there, to recruit you. Is that how it happened?”

“Sir, I was in Ethiopia a long time. I guess I might have overlapped with at least two, maybe three, CIA station chiefs.”

The Shah smiled. “You’ve become quite
diplomatique.
How long will you be here?”

“I have no idea.”

“If someone asked me that question…” The Shah again smiled, faintly. “I might express the same answer.”

“What are your plans?”

“That’s one reason we asked you to come. Perhaps you can help us to plan. Perhaps you can help us to understand what the Americans expect.”

“But there are others far more qualified than I. Ambassador O’Connor…”

“Yes, but we no longer know if we can trust Mr. O’Connor. He has become, may we say, mixed in his feelings and in his counsel.”

The Shah paused, giving Frank an opportunity to comment. Frank said nothing, waiting for the Shah to continue.

“We suspect your work with our military may not be very meaningful. We suspect you could do work more meaningful. Haile Selassie said something interesting to us once. About you. What impressed us was his feeling for you. He said he could trust you. We remember his words. ‘The Americans have sent us a good spy this time. He is useful.’ Could you also be useful to us?”

“I would like to be. But I’m not sure how.”

“We shall guide you.”

“I would be honored by your guidance.”

The Shah’s eyes studied his hands, folded on the desk. He looked up at Frank. “Ten years. So many changes in those years. Haile Selassie gone. Nkrumah gone. De Gaulle and Pompidou. Ho Chi Minh and Mao. Both gone. Chou En-lai. Chiang Kai-shek. Khrushchev. Nasser. Ben-Gurion. Gone. Johnson. Eisenhower. All gone.” He seemed to remember every ruler who had died over the past ten years. “And our own dear friend, Assadollah Alam.” He looked up at Frank and smiled faintly. The eyes seemed dead.

Who was Assadollah Alam? Frank wondered.

“And soon,” said the Shah, “we shall be gone.”

“I hope not, sir. You’re still a young man.”

“Fifty-nine. Just a month … three weeks ago. It is not so old, is it?”

“No, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“But who knows what can be eating away inside even the best of us? Perhaps our enemies are right, about all the evil they say we’ve done. Our doctors also think they know.”

“What do they say?”

“Doctors. We can not tell if their diagnosis is medical or political. Everyone wants us to leave. For our health. For a rest. Even your ambassador. When we asked him his advice, whether we should leave, he looked at his watch, Can you imagine such a thing? Do you know him?”

“We’ve met. Only since I’ve been here.”

“But you are very good at—how is it the Americans say it? Ah, sizing people up. How do you size up your ambassador?”

“He seems like a good man,” said Frank. “But in a very tough job.”

“Do you think his job is to undermine our rule?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Do you know the British allow this evil holy man to broadcast his attacks on our government over BBC?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My French doctor says we have cancer, but this
akhund
Khomeini is the real cancer that eats away at us. And the French give him refuge, and the British give him their radio.”

“As do the Russians,” said Frank. “From Baku, Pretending to be Iranians.”

“Americans are always quick to tell us what the Russians are up to. Like the CIA man here. Novak. We’re sure he is good at his job, but he seems to care only about the Soviet Russians. Not at all about Iran.” He paused, and Frank realized he was again being given an opportunity to respond.

“I guess,” Frank fumbled for words. “I mean, with the long border between Iran and Russia, he must be concerned about both.”

“You spar with us,” said the Shah. “As you did, but with gloves on, in Ethiopia. Of course, Iran has a long Russian border and a long history of playing the Russians off against the British, the British off against the Russians. And for a while we thought the Americans had rescued us from both. But we tell you the British and the Americans are in this together. They come here together. Your ambassador and the British. Who can I trust?”

“Yourself above all, sir.”

“Yes. Above all.”

Frank thought of the man he had boxed with ten years before. He had done little each two-minute round but block the Shah’s sharp jabs, his own punches pulled short, glancing off a glove or an elbow. Three rounds had been their limit after a session of weight lifting. The Shah had been strong at both bench presses and deep knee bends. It came as no surprise when he learned the Shah took pride in his abilities as a swimmer and skier. But his exercise regimen had not saved him.

The windows behind him looked out over the frozen gardens and, through the sparkling clear sky beyond, at the city below.

“You can see all of Tehran,” said Frank, looking over the Shah’s sagging shoulder.

“Yes. And all of its troubles.” The Shah glanced to his left. “And from over there you can see all of the world and Iran’s place in the world.” Frank twisted in his chair to follow the Shah’s eyes to a far wall dominated by a huge illuminated map. “Let us show you.”

The Shah pushed against the arms of his chair as he rose. He walked slowly to the map, a Mercator projection that positioned Iran at the center of the globe. “You’re used to seeing these with Greenwich Mean or the United States at the center. But this map used to hang in your embassy, back in the days when your ambassador was Douglas MacArthur the Second.”

“The general’s son?”

“No. You would think so, from the name. But Douglas MacArthur the Second was the general’s nephew. On the other hand, the general’s own son is named after the general’s brother, Arthur MacArthur the Third. Very strange, these MacArthurs. Though we of course greatly admired General MacArthur. And his nephew. They were true statesmen. Men who understood the danger of Communism and the threat the Russians pose to the freedom of all us. Don’t you agree?”

“To a degree,” said Frank. “Yes.” He had thought of his own son. Jake. Named for his mother. Some people might find that strange.

“Look here,” said the Shah, hands clasped behind his back as though tied, eyes again locked on his map. “See how central Iran is. MacArthur, Ambassador MacArthur, used to lecture visitors to his office, particularly American congressmen and cabinet officers, on the vital importance of Iran to the free world. Linchpin of CENTO. The dominant military power in the Gulf. Allied with Turkey and Pakistan, also secular nations with non-Arab Islamic populations. Strong ethnic and political ties to Afghanistan. Friendly toward Israel. Buffer between Soviet Russia and its expansionist ambitions. A vital supplier of oil to America, Great Britain, Japan, yes, even Israel.”

The Shah squared his shoulders. He’d come alive, and Frank did not want to take him away from his map.

“When was Ambassador MacArthur here?”

“I hate to say.” The Shah continued to study his map. “Ten years ago.”

Wrong question, thought Frank.

“The late 1960s, early ’70s. He was our most successful lobbyist for more American military aid. Far better than our own ambassadors in Washington. A man named Farland came after, briefly. He was followed by another great ambassador, in 1973, Richard Helms. He understood this map.”

“I met Mr. Helms,” said Frank. “Just once. In the American embassy in London.”

“I knew him well,” said the Shah. “He’d been the CIA station chief here, long before he became director. He and his wife were very happy to be here when he returned as ambassador. Your Congress had given him a very bad time. Some nonsense about Chile. He had to resign as CIA director. But he loved Iran. He understood us. And we respected him. We wish we could say the same of your current leaders. Frankly, we worry about this Carter. After Helms left, your President Jimmy didn’t even bother to send us a new ambassador for six months. Then this O’Connor person came. He’d been here barely a year when he left for a three-month vacation. Your president and your ambassador, how can they pretend to care about Iran?”