The Peregrine Spy (18 page)

“A good man. Keep repeating it. Maybe you’ll convince yourself.”

“I am convinced. And convinced the world isn’t as corrupt as you make it sound.”

“Not corrupt,” said Lermontov. “Not necessarily corrupt. But, of necessity, determined to fight for our own interests.”

“What about here?” asked Frank.

“Here? Simple. You want Iran. We want Iran.”

“Not us. The Iranians. What are they fighting for?”

“Also simple. They want Iran. The Iran that emerges from this will identify its national interest with Islam. A way of protecting itself from the Great Satans of the West and the godless atheists to the north.”

Frank nodded. The bastard might be right. Lermontov, and perhaps Russia, might be ready to join the capitalist camp. Lermontov had called him “old friend.” Perhaps. But Frank still thought of his friend as an enemy.

“Maybe we’re wrong to call it nationalism,” said Lermontov.

“Tribalism?” offered Frank.

“We reserve that for Africans. We don’t much use it for ourselves. Perhaps we should. Like your Irish tribes in Northern Ireland. Or look at this neighborhood. The Kurds say they fight for a nation, but different factions, different clans, spend more time fighting each other than they do the Turks, the Iraqis, the Iranians. And among our beloved comrades in Afghanistan, you take the party labels off and all you have are the same old tribes who’ve been fighting each other for centuries—and will for centuries more.”

“Friend of mine says World War III has already started,” said Frank, remembering Gus’s words. “All these little wars, like this one, add up to the World War III we’ll be fighting for the next thousand years.”

“Smart friend. Pete Howard?”

“No,” said Frank, “another friend.” He wondered how much Lermontov knew about Pete.

“I’m impressed. Another intelligent one. You, Pete Howard, and someone else. I didn’t think America had so many.”

“Wait till you spend some time in America. You may change your mind.”

“You forget. I’ve been there. I went to school there.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Frank.

“You’re right. I need a refresher course.”

They sat facing each other in armchairs across a low, wood-topped coffee table, their backs to the French doors glazed by sun and frost. The cameras in the Shah’s office had been relatively easy to detect, but here Frank could see no hint of hidden video. He was sure Lermontov’s more practiced eye had also scanned the room. An ornate porcelain vase with artificial blue flowers stood between them.

“Shall we move the flowers?”

“No,” said Frank. “I like blue flowers. Even if they are artificial.” He placed a note Rocky had approved on the table with a photocopied section of the map of Tehran in Troy’s office. Lermontov studied them.

Frank wanted to keep talking and sound as natural as he could without saying anything to distract Lermontov from the map, on which a small street in the north end of the town’s foreign ghetto had been circled in red, and the typed sheet, which gave the address of the safe house, instructions for reaching it, and reassuring words.

Never before used as safe house. Fully detached building. Never had American tenant. Previous have been French and German.

“We really shouldn’t continue to impose on the Shah’s hospitality,” said Frank. “The hotels aren’t busy these days. Perhaps we could book a room at the Sheraton or the Hyatt.”

“Good idea,” said Lermontov, who went on reading.

Two-car garage under building. Flash car lights when you arrive. I will open garage doors from inside, close them behind your car. Stairs lead from garage up into house. Security guy I trust making it tight. Can we make it Friday evening, 7:30? I’ll be there half hour before you. Any problem, try again 7:30 Saturday evening.

“I prefer the Sheraton,” said Lermontov. “I’ve used it before. Can you book a room?”

“Sure,” said Frank, making a mental note to book a room and have Gus occupy it.

He handed Lermontov a note that read, “My chief of station wants to meet you.”

Lermontov crumpled it in his giant paw and shook his head.

“Let’s make it Friday night,” he said. “At the Sheraton.”

He left the paper ball on the table, folded the other papers Frank had given him, neatly and quietly, and put them in an inside jacket pocket.

“Friday at the Sheraton. Perhaps we can have dinner.”

“Good idea,” said Frank. “I’ll arrange room service.”

He picked up the paper Lermontov had crumpled and stuffed it into a pants pocket. He tore a sheet of paper from his notebook and printed out another message.

‘Please act surprised.’

Lermontov glanced at the paper and pushed it back across the table toward Frank.

They chatted for half an hour, about acromegaly, Afghanistan, Islam, and the uneasy peace that prevailed in Tehran. Frank thought of the uneasy peace that prevailed between him and Lermontov. He may be playing a game we haven’t figured out yet, he thought. The echo of Rocky’s words bounced off the walls of his mind.

I trust no one. Not even myself, thought Frank. Much less an officer of the KGB. He and Lermontov had danced often; still Frank could not tell who led and who followed. They again confirmed their spoken plan to meet at the Sheraton and headed down the hall together.

In the reception area the two armed guards stood where they had, before the doors to the Shah’s suite of offices. One of them spoke abruptly in Farsi.

“Be neshin-id.”

“They ask us,” said Lermontov, “tell us, rather, to take a seat.”

“Perhaps we should.”

They sat in straight-backed chairs that flanked the outside doors, facing the guards. Frank saw no sign of Nazih and wondered if the Shah had summoned him into his office. The guards stiffened as the door between them opened.

“Ah, gentlemen,” said their elegantly clad host, “you have completed your business. Major Sullivan, His Imperial Majesty would like to have a word with you. If you kindly can wait just here, he will summon you shortly.”

“Thank you,” said Frank, standing.

“Please. No need to stand.” He turned to Lermontov. “Shall I notify your driver that you are ready?”

“Please,” said Lermontov.

*   *   *

Frank endured a thirty-minute wait seated in the straight-backed chair with nothing to look at but two stone-faced members of the Imperial Guard, each with a submachine gun tucked into the crook of his arm. Deadly silence seemed the only other occupant of the building. Frank looked from one guard to the other. They stared at a spot beyond him and above his head, but he knew that if he moved, they would notice. He heard a faint click. The guards shifted their attention: one to Frank; the other to the inner door that opened. The tall, thick-chested man in the doorway wore the blue uniform of an officer in the Imperial Bodyguard. The silver eagles on his shoulders identified him as a full colonel. His bearing identified him as a man of authority.

“Major Sullivan?”

“Yes, sir.” Frank stood.

“I must apologize for your long wait. As you know, these are difficult times. His Imperial Majesty would like to see you for a few minutes.”

What happened to the man in the morning suit? Frank wondered. Have the Imperial Guards pulled off a coup? And where the hell is Nazih?

The colonel spoke to the guards in Farsi and beckoned to Frank to follow him. “This way.”

The Shah, hands clasped behind his back, stood before his illuminated map, his face masked by oversize sunglasses. “Ah, yes, Major Sullivan. May I introduce you to our new deputy prime minister, Colonel Hossein Kasravi.”

Frank recognized the name of their missing chicken colonel. Clearly, being deputy prime minister carried more clout than being a member of the Jayface team. He stuck his hand out, and the slightly flustered colonel shook it.

“General Merid has spoken highly of you,” said Frank. “But I never thought I would have the chance to meet with you.”

Kasravi and the Shah exchanged a glance. The Shah shrugged.

“Ah, yes. General Merid,” said Kasravi. “I must have a talk with him, soon.”

Although a general outranked a colonel, Frank had the impression that in the real world the general would defer to the deputy prime minister.

“Ah, one thing more,” added Kasravi. “Major Nazih will not be returning with you to Tehran. The way will be cleared at the gates for you and your car. Your driver has been instructed. On future visits, the way will be cleared for you and your driver. Please use the same car.”

“What’s happened with Major Nazih?”

“He has been detained,” said Kasravi. “A … pressing commitment. I will leave you with His Imperial Majesty.”

The Shah nodded. Kasravi bowed, once, twice, three times as he backed out the door.

Detained. Commitment. Interesting word choices, thought Frank. He wondered about the majordomo.

*   *   *

He had sat with the Shah for nearly an hour after Kasravi had left them. The Shah wanted to talk, but his conversation rambled in a way Frank could barely follow.

“It is so difficult to know whom to trust these days. To confide in. Take advice from. The Empress, of course. And my sister. But not Assadollah Alam. He died, you know. There was no one closer, more trusted. His death was another betrayal. I have been so alone. He had been our prime minister and then for many years our minister of court until he died last year. Cancer. I know it isn’t contagious, but we were so close. Cancer killed him, and now it kills me.”

“What do your doctors say about treatment?” He had asked the same question at their first meeting. Again, the Shah’s answer was vague, more political than medical.

“That I should go to France, perhaps Switzerland, for treatment. But neither the French nor the Swiss are very good at security. And now the king of the mullahs, this Khomeini, has been given sanctuary in France. I can only imagine what the mullahs would subject me to in France if I went there for treatment, and now I find betrayal in my own house. This Russian who wants you to get him medical treatment in America. Give him asylum and get him out of our country. I do not like him. He insults our government and then thinks we respect him for being so honest. We do not want trouble with the Russians or I would send your Lermontov back to Moscow today. You won’t be seeing Major Nazih at your meetings.”

“What’s happened?” asked Frank, wondering about the abrupt leap from Lermontov to Nazih.

“Major Nazih has been detained. We will need another means to contact you. Can we rely on your ambassador?”

“Of course,” said Frank. “But why has the major been detained?” As soon as the words escaped, he realized the Shah might consider the question rude.

“In our own house. Our own court.” His tone had sharpened. “He had been playing too many games in too many different directions, including the game he tried to play with you.”

“What game was that, Your Imperial Majesty?”

“He tried to put you in a bad light with us. Apparently at the urging of this Russian, who has his own games to play. But it is not important. Others far more important will soon be arrested. What does the arrest of someone as small as your Major Nazih matter? Besides, it has a strategic value. It sends a message to the Russians. And it isolates this Lermontov. That should help you.”

“I hope … I hope I haven’t contributed to the major’s problem.”

“Rubbish. Others have also been detained.”

His voice began to fade. He removed his dark glasses and turned to face Frank. His eyes looked sunken.

“What must I do to contain this cancer? Lance it? Spill more blood? What would you do?”

I would get the hell out of here, thought Frank. “Perhaps a new government,” he said. “With a role for the popular but moderate religious leaders.”

“Do you think that might work?” the Shah asked.

The question stunned Frank. “You would know far better than I,” he said.

The Shah turned in his chair and looked for a moment toward the sun-glazed window behind him. Frank knew he could see nothing beyond the glare of the snow.

“We wonder. Perhaps a vacation. We might discuss your idea with our prime minister…” The Shah hesitated, seeming to have lost his thought. Frank offered a name.

“General Azhari.”

“Yes. We can trust General Azhari. The Immortals. We can trust the Immortals. Admiral Hayati thinks we should take a vacation at a naval base in the south and let the Immortals and the soldiers put down this rebellion.”

“Will you take his advice?”

“We see blood on the snow. When we look behind us and the sun sets and strikes the hills, that is what we see. We see blood on the snow. A strange treatment for cancer, isn’t it?” His shoulders hunched. The turtle shrank into his shell.

*   *   *

From the sound of the laboring motor, Frank knew that Ali kept the car in low gear as they descended the Elborz Hills from the palace toward the city. Snow that had melted under the midday sun now had begun to freeze over as the evening cooled. He hoped Ali would not ask what had happened to Major Nazih, but soon discovered that Ali knew more than he did.

“Major Nazih left in a blue Mercedes,” he volunteered. “With three men in black leather overcoats. Others also left in a
Savak
van that followed the Mercedes.”

“Do you know the man with the white hair? Wears a formal suit with tails?”

Ali nodded. “He is one of two or three deputy ministers of the court. Since the death of Assadolah Alam, there has been no minister. I do not know his name. He left, with others, in the
Savak
van. One of the Imperial Guards, a nephew of mine, said the rumor makers say they were all involved with the Russians in some way.”

And Lermontov survives, thought Frank. How? Why?

“Major Sullivan, sir.”

“Yes?”

“This makes me worried.” The car skidded on an icy patch, but Ali accelerated out of the spin. “Am I also in trouble?”

“No.” He started to say, “Not as far as I know,” but held back. He managed a smile. “And I don’t think I’m in trouble either.”

“Good,” said Ali. “Are you a family man, sir?”