The Peregrine Spy (21 page)

“I’ve been thinking about it,” said Frank.

“Good.”

“But I haven’t thought of anything.”

“Not good. And I’ve got a hunch our chicken colonel will get on your case about it.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Look, I’ve got one for you. Remember back at that meeting when you came up with an agenda that was heavy on all that civic action stuff the general liked so much?”

“I remember having trouble staying awake when he went off on the ‘real’ Iran.”

“I might have nodded a time or two myself, but one of your ideas was a propaganda effort to support the civic action.”

“None of which can happen.”

“Right. But now we’ve got a different situation. We’ve got a military government. And no newspapers.”

“So why not a general interest newspaper published by the military?”

“You got it,” said Gus. “With an American adviser with credentials just like yours.”

“Or yours,” said Frank.

“Not me,” said Gus. “I just want to go home. But I got a hunch you have reasons for wantin’ to stay. And remember, it’s a lot easier to start a newspaper than it is to build a sewer system.”

“I like it,” said Frank. He’d become the de facto publisher of the daily English-language newspaper in Ethiopia and had enjoyed the experience, and he had thrived in all the newspaper jobs he’d held in the States. “I wouldn’t mind being a newspaperman again,” he said, and went to work drafting a newspaper proposal. “But to tell you the truth, I don’t see much of a future here for either of us.”

“I don’t see much of a future here for anybody,” said Gus. “Americans or Iranians. At least this gives us a way to keep a foot in the door. If there’s still a door to keep our foot in.”

Frank hoped there might still be a door. Gus’s newspaper idea might buy us some time with the Shah, he thought. And he wanted time to try to bring Lermontov back in. He tried to think as the KGB man must think and sensed that the big man would not contact him soon. Let the Americans worry. Let them think they may have lost their chance to recruit a high-level KGB officer. He resented playing the Russian’s game. He remembered how, as a young teenager, he had given up trying to play pool after being humiliated too often by older boys who could split a rack, call their shots, and run the table. The game Lermontov played now left Frank with that same helpless feeling, watching, with nothing he could do but wait while the Soviet dictated the play.

Frank knew Lermontov would guess he had showed his note to Rocky. Lermontov wanted the Americans to know he still might cross over—but let them sweat and wonder what they would have to do to draw him back in. Frank wondered what it would take and knew only that he needed time.

*   *   *

“How ’bout you edit this one?” said Gus, handing Frank his cable on the Jayface meeting. “I’ve got one more to do. From Hamid. Including some stuff may interest you. Seems what he does for
Savak
at Supreme Commander’s is only his day job. His night job is for J2. And guess where?”

Frank shrugged.

“Military intelligence, right? He spies on our buddy Anwar, the air force major. He cooks and runs the kitchen for Anwar’s family.”

“Busy man.”

“That he is,” said Gus. “And guess what? He tells me Anwar and his wife want to get outta here and get to the States. Wife’s got relatives there.”

“Interesting,” said Frank. “I wonder who else Hamid works for.”

“If I find out, I’ll let you know,” said Gus. “You and Anwar seem to have hit it off. I’m puttin’ in the cable that if we try to recruit him, you should be the one to pitch him.”

Frank nodded.

“Give you somethin’ to do,” said Gus. “While you’re waitin’ to hear from Moscow.”

*   *   *

Their Sunday Jayface meeting began with a long discussion of their idea for setting up a daily newspaper published and distributed by the military. Frank described the newspaper effort as a possible forerunner to a military broadcasting system with a mix of news, entertainment, and educational programming. It included a role for an adviser with a background in Western private sector and Third World governmental mass media.

“Oh, I like that idea,” said General Merid. “The suggestion for an adviser. Perhaps that’s a role you could fill yourself, Major Sullivan.”

“Well, we have a long way to go before we have to think about that,” said Frank.

“But we must press ahead,” said the general. “How soon can we have your ideas in writing?”

You can have them now, thought Frank. But he remembered Gus’s warning about Bunker.

“Well, so far it’s just an idea. We’ll need some time to work it up.”

“This is all very urgent,” said the general. “Especially with a military government in place. Gentlemen, I would like to make a suggestion. Commander Simpson and you, Major Sullivan…” Still unused to his fictitious title, it took Frank a moment to realize he was Major Sullivan and another moment to focus on General Merid’s words. “You will have so much to do,” said the general. “So I suggest we continue to meet every morning but allow our American friends to spend their afternoons drafting the various proposals I will present to the deputy prime minister. You can work here if you wish.”

“Ah, it might be best if we worked at our office at Dowshan Tappeh,” said Gus, frowning over his glasses to underline his sincerity. “We have access there to equipment and background materials we may need. We can even cable for anything we don’t have here.”

“Yes,” said the general, “I’m sure your offices are better equipped than what we have.”

“General, I have another suggestion, if I may,” said Frank.

“Of course. Of course.”

“In view of what’s happened—the new government—and the impact that’s going to have on the nature and, ah, the urgency, of our work, I’d like to have your permission to take notes and prepare minutes, which we could review and amend at the next meeting.”

“Excellent idea. Excellent.” The general had begun again to bounce, ever so slightly, on his toes. “Excellent idea.”

As the general’s high subsided, his expression saddened. Even the civic action projects failed to engage him. Frank guessed that the general’s mind drifted to fears about the fate of Major Nazih. The other Iranians had hurried off after General Merid again called a four o’clock halt to their discussion. Anwar lingered.

“You seem tired,” he said.

“To be honest,” said Frank, “I haven’t been sleeping well. Back home I’m used to burning up nervous energy by working out. I jog almost every day, and I have a set of weights.”

“You should use the gym at Dowshan Tappeh,” said Anwar.

“Is it okay for Americans?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Anwar. “The base is Iranian, but Americans at Dowshan Tappeh have full access. In fact, it would be a good way for you to meet some of the
homafaran.
”

“
Homafar?
You’ve got to, please, pardon my ignorance. But what’s a
homafar?
”

Anwar’s dark eyes studied Frank, not with the intensity of the navy’s Captain Irfani, but with a questioning, skeptical curiosity. Without speaking, he asked, I wonder how much I can tell you? They stood at the head of the marble stairway with its crowning, unlit chandelier, waiting for Gus, who had gone in search of Ali and their car.

“I have so much to learn. About
homafaran,
Islam, even about the gym at Dowshan Tappeh.”

“You will find everything,” said Anwar. “With patience. Sometimes Americans barge in, in big groups, and try to take over everything—the weights, the boxing bags, the running track, and especially the basketball courts. But if you are patient and do not go with a group that tries to take over all the equipment, you will find everything.”

Frank nodded. “I understand.”

“Perhaps we can meet, at Dowshan Tappeh, this evening. Say around six. In the cafeteria. I will show you around the gym. Perhaps introduce you to some friends.”

“That would be good,” said Frank.

“There will be news,” said Anwar. Frank sensed that Anwar was testing him. “Within a few days. Now that you’re going into the
ashkhalee
business, you should be interested in news.”

“Ashkhalee?”

“The garbage man. Our main source of news. We told you about them. You are interested in news, aren’t you.”

“Sure,” said Frank, trying to sound casual.

“Within a day or so General Nasseri, who headed
Savak
for many years, will be arrested. And others, including Amir Abbas Hoveida, the former prime minister, and Dariush Houmayun. They say he wrote an article that appeared in
Ittelat
attacking Ayatollah Khomeini last January.”

Nasseri, Hoveida, Dariush Houmayun. Nasseri, Hoveida, Dariush Houmayun. Frank kept repeating the names to himself as Anwar added other details.

Others will be arrested, the Shah had said, far more important than this Major Nazih.

“But why would the Shah arrest his own people?”

“He throws some bones to the National Front, to Khomeini,” said Anwar. “The National Front it may appease, but not Khomeini. It will only increase his blood lust for more.”

Frank suspected there would be more cables to write. Anwar touched his elbow as a group of Iranian Army officers, chattering loudly, entered through the ground floor doors. Frank and Anwar started down the wide stairway. The army men fell silent, glancing at Frank, as they passed.

Frank and Anwar stood at the foot of the stairway that led nowhere, their breath frosting the air as they waited for Gus and their car. Frank remembered Hamid’s alert to Gus: Anwar and his family want to get to America. He decided to push a bit harder.

“We’ve heard reports, our embassy has heard reports that the generals are planning a coup, an actual takeover that would replace the Shah with his son and a regency council.”

Anwar smiled. “The generals may talk,” he said, “but they do not plan. They discuss and decide against. They know generals can’t make a coup by themselves. They talk to each other. They talk to the American generals or the American Embassy about a coup. But they can’t make a coup without soldiers. Without the pilots and
homafaran
.”

“There must be some support for the Shah,” said Frank.

“
Javadan,
the Imperial Guard, they can count on. They can count on
Savak
. Not even the police. You must realize, the soldiers are simple, uneducated young men. They are as religious as the people they come from. They go to the same mosques. They listen to the same religious leaders. They listen to Khomeini. When they fire at demonstrators, they fire at their own people. Khomeini tells the people to let the soldiers kill them. To be a martyr for Allah is sacred, and Khomeini knows the soldiers will not go on killing their own people. The soldiers may make a coup for Khomeini, but not for their generals or the Crown Prince. You must watch Khomeini. The opposition parties, the militant groups,
Mojahedin, Feda’iyan,
the student factions, all divided. But Khomeini unites all opposition.”

“I understand,” said Frank.

“Do you?” His dark, inquisitive eyes again studied Frank.

“No, I guess I don’t.” Frank felt betrayed by his own ignorance.
Mojahedin, Feda’iyan
—he had never heard of the groups Anwar had mentioned. He wondered if he would meet other Iranians as willing as Anwar to educate him.

“What do you know,” he asked, “about a Qazvini Mafia?”

Anwar smiled. “What have you heard?”

“Just someone mentioned it,” said Frank, not wanting to let Anwar know it had been Colonel Kasravi. “Someone who just smiled when I asked about it. Said I should look at a map.”

“And did you?”

“I found a town called Qazvin, northwest of here, maybe a hundred and fifty kilometers.”

“That’s it. Home of your famous friend, Major Nazih.”

“I didn’t know he was so famous.”

“He is now,” said Anwar. “Along with all his friends from the palace who were arrested with him. All from Qazvin, so they say, which is famous for the lusts of its men for each other. Of course, people from Qazvin say the real homosexuals all come from Isfahan, and the Isfahanis say Tehran is the real capital city of queers. What it all adds up to is that somewhere in Iran there must be a few.”

“General Merid?”

“He is also from Qazvin,” said Anwar with an echo of Colonel Kasravi’s knowing smile.

“Will he be arrested?”

“I doubt,” said Anwar. “He is from Qazvin but not, I think, part of his nephew’s Mafia.” The bulletproof Nova pulled up beside them. “I will tell you more this evening,” said Anwar.

“This evening,” said Frank.

*   *   *

Frank sat in the American cafeteria at Dowshan Tappeh, stirring with a plastic spoon the black, unsweetened coffee in his plastic cup, checking his watch, checking the doors, wondering if Anwar would keep their appointment. Frank sniffed at his plastic coffee. It had no smell. He sipped it. It was burning hot but had no taste.

“The food is terrible here.” The voice behind him startled Frank. “But I enjoy the apple pie.” Anwar slid a tray onto the table and sat opposite Frank. “I haven’t had really good apple pie since I left Texas.”

“You should come over to our place for dinner some evening. I make a real good apple pie.” It was a lie. Frank seldom baked, but he knew he could manage to make a decent apple pie. He’d tried a couple of times for Jake. The first proved a watery disaster. Jake was polite. The next had been better, at least on the second day, warmed over and served with ice cream.

Recruiting and seduction seemed to parody each other, he thought. Offer a sweet, tell a white lie. Get your target to come to your place.

“I had them heat it up,” said Anwar, already wolfing down the dried-out slice before him. “It helps a bit. Besides, I wanted to talk to you for a minute.”

“I didn’t see you come in.”

“Good. I noticed you watching the doors. I came in through the kitchen. My father’s sister works back there.”

“You’re full of surprises.”

“Good. I don’t want to be obvious. I also wanted to check with my aunt to make sure my cousin, her son, didn’t change his mind.”