The Peregrine Spy (23 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Sullivan, you’re a fuckin’ pisser. You been here not even a couple of weeks and you stirred up more shit than a barrel of monkeys could in a couple of years.”

Frank read Rocky as being in a good mood. He waved Gus and Frank to two metal chairs that flanked his desk and went on talking.

“You really spooked the ambassador about the embassy havin’ leaks. Leaks,” repeated Rocky. “Hah. He damn near pissed his pants.”

“I thought you’d like that one,” said Frank, hoping Rocky would file the cable he’d drafted.

“And this one, about the Qazvini queer Mafia. It may not be important, but the folks back home’ll get their little vicarious jollies off. I’ll file it, but all this other stuff from this Anwar Two.” Rocky glanced at the papers on his desk. “The fuckin’
Tudeh
party doesn’t amount to squat. All the Russians do is put this Khomeini character on Radio Baku. The
Mojahedin
and these
homafaran
are the key. The generals couldn’t stage a coup if their flabby asses depended on it. What you’re askin’ me to file contradicts everything the embassy and the station have been filing about the Soviets and their
Tudeh
party and the military for months, make that years. I can’t do it, Sullivan. I won’t.”

Frank said nothing. He exchanged a glance with Gus, looked back at Rocky, and shrugged, remembering other cables Rocky had told him to forget about. Lermontov’s reporting on Afghanistan, the weaknesses of the Soviet Union, all that the Shah had told him. He had expected trouble from Rocky. Again, it stared him in the face.

Rocky studied him, then nodded. “Look, I know how you feel. But we can’t contradict ourselves without … It needs … more support. Okay, tell me … We know all about the
Mojahedin. Savak
files a ton on them every fuckin’ day. But who are these homofurs?”

“Homa,”
said Frank. “With an
a
at the end.
Homafar.
I don’t know what the
‘far’
is about, but the
homa
is a mythical Persian bird, a symbol for the air force.”

“We never heard of them before. If there’s a bunch of them at Dowshan Tappeh, how come Troy never filed anything on them?”

“Maybe,” said Gus, “there was never anything to file on them before.”

“What is it about you, Sullivan? You get here and the walls start to talk.” Rocky’s tone had turned sharper. “Right now, before we go any further, we have to assess this fucking
homafar
’s reliability.”

“Traces come back?” asked Frank.

“SDTRIB-2.” Rocky riffled through the cables on his desk. “Air force
homafar.
Not much on him. Took some technical training in the states, U.S. Air Force, someplace in Texas, I forget where.” He pushed the cables aside. “No derogatories.”

“Well, I can keep talking to him. See how what he says pans out. Is he right about what’s on the tapes?”

“Who knows? We got a Farsi speaker checkin’ the tapes. But your other little buddy was right about that other stuff. Believe it or not,
Savak
arrested their old boss, General Nasseri, who was Eagle-fucking-1 until five, six months ago. Along with Hoveida, who was prime minister until last year, and the guy who wrote the nasty story about Khomeini in one of the Farsi papers. Oh, and they also banned all the newspapers, just like you said they would. So SDTRIB-1, Anwar the major, looks pretty good. SDTRIB-2, Anwar the
homafar,
I dunno.”

“It’s SDTRIB-1 who gave me the stuff on the coup probability.”

“I know. In that case it’s not so much the source. It’s the contradiction. The ambassador’ll say the same fuckin’ thing. He wants to see us again soon as he gets here with his Brit buddy from havin’ lunch with the Shah.”

“With
his Brit buddy?” said Gus.

“Don’t ask me,” said Rocky. He glanced at Frank. “More shit your buddy Sullivan stirred up. Why the hell does the fuckin’ British ambassador wanna’ have a meet with you?”

“No idea,” said Frank. “But something tells me it can’t be good.”

“Maybe it’s that last name of yours,” said Gus. “Maybe he thinks you’re IRA.”

Let’s hope it’s nothing worse, thought Frank.

One of the phones on Rocky’s desk buzzed.

“His nibs.” Rocky picked it up. “Yes, sir. You made good time getting back … Sullivan’s here. We’ll be right up.” He replaced the phone. “Whatever it is, Gus, it’s just Sullivan. Wait here. Let’s go, Sully. We’re on.”

*   *   *

The ambassador sat with another man on the couch in his office. Both rose.

“Rocky, I’m sure you know His Excellency, Ambassador Oliver Hempstone.”

“Good to see you, Mr. Novak,” said Hempstone. He did not extend his hand across the glass-topped coffee table that separated them. Rocky nodded and said nothing.

“And this is the man you wanted to meet, Frank Sullivan.”

“Yes, well, shall we get to it?” Hempstone stood a full head taller than Ambassador O’Connor; as pale as O’Connor was ruddy, he was slender with angular features and hair several shades lighter than his gray, snugly tailored pin-striped suit. His appearance made Frank think of a furled umbrella with a carved head for a handle.

The four men stood awkwardly till O’Connor motioned to the two chairs across the coffee table and said, “Let’s be seated. This may take some time.”

“Yes,” said Hempstone as he unfolded himself into his spot on the couch. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Novak, this is a bit awkward. We’ve been approached, point of fact, I myself was approached at a lunchtime farewell gathering for our chargé d’affaires
.
Approached, Mr. Sullivan, by a gentleman whom I understand you know.”

“Let me guess,” said Rocky. “A gentleman named Vassily Lermontov, representing the Soviet news agency Tass, who wanted to interview you on the availability in Great Britain of medical treatment for a certain disorder of the pituitary system.”

“Quite so,” said Hempstone. His smile seemed to relax him. “And quite good. How did you know?”

“I know my target,” said Rocky.

“He confided that he had been in touch with Mr. Sullivan and had met you, but…”

“He and Sullivan go back a long way,” said Rocky.

“Yes, but he indicated that you, you collectively, you Americans did not seem to appreciate the gravity of his situation.”

“Oh, we appreciate it,” said Rocky. “But I didn’t realize he was shopping himself around.”

There goes Lermontov, thought Frank, studying Hempstone, who avoided his look.

“Where’s my buddy Gerry Mosley stand on this?” asked Rocky.

“Yes, well, I naturally discussed Mr. Lermontov’s approach to me with Mr. Mosley. He informed me he’d been cultivating Mr. Lermontov for some time. Without my knowledge, I might add. He said his effort sounded like a go.” Hempstone turned from Rocky to Frank. “Until you, Mr. Sullivan, suddenly arrived. Mr. Lermontov, from that point until his recent approach to me, became … difficult to contact. When he did speak to me, he seemed to indicate a certain … reluctance to work with our intelligence.”

Frank spoke for the first time. “Does the Shah know about this?”

“I’m afraid so. Yes,” said Hempstone.

“That’s just dandy,” said Rocky. “What is it you Brits say? Sticky wicket?”

“Much worse, I’m afraid. My Canadian counterpart tells me your Russian friend has also spoken to him.”

“He sounds desperate,” said O’Connor.

“He sounds like a time bomb,” said Rocky. “Tick plus Tock. Waiting to go off.”

“The question is,” said Hempstone, “what shall we, we collectively, do about him?”

“Lemme talk to Mosley,” said Rocky. “We get along pretty good.”

“I hesitate to advocate that,” said Hempstone. “For one, we have this Lermontov’s reluctance to involve our intelligence community.”

“Fuck, I mean, screw his reluctance,” said Rocky.

“For another, special relationship with the U.S. and all that, I’m afraid Gerry Mosley has a rather traditional view of British interests in this part of the world, especially vis-à-vis the Russians. To him it’s still the Great Game.”

“That sounds a bit nineteenth century,” said O’Connor.

“Quite. And you lot are mere upstarts in his view.”

“Mosley understands Commies,” said Rocky, “and we do get along pretty good. I’ll talk to him. We’ll work it out.”

“Gerald might like nothing better, but I’m afraid it’s already gone beyond that. I’ve recommended to Her Majesty’s Government that we pursue this matter.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means, well, that I suggest you leave Comrade Lermontov to us.”

“Why the hell should we do that?”

“Rocky…” O’Connor raised a hand.

Rocky ignored him. “Why the hell should we lay off?”

“Well, for one, we have a bit more experience in this area. But perhaps the most compelling reason is that this appears to be what Mr. Lermontov wants,” said Hempstone.

“Great,” said Rocky. “So we let the KGB set our agenda.”

“I suspect that at this stage of his evolution, Mr. Lermontov and the KGB are perhaps not identical.”

“I wish I could speak British the way you do,” said Rocky. “Maybe I could convince myself up is down. Fact is … Never mind. Lermontov is a legitimate American target.”

“According to your legitimate target himself, he has changed his mind and now seeks British protection.”

“Bullshit. He’s just playing you limey bastards to get a better deal from us.”

“Rocky, really. There’s no need to be offensive.”

“Yeah, there is. I’ve been offended.”

Frank watched the three men go at each other, glad, for a change, to be a fly on the wall. For a moment, he wished Mosley were with them. And Lermontov and his ambassador. Let the great egos clash. All he wanted was to find a way to bring Lermontov to America.

Rocky took a deep breath. He glanced at Frank, then turned to Hempstone. “Sorry, Your Excellency. I get carried away sometimes. What’s Her Majesty’s Government say about your recommendation?”

“That we pursue Lermontov’s request? For asylum and medical treatment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well…”

“Well,” what a wonderful word, Frank said to himself. It gives you time to think. He noticed that the British diplomat used it often.

“Well,” repeated Hempstone, “it’s a delicate matter. A response may take some time.” He turned to Frank. “This Lermontov seems an interesting chap. I do hope to get to know him better.”

I wish you luck, thought Frank. Bad luck. He studied Hempstone’s eyes. They were a cold gray, halfway between the dark gray of his suit and the light gray of his hair.

*   *   *

As they left the ambassador’s office, Rocky poked an index finger upward. Frank followed him up the narrow metal stairs to the bubble.

“This stinks,” said Rocky as he slumped into a chair.

Frank sat beside him. “What do we do?”

“We? I dunno what the fuck
we
do. I talk to Mosley.”

“What do you say?”

“I dunno. Yet. The ambassador’s right. Mosley is kinda nineteenth century, handlebar mustache, likes to quote Kipling. Spent a lot of years in Kenya, great white hunter type. Kept tryin’ to get me to go on a hunt with him when I first got here. I’m a city boy. Never catch me dead on anybody’s fuckin’ safari.”

Frank wondered if Mosley and Lermontov had gone hunting together.

“Trouble is,” added Rocky, “even if the Brits come back and tell Hempstone to lay off your KGB buddy, Mosley’s liable to go after Lermontov on his own anyway.”

“Lermontov’s spooked as it is,” said Frank. “All we need is…”

“Yeah, I know,” said Rocky. “All we need is another fucking gung-ho idiot like me fucking up the deal.”

You said it, thought Frank. I didn’t.

“Mosley’s a hard-ass motherfucker,” said Rocky, “but if Lermontov doesn’t wanna deal with MI6, maybe we still got a shot. What I gotta do is con Mosley into gettin’ into a pissin’ match with his ambassador over who gets to sign up Lermontov.”

Great, thought Frank. We’re not the only ones who would fuck up a KGB recruitment by fighting over the credit. “Okay,” he said, “Meantime, what do I do?”

“I dunno. Lermontov said he’d contact you. But I wonder if we have much time to wait. If your reporting is worth any fucking thing, this tape you got, once Khomeini gets here, you got, who knows, maybe a couple of days t’ bring Lermontov in.”

“Maybe a couple of weeks,” said Frank.

“Maybe a couple of hours if the Sovs find out he’s tryin’ t’ peddle himself t’ us and the Brits and pull his hard ass outta here.”

“So we can’t just wait for Lermontov to contact me.”

“No,” said Rocky. “I can try to convince Mosley his ambassador’s gonna get the credit for baggin’ Lermontov. And maybe get Mosley to send a cable sayin’ let the Americans deal with the crazy Russian and his medical problems. And I try to find a way to shut the Canadian door. See what Langley can feed us negative about endocrinology up there, and in the U.K.”

Frank knew Rocky liked to pretend he had trouble with multi-syllabic words, but, when he wasn’t thinking about it, he had no trouble with “endocrinology.”

“His nibs is gonna be pissed I got a little rough with his Hempstone buddy, but these Brits piss me off. They think they still own the world.”

“Our cousins,” said Frank.

“Yeah, well, some people back at Langley like to talk about our cousins, but remember your Bible stories. Cain and Abel. Jacob and Esau. Those guys were brothers. If brothers can fuck over each other that bad, just think about how much shit cousins can lay on each other.”

Rocky cracked his knuckles, something Frank had never seen him do before.

“You think I fucked up,” said Rocky. “With Lermontov. Maybe I did. But the way he’s shoppin’ himself around, makes me think we’re better off without him.”

No, thought Frank. We can’t give this up.

“What you told Hempstone makes sense to me,” he said. “Lermontov’s playing the Brits to get a better, or maybe a quicker, deal from us.”

Rocky sat with his hands folded so tightly the knuckles turned white. He nodded. “Maybe you’re right. Let’s play it out. I’ll take a shot at Mosley and talk to his nibs again. You wait.”