The Peregrine Spy (26 page)

The feeling of well-being passed quickly. He bent low over the typewriter, ignoring the war stories shared by Gus and Troy, writing about Jayface, worrying about Rocky, and wondering what new problems the arriving Fred Bunker would introduce into their lives.

*   *   *

Alone in the gym that evening, he pounded his frustrations into the heavy bag. First Rocky. Then Jayface. For sure Near East Division. No contact, they’d told him. Absolutely no contact. He felt surrounded by invisible specters with whom he could have no contact.

Lermontov, unseen in dark alleyways, a disappearing shadow in thick, early morning fog.
I fled him down the nights and down the days, down the labyrinthine ways of my own mind.
He had no tapes for his hands, no Everlast gloves, only the padded-for-warmth leather mittens he wore every day. His knuckles bled into them, but he hammered away at the bag as though it were an enemy in the ring. He buckled the leather with a left hook and set it dancing with a right cross. He heard the door open behind him. He crackled the bag with a succession of jabs, glancing over his right shoulder only long enough to capture the image of a heavy-set man in a khaki uniform. He thudded a left hook off the final jab and stopped at the sound of a loud grunt behind him. He turned and focused on a beefy Iranian in a rumpled uniform he took to be army rather than air force. A sergeant’s chevrons decorated one sleeve.

“Amrikazi?”
said the sergeant. His belly sagged over a thick belt that secured the holster on his hip. His right hand went to the butt of an old U.S. Army Colt .45.

“Baleh,”
answered Frank.

He had no idea what the sergeant’s next words meant, but he did not translate them as friendly.

“Inglissi mi-danid?”
tried Frank.

“Nah.”
He spat the syllable out, hand still on the butt of his gun.

No English, thought Frank. He heard voices, footsteps in the hallway. “Me, Farsi …
kami,
” he said loudly. He looked beyond the sergeant to see the head and shoulders of Anwar the Taller.

“How are you, Major Sullivan?”

“Good,” said Frank. “It’s good, very good, to see you.”

“Any problem?” Without waiting for Frank to reply, Anwar spoke to the sergeant.
“Be-bakh-shid”
was all Frank caught.

The sergeant stepped aside. Anwar and the other
homafaran
filed into the gym. The sergeant nodded and spoke the same greeting to each of the
homafaran—“Be-farma-id too”
—then jutted his chin in Frank’s direction and looked back at the
homafaran.

Anwar supplied the answer. Frank could pick out only the English cognates …
Amrika
 …
Air Force Polis.

As he listened to Anwar, the sergeant stood squarely in front of Frank, left hand on his hip, the other on the handle of his holstered .45. Despite his fat, Frank sensed the power in his sloping shoulders and the menace in his tiny black eyes. Frank studied his short, thick neck, wondering if he could find a vulnerable spot. He suspected not.

The sergeant’s only reply to Anwar’s monologue was the phrase Frank could now identify as
maag bargh Amrika
. The sergeant backed toward the door, eyes still on Frank. He turned and walked from the room, leaving the door ajar behind him.

“That was rude of him,” said the man who exercised with the Indian clubs. He hadn’t yet begun his routine. He crossed to the door and closed it. “He should not have stared at you that way.”

“Plus
maag bargh Amrika,
” said Frank.

“You know the meaning?” said Anwar.

Frank nodded, “Death to America.” His throat was tight. “What’s his problem?” he asked.

Anwar looked at the door the sergeant had exited through. “He is a very devout man. Military police. Army, not air force. They are responsible for the security of the facilities that are apart from the airfield. The cafeteria, the gym, the offices, the gates. They are not very good at their job, and they resent the air force personnel because we get better pay, better accommodations, better food, better everything. Of course, they resent you Americans much more. This sergeant, he is very devout but very angry. Be careful from him.”

“What’s his name?” said Frank.

Anwar hesitated for a moment. “Abdollah Abbas. But do not make trouble for him.”

Frank shook his head. “I just want to take your advice.” All that, and death to America, thought Frank. “I just want to avoid him.”

“It would be good to avoid him.”

Another for my list, thought Frank. Lermontov. The Shah. Sergeant Abdollah Abbas.

“But you can relax now,” said Anwar. “Go back to your workout. Come, I will give you a good workout.” Anwar braced himself against the heavy bag and wrapped his arms around it. “Come, attack.”

Instinct told Frank to beg off. “No thanks. That’s enough for me.”

“Come. I want to see how hard you can hit.”

Frank knew he faced a test, not just of how hard he could hit, but of how much trust he would put in his gym mates. “Okay.” He tried a tentative jab. With Anwar securing it, the bag had virtually no give. He tried another jab and a hard right and picked up the rhythm of his routine. The whole weight of his body went into every punch, even his short, quick jabs. He circled in, changing directions, knees always bent, sometimes flat-footed, sometimes up on his toes, his legs and butt snapping into each punch. The
homafaran
echoed his grunts with monosyllabic words of approval—good, yes, good punch. Sweat poured off him, staining his gray sweatshirt. He began to tire. His pace slowed, and he finished with a left hook that buckled the bag.

Anwar grunted. “You hit hard.”

“Not as hard as you,” said Frank.

“I’m bigger,” said Anwar.

Bigger. Stronger. Younger. Faster and every bit as mean, thought Frank. He knew he would have to offer to hold the bag for Anwar. He hoped Anwar would decline. But Anwar spoke first.

“Come,” he said. “Will you hold the bag for me?”

I must trust this man, thought Frank. Or he’ll never trust me.

“Sure.” Frank took off his gloves and tossed them on the bench.

“Your hands are all blood,” said the youngest of the
homafaran.

“They’ll be okay,” said Frank. He bent his knees, gingerly wrapped his arms around the bag, and braced himself against it.

“You better hold tighter than that,” said Anwar.

“Right,” said Frank. He tightened his arms. Anwar, as Frank had done, began with two jabs, then picked up the pace and power of his punches. Frank’s peripheral vision caught the blur of a right hook coming his way. He blinked, flinched, and felt the impact of the hook smashing into the bag an inch from his forehead. He knew he had to trust Anwar’s accuracy. He hoped he could trust his intentions.

Frank sensed that as Iranians, admirers of martyrs and given to flagellation, the
homafaran
would wonder at this strange, middle-aged American who would draw his own blood in pursuit of a ritual they also enjoyed. A hard right thudded into the center of the bag, stinging Frank’s midsection. He managed to regain his breath but thought, This is going to be hell.

*   *   *

Hell paid dividends. Since Frank had begun working out on the heavy bag with Anwar the Taller, a new level of trust had begun to develop.

Anwar demonstrated the exhaustive knowledge of a determined lecturer. Frank considered his education in the sectarian differences among guerrilla groups opposed to the Shah the price he paid for a steady supply of Ayatollah Khomeini’s tapes and information about opposition within the military.

Frank had struggled through a series of bench presses, starting with seven repetitions at 135 pounds, working up in weight and down in repetitions to a single grunt with 200. Anwar, who had spotted for him, then slid under the bar, executed ten reps with the 200, and added two 45-pound iron plates for his next set of ten.

“You heard, I know from my cousin that Sanjabi and Barzagan have been sent to prison.” Anwar had the ability to continue his lectures while hefting what to Frank seemed an incredible poundage of iron. “What you don’t know is how crowded our prisons have become. Our prisons, especially Qasar, have grown so crowded that to make room for the Sanjabis and Bazargans, they have to let out
Mojahedin.
And even…” He finished his set and let the bar clang down on the support racks over the bench. “Most important of all, even Ayatollah Taleqani.”

“I’m sorry,” said Frank. “You know I don’t know much. Who is Ayatollah Taleqani?”

Anwar the Taller sat up. Pumped from the heavy bench presses, his sharply etched chest and shoulder muscles quivered. “You see, Anwar the Smarter may be very smart, but he can’t tell you everything.”

All the
homafaran
spoke English, but only Anwar spoke at length. The others seemed content to confirm, mostly with nods and monosyllables, what Anwar said.

“We are like your Black Muslims in America. Your Malcolm X people and the people who killed Malcolm X. The Muslim
Mojahedin
are very strong in prison, especially in Qasar, where they have jailed Ayatollah Taleqani many times for maybe fifteen years or more off and on. Now, Taleqani again has been released. They released many
Mojahedin
early last year and now, many more are being released to make room for the
Savak
s like General Nasseri who are going to Qasar.”

A chorus of laughter and “that’s right” and “yes” rose from the other
homafaran.
Even the man with the Indian clubs managed a grunt.

“We have America to thank for this,” said Anwar.

“America?”

“Your civil rights people. Amnesty International. President Carter. They have been complaining about political suppression in Iran, about
Savak,
about torture. The Shah loves his F-14s and F-16s, the AWAC surveillance planes, and all the other wonderful things he gets from the Americans. So do we. It’s our job to take care of them, and we love our work.”

The club wielder grunted, and the heavy-set weight lifter struck his chest with the flat of his hand.

“So the Shah wants to keep the Americans happy. He put the jailers in jail and put
Mojahedin
on the street. And Ayatollah Taleqani has already opened an office. He is talking to young people.”

“Why was he in jail?”

“Ah, he has always opposed the Shah. Since the days of Mossadeq. Since the days of the White Revolution when the Shah said women should not wear chador, land should be taken from the aristocracy and the clergy and given to the peasants,
bazaari
should go to jail for charging prices that were too high, all things that sound good to foreigners and our own Westernized elite but do not sound so good to most Persians. As much as Khomeini, Ayatollah Taleqani has opposed the Shah, but he is not like Khomeini. He is not so … Well, he understands the people. He is not a
Mojahedin.
He argues with us, but he understands why we are still Marxist even though we accept Islam and why we will support Khomeini and the revolution when it comes but also why, once the Shah is done and Islamic Revolution rules, they will attack us.
Mojahedin
and
Feda’iyan
may fight each other. We will defeat the Shah. We will defeat the Americans and Russians if we have to. But then there will be another civil war, and I do not know who will win that one.”

The others were silent. With a flourish, the man with the Indian clubs finished his routine. He tucked the clubs under his arms and bowed to Frank.

“Now you will understand,” he said.

“That is why we need you, Major Sullivan,” said Anwar.

“Me?”

“Yes. You see, the
Mojahedin
have been looking for an American we can talk to. Your embassy doesn’t talk to us. Your CIA talks only to
Savak.
When my cousin started telling me about you, I listened. I asked our leaders if I could talk to you. They said I could try, within limits. Sound you out. Even I asked my cousin if I could trust you.”

“What did he say?”

“He said I would have to find out.” His shrug reminded Frank of Anwar the Smarter. “Anyway, I have to trust you. You see, the Muslim
Mojahedin
have been active. The Americans should know that now we will be more active. We will make a difference. The Islamic
Mojahedin
will make a difference.
Homafaran
will make a difference. The military will make a difference. Not the generals, the soldiers. The people will make a difference, but the people are not trained. The people are not disciplined.” His eyes locked on Frank’s. “We are.”

The next evening they worked in more exercise than usual. The beefy Sergeant Abbas looked in and spoke briefly, hand on his .45. He stared at Frank, turned, and left, again leaving the door ajar. The
homafar
working out with Indian clubs was close enough that he was able to reach out with his right leg and kick the door shut, without missing a beat of his routine.

Anwar handed Frank a cassette tape. “It’s the same as the one just here.” He pressed the play button on the cassette recorder on the bench against the wall. The by now familiar, high-pitched voice of Khomeini shrieked out at high volume.

“When your people translate it, they will hear the first plans for
Tasu’a
and
Ashura,
the holy days of
Moharram.
My cousin has told you about that, isn’t it?”

“He has,” said Frank. “
Moharram
isn’t far off, right?”

“I have looked,” said the man with the clubs. “This year, your two December is our one
Moharram.
”

“And the holy days come on the ninth and tenth of
Moharram,
” said Anwar. “The Imam calls for great peaceful demonstrations, in all the cities, in the countryside. Everywhere. But above all, here in Tehran. Millions will march.”

“Won’t the military try to stop it?”

Anwar smiled. “If the military try to prevent, it could be worse than Jaleh Square, but I do not believe the soldiers will open fire.”