The Peregrine Spy (45 page)

“It’s going to make NE very nervous.”

“Good. The Near East eunuchs are just bystanders now that we’ve got Lermontov in the picture. Forget NE. Forget Soviet Division. This is a CI op because the madman who heads Counter Intelligence has got everybody convinced any Soviet defector is a potential double agent until Henry James stamps the guy with his personal seal of approval. Oh, he says the stuff Lermontov gave you on the take from what James calls their penetration agent ‘indicates some knowledge.’ That ain’t bad for openers.”

“Can I pass that on to Lermontov?”

“Yeah, but in a note. And tear up the note. Any chance Lermontov might have been cornholing the late Major Nazih?”

“I doubt,” said Frank.

“James would love to have somethin’ like that on the guy. Hey, it’s possible. Talk to the general.”

“You might be better off,” said Frank, “talking to the
Savak
guy who shoved the hot poker up Nazih’s butt.”

“There’s a thought,” said Rocky. “Shame you didn’t think of that before they killed’m. They’da got him to say it. On tape.”

“Maybe not,” said Frank. “He managed not to say a lot they wanted to hear.”

Rocky’s expression hardened. “I’ll talk to Eagle-1. You talk to the general.”

Frank shrugged. “I’ll do it. Meanwhile, the general wants me to talk to the Shah. So does Lermontov.”

“What about?”

“The general wants to know if the Shah will save his ass. Lermontov wants to know where the Shah’s head is at after
Ashura.
He’s convinced the march showed that Khomeini’s Islamic Republic has already taken over.”

“So’s Belinsky,” said Rocky. “You gotta read his cable.”

“I will, but Belinsky’s not the Shah.”

Rocky checked his watch. “Look, his nibs got a call from the Shah this morning. He’s havin’ lunch with him. I can’t get him involved in this shit. Recruitin’ a KGB officer. Or any of this shit about Nazih and the general. I share a lot with the ambassador, but anything I report direct to Henry James on he’s not in the loop. Understood?”

“I understand.”

“Okay. What we can do is ask him to let the Shah know you want a meet. I’ll tell him you hit some resistance to your newspaper idea. Once you get to the palace, you can ask the Shah whatever the fuck you want. Understood?”

“I got it,” said Frank.

“Sit tight,” said Rocky. “If his nibs hasn’t left, I’ll ask him to come up for a minute.”

*   *   *

The ambassador had agreed to convey Frank’s message to the Shah. After spending over an hour drafting and, with Rocky’s help, revising his cable on General Merid, Frank hurried off for his meeting with Colonel Kasravi.

*   *   *

Junior officers scurried through the third-floor hallway, darting in and out of the broad twin doors at the corridor’s far end. The door to Colonel Kasravi’s office stood open. Frank knocked.

“Come in.”

Frank entered and saw the colonel seated at a table piled high with papers.

“Please close the door and take a seat. I’m glad you could come. As you can see, I am very busy, so I will be brief. No doubt you noticed all the coming and going in the hallway. Major Sullivan, I know this puts you in a difficult position, but I must ask you to refrain, for now at least, from reporting what I am about to tell you to your government. Now that your government has approved your status as an adviser to us, we hope to make the fullest possible use of your skills.”

“Very good, sir.” He hoped it was very good, but Frank wondered where Kasravi was headed.

“You realize, of course, your position, your privileged position as an adviser within the inner circles of our government, a military government in a time of crisis, imposes certain responsibilities.”

“I don’t quite understand, sir.”

“You will. I want to be open with you. You now are one of us, and what has happened can affect your work. But you must promise not to reveal what I am about to tell you to anyone else.”

Frank thought of Lermontov asking him to sign a receipt he couldn’t read. “Sir, I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.”

“I understand,” said the colonel. “Listen, then. And judge. This morning His Excellency the prime minister, General Azhari, was summoned to the palace. The Shah informed him he wanted to form a new government, a civilian government, within two weeks.”

“But why?”

“I do not know,” said Kasravi. “But we must face … face the prospect of a change in government. As you might expect, the prime minister—his health has been poor recently—he returned from the palace shaken, ashen. His sense of balance seemed … unstable. We rushed him to the Imperial Bodyguard medical facility. His doctors diagnosed a mild stroke, and he will be confined to the facility for some days. We have informed His Imperial Majesty.”

“How did he react?”

“He instructed us to keep him informed. He has lunch today with your ambassador. He said he did not want to discuss this with Mr. O’Connor.”

“What do you want me to do, sir?”

“We do not want to put you in a difficult position, but you said you could be helpful in advising us on how to deal with various foreign media. We would like you to help us in this matter.”

“I can agree to that, sir. But at some point I must let my government know what I’m doing.”

“I understand. Our problem, we fear letting the world know that at a time of crisis, the head of our military government has had a stroke, however mild. It makes our government look … weak.”

“Yes,” said Frank. “But your problem has other dimensions. Without strong domestic news media, rumor, gossip, and the Ayatollah’s tapes become Iran’s major means of communication. You mentioned all the comings and goings in the hallway. Evidently quite a few people already know.”

The colonel stiffened. “They are all loyal, disciplined officers.”

“But not everyone they talk to … in their excitement … may be discreet. At the Imperial Bodyguard medical facility—doctors, nurses, technicians, clerks, drivers. Gossip and rumors don’t have to be composed and printed and distributed like newspapers. They travel with the speed of sound. Within a few hours half of Tehran will have heard some rumor of the prime minister’s stroke or heart attack or paralysis or death. Someone may have already called Neauphle-le-Château, and Ayatollah Khomeini may have issued his statement to BBC. The world knows.”

“What can we do?”

“Give the world an accurate version of what has happened. Start with BBC. The Voice of America has someone here.
Savak
should be able to let you know what other foreign journalists are here and where they are and how to get to them.”

“We have that,” said the colonel. “Can you write a statement for us?”

“I can,” said Frank. “But first we need you to instruct a doctor at the Bodyguard hospital to talk to me, to give me the diagnosis you want him to give, and to agree that our statement can quote him by name and title and military rank, if he has military rank.”

“Give me five minutes.”

“Take ten minutes and also put whatever mechanism and people you have to work calling an emergency press conference for seventeen hundred hours at the prime minister’s office. I suggest you read the statement and handle any questions. I’ll brief you on questions the journalists probably will ask.”

“Five minutes,” said the colonel. He turned and left the room.

*   *   *

Colonel Kasravi approved the statement Frank drafted, with minor changes. “I have already informed His Imperial Majesty of what we want to do. He agreed and asked me to thank you for your help and also to instruct you to come to the palace late tomorrow afternoon. He did not specify, but I would suggest sixteen hundred hours.”

“Yes, sir,” said Frank. He felt as if he’d been inducted.

“I must again be brief,” said the colonel, “And blunt. We monitored your conversation with General Merid. You need not bring the matter up with His Imperial Majesty. General Merid has no significance and faces no trouble. He obtained his rank through favoritism and diplomatic service arranged by a small but influential coterie of homosexuals. I believe your State Department has something similar. Is the expression ‘sissies in striped pants?’”

“Something like that,” said Frank.

“The call he received from Evin prison was not authorized. We do not care about the general, but we want to know who made that call. Our people, not
Savak,
will question him about that call. Nothing more.”

“Is he … in detention?”

“Not at all. He will be questioned, perhaps I should say interviewed, about the call. That is all. But I must confess some members of
Savak
did, perhaps, become overzealous in the matter of Major Nazih and your possible involvement with him. His Imperial Majesty’s intelligence group became aware of this and informed the Shah. He resolved the matter.”

*   *   *

Frank had guessed correctly about the several cables he would have to write, including a report on plans for a civilian government.

“This is one I won’t share with the ambassador,” Rocky had said. “He can fuck up like a three-legged bull in a china shop. He’d sure as hell ask the Shah about it, and the Shah would sure as hell stir up a hornet’s nest tryin’ to find out how the ambassador knew about it. I’ll flag it with the tightest possible restriction and hope we can keep it the hell away from State.”

As he finally headed home, Frank wondered how possible that might be. He knew enough about the infighting within the Washington Beltway to realize the cable would have to go to the President’s national security adviser. Brzezinski would demand to know why he’d seen no State Department reporting on the Shah’s plans for a civilian government. Then an angry State Department would query Ambassador O’Connor. He wondered if Rocky had found a new way to cause trouble for him.

Rocky acknowledged that Kasravi’s decision to have Frank help prepare for the press conference indicated that his problem with the prime minister’s office had passed. Now Frank wondered if he wanted that victory. For the first time he wondered if he wanted to stay. He still had a job to do, he told himself, but he’d begun to wonder if the job was worth all the risks he faced. He considered Jayface only his day job, his cover. He’d given up any thought he ever had of trying to save the Shah’s ruthless government. Gathering and trying to file what intelligence he could, and above all recruiting Lermontov, seemed all that remained. The task seemed hopeless, though, and he could feel the risks of exposure, arrest, and torture tightening like a noose.

He remembered the stories he’d read about the peregrine falcon, an endangered species; its eggs, weakened by ingested DDT, were too fragile to be hatched. He did not want his shell to crack.

He drove straight to the house, hoping Gus and Fred would have had themselves driven home from Dowshan Tappeh. They had, and despite the late hour they were just finishing up a dinner of leftover chili. Gus dished up a bowl for Frank.

Fred drained his wine glass, caught Frank’s eyes and said, “Know something? I need another glass of wine, and I need … I need to talk to both of you.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Gus. He uncorked another bottle of the red while Frank retrieved a beer from the refrigerator.

“I need to talk to both of you,” said Bunker again. “As head of our team, I owe it to you, but I have to ask, not a word of what I tell you goes beyond this room. No one else has a need to know.”

Frank and Gus looked to each other, then back to Fred. They nodded in unison.

“I’ve read your cable, Frank, and Belinsky’s about
Ashura,
and the ambassador’s cable after his lunch with the Shah today. Gus, I know you’ve seen them. Frank?”

“I read Chuck’s and the ambassador’s at the embassy this evening. Pretty grim stuff.”

“Very,” said Fred. “The ambassador in particular. Shocked at how shook up the Shah was by the
Ashura
march. He told the ambassador Khomeini has more power than his prime minister, and this evening, to prove him right, they announced the prime minister had a stroke.”

“Grim stuff all right,” said Gus, sipping his red. “And…?”

“This war is over,” said Fred, “and, frankly, I see no point in continuing to put myself at risk by staying here. Let me tell you what I’ve done. I’ve written to my wife. I’ll pouch it out of here tomorrow. She has a heart murmur. Nothing serious, but I’ve asked her to write back to me right away, saying her doctors have decided to hospitalize her. Saying she’s scared to death and begging me to come home. I also told her to call Dean Lomax—he’s a friend of the family—and ask him to cable me. Soon’s I get the cable, I plan to put in for a two-week emergency leave. It’s an automatic.”

Gus shrugged and said, “Why not just ask for a transfer back to Langley?”

“No. Transfer could take some doing. Emergency leave’s an automatic.”

“Good thinking,” said Gus.

“And, to tell you the truth, two weeks from now I don’t think anyone will see any point in sending me back here.”

“Why are you telling us all this?” asked Gus.

“I owe it to you. As head of this team, I’m responsible for you. But I think I’ll be able to do more good for this operation back in Langley than I can here.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

“Gus, if you want, once I’m back there I can recommend that Covert Action reassign you to Rome. I realize, Frank, you have some things going, particularly with the Soviet. But Gus, I can talk to Dean and get you back to your wife in Rome.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll sailor on.” He saluted. “That’s Commander Simpson talking.”

“Frank, are you okay with this?”

“No, but I gotta admit … my own mind—while I was driving back here tonight—I kept thinking, ‘What am I doing here?’ What happened to Nazih, the general thinks it could happen to him. Maybe it could happen to any of us. And yeah, I doubt the Shah can survive. So yeah, I understand how you feel. I feel the same way. I just wish you hadn’t told us about it.”

“I owe it to you.” He pushed himself up from the table, said, “Good night,” turned unsteadily, and headed upstairs.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Gus.