The Peregrine Spy (47 page)

The clock showed three minutes and forty seconds. Troy’s Trojans had clawed their way to an 80–80 tie when Brawley pulled down a rebound only to have it stripped out of his hands by Manning. Brawley lunged at him, trying to grab the ball back. Off balance, both fell, Brawley on top; Manning, right leg twisted under him, was flattened on the bottom.

“Goddamn it.” It wasn’t a curse but a scream of pain and frustration, and it silenced the crowd. Frank and Rushmore hurried onto the floor. Brawley pushed himself up from the floor. “Sorry, Reggie. Sorry ’bout that.”

“Wasn’t your fault.”

“How bad is it?” said Steele.

“I dunno, but I got a hunch it’s bad enough. Help me up. Lemme try it.” Steele and Rushmore eased him up. Manning hopped on his left leg and tried straightening the right. “No good,” he said. “It’s the knee. Feels like a ligament. I’ve done it before.”

“We better get you to the infirmary,” said Steele.

“Nah, nah. Just help me over to the bench. The knee can wait till after the game.”

“What game? With you and Stan both out we’ve only got four players.”

“So? Play with four. A little extra runnin’ around’ll be good for you.” Hopping on his left foot with the broad shoulders of Steele and Rushmore serving as crutches, he started to the bench when a referee hollered, “You guys got two foul shots coming. Who you want to take ’em?”

“I’ll take them,” said Manning.

“How the hell can you take them?” said Steele.

“I’m the only decent foul shooter you got. Even on one leg I got a better chance of sinking them than anybody else. Just get me over to the foul line and gimme the ball.”

Steele wrapped an arm around him, and Manning hopped to the foul line, planted his left foot, and balanced on the toes of his right The referee handed him the ball.

“You call a reach-in on Brawley?” asked Manning.

“That’s right. His fourth. And they’re in the penalty, so you shoot two.”

“Good.” He bent his left knee and straightened it as he released his two-handed shot. It swished in. His second shot rattled around the rim and spun in. As Manning, supported by Steele and Rushmore, hobbled off the court, the spectators, even those cheering for Brawley’s team, erupted with applause.

Frank caught Fred Bunker’s eye. Fred shrugged. “Ask Bill.”

With Manning, clearly in pain, settled on the bench, Frank approached Steele. “Hey, Bill, I know you already said no once, but if you could use a fifth body out there I’ve got my sneakers on.”

The big man smiled. “If I didn’t know you’re a pretty smart man, I’d think you had more balls than brains.”

“There’s only a couple of minutes left. How much harm could I do?”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. You saw what just happened to Reggie. You’re already missing one kneecap. Besides, you’re not on the roster.”

“Let’s talk to the refs. Maybe they’ll make an exception. Emergency, right?”

The negotiations took several minutes. Tom Troy joined in and verified that Frank was a bona fide member of his unit. Despite loud objections from one of his teammates, Brawley—who, like Steele, was a player-coach—agreed. “We don’t want anybody saying we beat a team with only four players,” he said.

The two referees then conferred with the timekeeper, who had become so involved in Manning’s injury and one-legged foul shooting that he’d let the clock run down. Steele took advantage of the delay to counsel his team. “We’ve got just one hope. Brawley’s got four fouls. Take it to him every chance we get. If we get him to foul out, we’ve got a prayer. Get Frank involved if you can.”

“We may get you involved,” Bunker said to Frank. “Just don’t get yourself killed.”

The referees and the timekeeper settled on three minutes and thirty seconds. Brawley’s team brought the ball upcourt cautiously. Brawley posted up on Steele, backing him closer to the basket, but Bunker doubled up on Brawley. A quick pass to the man Bunker had been covering gave him an open shot. Frank, raised arms flailing, dove in his direction, hoping to distract him. The shot clanged off the rim, but Brawley bulled his way past Steele and tapped in the rebound. Frank glanced at the scoreboard. Tied at 82.

Steele had Frank inbound the ball, then fed it back to him, letting Frank bring it upcourt. Steele set a screen for Bunker, who hooked away from his man, took Frank’s pass, and headed for the basket. Brawley, worried about a fifth foul, let him go, content to block out Steele. Bunker’s lay-up hit the back rim. Brawley grabbed the rebound and hit the man Frank covered with a quick outlet pass. Frank tried to keep up, but it was no contest. The other man was far too quick, not only for Frank but also for himself. He lost control of the ball; by the time he managed to pick it up, the speedy Cantwell had caught up to him. Forced to pass the ball out, he found Brawley, who outraced Steele and Bunker.

Frank stepped into the big man’s path, planted his feet, raised his arms, and read Brawley’s startled expression. Brawley did his best to stop, but his momentum carried him into Frank as he got his shot off. Frank heard the referee’s whistle just before he hit the floor.

Dazed, Frank looked up to see Steele and Bunker hovering over him. “You know what you just did?” said Steele.

“Yeah. I just got knocked on my ass.”

“What you did you just fouled out their ace.”

“They called the charge?”

“That they did,” said Steele.

“I thought I told you not to get killed,” said Bunker.

“I didn’t get killed,” said Frank. “Just knocked down.” Steele pulled him to his feet. Still dazed, Frank went to the foul line. He tried to concentrate on the bottom of the net, but the net spun like a top. Frank blinked. The net stopped spinning, and Frank tried to see the ball swishing through the bottom. His one-handed shot went through. His second shot banged off the back rim, but Bill Steele grabbed the rebound and put it in. The Trojans took a three-point lead.

With Brawley out of the game, his team unraveled. They had no one who could stop Steele inside. Bunker, Cantwell, and the other player, whose name Frank still didn’t know, began hitting from the perimeter. Even Frank managed to get off a shot that rattled in and out, and he blocked a pass that Bunker picked up to lead a fast break for another basket. Time ran out.

Final score: Trojans win, 93 to 84.

*   *   *

Frank had wondered about Lermontov’s choice of a meeting place. The Amjadieh soccer stadium sat back off Roosevelt, a few blocks from the American Embassy. At 4:30
P.M.
, even with the short days of the winter solstice closing in, it would still be daylight.

“In that neighborhood,” Lermontov had explained, “all the spies and revolutionaries concentrate so hard on your embassy they never notice the football field. The national team practices at that time, so the parking lot will have enough cars that we won’t be noticed, but not so many we would have trouble finding a spot. And by that time of day, even in these times, people start to think of other things. Getting off work, evening prayers, their wives, dinner. We will be invisible in plain sight.”

Frank decided to pass up a chance to get to the gym; his tailbone still ached from the splattering he’d taken on the basketball court. He left the house early for a trip to the embassy, where one of Rocky’s technicians taped a wire to his chest—batteries included. He had given himself more than enough time, but he didn’t want to take chances on Tehran traffic or risk getting delayed by a demonstration. He followed Pahlavi and turned right onto Shah Reza. Impelled by curiosity, he made another left and in a few blocks saw the tottering construction crane. He had never been quite sure of its location. He had first caught a glimpse of it as his flight from Rome descended to Mehrabad Airport. Ali drove them on each of the other occasions he’d seen it, except when he saw it in his dreams. Now he had found it on his own and felt a sense of relief. It still had not collapsed. Melting snow had made the abandoned building site even muddier, but the crane had found some purchase in the slime.

He circled the construction and drove through narrow back streets to the north side of the soccer stadium. He found a side entrance and followed Lermontov’s instructions to a parking space close to an entrance to the stands. He checked his watch. It wasn’t quite four-thirty, but Lermontov’s Peugeot already waited. Frank pulled up alongside it. A pale blue Fiat, the mirror image of his own, swung into the vacant spot on the other side. Score another one for Lermontov’s used car dealer, thought Frank. He killed his engine, grabbed his briefcase, and, keys in hand, squeezed himself out of the car. A squat, broad-shouldered man in a long black leather overcoat who had craggy Caucasian features and surprisingly gentle green eyes pushed himself out of the passenger’s side of the other Fiat. He put his hand out, and Frank dropped the car keys into his puffy palm. They did not speak. Frank turned and walked around his own car and the white Peugeot 504. He let himself in on the passenger’s side.

“Welcome, Mr. Sullivan,” said Lermontov for the benefit of the wire. “How has your day gone?”

“Easily,” said Frank, aware now of his own wire. “For a change. Jayface meeting this morning. Nothing this afternoon.” Lermontov handed Frank a sheet of paper printed in his distinctive hand. Frank started to read and kept talking. “Yesterday was different. A very revealing discussion about Nazih with General Merid. And a meeting with the Shah.”

Lermontov’s note said,
We have a problem. Serious now and likely to become dangerous
. Frank glanced at him. Lermontov kept his eyes fixed on his rearview mirror.

“The Shah’s health seems to be getting worse. Much worse,” said Frank as he went back to his reading, still chatting about the Shah.

Under your seat you will find an envelope with important information about my change in scenery plans and medical needs. And about our problem. Do not read it in my presence. Report it to your people and, at our next meeting, you can give me your reactions in writing. Do not misplace this paper
.

“General Merid flat-out confessed he and Nazih were lovers,” said Frank, “and that he’s scared he may be
Savak
’s next victim.” He folded Lermontov’s note and put it in his shirt pocket. He wondered how the movement would sound on the nearby wire, and he wondered what serious, maybe dangerous problem they faced. He thought about the sad fate of Major Nazih. “Nazih and General Merid, well, that’s a long story. Maybe we should wait till we get to your place.”

“Very well. Here are your glasses. The glasses I told you about.”

Lermontov started up the Peugeot while Frank slipped on the opaque, wraparound glasses.

“Wow. I am blind.”

“I know,” said Lermontov.

Frank tried to count the right turns, the left turns. Lermontov made many of both, following a convoluted route meant both to elude any possible tail and, Frank guessed, to keep him from tracing their journey. What kind of problem? He tried to listen to the sound of the Peugeot struggling uphill but found it difficult to concentrate. He tried to keep track of Lermontov’s frequent use of the brakes as an indication they were headed toward a lower part of town, but the Peugeot ran smoothly. As far as Frank could tell they had headed neither up toward the north end of town nor south. A sudden
U
-turn threw off his count of right and left turns. Lermontov braked and turned to his right, and Frank heard the sound of a garage door being swung open. Lermontov pulled in. The garage seemed to be at street level. Otherwise, Frank had no idea of their route or location. Or of their problem.

*   *   *

The Russians, like Bill Steele, did not go in for frills. “Bare bones” described the interior of the safe house. A card table with two folding chairs stood in the middle of the front room. A naked ceiling bulb cast a circle of light around the table, spotlighting a telephone hooked by a long cord to a far wall. A round stand with an unlit kerosene lamp guarded the doorway that led into the front hall. Framed Air Iran tourist posters graced each wall. They hung well above eye level and masked, Frank suspected, the video cameras. He avoided looking directly at the posters and realized he and Lermontov would avoid any discussion of their problem. Whatever it was.

“You aren’t wearing a wire or anything like that, are you, Mr. Sullivan?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. I trust you, but nevertheless I will search you. Remove your jacket, please.”

Frank draped his jacket over the back of a chair and submitted to a careful pat-down. Lermontov ignored the wire when he tapped it. Frank imagined the technician who would monitor the tape wincing at that and hating him. He hoped the clear substance in the pitcher Lermontov carried in from the kitchen might be Stolichnaya. Lermontov, as though reading his mind, paused in the doorway. He balanced two glasses and a bowl of ice in his other massive hand.

“Just water,” he said. “No vodka this time. But I do have something else for you.” He set his water service on the card table and drew a thick envelope from his tweed jacket. “As promised, a bonus. We appreciated the quality of the material you brought last time, particularly the report on the Kianouris. Count it, please, and sign the receipt that’s in there.”

Frank counted out fifty twenty-dollar bills. “Not a lot,” he said.

“I like greed,” said Lermontov. “One of the more endearing character traits engendered by capitalism. A hungry agent is a productive agent. What do you have for me this evening?”

I have a question for you, thought Frank. What the hell is this problem about? But he knew he could not ask his question. He put his new briefcase on the table. He stared at the package he had slipped out from under his seat in the Peugeot. My answer’s in there, he thought, but it will have to wait. He pried open the false bottom and handed over the material Rocky had provided.

*   *   *

Frank shed his wire and tape in Rocky’s office and turned it over to the technician. Then, secure in the bubble, he gave Rocky the note he’d tucked into his shirt pocket.

“Problem? What the fuck problem?”

“I guess it’s in there.”