The Peregrine Spy (50 page)

Frank nodded.

“Word’s all over the base,” said Steele. “The Iranians think the guy’s a hero. Iranian Air Force guys. A lot of them joined the general strike.
Homafaran,
pilots. Nothing’s flying.”

“I wish the fuck we had somebody speaks Farsi,” said Troy.

“How ’bout someone who speaks marksman?” said Frank.

“Cantwell,” said Steele and Troy together.

“Is he around?”

“I’ll find him,” said Steele. He hurried from the office.

Frank looked at Troy and suddenly remembered the tape he carried in his briefcase with the reedy voice of Ayatollah Khomeini. “I got another idea,” he mumbled.

He thudded down the hallway to Rushmore’s office. Someone who speaks Farsi, he thought. Khomeini speaks Farsi. He pulled his briefcase from the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, along with the tape Anwar had given him and Belinsky had cued. Test it, he told himself, not wanting to take the time but taking the time. He checked the footage counter. One hundred and sixty. He played a few seconds of the tape, recognized the high-pitched voice, and turned the volume up to the maximum. He rewound to 150 and headed for the cafeteria.

He had taken less than a minute, but Cantwell already stood by a door opposite the one Frank had entered. Abbas, his hand on the butt of the .45, now stood in the center of the room, drawing stares from nervous Americans.

“What’s this I-ranian doing in here?” screeched one of the women. “This here’s the Amurrican cafeteria.”

Cantwell stood with his left shoulder toward Abbas, his right arm hidden. Frank caught his eye, pointed to the tape recorder, and raised his right palm. He placed the recorder on a table and turned it on. Startled, Abbas looked his way.

“Turn that damned thing off,” yelled the same woman. She had thinning gray hair trimmed short and wrinkled, pinched features. For a brief moment, Frank wished that Abbas might draw his gun and get off one true shot before Cantwell killed him.

But Abbas listened. Frank knew the sergeant had heard this tape before. Even the shrill, gray-haired woman sensed that some communication had begun between the beefy Iranian with his hand on his gun and the voice on the tape recorder. She held her tongue as the Ayatollah’s message spun on.

Abbas nodded. He took his hand off the .45. He spoke one word. Frank thought he read his lips and wondered if it was the only word Abbas knew in English.

“Good.”

He raised both hands and slowly walked toward Frank. The fat sergeant stood within inches of him and said clearly, “Good.” He lowered his hands and walked out of the cafeteria.

*   *   *

“What is that thing?” asked Frank.

“A Remington XP-100, sir.” Cantwell still held the long-barreled pistol by his right side.

“It looks like it’s trying to grow up to be a rifle.”

“Kind of the other way around, sir. The mechanics replicate an M600 carbine. It fires a high-intensity cartridge that produces the highest muzzle velocity of any pistol. That and the unusually long barrel make it highly accurate.” He hefted it in his hand. “Doesn’t weigh but sixty ounces.”

“And it doesn’t hold but one bullet,” said Troy.

“The idea is not to miss, but in that crowd, you never know when some fool might panic and jump up in your line of fire. I like the weapon you used a lot more.”

They’d withdrawn to Troy’s office. Bill Steele had gone to alert Iranian security officers to the apparent danger posed by Abbas.

“Ayatollah Khomeini,” said Frank. “Cued up to a part in one of his speeches where he talks about the need for peaceful tactics. Something like, Do not shoot your enemy in the breast but win his heart. Defeat your enemies not with bullets but with flowers. That kind of thing.”

“Steele tells me you had some run-ins with the fat man before,” said Troy. Frank told them about his previous encounters with Abbas in the gym, including the evening the sergeant had walked in while Frank and the
homafaran
listened to the same tape.

My buddies said he’s very devout, so I hoped he might listen to the holy man’s pitch.”

“Well, it worked,” said Troy. “But I wouldn’t count on your buddies bein’ your buddies with all this shit that’s goin’ down now.”

“I hear you,” said Frank. “But the tape I played in there, I got it from an Iranian.”

“Thank God for small favors,” said Troy. “I wouldn’t’ve thought it, but turns out you’re one fearless son of a bitch.”

“Not me,” said Frank.

“Yeah, you did good in there,” said Troy. “I guess you know your other buddy did himself some good today?”

“You lost me,” said Frank. “What other buddy?”

“Bunker. He got himself outta here. Emergency family leave. You know it was comin’?”

“Rocky told me about the headquarters cable.”

“Yeah, well, Pan Am’s booked solid till Friday, so Rocky okayed use of a non-American carrier. KLM tomorrow afternoon to Rome. Pan Am to Dulles. Bunker’s no slouch. Wish my old lady hadn’t left me. Could send her back home and have her heart murmur to Dean Lomax.”

*   *   *

Gus sat at the kitchen table, sipping red wine. “Our friend is upstairs, packing.”

“I heard about it.” Frank rescued his vodka and a chilled glass from the freezer.

“Good news travels fast,” said Gus as Frank joined him at the table. “I hope he isn’t leaving with the thought of being missed. You should’ve heard him. ‘Protocol demands I attend Jayface … explain my sudden departure. Don’t want them to consider my leaving reflects in any way on the continuing importance…’ and crap like that there.”

“Look at the bright side. After tomorrow morning, you won’t have to put up with him.”

“Yeah, but I’ll have to put up with me, and what I’m really pissed at is me for not bein’ smart enough to pull what our friend is pullin’ off.”

“You could still ask him to talk to Dean Lomax about pulling you out.”

“I thought about it,” said Gus. “But I signed up for the duration, right? Call it a sense of duty. Or stupidity.”

“You aren’t stupid,” said Frank. “And I’ve gotta admit, I need you.”

“Yeah, well, I have been thinking about Lermontov and finding a way to get him out of his mole trap. So far, I’ve come up dry, but I’ll keep at it.”

“I appreciate it,” said Frank. “But it seems like a mistake to pass up any chance to get out of here.”

Gus shook his head. “You know, if Joan knew about it, she could never forgive me for not doin’ just that. But if I did it, I could never forgive myself.”

*   *   *

Paranoia reigned at Dowshan Tappeh. Except for half a dozen American air force men and an equal number of Iranian counter workers, no one risked the cafeteria. Frank had not seen the
homafaran
since before the day of the shooting at the Imperial Bodyguard headquarters and his confrontation with Sergeant Abbas. That had been when? Monday. Tension increased yesterday, Thursday, when assassins killed an American adviser to the National Iranian Oil Company and his Iranian counterpart. Bunker had done well to get out, thought Frank. The good bureaucrat. He’d handled it efficiently, even his farewell and departure from Jayface that morning.

Frank, working out alone, tried unsuccessfully to concentrate on his effort to bench press 135 pounds ten times. He needed to meet with Anwar the Smarter. Ask about his cousin. And about his effort to get a visa. Get to see Mina. I’ll see Anwar tomorrow morning. Ask if I can come to his house that night. He decided to cut his workout short. Get home early. Shower. Cook. Eat. Sleep. Good plan. Bill Steele caught him in the hallway.

“Rocky wants you.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“Not quite. Just the chief of station. Maybe you oughta take a shower.”

“No. Let me stink up his bubble. Maybe he won’t invite me so often. Hey, you ever hear anything about the fat sergeant?”

“No. Except nobody’s seen him. But they expanded the air force security guard that’s responsible for the rest of the base. The Iranian Air Force replaced the army military police that had this area.”

“Interesting. You do a cable on it?”

“Yeah. Just finished. Fact, I’ve got that cable, couple of other things I need to get downtown. How ’bout I give you a ride?”

“Deal,” said Frank.

Frank welcomed the chance to spend some time with Bill, who gunned his British-made Land Rover with speed, precision, and care.

“This ours?” asked Frank.

“Iranian Air Force. Buddy of mine lets me use it. Better cover than our Novas and better protection than your Fiat if some I-rani idiot runs into you.”

With his full beard and hooded parka pulled tight, Steele could pass for a bigger-than-most Iranian.

“Don’t mention to Rocky that I mentioned it to you, but I’ve got a cable Stan Rushmore did on the NIOC American that got killed yesterday. Almost for sure he says the
Mojahedin Khalq
pulled it off and he thinks one of your
homafar
gym buddies pulled a trigger.”

“Oh shit. Any name?”

Steele stared straight ahead and, for what to Frank felt like several minutes, said nothing.

“Yeah.” Both hands on the wheel, Bill kept his eyes fixed on the road before them. Finally, he said, “Anwar Amini.”

Anwar the Taller, thought Frank. No wonder I haven’t seen him.

*   *   *

Frank and Bill Steele sat on metal folding chairs while Rocky, behind his impressive oak desk in his concrete basement office, worked his way through the cables Bill had brought.

“Looks like you got another Iranian killed, Sully.”

“I did?”

“Looks like you did.” The response surprised Frank. Rocky usually turned his hearing aid off when he concentrated on paperwork. “Your jolly fat Sergeant Abbas. You’re slippin’. The last one was a major.”

“Executed?”

Rocky shrugged. “Just nobody’s seen him lately.” He initialed the cable. “Good job, Bill. This one can go.” He kept his head bent, turning his attention to the next cable. He shook his head and looked up. “Sully, I gotta tell you about this one. Seems like one of your
homofur
buddies may have had a hand in killing those two Iranian oil guys. You seen them lately?”

“Not in about a week.”

“I got a hunch you better keep your ass outta that gym. You could be a sitting duck.”

“I don’t think they’d target me.”

“Never ass-ume. Especially when it’s your ass.” He scrawled his initials across the cable. “Okay. This can go, too. The rest of this shit’s for the pouch?”

“Right,” said Bill.

“Okay. It can wait for tomorrow. I have a problem with any of it, I’ll let you know.” Rocky pushed himself away from his desk with a grunt. He swung open the door of his safe and deposited the pouch material. He added the ball and ribbon from his IBM Selectric, shut the safe, and tumbled the lock. “Bubble time, Sully. Don’t sweat it, Bill. I’ll bring him back pretty quick.”

*   *   *

“Don’t even bother sittin’ down,” said Rocky as soon as he’d closed the door of the bubble. He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations.”

“What’d I do?” He extended his hand and allowed Rocky to pump it.

“That cable you drafted for me did the trick. That, and a cable Tom Troy sent out about you and that nutty sergeant. Somehow Henry James managed to get ahold of that despite the fact Troy’s cable is really none of his fuckin’ business. Said you deserved a commendation on that and another on the way you’ve handled Lermontov. Oh. I almost forgot. That atmospherics cable of yours. Word came back it got a twenty.”

“What’s a twenty?”

“You really are an outsider, aren’t you? A twenty’s the highest rating a cable can get. It also got boiled down to a one-pager for an NSC briefing for Carter. James sent me another cable just on that. You Irish prick. You’re a fuckin’ hero. Never, never in my fuckin’ life have I heard the Holy Ghost say that much good about anybody.”

“Maybe that should worry me.”

“Maybe it should. But for now it looks legit. James says you should apprise—that’s the way he talks—you should apprise Identity A of our concern regarding Soviet approval of his medical treatment but of our willingness to accept his defection, if absolutely necessary, once certain prerogatives have been achieved. Like nailin’ the fuckin’ mole. Your next meet’s Sunday, right?”

“Right.”

“Good. Apprise him. And good fuckin’ luck. Any ideas about what to do about this shit storm our penetration agent stirred up?”

“Sorry. Not yet.”

“Sorry is right,” said Rocky.

*   *   *

“Thanks for not letting Rocky know I told you about those cables.”

“He knew,” said Frank.

“What?” For the briefest moment, Bill took his eyes off the road.

“That’s why he kept his hearing aid on.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Rocky has good instincts. When he guesses things, he usually gets it right. When he started reading the cables, I’ve got a hunch because of what they’re about he guessed you might’ve talked to me about them. Usually, when he’s reading something important, he shuts off his hearing aid, to keep out distractions. Tonight, he didn’t. He wanted to see if we’d say anything that might confirm what he suspected. I don’t think we did, but he knew anyway.”

“Son of a bitch. He’s even smarter than I thought he was.”

“Rocky’s very smart,” said Frank. “I’ve learned a lot from him.” And I’ve got a hunch, he added to himself, I’ll learn even more from the Holy Ghost. God help me.

They drove in silence for several minutes. Bill broke it. “Say, Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got a problem. Maybe you can help me with it.”

“I’ll help if I can.”

“You used to be a reporter, right?”

“In some ways, I still am.”

“I’ve got a problem with reporters.
Wall Street Journal
.
Washington Post
.
Newsweek
. Even the BBC. Somehow my name’s got out there. And these guys have tracked me down, asking me questions about Dowshan Tappeh, the American presence, the agency’s role. This
Journal
guy’s real persistent. He even got my home phone. Called me about the NIOC guy, the National Iranian Oil Company guy that got whacked.”