The Peregrine Spy (51 page)

“What’d you say?”

“Told him he had the wrong guy. I was just a quartermaster for the air force guards, which is what I’m supposed to be.”

“That sounds good.”

“Maybe, but I told him that before. He keeps comin’ back.”

For the second time that evening, Frank asked, “You do a cable on it?”

Bill shook his head. It was a moment before he spoke. “I haven’t even told Troy about it. If the agency thinks my cover’s blown, they might ship me outta here. And I feel like I got a job to do.”

I know that feeling, thought Frank, but I wish it would go away.

“What’s the name of the guy on the
Journal?
” he asked.

“He’s got a Muslim-sounding name. Which worries me even more.”

“Yusef el Baz?”

“You know him?”

“No, but I know his by-line and a bit about him. American born, Egyptian parents. Speaks fluent Arabic, Farsi, couple of other languages. ’Course, somebody could be using his name, pretending to be him, but the real el Baz is legit and real good.”

“Persistent fucker.”

“Good reporters have to be. Got any idea how he got your name?”

“None.”

“Got any enemies?”

“Well, yeah. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Frank.

“There’s some Iranian toes I stepped on at the base,” said Bill. “Then there’s a couple of fuckers in our communications unit at the embassy.”

“What’s your problem with them?”

“They’re fuckups. One in particular. Guy named Teasdale. Likes to shoot his mouth off. I know he does some of his drinking at the Intercontinental. Where the journalists hang out.”

“Sounds like a likely candidate,” said Frank.

“All that plus lazy, careless, full of himself. And I fuckin’ don’t put up with him.”

“Rocky puts up with him?”

“He doesn’t have to. They’re scared of Rocky. Me, they figure I’m just some fucker from Douche Bag Tapper.”

“From what?”

“Douche Bag Tapper. That’s what some of the guys call Dowshan Tappeh.”

“Great. No wonder they love us here,” said Frank. “Tell you what really worries me.”

“I don’t think I want to hear this.”

“And I don’t want to say it, but foreign journalists are here to find all they can about what’s going on. The good ones spend as much time as they can talkin’ to Iranians. Iranian journalists. The military. The clergy. Students. Any Khomeini followers they can get to talk to them. If your name is out there with the foreign journalists, what really worries me is who else may have heard it.”

“Rocky gets that idea, my ass is outta here in a hurry.”

“If the wrong Iranians know you’re CIA, getting outta here sounds like a good idea.”

“I got a job to do here,” said Bill.

“Okay. Meantime, any way somebody else could screen your calls?”

“No way,” said Bill. “You know my job. I have to be available all the time. Can you imagine somebody picking up my phone and telling Rocky, Mr. Steele will get back to you?”

“No, I can’t. All I can say is it sounds like you’ve been doing the best thing you could do. Stick to the ‘Hey, guy, I’m just the quartermaster’ routine. Don’t hang up on him. Be polite. Pleasant. Never get in a pissing contest with anybody whose boss buys newsprint by the truckload. They always have the last word. And Bill…”

“Yeah?”

“I hate to say it, but … you ought to tell Rocky. Or maybe have me tell Rocky. He’s got good instincts and a good nose. If he finds out some other way, and finds out you kept something this important from him, he’ll crucify you.”

*   *   *

Frank and Anwar the Smarter had shared a hole in what passed for the bathroom at Supreme Commander’s Headquarters, mixing their urine and their concerns. They spoke softly and shuffled their feet to avoid the spray that splattered the concrete rim. Frank asked if he could come by Anwar’s house. This was not a good time, Anwar said, but could he come to Frank’s house? Frank reluctantly told him how to do that. They settled on Monday night, which would be Christmas, at eight o’clock.

*   *   *

Lermontov had suggested a brief meeting Sunday evening just in case Moscow suddenly had ordered him home. He said he’d received no new orders.

Frank wondered where they’d stopped when Lermontov dropped him off. “This is Pahlavi,” said Lermontov. “Facing south. Your car just pulled up behind us. Drive straight ahead. The next big intersection is Takht-e Jamshid. Turn left. You’ll see your embassy in a few blocks.”

Frank surrendered his opaque glasses and gave himself a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the early winter evening light. He’d again given Lermontov a note suggesting a meeting at the American safe house. In capital letters, he’d printed out one additional word—
MOLE
.

Lermontov nodded and added to the note:
Tuesday night at 7
.

Frank grabbed the briefcase in which he’d stashed the thin envelope Lermontov had given him and opened the car door. The thickset Chechen who’d driven Frank’s car blocked his way, waving his hands and speaking rapidly in Russian.

“Wait,” said Lermontov. “Some mob has your embassy under attack.”

*   *   *

Despite the warning, Frank made the turn onto Takht-e Jamshid. He’d driven less than a mile along the wide and now all but deserted avenue when he saw a car in flames at the embassy gate. The car exploded, spewing the street with a fountain of shrapnel and sparks. At the next side street, he turned left and took to the narrow alleyways. His instincts guided him well, and in less than a minute he pulled up to the embassy’s back gate.

He shed his stocking cap, put the stick-shift Fiat in neutral, pulled on the hand brake, left the motor running, and very slowly eased his way out of the car. He approached the gate, arms extended to his sides, palms forward, and, he hoped, his American face visible despite the evening shadows. Three marines, each cradling a shotgun, emerged from the gloom, back-lit by the glow of the car still burning beyond the distant front gates. A fourth marine, holding a shotgun with a finger on the trigger, stepped out of the guard house.

“Major Francis Sullivan. U.S. Air Force. Mr. Novak expects me. But your front gate looks a bit hot. I have ID I can show you.”

“Sir, I recognize you, sir,” one of the marines called out. Frank couldn’t see his features, but he thought he knew the voice and the polite speech patterns of the poster-perfect marine he and Gus had met on their first trip to the embassy. “Please stand to, sir. We’ll unchain the gates. Walk through, if you will, please, sir. One of us will drive your car in. Then we’ll check your ID. And search you.”

“I’m wearing a wire,” said Frank. “Part of my job. Don’t let it freak you.”

“Thank you for telling us, sir.”

“We’ll leave your car back here with us,” said the polite, nervous marine. “You’ll be exiting by this venue.”

He walkie-talkied to Rocky’s office to get clearance for Frank, then drove him to the main embassy building in an open jeep. As they crossed the compound, Frank could see the smoke still reflecting the light of the fire from the front gates. He thought of his first view of Tehran, funnels of gray smoke stretching into banks of gray clouds. He remembered the day of their first Jayface meeting. He and Anwar had stood outside Supreme Commander’s Headquarters, watching pillars of smoke twist into the sky.

“Something always seems to be smoking in Tehran,” said Frank.

“Roger that, sir,” said the marine as he pulled up to a rear entrance to the main building.

*   *   *

Lingering tear gas stung Frank’s eyes. The young marine escorted him into the embassy, through various checkpoints and down to Rocky’s office. “I’m afraid I have to leave you here,” he said. “Mr. Novak is…”

“Busy,” said Frank.

“Correct, sir. Very busy. Ask Mr. Novak to radio when you’re ready to leave. Good to see you again.”

After turning over the bug he wore to a technician, Frank sat by himself for nearly an hour in Rocky’s office. He used the time to study the documents in the envelope Lermontov had given him. Lermontov had labeled the first “For You.”

I hope you soon have word on plans for my medical treatment
.

By now Lermontov would have read Frank’s sanitized version of Henry James’s approval of the plan. It included an update on Dr. Roth, now with Johns Hopkins and still considered the world’s foremost expert on acromegaly. He had agreed to be the primary physician for a patient for whom James’s counterintelligence shop had created a legend, including a new name, details of which Lermontov would learn at a later date. Merry Christmas, he thought.

“Merry fuckin’ Christmas,” said Rocky as he bulled his way into his office.

“I hope you didn’t arrange this one,” said Frank.

“What? Oh.” Rocky smiled. “No. Sounds like a fuckin’ accident, just about.”

Frank shared Lermontov’s “For You” note. Rocky grunted. “By now he knows we’ll take care of him.”

“I also got him to agree to a meet, Tuesday at seven, at our safe house, the one he knows. I let him know the main topic is the mole.”

“Good,” said Rocky. “You got any ideas to solve that little problem?”

Frank shook his head. “If you mean the mole, no silver bullets yet.”

“Not good,” said Rocky.

Frank quickly handed him the only other envelope Lermontov had provided. It was labeled “NIOC.”

“Their take on the two Iranian Oil Company guys that got offed,” said Rocky. “Nothin’ we didn’t have from Rushmore. Nothin’ about your
homafar
buddy.”

“Glad to hear that. What happened out front?”

“Another National fucking Iranian Oil Company story. The NIOC headquarters isn’t but a couple of blocks from here. The ragheads had a demonstration out front this afternoon. Iranian oil for Iranians, shit like that. Peaceful demonstration, if you can believe it. Broke up around four. Crowd split in various directions, but a lot of them came this way, maybe just because Takht-e Jamshid is a main drag. Standard procedure, the radio dispatcher for embassy vehicles gets on the horn and tells all drivers to avoid the area until the crowd passes. But one I-ranian asshole of a driver only a couple of blocks away decides he can beat the crowd. He pulls up to the gates, but the marines already got the gates chained. He starts arguin’, yellin’, wavin’ his arms, screamin’. By that time the crowd’s on top of him. Somebody tossed a Coke bottle full ’a gasoline corked with a smokin’ rag into his car. Pretty quick, the gas tank blew up, and the ragheads went nuts with their death-to-America shit and started tryin’ t’ pull down the gates, throwin’ rocks, bricks, whatever they could find. A couple tried climbin’ the fence, but the ambassador gave the word for the marines to let go with their tear gas. And a bunch of I-ranian army types posted at the gates to the residence came barrel-assin’ up the block tryin’ t’shoot the sky down with their M-fuckin’-14s. That about did it. Movie’s over. The crowd went home.”

“They’ll be back,” said Frank.

“I know,” said Rocky. “You got somethin’ else on your mind?”

“How’d you know?”

“Because I know you. Give.”

“We’ll, we’ve got another problem.”

“Now what have you done?”

“Me? Nothing. But somebody tipped off the foreign journalists here, American and British, about who Bill Steele is, what he does, even his fucking phone numbers.” He pronounced “fucking” very deliberately, making sure he didn’t drop the final
g.
“Even his fucking home phone number.”

“How come he tells you and doesn’t tell me?”

“Because he knows he has an important job to do here. He wanted my advice. How to handle the journalists. How to let you know without getting himself sent home.”

Rocky relaxed his hands and leaned back. “He’s responsible for security at Dowshan Tappeh. Tell you the truth, I rely on him for other things, like security around here. But if his cover’s blown, he’s got a problem keepin’ things secure.”

“His cover didn’t blow itself. Someone blew his cover. That’s the real problem.”

“I hear ya, Sully. He got any fuckin’ idea who?”

“He’s got some ideas. Including some of your communications guys he’s had trouble with. He mentioned a guy name of Teasdale.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Tell Bill t’ come see me. Tell you the truth, long as I’m here I want a guy like Bill Steele here t’watch my back. Get your ass back to Dowshan Tappeh. Tell Steele t’ come see me soon’s he can. Don’t call. Just come. I’ll be here. Tell him he stays.”

“Good,” said Frank.

“No,” said Rocky. “It’s not good. Just we don’t have a whole lot of resources. That’s why you’re still here. Bunker, I could let go. Gus, if I had to, I could let go. You, Steele, even Belinsky with his hepatitis, sorry. You guys fuckin’ stay.”

*   *   *

Anwar blew the horn once, then, after a pause, twice. Frank cracked the front door. Despite the cold, far more intense than usual,
Allah-o akbar
echoed from neighboring rooftops. His eyes scanned the street and the building opposite. He saw no signs of danger. He waved in Anwar’s direction and held up a hand. He hurried down the steps and driveway, undid the padlock, and grunted the garage door up. Anwar, as instructed, backed down the driveway, which Frank had salted. Earlier, Gus had driven their Fiat to Dowshan Tappeh, where he would watch another old Super Bowl video.

Anwar killed his lights and engine and climbed from the car.

“You’re alone?”

“Yes,” said Anwar. “I hope you don’t mind. We have things to discuss, and my wife, sometimes, she can be … a bit, perhaps, distracting. Don’t you agree?”

Frank hoped his smile didn’t show in the dark garage.

“Perhaps,” he said. “A bit.”

He had put a sheet into service as a tablecloth, draped over the all-purpose folding table in their front room. Gus had hit the American commissary, well stocked for the holidays despite the revolution raging around it. Frank had laid out a spread that included a passable pâté, an array of excellent wheat and rye crackers, some of the caviar that remained from the carton Mina had given him, chilled vodka for himself and Anwar, and, in case she appeared, a pitcher of iced tea for Mina.