The Peregrine Spy (53 page)

“Why are you doing all this for us?” said Mina.

“Because Anwar’s done a lot for me. And because I hope, after you settle the kids with Mina’s parents in Los Angeles, you’ll come to Washington and look up this friend of mine.”

He gave Anwar a card with Dan Nitzke’s name and a phone number.

“Is that the man who’ll hire me for CIA?”

Frank shook his head. “Mina, you better start practicing not saying that name. In fact, you ought to practice not saying the first thing that pops into your head. For the job at hand, getting Anwar out of the country, you need to start practicing discretion.”

“I understand.”

“I hope so. Because Anwar’s life may be at stake. Maybe even yours and the children’s.”

“I do understand,” said Mina.

I hope so. This time Frank said it to himself. He turned to Anwar.

“What about your cousin?”

“He came to see us,” answered Mina before Anwar could respond.

Discretion, thought Frank. I’m glad she understands. “That sounds risky.”

“Not really,” said Anwar. “Mina’s uncle picked him up at his private garage in the bazaar, drove him to the compound in the back of his van.”

“All my uncles have been very good,” said Mina.

“What did he have to say?”

“I think … I think he felt lonely.” Straining mightily, Frank suspected, Mina nodded and managed to say nothing. “Lonely for the family. He wanted to talk. To find out how everyone was. To let us know the
Mojahedin
had him well protected. He remains active, recruiting more
homafaran
for the
Mojahedin.
Without the
homafaran,
the air force grinds down. He told us he’d heard the rumor evidently spread by
Savak
that he and other
homafaran
had some involvement with the killing of the two NIOC officials. He wanted us to know they had not. He guessed you would have heard that story, and he wanted you to know it had no truth. And he wanted you to know he and the other
homafaran
from the gym admired what you did in the cafeteria with an army man named … Abbas?”

Frank nodded. “Sergeant Abbas.”

“We did not know the story. He had to tell us about it.”

“You were very brave,” said Mina. “And clever.”

“Which is what you must be,” said Anwar.

Amen, thought Frank.

Soon after, Anwar and Mina made their long good-byes, expressed their thanks, apologized for leaving so early, and insisted they must get together again soon. In the garage, Frank opened the passenger door for Mina. She turned, wrapped a furred arm around his neck, kissed him, and said, “I bet your woman, whoever she is, I bet she’s very beautiful.”

He hoped Anwar did not suffer from jealousy. Devoted to her and confident in her love, he could let Mina be herself, the woman he adored. Lucky man, Frank thought.

*   *   *

Frank hadn’t been in the safe house since the night six, maybe seven, weeks before, when Rocky had insisted on meeting Lermontov. Rocky had told him, it hadn’t been used since but that Bill Steele’s crew would clean it up and his technicians would check the listening devices. Frank laid his briefcase on the walnut-stained dining room table, stashed a bottle of Absolut and two glasses in the freezer, and settled into the blue Naugahyde armchair to wait for Lermontov.

He reached out to check the black telephone on the bookstand by the armchair. The dial tone reassured him. The phone had been dead when Lermontov checked it on their last visit. Frank heard the sound of a car braking and turning into the drive way, followed by the flash of headlights. He checked his Timex, seven-thirty-five. He pushed himself up out of the armchair and toward the stairs that led to the cellar garage. Each move echoed what had happened back in early November. Heave up the garage doors, step back as Lermontov’s white Peugeot edged in next to Frank’s blue Fiat. Lermontov wore the same bulky overcoat and lamb’s-wool cap.

Frank pulled down the doors, and Lermontov said, “I hope this time there’s no one waiting for me in the kitchen?”

“Not this time,” said Frank.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Lermontov as he shed his cap and overcoat and tossed them onto the armchair. He set his soft leather briefcase next to Frank’s on the dining room table. “Then we can talk.”

The material Rocky had provided included assessments supposedly prepared by the ambassador on the probability of the Shah’s departure and by Near East Division on the likelihood of a coup. Frank checked the labels on the envelopes Lermontov spread out on the table: a thick one on Afghanistan, another titled “Conflicts Among the Mullahs,” then one each for Tehran, the Shah, Baku, and, most intriguing of all, Soviet embassy plans.

“Looks impressive,” said Frank.

“Which is more than I can say for your material. Now, what about plans for my medical treatment?”

Frank explained the agency fear that the Soviets would only allow treatment by doctors approved by their Washington embassy. “That means the agency will accept your defection so it can provide the best possible treatment for you.”

“Dr. Roth?”

“He’s on board. Using the medical records you’ve given us, the agency will prepare a new patient identity for you. But all this won’t happen until…”

“Until?”

“Until certain conditions are met. First and foremost, identifying the penetration agent.”

“First and foremost,” said Lermontov, “is getting Moscow Center off my back. Four Neanderthals from the counterintelligence line arrived yesterday. I’ve been shut up with them most of the day.”

“Look, I’ve got an idea, but it’s going to take … well, it’s going take a lot of balls on your part. And a lot of work.”

“Acromegaly makes my bones grow. Not my balls.”

“What about…?”

“No,” said Lermontov, managing a smile. “It doesn’t make that other part grow, either. Do you have any vodka?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I forgot about it.” He hurried to the kitchen and returned with a tray that included the last tin of Mina’s caviar.

“What kind of work? And balls?”

Frank pried open the caviar and poured them each a chilled vodka while he explained the idea of planting an article in a weekly news magazine that would point the finger of suspicion at someone else in the KGB’s Tehran station.

“Moscow wouldn’t take it seriously. A magazine you own.”

“They might,” said Frank. “The magazine has a good reputation. Accurate. Reliable. Considered left of center. Not an agency proprietary. Never identified as an agency front. Just one editor who’s a witting agent.”

Lermontov’s smile reflected his skepticism. “Does this wonderful publication have a name?”

“Yes,” said Frank. “It has a name.
Near East Weekly Review.
”

“Really?” The big man looked into his glass. “The station gets a subscription. It’s quite good. I read it every week. I never knew it was yours.”

“Good,” said Frank.

Lermontov sipped his vodka. He studied Frank, shook his head, and drained the glass. “But I don’t like getting one of our own sentenced to death.”

“Even to save your own life?”

“Even to save my own life.” He held out his glass, and Frank poured. “Why do you take so much trouble for me? Expose an important asset like this magazine. Put your own life at risk as you did at the university.”

“Well,” said Frank, hesitating. There’s that wonderful word that gives you time to think. He remembered Ambassador Hempstone’s effective use of it when delicately discussing the British interest in Lermontov. “Well,” Frank repeated, “can I be honest with you?”

“That would spoil everything,” said Lermontov.

“Well, maybe,” said Frank, “but let me try. I need you.”

“Really,” said Lermontov, raising an eyebrow. “Perhaps you are being honest.”

“Do you remember that day we met, that first meeting here, at the palace?”

“Of course I remember.”

“You said your nursemaids, and the people who monitor me, must wonder about us.”

Lermontov nodded, almost smiled, said nothing.

“Just before I came over here, after I’d been told you were here, I told a friend of mine that there were people in … in our organization who thought I must be a traitor.”

“Because of me?”

“Yes. And my friend said the best way to put those rumors to rest would be to recruit you.”

“So you need to turn me into a traitor to prove you are not a traitor.”

Frank knew there was more to it than that. He wanted to prove to himself that he was more than just an outsider, that he could recruit and handle a high-ranking KGB officer. He wanted to prove he could play in the same league as people he admired, people like Pete Howard, and that he deserved the respect of people who had doubted him, people like Rocky.

“Well, I need you,” he said, studying Lermontov, hoping he would understand.

Lermontov nodded and bolted down his vodka. “I know you need me. But I am not a traitor. Just a Soviet intelligence officer who needs medical treatment he cannot get in the Soviet Union.”

“I know that,” said Frank. “And I know that’s why you take the risks that you do. And why you hesitate about using a
Near East Economic Review
article that would turn the accusations coming from our mole onto someone else in the KGB station.”

“Yes, I’m reluctant to pinpoint one of our own.” Lermontov took a spoon of Mina’s caviar and let it melt in his mouth. “But why does it have to be KGB? Why not GRU? They have nearly as many people here as we do and they’re even more incompetent and corrupt.”

Frank pulled a chair up to the table and set down his glass. “But the note you gave me, didn’t it say the penetration agent had alerted Moscow that the Americans in Tehran were attempting to recruit a KGB agent, identity unknown?”

“Read it again,” said Lermontov. “The note said the Americans had targeted a Soviet intelligence agent in Tehran. Not necessarily KGB. We’re the political line. As I would hope you know, GRU is the military line.”

“Yeah, that much I do know.” Frank drained his own vodka.

“But you may not know that we hate each other. Tomorrow the Neanderthals from Moscow spend their day with GRU. I already gave them some ideas of what to look for.”

“Anybody in particular?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Tell me.”

“A GRU officer named Fedor Yevteshenko,” said Lermontov, reaching out for the caviar. “Who is famously corrupt. And who has corrupted someone in your consular office.”

“Oh?” said Frank, almost afraid to ask. “Does this someone have a name?”

“Yes,” said Lermontov. “He has a name. His name is Charles Belinsky.”

*   *   *

Sequestered in the bubble with Rocky, Frank explained the racket. “Aeroflot’s the key. Because it’s subsidized by the Soviets, Aeroflot can afford to be a lot cheaper than other airlines. Plus, a lot of foreigners, Brits, Europeans, and especially Americans, like to transit Russia on their way home. Consider it an exotic destination.”

“God help us,” said Rocky.

“Say a ticket from here to London costs a thousand dollars on British Airways. Aeroflot may only charge two hundred fifty. But the dumb tourist doesn’t know that. So the GRU guy who has consulate cover and arranges the visa to transit Russia gets his Aeroflot buddy to charge five hundred. Cash only, right? That leaves a two-hundred-fifty-dollar profit for the Aeroflot guy and the GRU guy to split. According to Lermontov, until the troubles got real bad, they sold hundreds of tickets this way every year. And the tourists still think they’re getting a bargain.”

“But how’s Belinsky supposed to fit into this?”

“His consulate job. Iranians and other foreigners come to the consulate for visas to go to America. Belinsky tells them about the great deals they can get from Aeroflot just by transiting the Soviet Union. Lermontov says Belinsky, least when he was up in Tabriz, was getting a cut from both the GRU crook and the Aeroflot crook.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Rocky,

“Hear the rest of it. Remember the cable I did on how the Soviets here upgrade their imported cars, buy them without paying the two hundred percent customs tax, then sell them after four years on the open market? They get about double the price of a tax-free new car. Same GRU guy runs that operation and skims a personal cut off the top. And, ’cording to Lermontov, the guy gave Belinsky a new Mercedes for his wife when she was still here and Chuck was trying to convince her to stay. When she split anyway, she shipped the Mercedes back home.”

“This Lermontov thug, you ask me, he’s cooking all this up just to get Belinsky blackballed and shipped outta here. KGB gets rid of the only American we got who speaks the languages, Russian and Farsi.”

“I couldn’t believe it, either,” said Frank. “How ’bout we ask Chuck?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Frank did not want to sit through another Jayface meeting or even to meet with the Shah or labor over another cable. He wanted only to confront Belinsky. But the next morning, in a way he hadn’t expected, his day job imposed its demands.

The door to the Quonset hut that housed Tom Troy’s offices swung open as Frank and Gus approached. Cantwell, in his corporal’s uniform, held it for them.

“Good morning. Cold out there. Come on in. I have a message from downtown.”

“I knew things had gotten too quiet,” said Gus.

“Mr. Novak said he wants Major Sullivan to call him soon as you get here. I’ll patch it through for you on the scramble phone from Bill’s office. He’s tied up with Colonel Troy.”

“What’s going on?” asked Frank.

“No idea, sir. I guess Mr. Novak will fill you in.”

*   *   *

“Sully? Listen. His nibs got a call about ten minutes ago on the secure phone to the palace. Not from the Shah but from his latest majordomo. His Imperial Self wants to see you at ten. Don’t ask what it’s about, ’cause I don’t know. Send Gus down to Jayface by himself. Have him tell the Jayfacers you got called to an urgent meeting at the embassy, which is about the truth ’cause I want your butt in here when you get done with the Shah. Okay?”

“I guess…” Frank began, but Rocky hung up before he could finish.