The Peregrine Spy (62 page)

“After all,” said Lermontov, “Khomeini decided when the Shah should leave Iran. If he can decide for the King of Kings, why not for an American spy?”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Frank. “But I still don’t like it.”

“No doubt the Shah didn’t like it either,” said Lermontov, “but even he had to bow to the forces of history. And now he goes from Egypt, not to America, but to Morocco. I begin to wonder if he’s no longer welcome in America.”

“I hope he’s still welcome,” said Frank. Under the eye of the Russian safe-house camera, they exchanged a look, a look that said Lermontov wondered if he himself still would be welcome in America. “I’m sure the welcome mat is still out.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Lermontov.

*   *   *

“You know I meet with the
komiteh
that operate within the armed forces.”

Frank nodded. He and Munair had met at the Damavand, again empty and quiet as a mausoleum. He thought of Belinsky living upstairs. And the danger he was in.

“One group I coordinate with are
homafaran
. Many are
Mojahedin,
close to Ayatollah Taleqani. Some of them know you, from the gym at Dowshan Tappeh.”

“Sometimes we worked out together.”

“They mentioned you because they know I work with Jayface. But I did not tell them that we … discuss.”

“Good,” said Frank.

“Yes. Since they are
Mojahedin,
it could become dangerous for them to know. They plan to take over the airport, Mehrabad Airport, within a few days, force the Bakhtiar government to reopen it. They do not expect serious resistance from the army troops who occupied it on orders from Bakhtiar.”

“What about the Bodyguard?” asked Frank.

“The
homafaran
believe the Bodyguard will not act. They have air force pilots who are with them who will fly over Mehrabad in F-4s and helicopters as the
homafaran
move in. Even General Gharabaghi, they believe, will not order the soldiers to fire.”

“Are they right?”

“Yes,” said Munair. “The
homafaran
are right.”

“And they do this so the Imam can return?”

“They are good men. Of the left but faithful to Islam. They will make it possible for the Imam to return.”

“When?”

“When the time comes the time will come swiftly. It is already too late for the Imam to lead tomorrow’s prayer meeting as we—as the
komiteh
—had planned. But the plan now will bring him here in time to lead prayers next Friday.”

“At the cemetery?”

“Yes. The
homafaran
will take over the airport on Tuesday. They will force the government to reopen it with air traffic controllers, full ground crews, and so forth by Wednesday in time for the Imam to leave France that evening and arrive here on Thursday.”

“But none of the airlines have flights coming in. How will he get here?”

“That I do not know. But he will come, and soon you must go.”

“I see.”

“I hope you see. A few weeks ago gunmen murdered an American official at NIOC. For the first time we have undisciplined, angry people who now have guns to match their anger. We do not need the embarrassment of having an American diplomat murdered in the name of the revolution. You should leave as quickly as you can, but you must get Mr. Belinsky out of our country immediately. He is in great danger.”

*   *   *

“Get back downstairs and get cranking on a cable on the airport takeover,” said Rocky, alone with Frank in his plastic sanctuary on the third floor. “Quote what Munair said about the Islamic Republic. You’re right. It is important, but no one will pay any fuckin’ attention.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” said Frank.

“I better have a talk with Chuck,” said Rocky.

“Can you get him out of here?” asked Frank.

“I’ll ask the Holy Ghost t’ authorize it. Maybe can get him on a military flight to Incirlik. If there are any military flights. Call it an emergency medevac. Which is about the fuckin’ truth.”

“Can we sanitize Munair’s stuff for Lermontov?”

“Gimme a day or so to clear with the Holy Ghost. I’ll tell him we need a quick okay so we can stay ahead of the curve with Lermontov on the airport takeover. Tell you the truth, right now I worry more about keepin’ Belinsky alive than I do about keepin’ Lermontov happy.”

“Me, too,” said Frank.

“Fact, soon’s I finish up with you, think I’ll mosey over to that hotel of his ’cross the street. Maybe try t’ have dinner with’m.”

Frank noticed Rocky had begun to run his words together even more than usual. Closer to the Bronx, thought Frank. He wondered if that also meant farther from Langley. The Rocky molded by Soviet Division would not cross Takht-e Jamshid to look after Belinsky.

“Okay if I come along?” he asked.

Rocky studied him. “I dunno. You worry me sometimes. You got a knack for drawin’ trouble like shit draws flies.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“What the hell,” said Rocky. “Come on. I can only get killed once.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

They found Belinsky already seated at a table in the Damavand’s dining room. A tall, empty glass and a full pitcher of iced tea sat before him. He called out to them.

“Hey, guys. Having dinner?”

“We thought we might,” said Rocky.

A sad-eyed waiter took their coats.

“Join me? I could use some company. Never thought I’d see you here, Mr. Novak.”

“Slumming,” said Rocky as he pulled out a chair and sat directly opposite Belinsky, facing the arched opening to the lobby.

Belinsky seemed nervous, but then, thought Frank, Rocky could affect people that way. He sat close to Belinsky so that both faced Rocky. Rocky studied each briefly, then raised his eyes to scan the archway behind them that opened on the lobby. He slipped his right hand inside his suit jacket, pulled out his Browning nine millimeter, and laid it on the table.

“There’s a reason for that, Chuck.”

“I was hoping there wasn’t.”

“There’s a reason. Tell’m, Sully.”

“Couple of reasons,” said Frank. He wondered if Rocky had already primed a bullet into the chamber. “I have some new tapes, including one that goes only to select clergymen. Your friend Shariat-Madari doesn’t get one.”

“But … why not?”

“Because…” Frank heard a scuffle behind him. He turned to see their waiter pushed aside by a man in a ski mask with an Uzi. Frank saw two, three others, also armed.

“Duck,” yelled Frank.

He and Rocky hit the floor. He tried to pull Belinsky down with him, but his arm bounced off Belinsky’s back. Belinsky, his back to the gunmen, never moved till the bullets struck him. The force of the bullets thrust his body forward. He slithered against the table, slipped off his chair, and landed on Frank, pinning him to the floor. Face down, Frank could see nothing but the tiles of the floor. He had never noticed them before. The tiles were blue and white. And flecked with blood. Mine? Belinsky’s? He heard the thud of feet, rapidly retreating, and the excited babble of Farsi voices. He managed to get his hands under him and struggled to free himself of the weight of Belinsky. Belinsky rolled over on his side. Frank looked into his staring blue eyes. His mouth hung open. “Scream,” said Frank, half aloud. Scream.

He pushed Belinsky onto on his back, saw but barely registered the blood that covered them both. He wondered if he’d been shot or if Belinsky had taken all the bullets. You suicidal bastard. He tried pounding, pumping on Belinsky’s heart. Blood spurted from one of the bullet holes against the palm of his hand. He leaned closer to press his mouth against Belinsky’s.

“Give it up, Sullivan. He’s dead as he’s gonna get.”

Frank straightened himself, aware of Belinsky’s blood, aware of the hepatitis that had infected them both. Aware of how deadly it could be. Aware of suicide. Of bullets. Of death. Of the
fatwa,
wondering if the
fatwa
had claimed Belinsky’s life and wondering what had spared his. He heard a voice and looked in the direction of the voice but couldn’t bring Rocky into focus.

“You had your gun,” he hollered. “Why didn’t you stop it?”

“I’ve been tryin’ to stop it,” said Rocky. “For months. But you wouldn’t listen. Both ’a yiz. Piss me off.”

Rocky bent over Belinsky, two fingers of his left hand pressed to the carotid artery in his throat. He held the Browning in his right. He looked at Frank and shook his head.

“You could’ve used the gun,” whispered Frank.

“Against four guys with Uzis? It wasn’t even cocked. All’s I wanted to do was put some fear of God into Chuck. How serious this shit is. You and him … you act like it’s a game.”

“Suicidal bastard,” muttered Frank.

“Wadja say?”

“Nothing. Just talking to myself.”

*   *   *

They sat, both silent, in Rocky’s office, Frank still wearing the stains of Belinsky’s drying blood. He studied the spots that freckled the backs of his hands and the dark circles and streaks against the dark blue sleeves of the suit jacket he wore.

“The ambassador took it pretty calm,” he said at last.

Rocky did not respond. Still talking to myself, thought Frank. He knew he had to push himself up from his chair but could find no way to make his muscles react. He hoped Gus would be asleep but knew he would still be up, having one last glass of wine before tackling the dinner dishes.
What the hell happened to you?
He did not want to answer Gus’s question. What the hell happened?

“You guessed it the other day, didn’t you?” said Rocky. “Chuck was one of ours.”

“Then why didn’t you use that goddamn gun?”

“One Browning,” sneered Rocky. “Four Uzis.”

“Only three Uzis,” said Frank. “One of those guys used something else.”

“Wadda you talking about?”

“Maybe that Czech machine pistol you told me about. Guy with his left sleeve hanging loose. And a black hood pulled up over his ski mask.”

“Belinsky’s driver,” said Rocky.

“Savak,”
said Frank.

“We own those bastards,” said Rocky.

“Maybe we don’t own them anymore,” said Frank.

“We own them,” said Rocky, banging his fist down on his oak desk. “We own them and they gunned down one of ours,” He glanced at Frank. “Not many people knew he was, you know.”

Frank nodded.

“We kept it pretty tight.”

“Even from me,” said Frank.

“Especially from you. Even within our own shop, we kept it pretty tight. And you’re a fuckin’ agent, an outsider, remember?”

“You make it hard to forget.”

“No need for you to know. I gotta live with that rest ’a my life. One of our own. On the analyst side. Got shifted over t’ operations when the shit started gettin’ real thick over here. Good Farsi, all that. Plus Russian. Lived his cover. Ambassador went along with the game real good. Best consular officer I ever saw. Always took care of his cover job first. Like you’re ’sposed to.”

Frank remembered how Pete Howard had drilled the same operational mantra into him long ago in Ethiopia. Always take care of your cover job first.

“Half the time Chuck even had me believin’ that was his real job,” said Rocky. “Never recruited anybody up in Tabriz but found out more about what was goin’ on up there than we really wanted to know. We thought it was all Soviets up there, wantin’ t’ take over the rest of Azerbaijan. Chuck kept sayin’ no. It was about national pride and Islam. Nobody wanted to listen.”

“You think he was right?”

“I’m startin’ t’ wonder.”

“It’s a little late,” said Frank.

*   *   *

The week bumped by, rattling like their now seldom-used Fiat over the potholes in their routine. General Merid announced to the Jayface team that an American CIA agent, Charles Belinsky, had been assassinated. He asked Frank and Gus if they knew anything about it.

“I was with him … having dinner with this Mr. Belinsky when he was shot,” said Frank. “But I didn’t know he was CIA.” At least not for sure. Until a few minutes later. I could have saved him, he thought. How? I should have saved him. By not putting him in harm’s way. He remembered Rocky’s words.
One of ours. The rest of my life, I have to live with this
.

Thunder and lightning, he thought. Rocky had thought there should be drum rolls, thunder, and lightning when Belinsky brought off the entrapment of the GRU man Lermontov had targeted. Someone had delivered the thunder and lightning. But who? And why? Had it been
Savama
zealots executing the
fatwa?
Or had the gunmen wanted to kill Rocky? Or me?

*   *   *

Frank knew it was a long shot, but late that night, with no lights on behind him, he put a fresh chalk mark on his front door.

The next evening, at seven-thirty-five according to Frank’s Timex, Lermontov’s white Peugeot flashed its lights in the driveway of the American safe house they’d used before.

“I have no answers,” said Lermontov once they’d settled themselves at the walnut-stained dining room table. “Your man did a good job setting up Yevteshenko. One of our Azerbaijani KGB men got the photograph, high-speed film and natural lighting, without being seen. From one of our agents at Iranian immigration I’d already gotten a copy of Belinsky’s passport, with photo. Yevteshenko helped by making a great blunder. He told our interrogators Belinsky was just repaying a loan. Said they were friends and he’d loaned Belinsky some money. He thought he was covering up his Aeroflot ticket racket. He and his Aeroflot contact had done a good job of covering the paper trail on their swindle. When they changed their stories, they had no way to prove what they had been doing. It’s almost amusing, isn’t it?”

Frank noticed that Lermontov did not smile. Maybe not so amusing, he thought.

“Two crooks,” continued Lermontov, “trying hard to prove they really are crooks. And not being able to do it. Now the Aeroflot man is also suspected of being an American agent.”

“What happens next?” asked Frank.

“Both return to Moscow. For further questioning.”

“Does that mean you’re in the clear?”

“For now at least. In fact, in the language of capitalism, you might say my stock has gone up. I not only have recruited an American CIA agent, one Francis X. Sullivan, I have also uncovered a Soviet GRU traitor, one Fedor Yevteshenko. Since KGB hates GRU, that makes me quite a hero.”