The Peregrine Spy (66 page)

Frank took a moment to put his gloves on, handed Sa’id his shotgun, and worked his way down the shaky ladder. Sa’id lowered first the shotgun, then his own rifle, to Frank and followed. He eased the trap door down after him. Frank heard the soft thump of the mats tumbling over it. Sa’id led the way through long, damp, shadowy tunnels. Frank could hear the scurrying of tiny clawed feet and felt grateful for the darkness that kept him from seeing the rats he knew scampered around them. They made their way up another rickety ladder and through another trap door into a tool shed that shook with the sounds of battle. They crept around the backs of several darkened buildings till they reached a spot where Sa’id raised a hand and told Frank to wait.

“I’m not dressed for the great outdoors,” said Frank.

“I will fix. Wait me here.”

Act in haste. What was the rest of it? Repent in something. No, he thought. No regrets. I wanted to do this. I’m here.

He waited, leaning against the brick wall of what he took to be a U.S. Air Force administrative building. He clung to the shotgun and shivered in his sweat-soaked gym shorts and T-shirt. What the fuck are we doing here? he’d said to himself months before as their plane circled above pillars of smoke spiraling up from the war-ravaged city. Now, as his teeth chattered, he knew he’d found the answer. This is why I’m here. To freeze my ass off and maybe find out what’s going on this side of the war.

A low concrete wall sheltered him from the airstrip. Sa’id had disappeared around its far end. Above the wall Frank could see tracer bullets arcing through the air and flares bursting. For a moment, he wished he were in the cafeteria, watching a golden oldie of a Super Bowl. Uh-uh, he told himself. This is where I decided to go.

He cringed as a sack rolled over the top of the wall. It took him a moment to realize the sack was Anwar the Taller, carrying a greatcoat. Frank noticed the shoulder patch insignia of the spread-winged
homa
. He gratefully shivered into the coat.

“You are a
homafar
now,” said Anwar.

No, I’m a peregrine, thought Frank. “I thought you were in hiding,” he said aloud.

“I am. This is a good place to hide. Take this. My hat.”

Frank pulled the blue cap low over his forehead.

“Now follow.”

*   *   *

Anwar led him into the hangar. “We feel better knowing you are with us.”

“I appreciate that,” said Frank. “But I don’t think my American friends will appreciate it.”

“You can tell them we kidnapped you,” said Anwar, smiling.

“I will,” said Frank.

“At gunpoint.” Sa’id twirled his G3.

They’d entered through a small side door. Facing the great doors leading to the runways, sleek planes crowded the hanger. Frank took them to be F-14s. Since the
homafaran
knew him as a U.S. Air Force major, he didn’t want to expose his ignorance by asking.

“I’m afraid becoming a
homafar
means a demotion for a major,” said Anwar.

“It beats freezing,” said Frank.

“But I hope no one noticed your sneakers.” Frank looked down at his scuffed, well-worn white sneakers. “Not exactly regulation,” added Anwar. “We should be able to find you a pair of boots. Enough people have been killed here today. What size?”

“Eleven,” said Frank. “But the thought of taking a dead man’s boots … I’d rather not.”

“That’s my size,” said Anwar. “The American equivalent of my size. We’ll get you a pair of mine.” He spoke to Sa’id in Farsi and handed him a set of keys. Grinning, Sa’id left them. Frank noticed bombs and missiles neatly stacked on either side of each plane.

Anwar saw his interest. “That’s what started it,” he said. “Top officers briefed the pilots this afternoon on targets they wanted strafed, groups of revolutionaries attacking prisons, arsenals, military sites. They ordered us to prepare these F-4s.”

Okay, thought Frank. Not F-14s.

“But by then our pilots had let us know what they’d been told to do. Instead of preparing the planes, we disarmed them. Many pilots joined us, refusing to carry out their orders. We’ve had a Bodyguard unit based here for over a week. They attacked us. Air force police refused to join them and instead came to support us. We had already taken over the arsenal. For a while, it was very bad. But we outnumber the Bodyguard, and they have suffered many casualties.”

“What about the Americans?”

“We have them well protected, but we need to keep them.”

“Why?”

“The Bodyguard has sent reinforcements, but they can’t bombard the base as long as we have the Americans.”

“Not to mention all this equipment.”

“Yes, that, too. But they have to worry even more about American lives than about American hardware. If the Shah’s military kill Americans, they fear it would turn your government against them. They sent in six helicopters earlier, gunships that pounded us hard. But we took one out with a Stinger missile. The others withdrew.”

“What happens next?” said Frank.

“We have radio contact with Ibrahim Yazdi.”

The name had a familiar echo, but Frank could not place it. “I don’t know who that is.”

“I thought you would. An aide to the Imam. American educated. The Imam’s spokesman when they were in France. Your ambassador is with him. They want us to release the Americans. That is another reason we wanted you to come.”

“Me?”

“We want the Americans to know what we have done here. To talk to someone the Americans can trust and we can trust.”

So much for concern about my safety, thought Frank. “You’ve already got more than twenty Americans they can talk to.”

Anwar hesitated. “We needed someone we can trust.”

“Okay,” said Frank. “Okay. Can I talk to the other Americans?”

“Of course. But not until we get you some boots. We can’t take a chance on having those sneakers attract attention.”

“Who are you worried about?”

“Islamic militants from the Jaleh Square area have joined us. They are … sometimes quick to shoot. In fact…”

Anwar’s hesitation told Frank he might not want to hear what the
homafar
would say next.

“Because we want the world to know what we do here, we allowed a car full of journalists onto the base. Unfortunately, someone fired on the car. One journalist, an American, died.”

Oh, shit, thought Frank. “Do you know his name?”

“I checked his papers. Charles Hughes. From Cleveland.”

Frank closed his eyes. He’d worked with Chuck Hughes on the
Plain Dealer
. They’d met again when Frank worked with the AFL-CIO and Chuck headed the
PD’
s Washington bureau.

“Did you know him?”

“No,” said Frank, with no regrets about lying, “but killing journalists isn’t a good idea. It attracts more attention than sneakers. What happened to the body?”

“We have it in the arsenal.”

Great, thought Frank. And another twenty-odd Americans in the basement. “Are the militants still on the base?”

“Oh, yes. And truckloads more driving through to the east gates that lead into the New Tehran neighborhood where they go to support the forces attacking the Bodyguard reinforcements.”

Sa’id still had not returned when another
homafar
Frank did not know approached Anwar and spoke to him in Farsi.

“I must see to something back there. If Sa’id comes, tell him to come find me.”

“Find you where?”

“Tell him by the radio.”

“Can I come with you and talk to the ambassador?”

“No, that is a different radio, in the arsenal. Wait, please, for Sa’id.”

The sounds of the battle outside had become sporadic, punctuation points to the steady drone of what he now identified as truck engines. When Sa’id finally arrived, it was on the run through the side door. He carried a bulging duffel bag.

“Where is Anwar?”

“Have you got my boots?”

“Yes, but first I must see Anwar.”

“Back there,” said Frank. “By the radios.”

“Good. Wait me here.” He hurried off.

Judging by the heft of the duffel bag, it contained much more than a pair of boots. Frank wondered what would happen if he opened the door and, if the way looked clear, walked away. He could make his way back the way they had come, circling the concrete wall, through the tool shed, down into the tunnels. It could be done, but, God help me, I want to be here.

“Here are your boots.” He turned to face Anwar, who held a boot in each hand. “There’s a bench over there. By the door.”

Frank took the boots and settled himself on the bench. He unlaced his sneakers and tugged them off. He’d expected the boots to reflect military spit and polish, but these looked like they’d been through a battle. “What are these spots?”

“Oh. Oil, perhaps. I wore them today when we worked on the planes.”

Starting with his bigger, left foot, Frank tugged on a boot. The fit seemed good. He took an inner sole from his right sneaker, slipped into the second boot, and tried it on. Snug enough. He tried a few steps.

“That should work. Thanks. What can I do with the sneakers? I don’t want to lose them.”

“I will put them in a safe place for you. Also your shotgun.” Frank tied the sneakers together and handed them to Anwar. He hesitated, studying the shotgun, then surrendered it.

“Good.” said Anwar. “Wait here.” He disappeared again into the hangar’s shadowy interior.

Anwar returned quickly, with Sa’id but without the sneakers and shotgun. “Now we can safely cross the base and go to the arsenal. We have a jeep waiting. Mr. Yazdi wants to talk to us again. You can talk to the other Americans. And then to your ambassador.”

That’ll be fun, thought Frank.

*   *   *

Stripped of weapons, the arsenal’s main floor had been turned into a headquarters for the
homafaran
. Frank saw no air force police, no civilian technicians or Islamic militants. The room bristled with communications equipment, typewriters, a copier.

“Are you in charge of all this?”

“No,” said Anwar. “In fact, that is another problem. Earlier today, before they joined us, some air force police arrested our leaders and turned them over to the Bodyguard. The Bodyguard took them away. For now, we do without leaders. But we want our leaders released, returned to us.”

“In exchange for the Americans?”

“No. Only as part of the conversation. That is why we wanted you. We thought you could understand the Persian way. Yazdi is with your ambassador. And of course Yazdi understands. We can talk to Yazdi. And you, with Yazdi’s help, must make your ambassador understand.”

“My ambassador will not be pleased to hear from me under these conditions.”

“You must make him understand.”

“Comrade Amini.” A
homafar
in headphones spoke to Anwar in Farsi. Comrade, thought Frank. That’s interesting.

“We have contact with Mr. Yazdi and your ambassador,” said Anwar. “Come.”

Frank sat before a microphone and slipped on the headphones Anwar handed him. Anwar sat beside him and spoke to Yazdi in Farsi. Frank picked out the word
inglissi
in Yazdi’s reply.

“Is Ambassador O’Connor with you, sir?” said Anwar.

“Yes, he is,” replied a voice that bore as much of an American accent as it did Iranian.

“We have an American with us, sir, who wishes to speak to his ambassador.”

“Put him on.” Frank recognized O’Connor’s voice, and Anwar nodded at the mike.

“Mr. Ambassador, can you hear me?”

“Yes, yes. Who is this?”

“Sir, this is Frank Sullivan.”

“God Jesus. Where the hell are you? And how in the hell did you get there?”

Frank told the ambassador more or less what had happened, embellishing his account with the idea he’d been kidnapped.

“Goddamn it, Sullivan. Rocky was right. We should have shipped you out of here the day you arrived.”

“I’m still here, sir.”

“Rocky got a call from Tom Troy.” O’Connor’s voice had softened. “You just disappeared.”

“Correct, sir. If you get a chance, please let them know what happened and that I’m okay. The other Americans, all the American air force men, are all right, sir. They’re in the same building I am, one floor below. In a fortified bunker, well protected by the
homafaran
.”

“Protected? They’re hostages, goddamn it.”

“The
homafaran
say they’re under no restraint. Except for the battle going on around us.”

“Then why don’t you and your Iranian friends just escort them the hell out of there?”

“Sir, there’s no way the
homafaran
can get us out as long as the base is under attack by the Bodyguard.”

“Who’s in charge of these damn
homafaran?
”

“Sir, that’s another problem … another part of the conversation. Earlier in the day, the Bodyguard took the leaders of the
homafaran
into custody. The men I’m with, they need to be back in touch with their leaders. They need direction.”

“That may be a damn tall order.”

“I understand, sir. But anything you can find out might be helpful. And sir, I do have one American casualty to report.”

“I thought you said they were all okay.”

“All the air force men are okay. But an American journalist, Charles Hughes,
Cleveland Plain Dealer,
has been killed.”

“Good God. Any other casualties? American, I mean. Other journalists?”

Frank looked to Anwar, who shook his head.

“Apparently not, sir.” An uneasy feeling stirred in his stomach. He looked at his boots. “But from what I can tell, hundreds of Iranian casualties.”

“This Hughes interviewed me yesterday,” said the ambassador. “Fine chap. What happened to the body?”

“Here, sir. Same room I’m in. On a table. Under a tarpaulin.”

“Dear God … Look, Frank, I’m sorry I went off on you before. But you do have a nose for trouble. What else is going on?”

Frank relayed all the details Anwar had given him.

“Sounds like a mess,” said the ambassador. “What can we do to help?”

“Can anyone find a way, maybe one of the military attachés, find a way to contact General Kasravi? General Hossein Kasravi. Imperial Bodyguard.”