The Peregrine Spy (77 page)
“America, America, God shed his grace on thee.” The soprano voice sounded strangely familiar. Frank turned and, one seat in, two rows behind him, he saw the woman whose hysterical screams had tried to defend her silent poodle. “And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.” Her voice rang like a bell … “America, America…” then quavered. “We’re going home, everybody. We’re going home.”
True to her word, the stewardess named Carol served Frank the first drink. A tray with a tall plastic cup, a single ice cube, and five miniatures of Smirnoff vodka. “I know there aren’t any discos in Tehran,” she said, “but I bet I can find one for us in Frankfurt.”
Frank poured two miniatures into the cup and said, politely, “I’ll drink to that.” But I don’t think so, he said to himself. His mind was on death, not dancing. He felt uncomfortable with the feelings he harbored. He had wanted to beat Teasdale to a pulp the night his hair drier set off what could have become a deadly confrontation with the armed and nervous neighborhood
komiteh
members who had stopped them. Now he wondered if the
homafaran
would kill the killer in the black hood. He admitted to himself that he hoped so. Maybe that’s why I carry a death warrant back to America, he thought. He wanted to forgive and be forgiven. But I’m guilty. Against the fear of death, he confessed to knowing the urge to kill.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot. Let me give you the bad news first. Earlier today Frankfurt got socked with an ice storm. Conditions still sound a bit uncertain up there, but once the I-ranians cleared us for takeoff, we weren’t about to delay departure for any damn thing. But we will set down en route at the U.S. Air Force base at Incirlik, Turkey.” A collective groan seemed to rise from the bowels of the plane. “Frankfurt doesn’t know when they’ll get a runway clear. But our idea was to get you guys outta Tay-ran come hell, high water, freezing rain, sleet, ice storms, or snowballs. So we’ll set down at Incirlik, refuel, take off when we get clearance from Frankfurt, but, just in case, we’ll have enough fuel so we can circle or head for somewhere else if we have to.”
Out of Tehran, thought Frank, but so far headed only as far as Turkey, a next-door neighbor.
“And now, just a bit more bad news,” warned the pilot’s voice. “In deference to local custom, we will not serve any liquor until we have left Iranian air space … Like hell. The stews will pour free booze from here to Frankfurt.”
Frank had expected a cheer. His fellow passengers still seemed numb. The pilot sounded disappointed. “Anyway, I’m about to begin a countdown. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one. Ladies and gentlemen, you may unfasten your seat belts. We have just left Iranian air space.”
The plane rocked. The numbed, pent-up emotions exploded. Men and women cheered, shouted, struggled to their feet, yelled, clapped hands, kissed, embraced.
The soprano started another chorus of “America the Beautiful.” A few passengers sitting near her joined in. The song spread. No one, except the soprano, knew all the words, but soon a confused rondo echoed up and down the aisles. “Oh purple mountains majesty and amber waves of grain…”
He listened to the lilting soprano and thought of the ugly scene in the terminal as the Americans battled the Iranians over the caged and sedated poodle.
Nah saag,
he thought. Then,
Shah saag
. The Shah as America’s lap dog. “God shed his grace on thee,” sang the soprano. The lyric seemed out of joint. He struggled to remember a seldom sung verse. “America. America. God mend thy every flaw. Confirm thy soul in self-control. Thy liberty in law.” The soprano did not go beyond “sea to shining sea,” and those cautionary notes would not sound.
He tried not to think of the lost Shah. Or of Chatterbox, the poodle that had vanished. He sipped his vodka and thought of Lermontov. Of the mole. The
fatwa
. The dark, bearded face of the
Savak
assassin with bloodshot eyes. Long flight home. See you in America.
February 17, 1979
OTHER BOOKS BY EDMUND P. MURRAY
The Passion Players
(novel)
Kulubi
(novel)
My Bridge to America
with Sam Kusumoto (biography)
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS
.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE PEREGRINE SPY.
Copyright © 2004 by Edmund P. Murray. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
First Edition: April 2004
eISBN 9781466864368
First eBook edition: December 2013