The Peregrine Spy (8 page)

“Perhaps we’ll have to keep you here forever,” said the major, turning his long lashess toward the general. “We wouldn’t want the Shah to suffer Haile Selassie’s fate, would we?”

*   *   *

A beep sounded from General Merid’s wrist. He checked his watch.

“Ah, four o’clock. I must be going. An important meeting.” The general stood, scraping his chair on the concrete floor. Five chairs echoed the sound. “Shall we adjourn?” said the general. “And at zero eight hundred hours, precisely, tomorrow we will meet again. And Mr. Sullivan will have an agenda for us, am I correct?”

“Correct,” said Frank. He checked his Timex, which tended to run fast. Five after four. The dark-eyed man, who had introduced himself as Captain Munair Irfani of the Iranian Navy, and Nazih followed the general. Major Anwar Amini of the air force lingered while Frank and Gus struggled into their parkas.

“You must be fatigued,” said Anwar.

“I know I should be polite and lie about it,” said Frank.

He had fought hard to keep awake, stifling yawns and pinching himself after the heavy lunch they’d eaten at their conference room table. The overcooked lamb on soggy rice with cabbage and unleavened bread and sweet tea rebelled in his stomach. He’d ventured into the bathroom after lunch and found it consisted of several holes in the concrete floor, a pitcher of water next to each. Frank, tightening his sphincter, urinated down one of the holes and vowed to stuff a pocket with toilet paper for tomorrow.

He’d noticed Gus nodding off several times during their afternoon session as the general droned on about the importance of getting the armed forces involved in civic action programs with the population, particularly in the rural areas, which he referred to, often, as “the real Iran.”

Anwar escorted them down the wide marble staircase under the graceful, unlit chandelier, which Frank now realized had the shape of a crown. Anwar held open the glass doors, and they walked into the bracing air.

“Tell me something,” said Gus. “Our waiter. Does he speak English?”

“Hamid? As a matter of fact,” said Anwar, “he does. Why do you ask?”

“He seemed to pay attention to the conversation. And we weren’t speaking Persian.”

“You are very observant,” said Anwar. “Yes, he speaks English and he spies on us. At least for
Savak.
”

“At least for
Savak?
Does he work for anyone else?” said Gus.

“Ask him,” said Anwar.

The room’s got to be bugged, thought Frank. A waiter who might eavesdrop on their meetings did not seem much of a threat. He looked up at the stone stairway that led to a blank wall.

“Does anyone know about that stairway?” he asked.

Anwar looked up, shaking his head. “No one knows.” He looked out beyond the thousand eyes of the chain-link fence at the city beyond. Four funnels of smoke bracketed the gray sky into nearly symmetrical quadrants. “No one knows,” Anwar repeated.

Their Chevy edged away from a cluster of parked military vehicles and eased toward them. Anwar continued to study the funnels of smoke that drifted across the sky.

“Almost like tornadoes, aren’t they? When I was stationed in Texas, taking courses with your air force, the same base where they now have the Crown Prince, I saw a tornado. Very impressive. Two months ago we had even more smoke signals to watch. It started with
Ayd-e Fetr,
the end of
Ramadan
.”

“The month of fasting?” said Gus.

“Yes,” said Anwar. “It fell, I believe, on your 4 September. Just two months ago, isn’t it? The breaking of the fast. It started fairly peaceful that day. Demonstrations at the university, the bazaar. And from all over the city people marched on Shahyad Square, the huge monument you must have seen on your drive in from the airport.”

“I remember it,” said Frank.

“Peaceful that day, but over the next three days the demonstrations grew. New demands, new slogans attacked the Shah more openly. Then, on 7 September, he declared martial law. The next day there were many confrontations— casualties at the university, but the worst was at Jaleh Square, near Dowshan Tappeh, where you have your office. Hundreds were killed, mostly secondary school students who staged a sit-down demonstration. The soldiers fired on them, on schoolchildren in the open square. Hundreds they killed. Black Friday, the people call it, and since then we have been at war.”

“Who’s winning?” said Frank.

Anwar shrugged. “Watch the smoke signals,” he said. “Perhaps they can tell you.”

*   *   *

Frank, sitting up front, had persuaded Ali to let him lower the window. He wanted to think, to follow the route Ali took back to Dowshan Tappeh, to study the streets for any hint they might convey about what was happening. He worried about his confrontation with Major Nazih. The others, including Gus, had heard him reveal Frank’s previous contact with the Shah.

He hadn’t told Gus about that. Or about Lermontov. Or the conflicting directives he’d been given about both by Near East Division and Pete Howard. He’d followed the agency’s basic rule about compartmentalization. Even people working on the same team shared information only on a need-to-know basis. Gus didn’t need to know about his previous dealings with the Shah and Lermontov, but now Gus had heard about the Shah from Nazih.

He felt guilty about not telling his new partner but hoped Gus would understand. The more Frank thought about Nazih’s revelation, the more it worried him. Nazih’s words could compromise him with any of the Jayface members who might have contacts with the opposition. He remembered how guarded the Iranians had been as General Merid led them through their introductions. Major Nazih had revealed more about himself—and perhaps about the general—than he’d intended. The others had offered little more than name, rank, and branch of service. When they were done, Frank had counted to himself, sure they were missing someone. He reviewed the scene in his mind, remembering how he had turned to the general.

“Weren’t we supposed to have someone else? A colonel from the…”

The general had cut him off. “No, no colonel … ah, the colonel won’t be able to work with us. Other pressing duties.”

“I see.” In this case not even a name, thought Frank. “No replacement?”

“No,” said General Merid. “His branch has … pressing duties.”

“Oh, that’s right,” said Gus. “A chicken colonel from the Imperial Guard.”

“A what?” said General Merid.

“Chicken colonel. You must have heard that expression.”

“No, no,” said the general, laughing. “Tell me. What does it mean? Chicken colonel.”

“It’s the insignia, at least in the U.S. military. A colonel’s insignia is a silver eagle. The joke is that a colonel’s insignia isn’t a real eagle, just a chicken.”

By now General Merid was laughing so hard his eyes teared. “Chicken colonel. I can hardly wait till I see him to make fun. Colonel Chicken.”

“It’s a good name for him,” sniffed Major Nazih. “He won’t be missed. He’s a zero only good for keeping his nose up
Savak
’s ass.”

Frank had glanced around the table. If the Imperial Guard chicken colonel wouldn’t be reporting their meetings to
Savak,
he wondered who would. He wondered about the general. Had
Savak
briefed him on the American passion for civic action programs? Perhaps Nazih, his irreverence adopted as cover for a clever agent. Or Major Amini, Anwar, the friendliest of the crew? Why was he so friendly—and cautious?

Frank shivered. He’d been so wrapped up in thinking about their meeting, he’d forgotten that he sat next to Ali, heading back to their office at Dowshan Tappeh. The air cutting through the car’s partially open window had turned chillier.

Behind him, Gus snored, a light, wheezing sound. Frank studied the all but empty streets. They told him nothing. He rolled up the window.

*   *   *

“You got trouble,” barked Troy as they entered his office. “Novak wants to see you, and there’s a mob burning tires outside the embassy gates.”

“Nice,” said Gus. “Between a Rocky and a hot place.”

“Here, I drew you a map,” said Troy. “There’s a back way in. They say that’s quiet. But you might be better off if the mob gets you. Novak’s got a bug up his ass about something. I just got off the fucking scramble phone, and my ears are still ringing.” He handed the map to Frank. “Take the Fiat. The Chevy’s bulletproof, but it looks too fuckin’ American. Now get goin’.”

“Both of us?” asked Frank.

“Well, he just wants to see you. But nobody goes anywhere alone in this town these days. I can’t spare an escort, so Gus, you’ll have to go with him. Which might be a good thing. Facin’ a pissed-off Rocky, it might be a good thing to have a genuine knife fighter along.”

“Knife fighter?” Frank couldn’t picture Gus wielding a knife in anger.

“Oh, yeah,” said Troy. “Fact, last time I saw this guy he took out a couple of VCs that tried to off us in a blow-job bar in Saigon.” Frank studied Gus with new eyes.

“Ancient history,” said Gus. “We’ve got a more recent problem to tell you about.”

“Just what I need. Another problem.”

“Frank here got an air mail special delivered through his bedroom window this morning.”

“You got what?”

“It looked a like a grenade,” said Frank. “It rolled under the bed, and we decided to get out of there without trying to get a better look.”

“Couldn’t be too serious if it didn’t go off before you got outta there. I’ll have one of my guys break out his bomb squad gear and check it out.”

“’Preciate it,” said Gus.

“Why the fuck couldn’t Rocky keep you guys down in his own shop?” said Troy. “And outta my hair.”

“You already told us,” said Gus. “Because Rocky wants to have as little to do with us as possible, since he doesn’t want us here in the first damn place.”

“Yeah, you got that right,” said Troy. “Look, before you run outta here, some housekeeping, real quick.” He handed each a manila envelope. “Residency permit, pass to Dowshan Tappeh, pass to Supreme Commander’s Headquarters. This says you received them and won’t lose them on pain of death. Sign here,” he said.

They signed the forms.

“Good,” said Troy. “That makes you official. Now, turn around and get the fuck outta here. Mr. Novak is waiting.”

*   *   *

Frank caught a glimpse of spiraling smoke beyond the soccer field as he cut off Roosevelt. Gus sank lower in the seat next to him. Both had their stocking caps down to their eyebrows. Frank eased the Fiat left into another street barely wider than the car. He braked by a metal gate with a low brick guardhouse behind it. A marine in dress uniform stepped out.

“Can I help you, gentlemen?”

Frank pulled off the stocking cap. “Mr. Novak is expecting us.”

*   *   *

Though they had clashed in Rome, Frank respected Rocky Novak as a no-nonsense professional. He knew no one told jokes in Novak’s presence about the fact that he wore a hearing aid. Rocky ruled his domain in Tehran from a large basement office with an oversize oak desk, but the bare concrete walls and sparse furnishings contrasted sharply to the elegant suite Novak had occupied under his cover title as chief political officer at the embassy on Via Veneto.

Here, a worn vinyl couch stretched against one wall; two filing cabinets with security bars and combination locks lined the opposite wall; a safe stood behind the desk, and an IBM Selectric sat on a typing table to Novak’s right. Frank half expected to see a polygraph and other tools of the interrogator’s trade.

“Come in and sit down,” called Novak from behind his formidable desk. “You, too, Simpson, since you’re here. I’ve got some shit to get through. Then I’ll get to you.” Rocky worked his way through a stack of cables, reading quickly, sorting them into two piles. “Sullivan, what the fuck am I gonna do with you?” He kept his head buried in the cables.

Frank made no effort to reply. He knew Novak turned his hearing aid off when he concentrated on clearing paperwork. Gus caught his eye. Frank shook his head and raised a finger to his lips. He also knew Novak sometimes tricked the unwary by leaving the hearing aid on.

Gus fidgeted on the edge of the stiff couch. Frank sat back, watching Novak skim through his cables, thinking again about the agency’s flakiness—sending him out barely briefed and with no reading-in time, traveling with air force ID but in true name, unfamiliar with the country, ignorant of the language, his identity and his Ethiopian background already known to God only knows how many Iranians. Novak initialed the last of his cables. He picked up a stack in each hand and placed them in the safe. He removed the ribbon from his IBM typewriter and put the ribbon in the safe. He slammed the safe, twisted the combination lock, and adjusted his hearing aid. “I can’t preach security to everybody else if I don’t plug up my own asshole, right?”

Frank and Gus said nothing but nodded agreement in Novak’s direction.

“So they’ve got you back in again,” said Novak, glaring at Frank. “Are more heads going to roll?”

He turned a knob clockwise on the battery of his old-fashioned hearing aid. Frank tried to remember if that meant up or down.

“I’ve got a hunch heads will roll,” said Frank. “But it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“That’s true. And nothing you’re going to do will stop it. Simpson?”

“That’s me,” said Gus.

“Glad to meet you. If I had my way you’d both be outta here on the next plane.”

“I must admit,” said Gus, “I like Rome better.”

“Well, we’re here now. God help us. I had that little demonstration out front arranged special to make you feel welcome, and you bastards had the nerve to sneak in the back way.”

“I’m glad to hear you have students on the payroll,” said Gus.

“They aren’t students. Some young thugs
Savak
hired for me.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re serious,” said Frank.

“You know me, Sullivan. I’m always serious, and I seriously the fuck wish you guys weren’t here. All right, Sullivan. Time for you and me to take a walk. Simpson, wait here. I won’t keep this bozo long. Let’s go, Sully.”

Frank knew they were headed for the bubble, which meant Novak had heavy matters on his mind. Frank followed him upstairs, past the bulletproofed marine in his small office behind thick glass. The marine took nothing for granted. He waited for Novak to hold out the ID badge on his lapel and studied the photo against Rocky’s impatient face. His eyes cut to the visitor’s ID badge that hung from the chain around Frank’s neck. He had just signed Frank in a few minutes ago, but he politely insisted on taking a close look at the number on the badge and checking it against the list in his ledger. He asked Frank his name, then asked again to see photo ID. At last a buzzer sounded, and Novak led them up a broad, carpeted staircase to the embassy’s second floor.