The Peregrine Spy (11 page)

“Hey, I’ve read some traffic on you over these many years. You’ve been Peregrine ever since Ethiopia.”

It bothered Frank to learn that he’d carried the same cryptonym ever since his first assignment in Ethiopia. It also bothered him that he’d become so fascinated with the falcon some anonymous code clerk had named him for.

Gus muttered as he typed.
Traces and any derogatories requested on:

a. SDHERALD-1 two-star general; attaché ODYOKE early 1960s, four years RI late 1960s.

All the jargon he’d learned of rubrics and parameters began pouring back into Frank’s memory as he watched Gus work the bureaucratic formulas. Frank guessed SDHERALD meant the Iranian Army. General Merid had told them he’d been a military attaché in Washington, which would account for ODYOKE, and he remembered RI from his own days in Rome.

b. SDHERALD-2 major, attached palace, nephew SDHERALD-1.

c. SDWAVE-1 captain.

d. SDTRIB-1 major, trained Reese AFB du.

e. SDELECT-1 col., contact with SDEAGLE-1.

Gus pulled the cable from the typewriter and gave it to Frank to read while he switched ribbons. TRIB with its reference to Reese had to be the air force; WAVE, no problem, the navy; ELECT must be the missing chicken colonel from the Imperial Bodyguard. EAGLE, he knew stood for
Savak.
He remembered “du” as date unknown.

The second cable matched names with the limited descriptions given in the first. The communications room at the embassy would encrypt and send the two cables at staggered times, minimizing the risk that, even if they were decoded, an interceptor could match up content with names.

a. Dariush Merid

b. Hossein Nazih

c. Munair Irfani

d. Anwar Amini

e. lnu, fnu

Last name unknown, first name unknown, thought Frank. “If we put that in, they’re going to come back wanting us to get his name.”

“Not to worry,” said Gus. “The station will know it and fill it in. That’s why they pay Rocky and his guys the big bucks.”

“I’m glad you told me,” said Frank. “Now we better do one on the word from the palace.”

“’Fraid so,” said Gus. He again switched ribbons. “I’ll do the headings. I don’t know the crypt for palace. The station will. You can write this one.”

Ident d., an untested source of unknown reliability,
Frank began and tersely reported what Nazih had said about the Shah’s recollections of him from Ethiopia.

“That should stir up a shit storm,” said Gus as he read Frank’s cable.

“I know. But they’re going to hear it soon anyway, so they may as well hear it from me. How ’bout one more on our no show?” Frank did a final cable informing headquarters that one of their counterparts, Identity E, the colonel from the Imperial Bodyguard whom the ambassador had identified as close to
Savak,
would not participate in their meetings.

“That should do it,” said Gus.

“That should do it, except for an agenda for our Jayface friends tomorrow.”

“Troy’ll kill us.”

“I’ll be quick,” said Frank. “Why don’t you go talk cables to him, and I’ll bat it out.”

While Gus carried their cables down the hall, Frank went to work. He headed his paper simply
AGENDA
with the next day’s date, 5
NOVEMBER
78. He labeled his first section
CIVIC ACTION
. He outlined programs the military might undertake in both urban and rural areas. He called on what he knew about similar programs in countries from Ethiopia to Southeast Asia, plus a few ideas like benzene distribution and sewage systems he thought might have particular local appeal. He had just typed
SECTION
2
: IMAGE ENHANCEMENT
and was halfway through the one-page agenda he planned when he heard a door open behind him. He turned and saw a bearded mountain of a man in a hooded parka, blue jeans, and black cowboy boots filling the doorway.

“Oh?” said the giant. “And who might you be?”

“I might be an air force major here on temporary assignment.”

“Ah.” Frank thought the giant might have ventured a smile, but it was hard to be sure through the vast beard. “You must be Sullivan. Or Simpson.”

“I’m the Sullivan,” said Frank. “The Simpson is down the hall with Colonel Troy.”

“Bill Steele,” said the big man. He entered the room and eased the door shut behind him. “I’m the security officer for the branch.”

“Frank Sullivan.” He stood and reached out a hand. Steele’s handshake was gentle.

“I checked out that house of yours today. There are a couple of things I’ll take care of tomorrow to tighten up the place best as we can. The electricity needs work, and the plumbing, and we’ll get some steel window screens upstairs. I put some more candles in for tonight—and matches. And a couple of flashlights and extra batteries on the kitchen table. Oh, and I turned the heat on. Should’ve done that before you got here.”

“Not to worry,” said Frank. “Are you—air force security?”

“I report to Colonel Troy.”

“Okay. I wish I’d known I could’ve gotten away with a beard. I shaved mine off before I…”

“Trust me,” said Steele. “I didn’t have this when I came over. The boss doesn’t mind, and over here it helps. Especially dealing with Iranians. Which I do a lot of.” He nodded at the typewriter. “You going to be at that long?”

“Another fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I also need to hit the copier for a minute.”

“The copier?”

“Yeah,” said Frank. “It’s an agenda for a meeting with our counterparts. They asked for it, so I’ll need copies.”

“Well, you better talk to the colonel. Let him read it before you make copies. We’re as bad as the Soviets about copiers. We only got one, and it’s locked up in a storeroom. He and I have the only keys. I hope the damn thing’s working.”

“Me, too. I figure there’s no carbon paper, and I don’t want to type this thing five times.”

“Russians do it,” said Steele. “They want copies of material the Soviets don’t like, they type till their fingers wear out. Call it…”

“Samizdat?”
said Frank.

“Somethin’ like that.”

With their tasks finished, Steele suggested that Frank and Gus stop at the
chelakebab
stand opposite the main gates of the air force base. Troy had already left, hurrying home to dinner. Steele had helped Frank run his agenda through the copier, and they were in Stan Rushmore’s office, putting typewriter ribbons in separate safes, stuffing stray pieces of paper into burn bags, and locking up.

“Now tell me about this chili-kebab,” said Gus. “I heard that can be a pretty dangerous place to do your shopping these days.”

“Not that I know of,” said Steele.

“Tom … Colonel Troy, I mean, while we were chewing the fat just a couple of minutes ago, he told me an air force guy got his throat slit at that chili-kebab place.”

“Different place,” said Steele. “We shut that one down. Besides, the guy was drunk, which is not a good idea these days, and making a scene about wanting a woman, which is a very bad idea these days. Things have changed a lot since these folks started getting excited about Khomeini.”

“Folks back in the States don’t seem to have heard much about him,” said Frank.

“They will,” said Steele. “The Iranians think he walks on water.”

“You seem to know a lot about the locals,” said Gus.

“Not a lot,” said Steele. “None of us do. But I deal with the Iranians more than most. Which reminds me. Your servants were in today, but with you having eight o’clock meetings downtown and that being about the time they get to the house, you’re gonna have a communications problem.”

“Housekeeping,” said Gus.

“Biggest part of my job,” said Steele. “There’s no real food at the house. I put in some basics. Canned goods, salt and pepper.”

“Toilet paper?” asked Gus.

“Yeah, lots of toilet paper. Take some to your meetings with the Iranians.”

“Will do,” said Gus. “But tell me. I’ve been lots of places where you take a dump by squatting over a hole in the floor and there’s no toilet paper so you bring your own. But in the crapper at Supreme Commander’s they had something new. What’s with the pitcher of water?”

“They tell me it’s in the Koran. Feed your mouth with your right hand. Clean your asshole with the left.”

“Okay,” said Gus. “But no towels, no paper? You can shake your hand dry, but no matter how good you are at wiggling your ass, and I bet our chubby little general is pretty good at that, there’s no way you can shake your ass dry before you pull your pants back up.”

“Maybe they’re smart as we are,” said Steele. “Maybe they bring their own paper.”

“Okay,” said Gus. “But it smells pretty bad. Can’t they do somethin’ about that?”

“You’re lucky it’s winter,” said Steele. “Smells a lot worse in summer even though they usually hose it down every day.”

Frank decided he liked this giant who paid attention to the locals, took care of details, and worried about security.

“I’ll talk to the servants in the morning,” continued Steele. “But leave a note and some money if you want them to get you anything on the local market. It’s a husband-and-wife team. The husband speaks English but can’t read it. The wife doesn’t do much talking, but she can read English and she can understand. Fresh milk, eggs, things like that. Leave a note.”

“Yogurt?” said Frank.

“Yogurt?” echoed Gus.

“Something I learned,” said Frank. “In a new country, try to get some of the local yogurt. Healthy bacteria in yogurt gets your stomach used to handling local bacteria in the food, water, leafy veggies, stuff like that.”

Steele smiled. “I do that myself. Leave a note and some money. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll take you to the Post Exchange. There are two. The commissary at the embassy where you can get booze, cameras, cigarettes, clothes, but not much in the way of food. You can take care of that on your own when you’re down there. I’ll get you started at the military PX near the base. No booze, but real American meat and potatoes, frozen, canned, dried, powdered, whatever. Some fresh vegetables and fish flown in, but don’t count on it. The housewives will beat you to it every time.”

“Are you married, Bill?” asked Gus.

“Yeah, but I can’t volunteer my wife to help you out. I sent her and the kids back home. Far as I’m concerned, it’s too hairy around here for families.”

“You don’t recommend Iran?”

“I like Iran,” said Steele. “I’ve been here two years.” He looked at the maps on the walls of the office where Rushmore had his desk. Like the maps in Troy’s office, they were pierced with pins. “Every place you see a pin, we’ve had a problem. Somebody killed, beaten up, mugged, house broken into, car set on fire, some damn thing. I like Iran, but I don’t recommend it anymore.”

*   *   *

They found the
chelakebab
shop without difficulty and parked opposite it on the dark street called Farahnaz. The hand-printed sign above the door was in Farsi, and the windows were steamed over, but Steele had described it well. A bell tinkled as Frank opened the door, and two young Americans turned from the steam table and its mix of odors. They might have been twins, thought Frank at first glance. Tall, slim, ruddy complexions, and regular features. Both wore dark blue parkas and black wool caps pulled low over their foreheads. Frank noticed one difference. Long, light brown hair curled below the back rim of the cap worn by the young man nearer the door.

“Evening,” said Gus.

“Evening, sir,” said the long-haired American.

“Cold out there,” said his partner.

“Yes, it is.” Gus looked over the steam table and glanced at the two Iranians behind it. “What do you recommend?”

“Well, you could have lamb and rice, or maybe some rice and lamb,” said the American with no visible hair. Frank now noticed he had brown eyes and stood shorter than his blue-eyed friend.

“Sounds like what we had for lunch,” said Frank.

The blue-eyed American reached out his hand. “Todd Waldbaum,” he said.

“Frank Sullivan. And this is my father. His name is Gus Simpson.”

They exchanged laughs and handshakes. The brown-eyed American said his name was Dwight Claiborne.

“There is a cafeteria at the base, but this is actually better,” said Todd. “There’s also a pretty good market right next door. Has a lot of American stuff, but this time of evening it’s closed.”

“I got a hunch,” said Dwight, “a lotta what they sell comes out the commissary back door.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Gus.

“Saw you guys coming out of Colonel Troy’s office.” said Todd. “We’re air force guards. Regular air force.”

“Gotcha,” said Gus.

Dwight took two brown paper bags of food from one of the Iranians. Both countermen wore stained white uniforms. One was tall, very thin, and bearded. The other was short and stocky and wore a drooping mustache and a sullen expression. Todd dug into his pockets for a handful of rials.

“How did you fellows get here?” said Gus. “I didn’t see a car.”

“We just walked over,” said Todd. “We’re still on duty.”

“This is like our lunch,” said Dwight. “You should pardon the expression.”

“Are you parked out there?” asked Todd.

“Uh-huh,” answered Frank and Gus together.

“Tell you what,” said Todd. “We’ll wait outside. Keep an eye on your car.”

“’Preciate that,” said Gus.

The bell tinkled, and a cold blast of wind hit them as the young guards left.

“I like those young men,” said Gus. “Something tells me it might be a good idea to get to know some of these air force guards. They must have weapons.”

Frank had tried for spinach and learned the Farsi word for no is
“nah,”
as in
“nah spin’ch.”
The taller counterman had tilted a huge pot in Frank’s direction, revealing overcooked cabbage.

“Kalam.”

Frank had learned another word, and he ordered
kalam
to go with their rice and lamb. “I’m trying to balance our diet.”