The Peregrine Spy (15 page)

Good question, thought Frank. He remembered the ambassador’s complaint about the cut in embassy political officers from twenty to six. Maybe Washington had lost interest in Iran.

“With you to guide him, the ambassador should be able to follow events, Your Majesty.”

“I think he is still on vacation. Like your President, who tries to be friendly, but we would have been much happier if President Ford had won the election. Carter came here, you know, for New Year’s, this year. Said some nice things. He referred to Iran as an island of stability in a troubled region and said this was a great tribute to us. A few weeks before, just about this time last year, the Empress and I visited the Carters in Washington. He greeted us with television cameras in his Rose Garden while your police fired tear gas at brawling students who staged a demonstration against us in the street. We were nearly blinded. And on television for everyone in America, in the world, to see. That evening, more kind words and Sarah Vaughan and Dizzy Gillespie to entertain us. By the way, I still have that Sarah Vaughan album you gave me. A farewell present when we left Ethiopia. We appreciated that it wasn’t new, that it must have come from your own collection.”

“It did,” said Frank.

“We thank you again for it. Do you know this Jimmy Carter person?”

“No, sir. I’ve never met President Carter.”

“You are fortunate. What do we have from him now? All this human rights talk, self-determination, cutting the sale of arms. He doesn’t understand the real world. This Carter seems too much like Kennedy. Do they really think, all these liberals, intellectuals, professors from Harvard and students from everywhere, do they really think that if this holy man from hell succeeds in destroying our government it will mean the dawn of a new age of enlightenment, with human rights and democracy for all? I assure you it will not. These unwashed
mullahs
will install a repressive Islamic government, fanatics who will do their best to lead our people back to the Middle Ages. But your president seems to listen only to these naive fools.”

“I understand President Carter’s national security adviser…”

“Ah, yes,” the Shah cut him off. “Brzezinski. He’s Polish. Poles understand the Russians. We would like one day to show him our map. He would understand. He is close to our ambassador in Washington. But we wonder how much your President listens to him.”

“How did you come by the map?” asked Frank, hoping to deflect the Shah’s anger.

“A farewell gift from Ambassador MacArthur, He wasn’t sure his successor would make proper use of it. He knew we would. Before he left, he had it installed here. ‘Keep up the good work,’ he said.”

“And I’m sure you do.”

“We try. But these days, I must confess, the view out that window concerns me more than my wonderful map.” He nodded toward the windows but did not look their way. “When I look down those hills, I see what is happening to our country today. I see our future. And I shudder.”

Frank struggled to find words that would do more than comfort. “Perhaps,” he said, “paying attention to both would be good. The map and the window.”

“Yes,” said the Shah, still staring at the map. “That would be good.” He turned to Frank. The eyes showed some of the old intensity. “Do you think we should leave? Abdicate?”

“No, sir. I definitely do not. But that’s a very personal, gut reaction.”

“We admire your guts,” said the Shah, smiling. “Even the Empress thinks we should go.”

“How is Her Imperial Majesty?”

“Very well. She is the rock we lean on. Shall we sit?”

He went to the chair behind his desk. Frank went to the chair opposite.

The Shah nodded, sighed. “It can be tiring. We must meet again. Speak to … your ambassador. Who … to whomever you must speak. His Imperial Majesty Haile Selassie, he told us he first met you when he had to make a statement about the Panama Canal. Some crisis about American rule over the Canal Zone. He wanted a statement that would reflect his role as a leader of the Non-Aligned Nations but also would not offend his American sponsors. He had asked an Ethiopian journalist, educated in America, to draft a statement, but the journalist recommended bringing you to discuss and draft the statement. Is that accurate?”

“I’m amazed, sir. That you should know all that.”

“The Emperor and I were very close. We admired him greatly. We understand he approved the statement you drafted, that you wrote for him often after that, advised him, traveled with him, but not to Persepolis.”

“I regret not having traveled to Persepolis.”

“Can it be arranged for you to work with us as you did with him?”

“I would be honored. It might be more effective if it were you who discussed it with the ambassador.”

“I understand. Is there a mechanism that might make this possible?”

“You might want to discuss the possibility with Major Nazih.”

“Major Nazih?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. I realize our work with the military may not be very productive—very meaningful. But it does provide a context for my being here.”

“I have already approved your … what is it called?”

“Jayface.”

“Horrible name.” His features puckered as though he’d just bitten into a spoiled fish. “Can you invent something for those people to do? Something that would depend on you to guide them. I will approve whatever it is on the condition that you remain.”

“I understand, sir. I will think of something. May I get word to you through Major Nazih?”

“Perhaps. For a time. Major Nazih is a very bright, knowledgeable young man. With many contacts. Including the Russians. He keeps us in touch with what matters in their embassy here.”

The Russian Embassy? That bastard, thought Frank. “I’m glad he’s well thought of.”

“We will expect to hear from you. Perhaps through your ambassador.” The Shah looked at his watch. “Forgive us. We are like your ambassador, telling you it is time for you to abdicate.”

Frank stood. “Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty, for granting me this time.”

“Wait.” The Shah picked up the blue phone. He spoke into it in Farsi, listened, spoke again, and hung up. “Don’t go far. We have another visitor. We will ask you to join us in a few minutes.”

Now what? thought Frank.

*   *   *

Cross-legged, one foot swinging in apparent irritation, Major Nazih sat in the anteroom. “I don’t mind being helpful, but this is taking much longer than I expected.”

Their wait proved short. The door behind them opened, and the majordomo entered.

“Major Sullivan. His Imperial Majesty would like you to rejoin him.”

Frank glanced at Nazih, who looked at him blankly and shook his head. Frank shrugged and followed the majordomo into the Shah’s office.

The Shah, hands folded before him, sat behind his desk. At his elbow stood Vassily Lermontov.

“We meet again.”

The hairs on the back of Frank’s neck tingled. He knew that in this setting the Russian did not pose a threat, but Lermontov seemed to command the room. His position at the Shah’s elbow conveyed a sense of ownership.

“We understand you two know each other,” said the Shah.

“We do indeed,” said Lermontov.

“Mr. Lermontov has impressed us with his knowledge of your role in Ethiopia. And since,” said the Shah.

“He’s impressed me, too,” said Frank. “Hello, Vassily.”

“
Ça va,
Frank?”

“
Ça va bien,”
said Frank, shrugging one shoulder.

“We have only agreed to this,” said the Shah, “because of Major Nazih’s assurance of why Mr. Lermontov wants to meet with you. If we learn the reason behind this is other than what we have been told, Major Nazih, as he knows, will suffer severely.”

“And you,” said Lermontov, “will have another persona-non-grata scalp to add to your collection.”

In agency parlance, the term meant something quite different—recruiting Soviets, not getting them PNG’d. Frank looked from Lermontov to the Shah and said, “I’m not much of a scalp hunter.”

“Of course,” said Lermontov. “But when opportunities fall your way, what can you do? I have no resentment for what happened in Ethiopia.”

“You’ve told me that several times,” said Frank, “but you keep bringing it up.”

“And you keep bringing up what happened to you, or almost happened to you, in Beirut, though I have assured you I had nothing to do with that.”

“We will leave you gentlemen to your mutual hostilities. As we would leave Russia and the United States to theirs, if we could. But geography imposes certain obligations. Propinquity is not necessarily a blessing. Nor is economic dependence. So we must deal with you both. And now, gentlemen, we are going to do something we have never done before, for anyone. We are going to leave this office to you. For your discussions. We shall do so because this map, which we have discoursed upon with each of you, will be here to remind you of what is at stake here in Iran.”

“And we realize Your Imperial Majesty will be listening,” said Lermontov.

“We shall not. You might want to discuss that question with members of my intelligence staff. Several of whom are known to Major Nazih. And perhaps to you. They monitor our work. We do not monitor theirs. And now, if you will, excuse us.”

The Shah pushed himself up from his desk and made his slow, stiff way toward the door. Frank and Lermontov bowed, and the Shah left them.

“Well, no need to stand on formality. Is there?” said Lermontov.

Frank gestured to the oak chair behind the desk. “Will you take the Shah’s chair?”

“No. I have no notion of replacing the Shah.” He moved around the desk with the grace that had always surprised Frank in so big a man. He took a chair at the far end, turning it to face Frank. They kept their eyes on each other as they sat.

“You seem to have a big influence over him.”

“Not at all. I do, however, over Major Nazih. He works for me.”

Frank nodded toward the ceiling.

Lermontov shrugged. “His Imperial Majesty is aware. Nazih also reports to His Majesty’s private intelligence branch, to J2 and
Savak.
That I know of. Perhaps he also works for Mossad … and for you.”

“No. No, he doesn’t work for me,” said Frank. He wondered how much Lermontov knew about Jayface. Everything, he guessed, but he decided to volunteer nothing.

“Please do not think I was sent here because of you,” said Lermontov. “I had been here nearly a year before I learned you were coming.”

“When did you know?”

“Just a few days before you arrived.”

“That’s impressive,” said Frank.

“We are, after all, a professional organization,” said Lermontov.

“Really?” Frank said it with a smile. He hadn’t found out himself till the day before his arrival. He wondered if the Russians had someone inside the agency who knew before he did, and if it had been Lermontov who funneled that information to Nazih. He thought about Gus and the need to know and about keeping your buddy in the dark. He thought about security and Counter Intelligence. If Nazih’s apparent knowledge had originated from a KGB agent within the agency, the threat would be far more serious than he’d thought. And he wondered, How in the hell am I going to handle this?

“Moscow instructed me to attempt again to explore your interest in getting to know us better.”

Here we go again, thought Frank. “That could be dangerous,” he said aloud.

“But I thought you capitalists believed in risk. And rewards?”

“We’ve played this game before,” said Frank. “It gets stale, mate.”

“Ah, very clever. Stalemate. I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

“Neither have you, if you think I want to get to know the KGB better.”

“I didn’t say the KGB. I said ‘us.’ The Russians. Not KGB or Soviets. They’re the past. The Russians are the future. You should get to know Russians better.”

“And how could I do that?”

“For a start, you should visit Russia someday. I could be your guide.”

“That might give some people back in the States the idea that I’m not very loyal.”

“It’s the game we play, isn’t it?” said Lermontov. “We demand absolute loyalty of our people, and then we train them to undermine the loyalty of our recruiting targets.”

“Am I a recruiting target?” asked Frank.

“Of course,” answered Lermontov.

Can the Shah be part of this? wondered Frank. Setting me up for a pitch?

“There is much I could teach you about Russia. And, if you take the risk, the rewards could add up to a tidy little nest egg, enough for you to retire and write all those books you want to write.”

Frank thought of all the times he had fantasized about somehow making enough money to do just that. Selling a book to the movies. Winning the Irish Sweepstakes. He wondered if Lermontov could be serious.

“You amaze me,” he said. “You know we’re on video.” And he wondered if the video could read his mind. “Or did you sabotage the camera?”

“Not at all. In fact, I can have a copy made for you.”

“You do have some influence here.”

“Some.” Lermontov spread his broad hands on his bulky knees. “Some, but not enough.”

Frank looked at his wrists and wondered, Can a grown man’s wrists possibly get bigger?

“The world is changing,” said Lermontov. “The Soviet Union is changing. I am changing. Have you noticed?”

“You seem … less at ease than usual.”

“For sure. Anything else, physically?”

“Have you gained weight?”

“Some, but that’s not why I look bigger. I look bigger because I’ve gotten bigger.”

“I noticed your wrists.”

“Yes. And my jaw and my skull and my clavicle, my sternum, my ribs, my pelvis, my knees, my ankles, of course my spinal column. All my bones have grown. It is called acromegaly, caused by a hyperactive pituitary. I am breaking out of my skin. I do not exaggerate, my friend.”

Friend? Frank wondered.

“To an extent the tendons and muscles around the bones react, and they also grow, but the bones grow more. I remind myself of the Soviet Union. I have grown beyond my capacity. Soon, without help, I will break apart. Collapse. Perhaps I exaggerate, but not much.”