The Peregrine Spy (28 page)

“That’s what I have,” said Frank, lying slightly. As usual, his Timex ran five minutes fast.

Gus stared intently at his watch. “Correct,” he said. He took his glasses off and squinted at the crystal again, “Absolutely correct.”

“Every other place in the world, time zones are a civilized sixty minutes apart. Only in this godforsaken place have I ever heard of an extra half hour difference.”

“Not quite,” said Frank.

“Not at all,” said Gus. “It’s a big world. All kinds of variations. Some of the islands in the Pacific. Parts of Australia, India, Sri Lanka. They’re all thirty-minute jobs.”

“Even Newfoundland,” said Frank. “Right up there in Canada.”

“Nepal’s even stranger,” said Gus. “When it’s noon Greenwich Mean Time it’s five forty-five in Kathmandu.”

“Kathmandu,” sniffed Bunker, looking as though he’d smelled something unpleasant. “Which reminds me. What’s our schedule with the ragheads?”

Frank and Gus looked at each other. Gus shrugged. Frank shrugged.

“Ah, what ragheads?” said Frank.

“You know what I mean. Jayface.”

“Oh,” said Gus. “Those ragheads. Well, here in this strange time zone, Thursday and Friday are the weekend. Islam, you know. But lately our general has had us meeting on Thursday, which is tomorrow, but not on Friday, the heavy-duty holy day.”

“Tomorrow I can’t make it. I have to sit in with Tom Troy early morning, then the ambassador at ten, lunch with Roger Novak and the ambassador, and then your presence will be required in the ambassador’s office at two for a meeting involving all … five of us.”

“Sounds like a full day,” said Frank.

“And a full house,” added Gus.

“Then, what about Jayface?” asked Bunker.

“We’ve been working on a civic action proposal,” said Frank. “You may have read about in the traffic.”

“Yes, indeed. I’d meant to ask about that.”

“Well, it’s ready for you to look at. We haven’t shown it to anyone else. Not even Rocky. Not even in rough draft. But our general…”

“SDHERALD-1.”

“Correct,” said Gus.

“He’s getting kind of antsy, so soon as you get a chance, we’d like you to give it a read.”

“Roger that,” said Bunker.

“Part of it,” said Frank, “I guess the most important part of it, is Gus’s idea for the military to publish a general interest newspaper.”

“And Near East wants more details on how that will work,” said Bunker.

“I’ve tried to get a meeting with Kasravi, Colonel Kasravi, the deputy prime minister, on it, but these days he’s got a revolution to take care, of so I guess it may take a while.”

“Keep after him,” said Bunker. “We can’t afford to be polite about this business.”

“I’ll keep after him,” said Frank.

“There’s the other thing,” said Gus.

“Right,” said Frank.

“What other thing?”

“Well, you have to remember, I’m not a case officer, just an agent.”

“I understand. A career agent.”

Frank smiled. He had never heard the term before. “I don’t think so. More like an occasional agent. Kind of in and out, and at the moment back in. But I’ve never worked inside. Gus has more or less had to teach me how to write cables, and he introduced me to the idea of an atmsopherics cable about Iran.”

“Great idea,” said Bunker. “Have you sent it?”

“Hell, no,” said Gus. “We wanted you to see it first.”

“Good,” said Bunker. “When do we meet with Jayface?”

“Saturday morning at eight,” said Gus.

“You mean we have to meet with them on the weekend?”

“No,” said Gus. “The weekend is Thursday-Friday.”

“Absurd,” said Bunker. “Thursday and Friday for a weekend. Half-hour time zone. Why can’t they be like the rest of the world?”

“Fred, you haven’t been stationed much overseas, have you?”

“I certainly have. Paris, Bonn, London. Relatively … brief tours, it’s true. In fact, I have been—primarily—a bit of a headquarters man.”

“That’s kind of what I remembered,” said Gus.

Frank noticed the way Bunker had detoured back to reality. Primarily a headquarters man. The truth must matter to this guy even if his language sounded phony.

“In any event, as I was saying, as head of the KUSTAFF team, I’ve been privy to new NE Division requirements which place heavy emphasis on plans for a military coup that might retain or replace the current government and arrange for the departure, perhaps temporarily, of the Shah.”

“He’ll be thrilled,” said Gus.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Bunker.

“That the Shah will be thrilled to hear we plan to kick him out.”

“We do not plan to have him kicked out. Our job is to ascertain the intentions of the Iranian military in that regard. I mean in regard to his abdication in favor of his son as regent, with a council of elders, if you will, to guide the Crown Prince until he reaches his majority.”

“Did you memorize all that?” asked Gus.

“Yes,” said Bunker, again with absolute honesty. “As you’ll see, when you read the traffic, it falls within the parameters of our requirements as defined by NE Division and the NSC. With our operational center right in the headquarters of the Joint Chiefs of Staff…”

“Whoa,” said Frank. “We don’t meet at the headquarters of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Far as I know, there’s no such thing in Iran. Place we meet is called Supreme Commander’s Headquarters.”

“And the Shah is the one and only Supreme Commander,” added Gus.

“Yes,” said Bunker, nodding. “You’re correct, of course. That was a slip on my part. Sorry. I must have been thinking of the American paragon.”

“Do you mean paradigm?” said Frank.

“He means Pentagon,” said Gus, grinning. He paused for a long draw from his wine glass. “But you know something?” He paused again for a shorter sip. “Somehow I don’ think the Supreme Commander is plannin’ a coup to get himself kicked out.” Frank noticed Gus had begun to slur. He hoped he could find a way soon to bring their evening to a close, but Bunker plowed on.

“It falls within the parameters of our task to ascertain what the military may plan along the lines of a coup, irregardless of the Shah’s personal preferences.”

Frank studied him as the strange sentences poured from his thin-lipped mouth, like a synthetic language echoing from a robot’s hidden sound system. Frank hoped his gestures or expression might give some hint of what it all meant, but Bunker’s manner was as opaque as his language. His lips barely moved when he spoke. The light reflecting off his glasses obscured his eyes. Frank glanced at Gus, wondering if he was sober enough now to be able to translate it all later. Bunker fell silent, but only for a moment.

“Which reminds me. Sullivan … Frank. You don’t mind if I call you Frank, do you?”

“’Course not.”

“Good. There’ll be cable traffic coming on this overnight, but as head of … I wanted to be the first to let you know, verbally, that your status as an adviser to the Shah on a continuing basis has been well received at a very high level.”

“Rocky will love that,” said Gus.

“I should think so. Having someone from his shop meeting with the Shah on a personal basis puts quite a feather in his cap.”

“He may not see it that way,” said Frank. “I mean, I don’t know, but he may have a notion that a chief of state should be talking to the chief of station, not to some low-level agent.”

“Oh, I doubt that Rocky’s that petty,” said Bunker. “In fact, the cable traffic won’t reflect this, but Pete Howard, who I understand goes back a long way with you, took the initiative to get Brzezinski himself involved in the ultimate decision process. I met with Pete and Zbig two days ago after it had all been cleared through division, where there was some … understandable … reluctance to formalize. Whatever reluctance NE, or Rocky, may have has to fade when the President’s national security adviser says it’s a go.”

“I guess,” said Frank. He could not imagine Rocky fading.

“The division did evince some concern at the abruptness of your meeting, before division even had time to forward its requirements. But at your next meeting,” said Bunker, “as you’ll see when you peruse the overnight traffic, you will have some rather taxing requirements.”

I know what that means, thought Frank. It means those fuckers in Near East Division who don’t want me meeting with the Shah have come up with an impossible basket of things I won’t be able to get the Shah to tell me about and they’ll be able to say we told you so.

“I understand,” he said. It also occurred to him that so far at least Bunker had said nothing about Lermontov. He guessed that Bunker would restrict any message on that topic to Rocky.

“In addition, there’s a very strong feeling in NE that this SDTRIB-1, the apparently very forthcoming air force major, should be recruited. Made witting. Given tasks. Paid. Small amounts to begin with. Nothing too demanding at first, but made an agent in place who soon can be given very hard requirements involving the GOI military. Particularly since the major’s cook has already told Gus the family wants to get to America. There’s a separate cable coming overnight laying all this out because, naturally, I couldn’t carry any classified documents with me. It will stipulate that, as the more experienced case officer, Gus Simpson should undertake the recruitment.”

“Wait a minute, Archie.”

“What did you call me?” Bunker didn’t stand, but even seated he seemed to swell up to his full six-foot-three and glower down at Gus.

Frank tried to interrupt. “Actually, I’m not a case officer at all. Just an agent.”

Gus managed to look genuinely puzzled. “Frederick? Did I call you Frederick? Sometimes I get a little formal when I’m drunk. I shoulda said Fred.”

“That’s not what you called me.” His face crimsoned. He stood.

Frank looked up at him. Wow, he thought. He really is tall.

“We’ll continue this conversation at another time,” said Bunker. Suddenly, the color drained from his face and he glared at Gus. “Don’t ever call me that again.” He turned, stalked from the room, and pounded up the stairs.

“Hey, okay, Fred,” yelled Gus. “What’s he so pissed for? ’Cause I called him Frederick?”

*   *   *

Their Jayface meeting began brusquely. “Major Sullivan, please,” said the general. “What is happening with our civic action proposal?”

Frank glanced at Gus. Ever so slightly, Gus nodded.

“Very soon,” said Frank. “A new member of our team has just joined us.”

“Head of our team, actually,” said Gus.

“He has meetings at the embassy today. We’ll be introducing him to you all on Saturday. Ah, since he is head of our team, we need him to review the proposal, make any changes he recommends.”

“And how long will that take?” asked the general.

“Saturday morning,” said Frank. “We expect Saturday morning, Sunday latest.”

“Very well,” said the general. “Shall we get down to the business of our meeting?” It was a command, not a question. “Do you have anything for us today, Major Sullivan? As opposed to, perhaps, Sunday.”

“Yes, sir. We do,” said Frank, ignoring the sharp tone. It had been more than a week since Nazih’s arrest. He could understand the general’s edginess. “It’s a revision of our first draft on an armed forces newspaper, including the suggestions you and the others made previously.”

“Very good. I’ve been looking forward to this. We need to present this as soon as possible to Colonel Kasravi. Do you have copies for all?”

“Yes, sir. I do.” And yeah, he thought, we sure do want to meet with Kasravi about it. And give you a chance to ask him about your little nephew.

*   *   *

Frank had persuaded Gus to handle Bunker’s shopping list. They had only two hours between their Jayface meeting and their scheduled appearance at the embassy, but Frank wanted to finish up the civic action proposal and his atmospherics cable. He found that Stan Rushmore had staked out a claim to his own office.

“Welcome home,” Frank said on entering. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Rushmore, swiveling around in his desk chair. “I suppose you got an urgent need for the typewriter.”

“Tell you the truth, I’ve got some stuff to do, but it’s not much and it can probably wait. How’ve you been?”

“Well,” said Rushmore, with a big man’s sigh that was half grunt, “there have been better decades.”

“How was Isfahan?”

“You know about that?”

“Our driver,” said Frank. “His son got killed down there. With the army. Tom mentioned you’d gone down.”

“Yeah. Sorry about your driver.”

“Bad down there?”

“Could be worse, I guess. Look, I’m as gung ho an American as anybody, but that Bell Helicopter operation down there … They were askin’ for it.”

Frank figured it was better not to ask more questions. Rushmore seemed to want to talk. Frank didn’t want to pressure him into silence.

“Thing is, most of those Bell guys are chopper jocks who served in Vietnam. Which is fine, except they brought Saigon with them. Couple of dozen absolutely gorgeous but pretty outrageous-lookin’ Viet hookers. Miniskirts, high heels, tight jeans, hot pants, net stockings.”

“No chadors?”

“Not hardly. At least one of ’em, I’m pretty sure, must be a transvestite. They got a gamblin’ casino. Pot. Opium. Smack. And all this in Isfahan. It’s one of the holy cities, know what I mean? A blue-domed mosque about every block, more turban men than you can count. Not a good mix. And you know chopper jocks, they aren’t exactly the discreet kind. Only a matter ’a time before some local shit hit the helicopter fan.”

“What happens now?”

“We gotta get ’em outta there, but that ain’t so easy. The Iranian oil cartel and the military say they need ’em to keep their chopper fleets flyin’. My job was mostly to try and put the fear of God in them to keep their heads down for a change and hope this blows over. But between you’n me, it’s gonna blow but it ain’t gonna blow over.” He paused, shook his head, and stared at the back of his thick-fingered hands. “You really wanna get to the typewriter a while?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Okay. Lemme get my ribbon out. What’re you workin’ on?”

Frank hesitated to say, but he believed in sharing with people he trusted. “Couple of things. A civic action program for our counterparts, which will never get off the ground, and an atmospherics cable. For myself, I guess.”