The Peregrine Spy (3 page)

“Just like we and the Brits did in 1941,” said Jack.

“It’s that,” said Joe, “or we get a Commie takeover like already’s happened next door in Afghanistan,”

“What about this holy man I’ve been reading about?” asked Frank.

“He can’t amount to much,” said Joe. “Hasn’t even been in the country in a dozen years or so. He’d been holed up in Iraq a long time, but the Shah managed to get the Iraqis to kick him out. So now he’s even further outta the picture, up in Paris.”

“He may have some following in Iran,” said Jack, “but the real trouble comes from the left.”

“The problem is,” said Dan, “we don’t get much real intel these days except what
Savak
tells us, and
Savak
pretty much tells us what they think we want to hear.”

“
Savak
has some of the best interrogators in the world,” said Joe.

“Torturers, you mean,” said Dan.

“Interrogators who get results,” countered Joe. “And another thing…”

“We need some new eyes and ears on the ground,” said Dan, interrupting again. “That’s why we’re sending these jokers over in the first place, am I right?”

“Is that why we’re sending them over?” said Jack.

“We’re sending them over because Pete Howard got another bee in his bonnet,” said Joe, looking directly at Frank. “Now he’s a big shot over at Brzezinski’s National Security Council, he’s more high and mighty than ever.”

“He’s a good friend of mine,” said Frank.

“So I heard,” said Joe.

Frank fought down his anger and tried to concentrate on what the two Near East Division men had to say. Covert Action approved the idea. Even the ambassador approved the idea.

“But we won’t hold that against you,” said Jack.

“How long?” asked Frank.

“How long what?” said Joe.

“How long will we be over there?”

Joe and Jack looked at each other. Neither showed any expression.

“As long as it takes,” said Joe. “Just show these military types how to win the hearts and minds. You Covert Action types are all alike. Propaganda, that’s your racket, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes,” said Frank. Sometimes, he thought to himself, it’s intelligence.

“Covert Action does involve a bit more than propaganda,” said Dan.

The two Near East men exchanged another glance. “Just be a fly on the wall,” said Joe. “And keep your mouth shut.”

“Just show the flag,” said Jack. “And don’t stir up any trouble.”

“Another thing,” said Joe. “You’ve got a limited mandate. Stay away from this KGB thug, this Lermontov. Soviet Division concurs fully with that stipulation.”

Frank nodded, not quite sure what all this meant.

“No cowboy stuff, right?” added Joe.

Frank nodded again.

“Ergo,” said Jack, “no weapons authorized.”

“Speak swiftly,” said Dan, “but don’t carry a big stick.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” said Jack. “When you get over there, pay attention to Bunker. He’ll give you your marching orders.”

“I hear he’s a good man,” said Frank.

“Damn good,” said Jack. His eyes locked on Frank’s. “Trained him myself.”

“Balls,” said Joe. “Fred Bunker never recruited a dink in his life.”

“Don’t start,” said Jack. “Fred Bunker’s one of the best bureaucrats in the business.”

“Oh, I’ll give him that,” said Joe. He stood abruptly and reached across the table to shake Frank’s hand. “Good luck over there. You’ll need it.”

*   *   *

They rode the elevator to Dean Lomax’s office on the seventh floor. As head of Covert Action, Dean occupied a spacious office close to the director’s. Frank’s old mentor, Pete Howard, was there to greet him.

He had first met Pete Howard a dozen years before in Ethiopia when Pete took over as chief of station. Frank’s cover job as an adviser to the Ethiopian Ministry of Information put him in close touch with the nation’s news media, all of which were government controlled. His close relations with the minister of information, a favorite of the Emperor’s, had led to several speechwriting assignments for Haile Selassie and an increasingly important role within his government.

Pete, currently on loan from the agency to the National Security Council, continued to monitor and influence Frank’s career. As usual, he wasted little time in small talk.

“I suspect our friends in Near East/South Asia told you stay to away from the Shah.”

“They sure did,” answered Frank.

“’Course, you’ll have to live with that.”

“At least with the letter of that,” said Dean.

“By all means stay away from the Shah,” said Pete. “But if the Shah seeks you out, you can’t very well turn your back on the emperor of a friendly nation, can you?”

“Somebody will have to say it’s okay.”

“Frank’s right about that,” said Dean.

“Yes,” said Pete, “but in the fullness of time these things have a way of working themselves out. The Shah seems to know quite a lot about what goes on in his country. His ambassador here in Washington is very active, knows everyone.”

“Nothing much we can do about it if word does get back to the Shah,” said Dean. “Word that you’re in Tehran, I mean.”

“You established such a good rapport with him during the brief time he was in Ethiopia, if the Shah remembers you and seeks you out, as I suspect he will, it would be a terrible waste not to take advantage of what could be a real intelligence-gathering opportunity.”

Frank studied Pete closely as he spoke. He won’t say it out loud, thought Frank, but I think he just told me to forget what the goons in Near East Division had to say.
Just show the flag and be a fly on the wall
.

“This is a Covert Action assignment,” said Dean, “and what we expect of you may not be quite the same as what Near East wants. The station in Tehran already provides the intelligence Near East wants.”

Frank felt like a motorist, adrift in strange territory, afraid to sound dumb but needing a road map and directions. “I’m lost,” he confessed. “You have to remember I’ve always worked outside. I’d heard about Covert Action because I knew you two guys, but I never knew what Covert Action was all about.”

“And that’s the way it should have been,” said Pete. “As an agent, you had no need to know about our inner workings, but you’re in the process of becoming something more than an agent. You might say we’re bringing you in from the cold. We don’t have time to explain everything to you now, but let’s try some quick points of reference.”

“Try to think of it this way,” said Dean. “In terms of geography. Covert Action is global. It involves everything from clandestine propaganda operations to special forces military operations anywhere in the world. But always undercover, always set up in a way that the U.S. government can deny, at least plausibly deny involvement.”

“Near East is quite different,” said Pete. “Pretty much regional, Egypt, Israel, and that part of the world the British used to describe as east of Suez. Soviet Division is something else again. Regional, yes. All of the Soviet Union, yes, but also with a stake in the recruiting of hard targets, Soviet intelligence and military officers, diplomats, academics, scientists, agents of influence, in short, important Soviets, wherever they may be, anywhere in the world.”

“Including Tehran?” said Frank.

“Including Tehran,” answered Pete.

“And including your friend Lermontov,” said Dean.

“I know Lermontov,” said Frank. “He’s not my friend.”

“You do go a long way back,” said Pete, “and that’s part of the problem. You work for Covert Action, reporting to Dean. And you’ve known Lermontov a long time. But right now Lermontov operates in the Near East Division’s territory. And Soviet Division considers him one of their hard targets. So both want you to stay away.”

“And you have to remember, this is the Central Intelligence Agency,” said Dean. “Intelligence gathering is central to all our divisions, Near East, Soviet, Covert Action. And in terms of Iran, we have some problems with our intelligence.”

“Petty much throughout the intelligence community,” said Pete, “people believe a Communist takeover of Iran is a distinct possibility. A military coup is seen as the only way to prevent the country from becoming another Soviet satellite. And what we keep looking for, and I have to include the National Security Council in this, we keep looking for field intelligence that supports this idea.”

“I think it’s fair to say,” noted Dean, “that NSC depends on the agency. It has no resources of its own on the ground in places like Iran.”

“If there’s going to be a military coup in Iran,” said Pete, “it’s going to be hatched out of the building you’ll be working in. Supreme Commander’s Headquarters. You’ll meet daily with a committee of midlevel military officers. The top brass have offices in that same compound.”

“It won’t be easy,” said Dean. “And you may have problems with your chief of station. Someone you know from your assignment in Rome.”

“Rocky Novak,” said Pete.

“Oh, yes,” said Frank. “We know each other.”

“But you worked out your problems before,” said Pete. “I’m sure you can again.”

“I’m glad you’re sure,” said Frank.

“And of course there’s that other opportunity,” said Pete. “I’m sure you were told to avoid your old friend Vassily Lermontov at all costs.”

“That, too,” said Frank.

“Of course, targeting Soviets in Tehran is Near East’s turf. But you and Lermontov have been locking horns for so long it would be a shame not to give you another crack at him.”

“But if I do see him I’ll start hearing the same old story about how he’s recruited me.”

“Best way to put that nonsense to bed would be for you to recruit Lermontov, wouldn’t it?”

“You think I can?” asked Frank.

“I don’t think you should miss a chance to try,” said Pete. “Tehran’s a very small town, at least the foreign community in Tehran. I don’t see how you could not run into each other.”

“The Sovs have a pretty wide intel apparat in Tehran,” said Dean. “Lermontov sees you on an airline passenger manifest or a visa list, you know he’ll come looking for you.”

“You shouldn’t go looking for him, of course.”

“No, ’course not,” said Frank.

“Remember,” added Pete, looking at the ceiling, avoiding Frank’s eyes, “officially, you have to follow Near East’s instructions. It’s their turf. And your station chief over there, Rocky, is an old Soviet Division hand, which makes Lermontov of special interest to him.” Pete lowered his eyes and looked directly at Frank. “But you work in Covert Action, responsible to Dean here.”

“We realize all this is new to you,” said Dean. “All these layers of command.”

“Turf,” said Pete, smiling.

“In the past you’ve always been the outsider, practically a free-lancer,” said Dean. “But now that we’re bringing you inside, you’ll have to find ways to work within the parameters the rest of us live with.”

“Turf,” said Pete again, not smiling. “Frank, let me be blunt about this. When I heard that Lermontov was stationed in Tehran, I decided to push hard for you to get this assignment.”

“You were already on my short list,” said Dean. “You and Gus Simpson are among the few people we had available with extensive mass media experience in Third World countries.”

“But no matter what anyone else may tell you, no matter anything else I may tell you, Lermontov was the deciding factor in your getting this assignment. Yes, using the mass media to improve the image of the Iranian government and the military is an important component.”

“Intelligence gathering with your military counterparts, and possibly with the Shah, just as important,” said Dean.

“But Lermontov is your one real mission,” said Pete. “Your hidden agenda, if you like.”

“Hidden,” said Dean, “because you can’t seek him out.”

“After all,” said Pete, “you were told not to. And of course you have to accept that.”

“I accept that,” Frank had said. But he promised himself he would not be a fly on the wall.

CHAPTER TWO

The lumbering jet circled the cloud-shrouded mystery. An act of faith told him a city huddled down there, like a veiled woman at prayer, but below he could see only other planes etching long, looping ellipses through the dismal, unwelcoming sky. He counted six through shifting gray layers. Clouds. Mist. He suspected smoke. Planes appeared and disappeared. For nearly an hour, their plane had dipped and climbed among them, banking like a falcon, seeking, not finding a place to strike. A memory of a World War II movie flickered—grainy black and white. Or had it been a newsreel? Bombers stacked up and circling, one by one descending, a bomb bay opening, and wobbling sticks dropping toward shadowy targets suddenly visible below the clouds.

He’d caught the flight, Pam Am 110, the evening before, November 1, 1978, out of JFK. He twisted against his seat belt but could see no sign of the male flight attendants, who had been surly and uncommunicative since they boarded at Fiumicino Airport in Rome. Below, he saw each plane in its isolation, each part of a pattern, but alone. He thought of the hunting peregrine, wings folded tight to its dappled body, yellow talons striking. Alone. Returning to its nest overlooking the pigeon-thick park, the falcon would circle, leave food for the nestlings, and leave. No matter where he worked or at what. As a reporter, a speechwriter, a spy. No matter how he lived or with whom. With a woman he loved. With his son, alone.

He had called Jackie from National Airport, collect. She was abrupt. He told her what he could. She said, “Oh,” frequently, in a flat tone. Sometimes, seeing Jake on weekends, he felt like an uncle. When he spoke to Jackie, he felt like an ex-husband.

“Can I speak to Jake?”

“I’ll put him on. Have a nice trip.”

See you next fall. Fall of the next Shah. Frank felt like a fool, a betrayer, a deserter.

“Hi, Dad.”

He told Jake he couldn’t tell him much.

“I understand, Dad.” Jake, at eleven, was already getting too mannish for Jackie to handle. “Will I still come to live with you in…” Jake had learned to be discreet. “When you get back?”

“Bet,” said Frank. “Soon as I get back and get settled in and find you a school.”