The Peregrine Spy (34 page)

“But he thinks I should go?”

“He can’t say so.”

This is just great, thought Frank. “He offer up any ideas how I should get there?”

“Well, I’ll be going,” said Belinsky.

“So I can go with you?”

“It may be risky,” said Belinsky, “but I’m taking a risk going to your air force buddy’s house.”

“So I owe you one.”

“It’s about doing each other some good,” said Belinsky, lowering his head, “with our sources.”

“Okay,” said Frank. He realized he’d come down too hard on Belinsky. “I’m a bit paranoid, I guess. And it’s not always a virtue. Not even for people in our line of work.”

“Thanks, Frank.” Belinsky turned to face him. “We can’t always tell each other everything, right?”

“Yeah,” said Frank, thinking about his problems in telling Gus and Bunker what they needed to know. The thought made him shudder as he wondered about what he needed to tell Rocky about taking Belinsky to Anwar’s and what Rocky should have told him about seeking out Lermontov at the university.

He drove Belinsky home, all the way straight across Takht-e Jamshid Street from the gates of the embassy to the door of the Damavand at the opposite curb. Light traffic eased their brief crossing.

“Damavand,” said Frank, as he pulled up. “What does it mean?”

“The name of this place? It’s the name of a mountain, highest mountain in the Elborz. Believe it or not, when this place was built, it was the tallest building in Tehran, so they named it for the highest mountain. Now, it isn’t even half the size of those two ugly monsters on either side. But it has its charms. There’s a good restaurant, and the embassy maintains a couple of apartments on the top two floors. For visiting firemen, like me.”

“At least it’s a nice short commute,” said Frank. “Tell me. That street that goes by the air base, Dowshan Tappeh, that’s also called Damavand, right?”

“Right. In fact, you stay on that, sixty clicks northeast, you come to the mountain.”

“I’d love to go to the mountain,” said Frank. “But something tells me not this tour.”

“No, maybe not this tour,” said Belinsky.

“I guess not,” said Frank, looking into his eyes. “Hey, Chuck, as a recovering hepatitis victim—I had a real bad bout when I lived in Ethiopia—can I ask you something?”

“Okay.”

“Have you been sticking to your diet?”

“To tell you the truth,” said Belinsky, looking away, “I’ve been a shade—a bit depressed. My wife, she went back to the States. Took the kids. Tabriz got pretty bad long before Tehran, but she … she was pretty unhappy anyhow. Said I was married to Iran. Didn’t have any time for her or the kids. I did everything I could to keep her here. Maybe more things than I should’ve. But she finally split anyway. She’s filing for divorce, and it’s sort of true. I am in love with this place. But now Iran is about to divorce me, too. And I’ve been … a bit depressed.”

“How long ago did the hepatitis hit?”

“Three, four months back.”

“You know you shouldn’t be drinking.”

“I know. But I kind of wonder what difference it makes.”

Dr. Sullivan, thought Frank. From cancer to acromegaly to hepatitis. If I were God, I’d prescribe a trip to America for all three. To Sloan-Kettering for the Shah. To Columbia Presbyterian for Lermontov. And to the best hospital near wherever his wife lives for Chuck Belinsky. But I’m not God. All three, he realized, and Anwar, play more valuable roles here, agents in place. Agents of the Great Satan. In this hell of a place.

“Look,” said Belinsky, “I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me. About the hepatitis and all. And I promise, I’ll cut back on drinking.”

“Don’t,” said Frank.

“Don’t? You mean I should kill myself?”

“That’s what you’ll do if you cut down. You need to stop. Cut out alcohol. Cut out salt. Anything fried. Don’t cut down. Cut out. You know the drill.”

“My doctor gave me two pages of do’s and don’ts.”

“Maybe he did, but he didn’t do a good enough job of scaring you. Drinking just a couple of weeks after hepatitis has kicked the shit out of your liver can turn a death wish into reality.”

“I notice you take a drink.”

“I had hepatitis ten years ago. You had it, what, ten weeks ago? You’re killing yourself.”

“I better get going. Parked cars make the soldiers nervous.”

“When I look in your eyes and see yellow rings, I get nervous.”

“I’ll be good,” said Belinsky, “I promise. See you tomorrow night.”

*   *   *

Rocky scanned Frank’s request for a trace on Mina. He grunted. “What’s she look like?”

“Short, skinny, pointy nose.” He shrugged. It was all true. Sort of. “Seems to run her husband, which could be important. And very bright.”

“I see the degrees she claims. Get the parents’ names. Location. Anything else you can.”

“Will do.”

“Sure you can?”

He hesitated and said, “Well, I think so.” If they want to get to the States, he thought, I damn well know I can. But he didn’t want to tell Rocky about all that. At least not until he had a chance to test Belinsky’s advice on Anwar.

Rocky, almost as an afterthought, told Frank his atmospherics cable had been sent. “Bunker kept buggin’ me about it, so I sent the fuckin’ thing. I gotta admit, it was pretty good.”

I wish you could admit you want me to put my ass on the line at the university Friday night, thought Frank. And I wish I could tell you I’m taking Belinsky to Anwar’s tomorrow night. But you might have to shoot that idea down, right? We need a new mantra. The need to not know.

*   *   *

Frank had discovered basketball. The Dowshan Tappeh gym included a full-size court, used almost exclusively by the Americans. At six, it tended to be empty. Following a one-man shootaround, leaping after rebounds, taking alternate left-and right-hand lay-ups, dribbling back for his next perimeter shot, he kept up a constant flow of motion. But that evening when he got there, he found Fred Bunker already on the court.

“Hey, Frank. Don’t tell me you’re a basketball player?”

“Okay. I won’t. ’Cause I’m not. For me it’s just a way to work up a sweat.”

“What about…” Fred lowered his voice. “Your gym buddies?”

“I get in there, too. Mind if I take some shots?”

“Come on.”

Frank took a bounce pass from Fred and, with his knack for envisioning the ball swish through the bottom of the net, sank a short jump shot.

“All right,” yelled Fred.

Frank hustled under the basket, grabbed the ball as it fell from the net, sunk a lay-up with his right hand, again grabbed the ball, put up a left-hand lay-up that rattled the rim and went in, and tossed an outlet pass to Fred, who stood at the top of the key.

“For a guy who doesn’t play, that wasn’t bad,” said Fred. He launched a fadeaway jumper that banged high off the rim. Frank grabbed the rebound and passed it back out. Fred dribbled twice to his right and, with a quick right-hand release, hit his shot.

“See if you can do it again,” yelled Frank. Fred took his pass and did it again. Frank soon realized Fred played at a level far beyond his own high school and playground experience.

“You must’ve played college ball.”

“Brigham Young. Believe it or not…” He charged the basket, leapt, hung just under the rim, and popped a two-handed shot in. “I’m not but six-three, but I used to be able to dunk.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Well, not only was I younger and in better shape, but I also had twenty pounds less to get up in the air.”

“You look in pretty good shape.”

“I’d like to get rid of some of this.” With both hands he grabbed the flesh that circled his midsection.

“You should join us in the gym.”

“No. I’ll leave that to you. You’re doing too good a job to add…” Again he’d turned his voice lower. “I’ll stick to the basketball team.”

“Team?”

“Yeah. We have a team. Play in what they call the All-American League. Which I don’t think is such a great idea of a name, since a lot of the Iranians here speak English. But it’s teams of different units of U.S. Air Force groups, and us.”

“Us?”

“We’re called the Trojans. As in the people who report to Colonel Troy. The regular air force guys hate us. They don’t think a bunch of over-the-hill bureaucrats belong in the same league as real live air force jocks. You can imagine what they call the Trojans. They get especially pissed when we beat their ass.” The smell of sweat, Frank noticed, had given Fred’s vocabulary a funkier tone.

“Think I could get a game?”

“Frank, I don’t know. Most of the guys, we all played college ball. Not too many years ago. And we’re mostly a lot bigger than you. You could ask Bill Steele. He’s our center, coach, and head honcho. You can shoot; I saw that. But I also noticed that right leg of yours.”

“Yeah. That thing. Bane of my existence. I don’t have a kneecap in that leg. Bone infection when I was real little. Like two. I was in the hospital so long I had to learn to walk all over again when I finally got out.”

“This league might be a little rough. Especially since these regular air force guys hate us.”

“When do you play next? Maybe I’ll just come out and watch.”

Fred took a pass from Frank at the top of the key and dribbled hard toward the basket. Frank stepped in front of him, feet planted, arm upraised.

Fred pulled up. “Hey, you could get killed that way. Never step in front of a guy that way.”

“I figured you wouldn’t want to get called for the charge,” said Frank. Besides, he thought, I’ve always been suicidal.

*   *   *

The next morning he asked Bill Steele about playing. Bill said what Fred had said but urged him to come out and watch, and Frank said he would. Even though a sudden early winter cold snap with a freezing rain had drizzled into his knee and set him limping, he still wanted to post up inside with the big boys. After a dozen years of coping with Lermontov, he still wanted to play out his role without scalp-hungry honchos like Rocky and the would-be intruders from Near East and Soviet Division telling him what he could—and could not—do. Tracking Lermontov to the university on Friday would help. He knew he couldn’t slam dunk, but he wanted to play as best he could, and it hurt to be told he could not play at all.

*   *   *

A nervous frown like a canal of thought twitched between General Merid’s gray-flecked eyebrows. The other Iranians seemed abstracted, distant.

Fred, hard-charging as usual, allowed only a few moments for greetings before asking, “What’s the good news from the deputy prime minister?”

“He … he has not yet given the proposal his full attention. Other … pressing duties.”

“You have no news?”

“No news,” said the general. “Only rumors.”

“What rumors?” asked Bunker.

“We will all be shot at sunrise. Yourselves included.”

“You’re joking.”

“Yes,” said the general. His smile dissolved the frown, but his eyes retained a sad cast.

“Whew, That’s a relief. You had me worried there for a minute,” said Bunker.

Frank had never before heard anyone in real life say “whew.”

“We should all worry,” said General Merid. “These are worrisome times.”

“Well, we should look on the bright side,” countered Bunker. “This delay gives us a chance to review our proposal. Anticipate any possible questions or objections. Prepare cogent responses. Particularly in regard to the newspaper. Considering His Imperial Majesty’s interest, that might be the most feasible first step.”

Bunker did his best to lead them through a review of the newspaper proposal, raising possible objections, citing potential problems. The others agreed with all the points he raised. No one, except Frank, offered any solutions, and even Frank’s efforts were halfhearted. His mind kept jumping to what he might say to Lermontov if he managed to confront Lermontov at the rally following the Friday evening prayer meeting at the university. He rehearsed in his head what he night say and wondered how Lermontov would respond. It proved a long morning.

Gus had again delayed their departure from Supreme Commander’s Headquarters for a last-minute trip to the bathroom.

“What did Hamid have to say?” asked Frank when they were back in Rushmore’s office.

“How did you know I was talking to Hamid?” said Gus.

“You’re going to have to find some place besides the bathroom to meet with him.”

“You’re right. I’ll work out something. But at least I have to give this guy credit for not just telling us what he thinks we want to hear.”

“Well, what did he tell you?”

“You aren’t going to like it, Fred, but what he said was the big brass upstairs have a good laugh over our civic action ideas.”

“Will they shoot it down?”

“That’s the good news. At least according to Hamid. He says they won’t shoot it down. They know the Shah took some interest in this newspaper idea, so what they talk about doing is just sitting on the whole package and letting it die a natural death.”

“Where does that leave us?” asked Bunker.

“I dunno,” said Gus. “But I don’t think we have to pack right away.”

*   *   *

General Merid, rosy cheeked from the cold, arrived uncharacteristically late for the Thursday morning Jayface meeting. A Bodyguard corporal who’d been waiting for him spoke softly in Farsi as he shed his coat. The color drained from the general’s chubby face, and his lips tightened. He looked at his watch and motioned to Frank.

He turned his back to the others and in a voice barely above a whisper said, “Colonel Kasravi wants to see you. Alone. In his office at zero nine hundred hours. Sharp.”

Frank climbed the stairs five minutes early, then lingered before the colonel’s door, which suddenly opened.

“Come in,” said Kasravi. He closed the door behind them and motioned Frank to a chair by his table, which stood bare except for a thick loose-leaf binder and an oversize manila envelope sealed with heavy tape. “For today’s discussion, please do not use your recorder.”

“May I take notes?”

“Yes,” said the barrel-chested Kasravi as he sat opposite Frank. Frank fished in his briefcase for his notebook and glanced regretfully at the recorder.