The Peregrine Spy (36 page)

Frank studied him, concluding that Rocky had sent the eyes-only cable to Brzezinski and that Brzezinski or someone high up had acted on it.

“Meantime,” said Rocky, “my so-called buddy Gerry Mosley’s ducking me. Never happened before. Most times he’s the eager buddy-buddy beaver. Not this time. Worries me. Eagle-1 tells me he talked to him. Told him I needed t’ meet. Still nothing.”

Frank could feel Rocky working up his anger. He didn’t know what to say but ventured, “Mosley must want Lermontov bad as we do.”

“I don’t want Lermontov bad. I want him good. And soon. Very fucking soon.”

“You pissed at me?” said Frank.

“Should be. But I’m not.”

“Why should you be?” asked Frank.

“I dunno,” said Rocky, fishing. “You tell me.”

With a good spy’s paranoia, Frank wondered if Rocky had gotten word of his plan to take Belinsky to Anwar’s home that evening. I should have told Rocky, he thought, or I should have asked Belinsky not to tell the ambassador. He’d done neither.

“You seemed awful pissed when the ambassador talked about meeting with this State Department security expert.”

“Yeah, well, that was real. This security creep—he comes out of State, and State’s job is to represent the U.S. of fucking A. t’ the rest of the world. And to do that and have enough jobs to keep every Foggy Bottom faggot on the payroll, you have to have functioning embassies all over the globe even if it means keeping open embassies like this one where people stand a good goddamn chance of getting their ass shot off. Right here, just for example, back in seventy-one, I was in Rome back then. The ambassador, Douglas fucking MacArthur, damn near got whacked right here. The guy what had that map you so elo-fuckin’-quently wrote about in that atmospherics cable. Friend of mine was here told me about it later. Same story. Embassy had just been briefed by some old boy out of Foggy Bottom about how hunky-dory everything was. MacArthur came outta the feel-good meetin’ and was headin’ up to see his buddy the King of Kings when he got jumped by a carload of leftist ragheads. Managed to get out of it with his ass intact and got the hell out of Iran for good pretty soon after. Moral: Whenever you hear a State Department security expert say everything is hunky-dory and security is tight as a virgin’s vagina, wrap a bulletproof vest around your ass and duck. Besides that, why didn’t you tell me about takin’ Belinsky to your buddy’s tonight?”

Here it comes, thought Frank. “’Cause I fucked up. I should’ve told you.”

“Yeah, you shoulda, but with everything else you pulled lately I can’t get but just so pissed when you pull somethin’ new, ’specially when I’m already pissed to the eyeballs about this Foggy Bottomless insecurity expert.”

“Sorry,” said Frank.

“You do good work, Sullivan. Sometimes. But you didn’t have to try this shit with Belinsky and your Iranian buddy behind my backside. I woulda said okay and I still say okay. I mean, I don’t mind if you get this Anwar’s ass in a sling or get yourself jammed up, but if you get Belinsky jammed up the ambassador will chew my ass out from here to Langley and back again, and that kind of shit I don’t need. Belinsky was smart enough to tell the ambassador, which means it would’ve been smart to let me know about it, because the ambassador told me after tellin’ Belinsky t’ forget about it. But the ambassador owes me a few, so I convinced him to let Belinsky go through with it. It’ll make this Anwar even more helpful for as long as we’re all here, and he and his wife might be useful stateside, if any of us get there alive. But the ambassador said he’d have my scalp if anything happened to Belinsky. You got any idea how you’re gonna get the two of you there and back?”

“I’ve got an idea,” said Frank.

“That’s what you told me about bringin’ Lermontov back in. And we still haven’t seen his Russian ass.”

I’ll see his Russian ass tomorrow night, thought Frank. I hope.

*   *   *

Frank’s idea for getting Belinsky to Anwar’s seemed simple. Bill Steele, driving a nondescript van, picked up Belinsky at the Damavand. Steele took extreme evasive measures and saw no signs of a tail. By the time they drove onto the base at Dowshan Tappeh, Belinsky had edged his way into the back of the van, where he could not be seen from the outside.

Steele parked and went into Tom Troy’s office. He emerged five minutes later with two men in the white-helmeted uniforms of the U.S. Air Force Military Police. They joined Steele in the front seat; Frank sat in the middle, Anwar by the door.

They drove through the checkpoints, where Steele was well known, that led onto the Iranian Air Force portion of the base. They exited by a gate on the south side that led into Anwar’s Niru-ye Hayal neighborhood. Then Frank’s simple idea grew complicated.

He and Anwar had just removed their ill-fitting white helmets when, in a very even voice, Bill Steele said, “Better put those snowballs back on. We got trouble.”

“What?” said Frank, as he slipped the helmet back on.

“Company. Looks like military vehicle,” said Steele. “Followed us out the base.”

“Military intelligence,” said Anwar, wincing as he squeezed into the helmet. “For me that could be big trouble.”

Steele kept the van moving at a moderate, steady pace through the residential neighborhood.

“We can’t let them follow us to my house,” said Anwar.

“Maybe the best bet is for me to get out and talk to them,” said Steele. “I know most of those guys assigned to the base.”

“Unfortunately, so do I,” said Anwar.

“Let’s just hope they don’t get too nosy,” said Steele, as he gently braked the rattling van.

“What about me?” called Belinsky from the back.

“Just keep quiet,” said Steele. “Real quiet.” He pulled the van to the side of the road, put it in neutral, and pulled on the hand brake. “If anybody’s a believer, pray.” He slid out and walked slowly toward the back of the van.

Without turning, Frank could see the dance of flashlight beams around the van.

“If they look in and recognize me, we’re lost,” said Anwar.

“Real quiet,” said Frank. “Let’s just be real quiet.”

The murmur of voices outside the van reassured him with its softness. A wave of deep, masculine laughter sounded even better.

Bill Steele climbed back into the driver’s seat. “We’re okay. I think.” He pulled the van back onto the road.

“Are they following?” said Anwar.

Bill studied the rearview mirror suspended from the door.

“Yeah. They are.”

“Then we’re not okay,” said Anwar.

“Oh, Jesus,” moaned Belinsky.

“Hold on,” said Steele. “They just swung around. Headin’ back, looks like.”

“Thank God,” said Belinsky.

They passed a dark, deserted mosque on their left.

“Praise Allah,” said Anwar.

Frank and Anwar again removed their white helmets.

“I gotta go on a ways,” said Steele. “Those guys knew I was agency, but they wondered why I had a couple of snowballs with me. I told ’em that was just cover, you work with me. Told ’em we had to go pull one of our guys out of a girlfriend’s house where he had too much to drink. They’re healthy young men. They could understand that, but they got kind of curious about the girlfriend. Offered to escort us.”

“That would have been fun,” said Frank.

“No, it would not,” said Anwar. “For you Americans it’s all a game. For me it would be death.” He sat tense, rigid, and as far away from Frank as he could, pressed hard against the door.

“I’m sorry,” said Frank. “I didn’t mean to be funny.” A game, he thought. A Great Game.

“Anyways,” said Steele, “I told ’em we had to go way out beyond the football field up ahead, so I think we better do that, just in case they circle around. Then we maybe come back another way.”

“I can show you,” said Anwar. “But please, say nothing of this in front of my wife. She will be frantic enough that we are late.”

*   *   *

“Where have you been?” cried Mina. She threw herself into her husband’s arms. “I’ve been frantic. Frantic.”

“Just we had to wait for Mr. Belinsky,” said Anwar.

Steele waited in a small pantry room off the kitchen, reading a John le Carré novel. Before the fireplace in the spacious front room, Belinsky outlined his plan in detail and provided drafts of the documents needed to verify Anwar’s conversion to Baha’i. Mina said her family, with close financial ties to many elements of the bazaar, could have the documents created, with appropriate dates, seals, and signatures.

“They can do anything,” said Mina. “They could even make Anwar an American passport.”

“That could be risky,” said Belinsky. “Let’s just stick to the conversion.”

“All this bothers me,” said Anwar.

“What’s the problem?” said Belinsky.

“It seems too … complicated,” said Anwar. “There should be a simpler way.”

“Like stealing an F-4?” said Frank.

“I don’t want to deny my faith,” said Anwar. “Or betray my country.”

“What about your family?” snapped Mina.

“If you’re not sure you want to do this…” said Belinsky.

“We must do this,” said Mina, cutting him off. She turned to Anwar, not smiling, not pouting. “You know I can’t stand it to stay here. Not even with you.”

“I know,” said Anwar. “I agreed. But so much deceit.”

“Deception,” offered Belinsky. He said a single word in Farsi, then added, “Think of it as deception. Evasive tactics, like a fighter pilot might make. For your family’s sake.”

“Anwar, if you don’t want to,” said Frank, “other arrangements can be made.”

“No,” said Mina.

“You and the children could go now,” said Frank. “Anwar could follow when he feels ready.”

“You are the Great Satan,” said Anwar. “No. I agreed. I will go with Mina. And our children.”

“Good,” said Mina. She turned to Frank. “The children wanted to see you. But I thought it best not. With all these…” She glanced at Belinsky. “Arrangements.”

“Give them my best,” said Frank. “I’ve been thinking about them a lot.”

“Good,” said Mina. “I hope Anwar has, too.”

Wow, thought Frank. This is one tough lady. A kitten to her husband, perhaps, but a she-lion to her cubs.

*   *   *

With Anwar’s uniform and helmet stuffed into a duffel bag, Steele retraced their path to Dowshan Tappeh. He dropped off Frank and headed on to the Damavand with Belinsky.

Frank stashed the uniforms he and Anwar had worn in a closet in Rushmore’s office. Feeling like the Great Satan that Anwar had called him, he washed himself twice. Appropriate. A whore’s bath at the sink. You could stay, Anwar. Send your wife and kids off and you could stay. An agent in place for the Great American Satan. To you Americans it’s a game, Anwar had said.

Frank drove home alone, flicked the lights, waited for Gus to open the garage doors and backed the car down the drive. Frank didn’t move until Gus checked and rechecked the street.

“No cars,” said Gus. “Street’s empty.”

Frank checked his watch. Midnight had passed. December first, a day short of the first of
Moharram.
Beware the tenth of
Moharram,
Anwar had said weeks before. Soon
Tasu’a
and
Ashura
would be upon them. He thought of the funnels of smoke they had watched, rising from the city. He thought of tornadoes and hoped that Jake was safe at home in New York. He started up the drive, wondering whether Lermontov would actually be at the university that evening. Gus pulled the garage door down behind them. An agent in place, thought Frank. What every spy wants. But all the agents want to go home to the Great Satan, home to America.

Me, too.

*   *   *

Frank’s mind had been on Anwar and his escape to America, but the massive shadow of Lermontov soon obscured all other thoughts. Frank stood behind the embassy gates and watched the orange taxi pick up Belinsky at the door of the Damavand Hotel. After a moment the taxi pulled away from the curb, swerved around oncoming traffic, swung a wide
U
-turn, pulled up by the embassy gates and braked abruptly. Should be an interesting trip, thought Frank. He nodded to the young marine who stood by his side. The marine cracked the gate, and Frank slipped through. He heard the gate clang shut and the chains being pulled taut, feeling as though a last sanctuary had been closed behind him. He climbed into the back of the cab and sat next to Belinsky. The driver leaned on his horn and the accelerator with equal intensity and propelled them into the evening traffic.

“He knows where we’re going?”

“Oh, yes,” said Belinsky. “He’s my regular. I use him all the time. We have a routine for the university. A straight run up Takht-e Jamshid. Not much more than a mile to the back gates. A half hour later he starts circling by the front gates, every fifteen minutes till I come out.”

“Suppose you don’t come out?”

“I always come out,” answered Belinsky. He thought for a moment, then added, “So far.”

Frank recognized Pahlavi as they crossed it, then the Meydan-e Kakh traffic circle. “You’re sure about my friend?”

“I spoke to my source this afternoon, by phone. He confirmed. Your friend will be there.”

Frank nodded toward the silent driver. He’d seen no more than the back of his head, covered by the drawn-close hood of his black wool jacket, and his right gloved hand on the wheel.

“Don’t worry,” said Belinsky. “He doesn’t speak English.”

Maybe he doesn’t speak English, thought Frank.

The stone paths of the university’s spacious quadrangle had been cleared, but snow still covered what Frank took to be flower beds. In its winter aspect, the campus seemed drab. Tall, unornamented brick buildings flanked the nearly deserted quadrangle. Even the mosque seemed stark and plain.

“Pretty dismal, isn’t it?” said Belinsky.

“Yeah, it is.”

“You should see it in better weather, with a rally going on. They get a hundred thousand and more in here, chanting and screaming. Quite a sight.”

“How ’bout when tonight’s prayer meeting breaks up?”

“Not so many, I don’t think,” answered Belinsky. “But enough.”

“Let’s hope we’re out of here by then.”

A handful of students clustered around scattered kiosks that appeared to be stacked with pamphlets and newspapers.