The Peregrine Spy (39 page)

“He works for lots of people,” said Frank. “Lermontov says that’s what got him in trouble.”

“Just what we need. If they roll up Hamid, what happens to Gus?”

“I asked about that. Lermontov said far as he knows Gus won’t be bothered. Unless he doesn’t get the message and tries to recruit another J2 agent.”

“How come Lermontov knows all this shit about our people and we don’t?”

“He likes to say they’re a professional organization.”

“Unlike us.”

“He doesn’t say that, but I guess that’s the message.”

“We better tell Gus real quick,” said Rocky.

“Want me to take care of it?” asked Frank.

“No. It’s my job. Shit. No Nazih. No Hamid. How the fuck do you set up a meet?”

“He suggested—he said he hadn’t been spying on us, but he knows where we live.”

“That fucker.”

“Our front door’s dark green, so he said, if I wanted a meet, put a single chalk mark on the door. That means a meet at the safe house the next night, half hour earlier than the last time.”

“How does he signal you if he wants a meet?”

“We haven’t worked that out yet, which for now is okay since the ball’s in our court. But I sure wish I knew where he lives.”

“I’ll find out for you,” said Rocky.

*   *   *

A four-man military patrol in Shahnaz Square stopped him on his way back from the embassy. His documents appeared to impress the young soldier with corporal’s chevrons. He called over one of his men and spoke to him in Farsi.

“After curfew,” said the second soldier to Frank.

“Embassy business,” said Frank. Around him, he could hear voices shouting into the night. He asked the soldier who had some English, “What are the people saying?”

“Allah-o akbar,”
said the soldier. “God is great. The Imam has told the people to go to their rooftops and shout. We have a curfew on the streets, but we cannot put a curfew on God.”

The voices of the soldiers surrounded Frank, all saying softly,
“Allah-o akbar.”

“You should watch for the full moon,” said the soldier who spoke English. He nodded upward toward a milky section of clouds. “In a few nights, when the moon will be full, you can clearly see the face of the Imam in the moon. All the people say so.”

The corporal studied the sky and spoke in Farsi.

“Unless the clouds are too many,” said the other soldier.

After determining his destination, they let him pass.

*   *   *

He sat on the edge of his bed, naked except for his Jockey briefs, and said softly,
“Allah-o akbar.”
The usual quiet held in the immediate neighborhood beyond his window, but in the distance he could hear the murmur of soft human sounds. He could not distinguish the words, but he knew that somewhere, not far away, people stood on their rooftops shouting,
“Allah-o akbar.”

He recalled Anwar’s words. Beware the tenth of
Moharram
.
Ashura
. He wanted to sleep, but on recent nights his uneasy rest had been broken by limbs that betrayed him. A cramp in his left thigh had taken him half an hour to shake. He slept again until an arm that flailed across his chest flipped him into sweating wakefulness. He feared another such night but could imagine no defense. He closed his eyes and saw a photograph of himself in the arms of his father in someone’s backyard. The date written on the back in his mother’s hand, August 1932, told him it was just after his second birthday, eighteen months before his father’s suicide. His father had killed himself and left Frank a legacy of suicide. Assadollah Alam had died and left the Shah alone.
He left me, betrayed me
.

He wondered what legacy he would leave his own son, and how much Jackie’s sense of betrayal would rub off on Jake. He thought of the slow suicide of his stepfather, steadily drinking himself to death, building a stairway that led to a blank wall. He wanted to talk to his stepfather about World War II days in Iran, but he wondered how much his alcohol-sodden brain remembered of that long-ago time. He longed for sleep, but the thought shocked him awake.

Twin photos montaged. In one he sat on the iron lioness that sentineled the Parkside Avenue entrance to Brooklyn’s Prospect Park, her cubs around her. He guessed he was four, the year of his father’s suicide. In the other, taken by Jackie, he stood with a hand on the head of the statue while six-year-old Jake straddled the lioness in her new lair at the entrance to the park’s zoo. He thought of Mina and her cubs. He thought of absent fathers.

The old photos dissolved into the movie he’d shot in his mind of the planes circling above a Tehran in flames and smoke. He focused on one plane that became a peregrine, diving to strike a pigeon in midair. He wondered if he still flew on the peregrine’s dappled wings or if he had become the prey. Had he recruited Lermontov? Or had he become Lermontov’s pigeon? He remembered a headline he’d read: “Death Comes to the Peregrine Falcon.” Had he become an endangered species, KUPEREGRINE, carrying the code name a cipher clerk had assigned him years before?

The soft voices of the soldiers who had stopped his car echoed in his head—
Allah-o akbar
—followed by another distorted refrain: There is no God but Allah, and Khomeini is his Prophet.

*   *   *

Frank and Rocky climbed the three flights from the basement to the bubble and settled themselves at the glass-topped table. Rocky wasted no time.

“My eyes-only special to the Holy Ghost worked,” he said. “Answer back in record time. He’s made the whole Lermontov op a Counter Intelligence deal. Froze out Near East and Soviet Division. He’d shut down the whole agency t’ find himself a mole. James wants all the details Lermontov’s got on the mole t’ make sure it’s legit. You’re gonna have t’ memorize the Holy Ghost’s requirements and get your guy to respond. So Lermontov isn’t a potential defector or even an agent in place anymore. He’s elevated to the status of mole spotter.”

“Does that mean I can put a chalk mark on my front door?”

“Yeah. You got any chalk?”

“I asked Bill Steele for a piece. He came up with a box.”

“Do it during the blackout tonight, if we get one.”

“We always do.”

“Yeah, but in case we don’t, do it as late as you can and make sure there’s no lights on behind you. That sets up your first crack at another meet tomorrow night, right?”

“Correct.”

“Look, this time give him a note. Tell him to debug the place and talk about it while he’s doing it. That’ll sound good when his bosses listen to the tape from his wire, because if he’s supposed to be recruiting you they’ll have him wired. It’ll also help him to think you’re a pretty smart guy lookin’ out for his interest.” Frank nodded. “Okay, kiddo. You’re on your way. That’s the good news as far as our work here goes. The bad news is, when you get back to the States, if your idea works and you do get Lermontov over there, you’ll be reporting to Henry fuckin’ James himself, and God help you. He’s nutty as a fruitcake, and he might fuckin’ well convince himself you’re a fuckin’ mole. You know damn well he’s already got your 201 file on his desk and he’s wonderin’ about that red flag.”

“Great,” said Frank. “Recruit a KGB officer and get your ass in a sling.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Rocky, “because there’s not much you can do about it, except maybe get James convinced Lermontov’s the best damn agent in place he ever had. And you can bet your
tvchis
on it, once James gets ahold of him, Lermontov’s his agent. Not yours.”

*   *   *

Visions of a red flag on a 201 file teased his imagination as he sped toward Supreme Commander’s Headquarters. A letter-size manila folder with his cryptonym, KUPEREGRINE, hand-printed in black and a red tag stapled to it. A dull green legal hanging folder with a red flag attached to a stiff wire next to his pseudonym, typed behind a plastic tab. Dan Nitzke had told him his cryptonym because he thought it was funny to name him for an endangered species. He had never known his pseudonym, but he knew the format: the reliance on weird first and last names with the last name in all uppercase letters, something like Hawthorne J. CHESTERFIELD. Fred Bunker would know, but he did not want to ask Fred a question he might not want to answer, a question from an outsider. As an agent who had always worked beyond the precincts of Langley, he knew he would always be seen as an outsider to headquarters-bred intelligence officers like Fred—even to those like Rocky who had contrived to spend most of their careers overseas. He relished his outsider’s status but wondered what the agency looked like from inside. Does a red flag look like a red flag? He hoped he would never know, but he feared having Henry James suspect him of being an infiltrator, a mole, a Soviet agent.

*   *   *

Heavy street traffic, complicated by long lines at filling stations, slowed his progress, but as he neared Dowshan Tappeh he realized that for the first time in several days he had time for the gym. Convinced that his lack of exercise contributed to the recent restlessness that deprived him of sleep, he longed for the exhaustion that would follow a hard workout. He’d begun keeping his gym gear in a canvas bag he stashed in the bottom drawer of an underutilized file cabinet in Rushmore’s office. He changed quickly and headed for the gym.

As he approached the doors to the basketball court, he could hear the sounds of a game in progress. He looked inside, hoping to see a half-court game that might leave a basket free for him to work at, but the doors opened onto a loud and frantic full-court game. No b-ball for me, he thought. It took a moment before he realized the players included Bill Steele, Fred Bunker, and Corporal Cantwell. Stan Rushmore, belly stretching his T-shirt, waved to him from a bench on the sidelines. Frank sat next to him.

“How we doin’?”

“Up six, which is a miracle considerin’ how short-handed we are.”

“Who’s the little guy?”

“Reggie Manning. Another ex-cop. Outta Chicago. Played college ball for Loyola.”

“I haven’t seen him around.”

“Nah. Usually he’s outta town even more than I am. Now we got a shot at winnin’ the Dowshan Tappeh tournament, Troy switched some schedules around best he could so Reggie gets to play every game.”

Frank watched Manning with envy. Older, shorter, and slighter than Frank, he got to play with the big boys because of superior skill. Both teams battled under the boards, and Manning scrapped as hard as anyone, diving for loose balls, reaching in for a steal, streaking downcourt for an outlet pass from Steele off a rebound. He made the lay-up look easy.

Frank retreated to the gym, where the
homafaran
had already begun their workout. He recognized the reedy voice of Ayatollah Khomeini. Anwar the Taller nodded toward the bench where a cassette tape played. “The Imam,” he said. “This tape, he talks about
Tasu’a
and
Ashura
.” Frank guessed it was the same tape Munair had sent to him through Anwar the Smarter.

“People will not laugh,” said Anwar, “but the Imam can be very comic. Here he mocks the government. He says the people already have permission from Imam Hossein to honor his martyrdom. He says an illegitimate government appointed by the illegitimate Shah cannot make rules against the faith of the people. On behalf of the Islamic government that will soon rule Iran, he gives permission for the people to observe their traditions during
Moharram.
He says he also issues permission for all members of the military government to resign from office and join in the marches. And he gives permission to the armed forces to surrender their weapons to the people.”

Frank had not heard the door open but he noticed Anwar’s eyes shift. He looked over his shoulder and saw Sergeant Abbas’s bulk fill the door frame. The sergeant glanced toward the cassette player and nodded his approval. His right hand rested on the butt of his .45. I don’t think he’ll surrender his weapon to the people, thought Frank.

“This is near the end,” said Anwar. “The Imam urges the people to ignore the nightly curfew, to march on
Tasu’a
and
Ashura
in white robes and chant that God is great.”

“
Allah-o akbar,
” shrilled the raspy voice from the cassette.
“Allah-o akbar,”
And the
homafaran
and Sergeant Abbas echoed the cry,
“Allah-o akbar.”

*   *   *

Frank remained in the gym long after the
homafaran
had left, punishing the heavy bag, punishing himself with heavy weights, wearying himself, wearing himself out. Exhausted, he headed home. He skipped dinner and a shower and fell into a deep sleep. In his dream he marched among the flagellants on
Ashura,
stripped to the waist, beating himself with a leather whip. The whip became heavier and heavier until he saw his arms swing a metal chain against his back.

Allah-o akbar. Allah-o akbar. Allah-o akbar.

He woke with a start. He’d forgotten to put a chalk mark on the door. He switched on the bedside lamp and checked his watch. Just a few minutes after midnight. He slipped into a pair of blue jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt and fished a stick of chalk from the box in his briefcase. He put the light out, then padded downstairs. He cracked the door, listened, then peered into the quiet, empty street. He made his mark and bolted the door behind him.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“Colonel Kasravi will be sending for you a bit later,” General Merid said to Frank at their morning Jayface meeting.

Apparently no one had yet told General Merid their civic action proposals, with the possible exception of the newspaper, had died. He began an earnest discussion of military involvement in the distribution of benzene and cooking oil. Frank let him go, even contributing what he hoped would pass for thoughtful comments.

His attention picked up when, at tea-break time, a new waiter appeared in place of Hamid. Tall and solidly built with a drooping mustache, he appeared to speak no English. Still, he paid more attention to their conversations than a waiter might need to as he made his way among them with an unchanging, sullen stare.