The Peregrine Spy (41 page)

“Two guys are named in the station’s cable, with the dates. They fly to London on party business, meetings with Kianouri and other
Tudeh
exiles. They have a couple of free days and plan to take the boat train to Paris. Supposedly, Khomeini’s agreed to meet with them.”

“Trust me, they will never see Paris, much less Khomeini. If it’s correct, this material has great value. I will request an initial payment of five thousand dollars. Will that be satisfactory?”

It would be wonderful, thought Frank, if I could keep it. “To tell you the truth,” he said aloud, “it seems a little low.”

“An initial payment. If you can continue to provide material of this quality, assuming, of course, it can be verified, I can arrange higher payments. Tell me, how did you get the cable?”

“I drafted it. Rocky, the chief of station, Roger Novak, likes the way I write. I draft many of his cables. I’m a fast typist, so I typed a second copy for myself. If anyone looks on the IBM tape, they’ll see that the cable’s been retyped. But no one will. When it’s full it just gets burn bagged.”

“Amateurs.”

“I know. That’s another reason I decided to talk to you. Not just the money. I also see how incompetent, how corrupt this agency is.”

Lermontov pulled apart the lapels of his suit jacket and smiled. “Don’t bother,” he said. “Next time I’ll wear a wire and you can do your whole script.”

*   *   *

“I dunno, Sullivan. You sound awful convincin’ when you talk about how incompetent and corrupt the agency is.”

“What can I tell you? For a while, I thought I was going to be an actor.”

“Speaking of actor, we better script you for the next meeting. Stuff you don’t want on the tape you can give each other notes about, like you been doin’. He don’t give a shit what’s on our tape, but he’s gonna need tapes he can give to his people to make you sound like a legit traitor.”

“That’s an interesting concept.”

“Yeah. You can use it for the title of your next book. The legit traitor. Meantime, more from the Holy Ghost. He’s got NE puttin’ together stuff based on our recent cables they’ll massage into shape that you can give it to Lermontov. He also wants more initiative from us on stuff like this
Tudeh
party business. You let Lermontov know we need some verifying details on his mole?”

“He was ready,” said Frank. He handed Rocky the “Read Later” envelope.

Rocky tore it open. “Christ. Approximate dates. Exact locations. Czechoslovakia, Hungary, East Germany, Russia. Twelve code names and for about half of them real names. Who they were, what they did. All wrapped up and executed on info from our mole. Fucker’s been at it six years.”

“Sounds like good stuff,” said Frank.

“Yeah. Sounds good. But if we’re bein’ fucked with, he’s just givin’ us stuff the Russians know we already got. They may be ready t’ give this bastard up anyway. Whoever the fuck he is. Let the Holy Ghost figure it out. Your next meet’s when, Friday?”

“Right. We wanted to give him time to come up with my five thousand.”

“Tell you what, Sully. If he does come up with five thousand he must’ve done a hell of a job sellin’ you. KGB usually low-ball their new recruits, keep’m hungry and greedy, slowly build’m up. Five big ones is a real high ante for them.”

“I should’ve said it’s only a thousand.”

“And we split the other four?” said Rocky.

“Something like that,” answered Frank. “Anyhow, besides coming up with the money, he wants to see how this
Tudeh
party business shakes down.”

“You know those two guys are dead, right?”

“I guess I had a hunch they might get dead, but I thought maybe if I kept my eyes closed nobody could see me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Something kids do when they want to hide and there’s no place to hide. Close your eyes, and since you can’t see, you think nobody can see you. I don’t think I’ve ever been responsible for somebody getting killed before.”

“Come on,” said Rocky. “If we didn’t give it to Lermontov, Eagle-1 woulda had ’em killed. This way Lermontov gets ‘em killed.”

“Will he do it himself?”

“No way. They’ll hire a couple of locals or maybe even import a couple of hitters from Afghanistan. That language of theirs, Dari, Belinsky tells me, sounds about the same as Farsi, so it’s easy enough to bring in a couple of guys who’ll fit in real well but can also disappear real quick in case some
Tudeh
types get nosy. It’s a cinch
Savak
or the local gendarmes won’t give a shit.”

Yeah, thought Frank. But I do.

*   *   *

The summons had come during the Jayface tea break. Frank had barely entered the room when Colonel Kasravi asked, “Has your government confirmed your status as a permanent adviser?”

“Permanent?” said Frank. “Permanent sounds like an awfully long time. I believe the phrase we used was ‘continuing’ or ‘continuing basis.’ Something like that.”

“Correct,” said the colonel. “In this world nothing stands as permanent, does it?”

“No, sir. I guess not. But you had set
Moharram
11 as your deadline.”

“That’s only four days away,” said the colonel. “And you had said you would request a more rapid response.”

“And I did. But if nothing comes in today, I would like to use today’s meeting, your question to me today, as the basis for another cable, to prod my government for an answer.”

“Good,” said the colonel. “Please do that. By the way, not that it matters, but I liked the suggestion
Armed Forces Times
. As the name for the newspaper.”

Frank had always assumed the Jayface meeting room was bugged, but it hadn’t occurred to him Colonel Kasravi’s office would be among the listening posts.

“That wasn’t your voice, was it?” said the colonel.

“No, sir. That was my colleague, Lieutenant Commander Simpson.”

“Pity it will never happen,” said Kasravi.

“Yes, sir,” said Frank. “It would be a pity if it never happened.”

The colonel smiled. “You are persistent, aren’t you? Why does this newspaper idea matter so much to you?”

“Sir, I guess I just love newspapers. I got to be editor of the weekly newspaper when I was only twenty in a South Texas town called Alice, and then in Ethiopia running the major daily newspaper was part of my job. When I was growing up in New York, there were something like fourteen daily papers. Now there are only four. I hate to see a newspaper die, especially one that hasn’t been born yet.”

“I begin to understand,” said Kasravi. “The possibility may remain open if we receive word that you have been posted here as an adviser. But I must tell you events are moving rapidly. The release of the political prisoners, which I told you about on Monday, took place as scheduled yesterday. Sanjabi and Ayatollah Taleqani will, as I told you, lead peaceful demonstrations on
Tasu’a
and
Ashura.
We will announce this to the foreign press at zero eight hundred hours tomorrow. BBC and Voice of America will broadcast the news in Farsi. The Russians will broadcast from Baku. They are our mass media these days—Ayatollah Khomeini’s tapes and the foreigners.”

“Colonel, if I may suggest it, the government should do more of this kind of thing. Inform the foreign press and through them the people of Iran of positive measures the government takes.”

“Do you think our people believe the foreign press more than our own news media?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“You are very bold to say so,” said the colonel.

“At least some of the foreign press, sir.”

“Like BBC?”

“Well, yes, sir.”

Kasravi offered another of his rare smiles. “I would suggest you do not express that view to His Imperial Majesty. You are right, of course. Many Persians, myself included, rely on BBC for news about our country. But His Imperial Majesty believes BBC—and the British government—have become tools of Mr. Khomeini.”

No “Imam” for the colonel, thought Frank.

“And in fact,” said Kasravi, “we brief the foreign press every day. They rarely transmit the material we give them.”

“I might be able to help you with that. I understand the world press. What they consider newsworthy. How the British and the Americans and the French journalists differ from each other. How the Russians differ from everybody. How individual newspapers, say, like the
Wall Street Journal,
the
New York Times,
the
Washington Post,
have different approaches. How BBC differs from the
Morning Telegraph.
How you can hook the interest of one with one story, the interest of another with a different story. What material none of them will take an interest in.”

“It all sounds very ambitious, Major Sullivan. For these times. I wish you had arrived here and shared your skills with us a year or two ago. Nevertheless, I will discuss your suggestions with the prime minister. We shall see.”

“It could be helpful, sir. To drown out the noise from Neauphle-le-Château.”

“We shall see. And now…”

Frank interrupted him. “Colonel, I just wondered…”

“Yes?”

“Well, Gus, Commander Simpson, also has an extensive background working with the news media. In fact, the name you liked for our newspaper,
Armed Forces Times,
he came up with that idea. I wondered if he could work with me on trying to work out some of these ideas.”

“I’m afraid not. Your Commander Simpson tried to recruit a
Savak
agent who also worked for us, military intelligence. You yourself, to the best of our knowledge, have not attempted anything so foolish. We do not want to make an incident over what your friend attempted, but we consider him … may I say we consider him in quarantine?”

I should have quit when I was ahead, thought Frank.

*   *   *

Now what? wondered Frank, as he pushed his way through the glass doors of Supreme Commander’s Headquarters. He walked out into the parking area, where he saw their driver, Sergeant Ali Zarakesh, and Corporal Cantwell, leaning against a fender of the big, bulletproof Nova. He walked up to them and looked from one to the other.

“I have been instructed to drive you to Niavaran Palace,” said Ali with a stern expression.

“And I’ve been instructed to take your other car back to Dowshan Tap,” added Corporal Cantwell with a slight smile. “I also have this for you.” He handed Frank an eyes-only envelope.

“Okay,” said Frank. “I appreciate that.” He stuffed the envelope into a parka pocket, found the keys to the Fiat, and tossed them to Cantwell. “It’s all yours.”

*   *   *

A much younger majordomo greeted him. “You may have to wait a while. Rather than sit in this drafty hall, there is an office just this way I believe you have used before.”

Frank wondered if he would find Lermontov again waiting for him, but the bare room, with its familiar vase of fake blue flowers, proved empty. Frank settled into a chair, ready for a long wait. He nervously fingered the eyes-only envelope, which he had shifted to an inside pocket in his suit jacket. He felt tempted to read it again but knew he had no need. He had scanned it in the car and forgotten nothing.

The Shah wants to see you. Late this afternoon is all we have, so be prepared to wait. Word comes from his nibs who expects you to break the news about the coup proposal that you understand USG people in Washington have a copy of. What does the Shah think of the various proposals? Also review the status of the armed forces newspaper. The overnights included full and final approval of your role as an adviser on an indefinite basis. Tell the Shah. You can tell the Jayfacers tomorrow. Come back here after your meet.
Again unsigned, and again he knew it had come from Rocky.

He welcomed the wait, even the fact that he had nothing to read. It gave him an opportunity to think, a luxury that had become rare. He worried that in rushing from one contact to the other he would miss a vital beat. Above all, he worried about pinning down Lermontov and finding out more about the mole, but he also worried about neglecting Jake and, yes, Jackie.

When he was finally summoned and followed the young majordomo into the Shah’s office, the first thing Frank said was “I don’t think I’ve ever told you about my son, have I?”

The Shah stared at him vacantly, and Frank wanted to bite his tongue.

“I did not even know you had a son,” said the King of Kings. He remained slumped in his high-backed chair. He looked even more worn than on Frank’s previous visits: his face, a gray reflection of the suit he wore; his features, gaunt; his eyes, hooded.

“Sorry, sir. Just I was thinking about him while I was waiting.” Frank fumbled, trying to say something that might make sense. “Like your son, he’s in America. A student, but only in the sixth grade. I was thinking of all the things I would have to tell him when I get back home.”

“Perhaps we could go together,” said the Shah.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“When you go back home to America, will you take me with you? I would like to meet this son of yours.”

“Would you like to go to America, Your Majesty?”

“Oh, yes. Sloan-Kettering. Johns Hopkins. Columbia Presbyterian. My son is in air force training at Reese, a base near Lubbock in Texas. Perhaps we could exchange visas. He could come here as regent. I could go to America as patient. I’m sure you Americans, like our friends the British, would like to ship me off.”

“Please don’t include me among any Americans who might want to ship you off. In fact, I have what I hope you’ll consider good news. We received approval today from my government of my assignment on an indefinite basis as adviser.”

“Indefinite?” said the Shah. “I do not consider ‘indefinite’ good news. A man in my position would have preferred to have heard something more … ‘indefinite’ sounds … very indefinite. Like American support of our rule.”

“I’m sure, Your Imperial Majesty, that America’s support of your rule is very definite.”

“And permanent?”

Oh, shit, thought Frank. How do I get from here to asking what he thinks about a proposal from his military for a coup that would depose him?