The Peregrine Spy (7 page)

Ali spoke to the corporal, who appeared to recognize him. As the corporal relaxed, Ali tugged what Frank guessed were his own military ID papers from the thick rubber band that secured them to his windshield visor. Ali spoke slowly in Farsi, glancing at Frank and Gus, as the soldier checked and returned his papers. The soldier studied his clipboard. From Ali’s jumble of Farsi, Frank heard him enunciate, “Soo-li-van. Siimp-sohn.”

The soldier nodded and peered through the window at Frank and Gus, who had removed his cap and sat upright. The soldier waved them through; the gates parted wider, and Ali drove ahead.

He picked his way toward the largest of the buildings, a multisided structure shaped like a gerrymandered voting district. They pulled up parallel to an outside staircase where a trim, coatless man of about Frank’s age stood waiting. From his brief exposure at Dowshan Tappeh Frank recognized the blue uniform as Iranian Air Force. Ali killed the ignition, tugged at the emergency brake, said, “Wait me,” and eased his bulk from the car.

Gus wiped the window on his right with his glove and studied the staircase.

“That’s what I thought. Those stairs don’t go anywhere,” he announced.

“Looks to me like they go up,” said Frank.

“Yeah. They go up to the second floor, but there’s no door up there.”

Ali opened Frank’s door. “No one is here but the major. He will take you upstairs.”

“Up those stairs?” called Gus from the back seat.

“No. No one understands those stairs. Up stairs inside.”

They clambered out of the car. The slim, dark-eyed Iranian Air Force officer saluted with a motion that managed to combine crisp, military respect and an open curiosity.

“Major Anwar Amini,” he said. “Welcome.”

Frank moved toward him, hand extended, saying, “Frank, ah, Major Francis Sullivan. U.S. Air Force.” They studied each other intently as they shook hands. “And this,” said Frank, “is Lieutenant Commander Gus Simpson, U.S. Naval Reserve.”

He realized how stiff and formal he sounded. Gus lightened the tone.

“Call me Gus,” he said, shaking Major Amini’s hand and grasping him by the elbow.

“Anwar,” said the major.

“Glad to meet you, Anwar,” said Gus.

“Anwar,” echoed Frank.

“I will be part of the interservice committee working with you,” said the major.

“Jayface?” said Gus.

“I’m afraid so.” Anwar smiled. “Our bureau is just upstairs. Please. Will you follow? The sergeant will be waiting for you when you are finished.”

“Thanks for the ride,” said Gus.

Ali grinned, saluting in mufti.

*   *   *

They followed Major Amini, who ushered them in through glass doors, then up a broad marble stairway under an unlit crystal chandelier. Frank’s first impression of luxury quickly faded. Bare concrete floors, plasterboard walls, and weak fluorescent lights greeted them on the second story. The walls seemed to ooze a damp chill. Frank sensed an odor like cabbage that had been cooking too long. He noticed a coat rack of metal pipes with a few wire hangers, a single military overcoat, and, on the rack above, an air force officer’s cap.

As they crossed toward an open-doored conference room, the fluorescent lights went out. They entered a spacious but windowless rectangular room.

“The others will just be coming,” said the major. “Let me take your coats.” They shed their parkas. Anwar carried them to the hallway coat rack.

“Can I get you some tea?” he asked as he returned. “Cold drinks?”

Frank’s stomach rumbled. “Tea,” he said.

“Tea,” echoed Gus.

“Maybe some rolls,” ventured Frank.

The major pressed a green button on the wall. Frank’s mind veered from the button to speculation about how the room was bugged and by whom. He barely heard Anwar’s question.

“Do you have an agenda for today’s meeting?”

Frank looked blankly to Gus.

“Well, ah, no,” said Gus. “We thought today should be more of an exploratory, ah, get-acquainted, exploratory session. Tomorrow…” Frank admired the sincerity of his frown. “Tomorrow we’ll have an agenda.”

Fuckin’-A we will, thought Frank. He realized again how ill prepared they were for their hastily conceived mission—and the hidden agenda Pete Howard had given him.

“I’d like to hear your thoughts,” said Frank. “I mean, while we’re waiting for the others. Your thoughts on the situation. The situation and what we might do.”

Anwar smiled. His eyes were watchful, alert. “You have seen the situation. Today is especially bad. Riots. Marches.” His hands spread outward. “I have no idea what we should do.”

“Between us, we’ll think of something,” said Gus. All three smiled.

“Yes, sir.” A short, very dark young man with a drooping black mustache stood in the doorway. He wore a white waiter’s jacket over chino slacks, white socks, and plastic slippers.
“Chay,”
said Anwar. Frank guessed
chay
must be a variation on
chi,
the standard Middle Eastern word for tea, but the rest of their conversation was lost on him.

“No rolls,” said Anwar, “but there will be our
barbari
bread with
chelakebab
for lunch. If the
barbari
is ready before lunch, he says he will bring. But I doubt.”

“Tea will be fine,” said Frank.

“Good morning.” There was no mistaking the general: two stars on each shoulder. A round, unwrinkled, well-fed man, he wore a uniform that fit and flattered him so well Frank suspected it had been custom made. A widow’s peak was his only apparent concession to age. His olive complexion and Vaseline-slicked black hair would have enabled him to pass as a native in Rome. Frank guessed his office must be in the building, for he showed no signs of having just entered from the cold. Anwar saluted, casually. The general merely nodded.

“I am General Dariush Merid,” he said looking from Gus to Frank. “At your service, gentlemen. Let us be seated. The others are here and will join us just now.”

General Merid marched the length of the table to take the high-backed wooden chair at its head. Gus and Frank followed, taking the metal chairs to the general’s right. Anwar left one chair vacant and sat on the general’s left.

“Well,” said Merid. “Welcome.” Something shy slowed the unfolding of his smile. He shifted his weight and tried a brighter smile. “Was your trip comfortable?”

“Very comfortable,” said Gus.

Frank was grateful that Gus sat closer to the general. The general’s lob of a question had thrown him. He never could have volleyed a reply as quickly as Gus had. Instead, Frank’s mind spun through the whole absurd sequence of his landing in Washington and, totally unprepared, flying back through JFK and Rome to Tehran.

“Comfortable,” Frank managed to say at last. “But troubling.”

The general, who appeared uneasy with small talk, hadn’t been prepared for “troubling.” He studied Frank evenly. Only the whitening tips of his pudgy fingers, gripping the edge of the table, betrayed his tension.

“Ah, what kind of trouble?”

“Just at the end,” said Frank. “As we circled the city. So many fires. So much smoke.”

“Ah,” said the general, with only the hint of a smile. “More smoke than fire. Burning tires. Some minor arson. Student pranks. Leftist troublemakers.”

“Frankly, sir, it looked like more than that…”

General Merid raised a hand. “Do you agree?” he asked, turning to Gus.

“I was asleep,” said Gus.

“Ah, a man after my own heart. I always like to nap when I fly. That way I arrive refreshed. Ready for anything, even after a long flight.”

“Do you travel much?” asked Gus.

“I used to. In the early 1960s, in fact, I was our embassy’s military attaché in Washington. Then, four years in Rome. I loved Rome.”

“That’s where I’ve been based the past two years,” said Gus.

Building, slowly building, thought Frank. He watched Gus play the general.

“Wonderful city,” Gus continued. “Since I retired from the navy, my wife and I feel quite settled there. Some consulting work. Department of Defense. Nothing I can talk much about. You know.”

“Of course,” said General Merid.

Though he was not much of a tennis player himself, it occurred to Frank that he and Gus might make a good doubles team. Gus moved well where Frank stumbled. Frank drove hard where Gus lay back. As Gus learned more about the general by asking more about Rome, Frank glanced at Anwar. The young major smiled and looked away.

The dark waiter with the white jacket returned with their tea. Two men of military bearing followed him into the room. One, in civilian clothes, bore what Frank thought of as classic Middle Eastern features: swarthy complexion; hooked nose and high cheekbones framing piercing eyes that were as jet black as his hair; of medium height but with tensed muscles that tested the limits of his inexpensive gray suit. The other, in the uniform of an army major, was younger and fair, with a bounce to his step as he led the way into the room.

He bypassed the others and went straight to General Merid, who stood to greet him. They saluted, shook hands, and embraced.

“Daheejon,”
said the major.

“My son,” said General Merid in English. “This is Major Nazih, Hossein Nazih, my nephew, my protégé, you might say.”

Behind their backs, Anwar rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Like Frank and Gus, following the general’s lead, he had stood to greet the new arrivals. He turned to shake hands with the beak-nosed man in civilian clothes.

Frank noticed Gus studying their waiter, who seemed to linger longer than necessary. At a reproving glance from Anwar, the waiter, moving slowly, left the room.

“How has it been, uncle?” said Major Nazih.

“Tiring,” said the general. “Very tiring.”

“You should not take these things so seriously. We will soon have it all under control.” He turned to the others. “Gentlemen. You must forgive us.” His words had the tone of an order rather than an apology. “But I haven’t seen my uncle for a week now. Pressing matters at the palace.”

“My nephew is very close to His Imperial Majesty,” General Merid said softly to Gus.

“Oh? How is the Shah holding up these days?” asked Gus.

“Ah, are you the Sullivan one? Francis Sullivan?”

“No,” said Gus. “I’m the Simpson one.” He nodded toward Frank. “That’s the Sullivan.”

“Ah, I must have a word with you,” said the major, with a lingering glance at Frank.
“A plus tard.”
He moved to the chair just to the right of General Merid. “May I take this chair, Uncle?”

“Of course,” said the general. “Please.”

Until his own name had been mentioned, Frank had taken more interest in the beak-nosed man in the gray suit. Now he realized the man’s piercing black eyes studied him, perhaps wondering why Major Nazih had singled him out. He perched behind the metal chair to Anwar’s left, bent slightly forward, his hands cleaving to the chair back like talons on a tree branch. The coal-black eyes held steady on Frank, who noticed, for the first time, the small, dark, egg-shaped bump high on his forehead.

“Well, now that we are all here,” said the general, taking his seat and folding his hands on the table, “perhaps we can begin.”

The man in the gray suit was the last to sit, taking the chair opposite Frank. Frank, uncomfortable, looked away. The dark eyes went on studying him.

“Perhaps we should all introduce ourselves,” said the general. “Each one telling a little bit about himself. Let’s begin with you, Commander Simpson.”

The freshman icebreaker, thought Frank. Again, he was glad Gus sat closer to the general.

“Lieutenant Commander Gus Simpson. U.S. Navy retired.” Frank’s peripheral vision told him the dark-eyed man had at last shifted his gaze as Gus continued. “Second lieutenant in World War II. Background as a Marine Corps public information officer. Military attaché, Athens, London. Briefing officer in Saigon. Pentagon spokesman. Currently on a DOD consulting contract, posted in Rome. Till they asked me to come over here and meet General Merid.”

“Very good,” said the general, beaming.

Very good, Frank agreed. Gus had kept his lies close to the truth.

“And now you, Major Sullivan.”

“Frank Sullivan. Air force. Before that, a few years as a newspaperman, reporter. Like Commander Simpson, background as a public information officer, civic and community service programs, adviser to military public information officers in several African countries.”

“What were you doing in Ethiopia?” said the youthful Major Nazih.

Frank hadn’t expected trouble so soon. He felt the burning dark eyes swing back to him.

“That was a bit different. I was involved with the IEG military, but the Ethiopians asked to have me detached to work with their Ministry of Information.”

“And with their Imperial Majesty, so I understand.”

Frank studied the young major, who had come to their meeting directly from the palace. No contact with the palace and the Shah, he’d been told. Absolutely no contact.

“Well, yes,” said Frank, forcing a smile. “When an emperor makes a request, it’s hard to turn him down. Haile Selassie liked the way I wrote. So I started doing some speeches for him, policy statements, things like that.”

“You just about ran the country, so they tell me.”

“Nothing like that,” said Frank. “I was just a fast man at the typewriter was all.”

“My uncle, ah, not General Merid, my uncle at the palace, he has liaison with your embassy. He has informed the Shah of your presence. The Shah remembers you well. He is fond of you.”

“I’m honored,” said Frank. “And surprised. We only spoke a few times.”

“And poor Haile Selassie. He did not end well, did he?” said the major.

“No,” said Frank. “They said he died in his sleep.”

“But we know someone helped with a pillow over his face, don’t we?” said Nazih.

“I heard that’s what happened.”

“And Ethiopia suffers badly without him. But I suppose all that happened after you left?”

“Three years after,” said Frank.

Major Nazih studied him. Frank, tired of being stared at, stared back. He detected a languid, feminine fluttering of the major’s dark eyelashes.