Night in Tehran

by Kaplan, Philip

  “I see.” So the mosque is a safe house, thought Weiseman. Yasmine must be the vital link between her spymaster father and Mahmoud, who had agreed to spy on the mullahs that had murdered Shirin. He could only imagine the danger in which Mahmoud had placed himself. And where did Françoise fit into this cabal, with her frequent visits to Iran, and to Iraq, on behalf of Gramont? Of course, the journalism and the work for Gramont went together. No doubt her collaboration with me as well, Weiseman understood.

  “Who is he?” Weiseman asked. “The killer. What’s his name?”

  The finger tap-tapped. Mahmoud gave Alana another searching glance. “He goes by Guido Montana. He was, for a while, an exile in Italy. He’s a contract assassin. He hates the Shah.”

  “His Iranian name is Hamid Fazli,” Alana said. “There’s something else. In a week, the holy month of Moharram ends. Then the mullahs will exploit Carter’s embrace of the Shah. They’ll say Pahlavi is America’s puppet. If SAVAK does anything foolish, the end of Moharram will lead to an explosion in this country.”

  * * *

  —

  WEISEMAN WALKED WITH Françoise along a street of grimy apartment towers. Beggars patrolled the street. A feral, black cat with yellow eyes darted in front of them, then stopped and stared up at him, giving him the evil eye, its tail curling up as if ready to strike. From here, the White Revolution looked more like empty propaganda than promises fulfilled.

  They approached a kiosk, and there on page one were Carter and the Shah toasting each other. Next to the photo, in a black box, the island of stability remark was quoted in bold text.

  “You know, David, she may be right.”

  “I know.” The talk with Alana and Mahmoud had affected him deeply. Johann had often reminded him never to ignore the human dimension. It was the aspect, he thought, that Trevor, with all of his political cunning, sometimes missed.

  Françoise said, “The Shah is over, David, finished.”

  He studied her profile—lips drawn together, hair slightly askew as she made her points.

  “Khomeini is no threat. France and America can contain him. Do you want your good name linked to SAVAK?”

  He sought to comprehend her role, whether she was a disciplined operative who simply sought to use him. The question was becoming ever more important to him as he found himself drawn increasingly to her.

  But he thought she was dead wrong about Khomeini. He was sure that if the Islamists took over, they would do to Iran what Robespierre did to France. Couldn’t she see that?

  He contained it. “You said you could connect me to the Islamists.”

  “Yes, chérie. There’s a lawyer, an expat Lebanese. He has an office here. He’s a bit of a radical himself, marching for the Palestinians and so forth. He’s close to the people you need to see.”

  Why was she so close to this Lebanese lawyer and his Islamist friends? he asked himself. What did she really believe at her core? Then Weiseman realized that was a question he often asked about himself.

  “Do you want me to call him for you?” she asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  He thought about Alana’s network, and wondered when Hanif would round them up. He dreaded the thought of what would happen to Mahmoud if the Sheikh in the mosque found him out…

  More and more, he was finding himself being drawn into the lives of Iranians, and feeling responsibility for their safety in ways that he knew Justin Trevor would not approve of…

  * * *

  —

  THAT EVENING, WEISEMAN typed up a cable to Trevor. Iran was catapulting into crisis, he warned, emphasizing that the holy month of Moharram would end in a week and that demonstrations were already planned. He urged Trevor to call Hanif and caution him not to use excessive force against the demonstrators. He told him that the French had planted an agent in Tehran’s central mosque which was giving harbor to the assassin who decapitated the Iranian student in Paris. He did not disclose any names. He wasn’t about to risk a White House leak that could place Mahmoud in even greater danger.

  And then he thought, no, even disclosing that much could risk Mahmoud’s life, and he deleted the reference to the mosque. He reread the cable, then went down and flagged a hotel taxi. The old car rattled through grungy slums and fifteen minutes later pulled up outside high brick walls.

  “American embassy,” the driver said. “I wait for you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He hopped out of the cab, hustled up to the art deco entrance of the huge brick structure, and pressed the night bell. The stars and stripes fluttered in the wind, and its hoisting rope clanked loudly against the pole. A marine guard buzzed him in.

  At the guard booth in the lobby, Weiseman slid his black, diplomatic passport under the opening in the bulletproof glass window. Cleared by the marine to the third floor, he took the elevator up and walked across linoleum tiles to the Comm-Center. He rang the buzzer and a window opened. A face appeared—from the lips up—pallid and pimply, hair uncombed.

  Weiseman handed over the cable. “Director Trevor’s channel. You have that code?”

  “We have it,” the young man said. The window closed before Weiseman could say anything else.

  Weiseman rushed back down the steps, anxious to get out, thinking what a desolate building it was, how he’d hate to work here. Back at the guard booth, he retrieved his passport. The marine eyed him crookedly but said nothing. Well, no one liked presidential visits, he thought: the constant demands from prima donnas wanting everything immediately.

  He exited the building and trotted down the steps to where he left the taxi.

  But the car was gone, the driver apparently deciding it was better to get out of here rather than take an American’s money.

  Standing on the curb, he signaled for another cab. Five minutes went by while he waved his hand in the wind. A rickety bus passed.

  It was getting colder. A lot colder. Snow, light flakes, fell among gusts of wind.

  He started to walk. It had taken a quarter hour to get to the embassy by cab, so it would be a long walk back in the dark, and he didn’t know his way. There were no streetlights, but ahead he saw a white sign, splattered with mud. He made out the words HOTEL DISTRICT and trudged off in the direction of the sign. Then he remembered: in his wallet he had a card Trevor had given him with information about a safe house near the embassy if things got hot. He glanced at the card and confirmed the address.

  He walked steadily, alert to the ice beneath his feet. The snow came down now in heavy flurries. Behind him he heard faint footfalls kicking the slush; it sounded like more than one person. He turned and saw behind him three men wearing black leather bomber jackets.

  He crossed the street and felt their eyes follow him. A block away he saw a flickering light and headed that way. He picked up his pace; they followed.

  He accelerated again, and they crossed the street after him. Glancing back, he noticed werewolf insignias on their jackets.

  Were they SAVAK? A warning from Hanif? Radical Islamists? Or just street thugs, preying on foreigners? Didn’t much matter; the priority now was to get to the safe house.

  They were closing in on him now. A guttural voice called out in English. “Weiseman!”

  At the flickering light he knocked at the front door of a café. It was the right address.

  The men were running toward him. He banged on the door. The voice cried out, again calling his name. He remembered the instruction on the card: the rear entrance. He slipped around to the back under cover of darkness.

  He gave the rear door three loud raps and it suddenly creaked ajar. He shoved it open and rushed in, slamming it shut behind him and quickly throwing the lock bolt back into place. Then he fell back against the door in a cold sweat.

  He heard confused, muffled shouts on the street, feet shuffling in the snow.

  Inside, the light was dim. He coughed against the dust and smell of camphor. After the cold outside, the room felt very warm. Behind the zinc b
ar, he caught the blurred image of a man. Across the room, a woman sat at a table, dealing cards.

  He heard the confusion and anger growing in the voices outside. They’d lost him.

  “You are the American.” The woman spoke softly, in English, but he couldn’t make out the accent that inflected her gravely voice.

  “Yes, I’m American.” He fingered the card Trevor had given him, but decided to wait before showing it.

  She continued to deal what appeared to be playing cards, although laying them out in front of her in a pattern that suggested tarot. His eyes darted again at the door.

  “Nouri will bring you some warm tea now,” she said.

  “I need a taxi to get back to my hotel,” he said. “The Intercontinental.”

  She dealt another card. She clapped her hands once.

  “You’re with Mr. Carter.”

  “Well, he’s gone now, and I’m still here.”

  The figure from the bar brought steaming tea in a glass with a rusty, silver handle.

  “Drink,” she said. “Then I’ll have Nouri drive you to your hotel.”

  He lifted the glass; the handle was so hot he had to set it down. The woman dealt another card. He tried the glass again, with a napkin, and sipped the tea. It tasted of mint. He reached into his pocket and took out the card with her name on it. It said Madame Zed, the name Trevor had given him for one of his agents.

  “You are Madame Zed?” he asked.

  “Take a card,” she told him.

  Weiseman focused on her. She was heavyset, with thick rimless glasses above a prominent nose and double chin. Stark white hair peeked out from beneath a black headscarf.

  He took a card. It was the Queen of Hearts. He placed it facedown.

  “The Queen of Hearts, Mister David. There is a woman…?”

  It seemed a classic start to him—wasn’t there always “a woman”? He was more struck by the question of whether it was disconcerting or reassuring that she knew who he was.

  He said, simply, “Yes?”

  “Take another card.”

  It was the Jack of Clubs.

  “There is a man in town. Jack?”

  This did give him pause. “Jacques,” he said.

  She dealt another card.

  It was the Ace of Spades.

  Even Weiseman knew that one. Death

  She said, “You should go now.”

  Fortune tellers were fakes, he reminded himself. And besides, it was just a cover. She was no more Madame Zed than he.

  She said, “I will be here if you need me again.”

  * * *

  —

  IN THE CAR, Nouri told Weiseman there were djinn lurking in the city. Evil spirits. Weiseman had read that some Iranians believed such things, but it was his first encounter with such belief.

  At the front door of the Intercon, Nouri handed him a three-by-five card with a name and a South Tehran address. Weiseman put it into his pocket without looking at it, thanked Nouri for coming out to get him, and hurried into the hotel. The whole evening had unnerved him—especially learning he was on SAVAK’s radar—and he wanted to find Françoise.

  Stopping at his room, he found his key wouldn’t turn. Spotting a chambermaid, a teenage girl, he said “Room 1012. It’s my room. The key doesn’t work.”

  “The bellboy took your luggage downstairs for you, mister,” she said. “A lady and a gentleman asked me to give you this.”

  He took the sheet of hotel stationery. Gentleman? He wondered. Jacques? The note said: Be safe. I’ll call you when I can.

  He rushed back down to the lobby. It was late at night, but several people were waiting at the reception desk. He stepped in front of them. “It’s very urgent.”

  “A moment, mister,” the female clerk said, and tugged her headscarf as tight as a plaster gauze around her scalp. “You must wait your turn.”

  Beside the desk was a door with a sign on it that said MANAGER. As he headed for it he heard the clerk mutter in English, “Americans. They think they own us.”

  He opened the office door to find a fat, bald man in a black cutaway jacket and striped pants at a desk, squinting through thick, rimless eyeglasses at a newspaper. Weiseman told him there’d been some mistake, about his room, about the luggage.

  The bald man listened quietly, nodding and inspecting his fingernails. Then he said, “You are finished, Mr. Weiseman? I am Daud.” The bald man hoisted his flabby frame out of his chair and handed Weiseman an outsized business card. “You will come with me, please.”

  He led Weiseman across the lobby to the concierge’s desk.

  “And do you know if Madame d’Antou checked out?” Weiseman asked.

  Before answering, Daud called to a bellman. He turned to Weiseman. “Madame d’Antou left with Monsieur Jacques. Osman took her luggage to the taxi. Correct?” he asked the bellman.

  “Yes,” Osman said, eyes averted.

  “We have packed your luggage for you, Mr. Weiseman. Osman will get it.”

  “Did madame leave a forwarding address?”

  “None,” Daud said. “Just this,” and he handed over a hotel card with a name on the back. Pierre Jubril, avocat, and an address. It was the Lebanese lawyer Françoise said could connect him to Khomeini’s people.

  “I see. Please ask Osman to return my luggage to my room.”

  “I’m afraid that will not be possible. You vacated the room. Someone else has it.”

  Weiseman took a deep breath, striving to hold his anger in check. “Then, another room.”

  “I regret to inform you,” Daud said, “that the hotel is fully booked.” He walked toward the reception desk, then turned, held his hand with a ruby ring across his heart. “Bye, bye, mister.”

  At the reception desk, the female clerk glared at Weiseman.

  8

  DOING THE 40-40

  ON JANUARY 9, a week after Carter’s departure from Tehran, Weiseman was slouched against the plaster wall of a room in a dormitory at the University of Tehran, where he had been staying since being evicted from the Intercon. Mahmoud hovered nearby, plucking the seeds from a pomegranate and popping them one by one into his mouth. Alana sat next to Yasmine de Rose on a wooly khaki army blanket tossed over a cot. Yasmine’s Paris party dress was replaced by blue jeans, the worldwide uniform of university students.

  And, as it turned out, Yasmine knew where Françoise was.

  “She’s in Paris,” she told him. “With my father. She’ll contact you.”

  So. She was with de Rose at the Sûreté now, not Gramont? And not Le Figaro.

  Was she part of a French security tag team? Françoise and Yasmine, working for Alain de Rose? He trusted Alain de Rose and, judging by Yasmine’s private comments to him at the Paris dinner party, he tended to trust her as well.

  He led Yasmine into the next room and closed the door. “Tell me about your father and Gramont,” he said.

  “You know that already,” she replied. “Laurent is the one calling the shots in Paris; he has the access in the Élysée, but my father speaks for Sûreté. Laurent needs him for the intelligence and for support of the national security team.”

  “I see.”

  “Of course you do, but that’s not what you’re asking, David. Is it?”

  “Françoise,” he said cautiously. “…Is she working with your father, or Gramont?

  “Trust her, David,” Yasmine said.

  Before them a tiny black-and-white TV showed images of protestors in religious regalia: black robes and circular turbans. There were flowing white beards on the men, peach fuzz on the cheeks of novices, and, in the hands of nearly everyone, placards depicting Ayatollah Khomeini. A news reader out of Dubai intoned: Qom, the religious capital of Iran. This protest comes two days after the mysterious death of the Ayatollah’s son. Many Iranians attribute that death to SAVAK.

  The news report cut back to Carter’s “island of stability” remark. It had been played over and over on Iranian television, held up by the
Shah’s PR flacks as proof of White House support, and mocked by Iran’s opposition as a colossal insult. The irony was that Carter despised the Shah. He hadn’t meant a word he’d said.

  Weiseman led Yasmine off to the side and called to Mahmoud and Alana to join them. “What’s going on,” he asked.

  “Moharram is over,” Mahmoud explained. “It’s starting—the 40-40.”

  “The 40-40?” Weisman asked.

  “In Iran, politics and religion are intertwined. We hold a religious ceremony forty days after a death like that of the Ayatollah’s son. After each ceremony there’s a rolling wave of demonstrations for forty more days.”

  For some reason Weiseman remembered the night during his first posting when Soviet tanks rolled in and turned the Prague Spring into a brutal Soviet winter, how Trevor concluded nothing could be done, that the outcome was inevitable, that the mission was to safeguard American interests. That’s all.

  Trevor had warned him not to become involved with the Czechs. Involved!

  Weiseman hadn’t accepted such fatalism then, and he didn’t accept it now. Just getting out of the way while a cloud of misery and oppression engulfed the Iranians wasn’t good enough. He was determined to keep the Islamist mullahs out, and if that wasn’t possible, to throw obstacles in their path. He would extend his outreach to disaffected young people, military officers and business executives; to the poor foot soldiers in South Tehran; to honest politicians and their corrupt counterparts; to Seyyed and others in the clergy; even to those in the Shah’s entourage who sought to advance themselves once Mohammad Reza Pahlavi was gone.

  Among these disparate forces, he would seek out someone who might become America’s new man in Iran, someone who could be relied on. That was Trevor’s mandate. But Weiseman also wanted someone capable of running the country effectively, and if possible, honestly.

  Let them all think he was their friend, but in the end, if it worked, he would need to be the one to pull it together, to integrate the strategy. Weiseman pondered these thoughts. Of course, it might not work. He recalled once asking his college philosophy professor: How can you know anything for sure? The professor told him, “If you want certainty in life, there’s a church on every street corner.”