Turn of the Cards

by George R. R. Martin

  As a matter of fact Mark had no idea what they were actually hauling in the trailer. Whatever it was, the Islamic Iranian government was eager enough to get its hands on it. They’d been waved across the Turkish frontier with barely a glance. That may also have had something to do with the fact that trucks were lined up for a good eight klicks waiting to cross — and that no matter how hot your zeal once burned for preserving the purity of the revolution, after a dozen years at a border checkpoint your interest in what was in the nine hundred and eighty-seventh truck of the shift was bound to be guttering low.

  What blew Mark away was that he was involved in importing stuff into one of the crankiest and most uptight nations on Earth, and it was perfectly legit. Well, except for the vials of powder tucked away in his lurid green fanny-pack. They’d be good for a short gig between a wall and a bunch of automatic weapons if he got caught with them.

  Hank, Jr. wound down. Otto took the CD out, put it in its plastic box, stuck it back in the rack built into the padded cream-toned dash. He took out another. Mark craned to see the cover. Lyle Lovett: Pontiac.

  Another collection of adobe houses and bad stucco public boxes ghosted past outside. If anybody was up late, they weren’t showing any lights. In 1991 Iran, it paid not to be seen.

  If anybody in the village pointed guns at the semi, Mark didn’t see.

  Coming into Ruhollah Khomeini Airport in Tehrān, you queued up for your official Customs boys in their trim mustaches and tan uniforms. Beyond them Pasdaran prowled in pairs and packs, wearing those turtleneck sweaters they love so much and carrying assault rifles. They were not official, but one way or another you had to get past them.

  Jacobo Burckhardt Bustamante stood in line for Customs, smiling serenely beneath the impressive sweep of his seal-colored mustache. He was a trim man somewhere in middle age, with graying hair cropped close to his head. He wore a dark silk suit and darker shades. He had a London Fog trench coat on one arm and his mistress Elena on the other. With her fine features, light-brown hair, and long legs you knew she had to have a lot of Italian or German in her, as many Argentineans do. She wore an indigo dress with the bodice cut high by European standards, just showing the first hint of cleavage — enough to titillate, but not enough to enrage, puritanical zealots with guns. The short silver-fox jacket she wore against the spring chill up here on the Iranian Plateau, beneath the lofty Elburz Mountains, set off her color to excellent advantage.

  Señor Burckhardt’s goons, standing right behind him and the beauteous Señorita Elena, shifting their weight and glaring suspiciously at the rag-heads in line with them, were dressed like goons. They might have come from anywhere in the West; in fact the dark, intense one could well have passed for Iranian. His partner was blond, but there are plenty of blonds in Argentina.

  The blond one, who was the bulkier of the two, let his eyes slide toward a pair of Revolutionary Guardsmen who stood watching the Customs men open bags on a long table. They earned old-model M-16s slung.

  “‘Look, Ma, I just stepped in some Shi’ite,’” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Shut the fuck up, Gary,” the dark one whispered back. “These boys twig to who we are, they’re definitely gonna want to luck you some before they stick the alligator clips on your balls and the tip of your click and plug in the transformer from the Ayatollah’s old Lionel train set.”

  “I don’t like this,” the lovely Elena said. She gave her escort a look before clutching his arm tighter.

  Señor Burckhardt grinned back over his shoulder. “Iran is like what the Book of Common Prayer says about marriage: ‘It is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God.’”

  “You betcha,” the dark goon said.

  Their turn came. Burckhardt passed their papers to a plump man in Customs uniform, who glanced at them, pivoted, and passed them on to a lean, dark man in a buttoned trench coat and snap-brim hat who stood behind him.

  Snap-brim stepped forward. “Señor Burckhardt?”

  Elena and the goons tensed. Burckhardt said, “Sí,” quite calmly.

  “Of the FMA?” He spoke English.

  “Yes. Fábrica Militar de Aviones. Of Argentina, as you can see.”

  The Iranian nodded. “Please come with me.”

  Burckhardt cocked his arm. Elena hesitated. Her face was very pale. She threaded her arm through his, and they followed the man in the snap-brim hat. The goons walked behind them like kids on their way to school.

  Snap-brim led them through a side door. Instead of to an interrogation chamber with tile walls and a drain in the floor, though, it led to a corridor, and then out into the Tehrān night.

  A gray stretch Mercedes limo was waiting for them. Snap-brim saw them inside; the goons seated facing back, Burckhardt and his mistress facing forward. Then he slid in next to the driver and signaled for him to move on.

  “I am Ghodratollah,” he said. “Welcome to Tehrān.”

  “It’s always a pleasure,” Burckhardt said.

  They drove too fast through streets that seemed too dark for a major world capital. Sometimes they came to barricades manned by shadowy figures with guns. They always drove through, without slowing and without being challenged.

  Ghodratollah and Burckhardt conversed between the two goons, chaffing about an airplane FMA built. It was called the Pucará, a light two-engine prop job designed primarily for a light counterinsurgency role. Evidently the Islamic Republic was enjoying the odd light insurgency, though Mr. Ghodratollah did not come out and say so. Both men knew a great deal about the Pucará.

  Eventually Elena and the goons relaxed.

  The Mercedes pulled into the circular drive of a building shaped like a giant ring-cake section strung with Christmas lights and stopped. Ghodratollah stayed put while the driver got out and scurried back to open Burckhardt’s door.

  “Your baggage is in your rooms already. Please enjoy your stay.”

  “I always do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Helene Mistral Carlysle, also known as Helen or — currently — Elena, stood looking in wonder out over the sunken dining room. It was huge, and it was packed. A cut-glass chandelier blazed overhead like frozen fireworks.

  She had changed to a long midnight-blue gown by a trendy Barcelona designer, a joker called Jordi. She wore a heavy choker of short silver bars. Her wrists were crossed at the small of her back.

  Indecently dapper in evening dress, J. Robert Belew stepped up behind her and circled her wrists with his strong brown fingers. She colored. A beat, and then she stepped forward and pulled away.

  “Don’t start taking your role too seriously,” she said. He laughed.

  A maître d’ in Western tux and oil-slick hair materialized and escorted them to a table. The two goons, still wearing the cheap suits they’d arrived in, followed.

  “So why do we have to masquerade as cheap muscle?” Lynn Saxon asked as he took his seat.

  “Because you won’t pass for expensive muscle. Look around, son; what do you see?”

  “Lot of fat rag-heads eating with their fingers.”

  “And guarding them?”

  “Arab dudes in suits, with necks larger than their heads and bulges under their arms,” Gary Hamilton put in hurriedly. He was feeling left out.

  Belew nodded. “Indeed. Those are Husseinis. What they really are is soldiers of Jordan’s Arab Legion, probably the toughest outfit in the Arab world. They’re called Husseinis because everybody in Jordan is named Hussein. Jordanians let their services out as bodyguards. Every rag-head who’s anybody has them. I’m a paltry foreign infidel, so I have to make do with you.”

  “I notice you got seated quick enough,” Hamilton said.

  “Señor Burckhardt is a well-connected infidel.”

  “What’s all this FMA crap, anyway?” Saxon asked. “What does an Argie plane salesman want in Tehrān?”

  “Argentina’s air force,
as most people don’t know, is trained by the Israelis. That’s why they did as well as they did against the Brits in ’82, when most of the Argentinean armed forces were a complete washout. Israel also happens to be one of Iran’s number-one suppliers of military matériel and know-how. They can’t exactly do it openly, though. Argentinean military-industrial types are natural go-betweens.”

  “The Israelis?” Helen said. “How long has this been going on? The last couple of years?”

  “All along. Even when the Iranians held the hostages, and even during our doomed little stab at getting ’em back.” He sat a moment, eyes distant. “The real world is an ugly place, my dear.”

  “But the Israelis are our friends,” Hamilton said.

  “’At the narrow passage, there will be no brother, no friend,’” Belew said. “Old Arabic saying.”

  Helen showed a wintry smile. “Somehow I have the feeling Señor Burckhardt has been here before.”

  “Naturally. Iran’s a very interesting area, geopolitically speaking. The Israelis can be very accommodating, when Langley asks nice.”

  The waiter arrived. Belew ordered for everyone in French.

  “What’d you get us?” Saxon demanded sullenly when the waiter left.

  “White man’s food. Don’t worry about it.” Belew turned to Helen. “You looked overwhelmed when I came in. I wouldn’t guess you’re exactly out of your depth in surroundings such as this.”

  “I wasn’t expecting such, such opulence. The Iranian revolutionary government is supposed to be quite puritanical.”

  “They are. Just as you are yourself.”

  She glared. “I am not puritanical. I’m only … careful.”

  “A woman for the eighties. Of course, it is the nineties.” The soup arrived. “How come the Revolutionary Guards don’t bust in and trash the place, then?” Hamilton asked as the others raised their silver spoons.

  “The Iranians have learned a hard lesson that a lot of other revolutionary societies have had to learn, some harder than others. Nobody goes it alone in this world. You need contact with the outside world — you need trade. And that means you have to cut outsiders a certain amount of slack. Otherwise you end up being the Khmer Rouge.”

  He sampled his soup, rolled it around his mouth, nodded. “This hotel is the Vale of Kashmir. Built in 1984. It’s owned by the Sultan of Kashmir. Jalal-ud-din Shah Durrani, grandson of old Abd-er-Rahim Durrani, the Khyber bandit who grabbed the kingdom from the Hindus when the Brits pulled out in ’47. Young Jalu is a heavy hitter in these parts, even though he’s a Sunni and something of a progressive. He’s ethnically Persian, being a Pushtun. Also, he poured a lot of much-needed investment dollars into the country during the war with Iraq.”

  “So they tolerate a certain amount of conspicuous consumption on his premises?” Helen asked.

  “Not all of them.” He sipped from a champagne glass. “By the way, by all means try this. It’s melon juice from Tashkent, in what used to be Soviet Central Asia. Just recently started importing it. Its miraculous stuff, poets used to write songs about the melons of Tashkent.”

  “Nonalcoholic, though,” Helen said.

  “There’s only so far you can stretch tolerance. Though if you’re discreet, you can get booze served in your room, at ruinous prices. Still, some of the more fanatical locals have been known to take exception … notice the tall men in the turbans, standing where they can take it all in?”

  The others looked around. ’Big bearded sons of bitches,” Saxon said, “so what?”

  “So they’re Afridi, Gilzai, and Yusufzai tribesmen. Your real Khyber cutthroats, the very boys who handed the Russian Bear his head over in Afghanistan. And I mean the very ones; these are all hardcore mujahidin vets. The sultan imports them to pull security.”

  “The ayatollahs are afraid of them?” Helen asked.

  “Back in ’86 a couple of fanatics — schoolteachers, oddly enough — tried a trick they used to pull on movie theaters and other places they thought subverted true Islamic values. They brought chains and big jerricans of gasoline. They were going to pour the gas inside, chain the doors shut, and set it all off to sort of encourage other sinners.”

  “My God, how awful. What happened?”

  “Afridis caught ’em. Chained them up out front, doused them in their own gas, and lit up.” Belew wiped his mouth. “Didn’t have much trouble after that.”

  Helen choked. After a moment Saxon gave an explosive snort of laughter.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” he asked.

  Belew pointed the way. Saxon excused himself. While he was gone, the entrees came: tournedos of beef on toast.

  When Saxon returned, he moved more crisply and his eyes were bright. “So even the Shi’ites can be tolerant once in a while.” He laughed. “That’s a mistake.”

  “How do you mean?” Belew asked.

  “I mean, that’s where they lose it. They’re history. Zero tolerance; that’s the only tolerance level for a society that’s, that’s

  He paused, puzzled, then raised a hand and knotted it into a fist. “… Together.”

  “That’s what you have in mind for America?” Helen asked. “A society that’s more restrictive than Shi’ite Iran?”

  “You got it. See, you’re soft, babe, you got a runny core. Just like a woman. That’s why you aren’t cut out for this work. That’s why”

  Hamilton laid a hand on his arm. “Hey. Lynn. Easy does it, man.”

  “No. Nothing easy about it. We have the ability now; we know what’s right for people, we can make them do it. It’s our responsibility. All it takes is the will.”

  “The New World Order,” Belew said, swirling melon juice in his glass. “High ideals … except you never know when you might run into Afridis.”

  “So what’s our next move, Mr. CIA Mastermind?” Lynn Saxon asked, riding up in the elevator after dinner.

  Belew smiled at him. “I guess it never occurred to you that we’re in the middle of what has to be considered Indian country, and they don’t much care for the Agency in these parts. Or doesn’t the DEA know about bugging elevators?”

  “Jesus, Lynn, will you for God’s sake watch your mouth?” Hamilton said. A sweat catenary had formed along his hairline. “We’re in this, too, you know.”

  “Hey, stay out of my face,” Saxon said, but without force.

  “In answer to your question, we stay loose and wait to hear from my contacts.”

  “Your contacts,” Saxon sneered.

  “They have a pretty good batting average so far,” Belew said, sticking his hands in his pockets.

  “I guess you think that makes you pretty damned smart, cowboy.”

  “I think it makes me a professional in the intelligence trade. One who makes judicious use of carefully cultivated contacts, which are important tools of that trade. Whereas you, I think, are a mean Nintendo pig who’s seen too many Mel Gibson movies.”

  For a moment Saxon just stood there. Then he snarled and threw himself at Belew. Hamilton got in between them and trapped his smaller partner against the side of the elevator. Belew stood there watching without especial sign of interest.

  “The superior man is satisfied and composed; the mean man is always full of distress,’” he said.

  The elevator stopped on their floor. Belew walked out without looking back. Helen came with him, sticking close.

  “We’re the professionals here,” Saxon yelled at Belew’s dinner-jacketed back. “We’re the cops. You’re just a fucking burned-out Green Beanie playing spy games.”

  Belew unlocked the door of the suite Señor Burckhardt shared with Señorita Elena. He ushered Helen in, then turned in the doorway.

  “Show me,” he said. “Prove you’re the real cops. Catch Mark Meadows.”

  “You bet your ass we will, old man.”

  “Good.” Belew started to pull the door closed. Saxon made as if to follow him in.

  “Do you mind? You have your own room.” Belew shut the doo
r in his face. “I apologize for the scene,” Belew said, turning. “Confrontation does little to aid the digestion.”

  “That’s okay,” Helen said. Her posture was stiff, defensive. “I think I need to get some sleep. I’m dead on my feet.”

  “I can have the maid come make the couch up for you.”

  She stared at him. “What? I thought —”

  “I’m Señor Burckhardt. This is my room; I made the arrangements for it, my firm is paying for it. The bed is an old-fashioned brass one, and I’m sleeping in it. Where you sleep is up to you.”

  Helen started to say something, but the sheer enormity of what he was saying overwhelmed her. She sat down heavily on the sofa with tears shining in the corners of her eyes.

  Belew went into the bedroom, came back with a portable stereo tape player, which he set on the coffee table. “Care for a little late-night listening before you turn in?”

  She tried to be polite: “No, I’m sorry I’m not in the mood for any music —”

  He punched the button.

  Lynn Saxon’s voice came out, slightly muffled: “Washington on the line, finally. Shag ass over here!”

  She frowned up at Belew. He looked straight into her eyes.

  “All right, Mr. Bohart. I’ve got Agent Hamilton here with me now.”

  “About this Flash thing —”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Meadows was already spooked. We think the Geeks had done something to tip him off — he had the vial in his hand…”

  “But Mistral —”

  “She just wasn’t up to it, you know? Woman in a man’s job. What’d you expect? I got no clue why SCARE wished her ass on us. Probably trying to put a spoke in our wheels —”

  “If you’d let me finish a sentence, Saxon … we were surprised to learn how, ah, how lenient Flash had been with her.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, boss. The guy’s so far gone on drugs, he changes into somebody else … I mean, you just don’t expect him to walk away and leave anybody, you know, alive in his backfield.”