The Sunday Spy

by William Hood

  “You want a bet on the time for the meet?”

  Forcing a smile as if he were giving directions to a stranger,

  Grogan said, “If it is a meet, and if our chum isn’t so anxious he allows himself an extra hour, it could go down at quarter to eleven. Whatever the plan, they’ll have fallbacks every forty minutes or so until the parade’s over, or the crowd thins out. They must have read those procedures in one of your manuals.”

  “We read it in one of theirs … ”

  Grogan eased his pace as Winesap on the west side of the avenue halted for a red light. “These guys like a crowd for a brush contact, so it’ll be one of the four-lane crosstown intersections — probably 59th and Broadway.”

  “Not 42nd?”

  Grogan shook his head. “Too much crime, and that means too many uniforms, even PCs.”

  “PCs?”

  “Plain clothes, sometimes ‘suits’ … ”

  It had long been the practice to avoid meetings in heavily policed airports, and bus and train stations; the notion that one of the busiest crossroads in the world was off-limits was news.

  Grogan stretched slightly as he strained to reassure himself on the progress of his team. Apparently satisfied, he said, “I like that stupid airline bag he’s carrying. What the hell does he think anyone might imagine he has in it? It’s like he’s carrying a sign, ‘Hotshot agent about to make a meet and do a switch.’ He should have a camera bag, maybe a kid, like everyone else.”

  “Count your blessings,” Trosper said softly. “All you’ve got to do is start looking around Manhattan for anyone else who’s toting a United Airlines bag … ”

  “If the Post had it right, there’ll be more than half a million people lined up along Broadway — and another few million glued to the tube,” Grogan said. “With my luck, every one of them will spot my guys.”

  Seconds before the light changed Winesap crossed 67th Street and continued briskly along Lexington Avenue. Across the avenue, Grogan gave Winesap another few yards.

  Trosper loitered at an antique shop window until he was a full block behind Grogan. He could not see Winesap at all.

  At 59th Street, Grogan flipped up the collar of his raincoat. Winesap had turned west.

  Trosper lengthened his stride as he turned onto 59th Street. Across the four lanes of stalled traffic, he could see Winesap moving more rapidly toward Broadway.

  With the shift from the near-empty sidewalks of Lexington Avenue to the crowd of latecomers moving along 59th Street toward the parade, the second team eased into place and the box formed more tightly around Winesap. Trosper would stay on the far side of 59th Street until the team had settled down.

  In the distance Trosper caught glimpses of the huge, inflated caricatures of cartoon and folk figures, and heard occasional echoes of the thunder and blast of the drum and bugle corps and marching bands.

  The annual Thanksgiving Day parade beckoned thousands of automobiles into midtown Manhattan and erased established traffic patterns. Auto and bus routes were dislocated as crosstown traffic was corralled into a few scattered streets where vehicles were allowed to inch across the parade route in the intervals between the floats and marchers.

  Along Broadway, spectators ranged three to five deep at curbside. Children pushed forward, wriggling their way to the front. Behind them, restless adults jockeyed for a better glimpse of the passing show and then, bored, moved on again. A younger child perched high astride his father’s shoulders, and more bewildered than entertained by the spectacle, seemed happy just to be with the parent. Trosper wondered if this outing would be logged under bonding or quality time in the notes for the next session with the family guidance counselor.

  At the barricaded cross streets, the crowds of viewers clustered six to ten deep provided textbook-perfect cover for a brush contact or even a few moments of casual conversation, as if between strangers strolling along the parade route.

  As he threaded his way along the teeming sidewalk, Trosper made no attempt to keep Winesap’s visored baseball cap in view, but sighted on Grogan. Buffeted by the crowd moving along with the parade, Grogan kept edging closer to Winesap.

  Suddenly, beyond Grogan, the blue cap came clearly into Trosper’s view. Winesap had stepped away from the crowd at the curb and stood with his back against the facade of a shuttered drugstore, his attention apparently fixed on a helium-filled, sixty-foot representation of a comic-strip beagle. Like a fractious puppy, Snoopy tugged against the ground lines binding him to the handlers struggling to keep him moving along the route.

  Trosper eased his way to the rear of the curbside crowd, a scant hundred feet from Winesap. Too close. This was a Bureau stunt. He was a spectator, and had no business even being in the vicinity.

  But where in hell was Grogan’s team? As he shifted slightly to scan his nearest neighbors, Trosper remembered a bit of wisdom from the Fort. Great street men have one common trait, fantastic peripheral vision — legend had it that a really gifted watcher could see his own ears.

  Trosper had no such advantage. He used the excuse of stepping aside for a child to peer quickly in Grogan’s direction. Nothing. Could the float have lost Winesap when he crossed onto 59th Street? Unlikely. Without turning his head, he occupied himself sorting out the spectators carrying photographic equipment. He ignored those encumbered with expensive, wide-angle or bulky zoom lenses, some with the protective lens caps in place. He had never seen a working photographer trouble to cap a lens. Low-cost equipment, the least conspicuous and non-threatening gear, would be the choice of any surveillant prepared to work close to his target.

  Grogan moved close enough to nudge Trosper’s elbow. “Ten forty-three,” he breathed, his lips motionless. “Like he’s wondering if the turkey’s done, the stupid bastard keeps checking his watch. It’s like he wants everyone to know the Treff’s right now, in front of the drugstore.”

  Trosper kept his eyes on the parade as Grogan inched away.

  Still no indication of the float. Either the second squad had split and been replaced by an invisible third group, or something had gone wrong …

  Trosper eased his watch to the inside of his wrist and, as if adjusting his glove, checked the time. Ten forty-four. He risked a quick look in Winesap’s direction.

  At the moment their eyes met, Winesap pulled off his baseball cap and thrust it into the pocket of his raincoat.

  Trosper blinked as the adrenalin spurted into his system.

  With an effort he caught himself, and managed to keep from averting his eyes and twisting suddenly away as if aware he had glimpsed an embarrassing moment. Keeping his expression blank and uninterested, Trosper continued to turn slowly, a bored spectator, absently looking for some slight distraction. When his back was to Winesap, Trosper leaned forward, feigning an interest in a marching band of pudgy high school cadets.

  He had broken an absolute commandment — a surveillant is never, ever, to make eye contact with a target. If it happens, the watcher is blown, and must break away at once.

  Trosper cursed his stupidity. His one direct look at Winesap could not have been timed more perfectly to intercept the single bit of standard security procedure the agent had permitted himself that morning. When Winesap pocketed his cap, he had signaled an all-clear, at precisely the moment he caught Trosper’s eye.

  Damn and blast … damn and blast … damn … damn … damn.

  He stood motionless, his attention fixed on the Marshfield Senior High School Marching Tigers band. Neither the elaborate black uniforms nor white shako hats could lift his spirits. Not even the pleasant young faces, absorbed in the music and keeping step, were any distraction. He had blown Grogan’s stunt well and truly. Worse, it was none of his business. All these years in the racket, and here I stand, a damned freeloading spectator, with no reason to be anywhere near the scene. Just my stupid curiosity, a dumb desire to see how things would work out.

  Damn … damn … damn, he recited in time with the thumping drums and blaring bra
ss — more than a hundred strong, he estimated bleakly.

  A jostling from the left. Trosper pulled slightly away, now attempting to distract himself by making a more accurate estimate of the number of Marshfield marchers. More than a hundred, maybe two hundred marchers was his final, sour guess.

  Jostled again. J. Edgar Hoover’s enraged ghost, he thought as he risked a quick glance. Not J. Edgar, but Grogan, his face drawn.

  “He’s moved,” Grogan whispered, his eyes on the final rank of the Marshfield marchers.

  “I’m not surprised, Mike,” Trosper murmured. “I think he made me, eye-to-eye … ”

  “Not that horse’s ass,” Grogan said. “He’s stuffed that stupid hat into his pocket. All signals are go. He’s hot to trot … ”

  Trosper turned away, glancing over Grogan’s shoulder. Winesap was moving slowly along the sidewalk, apparently following the parade, south along Broadway.

  Grogan moved along, now fifty feet behind Winesap.

  Trosper gave him a few steps and then followed.

  In the distance, more than a hundred yards, striding north, and conspicuously tall against the opposing flow of spectators — a tweed cap, and dark green, country gentleman’s waxed rain jacket. Black airline bag in left hand. Not even a glance at the Marshfield Marching Tigers, now in full cry.

  Bingo.

  “It’s a make,” Trosper said to himself as he turned away.

  “I’m out of here,” he murmured aloud, but to no one in particular.

  I should have known, he told himself as he hurried away.

  But I did know, he told himself as he turned east on 56th Street.

  I knew, damn it. I knew it.

  41

  New York

  With the now familiar move, Grogan thrust his ID card and badge at arm’s length toward Winesap. “Mike Grogan, Special Agent, FBI.”

  Startled, Winesap rose from the chair beside the coffee table and then dropped back. He turned to Widgery. “What is happen … what the hell this guy doing here?” Grogan’s confrontation had rattled Winesap’s command of English.

  “These gentlemen have a few questions for you,” Widgery said, his nasal drawl amplified by his evident pleasure in Winesap’s surprise. “Mr. Grogan is with the FBI. You should think of the FBI as our security police.”

  “I know FBI,” Winesap said. He started to get up again, pushing both hands on the arms of his chair.

  “Sit down,” said Trosper. “And stay right where you are.” Winesap’s black hair, thick mustache, and heavy eyebrows that stretched in an almost unbroken line above the black frames of his glasses limned his face like the bold strokes of a caricature.

  “That’s our Mr. Jones,” Widgery said, nodding in Trosper’s direction. “He’s a colleague of mine.”

  Winesap had come to the East 31st Street safe house for the regularly scheduled meeting with Widgery. Ten minutes after his arrival, Trosper and Grogan let themselves into the apartment.

  “I have a few things to discuss with you,” Grogan said stiffly. “But first I want to be sure you know your rights … ”

  “I am Iranian diplomat,” Winesap said. “I already know I have the right to immunity from arrest and any questioning by police.” He brushed both hands through his thick black hair and glanced anxiously at Widgery.

  Grogan shook his head. “You’re a clerk at the Iranian mission to the U.N. Only diplomatic officers have immunity. As a clerk, your immunity is granted at host country discretion.” The definition might not have cut much ice at the U.N. protocol office, or even with the State Department, but Trosper found it fitted the situation at hand.

  Winesap pulled a green-bordered ID card from his wallet and handed it to Grogan.

  Grogan glanced at it. “This identifies you as Gholam Alizadeh, born Tabriz, Iran, 6 May 1964 … ”

  “What?” Winesap appeared not to understand Grogan’s pronunciation.

  “Hereabouts most people just call him Ali or Gholam,” Widgery interceded.

  “If it’s all the same,” said Trosper, “I’ll continue to think of him as Mr. Alizadeh.” He waited thoughtfully before saying, “In return, he’d better understand that we know he’s a Russian agent inserted into the Iranian foreign office by what used to be the Soviet intelligence service.”

  Alizadeh’s eyes blinked shut and he twisted back into the heavy chair. “You’re crazy people,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re talking, I am Iranian official, assigned to Islamic Republic of Iran Mission to United Nations in New York.” He turned to Widgery. “Tell him we work together. You know me … ” Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

  Widgery smiled slightly before saying, “They’re both well aware of your record.”

  “Then that’s enough of this crazy talk,” Alizadeh said. “I demand to leave.”

  “Where do you plan to go — to your friends at the Russian mission?” Trosper said. “They won’t let you in the door.”

  Alizadeh turned angrily to Grogan. “I’m going from here … ”

  “If you try to leave this room, I’ll arrest you for conspiracy to commit espionage,” Grogan said.

  Alizadeh jumped to his feet. “Conspiracy! What conspiracy? You’re all crazy … ”

  Trosper sighed and stepped behind Alizadeh. He disliked violence but had learned that a bit of it early in a confrontation tended to demonstrate who was in charge and to focus attention on the problem at hand. He grabbed the collar of Alizadeh’s blue blazer and yanked him backward. As the Iranian struggled to avoid flopping back into the chair, a brass button popped from the front of his blazer and arched across the coffee table. Widgery fielded it in midair and tossed it back to Alizadeh, now sprawled in his chair.

  “I sincerely suggest you listen to my friends,” Widgery said, his drawl as astringent as iodine.

  “You have a choice,” said Grogan. “You can cooperate by giving us the details of your background and clandestine activity here. If that doesn’t suit, I’ll arrest you right now for illegal entry into this country, and charge you with resisting arrest. After that, we’ll have to see about the conspiracy to commit espionage.”

  Alizadeh pocketed the button. “I am a diplomatic official, legally here at U.N. I protest this treatment and demand to see my ambassador.” He twisted angrily to stare over his shoulder at Trosper.

  “If it’s the new Russian ambassador you’re talking about, he’ll be some damned surprised to find you on his doorstep,” Trosper said, as he stepped from behind Alizadeh’s chair. “Since he’s trying to get off on the right foot with the U.N. Secretary General, I can’t think of anything the ambassador would be less willing to do than try to explain why he’s representing an Iranian clerk who claims he’s a Russian spy.” Trosper had no idea whether there was a new Russian ambassador or not. He wanted to challenge Alizadeh, to maneuver him into talking about anything but his immunity and nationality.

  “Iranian ambassador,” Alizadeh said without looking up.

  “Do you really think the Iranian government will protect you after we show them that you’re a Russian agent, foisted on Iran by the KGB?”

  “KGB is finished, everyone knows that … ”

  “But there used to be a KGB,” Trosper said. “And as you damned well know, now there’s something called the SVR — the same people, just a little tarted up.”

  “Everyone are friends now,” Alizadeh said. “All this spy nonsense is over except for you crazy people.”

  Trosper glanced at Grogan — come on Mike, he implored, he’s begun to argue with us, take a shot.

  “What do you think VEVAK will say when we show them that you’re a Russian national, inserted into their Islamic Republic’s diplomatic service?” Without waiting for an answer, Grogan forged ahead.

  “It still is VEVAK isn’t it?” he asked, and reeled off a string of nearly incomprehensible sounds.

  Alizadeh stared blankly at Grogan.

  Trosper masked a smile as he realized that he was not the only
one who had boned up on Iran. Grogan had rendered what seemed to be an anglicized version of Persian — Vezarat-e Ettela’at Va Amniyat-e Keshvar, the Islamic Republic’s security and intelligence organization.

  “I mean the new security muscle, the VEVAK,” Grogan said. “Aren’t they still trying to prove they’re tougher than the Shah’s thugs, the SAVAK, used to be? Or don’t you agree?”

  Alizadeh began to speak, but Trosper interrupted. “I’ll tell you one thing for sure,” he said. “When the VEVAK people learn what you’ve been up to, they’ll have you back in Tehran on the next plane. And if you don’t agree to leave New York, they’ll take you back on a stretcher, straight to Evin prison. If they don’t hang you in a public square, maybe they’ll turn you over to some of the vigilantes, the Komitehs, who’ll probably arrange to stone you in a pit. Those guys and your Revolutionary Guards like public executions, it builds morale — of a sort.”

  Alizadeh bent forward, elbows on his knees, clasping his head with both hands. The room was quiet until he looked up, his face drawn, his dark eyes moist. “I’m an innocent fellow … ”

  “Stop that crap,” Trosper said loudly. “You know what we’re talking about.”

  Alizadeh’s glance darted between Trosper and Grogan. “I knew something like this would happen. My whole life, everything about me, every decision, always in the hands of others.” He leaned sideways and began to fumble in his blazer pocket.

  Grogan shifted his weight, and eased his jacket to free his shoulder holster.

  “I need a cigarette,” Alizadeh said.

  Trosper relaxed and nodded to Widgery.

  Grogan pulled an armchair closer to Alizadeh and sat down. “You were saying?”

  Widgery tossed a package of Winstons onto the table beside Alizadeh.

  “Now, it’s all over, my life half gone and I have nothing. No career, no country, not anything. My wife is miserable, one day crying to go back to Iran where she’ll wear that stupid veil and spend the day gossiping with a bunch of other chadori.” He stopped, his glance still wavering between Grogan and Trosper. “The next day she say there’s nothing in Iran for us, so we must stay here. One day one thing, next day another. It makes me crazy.”