by William Hood
Castle stopped to fiddle with his glasses and assess his audience. “Because their files show that Volin was in on Pickett’s recruitment in Prague, Moscow must have assumed that Volin would shop Pickett as well. But when Pickett remained in place and as productive as ever, Moscow decided they had nothing to gain by dropping contact or even warning him. They were right, and Pickett soldiered along until last week. By now Moscow probably knows Pickett is dead, and might even have learned he was a suicide. This will suggest either that Volin approached Pickett and attempted to blackmail him, or that Volin belatedly sold him to us. Either way, the Pickett chapter is closed.
“Volin had one bit of merchandise that Moscow does not know he had — Alizadeh. But as of now, I see no reason to think Moscow arranged for his recall to Tehran. As far as Moscow knows, Alizadeh is in good shape.”
“All the necessary phone taps are in place,” Brooks said. “Given time, we can start surveillance, begin searches of Slocombe’s office — government property, after all — and perhaps even sneak a peek into his residence.”
“Forget having the time,” Trosper said. “If we don’t move now, Alizadeh will make his own decision. Whatever choice he makes, he’s permanently out of touch with Slocombe.”
“If Moscow puts Slocombe on ice until they sort it all out,” said Grogan, “the most we’ll be able to do is question him and he’s surely smart enough to tell us to get stuffed. When that happens, all the State Department can do is isolate him in a tame job until he decides to retire and write his memoirs.”
“Unless he freaks out and tries to run,” Brooks suggested cheerfully.
Mayo scowled and said, “Unless, as has been known to happen in such a case, there’s a leak, and the press latches onto it.”
“So it’s three days?” Whyte peered around the office.
The FBI delegation nodded in unison.
“Perhaps less,” said Castle.
Trosper took a deep breath before saying, “Maybe Doc Trestle could buy us enough time to sort this out, maybe come up with something that will force a meet with Slocombe?”
Whyte glanced at Castle.
Castle nodded.
“Agreed,” said Whyte.
43
New York
In the half-light of the safe house, Gholam Alizadeh appeared pale and drawn. “Karem Nabavi, our administrative guy, told me he wanted to postpone my leaving until they knew about my replacement. But it didn’t get approved. Now we’re supposed to leave on the Saturday flight.” He shrugged. “Our stuff gets moved out on Friday.”
“But that’s just three days,” Grogan said.
“Time enough for me to make a decision and get away,” Alizadeh said with a glance at Trosper.
“Get away where?” Grogan asked.
“I’ve done nothing wrong, I still have choices — work something out with you, return to Tehran, or go to Moscow.”
“But you agreed to stay here as long as possible, at least until another meeting with Adam,” Grogan said.
“Don’t you understand I can’t stay at the mission now that they’ve told me we’re to leave on Saturday?” Alizadeh turned to Trosper.
“The other day you offered me asylum. Okay, I accept, we stay here, I do what you want, and you give us some money to start life over again. But I can’t stay on at the mission after they’ve told me I’m leaving this week … ”
Trosper pulled his chair closer to Alizadeh. “Does the mission have a doctor here?”
“Sure, Doctor Hasan, an old guy. He left Iran for medical school here and never went home. He’s been in New York ever since he got citizenship and a license … ”
“If you get sick, could he tell the mission that you’re not well enough to travel for a while?”
“I guess so,” Alizadeh said. “But I don’t see how I could fool him … ”
“We have someone who can help,” Trosper said. “He can tell you about the symptoms that would make it impossible for you to travel for a few days.”
“Old Hasan is no fool,” Alizadeh said. “I’m not sure I could convince him that I’m sick enough to postpone my leaving.”
“Why don’t you talk to our man about it?”
Alizadeh shrugged. “Okay, why not?”
“Just as a precaution,” Trosper said, “I brought him along tonight. He’s just down the hall … ”
Grogan got up. “I’ll call him.”
Although the Firm had its own medical staff, “Doc” Trestle had taken his degrees in biochemistry. As a chemist, he was completely separated from the medical staff, and had no ethical problems with the occasional special demands which might conflict with the Hippocratic oath.
Trestle stepped into the room. Brown suit, light tan shirt, olive-drab knit necktie, chocolate-brown lisle socks, and dark suede shoes.
Trosper could not remember ever having seen Trestle in anything but brown.
“Now,” Trestle said as he pulled a thick maduro cigar from his breast pocket, “just what’s the problem?”
“Our friend,” Trosper said with a gesture toward Alizadeh, “is being forced to make a rather long flight. Because we can’t be sure about his reception, it’s in our mutual interest that he postpone the trip for at least a few days, perhaps two weeks or more.”
“I see.” Trestle busied himself lighting the cigar.
“Although he’s healthy, a sudden and obvious sickness might convince his local doctor that he’s too much under the weather to travel right now.”
Trestle blew a cloud of smoke across the coffee table and turned to Alizadeh. “Is your physician trustworthy and scrupulous, or will he take your word for being sick?”
“Oh, no,” Alizadeh said quickly. “He won’t take anyone’s word for anything at all … ”
Trestle shook his head. “What about your health? Any chronic medical problems — asthma, heart irregularity, ulcers, kidneys, liver? Any sort of digestive bothers I might be able to work on?”
“Nothing at all,” said Alizadeh, embarrassed by his good health.
“Is your doctor aggressive — one of those dedicated TV-type medics who’ll keep probing until he comes up with a textbook diagnosis? Or will he do what most of the medical crowd does — prescribe a couple of pills and wait to see how things work out?”
“I don’t know … ”
Trestle opened a shabby attaché case and began to sort through an array of small bottles. Puffs of cigar smoke floated to the ceiling like tribal signals. He turned to Trosper. “We need a set of symptoms that are difficult to diagnose. Symptoms that cover a dozen sicknesses, some serious, others more like the flu, but all possibly contagious, at the least infectious. That means we have to supply our friend’s doctor with a set of clues — fever, stomach cramps, a touch of diarrhea, severe headache, maybe even muscle spasms — that point to a variety of likely medical problems. Depending on how your doctor reacts to his first examination, we might have to provide a few more clues — something suggesting a serious kidney problem might work.”
Trestle paused to draw deeply on his cigar. “The Legionnaires’ version of pneumonia has a good publicity value these days, but if the local doc thought he recognized it, he might think it was acute.” He waved his hands to blow away the bank of smoke and said, “The right virus might give us a useful range of symptoms. If not, we can always fall back, maybe hint at a possible meningitis.”
Trosper nodded. “That all sounds fine, but along with keeping our friend from traveling, let’s be damn sure he doesn’t get slapped right into hospital.”
“Of course, of course,” said Trestle impatiently. “Because I know exactly what caused the symptoms, I have a tremendous advantage over any local practitioner.” He turned to Alizadeh. “If your doctor gets too upset, I can erase most of the symptoms with a few simple antidotes.”
Trosper faced Alizadeh. “How does that sound to you?”
“No problem,” said Alizadeh, “as long as you have the cure pills right at hand.”
“Then we’re all agreed?”
“The sooner the better,” said Alizadeh.
Grogan’s smile was enigmatic.
Trestle selected two small vials from his case and held them to the light. “I want your wife to take this, it’s a prophylactic, just so she won’t catch any of your symptoms.” He stopped to study each vial. “As you can see, there’s less than a teaspoon of liquid. Neither the dose itself nor the prophylactic has any color. Both are absolutely tasteless.”
“When should we take it?” Alizadeh asked.
“Eight hours before you want the symptoms to appear,” said Trestle.
“That means around midnight,” Trosper said.
“Perfect,” said Alizadeh.
Trestle pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and prepared to label the vials. “There’s just one thing I suppose I should mention.” He glanced quickly at Trosper.
“Yes?”
“In order to produce the symptoms you want, I’m afraid there’s no way around the fact that the patient will feel as if he’s actually contracted one or two of the sicknesses that cause the symptoms.”
Trosper’s eyes closed as he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He could not tell whether the muffled groan came from Grogan or the prospective patient.
“You mean I’ll actually be sick?” said Alizadeh, his voice choked.
“Not sick, exactly,” Doc Trestle said. “Think of it more as a slight case of poisoning … ”
Grogan’s lips barely moved as he muttered, “That last bit’s not very helpful, Doc.”
“And remember, I’ll have all the antidotes right here in my case,” Trestle said.
“You’re absolutely crazy people,” Alizadeh cried. “I can’t knock myself down just at the time everything’s at stake … ”
Trestle took a blue label from his case. “This will go on the vial for your wife — put the potion in her coffee or orange juice, anything at all. It will immunize her so she doesn’t contract any of your … er … symptoms.”
“Not possible,” said Alizadeh as he dabbed at the sweat on his collar.
Trestle took a red label from his bag. “This will go on the potion that produces the symptoms. Make no mistake about it. Blue for your wife, red for the symptoms.”
Alizadeh’s eyes widened. “What would happen if my wife takes the dose, would she have symptoms?”
Trestle looked up. “She would have the symptoms just as I’ve described them.”
Alizadeh turned to Trosper. “That’s the answer — if she can’t travel, neither can I. I’ll have my wits with me, and the doctor will say that we must stay here until she can make the trip.”
“What about it?” Trosper asked Trestle.
Trestle glanced thoughtfully at Alizadeh. “It’s all right with me. If she’s in good health, there’ll be no problem.”
“She’s in perfect health, stronger than me, no problems at all,” Alizadeh said quickly. “Besides, she doesn’t have to know anything about it. She’ll think she’s really sick and will be completely convincing.”
Trosper glanced at Grogan. “Okay?”
Grogan shrugged.
Trestle picked up the vials, checked them against a notebook in his attaché case, and pasted on the labels. “Blue for immunization, red for symptoms — don’t forget now.”
Doc Trestle was the first to leave. Alizadeh followed ten minutes later.
Trosper handed a drink to Grogan. “Did you get the same impression I did?”
Grogan looked puzzled. “You mean, like the Doc wasn’t much impressed when your friend decided his wife should take the fall?”
“That’s the bad news, the good news is that I think Doc Trestle switched the labels … ”
Grogan stared at Trosper. “You know, I’d really hate to get mixed up with you crazy bastards if something important was at stake.”
44
New York
“If Doc Trestle’s almanac is right, we ought to know by now just who got the ‘symptoms,’” Grogan said.
“Alizadeh said he’d call at noon,” Trosper said. “He’s only half an hour late.”
“Maybe he got confused,” Grogan said. “If he drank both the red and the blue potions, he may have croaked — internal combustion.”
“I can call him at his apartment,” Widgery said. “I’ve got the number and we have a code — if he can remember it.”
“We’re not going to do anything until three o’clock,” Trosper said.
“Good,” said Grogan. “I’ve always had trouble getting through the first fifty pages of Henry James. It’s just my good luck that the only thing to read in this whole damned safe house is Widge’s copy of The Wings of the Dove.”
“Clac,” said Trosper. “Not safe house.”
*
Widgery answered the telephone. “Hello … ”
Trosper picked up the monitor and glanced at his watch. Two-fifteen.
A woman’s whisper: “Mr. Lynch, please.”
“I’m Lynch,” Widgery said.
“Mr. Alizadeh wants something, please.”
“Very good,” Widgery said. “Put him on … ”
“Mr. Alizadeh can’t speak, he’s too sick. Throwing up, stomach pains, fever, leg aches. Our doctor very worried.”
“Who is speaking?”
“I am calling for Mr. Alizadeh, please. I am Mr. Alizadeh’s wife and so I am to speak to his friend Mr. Lynch.”
“This is Lynch, what do you want?”
“Mr. Alizadeh wants to see you and your friend right away. He says come here and bring blue bottles.”
“Bring what?”
“Some blue bottles medicine. Mr. Alizadeh’s doctor never heard of it.”
Widgery turned to Trosper.
“Half an hour,” Trosper said.
*
The varnished furniture supplied by the Iranian mission reminded Trosper of a motel room, and clashed with the samovar, a stack of large cushions, and a small rolled rug. A handsomely framed picture of the prophet Mohammed hung over an empty bookcase, and on the far wall a large portrait of Khomeini testified to Alizadeh’s presumed enthusiasm for the revolution. An open box with a baseball glove, scuffed roller blades, and a New York Giants’ sweatshirt were the only signs of a child. The packed luggage ranged along the side of the living room was evidence of the Alizadeh family’s projected departure.
Mrs. Alizadeh, her hair covered with a tightly tied white scarf, clutched her black smock, and beckoned Trosper and Grogan across the living room and into a bedroom. “He’s been very sick,” she said. “A high fever, and pains. I hope you brought the medicine.”
Trosper nodded as she opened the door to the bedroom. Alizadeh lay propped against two pillows, his dark complexion mottled with patches of gray. He eased himself into a sitting position. “Did you bring the medicine?”
Trosper pulled an unmarked bottle of pills from his pocket. “Take two of these every four hours, drink plenty of liquids — water, tea, juice, ginger ale, no coffee. Stay in bed.”
“That’s all?” Alizadeh exclaimed. “I’m in hell, and that’s all you have for me?”
“It was decent of you to take the wrong stuff just to spare your wife,” said Grogan with a comforting smile.
Alizadeh groaned and gobbled two pills.
“Keep taking the pills, and stay in bed until you feel normal … ”
Doc Trestle’s only prescription was unmarked aspirin, plenty of liquids, and bed rest. “A guy like that has never felt normal,” he said. “He’ll continue to imagine symptoms and stay in bed until he gets too bored to keep feeling sorry for himself. Put the aspirin in an unmarked bottle, but for Christ’s sake don’t tell him what it is or he’ll never get up.”
Alizadeh groaned as he pulled himself higher on the pillows.
“Has Dr. Hasan canceled your flight back?”
“Of course he has, I can’t travel like this … ”
“Then we can count on your bein
g here for several more days?” Grogan asked.
The telephone rang and Mrs. Alizadeh hurried into the living room to pick it up. “He’s too sick, he can’t come to the phone,” she whispered. There was a pause before she said, “Yes, I’m sure he cannot get out of bed … ” Another pause. “Moment please, I will go tell him … ” From the door of the bedroom Mrs. Alizadeh spoke softly in Persian. Alizadeh shook his head and waved his hand dismissively until his wife made a clear reference to “Mr. Wright.” He looked anxiously at Trosper and Grogan, said something in Persian to his wife, and picked up the extension phone beside the bed. “Alizadeh,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“Mr. Wright asked me to talk to you,” the caller said.
“I don’t know any Mr. Wright … ”
Trosper stepped to the bedroom door and took the other phone from Mrs. Alizadeh.
“Yes you do … Mr. Wright. He’s fallen sick. He asked me to telephone you to say he’s sick.”
“I’m the one who’s sick … ”
“You’re sick too?”
“Yes … ”
“Can you tell me about it on the telephone?”
“I have fever, headache, stomach cramps, throwing up, and — ”
“You mean, you’re really sick?”
“Yes, I’m really sick.” Alizadeh shook his head in disbelief. “Who are you anyway?”
“Like I said, I’m a friend of Mr. Wright. He asked me to call you and to say that he’s sick. He’s too sick to see you. He’s so sick that he has to go home to get better … ”
“I see,” said Alizadeh. “What you mean is, he’s sick in a different way?”
“Yes, damn it, he’s sick in another way. It’s important that you don’t try to see him or call. You and your family might catch what’s wrong with him. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” Alizadeh said.
“If you believe you might get sick the way Mr. Wright is, you should think about going home to get better.”