Lion Eyes
Page 21
She writes back. He hints, as best he can, that he has information that might be useful to her organization. Oddly, she sends him a long letter about her personal life. It must be part of her cover, he concludes. He admires her professionalism. He proposes, opaquely, to pass her the information by means of an unwitting intermediary in Istanbul, and she accepts. She flies to Istanbul. He awaits her signal, but none is forthcoming. She claims to be unable to find his contact, “the Baker.” Perhaps she is telling him that it is unsafe—is she under surveillance?
At last, desperate, he proposes a meeting in Paris. He will fly there personally. He hopes she will be able to evade her surveillance there. His hopes are not in vain. Within a day of his arrival, her colleague pitches him. He has rather a pleasant night with “Claire,” too. An unexpected bonus.
He readily agrees to work for the CIA. They ask for reports—who is coming and going from the site? They ask for soil samples. He provides everything they request in a series of clandestine meetings in Berlin, Dubai, Caracas. They praise him for his cooperation and deposit money in his Swiss bank account. They do not realize that he is directing them away from the installation, not toward it, and that the soil samples he is spiriting to them come straight from Wollef ’s litter box . . .
The CIA must have intercepted my mail to him, terrified that I would blow the whole operation.
. . .“My government is deeply grateful for your cooperation,” Sally said. “And I convey Claire’s deep gratitude, too, as well as her fondest wishes. Unfortunately, she must request that there be no further contact between you. As you know, she is under very deep cover, and it is her operational judgment that continued contact would put you both at grave risk.”
“But—”
“I know, I know. But you’ll always have Paris.”
“No, that’s not it. It’s my cat! He is still in her apartment. I can’t leave him behind!”
“Oh! Don’t worry, Arsalan. We’ve got him right here.” She waves to a man in a baggy suit and dark sunglasses who has been sitting at the table in the corner. He comes over with a large shopping bag. In it is a cat carrier.
He must have assumed, when he was arrested in Afghanistan, that my career had been ended in the scandal of his exposure. But what was he doing in Afghanistan, anyway? And if he thought I worked for the CIA, why would I need him to explain what had happened to me by means of some arcane phony journal abstract? Wouldn’t I know already?
Then it struck me—he had read Loose Lips. Everything he knew about the CIA, he had learned from my book. And in my book, the heroine never knows how her cases turn out. That’s key to the plot, in fact. The information is compartmentalized. She moves on to other assignments. She never knows who betrayed her, and she never knows the truth.
• • •
From: Claire Berlinski claire@berlinski.com Date: March 6, 2005 01:36 PM
To: abs@ubirmingham.uk.edu
Subject: Re: (No subject)
Dear Arsalan,
I believe, if I’ve understood you correctly, that you’re laboring under a grotesque misapprehension. I am not a spy and have never been a spy. You have predicated your entire operation on a ridiculous assumption. My career—as a writer of fiction—is just fine.
Yours, however, appears to be in some difficulty, if you’re really in Birmingham.
Claire
From: abs@ubirmingham.uk.edu
Date: March 6, 2005 02:45 PM
To: Claire Berlinski claire@berlinski.com
Subject: Re: (No subject)
Oh, Claire, how wonderful to see your name arrive again in my mailbox! It has been such a long time, and I must own that I have so missed unbosoming myself to you. May I assume from your enthusiastic denials that things did not work out as badly for you as I had feared and you remain in the employ of the Persians, so to speak? That is very well; you did a most dedicated job, and it is certainly not your fault that I proved to be, as they say, a rotten apple. But best not to write of these things, I suspect! Alas, yes, I am really in Birmingham. I had no choice. My government is not taking my new celebrity well, I am afraid. They began asking rather probing questions of my friends and colleagues in Iran. I owe a great deal to Dr. Mostarshed, who at risk to himself contacted me and advised me not to return. And thus I have taken up residence in Britain—the obvious place, of course, since I hold a British passport. I cannot say I much care for Birmingham and its rain and its wretched fried fish, and it is with heavy affliction that I contemplate my future here. I would have much preferred to take the visiting fellowship I was offered at Stanford University, but obviously your government was not much inclined after all of this to offer me a visa. What a pity. But enough of me—I beg you to send me your news. Wollef is most well and sends his affectionate regards. I am so very delighted to hear from you. You must rest assured that in whatever part of the world I may be, you shall always have in me a most devoted friend and faithful correspondent!
I am as ever yours,
Arsalan
From: Claire Berlinski claire@berlinski.com
Date: March 6, 2005 04:55 PM
To: abs@ubirmingham.uk.edu
Subject: Re: Re: Re: (No subject)
Why were you arrested in Afghanistan?
From: abs@ubirmingham.uk.edu
Date: March 6, 2005 05:15 PM
To: Claire Berlinski claire@berlinski.com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: (No subject)
They did not tell you? I told your colleagues everything when they debriefed me in London. I was correct, then, to think you might not know what had transpired! It is simple, Claire; I was trying to find the Sleeping Buddha. I had so hoped to find it before that wretched Afghan pimp Khozad. How I loathe him. That is all. An entirely innocent explanation. Do you see?
Below his message was another hyperlink. When I clicked on it, it took me to an old news item in the Times of London.
AFGHANISTAN DISCOVERY SPARKS SLEEPING BUDDHA RUMORS
BAMIYAN, Afghanistan—An archaeologist searching for the legendary Sleeping Buddha in Bamiyan province has raised hopes of a major discovery.
Since the Taliban destroyed Bamiyan’s 1500-year-old Standing Buddhas in 2001, archaeologists around the world have dreamt of finding the so-called Sleeping Buddha, described in the travel diary of the seventh-century Chinese monk Xuan Zang and depicted in cave paintings in the Hindu Kush mountains west of Kabul.
Recently, a team led by the Afghan archaeologist Zemaryali Khozad began fresh excavations for the massive statue, said to represent the Buddha in a state of ultimate enlightenment.
On Tuesday, Khozad announced that the dig may have yielded fruit. “I have found a structure near the town of Daouti, in Bamiyan province, which may be part of the Sleeping Buddha,” said Khozad.
The discovery has generated considerable excitement—and rivalry—among the foreign experts working in the Bamiyan Valley. “The statue would be a major archaeological treasure, and whoever discovered it would become a legend,” said German archaeologist Uli Lindemann. “I am happy if it is discovered, but I would be much happier if I discovered it.”
From: Claire Berlinski claire@berlinski.com
Date: March 6, 2005 06:07 PM
To: abs@ubirmingham.uk.edu
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: (No subject)
No, I don’t see. Why would you be accused of spying for doing that?
From: abs@ubirmingham.uk.edu
Date: March 6, 2005 06:15 PM
To: Claire Berlinski claire@berlinski.com
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: (No subject)
Oh, yes. Because I found this, instead, which they did not want me to see, and I wanted to see even less. Absolutely disgusting. So they contrived to run me out of the country. Do you see now?
There was another hyperlink beneath the message. I clicked on that, too. Again, it was a news item.
HUMAN RIGHTS GROUPS CALL FOR AFGHAN MASS GRAVE INQUIRY
KABUL, Afghanistan—Physicians f
or Human Rights (PHR) today condemned the refusal of the U.S. Government, the Afghan government, and the United Nations to secure and investigate the mass grave site at Dasht-e Leili, near Sheberghan in northern Afghanistan. The grave is believed to hold the bodies of hundreds of Taliban prisoners who died while captives of the Northern Alliance. Northern Alliance forces were U.S. allies in the war that defeated the Taliban. The Afghan government is now made up of many members of the alliance.
PHR investigators say witnesses told them that Northern Alliance soldiers dumped railway containers full of bodies into the area in late December and early January.
PHR also called for the investigation of another, apparently unrelated mass grave in the town of Daouti in Bamiyan province.
• • •
I was whipsawed by jet lag. My bags were unpacked; I had not yet bathed; my muscles ached. I got up from my desk and ran a tub. I lay in the hot soapy water for some time. At last, I emerged from the water and toweled off.
When I returned to the computer, he had written again.
From: abs@ubirmingham.uk.edu
Date: March 6, 2005 08:15 PM
To: Claire Berlinski claire@berlinski.com Subject: (No subject)
Of course, Birmingham is not far from Paris; that is one redeeming matter in this whole business. I cannot recommend a trip here; there is nothing at all to see, but perhaps I might visit you? We might even travel together to Istanbul—this time for pleasure, not business! How very much I would enjoy that. What do you say? Come, my dear Claire, come away with me!
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter—and the Bird is on the Wing!
I am powerless to subdue my impatience for your answer, and I am as ever,
Your Lion
I sat quietly for some time before replying. I rubbed my aching neck and thought wistfully of time we had spent together. I remembered the cool blue tiles of the minarets in Isfahan, the pure air and the clear skies, the violet mountains on the horizon, the Zoroastrian fire temples on the hills. I thought of the pleasure gardens of the palaces of Isfahan, the bubbling water and birdsong, the stone fountains in the shape of lions, the horse-drawn carriages; I thought of the bridges of Isfahan, with their intersecting arches, and in those arches, the tiny teashops in which one could linger all afternoon, drinking sweet tea and watching the river slowly pass.
At last I answered.
From: Claire Berlinski claire@berlinski.com Date: March 6, 2005 10:38 PM
To: abs@ubirmingham.uk.edu
Subject: Re:
Whoever you are, you are out of your mind. You lied to me, used me, betrayed me, and as far as I can tell brought the world another minute closer to midnight. Do you seriously believe I am going to start writing to you again as if nothing had happened? Out of the question. You are a madman. This correspondence is over.
Claire
I sat for a few minutes before my computer, looking at it as if seeing it for the first time. It was time to turn it off, I decided.
Start.
Shut Down?
OK.
The machine glowed and cogitated for a few moments, then flickered twice as if struggling for life. I pushed the small button at the base of the computer, and the screen went black.
I looked around the empty room. Perhaps, I thought idly, I should get a puppy.
I looked again at the dark screen. Then again, I thought, I could always just turn it back on.
EPILOGUE
When I tried to work out the plot of the novel this story so clearly begged to become, there was one thing I could never quite figure out. If in the end I did not work for the CIA—and certainly, I could not say that in the book—and if he did not work for Iranian intelligence, why had the CIA begun reading our mail?
It took me quite a while to solve the problem, and I would perhaps never have figured it out had I not ventured out, sometime later, to Mariage Frères. I was there to buy Sam and Lynne a Bhutanese tea set to celebrate their commitment ceremony.
It was a detail so insignificant that it had completely slipped my mind. Nor would it have ever returned to my mind without that unusual aide-mémoire. When I entered the tea room, I saw the same deathly pale man in a silk smoking jacket and slippers, with the same bizarre stuffed parrot on his shoulder. But even this provoked in me no instantaneous realization.
It was only when he began, for no obvious reason, flapping that fan wildly around his head that it came back to me.
“What did you say that place was again? Bird City?”
And if you think about it—that was the only possible explanation.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Jon Karp: Thank you for being there at the start. To Allison Dickens: Thank you for being there through the end. Allison, in addition to being a terrific editor—that goes without saying—is also a lovely, gentle, warm, tactful, patient, feminine, funny, and very wise woman. Thank you as well, Allison, for your Solomonic judgment in matters literary and personal. Thanks to Kathy Robbins for selling this book, and to Dan Greenberg for helping me figure out the best way to explain that it would be delivered, alas, very, very late.
As usual, my modest brother Mischa says he doesn’t want his name on the cover, even though I think it deserves to be:
Mischa: No, I didn’t write one word of it. Not one. Not even a comma. I did much more on Loose Lips.
Claire: But all of the good ideas are yours.
Mischa: Claire, you’re wrong. I hardly did anything.
I disagree. But no point in us arguing! I have the evidence; you can judge for yourself.
Mischa: Now, how do you figure out who he really was?
Claire: Well, it has to somehow be through the news, I think.
Mischa: I was thinking that Dave tells you. In a roman à clef about being married to a CIA agent.
Claire: I like it!
See? I should mention as well that my brother has a particularly deft touch with moral support.
Claire: Istanbul is too noisy to work. The Internet has been down all morning. I just managed to log on. Now they’ve begun hammering again outside. I’ve gotten nothing done all morning, since I’ve been hassling with trying to get on the Internet.
Mischa: Claire, I’m sympathetic to your suffering, really I am, but I’m just not that interested, actually.
Not only did my father, David Berlinski, read every word of every draft of this book and provide simply invaluable editorial advice, he was and is the very model of paternal wisdom and affection, advising me at every stage, with infinite sagacity, on matters personal and financial. Consider, for example, his measured counsel in regards to my altercation with my noise-sensitive neighbor in Paris, who complained throughout the writing of this book that I was running my bathtub too loudly:
From: David Berlinski david@berlinski.com Date: August 15, 2004 07:40 AM
To: Claire Berlinski claire@berlinski.com
Subject: Re: Re:
Claire Sweetie,
It will probably be worth your while to show up at your landlord’s office in full combat gear. I’m sure you can get the stuff cheap at some Turkish bazaar. You can probably find one of those terrific-looking Army Ranger knives right here in Paris too. That and a couple of fake grenades (I know of a store that sells them just blocks from my apartment) should put you in a top negotiating position. You walk in, put your combat boots on the desk, and say, “All right fuckface, who’s this piece-of-shit neighbor who’s been hassling my war buddies.” Maybe give the speech in Kurdish. Address your knife as little buddy, as in “Don’t worry, little buddy, there’s still work for you to do.” Spit on the floor a lot.
Love,
Pop
And of course there is my mother, Toby Saks, who, bless her, has never given me one word of editorial advice. Thank God I have at least one relative who doesn’t. Thank you so much, Mom, for just
telling me that you liked the book and leaving it at that. Thanks also to my stepfather, Martin Greene, who was no doubt the one who advised her to follow this wise policy.
Moving right along, there’s my e-mail friend Bill Walsh. I have never met him! But I do believe he’s the smartest man alive. Bill read the manuscript and kindly pointed out the spelling errors not only in my Turkish, Persian, Arabic, Russian, German, Hungarian, Spanish, and my French, but in my English (that’s right, my own native language), my Chinese and—I kid you not!—my Kyrgyz.
Mischa: He speaks Chinese and Kyrgyz, too?
Claire: Wild, huh?
Mischa: That’s insane! Could he just be making it all up?
Claire: No. Every time I check the Internet, I see he’s right. Every time. Not just most of the time, not just “you could argue it both ways,” but every time.
Mischa: That’s super amazing. Where did he learn so much?
Claire: Don’t know. He’s also an expert on lots of other things.
Mischa: Like what?
Claire: Military small arms. He was one of the many people who wrote to me about the recoil on an M16, or lack thereof, after Loose Lips came out.
Mischa: Wow.
Claire: So, if this were a novel, all the clues would be pointing in one and only one direction: Dude’s a spy.