While Gus carried their cables down the hall, Frank went to work. He headed his paper simply AGENDA with the next day’s date, 5 NOVEMBER 78. He labeled his first section CIVIC ACTION. He outlined programs the military might undertake in both urban and rural areas. He called on what he knew about similar programs in countries from Ethiopia to Southeast Asia, plus a few ideas like benzene distribution and sewage systems he thought might have particular local appeal. He had just typed SECTION 2: IMAGE ENHANCEMENT and was halfway through the one-page agenda he planned when he heard a door open behind him. He turned and saw a bearded mountain of a man in a hooded parka, blue jeans, and black cowboy boots filling the doorway.
“Oh?” said the giant. “And who might you be?”
“I might be an air force major here on temporary assignment.”
“Ah.” Frank thought the giant might have ventured a smile, but it was hard to be sure through the vast beard. “You must be Sullivan. Or Simpson.”
“I’m the Sullivan,” said Frank. “The Simpson is down the hall with Colonel Troy.”
“Bill Steele,” said the big man. He entered the room and eased the door shut behind him. “I’m the security officer for the branch.”
“Frank Sullivan.” He stood and reached out a hand. Steele’s handshake was gentle.
“I checked out that house of yours today. There are a couple of things I’ll take care of tomorrow to tighten up the place best as we can. The electricity needs work, and the plumbing, and we’ll get some steel window screens upstairs. I put some more candles in for tonight—and matches. And a couple of flashlights and extra batteries on the kitchen table. Oh, and I turned the heat on. Should’ve done that before you got here.”
“Not to worry,” said Frank. “Are you—air force security?”
“I report to Colonel Troy.”
“Okay. I wish I’d known I could’ve gotten away with a beard. I shaved mine off before I…”
“Trust me,” said Steele. “I didn’t have this when I came over. The boss doesn’t mind, and over here it helps. Especially dealing with Iranians. Which I do a lot of.” He nodded at the typewriter. “You going to be at that long?”
“Another fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I also need to hit the copier for a minute.”
“The copier?”
“Yeah,” said Frank. “It’s an agenda for a meeting with our counterparts. They asked for it, so I’ll need copies.”
“Well, you better talk to the colonel. Let him read it before you make copies. We’re as bad as the Soviets about copiers. We only got one, and it’s locked up in a storeroom. He and I have the only keys. I hope the damn thing’s working.”
“Me, too. I figure there’s no carbon paper, and I don’t want to type this thing five times.”
“Russians do it,” said Steele. “They want copies of material the Soviets don’t like, they type till their fingers wear out. Call it…”
“Samizdat?” said Frank.
“Somethin’ like that.”
With their tasks finished, Steele suggested that Frank and Gus stop at the chelakebab stand opposite the main gates of the air force base. Troy had already left, hurrying home to dinner. Steele had helped Frank run his agenda through the copier, and they were in Stan Rushmore’s office, putting typewriter ribbons in separate safes, stuffing stray pieces of paper into burn bags, and locking up.
“Now tell me about this chili-kebab,” said Gus. “I heard that can be a pretty dangerous place to do your shopping these days.”
“Not that I know of,” said Steele.
“Tom … Colonel Troy, I mean, while we were chewing the fat just a couple of minutes ago, he told me an air force guy got his throat slit at that chili-kebab place.”
“Different place,” said Steele. “We shut that one down. Besides, the guy was drunk, which is not a good idea these days, and making a scene about wanting a woman, which is a very bad idea these days. Things have changed a lot since these folks started getting excited about Khomeini.”
“Folks back in the States don’t seem to have heard much about him,” said Frank.
“They will,” said Steele. “The Iranians think he walks on water.”
“You seem to know a lot about the locals,” said Gus.
“Not a lot,” said Steele. “None of us do. But I deal with the Iranians more than most. Which reminds me. Your servants were in today, but with you having eight o’clock meetings downtown and that being about the time they get to the house, you’re gonna have a communications problem.”
“Housekeeping,” said Gus.
“Biggest part of my job,” said Steele. “There’s no real food at the house. I put in some basics. Canned goods, salt and pepper.”
“Toilet paper?” asked Gus.
“Yeah, lots of toilet paper. Take some to your meetings with the Iranians.”
“Will do,” said Gus. “But tell me. I’ve been lots of places where you take a dump by squatting over a hole in the floor and there’s no toilet paper so you bring your own. But in the crapper at Supreme Commander’s they had something new. What’s with the pitcher of water?”
“They tell me it’s in the Koran. Feed your mouth with your right hand. Clean your asshole with the left.”
“Okay,” said Gus. “But no towels, no paper? You can shake your hand dry, but no matter how good you are at wiggling your ass, and I bet our chubby little general is pretty good at that, there’s no way you can shake your ass dry before you pull your pants back up.”
“Maybe they’re smart as we are,” said Steele. “Maybe they bring their own paper.”
“Okay,” said Gus. “But it smells pretty bad. Can’t they do somethin’ about that?”
“You’re lucky it’s winter,” said Steele. “Smells a lot worse in summer even though they usually hose it down every day.”
Frank decided he liked this giant who paid attention to the locals, took care of details, and worried about security.
“I’ll talk to the servants in the morning,” continued Steele. “But leave a note and some money if you want them to get you anything on the local market. It’s a husband-and-wife team. The husband speaks English but can’t read it. The wife doesn’t do much talking, but she can read English and she can understand. Fresh milk, eggs, things like that. Leave a note.”
“Yogurt?” said Frank.
“Yogurt?” echoed Gus.
“Something I learned,” said Frank. “In a new country, try to get some of the local yogurt. Healthy bacteria in yogurt gets your stomach used to handling local bacteria in the food, water, leafy veggies, stuff like that.”
Steele smiled. “I do that myself. Leave a note and some money. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll take you to the Post Exchange. There are two. The commissary at the embassy where you can get booze, cameras, cigarettes, clothes, but not much in the way of food. You can take care of that on your own when you’re down there. I’ll get you started at the military PX near the base. No booze, but real American meat and potatoes, frozen, canned, dried, powdered, whatever. Some fresh vegetables and fish flown in, but don’t count on it. The housewives will beat you to it every time.”
“Are you married, Bill?” asked Gus.
“Yeah, but I can’t volunteer my wife to help you out. I sent her and the kids back home. Far as I’m concerned, it’s too hairy around here for families.”
“You don’t recommend Iran?”
“I like Iran,” said Steele. “I’ve been here two years.” He looked at the maps on the walls of the office where Rushmore had his desk. Like the maps in Troy’s office, they were pierced with pins. “Every place you see a pin, we’ve had a problem. Somebody killed, beaten up, mugged, house broken into, car set on fire, some damn thing. I like Iran, but I don’t recommend it anymore.”
* * *
They found the chelakebab shop without difficulty and parked opposite it on the dark street called Farahnaz. The hand-printed sign above the door was in Farsi, and the windows were steamed over, but Steele ha
d described it well. A bell tinkled as Frank opened the door, and two young Americans turned from the steam table and its mix of odors. They might have been twins, thought Frank at first glance. Tall, slim, ruddy complexions, and regular features. Both wore dark blue parkas and black wool caps pulled low over their foreheads. Frank noticed one difference. Long, light brown hair curled below the back rim of the cap worn by the young man nearer the door.
“Evening,” said Gus.
“Evening, sir,” said the long-haired American.
“Cold out there,” said his partner.
“Yes, it is.” Gus looked over the steam table and glanced at the two Iranians behind it. “What do you recommend?”
“Well, you could have lamb and rice, or maybe some rice and lamb,” said the American with no visible hair. Frank now noticed he had brown eyes and stood shorter than his blue-eyed friend.
“Sounds like what we had for lunch,” said Frank.
The blue-eyed American reached out his hand. “Todd Waldbaum,” he said.
“Frank Sullivan. And this is my father. His name is Gus Simpson.”
They exchanged laughs and handshakes. The brown-eyed American said his name was Dwight Claiborne.
“There is a cafeteria at the base, but this is actually better,” said Todd. “There’s also a pretty good market right next door. Has a lot of American stuff, but this time of evening it’s closed.”
“I got a hunch,” said Dwight, “a lotta what they sell comes out the commissary back door.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” said Gus.
“Saw you guys coming out of Colonel Troy’s office.” said Todd. “We’re air force guards. Regular air force.”
“Gotcha,” said Gus.
Dwight took two brown paper bags of food from one of the Iranians. Both countermen wore stained white uniforms. One was tall, very thin, and bearded. The other was short and stocky and wore a drooping mustache and a sullen expression. Todd dug into his pockets for a handful of rials.
“How did you fellows get here?” said Gus. “I didn’t see a car.”
“We just walked over,” said Todd. “We’re still on duty.”
“This is like our lunch,” said Dwight. “You should pardon the expression.”
“Are you parked out there?” asked Todd.
“Uh-huh,” answered Frank and Gus together.
“Tell you what,” said Todd. “We’ll wait outside. Keep an eye on your car.”
“’Preciate that,” said Gus.
The bell tinkled, and a cold blast of wind hit them as the young guards left.
“I like those young men,” said Gus. “Something tells me it might be a good idea to get to know some of these air force guards. They must have weapons.”
Frank had tried for spinach and learned the Farsi word for no is “nah,” as in “nah spin’ch.” The taller counterman had tilted a huge pot in Frank’s direction, revealing overcooked cabbage.
“Kalam.”
Frank had learned another word, and he ordered kalam to go with their rice and lamb. “I’m trying to balance our diet.”
“Lots of luck,” grunted Gus.
Frank tried for yogurt, but there was nah yogurt.
Outside, Todd and Dwight stood by the blue Fiat.
“I take it it’s not a good idea to park on the street,” said Gus.
“It’s a very bad idea, sir,” said Dwight. “About the best thing could happen, someone would steal it or slash your tires or put sugar in your gas tank. But you’d be real surprised how fast a raghead can hook up a bomb to your ignition while you’re in a place with steamed-up windows.”
“And it’s always a good idea to look in your back seat before you get behind the wheel,” said Todd. “By the way, if you want to get some wine to wash this stuff down with, believe it or not there’s still a liquor store around the corner.”
“Maybe the last one in Tay-fuckin’-ran,” said Dwight.
* * *
Frank and Gus had just settled into their candlelit dinner at their Formica-topped kitchen table when the lights suddenly came on.
“And the Lord said, ‘Let there be electricity once in a while.’”
“Inshallah,” said Frank and blew out the candles.
The lights briefly flickered, then glowed.
“It must be a sign,” said Gus. He had opened one of the bottles of a South African Riesling of “guaranteed excellence” they had bought at the dark and nearly barren liquor store they found not far from the chelakebab parlor. Todd and Dwight had described the drawn blinds on the windows and the poster-size portrait of Khomeini on the door. A smaller color photo of the Ayatollah had been tacked to the empty shelves behind the counter. The owner confessed his love for “that man,” even though his business would be finished when Khomeini came.
“And you think he will come?” said Gus.
“He will come,” said the man. “He is here.”
“He can’t be good for business,” said Gus.
“No. Not good for business. Even now, so many foreigners have gone. And Persians, they still buy, but … I must confess, gentlemen, in this country to make an honest living these days you have to be a crook. And I can’t cheat Persians the way I can cheat foreigners.”
“I wonder how much he cheated us,” said Gus as he sipped the wine.
“Probably not as much as he could have,” said Frank. “Anyway, God is good. We have light, wine, even food.”
“Sort of food.” Gus ignored the overcooked cabbage, finished chewing a chunk of lamb, and tested a forkful of rice. “You know, until I got here, I thought this was all about the Tudeh party, Russian troops massing on the border, socialist students, and Communist guerrillas. Now I think it’s about bad food and benzene lines and the old man with the long white beard.”
“I had a talk with Steele about the PX. He’ll take us tomorrow. That may help,” said Frank.
“It won’t make the man with the white beard go away. And, according to a public opinion poll of one liquor store owner, the problem isn’t Russia. The problem is the enigma wrapped in a tall black turban.”
“We should ask our friends at the Supreme Commander’s about this Khomeini.”
“Dollars to doughnuts, or rials to soggy rice, we’ll get the standard Savak-embassy line.”
“Maybe not from all of them,” said Frank.
“You will as long as they’re all together. And I don’t think the general would take too kindly to us trying to go one-on-one.”
“The general’s going to get bored—and careless.”
“Maybe,” said Gus. “But I have to admit, right now I am more interested in getting to the PX. Besides, I remember you saying you’re a pretty good cook.”
“My son likes my cooking. Least he says so.”
“How old is he?”
“Eleven.”
“That’s old enough to speak his mind.”
“That job in Washington, we’re supposed to start livin’ together down there.” Frank couldn’t hold back a grin.
“Sounds like you’re lookin’ forward to that.”
“I am,” said Frank. “But I know it’s an awesome responsibility.”
“Life in the Washington ’burbs won’t be as bad as life here,” said Gus. “Just concentrate on good home cookin’. You cook. I’ll wash the dishes. When Bunker gets here, we’ll let him dry. We’ll manage the perfect ménage.” He poured each of them another glass of the Riesling. “Now that we finished the lamb, young Mister Sullivan, I’ve got a bone to pick.”
“Oh?”
“From what our little friend Major Nazih had to say this morning, seems like there might’ve been a few things you didn’t tell me about your briefing at Langley.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Like about the Shah,” said Gus. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”
“Probably.”
“When the old need-to-know bugaboo butts heads with keepin’ your workin’ buddy in the dark,
I don’t know about you, but I vote for turnin’ on the light. Like havin’ that flashlight in my suitcase, remember? I don’t like workin’ in the dark.”
“I hear you,” said Frank. “Tell you the truth, by the time those guys in Near East got done with me, I was ready to turn this damn job down. No contact with the Shah who could be a gold mine of intel. No contact with anybody beyond Jayface. And then it got worse.”
“You gonna tell Papa Gus, or not?”
Frank proceeded to tell Gus more about Vassily Lermontov than he needed to know.
“Now that you told me all that,” said Gus, “I kind of wish you hadn’t told me.”
“If he does show up,” said Frank, “maybe you will need to know.”
“No contact,” said Gus. “Remember?”
“Yeah, but Near East also told me no contact with the Shah. Rocky said it again up in the bubble, but after listening to Nazih this morning I wonder how long that’s going to last.”
“I dunno,” said Gus. “You may have a pretty good rabbi in Pete Howard, but in his own domain the chief of station is king. And if Rocky says, ‘Tick,’ you better not tock.”
“No contact with Lermontov. A guy I’ve been involved with for ten years or more. Just show the flag and don’t stir up any trouble. It didn’t sound like a job worth doing, but when I started to let Dean Lomax know how I felt…”
“And Pete Howard?”
“Yeah, Pete was there, but what bothers me, I’m sitting there in Dean’s office, not wanting to go to Iran, and I let it happen to me.”
“You sound like Joan,” said Gus. “Talking about me. You must’ve noticed. At the airport in Rome. That’s why she was so pissed. She likes to remind me I wound up in Vietnam same way I wound up in the marines.”
“How’s that?” asked Frank, puzzled.
“Lettin’ other people decide things for me. Most people in the Marine Corps got there because they enlisted. Me, I got drafted.”
“I thought the marines never needed the draft to fill their quota.”
“What can I tell you? They must’ve had a bad week. And I wasn’t exactly what you’d call prime gyrene material. I was a dumpy little thing. Kids used to call me Wimpy Simpson. I not only got drafted, I drew a drill instructor who decided he’d make a marine out of me if it killed both of us. Damn near did. But I’ll tell you what. About halfway through I saw a way for Wimpy to eat the can of spinach and turn into Popeye. I went through hell to become a marine, but I did it. I even got to be a hand-to-hand instructor at Parris Island. Even did that for the agency for a while down at the farm. But for what? I mean, I like a knife fight as much as the next guy, but how often can you use that stuff? Knowing how to write a good cable, now, that you can use.”
The Peregrine Spy Page 9