“Today at least, I had a pretty good drill instructor.”
“Don’t count on it. You’re gonna have to learn to open your own can of spinach. Other part you don’t know,” said Gus, “you went to Ethiopia on a two-year contract, right?” Frank nodded. “Same deal I had in Zambia,” said Gus. “Except when my two years were up the deal was over. You wound up staying in Ethiopia, what, six, seven years?”
“Like that.”
“When my two years were up, the agency asked to me go to Vietnam. And I went along with it, which really pissed Joan off. If you had stayed in Ethiopia only two years, you would’ve got the same offer—and had a shot at all the fun, all the pussy, and all the promotions that went with it.” Gus paused, reading Frank carefully. “And you prob’ly would’ve let it happen.”
“That’s what bothers me,” said Frank. “I let things happen.” Gus uncorked another bottle of Riesling. Frank tipped his glass for the pour, then let it sit. “Locked in.”
“If you feel locked in, you can always just quit and get out,” said Gus. “No matter what they say in the spy books, it’s really not like the Mafia.”
Frank nodded but went on as though Gus’s words hadn’t penetrated. “The bind I’m in now, the other part I didn’t tell you, no matter what Rocky says, or what Near East says, Pete wants me to take a crack at Lermontov.”
“Ever think,” said Gus, “maybe without Lermontov there is no Frank Sullivan, or at least no Peregrine? Ever give that a maybe? Like he’s Pete Howard’s real reason for sending you here.”
“Yeah,” said Frank. “And it’s a scary thought. That is what Pete wants.”
“What do you want?” said Gus.
“All of it. My son. The job in Washington. Lermontov. The Shah. And I want myself. I want to quit letting things happen to me.”
“That’s a lot,” said Gus. “But tell you what. You wanna work inside, you’re gonna have to join the team and forget this self of yours. You aren’t the Lone Ranger anymore. And I ain’t Tonto.”
Frank nodded, staring at the Riesling. Maybe Gus was right. He needed Lermontov to validate his own career within the agency, to complete it. To put to rest, as Pete Howard had said, all suspicions that Lermontov might have turned him into a KGB mole. But he didn’t want to let it happen. He wanted to make it happen.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Have you heard the news?”
General Merid stood at the head of the table, bouncing on his toes, a smile curved and sharp as a scimitar stretching his round cheeks. Frank and Gus barely had entered the room.
“News?” said Gus, struggling out of his parka.
“The Shah plans to announce tomorrow the formation of a military government. Headed by General Nazeri of the Imperial Guard. Do you realize what this will mean for us?”
“Ah, no, I don’t,” said Gus.
“It means our work becomes central. It means the military is now the government, and a military program to win the hearts and minds of the people becomes a government program. Our friend Hossein Kasravi, the chicken colonel who has not been with us these days because of his pressing duties, will now be deputy prime minister. We will have total support for our work.”
“Say, that is good news. Mind if I hang up my coat? I want to take some notes on this.”
Frank stretched out his hand to the general. “Congratulations. You must be very pleased.”
“It is a great moment for our country. And for our committee.”
“The new government has also banned all newspapers,” said Anwar, catching Frank’s eye. “From now on you’ll have to listen for the garbage man.”
“Why the garbage man?”
“They are our country’s real news carriers,” said Anwar. He was younger and trimmer than the general, and his blue air force major’s uniform was worn more casually than the general’s crisp khakis, but the lines of his face reflected more thought and care than did the general’s unwrinkled brow. “The ashkhalees, as we call them, gossip with all the servants and housewives putting out their garbage, even the servants of our leaders. Then they gossip with each other, so among them they have the news of the whole town, and they carry it with them on their rounds, and the servants and the housewives relay it to the men who run, or at least think they run, the house. And the country. I’m sure that’s how even the Shah gets his news, although he may not know it. What his ministers’ servants get from the garbage men, his ministers pass on to the Shah.”
“You must have heard them,” said Nazih, the fair young army major. “They come round yelling, ‘Ashkhalee, ashkhalee, ashkhalee.’ And the women come out of their houses with their garbage and their gossip.”
“I have heard them,” said Frank. “Usually before I’m awake.”
“As long as we have garbage men,” said Nazih, gazing at Frank, “we don’t need newspapers.”
* * *
Frank’s agenda had made a big hit with their counterparts at Jayface. It provided a format for talk about civic action programs Iran could have put into effect a decade before but would be impossible to attempt now in a nation at war with itself. No one mentioned the impossibility. Gus talked about the success of such programs in other countries. Frank argued for a major propaganda offensive behind the civic action program, a daily newspaper in Farsi and possibly in Arabic in the south, armed forces television, and, most important of all, radio broadcasts.
“That’s true,” said Anwar. “Not many people have television yet, but everyone has radio.” He paused, jabbing an index finger at the agenda. “And many, many, many have cassette recorders.”
“Cassettes?” said Frank. “That’s interesting.” He began taking notes. “Maybe we could do something with that.”
“Hah,” said General Merid. It was a comment rather than a laugh.
“The Imam is already a master of that,” said Munair Irfani, the navy’s representative, whose dark eyes, as usual, fixed on Frank. He spoke gently. “Ayatollah Khomeini and his people.”
“Tell me about that,” said Frank, trying not to stare at the blood-flecked knot on Munair’s forehead.
“Well, even when he was in Iraq, before our government convinced the Iraqis to banish him … but the others know all that.” Munair paused. The general had managed to catch his eye. “I don’t want to take up everyone’s time with all that. Perhaps you and I could talk some other time.”
“Sure,” said Frank. “We could do that.”
He wondered if they ever would. He tried to pay attention as General Merid launched a monologue about a course in military civic action programs he had taken at Fort Myer while assigned as an attaché in Washington.
“Maximization of the civilian infrastructure in third party nations can proffer a solidifying basis for the coherent reorganization of military units in productive operational activities, not only in peacetime, but also at times of civil stress…”
Frank suspected the general had pulled one of his textbooks off the shelf the night before. Still, the general’s fascination with civic action could give them the chance to conduct meetings with a semblance of purpose, even if there was no hope of putting the ideas into practice.
Meanwhile, far more important to Frank were the hints they were beginning to get from their counterparts that they might have information worth pursuing: Khomeini’s use of cassettes; a comment the general had made about the “big men upstairs who people think will stage a coup.” He believed he and Gus, with patience, could soon learn more.
During the tea break, Major Nazih guided Frank up the hallway, away from the others. “Is there a chance,” said Nazih, “your driver could be alerted for a possible assignment this afternoon?”
“He’s Iranian Army,” said Frank. “He should be responsive to a request from you.”
“But he is assigned to you. There is a possibility, only a possibility, mind, His Imperial Majesty may be able to see you this afternoon.”
“Wow. That’s short notice. I have no clearance from
my embassy, or from Washington.”
“I do apologize for the short notice. But as I’m sure you understand, His Imperial Majesty faces enormous pressure these days. Enormous demands on his time. And, after your work with Haile Selassie, I’m sure you’re used to the ways of emperors.”
Frank turned away, embarrassed by Nazih’s fluttering lashes. “I’ll have to discuss it with my embassy,” he said.
“I’m sure with your authority you can make the necessary arrangements.”
What the hell does he mean by that? wondered Frank. “I’m afraid I have far less authority than you imagine.”
“I do, I confess to you, have a very strong imagination. It’s a uniquely Persian attribute. Meanwhile, just in case, you might alert your driver.”
“I’ll go try to find our driver now,” said Frank.
“Do tell him it’s just an alert. I won’t know for sure till midday. After our meeting.”
“What time shall I tell him?” asked Frank.
“I … I really don’t know. Not yet, I mean. I’ll know by midday.”
Frank didn’t bother getting his parka. He spotted Ali as soon as he stepped into the cold air, standing at attention like a soldier disguised as a civilian by the car that he’d parked in an area close to the building where parking was prohibited. Frank crossed to him quickly.
“Ali, is it possible you might be able to drive me to a meeting, a part of town I really don’t know, this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not sure what time, and I may have someone else with me.”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“I am not supposed to tell you, sir, and please do not tell anyone I told you, but Major Nazih already alerted me.”
“Good. I was hoping he might have. Then you know when and where to pick us up?”
“Yes, sir. Fourteen-thirty hours. By the guardhouse at Dowshan Tappeh.”
“Correct. Thank you, Ali.”
What a piece of work this Nazih is, thought Frank. The outside stairway that led to a blank wall on the second floor distracted him. He studied the whitewashed stone where it stopped. Maybe a door opened there, once upon a time, since bricked over. But he could detect no outline, no shadow of where a door might have been.
Shortly after noon, their dark waiter with the drooping mustache entered the room. He went directly to Nazih and whispered in his ear. Nazih nodded, glancing at Frank. The Jayface meeting concluded just before one.
Nazih helped Frank into his parka. “Good news,” he said. “We’re confirmed for three-thirty.”
Strange, thought Frank. That a waiter should bring the news to Nazih. Then he remembered that the waiter worked for Savak.
“Could you have your driver meet us?” asked Nazih. “Say, at two-thirty by the guardhouse at Dowshan Tappeh?”
“We can meet at two-thirty,” said Frank. “And I’ll let you know what my embassy says.”
“They will agree,” said Nazih. “I can assure you. Tout à l’heure, Major Sullivan.”
* * *
Anwar joined him at the foot of the stairs. Cold air rushed in as Major Nazih left.
“You have such interesting friends,” said Anwar. “I take it you see the Shah this afternoon.”
“I think I was the last to know,” said Frank.
“Beware,” said Anwar smiling. “What play was it … the ides of March? Of course. Julius Caesar. Shakespeare is popular among us, you know. All those kings and queens and courtiers, full of intrigue and so much like our own royal court today. We can identify with all that, probably much better than Americans.”
“Well, Kennedy gave us a taste of Camelot.”
“Perhaps. But not like here. The Russians could also understand. Caesar. The Czar. The Shah. All the same man. His Imperial Tyranny. ‘Beware the ides of March.’ Here we might say beware the tenth of Moharram, Ashura. Only a few weeks away. Do you know about it?”
“A bit,” said Frank. In fact, he knew nothing, but he suspected he was about to learn.
“It honors the martyrdom of Hossein, son of Ali, the first Imam, and his seventy-two companions, all killed in a battle on the plains of Karbala in the month of Moharram, nearly thirteen hundred years ago. And then, more than eleven hundred years ago, the Twelfth Imam disappeared. He was only an infant. We still await his return, the way the Jews still await the Messiah, the Messiah you Christians think was Christ. Some among us think the Twelfth Imam will return when Imam Khomeini’s plane sets down out of the sky from Paris.” Without pausing, Anwar looked away and said, “But that’s mere history. You’re more interested in news, isn’t it?”
“Both,” said Frank.
“There will be news, more arrests. Soon. Including Karim Sanjabi. You know who he is?”
“Head of the opposition?”
Anwar nodded. “He has gone to Paris to meet with Khomeini. When he returns he will be arrested, with others, including another National Front leader, Mahdi Bazargan.”
“Won’t the National Front object?”
“Yes, but not too loudly. Sanjabi’s arrest will make it possible for others to move up, especially with Bazargan also out of the way. Opposition fronts are always divided, aren’t they? I don’t refer to Iran, of course, but divided opposition helps to keep tyrants in power.”
“How do you know these things?”
“Friends. No. Not friends. Sources. You might ask His Imperial Majesty about it.”
“I don’t think so,” said Frank. “I think it’s going to be just, you know, just a courtesy call.”
* * *
Frank drove the Fiat to the embassy for a hastily called meeting in the ambassador’s office. Along the way, he briefed Gus on what Nazih had arranged.
“It’s not just that I don’t like this guy,” said Gus. “I flat out don’t trust him. He worries me.”
“He’s cooking up something,” said Frank. “So far I don’t see anything to do but go along.”
“What he’s cooking up may be you,” said Gus.
* * *
“Should I have said I’m too busy to meet with the King of Kings?”
“Maybe just that you’re not qualified to meet with him,” said Rocky.
“It really is terribly abrupt notice,” said the ambassador, folding his delicate hands on the glass table in the plastic bubble. “But my overnight cables include one saying that, at the request of the National Security Council, Mr. Sullivan here should be prepared to accept an invitation to pay a courtesy call on His Imperial Majesty. Did you receive something similar, Rocky?”
“I received something.” said Rocky, glaring briefly at Frank. “Something that flat-out contradicts an earlier cable I got saying, again, absolutely no contact.”
“Well, we can’t ignore the National Security Council, now, can we?” said the ambassador.
Nazih knew, thought Frank. How the hell could he know?
“Mr. Ambassador, sir. Rocky. I have to tell you. This Nazih character, he seemed to know the meet had been approved.”
“Who the fuck told him?” said Rocky.
“How the fuck would I know?” answered Frank. He turned to the ambassador, whose ruddy complexion had turned a shade more florid. “Sorry, sir. But I told Nazih I would have to check with my embassy, and he said, ‘They will agree.’ Something like ‘I assure you, they will agree.’”
“Doesn’t mean he knew,” said Rocky.
“Sounds like he knew,” said Gus, earning a cold glance from Rocky.
“He knew, and it worries me,” said Frank. “How did he know? And how can we do what we’re supposed to if a guy like Nazih knows all about us and what we’re up to before we do?”
Frank remembered what Pete Howard had said about the Shah’s ambassador, who seemed to know everyone in Washington. He thought about the rivalries back home, Near East Division versus Soviet, both opposing Covert Action and all hostile to the National Security Council. Nazih’s words and the NSC cable approving a meet
ing between Frank and the Shah made him suspect that somewhere there must be a leak, and he wondered how much of a threat that leak might be.
“Seems to me this Nazih character may just be blowin’ smoke,” said Rocky.
I wonder, thought Frank.
“Be that as it may,” said the ambassador, “I believe we have no choice but to have Sullivan go through with it.”
“There’s desk jockeys back at Langley Near East Division’ll have a shit fit,” said Rocky.
“I believe if we all just view this as little more than a Sunday afternoon courtesy visit…” The ambassador let his sentence trail off.
“That’s how I see it,” said Frank.
“I guess I’m not feeling too fucking courteous,” said Rocky. “I also don’t like you taking an Iranian Army driver up there.”
“I should have preferred an embassy driver myself,” said the ambassador. “Proper protocol.”
“Major Nazih had already made the arrangement,” said Frank. “Without telling me.”
“Like I said, you aren’t qualified for this. You let an Iranian Army faggot outmaneuver you.”
“What’s this?” said the ambassador.
“Long story,” said Rocky. “Look, Sullivan, we got no fuckin’ choice. Get in your car with Gus here and get back to Dowshan Tappeh. You meet your driver and Nazih and go make nice with the Shah. Don’t stir up any trouble. Then get your ass back here and let me know what happened.”
* * *
“It’ll make a nice story for that son of yours,” said Gus, “how you hobnobbed with the Shah of Iran, but I worry about what Nazih might have waiting for you up there.”
“I’ll tell you all about it,” said Frank. “Right after I get to tell Rocky.”
The Peregrine Spy Page 10