The Peregrine Spy

by Edmund P. Murray

  “Maybe that’s our solution. You don’t recruit me. I recruit you.”

  Lermontov smiled. Frank shivered.

  “That way the KGB could kill me, more quickly than acromegaly,” said Lermontov.

  “Risks. Rewards,” said Frank.

  “You do want to get me killed,” said Lermontov.

  “No, but if you could get yourself assigned to your UN mission, or your embassy in Washington, so you could seek medical treatment there…”

  “Emergency treatment.”

  “Exactly.” An emergency, maybe for both of us, thought Frank. “Perhaps I could help.”

  “No,” said Lermontov. “If I allowed you to help, it might appear suspicious.”

  “Whatever the risks, you need a change,” said Frank. “A change of doctors.”

  Lermontov shook his massive head.

  “I know it would be difficult,” said Frank.

  “Difficult, yes,” said Lermontov. “The people who monitor you, like the people who nursemaid me, must have wondered about us. Why haven’t I recruited you? my nursemaids wonder. Why haven’t you recruited me? your people must think. The only way either of us can redeem himself, perhaps, is through the other. And so we trail each other around the world.”

  “We do?”

  “So it seems,” said Lermontov. “Ethiopia, of course, was not planned. And Lusaka was not planned, at least not by us. But I was sent to Beirut because of you. And to Rome. Even to our UN mission in New York. We did not meet, but I did see you several times. From a distance. We decided nothing could be done there. We thought you might be a waste of time, which was a relief to me because I was again being criticized for not having recruited you.”

  And I was sent here by Pete Howard, thought Frank, because of you. They looked at each other and smiled. Anyone watching might think we were lovers. Why not? thought Frank. We understand each other better than most lovers do.

  “Two spies in the same leaky boat,” said Lermontov. “Would that be an apt expression?”

  Too apt, thought Frank. “You know,” he said, “even if you did want a change of scenery, a change of doctors, my people would say you would be much more valuable…”

  “I know. We all want an agent in place. But if I did agree to this, for me there may not be a place much longer. I have tried to give you some hints in the past that the Soviet Union is not the great colossus you Americans think it us. And not every KGB agent is ten feet tall.”

  “You come close,” said Frank.

  “Goliath, not a KGB agent, of course, but they say Goliath stood ten feet tall. A Soviet neurologist, one of my doctors, believes Goliath had acromegaly. It not only made him big and slow but also caused his skull to press against an optic nerve and damaged his vision. So the big, slow-moving giant perhaps never saw little David sneaking up on him with his slingshot and stones. Very proud of his materialist explanation of the Bible story, this doctor of mine. He told me about his theory just before they broke my jaw.”

  “I hope you aren’t going blind.”

  “Perhaps I am. Like Goliath, I have acromegaly. The Soviet Union has megalomania. Both ailments can affect vision. They can make us seem bigger, but not more powerful. And neither of us can survive without change.”

  “If it could happen at all, it would take time,” said Frank.

  “Time is something I don’t have much of.”

  “How much?”

  “It depends on what kills me first. If I do not get proper care soon, this disease may kill me within a year or two. If I talk to you, the KGB could come down on me anytime. In which case my execution would come—quickly. The collapse of the Soviet Union, I give that five, perhaps ten years. I think we are having a contest, the Soviet Union and Vassily Lermontov, which of us shall break apart first. With proper medical treatment, I may outlast the Soviet Union.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I am very serious. The situation is even more serious. You see what already has happened in Afghanistan. We supported a coup last April to get the government we wanted because we see what will happen here. Khomeini will take over in a matter of weeks, and he does not love the atheistic, Communist Satan on his northern border. We need Afghanistan in our camp as a counterbalance, but the situation there remains unstable. The strings on our puppets are very loose. I have worked on that problem. Dari, the Afghanis’ major language, is virtually the same as Farsi. Which I know. There is much I could tell your people. Four of our republics border Iran and Afghanistan. All are Islamic, and all will be influenced by what happens here and in Afghanistan. Among them they provide more than half the rank-and-file troops in our military. You can tell your people now that within a year the Soviet Union will invade Afghanistan, and that will be, not the beginning of the end, but the end of the end. You can tell your people Lermontov told you that, and they will laugh at you, and in a year you can remind them. Despite the optimistic reports the CIA makes every year on the strength of the Soviet economy and military, both are falling apart. Those CIA reports are very useful, by the way, for both of us. They help our morale, and they help the CIA to get its annual budget increases. I could tell your people much. I could bring documents.”

  “I’m sure,” said Frank. “But if you defect, what about your family?”

  “I have no family. My father, a hero of the Soviet Union, got himself killed at Stalingrad. My mother died soon after. And my wife, she left me as this … got worse. She said I frightened her. We never had children. My superiors don’t like sending people overseas who don’t have family ties back home, but because of my rank and my record of being overseas so often, my superiors won’t worry that I might defect. Still, you must find a way to get me to America.”

  A pleading tone in Lermontov’s voice reminded Frank of the young Iranian whose bony fingers had gripped his wrist as he tried to drive out of the embassy’s back gate. He’s too big to whine, thought Frank. He wondered if Lermontov had read his mind. The big man straightened in his chair. His voice took on a tone of basso authority.

  “But I must know soon that I can count on you. I can stay in place for a time, but I do not have much time, and the risk I take now may make that time shorter.” He looked at the watch secured to his thick wrist by a leather band, then raised his hard gray eyes to meet Frank’s. “Somewhere a clock ticks, just like the clocks in all those nuclear-war and end-of-the-world spy movies. Except we don’t know where to find this clock. We don’t even know for sure who set it, some dying emperor, some holy man in a white beard and black turban, maybe some bureaucrat in Washington or Moscow. We can’t shut it off, and we don’t know how much longer that clock gives us. But we know it ticks, and we know our time will be up soon. Any delay could be fatal. To our plan. For sure to me. Perhaps to you.”

  * * *

  “You’re not shittin’ me?” said Rocky.

  “I shit you not,” said Frank.

  “He wants to defect?”

  “He’s willing. Like I said, his first step was to try to recruit me. So he gets to go to the States to handle me. But when I tossed the pitch back to him, yeah, he went for it.”

  “He understands this isn’t a joy ride to Disneyland? That we’ll want him to stay in place?”

  “We went through all that.” They sat across the glass-topped table, alone in the bubble. Frank summed up all Lermontov had told him about the time pressures, the threat of acromegaly, the threat of exposure.

  “Three fuckin’ days,” said Rocky. “You got here three fuckin’ days ago. He didn’t waste much time findin’ you, did he?”

  “That’s what worries me. He knew I was coming. If they’ve got somebody back home…”

  Rocky shook his head. “More likely somebody here. The Shah knew you were coming. So his people knew. No tellin’ how many. That doesn’t worry me. What worries me is why your buddy is in so much of a hurry.”

  “I don’t know if he’s more worried about the KGB catching him or having his bones explode on
him,” said Frank. He downplayed Lermontov’s views on the collapse of the Soviet Union, knowing Rocky would be skeptical, but he did outline Lermontov’s knowledge of Soviet intentions in Afghanistan.

  “This shit is dynamite. What’s the next step?”

  “He’s willing to be debriefed about KGB structure and operations, Soviet operations here and in Afghanistan, past, present, and future, the Soviet economy and military, Soviet Third World operations, which is his specialty, and KGB United Nations ops, which he had one tour on. But he wants me to handle him. Says he won’t trust anyone else till we show that we’ll help him.” Rocky fiddled with his hearing aid, and Frank wondered if he’d been tuned out. He tried anyway. “We go back a long way.”

  Rocky nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you do.”

  Frank knew he’d been heard. He watched as Rocky opened his hands and studied them. He’s cooking, thought Frank. But what?

  “Look,” Rocky began, still studying his hands. “I know I’ve given you a hard time on some things since you got here. You think you got a job t’ do with these Jayface fuckers, okay. Talk to them. But leave Lermontov to me.”

  Frank hesitated, sensing trouble. He knew Lermontov would never agree to working with Rocky, but he also knew he could not challenge the authority of a chief of station.

  Rocky glared. “You having a problem with your hearing aid? I said I handle Lermontov.”

  “I heard you,” said Frank. “I have no problem with that. But Lermontov might.”

  “He’s mine,” said Rocky. “It’s gonna be up to me to solve any problems he might have.”

  Frank knew he had to find a way to stay involved. “What about the Shah?” he said.

  “What about the Shah? You got nothing new.”

  “Cancer. He admitted he has cancer.”

  “Any details?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not yet don’t cut it. You got nothing new on the Shah. You had clearance for one meeting. You had your meeting. You’re done with the Shah.”

  “Well, the Shah, he set up the next meet with Lermontov. He volunteered a room down the hall from his offices.”

  “Fuckin’ amazes me,” said Rocky. “His Imperial High Hat must have cancer of the brain. Either that or the KGB recruited’m. Why in the hell would he go to all this trouble to set you up with a Soviet thug?”

  “He’s got his own agenda,” said Frank. “He wants me to come up with an idea that will mean I have to stay on here as an adviser.”

  “For the Jayfacers or for him?”

  “Both. Overt Jayface and covert him.”

  “I got a hunch his agenda may include you gettin’ him to the States.”

  Frank remembered what the Shah had said about his own medical problems. “You may be right. He doesn’t seem to trust his French doctors much.”

  “How tight is he with this Lermontov?”

  “Not very, I don’t think. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t trust the Russians. ’Course, he also made it pretty clear he doesn’t much trust us, or the Brits, these days.”

  “Who does he trust?”

  Frank shook his head. “Maybe not even himself. He seems very alone.”

  “He trust you?”

  “He seems to.”

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t give a fuck about the Shah. You’re the one likes fartin’ around with emperors. I’ve recruited my share of Soviets, but never a KGB-er with a background like this Lermontov. So you can go on suckin’ up to the Shah if you want, but Lermontov’s mine.”

  I wish you luck, thought Frank. He realized Rocky’s concession on the Shah had extended his lease in Tehran—and might give him a chance to rescue Lermontov’s defection.

  “When’s your next meet with the thug?”

  “I worked it out with Lermontov for two days from now, at the palace same time.”

  “That’s awful fuckin’ quick.”

  “I told you he’s in a hurry.”

  “That may be good for us. We can count on gettin’ a shit pot full of debriefin’ requirements pourin’ in from NE and Soviet Division. They’ll be wantin’ t’ send some of their scalp hunters over t’ get in on the act.”

  “That sounds like trouble,” said Frank.

  “You got that right. Big trouble if they get here and start fucking things up, but they can’t come over without my approval. I can’t flat out turn them down, but you’d be amazed about how slow I can fucking get about not answering cables I don’t wanna answer. I don’t like the idea of your thug settin’ the pace, tryin’ t’ rush us. But in this case two days is good. It doesn’t give those idiots back home time enough t’ fuck things up.”

  He paused. Frank knew he had more to say, “Look, Sully, this business with Lermontov looks good. And we got no choice but to run with it. But anything that looks this good has got to have some land mines along the way. If I was to let you handle it, you’d be in way over your head. A deal like this, you got to watch your ass with everything from jealous types in Soviet Division and NE to paranoid types in Counter Intelligence. But most of all you got to watch your ass with this Lermontov. He worries me. He may be runnin’ some game we haven’t figured out yet. Don’t ever assume a walk-in walks in on the level.”

  “I hear you,” said Frank, “And believe me, he worries me, too.”

  “Good,” said Rocky. “Better I pick it up.”

  Only then, almost as an afterthought, did Rocky turn his attention back to Frank’s meeting with the Shah. Frank knew that Rocky, as an old Soviet hand, would be far more interested in Lermontov. He considered it a symptom of the agency disease, CIA-itis, an inability to see anything but the Soviet giant on the horizon. Lermontov worries me, he thought, but so do old Soviet hands.

  “So what else can we do for this Shah of yours?” said Rocky.

  “Any chance we can get him the same thing Lermontov wants, a visa to America?”

  “Gettin’ the Shah to America will be even harder than gettin’ Lermontov there.”

  “We’ve got to get Lermontov to America.”

  “That I can work on,” said Rocky. “Kissinger, David Rockefeller, Jimmy Carter, Brzezinski, those guys. Gettin’ the Shah to America, that’s their job.”

  “What’s my job?”

  “You? You got it easy. Since you’re so hot to trot with the Shah, do a cable on that. I’ll do the Lermontov cable. You established contact, turned it over to me, chief of station, Russian speaker, and experienced Soviet Division man. Makes all the fuckin’ sense in the world, right?”

  Wrong, thought Frank, but he kept the thought to himself and said, “Right.”

  “That’s the only cable I need. Forget the other shit. We tell the folks back home what your buddy said about the collapse of the Soviet Union, they’ll laugh in our face. We got other people workin’ on Afghanistan. They don’t need your help.”

  Frank’s stomach tightened, and he could feel the anger flaring under his skin. Through clenched teeth he managed to say, “You’re the boss.”

  “I know,” replied Rocky. “We only got two days. I’ll have a safe house set up by tomorrow. Exclusive for Lermontov. You can give him the location when you meet up at the palace. Don’t tell him I’ll be there. You can surprise him.”

  “I don’t mind surprising him,” said Frank. “I just don’t want to lose him.”

  “Yeah, well, just remember. He’s not yours to lose. He’s mine.” Their eyes locked. Neither looked away.

  * * *

  He could not sleep. When he closed his eyes, images of Lermontov filled a giant screen. When he opened his eyes and stared at the metal plates Bill Steele had installed, memories of Lermontov crashed through like the grenade that shattered his window the day before. The grenade had not exploded, but he remembered Rocky’s words. Anything that looks this good has got to have some land mines along the way. He thought of Lermontov as a land mine, a grenade that hadn’t gone off. Yet. And he remembered the day they’d gone hunting in Ethiopia. It had been Tesfaye’s i
dea.

  Tesfaye Tessema, editor of the English-language daily, the Ethiopian Herald, and Frank’s closest counterpart, was friendly with Lermontov. Friendly but, as far as Frank knew, not an agent.

  “He must hate you,” Tesfaye had once said.

  “Why should he hate me?”

  “He’s never said so, but he must. Students and journalists are part of his job. He does quite well with the students, but among the journalists I don’t think so well. Except with a few, perhaps on some of the Amharic papers, including our good friend who accused us.”

  An anonymous report submitted to the assistant minister of information in charge of the print media had accused Tesfaye “and his American friend” of stealing millions in advertising revenue. The ministry’s meager advertising revenue never approached a million, and no one of authority in the ministry had taken the report seriously.

  “I know that made Vassily mad,” said Tesfaye, smiling. “He let me know that he wrote it and our journalist friend who works for him merely translated it into Amharic and turned it in.”

  “But why would Lermontov bother?” asked Frank.

  “Just to make people more suspicious of you. He knew such nonsense couldn’t hurt me, but many people like to believe the worst of you Americans.”

  “Tell your friend Lermontov I appreciate his interest.”

  “He is interested in you,” said Tesfaye. “He tells me he would like to get to know you. He’s always trying to recruit me, and I think he figures he can’t because of you.”

  “Does he think I’ve recruited you?”

  “No, and that makes him even more intrigued. How can you have so much influence without ever trying to recruit anyone? You should get to know him.”

  “You should pursue this possibility,” Pete Howard had said. “Get to know him. See what you can find out.”

  “What worries me,” said Frank, “is what Lermontov may have found out. About the case we’re building against him. And his crew.”