Frank had determined that all of the Russians based in Ethiopia with press credentials—correspondents of Tass, the Novosti Press Agency, Soviet television and foreign-language radio outlets, and various newspapers with the exception of Pravda—all reported to Lermontov, who was also accredited to Tass. Ethiopian security forces granted a degree of latitude to foreign intelligence agencies, but then the Russians went too far. Frank learned through Tesfaye that Lermontov himself had begun cultivating a multilingual foreign-born journalist who also served as a translator for the Ministry of Information and occasionally for the Emperor. Frank relayed the information to Pete Howard. Within a week Tesfaye invited Frank to join him on a hunting trip with Lermontov.
Again, Pete Howard encouraged him. “Just make sure Tesfaye watches your back.”
Frank remembered Lermontov’s weapon of choice. He’d brought along an array of hunting rifles wrapped in a tarpaulin, but his favorite looked like a cannon mounted on a shoulder stock.
“It’s a PTRS semiautomatic, developed as an antitank rifle during the war,” said a cheerful Lermontov after they’d unloaded their Land Rover and set up camp in a wooded area in the Awash Valley. “This fires a round roughly twice the caliber of an AK-47. Look at the size of the bore.”
Frank stared down the huge barrel, and Lermontov showed him a handful of huge shells. Somehow it seemed fitting that a man as big as Lermontov should carry such an oversize weapon.
“I could shoot you in the buttocks with this, and it would kill you. We’ll be going for wild boar, and if I do shoot one, I don’t want to have to try to shoot him twice.”
And I didn’t want to be between that cannon and a wild boar, Frank remembered, wide awake and staring at the metal-covered windows beyond the foot of his bed. Then he closed his eyes and, as though in slow motion, saw the huge, tusked boar charging out of the bush. He heard the roar of Lermontov’s massive rifle behind him. He wondered if he had really felt the rush of wind as the huge bullet sped past his right ear. He knew he had seen the boar stumble forward and fall in a quivering heap not more than a yard away from his feet. He still wondered whether Lermontov had tried to kill him or had saved his life. Two weeks later, the Ethiopian government expelled Lermontov and five other Russians for conduct inconsistent with their status as accredited journalists.
Beirut, he thought. No, I don’t think you tried to have me killed in Beirut. But Ethiopia. I still don’t know. He could hear the bullet whistling past his ear in the Ethiopian bush. He could hear the bullet striking his car, metal against metal on a street in Beirut. He thought of the watch on Lermontov’s wrist and remembered his words about time running out on the Soviet Union; about time tightening the grip acromegaly had on him. He heard an echo of the casual remark of their driver, Ali Zarakesh, that the streets named Churchill and Roosevelt might not have those names for long; the warning of the air force major, Anwar Amini, to watch the funnels of smoke in the sky over Tehran. Through the night, Frank sensed time running out. Somewhere a clock ticked, a time bomb, but he had no idea how soon it would go off. “Watch the smoke signals,” Anwar had said. “Perhaps they can tell you.”
CHAPTER SIX
The white-haired majordomo took their coats. “Major Sullivan, you will be meeting today first with His Imperial Majesty’s guest. The same gentleman you spoke with last week, in a room I will take you to. His Imperial Majesty may take some time for you after that meeting. Major Nazih, you may wait just here.”
Two Imperial Guard enlisted men, with Uzi submachine guns cradled in their arms, stood before the doors to the Shah’s private offices.
“Major Sullivan, kindly follow me,” said the majordomo, and Frank followed down a long, narrow hallway. At the far end, his white-haired guide, again in a gray morning coat, knocked at a door and, without waiting for a reply, opened it and bowed Frank in.
Lermontov stood with his back to the door, thick hands folded behind him, gazing through French doors toward the snow-gilded slopes and the distant city now invisible in the afternoon glare. He crossed the room and reached out to Frank with an enormous paw.
“It’s good to see you again, old friend.” Though Lermontov’s hand swallowed Frank’s, his grip had become far gentler than Frank remembered from earlier days. Frank glanced at his hand, then caught Lermontov’s eye.
“Ah, yes,” said the big man, releasing Frank’s hand. “I don’t squeeze as hard as I used to, right? I have to be careful these days. If I forget, now that I’ve gotten bigger, I can crush somebody’s fingers. Besides, I don’t have anything to prove anymore.”
“Did you ever?”
“When you first met me, I was a very junior officer. Very insecure. I had to show everyone how tough I was.”
“You had me convinced.”
“Good. I must admit we did not think you were so tough, but you had begun to intrigue us. One of the Ethiopian journalists who worked for us told me you had said that you did not believe Communism was America’s enemy. When I reported that, Moscow became very interested in you.”
“As a target?” asked Frank.
“Well, at least as someone worth keeping an eye on. Someone with interesting ideas.”
“I might have been misquoted.”
“Perhaps,” said Lermontov. “But in the years since, I’ve come to realize what you said, or what my Ethiopian friend attributed to you, was very accurate. Communism isn’t your enemy. Russia is. China will be. Both may join the capitalist camp—and still be your enemy. We may shout about economic systems and human rights and forms of government, but we fight about national interests.”
“Ideology is dead?”
“No,” said Lermontov. “Ideology isn’t dead. It never existed, except as a cover for national ambition and, for some, to disguise personal interest. Do you think Stalin cared a rat’s ass about ideology?”
“You’ve picked up some interesting American slang,” said Frank.
“We get a monthly update.”
“Are you serious?
“I am always serious,” said Lermontov. “You know that.”
He sounds like Rocky, thought Frank.
“But we discuss ideology,” said Lermontov. “Not slang. Stalin wanted to expand Soviet imperialism and, above all, to keep all power in his own hands. He cared about Communism about as much as the Shah cares about his White Revolution.”
“From what I’ve read,” said Frank, “the Shah seems pretty proud of his White Revolution.”
“He should be proud,” said Lermontov. “The Americans love him for it. It makes him look like a benign, progressive ruler. He cares about it for the same reason he cares about his Imperial Bodyguard, about Savak and the torture rooms in Evin prison. They all help to keep him in power.”
“Don’t you feel a bit … nervous? Talking about the Shah like that? Here?”
“You mean because this room is bugged?”
Frank nodded.
“I’m beyond that,” said Lermontov. “In fact, in my own meetings with the Shah I’ve become quite open. I think it helped convince him of my sincerity, including my sincerity about wanting to talk to you. The Shah is very shrewd in handling people. That also helps keep him in power.”
“It can’t just be about power.”
“Power is what he craves,” said Lermontov.
Frank reacted slowly. He could feel his skin tighten. Lermontov had hit a chord. He could feel himself begin to change, but he resisted the change.
“The Shah’s a good man,” said Frank. He added to himself, Who maybe went wrong.
“A good man. Keep repeating it. Maybe you’ll convince yourself.”
“I am convinced. And convinced the world isn’t as corrupt as you make it sound.”
“Not corrupt,” said Lermontov. “Not necessarily corrupt. But, of necessity, determined to fight for our own interests.”
“What about here?” asked Frank.
“Here? Simple. You want Iran. We want Iran.”
“Not us.
The Iranians. What are they fighting for?”
“Also simple. They want Iran. The Iran that emerges from this will identify its national interest with Islam. A way of protecting itself from the Great Satans of the West and the godless atheists to the north.”
Frank nodded. The bastard might be right. Lermontov, and perhaps Russia, might be ready to join the capitalist camp. Lermontov had called him “old friend.” Perhaps. But Frank still thought of his friend as an enemy.
“Maybe we’re wrong to call it nationalism,” said Lermontov.
“Tribalism?” offered Frank.
“We reserve that for Africans. We don’t much use it for ourselves. Perhaps we should. Like your Irish tribes in Northern Ireland. Or look at this neighborhood. The Kurds say they fight for a nation, but different factions, different clans, spend more time fighting each other than they do the Turks, the Iraqis, the Iranians. And among our beloved comrades in Afghanistan, you take the party labels off and all you have are the same old tribes who’ve been fighting each other for centuries—and will for centuries more.”
“Friend of mine says World War III has already started,” said Frank, remembering Gus’s words. “All these little wars, like this one, add up to the World War III we’ll be fighting for the next thousand years.”
“Smart friend. Pete Howard?”
“No,” said Frank, “another friend.” He wondered how much Lermontov knew about Pete.
“I’m impressed. Another intelligent one. You, Pete Howard, and someone else. I didn’t think America had so many.”
“Wait till you spend some time in America. You may change your mind.”
“You forget. I’ve been there. I went to school there.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Frank.
“You’re right. I need a refresher course.”
They sat facing each other in armchairs across a low, wood-topped coffee table, their backs to the French doors glazed by sun and frost. The cameras in the Shah’s office had been relatively easy to detect, but here Frank could see no hint of hidden video. He was sure Lermontov’s more practiced eye had also scanned the room. An ornate porcelain vase with artificial blue flowers stood between them.
“Shall we move the flowers?”
“No,” said Frank. “I like blue flowers. Even if they are artificial.” He placed a note Rocky had approved on the table with a photocopied section of the map of Tehran in Troy’s office. Lermontov studied them.
Frank wanted to keep talking and sound as natural as he could without saying anything to distract Lermontov from the map, on which a small street in the north end of the town’s foreign ghetto had been circled in red, and the typed sheet, which gave the address of the safe house, instructions for reaching it, and reassuring words.
Never before used as safe house. Fully detached building. Never had American tenant. Previous have been French and German.
“We really shouldn’t continue to impose on the Shah’s hospitality,” said Frank. “The hotels aren’t busy these days. Perhaps we could book a room at the Sheraton or the Hyatt.”
“Good idea,” said Lermontov, who went on reading.
Two-car garage under building. Flash car lights when you arrive. I will open garage doors from inside, close them behind your car. Stairs lead from garage up into house. Security guy I trust making it tight. Can we make it Friday evening, 7:30? I’ll be there half hour before you. Any problem, try again 7:30 Saturday evening.
“I prefer the Sheraton,” said Lermontov. “I’ve used it before. Can you book a room?”
“Sure,” said Frank, making a mental note to book a room and have Gus occupy it.
He handed Lermontov a note that read, “My chief of station wants to meet you.”
Lermontov crumpled it in his giant paw and shook his head.
“Let’s make it Friday night,” he said. “At the Sheraton.”
He left the paper ball on the table, folded the other papers Frank had given him, neatly and quietly, and put them in an inside jacket pocket.
“Friday at the Sheraton. Perhaps we can have dinner.”
“Good idea,” said Frank. “I’ll arrange room service.”
He picked up the paper Lermontov had crumpled and stuffed it into a pants pocket. He tore a sheet of paper from his notebook and printed out another message.
‘Please act surprised.’
Lermontov glanced at the paper and pushed it back across the table toward Frank.
They chatted for half an hour, about acromegaly, Afghanistan, Islam, and the uneasy peace that prevailed in Tehran. Frank thought of the uneasy peace that prevailed between him and Lermontov. He may be playing a game we haven’t figured out yet, he thought. The echo of Rocky’s words bounced off the walls of his mind.
I trust no one. Not even myself, thought Frank. Much less an officer of the KGB. He and Lermontov had danced often; still Frank could not tell who led and who followed. They again confirmed their spoken plan to meet at the Sheraton and headed down the hall together.
In the reception area the two armed guards stood where they had, before the doors to the Shah’s suite of offices. One of them spoke abruptly in Farsi.
“Be neshin-id.”
“They ask us,” said Lermontov, “tell us, rather, to take a seat.”
“Perhaps we should.”
They sat in straight-backed chairs that flanked the outside doors, facing the guards. Frank saw no sign of Nazih and wondered if the Shah had summoned him into his office. The guards stiffened as the door between them opened.
“Ah, gentlemen,” said their elegantly clad host, “you have completed your business. Major Sullivan, His Imperial Majesty would like to have a word with you. If you kindly can wait just here, he will summon you shortly.”
“Thank you,” said Frank, standing.
“Please. No need to stand.” He turned to Lermontov. “Shall I notify your driver that you are ready?”
“Please,” said Lermontov.
* * *
Frank endured a thirty-minute wait seated in the straight-backed chair with nothing to look at but two stone-faced members of the Imperial Guard, each with a submachine gun tucked into the crook of his arm. Deadly silence seemed the only other occupant of the building. Frank looked from one guard to the other. They stared at a spot beyond him and above his head, but he knew that if he moved, they would notice. He heard a faint click. The guards shifted their attention: one to Frank; the other to the inner door that opened. The tall, thick-chested man in the doorway wore the blue uniform of an officer in the Imperial Bodyguard. The silver eagles on his shoulders identified him as a full colonel. His bearing identified him as a man of authority.
“Major Sullivan?”
“Yes, sir.” Frank stood.
“I must apologize for your long wait. As you know, these are difficult times. His Imperial Majesty would like to see you for a few minutes.”
What happened to the man in the morning suit? Frank wondered. Have the Imperial Guards pulled off a coup? And where the hell is Nazih?
The colonel spoke to the guards in Farsi and beckoned to Frank to follow him. “This way.”
The Shah, hands clasped behind his back, stood before his illuminated map, his face masked by oversize sunglasses. “Ah, yes, Major Sullivan. May I introduce you to our new deputy prime minister, Colonel Hossein Kasravi.”
Frank recognized the name of their missing chicken colonel. Clearly, being deputy prime minister carried more clout than being a member of the Jayface team. He stuck his hand out, and the slightly flustered colonel shook it.
“General Merid has spoken highly of you,” said Frank. “But I never thought I would have the chance to meet with you.”
Kasravi and the Shah exchanged a glance. The Shah shrugged.
“Ah, yes. General Merid,” said Kasravi. “I must have a talk with him, soon.”
Although a general outranked a colonel, Frank had the impression that in the real world the general would defer to the deputy
prime minister.
“Ah, one thing more,” added Kasravi. “Major Nazih will not be returning with you to Tehran. The way will be cleared at the gates for you and your car. Your driver has been instructed. On future visits, the way will be cleared for you and your driver. Please use the same car.”
“What’s happened with Major Nazih?”
“He has been detained,” said Kasravi. “A … pressing commitment. I will leave you with His Imperial Majesty.”
The Shah nodded. Kasravi bowed, once, twice, three times as he backed out the door.
Detained. Commitment. Interesting word choices, thought Frank. He wondered about the majordomo.
* * *
He had sat with the Shah for nearly an hour after Kasravi had left them. The Shah wanted to talk, but his conversation rambled in a way Frank could barely follow.
“It is so difficult to know whom to trust these days. To confide in. Take advice from. The Empress, of course. And my sister. But not Assadollah Alam. He died, you know. There was no one closer, more trusted. His death was another betrayal. I have been so alone. He had been our prime minister and then for many years our minister of court until he died last year. Cancer. I know it isn’t contagious, but we were so close. Cancer killed him, and now it kills me.”
“What do your doctors say about treatment?” He had asked the same question at their first meeting. Again, the Shah’s answer was vague, more political than medical.
“That I should go to France, perhaps Switzerland, for treatment. But neither the French nor the Swiss are very good at security. And now the king of the mullahs, this Khomeini, has been given sanctuary in France. I can only imagine what the mullahs would subject me to in France if I went there for treatment, and now I find betrayal in my own house. This Russian who wants you to get him medical treatment in America. Give him asylum and get him out of our country. I do not like him. He insults our government and then thinks we respect him for being so honest. We do not want trouble with the Russians or I would send your Lermontov back to Moscow today. You won’t be seeing Major Nazih at your meetings.”
The Peregrine Spy Page 14