The Peregrine Spy

by Edmund P. Murray

  “What’s his name?” said Frank.

  Anwar hesitated for a moment. “Abdollah Abbas. But do not make trouble for him.”

  Frank shook his head. “I just want to take your advice.” All that, and death to America, thought Frank. “I just want to avoid him.”

  “It would be good to avoid him.”

  Another for my list, thought Frank. Lermontov. The Shah. Sergeant Abdollah Abbas.

  “But you can relax now,” said Anwar. “Go back to your workout. Come, I will give you a good workout.” Anwar braced himself against the heavy bag and wrapped his arms around it. “Come, attack.”

  Instinct told Frank to beg off. “No thanks. That’s enough for me.”

  “Come. I want to see how hard you can hit.”

  Frank knew he faced a test, not just of how hard he could hit, but of how much trust he would put in his gym mates. “Okay.” He tried a tentative jab. With Anwar securing it, the bag had virtually no give. He tried another jab and a hard right and picked up the rhythm of his routine. The whole weight of his body went into every punch, even his short, quick jabs. He circled in, changing directions, knees always bent, sometimes flat-footed, sometimes up on his toes, his legs and butt snapping into each punch. The homafaran echoed his grunts with monosyllabic words of approval—good, yes, good punch. Sweat poured off him, staining his gray sweatshirt. He began to tire. His pace slowed, and he finished with a left hook that buckled the bag.

  Anwar grunted. “You hit hard.”

  “Not as hard as you,” said Frank.

  “I’m bigger,” said Anwar.

  Bigger. Stronger. Younger. Faster and every bit as mean, thought Frank. He knew he would have to offer to hold the bag for Anwar. He hoped Anwar would decline. But Anwar spoke first.

  “Come,” he said. “Will you hold the bag for me?”

  I must trust this man, thought Frank. Or he’ll never trust me.

  “Sure.” Frank took off his gloves and tossed them on the bench.

  “Your hands are all blood,” said the youngest of the homafaran.

  “They’ll be okay,” said Frank. He bent his knees, gingerly wrapped his arms around the bag, and braced himself against it.

  “You better hold tighter than that,” said Anwar.

  “Right,” said Frank. He tightened his arms. Anwar, as Frank had done, began with two jabs, then picked up the pace and power of his punches. Frank’s peripheral vision caught the blur of a right hook coming his way. He blinked, flinched, and felt the impact of the hook smashing into the bag an inch from his forehead. He knew he had to trust Anwar’s accuracy. He hoped he could trust his intentions.

  Frank sensed that as Iranians, admirers of martyrs and given to flagellation, the homafaran would wonder at this strange, middle-aged American who would draw his own blood in pursuit of a ritual they also enjoyed. A hard right thudded into the center of the bag, stinging Frank’s midsection. He managed to regain his breath but thought, This is going to be hell.

  * * *

  Hell paid dividends. Since Frank had begun working out on the heavy bag with Anwar the Taller, a new level of trust had begun to develop.

  Anwar demonstrated the exhaustive knowledge of a determined lecturer. Frank considered his education in the sectarian differences among guerrilla groups opposed to the Shah the price he paid for a steady supply of Ayatollah Khomeini’s tapes and information about opposition within the military.

  Frank had struggled through a series of bench presses, starting with seven repetitions at 135 pounds, working up in weight and down in repetitions to a single grunt with 200. Anwar, who had spotted for him, then slid under the bar, executed ten reps with the 200, and added two 45-pound iron plates for his next set of ten.

  “You heard, I know from my cousin that Sanjabi and Barzagan have been sent to prison.” Anwar had the ability to continue his lectures while hefting what to Frank seemed an incredible poundage of iron. “What you don’t know is how crowded our prisons have become. Our prisons, especially Qasar, have grown so crowded that to make room for the Sanjabis and Bazargans, they have to let out Mojahedin. And even…” He finished his set and let the bar clang down on the support racks over the bench. “Most important of all, even Ayatollah Taleqani.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Frank. “You know I don’t know much. Who is Ayatollah Taleqani?”

  Anwar the Taller sat up. Pumped from the heavy bench presses, his sharply etched chest and shoulder muscles quivered. “You see, Anwar the Smarter may be very smart, but he can’t tell you everything.”

  All the homafaran spoke English, but only Anwar spoke at length. The others seemed content to confirm, mostly with nods and monosyllables, what Anwar said.

  “We are like your Black Muslims in America. Your Malcolm X people and the people who killed Malcolm X. The Muslim Mojahedin are very strong in prison, especially in Qasar, where they have jailed Ayatollah Taleqani many times for maybe fifteen years or more off and on. Now, Taleqani again has been released. They released many Mojahedin early last year and now, many more are being released to make room for the Savaks like General Nasseri who are going to Qasar.”

  A chorus of laughter and “that’s right” and “yes” rose from the other homafaran. Even the man with the Indian clubs managed a grunt.

  “We have America to thank for this,” said Anwar.

  “America?”

  “Your civil rights people. Amnesty International. President Carter. They have been complaining about political suppression in Iran, about Savak, about torture. The Shah loves his F-14s and F-16s, the AWAC surveillance planes, and all the other wonderful things he gets from the Americans. So do we. It’s our job to take care of them, and we love our work.”

  The club wielder grunted, and the heavy-set weight lifter struck his chest with the flat of his hand.

  “So the Shah wants to keep the Americans happy. He put the jailers in jail and put Mojahedin on the street. And Ayatollah Taleqani has already opened an office. He is talking to young people.”

  “Why was he in jail?”

  “Ah, he has always opposed the Shah. Since the days of Mossadeq. Since the days of the White Revolution when the Shah said women should not wear chador, land should be taken from the aristocracy and the clergy and given to the peasants, bazaari should go to jail for charging prices that were too high, all things that sound good to foreigners and our own Westernized elite but do not sound so good to most Persians. As much as Khomeini, Ayatollah Taleqani has opposed the Shah, but he is not like Khomeini. He is not so … Well, he understands the people. He is not a Mojahedin. He argues with us, but he understands why we are still Marxist even though we accept Islam and why we will support Khomeini and the revolution when it comes but also why, once the Shah is done and Islamic Revolution rules, they will attack us. Mojahedin and Feda’iyan may fight each other. We will defeat the Shah. We will defeat the Americans and Russians if we have to. But then there will be another civil war, and I do not know who will win that one.”

  The others were silent. With a flourish, the man with the Indian clubs finished his routine. He tucked the clubs under his arms and bowed to Frank.

  “Now you will understand,” he said.

  “That is why we need you, Major Sullivan,” said Anwar.

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You see, the Mojahedin have been looking for an American we can talk to. Your embassy doesn’t talk to us. Your CIA talks only to Savak. When my cousin started telling me about you, I listened. I asked our leaders if I could talk to you. They said I could try, within limits. Sound you out. Even I asked my cousin if I could trust you.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I would have to find out.” His shrug reminded Frank of Anwar the Smarter. “Anyway, I have to trust you. You see, the Muslim Mojahedin have been active. The Americans should know that now we will be more active. We will make a difference. The Islamic Mojahedin will make a difference. Homafaran will make a difference. The military will make a differenc
e. Not the generals, the soldiers. The people will make a difference, but the people are not trained. The people are not disciplined.” His eyes locked on Frank’s. “We are.”

  The next evening they worked in more exercise than usual. The beefy Sergeant Abbas looked in and spoke briefly, hand on his .45. He stared at Frank, turned, and left, again leaving the door ajar. The homafar working out with Indian clubs was close enough that he was able to reach out with his right leg and kick the door shut, without missing a beat of his routine.

  Anwar handed Frank a cassette tape. “It’s the same as the one just here.” He pressed the play button on the cassette recorder on the bench against the wall. The by now familiar, high-pitched voice of Khomeini shrieked out at high volume.

  “When your people translate it, they will hear the first plans for Tasu’a and Ashura, the holy days of Moharram. My cousin has told you about that, isn’t it?”

  “He has,” said Frank. “Moharram isn’t far off, right?”

  “I have looked,” said the man with the clubs. “This year, your two December is our one Moharram.”

  “And the holy days come on the ninth and tenth of Moharram,” said Anwar. “The Imam calls for great peaceful demonstrations, in all the cities, in the countryside. Everywhere. But above all, here in Tehran. Millions will march.”

  “Won’t the military try to stop it?”

  Anwar smiled. “If the military try to prevent, it could be worse than Jaleh Square, but I do not believe the soldiers will open fire.”

  “Why do you think the soldiers won’t shoot?”

  “Because the Imam tells them not to. They, too, will hear this tape in the mosques. Their brothers and sisters, their fathers and mothers, will hear it, and they will tell the soldiers not to harm the people. Khomeini tells the people not to attack the soldiers. He tells the people to let the soldiers shoot at them, kill them. He says if enough of you become martyrs the soldiers who kill you will turn against their masters. He tells the people to carry flowers and give them to the soldiers. He tells the people to have young girls in chadors to carry flowers and put flowers in the barrels of the guns the soldiers carry and for young men to put flowers in the gun barrels of the tanks.”

  “Will the Mojahedin be involved?”

  “Not as Mojahedin. Not as homafaran. But some of us, we will hear this tape, and we may be there. Not as Mojahedin, but as followers of the Imam.”

  Frank noticed that, for the first time, Anwar had begun referring to Khomeini not as Khomeini or even as the Ayatollah but by the more reverent title of Imam. The door opened. The sergeant again looked in on them. He nodded at Anwar, glanced toward the recorder still relaying the word of the Imam, and said in English, “Good.” He looked at Frank. He stood with his arms at his side, not touching the .45. He nodded back toward the recorder, then again at Frank, and said, “Good.” He turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

  “Sergeant Abbas approves,” said Frank.

  “Perhaps,” said Anwar.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Khomeini’s raspy, high-pitched voice sliced out at them, far too loud in the hushed confines of the bubble. Frank, who had driven straight from Dowshan Tappeh to the embassy, eased the volume.

  “This is incredible,” said Belinsky. “This is jihad. Holy war. What they’ve been waiting for to fire up their people.”

  Frank listened, grateful that Belinsky’s reading supported what Anwar the Taller had told him, but still wondering why Belinsky avoided his inquisitive eyes.

  “I thought the military government meant an end to this stuff,” said Rocky.

  “It has been quiet,” said the ambassador.

  “Moharram will be quiet,” said Belinsky. “Peaceful but powerful. Because that’s the way Khomeini wants it.”

  “I have to tell you,” said Frank, putting aside his concerns about Belinsky, “tonight, when he played this for me, my gym buddy, Anwar Two, well, he’s always sounded skeptical about Khomeini. But tonight, as he listened to this, he had fire in his eyes. Called him the Imam.”

  “I can understand,” said Belinsky. “Martyrdom. Flowers in the gun barrels. At one point he says you don’t have to shoot the soldiers in the breast. Touch them in their hearts. He had me about ready to take to the streets.”

  “If he gets his way,” said Frank, “he’ll have all Iran taking to the streets.”

  “Balls,” said Rocky. “You guys are listening to one squeaky-voice preacher and forgetting that the Shah has a forty-thousand-man military in back of a military government. No way they’re gonna let this unholy holy man take over the streets.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said the ambassador.

  “I’ll talk to Eagle-1 about it,” said Rocky. “See what Savak thinks. See what the Tudeh party is up to. I don’t suppose your homafar pal had anything to say about that.”

  Frank shrugged. “You know. Far as he’s concerned, they don’t exist.”

  “Yeah, well, we know better.” He caught Frank’s eye and nodded. “Don’t we?”

  In the presence of the ambassador and Belinsky, Frank knew, Rocky wouldn’t mention Lermontov, but the Russian was on both their minds. I will contact you, Lermontov wrote. But when? And what are the British up to?

  * * *

  As Gus had predicted, Rocky refused to transmit Frank’s cable on the release of key Mojahedin and Ayatollah Taleqani from prison. Rocky dismissed Taleqani as just another holy man and said Savak had already reported on the release of the Mojahedin.

  “Kinda like bangin’ your head against a wall,” said Gus.

  “A fucking Rocky wall,” said Frank.

  That afternoon, tense and quiet, Frank continued drafting his atmospherics cable in the office they shared with the absent Stan Rushmore. They had decided Gus should undertake some domestic errands, including a run to the commissary. Frank’s fingers danced on the keyboard of Rushmore’s IBM, choreographing images that would build an atmosphere of a Tehran at war with itself.

  The giant, teetering construction crane they had seen in the muddy field near the soccer stadium became a symbol of all the abandoned projects undertaken by the Shah. They passed it often in the limited compass of their travels through the city. Surrounded by the prefabricated shells of what had been intended as military housing, it still managed to stand, sucked ever deeper in mud, tilting more precariously, like the fossil of a trapped raptor incapable of recognizing that it had already become extinct. He’d seen many cranes like it in all parts of the city, as many as half a dozen to a site, though none in such danger of collapse, looming like abandoned sentinels over fields of lost battles, shells of buildings and windows without glass staring blankly over cluttered, fenced-in lots, speaking mutely of a stalled economy.

  He sketched a portrait of a military that, except for the Imperial Guard, seemed alienated from its role as protector of the Shah, its Supreme Commander. He described their Jayface meetings in detail and all he had been told there, as well as his meetings with the homafaran in the gym and all he had learned of Kho-meini’s use of cassette tapes and of the inroads made by the Mojahedin. He kept his narrative descriptive, emphasizing the smells of the gym, Khomeini’s high-pitched voice, and the way the Ayatollah’s photo showed up in odd places, like their still-functioning neighborhood liquor store; he told how drivers of the city’s orange jitney taxis had photos of the Shah pasted to one windshield visor and of Khomeini taped to the other, with the Shah flipped down if they were passing a military roadblock and the Shah turned up out of sight and Khomeini made visible when close to the university, the bazaar, or one of Tehran’s many mosques.

  Only in asides made by one of the contacts in the sweaty gym or the chilly meeting room at Supreme Commander’s Headquarters did he quote anything about the Tudeh party’s limited role or the clerical leadership’s strong hostility toward the atheistic Russians. He noted that no one displayed photos of Stalin or Brezhnev or Noureddin Kianouri, the exiled head of the Tudeh party. Then he wondered if that
might be a stroke too much. By late afternoon, when Gus returned, Frank guessed he was halfway through.

  Frank kept working while Gus read what he’d done. “This is great,” said Gus when he’d caught up. “We’ll make an intelligence officer, or at least a bureaucrat, out of you yet. It needs some editing, but you’re on your way.”

  “Edit away,” said Frank. “I appreciate a good editor.”

  “Okay.” Gus looked at his watch. “What’s your schedule?”

  “Shit.” Frank pushed himself back from the typewriter. “I should do some work on our civic action program. And I need to get over to the gym by six. I need to see my workout buddies.”

  “How ’bout I work on editing this a while. You put in about an hour on civic action, then head for the gym. I’ll pick up where you leave off on the civic action stuff. When you’re done in the gym, come back here and pick me up. We’ll be good boys and put everything in the safe and go home and get some chow.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Frank.

  “And get ready for Mr. Bunker.”

  “Oh. I forgot about that,” said Frank.

  * * *

  Frank had just finished moving his belongings into the back, windowless bedroom.

  “Good,” said Gus. He leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest. “It’s smaller, there’s no view and no air, but I’ll sleep better knowing you’re not in the grenade room.”

  Frank started hanging the clothes he’d dumped on the bed in a wardrobe closet. “I don’t much like moving a couple of weeks after I moved in.”

  “You know, you might be right,” said Gus. “It might have been smarter to let Bunker get here, see how much nicer that front room is, and pull rank to take it away from you.”

  “An hour ago you told me I should move in here before Bunker shows up.”

  “You’re as bad as Joan,” said Gus. “She says every time I make my mind up I always change my mind. Like I did about retiring.”