The Peregrine Spy

by Edmund P. Murray

  “No,” said Frank. He couldn’t suppress a grin. “I guess I can’t.”

  “As I told you before, that’s why he has that knot on his forehead. From touching his head to the tiles of the mosque when he prays to Mecca. He couldn’t do that wearing a hat with a brim.”

  “Today, no one wears fedoras,” said Mina. “Not even Americans. But here women have to wear the chador or be stoned. The Shah’s father did away with that fifty years ago.”

  “But it wasn’t just about funny hats and chadors,” said Anwar. “Reza Khan was also much impressed by what he considered his Aryan brothers, the Germans, because the Germans fought our enemies, the British and the Russians. That’s why England and Russia invaded us in 1941 and replaced Reza Khan with his son, who has been Shah ever since.”

  “What Anwar means to be telling you,” said Mina, sharply, “is that the street, Pahlavi, used to be called Mosaddeq.”

  “You must forgive me,” said Anwar. “Sometimes I get carried away by our history.”

  “Major Sullivan, Great Satan,” said Mina, suddenly very soft and feminine again. “Can you take us to America?”

  “Me?”

  “No, I was asking Mohammed Mosaddeq.” Again, anger flashed, but now only in her eyes. Her voice remained gentle.

  “Why do you want to go to America?”

  “So I can be a woman.” She said it softly, eyes on her plate. She raised her eyes to his. “So I can be me. Without a chador.”

  “Anwar?”

  “I don’t want to be a woman. Or wear a fedora. But I would like to be myself.”

  “You can’t here?”

  “No.” They said it together.

  “Where would you go? What would you do?”

  “I have friends in Texas,” said Anwar. “Mina has relatives, her parents and many relatives, in Los Angeles.”

  “No,” said Mina. “We should go to Washington. Texas is too much like—not enough like Paris or London or Rome or New York. And Los Angeles, I don’t want to be surrounded by my family. Anwar can be a consultant in Washington. Washington needs people like him who understand the Iranian military and speak Farsi. And me, little Mina, I want to go to Washington and work for CIA.”

  “Say what?”

  “You heard what I said. I’m an American, so I could work for CIA. And America needs people like me and Anwar.”

  “That’s true,” said Frank, “but I’m not sure America knows that. And I have a hunch Iran needs people like you and Anwar even more than America does.”

  “I don’t care,” said Mina. Her thin features contracted, lips not pouting but pursed; her sparkling eyes darkled and narrowed. “I want to be American, and I want to be beautiful. And I want everyone to know it.”

  “You are,” said Anwar. “You are already American and very beautiful.”

  And you must be a very tough woman to live with, thought Frank.

  “No,” said Mina. “Not here. I am too hard, too harsh. Too harassed.” It was another of her odd inflections. She pronounced it “hair-assed.” “Too shrouded. In America I could be happy.” Her eyes melted toward Anwar. “In America I always could be beautiful for you.”

  * * *

  Frank saw that Anwar was tiring. He wanted to get home, but he also hoped to outlast the indefatigable Mina. He did not. But finally, Anwar sent Mina off to bed. “Wait up for me,” he said, “I want to have a word alone with Frank.”

  Mina obeyed. She might be American, but, as Anwar said, she was not an American wife.

  “Speak to Hamid before you leave,” said Mina. “He has some caviar for you to take home. Good night.”

  They watched her leave, and Anwar closed the double doors that led to the hallway. He went to a stereo system and put on, to Frank’s amazement, a Billie Holiday tape. “I’m pullin’ through and it’s because of you…”

  Anwar sat so close to Frank at the coffee table that their knees touched. “I have tried to help you as much as I can. Can you help us?”

  “You should talk to my friend Gus. He has more knowledge of these things than I do.”

  “Can he help us?”

  “I don’t know. You’ve been so helpful to us here that, to tell you the truth, the Americans might do more to help you if you stayed here.”

  “Help us how?”

  “Arrangements can be made.”

  “The only arrangement that could help us is an arrangement that would get us to America, help us to find a way there. Earn a living. Get our children into school.”

  “Other arrangements can be made.”

  “Here? What arrangements? Money? My wife’s family is extremely wealthy and more generous than your friends are likely to be. Prestige? What can you do to further the career of a military officer under the Shah when the Ayatollah rules?”

  “Will you talk to Gus?”

  “Of course. I talk to Gus every day. I like him. But I want to talk to you, and Mina and I want to go to America.”

  “To tell you the truth, so do I. But I have an assignment here.”

  “I wonder about you,” said Anwar. “Munair may be right about you.”

  “That’s another reason why you’re so valuable here,” said Frank. “Because you’re smart enough to wonder.”

  “I have something for you. Something from Munair.”

  “Oh?”

  Anwar crossed to the stereo system. He waited till Billie Holiday finished the last chorus of “Strange Fruit,” then ejected the tape and replaced it with another cassette. The tape sputtered, then Frank recognized the familiar, raspy voice.

  “It is very old,” said Anwar. “Munair planned to play it for you himself, and explain it, as a test. But you already failed the test. My cousin has played other tapes for you, but not so old.”

  “Tell me what he says.”

  “No need.” Anwar retrieved a manila envelope that sat on one of the stereo’s speakers. “Here. In his painstaking way, Munair translated it for you. You can read later. It dates from 1967, from Iraq, where Khomeini settled after being exiled for opposing the Status of Forces Treaty the Shah signed with the Americans. Do you know about these things?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Frank.

  “To be truthful, neither did I. Our schools and government do not educate us about such parts of our history, but Khomeini does.”

  “He sounds very angry,” said Frank, nodding toward the voice that trebled from the speakers.

  “Yes. He had much to be angry about. Here, for example, he attacks the man who was then premier, Abbas Hoveida, for extorting money from the merchants of the bazaar to help pay for the Shah’s coronation on his fortieth birthday.”

  “The same Hoveida who was arrested last week?”

  “The same,” said Anwar. “Listen. Here Khomeini attacks what you call the Status of Forces Treaty. Khomeini had been in and out of prison several times for protesting against the Shah and his corrupt government—but it was because of this, his attack on the Americans, that he was exiled for good in 1964, put on a plane for Turkey. A year later he managed to get to Najaf, a Shi’a holy city in Iraq, where he made this tape.

  “You must understand how much he hates America. Because of you Americans and that treaty, he has not been allowed in his own country for fourteen years. Listen, here he tells us the Status of Forces Treaty is a document for the enslavement of Iran. Not only American soldiers but their cooks, mechanics, housekeepers, and drivers they bring with them are exempt from the laws of Islam and of our country. He says our country has become a colony of America as it once was a prisoner of the Russians and British.”

  “So he’s got some history with hating us,” said Frank.

  “Perhaps, but also he hates Israel,” said Anwar, “and the Muslim leaders of countries who allow Israel to exist. When the Shah sent him into exile, Kuwait would not accept him, and he was never really welcome in Turkey and Iraq. Here he says the foreigners will not let Egypt, Iran, Iraq, and Turkey unite. But the duty of Muslim leade
rs is to unite their thoughts and protect their borders. Had they been united it would not be possible for what he calls a bunch of Jewish thieves to steal Palestine while the Islamic countries slept. He calls on the clergy and army to oppose the Shah’s government, the corrupt of the earth, he calls them. Listen. Here he says America seeks to exploit Iran, and to do that America will try to destroy Islam because Islam and the Koran stand as barriers in the path of the Great Satan.”

  * * *

  Anwar drove him home. “You trust me enough to let me know where you live?”

  “You trusted me enough to take me to your home, right? So, sure, I trust you.”

  “You shouldn’t. Persians love intrigue, conspiracies. We like to play with words. To gossip. To invent stories. It’s an old saying among us. You should never trust a Persian. Even me.”

  “But if I can’t trust the man who tells me not to trust Persians, perhaps that means I should trust Persians.”

  Anwar laughed. “You would make a good Persian. You like to play with words. Perhaps you should never trust yourself.”

  “Ethiopians have that same saying about themselves.”

  “It is perhaps a Third World disease. But Hamid, whether he is Persian, Azari, or Russian, be careful of him. J2 and Savak will be told that Commander Simpson has spoken to him.”

  “I figured that, and it’s okay. I figured we’re all more or less on the same side.”

  “More or less,” said Anwar. “I’m not sure I trust you as much as I used to.”

  “Don’t. And remember, I am the great corrupter.”

  “The apple pie man.”

  The I-cash-clothes apple pie man, thought Frank. Exhaustion had fallen over him. His mind spun, but slower and slower, like a top about to fall. He knew he would not read Jackie’s and Jake’s letters. He knew midnight had passed and another day would begin at six.

  Anwar pulled up at the curb. He looked toward the house. “It seems very modest.”

  “It is.”

  “Strange. We always think the Great Satan lives in great splendor.”

  “The grass is always greener,” said Frank. “Think about it. America may be a nice place to visit, but would you really want to live there?”

  * * *

  Alone in the quiet kitchen, he poured himself an Absolut and pried open one of the tins of caviar Mina had bestowed on him. He spooned a taste of the caviar, let it dissolve in his mouth, and tried a sip of the vodka. He’d been looking forward to the indulgence, but the pleasure he sought eluded him. Lermontov intruded. Caviar and vodka. So very Russian, here in Iran. But where was Lermontov? Somewhere here in Iran. He feared that Lermontov had become an obsession for him. He remembered Anwar’s toast. Na zdarovye. Focus on the day job, he told himself. Your cover. Jayface. Anwar. Something about their evening and, however briefly, spending time with Mina and Anwar’s children also troubled him, though, and he could not understand why. Okay, he told himself. They made me think about Jake. But I think about Jake a lot. He thought about four-year-old Mina, perched on his lap. He thought about her brother, standing so stiffly before him, questioning him about America. Will your son think I’m too young to play with? They made him think about Jake, but more than that, their presence, physical, touchable, brought Jake home. He thought of the family portrait, physical, palpable, mother and children, framed in the doorway, but the father not there. He stared at the caviar that had no taste and the vodka that had no bite. Where am I? Not in the picture. What am I doing here? Chasing a KGB officer. Neglecting my son. Another absent father. Leaving civilization to women. Anwar’s family made him think about Jake and about himself. He had to help Anwar get to America and stay close to his children. He knew it was what he wanted for himself. He realized he couldn’t walk away from Lermontov, but at least he could help Anwar and his family.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The week seemed to have evaporated, leaving only a blurred stain on his memory. Their Jayface meetings had become holding patterns. Like an ominously silent air traffic control tower, Colonel Kasravi sent no word.

  Anwar had been resistant to Bunker’s idea of pleading a family emergency to get himself a visa. “I have a better idea. Mina and the kids take advantage of their American citizenship and fly back to the States. I have my cousin and some of his homafar friends get an F-4 fueled up and primed for takeoff at some point when chaos is even worse than usual, and I take off, flying under the radar screen, over the Zagros, staying south of Tabriz into Turkish air space and head for the American base at Incirlik. The Americans arrange clearance for me. I land and ask for asylum.”

  “As fantasies go, I like it,” said Frank. “Otherwise, it sounds like a good formula for getting yourself killed.”

  Is everyone I know suicidal? he wondered. He never figured out how serious Anwar had been, but Anwar did agree to drop the idea. Two days later, he said he had talked to Mina and they agreed that it would be a good idea to meet with Frank’s friend who knew about consular matters.

  Belinsky had completed translations, with commentaries, of both the 1967 tape made by Khomeini while exiled in Iraq and of new tapes dealing with the coming Ashura ceremonies that Frank had obtained from Anwar the Taller. They discussed them with Rocky in Belinsky’s office, and Frank made a special request.

  “Chuck, on one of these tapes, my guy told me, Khomeini talks about not confronting the soldiers. Avoiding violence. Putting flowers in the gun barrels.”

  “Right?”

  “Look, on the tape where he talks about all that, could you get a copy made for me? Cued up to that part?”

  “What d’ya want it for?” said Rocky.

  “I’m not even sure. Maybe to give me a way to talk to the other Anwar, maybe even to Kasravi, about how they think people will react to that.”

  Belinsky said he would do it if it was okay with Rocky, and Rocky said okay. Belinsky, however, took much more interest in the 1967 tape.

  “Fascinating stuff,” he said. “The translation your contact gave you was accurate, and all the checks Langley could run verified the tape as authentic, which makes it important. We know what Khomeini’s been doing recently, but until now we’ve had no idea where he’s coming from, whether he really hates us or whether all this ‘Great Satan’ talk is just rhetoric.”

  “From what my Iranian buddies tell me, even from the tone of his voice, I’ve got a hunch he truly hates our ass,” said Frank. “From what Anwar said the old man feels we got him kicked out of his own country over that Status of Forces business.”

  “Good to know that,” said Rocky. “The folks back home have sent out queries for embassy reaction to some State Department brainstorm to send someone over to Khomeini wherever he is outside of Paris to try to make some kind of accommodation.”

  “Makes some sense,” said Belinsky. “We have a common enemy. The U.S. opposes the Soviets because they’re Communists. Khomeini opposes them because they’re atheists.”

  “It might not hurt to try,” said Frank. “But I’d be willing to bet a nickel Khomeini would refuse. And go public and tell the world we begged to meet with him and he said flat out, ‘Get thee behind me, Great Satan.’”

  Rocky’s laugh seemed genuine. “You should write his fuckin’ speeches.”

  “I’d love to,” said Frank.

  “I’d love to have you write my cables, too. Next best thing, I’m gonna steal some of what you said. The ambassador and I have a meet in the morning to coordinate our responses to these latest brainstorms from back home. I’ll go do a cable right now backin’ up what you had to say about the tapes. Uncle Sam could come away with lot of rotten egg on his face if he tries to cozy up to a pissed-off holy man and the holy man tells Uncle to go fuck himself.”

  “I don’t think the Ayatollah would do that,” said Belinsky.

  “I’m willin’ t’ bet he does a whole lot worse before we’re outta this.” Rocky left them, and Belinsky turned to Frank.

  “You really think Khomeini hates us that
much?”

  “I try not to think,” said Frank. “I’m just a reporter.”

  “And a very good one. The ambassador let me read some of your cables. Wonderful stuff—not just the quality of the reporting, also the quality of the writing, which helps to get good reporting listened to. I wish I wrote half so well. Could I hire you as a ghost writer?”

  “I’d like to tell you I’m too expensive, but you could probably get me for cheap. Like just for some free advice.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, I have a friend. A couple of friends. Husband and wife.”

  “Iranian?”

  Frank nodded.

  “Who want to get to America?”

  “Correct.”

  Belinsky shook his head and sighed. “Tell me about your friends. They should make something like two million, six hundred thousand, two hundred and two on my we-want-American-visas list.”

  Frank wondered if maybe Belinsky was in the visa-selling business. He dismissed the thought. Belisnky didn’t deserve such suspicions. “You’re saying I should forget it.”

  “No,” said Belinsky. “Tell me their story. Maybe I’ll have an idea. But please don’t be disappointed if I tell you it’s unlikely. Or hopeless. Half of Iran would leave for America tomorrow if they could, up to and including the royal family.”

  “I know.” How well I know. He noticed that a slight pallor had crept back into Belinsky’s cheeks. He tried to check Belinsky’s eyes, but Chuck looked away.

  Frank told him all he could remember about Anwar and Mina and added Bunker’s suggestion about trying to find a route other than that of an official defection.

  “He’s right,” said Belinsky. “I try not to know too much about such matters as defectors, but I suspect Fred’s right. Baha’i, you say?”

  “She is.”

  “They truly are a persecuted minority here.”

  “But she’s not the problem. She’s an American. Born there. The kids are American citizens. He’s the Iranian.”

  “Would he be willing to do what it takes to pretend he’s Baha’i, that he converted in order to marry … whatever the wife’s name is?”