Steele parked and went into Tom Troy’s office. He emerged five minutes later with two men in the white-helmeted uniforms of the U.S. Air Force Military Police. They joined Steele in the front seat; Frank sat in the middle, Anwar by the door.
They drove through the checkpoints, where Steele was well known, that led onto the Iranian Air Force portion of the base. They exited by a gate on the south side that led into Anwar’s Niru-ye Hayal neighborhood. Then Frank’s simple idea grew complicated.
He and Anwar had just removed their ill-fitting white helmets when, in a very even voice, Bill Steele said, “Better put those snowballs back on. We got trouble.”
“What?” said Frank, as he slipped the helmet back on.
“Company. Looks like military vehicle,” said Steele. “Followed us out the base.”
“Military intelligence,” said Anwar, wincing as he squeezed into the helmet. “For me that could be big trouble.”
Steele kept the van moving at a moderate, steady pace through the residential neighborhood.
“We can’t let them follow us to my house,” said Anwar.
“Maybe the best bet is for me to get out and talk to them,” said Steele. “I know most of those guys assigned to the base.”
“Unfortunately, so do I,” said Anwar.
“Let’s just hope they don’t get too nosy,” said Steele, as he gently braked the rattling van.
“What about me?” called Belinsky from the back.
“Just keep quiet,” said Steele. “Real quiet.” He pulled the van to the side of the road, put it in neutral, and pulled on the hand brake. “If anybody’s a believer, pray.” He slid out and walked slowly toward the back of the van.
Without turning, Frank could see the dance of flashlight beams around the van.
“If they look in and recognize me, we’re lost,” said Anwar.
“Real quiet,” said Frank. “Let’s just be real quiet.”
The murmur of voices outside the van reassured him with its softness. A wave of deep, masculine laughter sounded even better.
Bill Steele climbed back into the driver’s seat. “We’re okay. I think.” He pulled the van back onto the road.
“Are they following?” said Anwar.
Bill studied the rearview mirror suspended from the door.
“Yeah. They are.”
“Then we’re not okay,” said Anwar.
“Oh, Jesus,” moaned Belinsky.
“Hold on,” said Steele. “They just swung around. Headin’ back, looks like.”
“Thank God,” said Belinsky.
They passed a dark, deserted mosque on their left.
“Praise Allah,” said Anwar.
Frank and Anwar again removed their white helmets.
“I gotta go on a ways,” said Steele. “Those guys knew I was agency, but they wondered why I had a couple of snowballs with me. I told ’em that was just cover, you work with me. Told ’em we had to go pull one of our guys out of a girlfriend’s house where he had too much to drink. They’re healthy young men. They could understand that, but they got kind of curious about the girlfriend. Offered to escort us.”
“That would have been fun,” said Frank.
“No, it would not,” said Anwar. “For you Americans it’s all a game. For me it would be death.” He sat tense, rigid, and as far away from Frank as he could, pressed hard against the door.
“I’m sorry,” said Frank. “I didn’t mean to be funny.” A game, he thought. A Great Game.
“Anyways,” said Steele, “I told ’em we had to go way out beyond the football field up ahead, so I think we better do that, just in case they circle around. Then we maybe come back another way.”
“I can show you,” said Anwar. “But please, say nothing of this in front of my wife. She will be frantic enough that we are late.”
* * *
“Where have you been?” cried Mina. She threw herself into her husband’s arms. “I’ve been frantic. Frantic.”
“Just we had to wait for Mr. Belinsky,” said Anwar.
Steele waited in a small pantry room off the kitchen, reading a John le Carré novel. Before the fireplace in the spacious front room, Belinsky outlined his plan in detail and provided drafts of the documents needed to verify Anwar’s conversion to Baha’i. Mina said her family, with close financial ties to many elements of the bazaar, could have the documents created, with appropriate dates, seals, and signatures.
“They can do anything,” said Mina. “They could even make Anwar an American passport.”
“That could be risky,” said Belinsky. “Let’s just stick to the conversion.”
“All this bothers me,” said Anwar.
“What’s the problem?” said Belinsky.
“It seems too … complicated,” said Anwar. “There should be a simpler way.”
“Like stealing an F-4?” said Frank.
“I don’t want to deny my faith,” said Anwar. “Or betray my country.”
“What about your family?” snapped Mina.
“If you’re not sure you want to do this…” said Belinsky.
“We must do this,” said Mina, cutting him off. She turned to Anwar, not smiling, not pouting. “You know I can’t stand it to stay here. Not even with you.”
“I know,” said Anwar. “I agreed. But so much deceit.”
“Deception,” offered Belinsky. He said a single word in Farsi, then added, “Think of it as deception. Evasive tactics, like a fighter pilot might make. For your family’s sake.”
“Anwar, if you don’t want to,” said Frank, “other arrangements can be made.”
“No,” said Mina.
“You and the children could go now,” said Frank. “Anwar could follow when he feels ready.”
“You are the Great Satan,” said Anwar. “No. I agreed. I will go with Mina. And our children.”
“Good,” said Mina. She turned to Frank. “The children wanted to see you. But I thought it best not. With all these…” She glanced at Belinsky. “Arrangements.”
“Give them my best,” said Frank. “I’ve been thinking about them a lot.”
“Good,” said Mina. “I hope Anwar has, too.”
Wow, thought Frank. This is one tough lady. A kitten to her husband, perhaps, but a she-lion to her cubs.
* * *
With Anwar’s uniform and helmet stuffed into a duffel bag, Steele retraced their path to Dowshan Tappeh. He dropped off Frank and headed on to the Damavand with Belinsky.
Frank stashed the uniforms he and Anwar had worn in a closet in Rushmore’s office. Feeling like the Great Satan that Anwar had called him, he washed himself twice. Appropriate. A whore’s bath at the sink. You could stay, Anwar. Send your wife and kids off and you could stay. An agent in place for the Great American Satan. To you Americans it’s a game, Anwar had said.
Frank drove home alone, flicked the lights, waited for Gus to open the garage doors and backed the car down the drive. Frank didn’t move until Gus checked and rechecked the street.
“No cars,” said Gus. “Street’s empty.”
Frank checked his watch. Midnight had passed. December first, a day short of the first of Moharram. Beware the tenth of Moharram, Anwar had said weeks before. Soon Tasu’a and Ashura would be upon them. He thought of the funnels of smoke they had watched, rising from the city. He thought of tornadoes and hoped that Jake was safe at home in New York. He started up the drive, wondering whether Lermontov would actually be at the university that evening. Gus pulled the garage door down behind them. An agent in place, thought Frank. What every spy wants. But all the agents want to go home to the Great Satan, home to America.
Me, too.
* * *
Frank’s mind had been on Anwar and his escape to America, but the massive shadow of Lermontov soon obscured all other thoughts. Frank stood behind the embassy gates and watched the orange taxi pick up Belinsky at the door of the Damavand Hotel. After a moment the taxi pulled away from the curb, swerved around onc
oming traffic, swung a wide U-turn, pulled up by the embassy gates and braked abruptly. Should be an interesting trip, thought Frank. He nodded to the young marine who stood by his side. The marine cracked the gate, and Frank slipped through. He heard the gate clang shut and the chains being pulled taut, feeling as though a last sanctuary had been closed behind him. He climbed into the back of the cab and sat next to Belinsky. The driver leaned on his horn and the accelerator with equal intensity and propelled them into the evening traffic.
“He knows where we’re going?”
“Oh, yes,” said Belinsky. “He’s my regular. I use him all the time. We have a routine for the university. A straight run up Takht-e Jamshid. Not much more than a mile to the back gates. A half hour later he starts circling by the front gates, every fifteen minutes till I come out.”
“Suppose you don’t come out?”
“I always come out,” answered Belinsky. He thought for a moment, then added, “So far.”
Frank recognized Pahlavi as they crossed it, then the Meydan-e Kakh traffic circle. “You’re sure about my friend?”
“I spoke to my source this afternoon, by phone. He confirmed. Your friend will be there.”
Frank nodded toward the silent driver. He’d seen no more than the back of his head, covered by the drawn-close hood of his black wool jacket, and his right gloved hand on the wheel.
“Don’t worry,” said Belinsky. “He doesn’t speak English.”
Maybe he doesn’t speak English, thought Frank.
The stone paths of the university’s spacious quadrangle had been cleared, but snow still covered what Frank took to be flower beds. In its winter aspect, the campus seemed drab. Tall, unornamented brick buildings flanked the nearly deserted quadrangle. Even the mosque seemed stark and plain.
“Pretty dismal, isn’t it?” said Belinsky.
“Yeah, it is.”
“You should see it in better weather, with a rally going on. They get a hundred thousand and more in here, chanting and screaming. Quite a sight.”
“How ’bout when tonight’s prayer meeting breaks up?”
“Not so many, I don’t think,” answered Belinsky. “But enough.”
“Let’s hope we’re out of here by then.”
A handful of students clustered around scattered kiosks that appeared to be stacked with pamphlets and newspapers.
“Mojahedin,” said Belinsky, following Frank’s gaze toward the kiosk with the largest crowd. Frank nodded, guessing that his homafar friends would be glad to hear that.
“That’s the Tudeh kiosk,” said Belinsky, nodding at a slightly aslant structure across the quadrangle. “Hardly anyone, and no sign of a Russian.”
“There he is,” said Frank. Lermontov stood in the center of a knot of students at the base of a statue that faced away from them at the far end of the quadrangle. Lermontov gave no sign of recognizing him. Frank, with his dark glasses, a pulled-down stocking cap, and the turned-up collar of his pea coat, was grateful. He didn’t want Lermontov to see him too soon. To order his cadre of students to cordon him off. To bolt before Frank could speak to him.
“Nice and slow,” he said. “Let me go talk to him.” They continued across the quadrangle, heading for the statue that stood by what Frank took to be the main gates.
“That the Shah?” he asked.
“That’s him,” answered Belinsky. “The students like to say he stands there with his back to the university. They tried to tear it down back a couple of months ago. Must be a pretty tough statue. Big riot. Bunch of students got killed, but the Shah’s still there.”
So’s Lermontov, thought Frank. As he drew within a few feet, he took off his dark glasses. Lermontov, whose lamb’s-wool cap reached to the top of the pedestal, looked over the heads of the group around him. He’d been joking with them, smiling. Now, his expression turned to stone.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“From now on,” answered Frank, “I plan to be wherever you are.”
Lermontov turned away, heading across the quadrangle in the direction of the Tudeh party kiosk. Frank watched as the big Russian’s broad shoulders hunched.
One of the students seemed to recognize Belinsky. He nodded. Belinsky did not respond. The student moved away, following Lermontov. The others straggled after.
“Time to get out of here,” said Frank.
“That’s all?” said Belinsky.
“You expect me to wrestle with him or something? I rattled his chain. That’s all I need. For now. Time to get out of here.”
“Just in time,” said Belinsky. “The mosque is starting to empty out.”
Frank turned in time to see the animated, chanting crowd heading out of the mosque. “What are they chanting?” he asked.
“Maag bargh Shah. Death to the Shah,” said Belinsky. “And they’re heading for his statue.”
They circled the statue and, without rushing, moved through the main gates. Their hooded driver stood by his orange taxi. For the first time Frank noticed that the left sleeve of his black jacket hung empty. He held the door open as Frank and Belinsky scrambled into the back seat.
* * *
Frank and Rocky sat alone in the bubble. Rocky, hands folded on the glass tabletop, said nothing as Frank detailed all that had happened at the university.
“I got no idea what the fuck you’re talkin’ about,” said Rocky when Frank paused. “And this little chitchat never took place, right?”
“Right,” said Frank.
“Musta been an unauthorized mission.”
“Right,” repeated Frank. Except it was a chapter in what Pete Howard had authorized as Frank’s hidden agenda.
“So we won’t have any traffic on it, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t get smart. But just between us, I can tell ya it was no coincidence the driver showin’ up soon as you two come out the gates. Chuck thinks he recruited an unwitting asset all by himself. But that driver’s a certified Savak thug. I set it up with Eagle-1. Chuck takes a lot of chances, but I do my best to keep his ass covered.”
“How’d the driver know we were coming out right then?” asked Frank.
Rocky shrugged. “My guess, some Savaki agent there on the campus got in touch by radio. Who knows? Maybe one of the bunch talkin’ to Lermontov.”
“The driver’s got a radio?”
“Constant touch with Savak. They keep three cars circlin’ wherever the taxi’s at. They spot surveillance, they can signal that. He spots trouble, he can call in reinforcements—if he needs them. He packs a Czech M61 machine pistol, not but about ten inches with the stock folded, which is how he carries it. In a shoulder holster. Eagle-1 tells me he’s real good with it. He’s only got one arm, but he only needs one t’ handle the M61.”
“I’ll sleep better knowing that,” said Frank. “And of course he speaks English, right?”
“Don’t tell Chuck.”
“I won’t,” said Frank. “He was fine, by the way.”
“Glad to hear it. Tell you the truth, Chuck worries me. Eagle-1 says he takes too many fuckin’ chances. Not to mention hepatitis. You think you got to Lermontov?”
“I dunno,” said Frank. “He doesn’t get in touch soon, I’ll try to track him down again.”
“How?”
“Who’s this source of Chuck’s?”
“None ’a your fuckin’ business,” said Rocky.
“I know that. Just he might be able to give us another lead on Lermontov.”
“Maybe. We got other sources who can maybe do that. Includin’ Savak.”
“I really don’t like doing business with those people.”
“Forget that shit,” said Rocky. “Those people are us.”
* * *
Frank dreamt that night of Belinsky’s taxi driver, a one-armed, hooded, dark angel of death. As Frank watched, he reached into his jacket and drew out a stunted, metallic machine gun. His hood fell back, and Frank saw his face. The face of the S
hah.
PART III
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DECEMBER 2, 1978
After one look on his first day, Bunker never again ventured into the bathroom at Supreme Commander’s Headquarters. As usual, he excused himself as soon as they returned from their Jayface meeting to Dowshan Tappeh and shed their coats in Stan Rushmore’s office.
“Speaking of bathrooms,” said Gus, “Hamid…”
Frank shook his head. “Are you guys still doing it in bathrooms?”
“I’ve asked Hamid, but he keeps saying that’s the best place. And what the hell, it’s not like there were stalls anybody could be hiding in. Anyway, Hamid gave me this.” He tugged a sealed, unmarked envelope out of his jacket. “Personal for you. No one else to see it or know I gave it to you. And he doesn’t know where he got it from.”
* * *
Frank carried the unopened envelope with him into the bubble. He hadn’t expected to see the two ambassadors sitting side by side next to Rocky. Frank noted the differences between them. Seated, Hempstone did not look particularly taller than O’Connor, but his cold gray eyes, angular features, and pale complexion contrasted sharply with O’Connor’s ruddy appearance and open expression. He decided to leave the envelope in his case.
“Sit down, Sully.” With a nod, Rocky indicated a chair facing O’Connor and Hempstone. “We just got up here a minute ago, so I don’t know much more than you do, except Ambassador Hempstone says he has news for us. Your show, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll get right to it. We’ve received instructions from … from Her Majesty’s Government to stand down on this matter involving Mr. Lermontov.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I hate to admit it, Mr. Novak, but I’m afraid it means that for Great Britain the Great Game is over. Gerald Mosley doesn’t like it; matter of fact, neither do I. But we must be realistic in this. Only you Yanks remain powerful enough to counter Russian influence in this part of the world.”
The sun sets again on the Union Jack, thought Frank. Hempstone must have been thinking something similar. Frank thought again of a furled umbrella, but now with its folds wrapped even more tightly.
The Peregrine Spy Page 29