The Peregrine Spy

by Edmund P. Murray

  “Correct,” said the colonel. “In this world nothing stands as permanent, does it?”

  “No, sir. I guess not. But you had set Moharram 11 as your deadline.”

  “That’s only four days away,” said the colonel. “And you had said you would request a more rapid response.”

  “And I did. But if nothing comes in today, I would like to use today’s meeting, your question to me today, as the basis for another cable, to prod my government for an answer.”

  “Good,” said the colonel. “Please do that. By the way, not that it matters, but I liked the suggestion Armed Forces Times. As the name for the newspaper.”

  Frank had always assumed the Jayface meeting room was bugged, but it hadn’t occurred to him Colonel Kasravi’s office would be among the listening posts.

  “That wasn’t your voice, was it?” said the colonel.

  “No, sir. That was my colleague, Lieutenant Commander Simpson.”

  “Pity it will never happen,” said Kasravi.

  “Yes, sir,” said Frank. “It would be a pity if it never happened.”

  The colonel smiled. “You are persistent, aren’t you? Why does this newspaper idea matter so much to you?”

  “Sir, I guess I just love newspapers. I got to be editor of the weekly newspaper when I was only twenty in a South Texas town called Alice, and then in Ethiopia running the major daily newspaper was part of my job. When I was growing up in New York, there were something like fourteen daily papers. Now there are only four. I hate to see a newspaper die, especially one that hasn’t been born yet.”

  “I begin to understand,” said Kasravi. “The possibility may remain open if we receive word that you have been posted here as an adviser. But I must tell you events are moving rapidly. The release of the political prisoners, which I told you about on Monday, took place as scheduled yesterday. Sanjabi and Ayatollah Taleqani will, as I told you, lead peaceful demonstrations on Tasu’a and Ashura. We will announce this to the foreign press at zero eight hundred hours tomorrow. BBC and Voice of America will broadcast the news in Farsi. The Russians will broadcast from Baku. They are our mass media these days—Ayatollah Khomeini’s tapes and the foreigners.”

  “Colonel, if I may suggest it, the government should do more of this kind of thing. Inform the foreign press and through them the people of Iran of positive measures the government takes.”

  “Do you think our people believe the foreign press more than our own news media?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “You are very bold to say so,” said the colonel.

  “At least some of the foreign press, sir.”

  “Like BBC?”

  “Well, yes, sir.”

  Kasravi offered another of his rare smiles. “I would suggest you do not express that view to His Imperial Majesty. You are right, of course. Many Persians, myself included, rely on BBC for news about our country. But His Imperial Majesty believes BBC—and the British government—have become tools of Mr. Khomeini.”

  No “Imam” for the colonel, thought Frank.

  “And in fact,” said Kasravi, “we brief the foreign press every day. They rarely transmit the material we give them.”

  “I might be able to help you with that. I understand the world press. What they consider newsworthy. How the British and the Americans and the French journalists differ from each other. How the Russians differ from everybody. How individual newspapers, say, like the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, the Washington Post, have different approaches. How BBC differs from the Morning Telegraph. How you can hook the interest of one with one story, the interest of another with a different story. What material none of them will take an interest in.”

  “It all sounds very ambitious, Major Sullivan. For these times. I wish you had arrived here and shared your skills with us a year or two ago. Nevertheless, I will discuss your suggestions with the prime minister. We shall see.”

  “It could be helpful, sir. To drown out the noise from Neauphle-le-Château.”

  “We shall see. And now…”

  Frank interrupted him. “Colonel, I just wondered…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, Gus, Commander Simpson, also has an extensive background working with the news media. In fact, the name you liked for our newspaper, Armed Forces Times, he came up with that idea. I wondered if he could work with me on trying to work out some of these ideas.”

  “I’m afraid not. Your Commander Simpson tried to recruit a Savak agent who also worked for us, military intelligence. You yourself, to the best of our knowledge, have not attempted anything so foolish. We do not want to make an incident over what your friend attempted, but we consider him … may I say we consider him in quarantine?”

  I should have quit when I was ahead, thought Frank.

  * * *

  Now what? wondered Frank, as he pushed his way through the glass doors of Supreme Commander’s Headquarters. He walked out into the parking area, where he saw their driver, Sergeant Ali Zarakesh, and Corporal Cantwell, leaning against a fender of the big, bulletproof Nova. He walked up to them and looked from one to the other.

  “I have been instructed to drive you to Niavaran Palace,” said Ali with a stern expression.

  “And I’ve been instructed to take your other car back to Dowshan Tap,” added Corporal Cantwell with a slight smile. “I also have this for you.” He handed Frank an eyes-only envelope.

  “Okay,” said Frank. “I appreciate that.” He stuffed the envelope into a parka pocket, found the keys to the Fiat, and tossed them to Cantwell. “It’s all yours.”

  * * *

  A much younger majordomo greeted him. “You may have to wait a while. Rather than sit in this drafty hall, there is an office just this way I believe you have used before.”

  Frank wondered if he would find Lermontov again waiting for him, but the bare room, with its familiar vase of fake blue flowers, proved empty. Frank settled into a chair, ready for a long wait. He nervously fingered the eyes-only envelope, which he had shifted to an inside pocket in his suit jacket. He felt tempted to read it again but knew he had no need. He had scanned it in the car and forgotten nothing.

  The Shah wants to see you. Late this afternoon is all we have, so be prepared to wait. Word comes from his nibs who expects you to break the news about the coup proposal that you understand USG people in Washington have a copy of. What does the Shah think of the various proposals? Also review the status of the armed forces newspaper. The overnights included full and final approval of your role as an adviser on an indefinite basis. Tell the Shah. You can tell the Jayfacers tomorrow. Come back here after your meet. Again unsigned, and again he knew it had come from Rocky.

  He welcomed the wait, even the fact that he had nothing to read. It gave him an opportunity to think, a luxury that had become rare. He worried that in rushing from one contact to the other he would miss a vital beat. Above all, he worried about pinning down Lermontov and finding out more about the mole, but he also worried about neglecting Jake and, yes, Jackie.

  When he was finally summoned and followed the young majordomo into the Shah’s office, the first thing Frank said was “I don’t think I’ve ever told you about my son, have I?”

  The Shah stared at him vacantly, and Frank wanted to bite his tongue.

  “I did not even know you had a son,” said the King of Kings. He remained slumped in his high-backed chair. He looked even more worn than on Frank’s previous visits: his face, a gray reflection of the suit he wore; his features, gaunt; his eyes, hooded.

  “Sorry, sir. Just I was thinking about him while I was waiting.” Frank fumbled, trying to say something that might make sense. “Like your son, he’s in America. A student, but only in the sixth grade. I was thinking of all the things I would have to tell him when I get back home.”

  “Perhaps we could go together,” said the Shah.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “When you go back home to America, will you take me wi
th you? I would like to meet this son of yours.”

  “Would you like to go to America, Your Majesty?”

  “Oh, yes. Sloan-Kettering. Johns Hopkins. Columbia Presbyterian. My son is in air force training at Reese, a base near Lubbock in Texas. Perhaps we could exchange visas. He could come here as regent. I could go to America as patient. I’m sure you Americans, like our friends the British, would like to ship me off.”

  “Please don’t include me among any Americans who might want to ship you off. In fact, I have what I hope you’ll consider good news. We received approval today from my government of my assignment on an indefinite basis as adviser.”

  “Indefinite?” said the Shah. “I do not consider ‘indefinite’ good news. A man in my position would have preferred to have heard something more … ‘indefinite’ sounds … very indefinite. Like American support of our rule.”

  “I’m sure, Your Imperial Majesty, that America’s support of your rule is very definite.”

  “And permanent?”

  Oh, shit, thought Frank. How do I get from here to asking what he thinks about a proposal from his military for a coup that would depose him?

  “I have to admit, sir, I’ve never had much faith in the ability of American politicians to stick to any policy. For America, permanent and politics may be a contradiction in terms.”

  “I agree,” said the Shah, straightening in his chair. “Monarchy makes much more sense than political democracy.”

  “You know how much I admired Haile Selassie,” said Frank. “I guess I must have a weakness for monarchs.”

  “But your government seems to consider monarchy a weakness.”

  Frank saw his chance.

  “I’ve heard, sir,” he said, trying to sound casual, “that somehow the American government has a copy of a proposal developed by your military. A proposal that seems to consider the monarchy somewhat weak, at least at this time.”

  The Shah’s expression darkened. “What do you know of this?”

  “My contact at the embassy told me about it. He has his own channels, of course. From what he said, I got the impression that Ambassador O’Connor had not been informed.”

  “Good. We should prefer to keep it that way. At least for now. Have you read the proposal?”

  “No. Just been told some of the highlights.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, that the plan calls for you to leave Tehran for what I believe is described as a medical leave at a naval base on the gulf.”

  “They call it a ‘vacation,’” said the Shah. His voice put “vacation” quotation marks, punctuated by an uncharacteristic sneer.

  “We’d been told you’d been given the proposal and the military waited for your approval.”

  “Do you have any idea how your government obtained a copy?”

  “Sir, my government doesn’t normally share its top-level secrets with someone like me.”

  “Our son-in-law, perhaps. Our ambassador. He’s very well connected in America. And in Tehran. Someone in our military must have gotten a copy to him.”

  “Perhaps,” said Frank. “It seems so strange, sir—for your military to give you a plan, to ask your approval, for a coup to depose you.”

  “It seemed strange to us also,” said the Shah, smiling now, but wanly. “How would you have responded, in our place, if your military had given you such a proposal?”

  “How have you responded?”

  “Our response has been not to respond.”

  “That seems very wise. Do you think the military, right now, is capable of taking over the country, imposing a new government?”

  “Inshallah. Or perhaps we should say Insh-ayatollah.”

  Not God willing, thought Frank. The Ayatollah willing. He had not previously given the Shah credit for such subtle wordplay. Never underestimate an emperor.

  “Do you think,” Frank asked, “the future depends on the will of Ayatollah Khomeini?”

  “Not at all. The future depends on many factors. But this preacher has a following. We will see. The events of Tasu’a and Ashura may tell us something. For now, we shall wait. We shall see. Then, we shall act.”

  * * *

  In the warmth of the American safe house, Lermontov quickly removed his winter greatcoat and lamb’s-wool hat. He spread the lapels of his tweed jacket, pointed to his chest, and cupped his huge hands over his ears.

  Frank nodded. Okay, he’s wired.

  “I’ve been authorized to proceed,” said Lermontov. “And, since you are not a very good host, I brought you a present.” He unzipped his soft leather briefcase and extracted a one-liter bottle. “Export quality Stolichnaya. It’s been in my freezer, so it’s nicely chilled. And this—the finest Soviet Beluga. Room temperature. With some biscuits. For you biscuits. I have trouble chewing them. Can you at least provide some glasses and plates? Then we can celebrate.”

  All my life, thought Frank, I’ve been looking for a way to sell out. Now I’ve got it, and it’s only a game. Frank handed Lermontov the note he’d prepared.

  Debug the place and talk about it while you’re doing it. It will sound good on your tape.

  As Frank went to the kitchen, Lermontov went about systematically dismantling the listening devices he’d previously detected, chattering about how easy it was to detect and neutralize CIA bugs. When Frank returned, Lermontov pointed to the phone, the radiator vents, the vase. He pushed a notebook toward Frank in which he’d written, Tape recorder?

  They settled at the table, close to the now deaf vase with the fake blue flowers, and toasted each other and enjoyed the caviar and vodka while Frank set his tape recorder in motion.

  “You must congratulate me,” said Frank. “Word came in the overnight traffic that Langley has okayed my staying here as an adviser.”

  “Excellent,” said Lermontov. “Have you told the Iranians?”

  “The Shah, yesterday. The other Iranians, including Kasravi, this morning.”

  “Good. That makes the timing of this very appropriate.” Lermontov pulled a thickly stuffed plain white envelope from his pocket. “Count it, please. Then I will ask you to sign a paper for me.”

  Twenty-dollar bills. Not new. Frank counted out five stacks of fifty each.

  “Five thousand.”

  “As promised,” said Lermontov. “Please sign here.” He handed Frank a square of onion-skin paper with Cyrillic script and a stamped seal.

  “But I can’t read it.”

  “It says five thousand dollars. You have to learn to trust me.”

  “I do trust you. I just don’t like signing things I can’t read.”

  “A wise principle. But we’ve moved into a different world now.”

  “There you go.” Frank scrawled his signature across the spot Lermontov indicated.

  “Thank you. Now that we’ve moved into a different world, you will tell your people your effort to recruit me does not look promising. We may meet here once or twice more, then you must tell your people you think the effort should be aborted. We will continue to meet, but at a safe house I will provide. We will rendezvous at locations other than the safe house. I will drive you to our destination. You will be given dark glasses to wear during the ride which will effectively leave you sightless. You will surrender the keys to your car to one of my associates, who will drive your car to another location, where I will drop you off after our meeting. Do you understand these procedures?”

  “They sound very well thought out,” said Frank, troubled by the way Lermontov had taken over, even to the extent of blinding him.

  “It is all for your protection. Including protection from your own people as well as Savak or others. Two cars driven by my associates will circle around us at discreet intervals to make sure you and I are not followed. Understood?”

  “Understood. But when?”

  “Let’s meet once more here. Sunday at seven-thirty. Backup Monday, Tuesday.”

  “Sunday’s Tasu’a,” said Frank. “Could be a bad day
—and night.”

  “It won’t be bad. Khomeini has given instructions the demonstrations must be peaceful. But if it makes you more comfortable, let’s make it Monday evening. The Ashura demonstration will be over by midafternoon. Unless there’s total chaos, the crowds will have gone home.”

  “Fine,” said Frank. “If I need an urgent meet sooner, I’ll chalk it on my door. That night. Follow up the next night.”

  Lermontov did not seem interested, but he nodded.

  “What if you need an urgent meet?” asked Frank.

  “I won’t.”

  “Never say never. How ’bout you put a chalk mark on your front door?”

  Lermontov frowned. “You know where I live?”

  “It surprised us. Most Soviets live up in the Zargande complex north of town. But you’re on Ghazali Street. We found out.”

  Lermontov shrugged his massive shoulders. “Not so surprising. I’m declared to Savak.”

  “You’re the rezident?”

  “I didn’t say I’m the rezident. I just said that, like the rezident, I’m declared as a KGB officer to our Iranian friends. You can look for a chalk mark on my door, if you want, but you won’t find one. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Good. The material you provided on the splinter group that plans to defect from Tudeh proved most valuable. And useful. Do you have more material for me?”

  “Trust me,” said Frank. He swung the briefcase Bill Steele had provided up on the table and opened its secret compartment. “Take a look at these.”

  Lermontov scanned the several documents. “This looks very good, especially this one on your meeting with the Shah. Since Major Nazih’s arrest, I have lost my palace access agent. You will remedy that.”

  “Perhaps not quite,” said Frank, “Nazih had daily access to the palace, and not just to the Shah. I see only the Shah and only when he sends for me.”

  “In the absence of Nazih, how does the Shah contact you?”

  “Through the ambassador.”

  “Your ambassador meets often with the Shah. Can you find out what’s said at his meetings?”

  “The ambassador wants to hear all about what goes on in my meetings with the Shah, but he isn’t very talkative about his own.”