The Peregrine Spy

by Edmund P. Murray

  “Ah, yes. And mixed up, as we recall, with the Russians’ Tudeh party.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand he died, was killed in prison.”

  “Really? It could not have been of much matter. We were not informed.”

  “It seemed…” Frank knew he was stretching his luck, but he wanted to know why Nazih had been tortured and by whose order. “I wonder why his death was necessary.”

  “We do not know.”

  “I understand he was tortured.”

  “You surprise us. We did not think you were so naive as your President. Or is it a disease all Americans suffer? You have no idea what this country requires of its government. To think we can maintain order without a firm hand. To question us as though America had no prisons or executions. No police brutality or … What it is called, your third degree?”

  “All that’s true,” said Frank. His perception of the Shah had darkened. This was the man who feared he would see blood on the snow if the military had free rein, who had told Admiral Hayati he did not want the blood of the people on his hands just to save the monarchy. This some man could so easily dismiss the death of Major Nazih.

  For the first time, he caught a hint of a sour, acidlike smell from the Shah’s ill-fitting gray wool suit. Even in Addis Ababa when they hefted weights and sparred in sweaty gym clothes he had detected nothing like it. The smell of cancer. The stink of a dying empire.

  “It is not a simple matter,” said the Shah. “Yes, violence and open rebellion demand harsh measures. At times. Your human rights people list our so-called acts of repression, but they forget our acts of mercy. We spared Mosaddeq. We spared Ayatollah Taleqani. We spared even this Khomeini, letting him go into exile rather than prison for fighting our White Revolution.”

  “I understand,” said Frank. I understand, and I know my job is to listen and learn. A reporter. Not judge and jury.

  “You know, this same Jimmy person praised our White Revolution, and in truth the White Revolution started with pure intention. Like the waters in our jubes. Do you know our jubes?”

  “Yes,” said Frank. “I’ve seen them.”

  “So much depends on where you see them. Here, in the foothills of the mountains, they are pure. Designed to provide pure water to the entire city. But as they flow downhill, people corrupt them. Like our White Revolution. Pure at the start. Like the blood in our own veins. Persians can corrupt the purest of intentions. They wash their feet in the jubes. They dump night soil in them. What we thought of as a benefit for all became a fresh-water benefit for the elite, corrupted as it flows through us. The source of pure water becomes a sewer, and the people hate us for it. I can feel the jubes running through me, through my own arteries, like a…”

  Like a cancer, thought Frank. He said nothing. He let the Shah’s sentence die.

  * * *

  As he reviewed his day with Rocky in the bubble, Frank suggested that only his meeting with the Shah merited a cable. Rocky agreed.

  “The ambassador’s gonna be pissed the Shah’s tellin’ you stuff he’s not tellin’ him, but like the Shah said, that’s part of the message. Be sure to get that part in. Get it all in, including the peanut farmer. The stuff about the jube-tubes. Straight out. Like a chapter in one of your books. The atmospherics. How he looked. How he sounded.”

  Though lengthy, the cable unfolded quickly. Frank ended it on a sad note. “The interview over, his anger spent, the Shah, who had seemed animated and confident throughout, shriveled back into his shell. Mussolini had disappeared. Only the shrunken, cancer-ravaged Shah remained.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He stashed sensitive material from his briefcase in the safe, including the spare cassette Chuck Belinsky had made for him, cued to the Khomeini’s call for nonviolent revolution. He locked the safe, retrieved his exercise gear from Stan Rushmore’s file cabinet, and prepared for a long-neglected assault on the gym. The heavy bag, motionless, hung as alone, as isolated, as the Shah had seemed at the end of their meeting. He had looked forward to a workout, but even more he wanted to meet with the homafaran. Where was everybody? He’d been aware of an unusual rumble from beyond the doors that led onto the basketball court. He tried the doors and looked onto a court flanked with tiered benches of spectators, Iranian and American.

  His homafar gym buddies clustered near the door. Frank and Anwar the Taller exchanged discreet nods. He spotted Bunker, Cantwell, Reggie Manning, Stan Rushmore, and another player he did not know on the court. Bill Steele sat by himself on a courtside bench. Frank joined him.

  “How come you aren’t in there?”

  “Foul trouble,” said Steele. He kept his eyes fixed on the game. A scoreboard at the far end of the court showed Visitors 62, Home 68, Minutes, 12:05.

  “Who’s home?” asked Frank.

  “They are. Better record.”

  “Who’s the monster?”

  “Brian Brawley. All bad. Played for the Air Force Academy. Big. Good. And a thug.”

  Brawley, as if demonstrating Steele’s description, muscled his way to the basket, leapt with surprising agility for such a big man, and, despite a hard foul by Rushmore, slammed in a basket.

  “That’s about to make it seventy-one,” said Steele. “The son of a bitch also sinks his foul shots. Time for me to get back in there. That’s five on Stan. He’s out, and I got four.”

  “Brawley?”

  “Not but three.”

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  “Hell, no. Glad you could come out. We need all the support we can get.”

  Steele trotted onto the court. Stan Rushmore, dripping sweat, shuffled over to the bench.

  “I’m gettin’ too old for this. How you doin’?”

  “Okay,” said Frank. “Their big guy looks pretty good.”

  Brawley swished his foul shot. “Damn good,” said Rushmore, “and a mean motherfucker.” Brawley turned and raced downcourt before his shot had cleared the net. His teammates trotted behind him. “We can still beat ’em. Watch.”

  Reggie Manning brought the ball upcourt. No defender turned to face him until he had crossed the halfcourt line, and by then he had passed to Cantwell, cutting rapidly across the court. Each of the Trojans moved well without the ball, and four crisp passes later Bunker, with his steel-rimmed glasses taped to his head, found Manning all alone on the far baseline. Feet and shoulders squared away, knees bent, Manning arced a two-handed set shot that rattled in.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” one of Brawley’s teammates yelled at another. He followed his words with an angry, errant in-bounds pass that Reggie Manning stole and drove to the basket for an uncontested lay-up.

  “See what I mean? Five-point game. We’re right back in it. Except for Brawley down low, none of these guys play defense. They’re all too busy thinkin’ about their next shot.”

  “Reg-gie, Reg-gie, Reg-gie.” Frank looked up to see Tom Troy waving a towel and leading a tight cluster of Dowshan Tappeh agency people in a chant.

  “Troy’s Trojans,” said Rushmore. “They call us ‘the Scumbags,’ but we still got a chance.”

  “Six guys?”

  “Yeah,” sighed Rushmore. “Last game of the tournament and that’s all we could suit up. They got twelve. And one of them’s fuckin’ Brawley.”

  Downcourt, Fred Bunker picked off a ball from behind a casual dribbler. He fired a long pass to a streaking Cantwell, who caught up to it like a wide receiver, leapt toward the basket, sailing with impressive hangtime, and banked in his shot. Brawley called for a time-out.

  The clock showed three minutes and forty seconds. Troy’s Trojans had clawed their way to an 80–80 tie when Brawley pulled down a rebound only to have it stripped out of his hands by Manning. Brawley lunged at him, trying to grab the ball back. Off balance, both fell, Brawley on top; Manning, right leg twisted under him, was flattened on the bottom.

  “Goddamn it.” It wasn’t a curse but a scream of pain and frustration, and it silenced the crowd. Frank and R
ushmore hurried onto the floor. Brawley pushed himself up from the floor. “Sorry, Reggie. Sorry ’bout that.”

  “Wasn’t your fault.”

  “How bad is it?” said Steele.

  “I dunno, but I got a hunch it’s bad enough. Help me up. Lemme try it.” Steele and Rushmore eased him up. Manning hopped on his left leg and tried straightening the right. “No good,” he said. “It’s the knee. Feels like a ligament. I’ve done it before.”

  “We better get you to the infirmary,” said Steele.

  “Nah, nah. Just help me over to the bench. The knee can wait till after the game.”

  “What game? With you and Stan both out we’ve only got four players.”

  “So? Play with four. A little extra runnin’ around’ll be good for you.” Hopping on his left foot with the broad shoulders of Steele and Rushmore serving as crutches, he started to the bench when a referee hollered, “You guys got two foul shots coming. Who you want to take ’em?”

  “I’ll take them,” said Manning.

  “How the hell can you take them?” said Steele.

  “I’m the only decent foul shooter you got. Even on one leg I got a better chance of sinking them than anybody else. Just get me over to the foul line and gimme the ball.”

  Steele wrapped an arm around him, and Manning hopped to the foul line, planted his left foot, and balanced on the toes of his right The referee handed him the ball.

  “You call a reach-in on Brawley?” asked Manning.

  “That’s right. His fourth. And they’re in the penalty, so you shoot two.”

  “Good.” He bent his left knee and straightened it as he released his two-handed shot. It swished in. His second shot rattled around the rim and spun in. As Manning, supported by Steele and Rushmore, hobbled off the court, the spectators, even those cheering for Brawley’s team, erupted with applause.

  Frank caught Fred Bunker’s eye. Fred shrugged. “Ask Bill.”

  With Manning, clearly in pain, settled on the bench, Frank approached Steele. “Hey, Bill, I know you already said no once, but if you could use a fifth body out there I’ve got my sneakers on.”

  The big man smiled. “If I didn’t know you’re a pretty smart man, I’d think you had more balls than brains.”

  “There’s only a couple of minutes left. How much harm could I do?”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about. You saw what just happened to Reggie. You’re already missing one kneecap. Besides, you’re not on the roster.”

  “Let’s talk to the refs. Maybe they’ll make an exception. Emergency, right?”

  The negotiations took several minutes. Tom Troy joined in and verified that Frank was a bona fide member of his unit. Despite loud objections from one of his teammates, Brawley—who, like Steele, was a player-coach—agreed. “We don’t want anybody saying we beat a team with only four players,” he said.

  The two referees then conferred with the timekeeper, who had become so involved in Manning’s injury and one-legged foul shooting that he’d let the clock run down. Steele took advantage of the delay to counsel his team. “We’ve got just one hope. Brawley’s got four fouls. Take it to him every chance we get. If we get him to foul out, we’ve got a prayer. Get Frank involved if you can.”

  “We may get you involved,” Bunker said to Frank. “Just don’t get yourself killed.”

  The referees and the timekeeper settled on three minutes and thirty seconds. Brawley’s team brought the ball upcourt cautiously. Brawley posted up on Steele, backing him closer to the basket, but Bunker doubled up on Brawley. A quick pass to the man Bunker had been covering gave him an open shot. Frank, raised arms flailing, dove in his direction, hoping to distract him. The shot clanged off the rim, but Brawley bulled his way past Steele and tapped in the rebound. Frank glanced at the scoreboard. Tied at 82.

  Steele had Frank inbound the ball, then fed it back to him, letting Frank bring it upcourt. Steele set a screen for Bunker, who hooked away from his man, took Frank’s pass, and headed for the basket. Brawley, worried about a fifth foul, let him go, content to block out Steele. Bunker’s lay-up hit the back rim. Brawley grabbed the rebound and hit the man Frank covered with a quick outlet pass. Frank tried to keep up, but it was no contest. The other man was far too quick, not only for Frank but also for himself. He lost control of the ball; by the time he managed to pick it up, the speedy Cantwell had caught up to him. Forced to pass the ball out, he found Brawley, who outraced Steele and Bunker.

  Frank stepped into the big man’s path, planted his feet, raised his arms, and read Brawley’s startled expression. Brawley did his best to stop, but his momentum carried him into Frank as he got his shot off. Frank heard the referee’s whistle just before he hit the floor.

  Dazed, Frank looked up to see Steele and Bunker hovering over him. “You know what you just did?” said Steele.

  “Yeah. I just got knocked on my ass.”

  “What you did you just fouled out their ace.”

  “They called the charge?”

  “That they did,” said Steele.

  “I thought I told you not to get killed,” said Bunker.

  “I didn’t get killed,” said Frank. “Just knocked down.” Steele pulled him to his feet. Still dazed, Frank went to the foul line. He tried to concentrate on the bottom of the net, but the net spun like a top. Frank blinked. The net stopped spinning, and Frank tried to see the ball swishing through the bottom. His one-handed shot went through. His second shot banged off the back rim, but Bill Steele grabbed the rebound and put it in. The Trojans took a three-point lead.

  With Brawley out of the game, his team unraveled. They had no one who could stop Steele inside. Bunker, Cantwell, and the other player, whose name Frank still didn’t know, began hitting from the perimeter. Even Frank managed to get off a shot that rattled in and out, and he blocked a pass that Bunker picked up to lead a fast break for another basket. Time ran out.

  Final score: Trojans win, 93 to 84.

  * * *

  Frank had wondered about Lermontov’s choice of a meeting place. The Amjadieh soccer stadium sat back off Roosevelt, a few blocks from the American Embassy. At 4:30 P.M., even with the short days of the winter solstice closing in, it would still be daylight.

  “In that neighborhood,” Lermontov had explained, “all the spies and revolutionaries concentrate so hard on your embassy they never notice the football field. The national team practices at that time, so the parking lot will have enough cars that we won’t be noticed, but not so many we would have trouble finding a spot. And by that time of day, even in these times, people start to think of other things. Getting off work, evening prayers, their wives, dinner. We will be invisible in plain sight.”

  Frank decided to pass up a chance to get to the gym; his tailbone still ached from the splattering he’d taken on the basketball court. He left the house early for a trip to the embassy, where one of Rocky’s technicians taped a wire to his chest—batteries included. He had given himself more than enough time, but he didn’t want to take chances on Tehran traffic or risk getting delayed by a demonstration. He followed Pahlavi and turned right onto Shah Reza. Impelled by curiosity, he made another left and in a few blocks saw the tottering construction crane. He had never been quite sure of its location. He had first caught a glimpse of it as his flight from Rome descended to Mehrabad Airport. Ali drove them on each of the other occasions he’d seen it, except when he saw it in his dreams. Now he had found it on his own and felt a sense of relief. It still had not collapsed. Melting snow had made the abandoned building site even muddier, but the crane had found some purchase in the slime.

  He circled the construction and drove through narrow back streets to the north side of the soccer stadium. He found a side entrance and followed Lermontov’s instructions to a parking space close to an entrance to the stands. He checked his watch. It wasn’t quite four-thirty, but Lermontov’s Peugeot already waited. Frank pulled up alongside it. A pale blue Fiat, the mirror image of his own, swun
g into the vacant spot on the other side. Score another one for Lermontov’s used car dealer, thought Frank. He killed his engine, grabbed his briefcase, and, keys in hand, squeezed himself out of the car. A squat, broad-shouldered man in a long black leather overcoat who had craggy Caucasian features and surprisingly gentle green eyes pushed himself out of the passenger’s side of the other Fiat. He put his hand out, and Frank dropped the car keys into his puffy palm. They did not speak. Frank turned and walked around his own car and the white Peugeot 504. He let himself in on the passenger’s side.

  “Welcome, Mr. Sullivan,” said Lermontov for the benefit of the wire. “How has your day gone?”

  “Easily,” said Frank, aware now of his own wire. “For a change. Jayface meeting this morning. Nothing this afternoon.” Lermontov handed Frank a sheet of paper printed in his distinctive hand. Frank started to read and kept talking. “Yesterday was different. A very revealing discussion about Nazih with General Merid. And a meeting with the Shah.”

  Lermontov’s note said, We have a problem. Serious now and likely to become dangerous. Frank glanced at him. Lermontov kept his eyes fixed on his rearview mirror.

  “The Shah’s health seems to be getting worse. Much worse,” said Frank as he went back to his reading, still chatting about the Shah.

  Under your seat you will find an envelope with important information about my change in scenery plans and medical needs. And about our problem. Do not read it in my presence. Report it to your people and, at our next meeting, you can give me your reactions in writing. Do not misplace this paper.

  “General Merid flat-out confessed he and Nazih were lovers,” said Frank, “and that he’s scared he may be Savak’s next victim.” He folded Lermontov’s note and put it in his shirt pocket. He wondered how the movement would sound on the nearby wire, and he wondered what serious, maybe dangerous problem they faced. He thought about the sad fate of Major Nazih. “Nazih and General Merid, well, that’s a long story. Maybe we should wait till we get to your place.”

  “Very well. Here are your glasses. The glasses I told you about.”