The Peregrine Spy

by Edmund P. Murray

  Lermontov started up the Peugeot while Frank slipped on the opaque, wraparound glasses.

  “Wow. I am blind.”

  “I know,” said Lermontov.

  Frank tried to count the right turns, the left turns. Lermontov made many of both, following a convoluted route meant both to elude any possible tail and, Frank guessed, to keep him from tracing their journey. What kind of problem? He tried to listen to the sound of the Peugeot struggling uphill but found it difficult to concentrate. He tried to keep track of Lermontov’s frequent use of the brakes as an indication they were headed toward a lower part of town, but the Peugeot ran smoothly. As far as Frank could tell they had headed neither up toward the north end of town nor south. A sudden U-turn threw off his count of right and left turns. Lermontov braked and turned to his right, and Frank heard the sound of a garage door being swung open. Lermontov pulled in. The garage seemed to be at street level. Otherwise, Frank had no idea of their route or location. Or of their problem.

  * * *

  The Russians, like Bill Steele, did not go in for frills. “Bare bones” described the interior of the safe house. A card table with two folding chairs stood in the middle of the front room. A naked ceiling bulb cast a circle of light around the table, spotlighting a telephone hooked by a long cord to a far wall. A round stand with an unlit kerosene lamp guarded the doorway that led into the front hall. Framed Air Iran tourist posters graced each wall. They hung well above eye level and masked, Frank suspected, the video cameras. He avoided looking directly at the posters and realized he and Lermontov would avoid any discussion of their problem. Whatever it was.

  “You aren’t wearing a wire or anything like that, are you, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. I trust you, but nevertheless I will search you. Remove your jacket, please.”

  Frank draped his jacket over the back of a chair and submitted to a careful pat-down. Lermontov ignored the wire when he tapped it. Frank imagined the technician who would monitor the tape wincing at that and hating him. He hoped the clear substance in the pitcher Lermontov carried in from the kitchen might be Stolichnaya. Lermontov, as though reading his mind, paused in the doorway. He balanced two glasses and a bowl of ice in his other massive hand.

  “Just water,” he said. “No vodka this time. But I do have something else for you.” He set his water service on the card table and drew a thick envelope from his tweed jacket. “As promised, a bonus. We appreciated the quality of the material you brought last time, particularly the report on the Kianouris. Count it, please, and sign the receipt that’s in there.”

  Frank counted out fifty twenty-dollar bills. “Not a lot,” he said.

  “I like greed,” said Lermontov. “One of the more endearing character traits engendered by capitalism. A hungry agent is a productive agent. What do you have for me this evening?”

  I have a question for you, thought Frank. What the hell is this problem about? But he knew he could not ask his question. He put his new briefcase on the table. He stared at the package he had slipped out from under his seat in the Peugeot. My answer’s in there, he thought, but it will have to wait. He pried open the false bottom and handed over the material Rocky had provided.

  * * *

  Frank shed his wire and tape in Rocky’s office and turned it over to the technician. Then, secure in the bubble, he gave Rocky the note he’d tucked into his shirt pocket.

  “Problem? What the fuck problem?”

  “I guess it’s in there.”

  Rocky tore open Lermontov’s neatly wrapped package. He showed Frank the white, letter-size envelope with “Eyes Only” printed in Lermontov’s hand. Frank nodded. Rocky unsealed the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. He read in silence for a moment, then looked up at Frank.

  “We got a problem, all right.”

  “Does it have a name?”

  “Yeah. It’s called a penetration agent. And it’s alerted Moscow that the American station in Tehran is attempting to recruit a Soviet intelligence officer, identity unknown.”

  “Shit,” said Frank.

  “You got it all over ya.”

  “What else does this guy know? Does he know Lermontov’s got a lead on him?”

  “Good question. When we got the word from Lermontov on a penetration agent, my cable went eyes only to the Holy Ghost. No indication so far that our mole knows about that. But our first cables on Lermontov as a recruitment target would’ve gone to Near East and Soviet Division. Which may tell us somethin’ about what our penetration agent has penetrated.”

  “But he doesn’t have the identity.”

  “Separate cable,” said Rocky. “Remember, identity doesn’t get distributed. Archives only. Counter Intelligence, then limited need-to-know basis.”

  “What about Covert Action?” asked Frank.

  “Yeah. Dean Lomax is your boss, so he’d have seen the cable. Without the identity. And, I gotta believe, your rabbi, Pete Howard.”

  “Some of those folks would’ve guessed the identity,” said Frank.

  “Yeah,” said Rocky. “I guess somebody might ’a guessed. But it looks like our mole ain’t one ’a them. So far.”

  “So from now on we talk only to Henry James.”

  “Startin’ right now,” said Rocky. “Wait for me. I gotta go eyes-only our Holy Ghost. It’s around midnight back home, but they’ll red-alert his ass outta bed. Don’t go ’way.”

  With Lermontov’s note in hand, Rocky wooshed through the bubble’s plastic door. Frank watched his spectral shadow head up the stairs toward the communications room. Frank’s right leg twitched. He straightened it, flexed it, but the trembling wouldn’t stop. He felt cold, and he felt the urge to pee. Only nerves, he told himself. You don’t have to piss. “Don’t go ’way,” Rocky had said, and he knew he couldn’t abandon the bubble and all Lermontov’s papers. What now? he wondered. How long will it take for this guy to come up with names that he’ll feed to Moscow? Including my name. Still, he realized he had far less to fear than Lermontov. If the hammer comes down … He thought of Lermontov. Drugged. Shipped back to Moscow. Disappeared into the cellars of Lubyanka prison. Tried and convicted in secret. Executed. Because I got him jammed up.

  Still clutching Lermontov’s note, Rocky returned to the bubble sooner than Frank would have thought possible.

  “Here. You should read this.” He handed Frank Lermontov’s note. “Your boy sounds pretty rattled.”

  Frank scanned the note, which ended, “My life is now in great danger.”

  “I’m kind of rattled myself,” said Frank. “What can we do for him?”

  “Dunno. Maybe James’ll come up with somethin’. Help your buddy scapegoat somebody else in the rezidenza.”

  My buddy, thought Frank. More likely my enemy. Now more than ever.

  “Some kinda black op,” said Rocky. “Make it look like somebody else is the bad guy.”

  “That could get somebody killed.”

  “Right. Just so long as the somebody isn’t Lermontov.”

  Frank nodded. Anwar had been right. This isn’t a game.

  “May as well sit and read a while,” said Rocky. “In case James does get back to us tonight.” They turned their attention to the other hand-printed material in the package Frank had retrieved from Lermontov’s Peugeot. Rocky skimmed, nodding his approval. “This guy knows his shit. Hope he knows enough to figure out a way outta the bind we put him in.”

  “We put him in? More like I put him in,” said Frank. He’d wanted to make things happen. Now he realized making things happen could have consequences.

  “Don’t get down on yourself. Lermontov’s a professional. He knows the game.”

  Frank shook his head. “It’s not a game.”

  “It ain’t basketball,” said Rocky. “Yeah, I heard about what you did. Thing we gotta do now is stay on top of our game. This game. Figure out what we can do for Lermontov. Maybe even evacuate him outta here if we have t
o. Do what we can to put a fuckin’ stop to this penetration agent fuckin’ us over. Don’t go into a guilt funk on me. I need you. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Frank. “I’m here.”

  “Let’s get back to what your buddy has for us.”

  “Good.”

  “Note says the take he’s turning over includes a Soviet analysis of the situation in Iran, predicting a Khomeini takeover and American withdrawal within two months. Also a couple of KGB reports on the Khomeini camp in Paris. They seem to think all the American-educated Iranians he’s got up there indicate he’s been co-opted by the CIA. That’s a laugh. And an update on Soviet intentions in Afghanistan. Nothin’ great. When’s your next meet?”

  “Sunday. Same time. Parking lot at Pahlavi Hospital.”

  “That’s original. The rest is what he wants us to do about his medical problem. Contact Dr. Hyman Roth, Columbia Presbyterian. Jesus, he’s translated his medical records into English so you can turn ’em over to the specialist in advance. First installment’s here. More to come.”

  “He sounds pretty anxious.”

  “Yeah. Well, by now he’s got some pretty good reasons t’ be anxious.”

  They spent some time reading Lermontov’s medical records, learning more about acromegaly than they ever thought they would want to know. The phone on the glass-topped table rang. Rocky grabbed it. “Yeah … Be right up.” He slammed it down. “James. Be right back.”

  The cable he returned with was brief. Give this matter your highest priority. Submit any and all ideas for operational assistance we may provide on ident a. Also any further indications that may help us identify ident b.

  “Here we go,” said Rocky.

  * * *

  On Saturday Frank returned to the gym. More than a week had passed since his last workout. The homafaran welcomed him.

  “We thought you had given up working out,” said Anwar the Taller.

  “But we saw what you did on the basketball court,” said the youngest of the group.

  “You must be Persian in your soul,” said the club twirler, his concentration fixed on his task. “If that big American had killed you, if you were a Muslim, you would have gone straight to heaven, a martyr.”

  Frank smiled. “No, I’m not a martyr, but I saw you in the Ashura march.”

  “Ah, yes. Not I, the homafar. I, the Mojahedin, guarding Ayatollah Taleqani.”

  “You watched on television?” said Anwar the Taller.

  Frank nodded.

  “My cousin told me you wanted him to take you on the march.”

  Again, Frank nodded.

  “You do have a martyr complex.”

  “No, not me,” said Frank.

  “You’re very quiet,” said Anwar.

  “Too much on my mind,” said Frank, thinking about Lermontov.

  “We haven’t seen you since before Ashura.”

  “Right,” said Frank. “The tape you gave me with the Ayatollah’s instructions for the marches turned out to be right on target. Almost like a script for the way it all turned out.”

  “Exactly,” said Anwar. He nodded to the club twirler. “With you in mind, Sa’id made a tape of the resolutions and speeches from Shahyad Square at the end of the march. The quality is not good, but a good Farsi speaker should be able to understand.”

  “Thank you,” said Frank, accepting the cassette from Anwar. “Thank you, Sa’id.”

  “Yes, sir. You are welcome.” The names of the other homafaran had never before entered their conversations. Frank wondered if they had reached a new level of trust.

  “Seventeen points,” said Sa’id as his clubs helixed through the air. “They call for a revolution, for an end to the monarchy, acceptance of the Imam as our country’s leader, an Islamic government, justice for the masses, the free return of all political exiles. I don’t remember them all, but all are on my tape.”

  “Thank you,” said Frank.

  “I’ve had another tape for you, since the day after Ashura,” said Anwar. “The Imam’s call for a general strike on Monday. But now that’s only two days away.”

  “I’d still like to be able to play it for my friend at the embassy who speaks Farsi.” Frank reached out to take the cassette, but Anwar tightened his grip on it. “You must be careful these days. The Imam tells the people to be peaceful. Here it has been peaceful, so far. But in other cities—Isfahan and Najafabad—troops have fired on the people, killing many. We may see more killing here. Be careful.” He released the tape.

  * * *

  The next night, Lermontov dropped him off on a street corner. “My Chechen colleague just pulled your car up behind us.” Frank took off the glasses that had kept him sightless. “Pointed north on Ferdowsi, one of our fair city’s more elegant byways. All the important embassies, ours, the British, Germans, all the players in the Great Game of nations who sought power in this part of the world have their embassies along Ferdowsi, unlike you newcomers off by yourselves on Takht-e Jamshid.”

  In the fading afternoon light, Ferdowsi did not look elegant. Bare oak and elm trees echoed the occasional building hollowed out by fire and looters. Frank had in his briefcase handwritten notes from Lermontov that he hoped included new information about the Soviet penetration agent in Langley. He wanted to get away and read them, but Lermontov, seeming strangely relaxed, wanted to play to his wire.

  “You may encounter a military checkpoint at Ferdowsi Square, but your identification should get you through. Keep going north. The street changes its name, but it will take you direct to Takht-e Jamshid. Turn right and soon you will see the gates of your lonely embassy.”

  Frank guessed the big Russian’s ironic manner, new to him, targeted whoever would review the take from the wire Lermontov wore. He had used the tone throughout their meeting, imparting an air of condescension appropriate to a spy who would betray his country for an envelope stuffed with twenty-dollar bills. But Frank wondered if the KGB’s mole in Langley had made Lermontov the suspected betrayer.

  “You may prove very useful to us, if only to show us the weaknesses in American intelligence gathering. The material you gave me tonight makes interesting reading, but it tells me nothing we don’t already know. Perhaps the KGB, or another good organization like Mossad, could set up a training program for your people.”

  “Not a bad idea,” said Frank. “I’ll mention it to my chief of station.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be amused,” said Lermontov. “Au ’voir.”

  Frank, his briefcase already heavy with the envelopes Lermontov had secured under the passenger’s seat, slid out of the Peugeot. He and the burly driver in the black cap and long leather overcoat did a circle dance around the two cars. Frank moved from the passenger’s side of the Peugeot to the driver’s side of the Fiat. The Chechen made the opposite maneuver. Frank watched the Peugeot pull away and make a right at the first corner. He headed up Ferdowsi past all the other embassies and toward his own.

  * * *

  “Sometimes this guy pisses me off,” said Rocky. “A fucking KGB training course.”

  “Maybe he’s right. They’re the ones with a penetration agent in our house.”

  “Any news on that?”

  “I gave him our note. He pocketed it.” Frank opened Lermontov’s package, extracted an eyes-only envelope, and read from the single sheet inside.

  We turn the station upside down each day, spreading fear, suspicion, rumor. Virtually all other work stops. Visitors from Moscow arrive tomorrow.

  “I bet that’ll be a fine bunch ’a thugs,” said Rocky. “You gotta somehow set up a meet at our safe house where you can talk this out. This passin’ little notes back and forth won’t cut it.”

  “He may be afraid to risk it if the Russkies put a tail on him,” said Frank.

  “Try it,” said Rocky. “We gotta find a way outta this before we get all our asses in a sling. Meantime, let’s see what else we got.” He delved into the material Lermontov had sent. “Here we go. More medical
records. And he wants to know if we signed up this Dr. Roth yet. Fucker. We’ve only been working on it a couple of days. When’s your next meet?”

  “Tuesday. Same time.” He handed Rocky the neatly cutout map section Lermontov had given him. “I park, lock the car, take the keys. They’ve already made a duplicate set. Another KGB-er picks up my car and drives it off. I walk until another guy, not Lermontov, comes up this street and picks me up in an orange taxi.”

  “Sounds like your buddy reads too many spy novels.”

  Rocky took notes as Frank described the Chechen who’d driven his car.

  “You get any fix on what part of town the safe house is in?”

  “I’ve been trying.” Frank described his efforts to sense without seeing where Lermontov had taken him. “But it may not much matter. He said Tuesday we go to a different safe house.”

  “Fuck. I don’t like the idea of not knowing where you’re at, but it’s gonna be tough to put a tail on you with this taxicab routine.”

  “Why bother?” said Frank. “I’m his ticket to America. No way he’s going to fuck with me.”

  “Never assume,” said Rocky.

  “He also said he wants to stay in close touch. He expects to get recalled to Moscow soon after Khomeini gets here or the Shah leaves, whichever comes first.”

  A sound erupted from Rocky halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “And who knows which the fuck’ll come first. The Great Ayatollah seems to talk outta both sides ’a his beard. Wants the depraved Shah to be tried for his crimes in an Islamic court one minute and wants him kicked outta the country the next. The Shah sounds like he takes it for granted he’ll go on a vacation on his yacht in the Gulf till all this blows over and then come back like he did when Mosaddeq lost out. Least that’s what he told his nibs at lunch yesterday. You set to see Your Imperial Majesty any time soon?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Frank. He had a strong sense that time was running out. Khomeini arrives. The Shah leaves. Whichever comes first, it could mean the end of his time in Iran. He wondered where that would leave Lermontov.

  “The ambassador has to go back to the palace tomorrow,” said Rocky. “Washington sent another laundry list of questions plus a list of folks the Shah should consider for a Council of Experts to run the country. Dumbest list I ever saw. Mostly people who hate each other’s balls.”