My buddies said he’s very devout, so I hoped he might listen to the holy man’s pitch.”
“Well, it worked,” said Troy. “But I wouldn’t count on your buddies bein’ your buddies with all this shit that’s goin’ down now.”
“I hear you,” said Frank. “But the tape I played in there, I got it from an Iranian.”
“Thank God for small favors,” said Troy. “I wouldn’t’ve thought it, but turns out you’re one fearless son of a bitch.”
“Not me,” said Frank.
“Yeah, you did good in there,” said Troy. “I guess you know your other buddy did himself some good today?”
“You lost me,” said Frank. “What other buddy?”
“Bunker. He got himself outta here. Emergency family leave. You know it was comin’?”
“Rocky told me about the headquarters cable.”
“Yeah, well, Pan Am’s booked solid till Friday, so Rocky okayed use of a non-American carrier. KLM tomorrow afternoon to Rome. Pan Am to Dulles. Bunker’s no slouch. Wish my old lady hadn’t left me. Could send her back home and have her heart murmur to Dean Lomax.”
* * *
Gus sat at the kitchen table, sipping red wine. “Our friend is upstairs, packing.”
“I heard about it.” Frank rescued his vodka and a chilled glass from the freezer.
“Good news travels fast,” said Gus as Frank joined him at the table. “I hope he isn’t leaving with the thought of being missed. You should’ve heard him. ‘Protocol demands I attend Jayface … explain my sudden departure. Don’t want them to consider my leaving reflects in any way on the continuing importance…’ and crap like that there.”
“Look at the bright side. After tomorrow morning, you won’t have to put up with him.”
“Yeah, but I’ll have to put up with me, and what I’m really pissed at is me for not bein’ smart enough to pull what our friend is pullin’ off.”
“You could still ask him to talk to Dean Lomax about pulling you out.”
“I thought about it,” said Gus. “But I signed up for the duration, right? Call it a sense of duty. Or stupidity.”
“You aren’t stupid,” said Frank. “And I’ve gotta admit, I need you.”
“Yeah, well, I have been thinking about Lermontov and finding a way to get him out of his mole trap. So far, I’ve come up dry, but I’ll keep at it.”
“I appreciate it,” said Frank. “But it seems like a mistake to pass up any chance to get out of here.”
Gus shook his head. “You know, if Joan knew about it, she could never forgive me for not doin’ just that. But if I did it, I could never forgive myself.”
* * *
Paranoia reigned at Dowshan Tappeh. Except for half a dozen American air force men and an equal number of Iranian counter workers, no one risked the cafeteria. Frank had not seen the homafaran since before the day of the shooting at the Imperial Bodyguard headquarters and his confrontation with Sergeant Abbas. That had been when? Monday. Tension increased yesterday, Thursday, when assassins killed an American adviser to the National Iranian Oil Company and his Iranian counterpart. Bunker had done well to get out, thought Frank. The good bureaucrat. He’d handled it efficiently, even his farewell and departure from Jayface that morning.
Frank, working out alone, tried unsuccessfully to concentrate on his effort to bench press 135 pounds ten times. He needed to meet with Anwar the Smarter. Ask about his cousin. And about his effort to get a visa. Get to see Mina. I’ll see Anwar tomorrow morning. Ask if I can come to his house that night. He decided to cut his workout short. Get home early. Shower. Cook. Eat. Sleep. Good plan. Bill Steele caught him in the hallway.
“Rocky wants you.”
“Sweet Jesus.”
“Not quite. Just the chief of station. Maybe you oughta take a shower.”
“No. Let me stink up his bubble. Maybe he won’t invite me so often. Hey, you ever hear anything about the fat sergeant?”
“No. Except nobody’s seen him. But they expanded the air force security guard that’s responsible for the rest of the base. The Iranian Air Force replaced the army military police that had this area.”
“Interesting. You do a cable on it?”
“Yeah. Just finished. Fact, I’ve got that cable, couple of other things I need to get downtown. How ’bout I give you a ride?”
“Deal,” said Frank.
Frank welcomed the chance to spend some time with Bill, who gunned his British-made Land Rover with speed, precision, and care.
“This ours?” asked Frank.
“Iranian Air Force. Buddy of mine lets me use it. Better cover than our Novas and better protection than your Fiat if some I-rani idiot runs into you.”
With his full beard and hooded parka pulled tight, Steele could pass for a bigger-than-most Iranian.
“Don’t mention to Rocky that I mentioned it to you, but I’ve got a cable Stan Rushmore did on the NIOC American that got killed yesterday. Almost for sure he says the Mojahedin Khalq pulled it off and he thinks one of your homafar gym buddies pulled a trigger.”
“Oh shit. Any name?”
Steele stared straight ahead and, for what to Frank felt like several minutes, said nothing.
“Yeah.” Both hands on the wheel, Bill kept his eyes fixed on the road before them. Finally, he said, “Anwar Amini.”
Anwar the Taller, thought Frank. No wonder I haven’t seen him.
* * *
Frank and Bill Steele sat on metal folding chairs while Rocky, behind his impressive oak desk in his concrete basement office, worked his way through the cables Bill had brought.
“Looks like you got another Iranian killed, Sully.”
“I did?”
“Looks like you did.” The response surprised Frank. Rocky usually turned his hearing aid off when he concentrated on paperwork. “Your jolly fat Sergeant Abbas. You’re slippin’. The last one was a major.”
“Executed?”
Rocky shrugged. “Just nobody’s seen him lately.” He initialed the cable. “Good job, Bill. This one can go.” He kept his head bent, turning his attention to the next cable. He shook his head and looked up. “Sully, I gotta tell you about this one. Seems like one of your homofur buddies may have had a hand in killing those two Iranian oil guys. You seen them lately?”
“Not in about a week.”
“I got a hunch you better keep your ass outta that gym. You could be a sitting duck.”
“I don’t think they’d target me.”
“Never ass-ume. Especially when it’s your ass.” He scrawled his initials across the cable. “Okay. This can go, too. The rest of this shit’s for the pouch?”
“Right,” said Bill.
“Okay. It can wait for tomorrow. I have a problem with any of it, I’ll let you know.” Rocky pushed himself away from his desk with a grunt. He swung open the door of his safe and deposited the pouch material. He added the ball and ribbon from his IBM Selectric, shut the safe, and tumbled the lock. “Bubble time, Sully. Don’t sweat it, Bill. I’ll bring him back pretty quick.”
* * *
“Don’t even bother sittin’ down,” said Rocky as soon as he’d closed the door of the bubble. He stuck out his hand. “Congratulations.”
“What’d I do?” He extended his hand and allowed Rocky to pump it.
“That cable you drafted for me did the trick. That, and a cable Tom Troy sent out about you and that nutty sergeant. Somehow Henry James managed to get ahold of that despite the fact Troy’s cable is really none of his fuckin’ business. Said you deserved a commendation on that and another on the way you’ve handled Lermontov. Oh. I almost forgot. That atmospherics cable of yours. Word came back it got a twenty.”
“What’s a twenty?”
“You really are an outsider, aren’t you? A twenty’s the highest rating a cable can get. It also got boiled down to a one-pager for an NSC briefing for Carter. James sent me another cable just on that. You Irish prick. You’re a fuckin’ hero. Neve
r, never in my fuckin’ life have I heard the Holy Ghost say that much good about anybody.”
“Maybe that should worry me.”
“Maybe it should. But for now it looks legit. James says you should apprise—that’s the way he talks—you should apprise Identity A of our concern regarding Soviet approval of his medical treatment but of our willingness to accept his defection, if absolutely necessary, once certain prerogatives have been achieved. Like nailin’ the fuckin’ mole. Your next meet’s Sunday, right?”
“Right.”
“Good. Apprise him. And good fuckin’ luck. Any ideas about what to do about this shit storm our penetration agent stirred up?”
“Sorry. Not yet.”
“Sorry is right,” said Rocky.
* * *
“Thanks for not letting Rocky know I told you about those cables.”
“He knew,” said Frank.
“What?” For the briefest moment, Bill took his eyes off the road.
“That’s why he kept his hearing aid on.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Rocky has good instincts. When he guesses things, he usually gets it right. When he started reading the cables, I’ve got a hunch because of what they’re about he guessed you might’ve talked to me about them. Usually, when he’s reading something important, he shuts off his hearing aid, to keep out distractions. Tonight, he didn’t. He wanted to see if we’d say anything that might confirm what he suspected. I don’t think we did, but he knew anyway.”
“Son of a bitch. He’s even smarter than I thought he was.”
“Rocky’s very smart,” said Frank. “I’ve learned a lot from him.” And I’ve got a hunch, he added to himself, I’ll learn even more from the Holy Ghost. God help me.
They drove in silence for several minutes. Bill broke it. “Say, Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got a problem. Maybe you can help me with it.”
“I’ll help if I can.”
“You used to be a reporter, right?”
“In some ways, I still am.”
“I’ve got a problem with reporters. Wall Street Journal. Washington Post. Newsweek. Even the BBC. Somehow my name’s got out there. And these guys have tracked me down, asking me questions about Dowshan Tappeh, the American presence, the agency’s role. This Journal guy’s real persistent. He even got my home phone. Called me about the NIOC guy, the National Iranian Oil Company guy that got whacked.”
“What’d you say?”
“Told him he had the wrong guy. I was just a quartermaster for the air force guards, which is what I’m supposed to be.”
“That sounds good.”
“Maybe, but I told him that before. He keeps comin’ back.”
For the second time that evening, Frank asked, “You do a cable on it?”
Bill shook his head. It was a moment before he spoke. “I haven’t even told Troy about it. If the agency thinks my cover’s blown, they might ship me outta here. And I feel like I got a job to do.”
I know that feeling, thought Frank, but I wish it would go away.
“What’s the name of the guy on the Journal?” he asked.
“He’s got a Muslim-sounding name. Which worries me even more.”
“Yusef el Baz?”
“You know him?”
“No, but I know his by-line and a bit about him. American born, Egyptian parents. Speaks fluent Arabic, Farsi, couple of other languages. ’Course, somebody could be using his name, pretending to be him, but the real el Baz is legit and real good.”
“Persistent fucker.”
“Good reporters have to be. Got any idea how he got your name?”
“None.”
“Got any enemies?”
“Well, yeah. Don’t you?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Frank.
“There’s some Iranian toes I stepped on at the base,” said Bill. “Then there’s a couple of fuckers in our communications unit at the embassy.”
“What’s your problem with them?”
“They’re fuckups. One in particular. Guy named Teasdale. Likes to shoot his mouth off. I know he does some of his drinking at the Intercontinental. Where the journalists hang out.”
“Sounds like a likely candidate,” said Frank.
“All that plus lazy, careless, full of himself. And I fuckin’ don’t put up with him.”
“Rocky puts up with him?”
“He doesn’t have to. They’re scared of Rocky. Me, they figure I’m just some fucker from Douche Bag Tapper.”
“From what?”
“Douche Bag Tapper. That’s what some of the guys call Dowshan Tappeh.”
“Great. No wonder they love us here,” said Frank. “Tell you what really worries me.”
“I don’t think I want to hear this.”
“And I don’t want to say it, but foreign journalists are here to find all they can about what’s going on. The good ones spend as much time as they can talkin’ to Iranians. Iranian journalists. The military. The clergy. Students. Any Khomeini followers they can get to talk to them. If your name is out there with the foreign journalists, what really worries me is who else may have heard it.”
“Rocky gets that idea, my ass is outta here in a hurry.”
“If the wrong Iranians know you’re CIA, getting outta here sounds like a good idea.”
“I got a job to do here,” said Bill.
“Okay. Meantime, any way somebody else could screen your calls?”
“No way,” said Bill. “You know my job. I have to be available all the time. Can you imagine somebody picking up my phone and telling Rocky, Mr. Steele will get back to you?”
“No, I can’t. All I can say is it sounds like you’ve been doing the best thing you could do. Stick to the ‘Hey, guy, I’m just the quartermaster’ routine. Don’t hang up on him. Be polite. Pleasant. Never get in a pissing contest with anybody whose boss buys newsprint by the truckload. They always have the last word. And Bill…”
“Yeah?”
“I hate to say it, but … you ought to tell Rocky. Or maybe have me tell Rocky. He’s got good instincts and a good nose. If he finds out some other way, and finds out you kept something this important from him, he’ll crucify you.”
* * *
Frank and Anwar the Smarter had shared a hole in what passed for the bathroom at Supreme Commander’s Headquarters, mixing their urine and their concerns. They spoke softly and shuffled their feet to avoid the spray that splattered the concrete rim. Frank asked if he could come by Anwar’s house. This was not a good time, Anwar said, but could he come to Frank’s house? Frank reluctantly told him how to do that. They settled on Monday night, which would be Christmas, at eight o’clock.
* * *
Lermontov had suggested a brief meeting Sunday evening just in case Moscow suddenly had ordered him home. He said he’d received no new orders.
Frank wondered where they’d stopped when Lermontov dropped him off. “This is Pahlavi,” said Lermontov. “Facing south. Your car just pulled up behind us. Drive straight ahead. The next big intersection is Takht-e Jamshid. Turn left. You’ll see your embassy in a few blocks.”
Frank surrendered his opaque glasses and gave himself a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the early winter evening light. He’d again given Lermontov a note suggesting a meeting at the American safe house. In capital letters, he’d printed out one additional word—MOLE.
Lermontov nodded and added to the note: Tuesday night at 7.
Frank grabbed the briefcase in which he’d stashed the thin envelope Lermontov had given him and opened the car door. The thickset Chechen who’d driven Frank’s car blocked his way, waving his hands and speaking rapidly in Russian.
“Wait,” said Lermontov. “Some mob has your embassy under attack.”
* * *
Despite the warning, Frank made the turn onto Takht-e Jamshid. He’d driven less than a mile along the wide and now all but deserted avenue when he saw a car in fl
ames at the embassy gate. The car exploded, spewing the street with a fountain of shrapnel and sparks. At the next side street, he turned left and took to the narrow alleyways. His instincts guided him well, and in less than a minute he pulled up to the embassy’s back gate.
He shed his stocking cap, put the stick-shift Fiat in neutral, pulled on the hand brake, left the motor running, and very slowly eased his way out of the car. He approached the gate, arms extended to his sides, palms forward, and, he hoped, his American face visible despite the evening shadows. Three marines, each cradling a shotgun, emerged from the gloom, back-lit by the glow of the car still burning beyond the distant front gates. A fourth marine, holding a shotgun with a finger on the trigger, stepped out of the guard house.
“Major Francis Sullivan. U.S. Air Force. Mr. Novak expects me. But your front gate looks a bit hot. I have ID I can show you.”
“Sir, I recognize you, sir,” one of the marines called out. Frank couldn’t see his features, but he thought he knew the voice and the polite speech patterns of the poster-perfect marine he and Gus had met on their first trip to the embassy. “Please stand to, sir. We’ll unchain the gates. Walk through, if you will, please, sir. One of us will drive your car in. Then we’ll check your ID. And search you.”
“I’m wearing a wire,” said Frank. “Part of my job. Don’t let it freak you.”
“Thank you for telling us, sir.”
“We’ll leave your car back here with us,” said the polite, nervous marine. “You’ll be exiting by this venue.”
He walkie-talkied to Rocky’s office to get clearance for Frank, then drove him to the main embassy building in an open jeep. As they crossed the compound, Frank could see the smoke still reflecting the light of the fire from the front gates. He thought of his first view of Tehran, funnels of gray smoke stretching into banks of gray clouds. He remembered the day of their first Jayface meeting. He and Anwar had stood outside Supreme Commander’s Headquarters, watching pillars of smoke twist into the sky.
“Something always seems to be smoking in Tehran,” said Frank.
“Roger that, sir,” said the marine as he pulled up to a rear entrance to the main building.
The Peregrine Spy Page 40