The Peregrine Spy

by Edmund P. Murray

  “Take a look back the other way,” said Cantwell. Frank turned and saw the rosy glow illuminating dozens of swirling funnels of smoke. His ears followed the turn of his eyes, and he now realized the thud and crackle of weapons sounded equally ominous on both sides of the spot where they stood.

  “Bodyguard reinforcements trying to fight their way down Damavand,” said Cantwell. “But all kinds of crazies out there have them bottled up. Bodyguard has tanks, but tanks aren’t very effective for a war on city streets.”

  Frank looked at the abandoned guardhouse and the chained gates of the fence and remembered the faces pressed against it a few days earlier, chanting “Shah raft” and “Death to America.” It seems nice and calm standing here right now, he thought, like standing in the eye of a hurricane.

  “I have to believe the Bodyguard’s not gonna make it through. Then, the crazies’ll either hit us or they won’t. If they do, I don’t think our shotguns and tear gas’ll do much good.”

  Frank looked up Damavand toward the flaming sky to the east. Maybe Belinsky’s lucky, he thought. He doesn’t have to worry about getting killed.

  “Better get inside,” said Cantwell.

  “What about you?” said Frank.

  “Colonel Troy assigned me to keep an eye on things out here. Report back if the hostiles got closer.”

  Frank headed back toward the cafeteria, but the thought of being trapped in a room taken over by an ancient Super Bowl tape depressed him. Then he thought of the gym. He grabbed the shotgun, headed for Rushmore’s office, and changed into his gym gear: jock, shorts, sweat socks, seriously smelly T-shirt. He grabbed the lined leather gloves he used on the heavy bag, then stopped. If anyone came looking for him and didn’t find him in Troy’s office, he might trigger a panic. But he also feared Steele wouldn’t like the idea of him being in the gym alone. The seriousness of the situation around them made him decide to play by the rules. Bill Steele must have sensed him coming. He turned from the football huddle as Frank approached.

  “What the hell are you dressed up for?”

  “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

  Bill left the circle. Other eyes, including Troy’s, followed him.

  “You planning on a beach party or something?”

  “Just the gym, but I thought I better let you know. Can I give you the shotgun?”

  “You are a pisser, but I guess it’s okay. All the doors over that side that lead outside are locked, bolted, and chained. The air force, our air force, has some guards on patrol. I’ll let them know you’ll be over there.”

  “Thanks,” said Frank.

  “And hang on to the shotgun. The air force has some guys up on the roof of their admin building across the way. They can see pretty good up Damavand, where the Bodyguard’s bogged down, and across most of Douche Bag Tapper, where the fighting looks to have tapered off a bit. But no tellin’ what may happen next. So hang on to the shotgun.”

  “Thanks, Bill. Want to come shoot some hoops?”

  “You really are a pisser.”

  Frank flipped the switch near the door, flooding the courts with light. He hoped the lights wouldn’t draw bullets, like moths to a candle. He laid down the shotgun and walked to the ball rack. He looked up at the high arched windows set like parentheses in the brick wall. He decided to give the moths a minute or two. When none came, he dribbled onto the court. Thirty minutes and a good sweat later, he returned the ball to its rack, picked up the shotgun and his gloves, flipped out the lights, and headed for the gym.

  He groped in the dark for the light switch, then realized someone stood in the deep shadow at the far end of the room.

  “Do not be alarmed,” said a familiar Iranian voice. “It is I, Sa’id, the Mojahedin.”

  Sa’id, the juggler, thought Frank, too frightened to give voice to his thought.

  “The light switch is more to your left.”

  Frank found it, blinked in the sudden glare, and saw Sa’id in his homafar uniform, a G3 automatic rifle in a sling over his shoulder, smiling at him from across the room.

  “Welcome. We knew you might be here, and we worried for you. Then, from an advantage point we have on the roof of our hangar, we saw the lights come on. We knew only you would be on the basketball court at this hour with a war going on around you. So I came. And waited here. Knowing you would come here next.”

  “But how could you get in? Everything’s locked, chained.”

  “We have our ways,” said Sa’id, smiling again. “It is our base, after all.” He stood next to the equipment cage, and, Frank noticed, the door to the cage stood ajar.

  “But why? All that shooting going on out there. And we have guards, armed guards on patrol in here. Why would you take such a risk?”

  “I take no risk. It is you who stand in danger. I come to take you to safety.”

  “Out there?”

  “I must insist.”

  Frank dropped his gloves and changed his grip on the shotgun: one hand on the barrel; one on the trigger guard, but with the muzzle down.

  “No, no. Not like that,” said Sa’id. “Not by force. We insist only to protect you. Munair Irfani, the navy man, came to Anwar, our Anwar, yesterday after he spoke to you. He told us about the fatwa that calls for your death. He asked us to look after you.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Frank. “More than I can tell you.” It’s good to know someone cares about my life, he thought. “But to protect myself,” he said, “I insist on staying here. You’ve got a war going on out there. It’s much safer in here. No war.”

  Sa’id shook his head and unslung his G3. “The revolution goes on everywhere. Even here. Out there we have surrounded the remainder of the Bodyguard unit. They can do nothing. We can keep you out of their line of fire. But out the other way, along Damavand…” He gestured with the muzzle of his gun. “Out there, a big war goes on. Islamic warriors who soon may come this way.”

  “Another reason I must stay here. With the other Americans.” Frank hoped to sound as military as possible. He knew his voice sounded hollow, but he tried. “This is my post.”

  Not by force, Sa’id had said. But the muzzle of his G3 did not look peaceful.

  “We have other Americans with us, about twenty. Air force men in a fortified bunker under the arsenal. We keep them safe.”

  Frank’s curiosity had begun to wrestle with his fear. So far, fear showed the stronger grip. “Hiding out under an arsenal doesn’t sound safe to me. Suppose a shell hits it?”

  “No matter. The bunker is fortified, and the arsenal is empty. We have given guns to the people, and we have loaded two trucks that will go to the university at first light.”

  More good news, thought Frank. His throat tightened. He tried to inhale deeply but could draw only shallow intakes.

  “Anwar would be angry if I had to shoot you,” said Sa’id. “But I cannot leave without you.”

  “If I’m dead,” Frank managed to say, “I won’t be going anywhere.”

  “Oh, no. No. No. No. I could not shoot to kill. Or cripple you. A shoulder, perhaps.”

  Jesus, this is a war, thought Frank, remembering Belinsky’s blood marking his clothes and his hands.

  “Please, accompany with me.” The barrel of the G3 edged up a notch. “You will be safer with us than to stay here.”

  I’d be safer here, thought Frank, but I should be there. Not because Sa’id, weapon in hand, insists. It’s my job. We need to know what’s going on out there. Curiosity outwrestled fear. Okay.

  “I should be out there,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They both reacted to a sound outside the gym, turning their heads toward the thump of a door closing. Booted feet and muffled voices moved closer. He glanced at Sa’id, who reached out his hand. Frank scooped his gloves up from the floor and moved quickly toward the equipment cage, leaving the lights on and following Sa’id into the cage.

  Sa’id secured the gate with a strip of wire that hung from it. He led Frank into the
shadows, and they crouched low behind a pile of exercise mats. They heard the door to the hallway open.

  “Yo-ho. Anybody home?”

  Feet shuffled, and a second disembodied voice said, “Lights on but nobody home.”

  “Steele said that major, Sullivan, whatever his name is, would be in here.”

  “Somebody the fuck was in here. The lights’re on.”

  “Think he got kidnapped?”

  “Hope so. I hate them fuckin’ spooks.”

  A flashlight’s beam cut through the wire cage and bounced off haphazard piles of equipment.

  “Yo-ho. Anybody in there? If there is, fuck ya. Stay in there for all I care.”

  “I don’t think he got kidnapped. I think the spook just finished his little workout and split. And left the lights on.”

  “Asshole.”

  The light switch flicked, and the room darkened, lit only by the glow spilling in from the hallway. Feet shuffled. The door closed, and the dark deepened. They waited till the muffled sounds from the hallway faded.

  “Quiet,” whispered Sa’id. He reached under the pile of mats and pulled up a trap door, wedging the mats against a wall. Dim light from an unseen source below enabled Frank to pick out the skeleton of a wooden ladder. “Quiet. Go.”

  Frank took a moment to put his gloves on, handed Sa’id his shotgun, and worked his way down the shaky ladder. Sa’id lowered first the shotgun, then his own rifle, to Frank and followed. He eased the trap door down after him. Frank heard the soft thump of the mats tumbling over it. Sa’id led the way through long, damp, shadowy tunnels. Frank could hear the scurrying of tiny clawed feet and felt grateful for the darkness that kept him from seeing the rats he knew scampered around them. They made their way up another rickety ladder and through another trap door into a tool shed that shook with the sounds of battle. They crept around the backs of several darkened buildings till they reached a spot where Sa’id raised a hand and told Frank to wait.

  “I’m not dressed for the great outdoors,” said Frank.

  “I will fix. Wait me here.”

  Act in haste. What was the rest of it? Repent in something. No, he thought. No regrets. I wanted to do this. I’m here.

  He waited, leaning against the brick wall of what he took to be a U.S. Air Force administrative building. He clung to the shotgun and shivered in his sweat-soaked gym shorts and T-shirt. What the fuck are we doing here? he’d said to himself months before as their plane circled above pillars of smoke spiraling up from the war-ravaged city. Now, as his teeth chattered, he knew he’d found the answer. This is why I’m here. To freeze my ass off and maybe find out what’s going on this side of the war.

  A low concrete wall sheltered him from the airstrip. Sa’id had disappeared around its far end. Above the wall Frank could see tracer bullets arcing through the air and flares bursting. For a moment, he wished he were in the cafeteria, watching a golden oldie of a Super Bowl. Uh-uh, he told himself. This is where I decided to go.

  He cringed as a sack rolled over the top of the wall. It took him a moment to realize the sack was Anwar the Taller, carrying a greatcoat. Frank noticed the shoulder patch insignia of the spread-winged homa. He gratefully shivered into the coat.

  “You are a homafar now,” said Anwar.

  No, I’m a peregrine, thought Frank. “I thought you were in hiding,” he said aloud.

  “I am. This is a good place to hide. Take this. My hat.”

  Frank pulled the blue cap low over his forehead.

  “Now follow.”

  * * *

  Anwar led him into the hangar. “We feel better knowing you are with us.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Frank. “But I don’t think my American friends will appreciate it.”

  “You can tell them we kidnapped you,” said Anwar, smiling.

  “I will,” said Frank.

  “At gunpoint.” Sa’id twirled his G3.

  They’d entered through a small side door. Facing the great doors leading to the runways, sleek planes crowded the hanger. Frank took them to be F-14s. Since the homafaran knew him as a U.S. Air Force major, he didn’t want to expose his ignorance by asking.

  “I’m afraid becoming a homafar means a demotion for a major,” said Anwar.

  “It beats freezing,” said Frank.

  “But I hope no one noticed your sneakers.” Frank looked down at his scuffed, well-worn white sneakers. “Not exactly regulation,” added Anwar. “We should be able to find you a pair of boots. Enough people have been killed here today. What size?”

  “Eleven,” said Frank. “But the thought of taking a dead man’s boots … I’d rather not.”

  “That’s my size,” said Anwar. “The American equivalent of my size. We’ll get you a pair of mine.” He spoke to Sa’id in Farsi and handed him a set of keys. Grinning, Sa’id left them. Frank noticed bombs and missiles neatly stacked on either side of each plane.

  Anwar saw his interest. “That’s what started it,” he said. “Top officers briefed the pilots this afternoon on targets they wanted strafed, groups of revolutionaries attacking prisons, arsenals, military sites. They ordered us to prepare these F-4s.”

  Okay, thought Frank. Not F-14s.

  “But by then our pilots had let us know what they’d been told to do. Instead of preparing the planes, we disarmed them. Many pilots joined us, refusing to carry out their orders. We’ve had a Bodyguard unit based here for over a week. They attacked us. Air force police refused to join them and instead came to support us. We had already taken over the arsenal. For a while, it was very bad. But we outnumber the Bodyguard, and they have suffered many casualties.”

  “What about the Americans?”

  “We have them well protected, but we need to keep them.”

  “Why?”

  “The Bodyguard has sent reinforcements, but they can’t bombard the base as long as we have the Americans.”

  “Not to mention all this equipment.”

  “Yes, that, too. But they have to worry even more about American lives than about American hardware. If the Shah’s military kill Americans, they fear it would turn your government against them. They sent in six helicopters earlier, gunships that pounded us hard. But we took one out with a Stinger missile. The others withdrew.”

  “What happens next?” said Frank.

  “We have radio contact with Ibrahim Yazdi.”

  The name had a familiar echo, but Frank could not place it. “I don’t know who that is.”

  “I thought you would. An aide to the Imam. American educated. The Imam’s spokesman when they were in France. Your ambassador is with him. They want us to release the Americans. That is another reason we wanted you to come.”

  “Me?”

  “We want the Americans to know what we have done here. To talk to someone the Americans can trust and we can trust.”

  So much for concern about my safety, thought Frank. “You’ve already got more than twenty Americans they can talk to.”

  Anwar hesitated. “We needed someone we can trust.”

  “Okay,” said Frank. “Okay. Can I talk to the other Americans?”

  “Of course. But not until we get you some boots. We can’t take a chance on having those sneakers attract attention.”

  “Who are you worried about?”

  “Islamic militants from the Jaleh Square area have joined us. They are … sometimes quick to shoot. In fact…”

  Anwar’s hesitation told Frank he might not want to hear what the homafar would say next.

  “Because we want the world to know what we do here, we allowed a car full of journalists onto the base. Unfortunately, someone fired on the car. One journalist, an American, died.”

  Oh, shit, thought Frank. “Do you know his name?”

  “I checked his papers. Charles Hughes. From Cleveland.”

  Frank closed his eyes. He’d worked with Chuck Hughes on the Plain Dealer. They’d met again when Frank worked with the AFL-CIO and Chuck headed the PD’s Wash
ington bureau.

  “Did you know him?”

  “No,” said Frank, with no regrets about lying, “but killing journalists isn’t a good idea. It attracts more attention than sneakers. What happened to the body?”

  “We have it in the arsenal.”

  Great, thought Frank. And another twenty-odd Americans in the basement. “Are the militants still on the base?”

  “Oh, yes. And truckloads more driving through to the east gates that lead into the New Tehran neighborhood where they go to support the forces attacking the Bodyguard reinforcements.”

  Sa’id still had not returned when another homafar Frank did not know approached Anwar and spoke to him in Farsi.

  “I must see to something back there. If Sa’id comes, tell him to come find me.”

  “Find you where?”

  “Tell him by the radio.”

  “Can I come with you and talk to the ambassador?”

  “No, that is a different radio, in the arsenal. Wait, please, for Sa’id.”

  The sounds of the battle outside had become sporadic, punctuation points to the steady drone of what he now identified as truck engines. When Sa’id finally arrived, it was on the run through the side door. He carried a bulging duffel bag.

  “Where is Anwar?”

  “Have you got my boots?”

  “Yes, but first I must see Anwar.”

  “Back there,” said Frank. “By the radios.”

  “Good. Wait me here.” He hurried off.

  Judging by the heft of the duffel bag, it contained much more than a pair of boots. Frank wondered what would happen if he opened the door and, if the way looked clear, walked away. He could make his way back the way they had come, circling the concrete wall, through the tool shed, down into the tunnels. It could be done, but, God help me, I want to be here.

  “Here are your boots.” He turned to face Anwar, who held a boot in each hand. “There’s a bench over there. By the door.”

  Frank took the boots and settled himself on the bench. He unlaced his sneakers and tugged them off. He’d expected the boots to reflect military spit and polish, but these looked like they’d been through a battle. “What are these spots?”