“Oh. Oil, perhaps. I wore them today when we worked on the planes.”
Starting with his bigger, left foot, Frank tugged on a boot. The fit seemed good. He took an inner sole from his right sneaker, slipped into the second boot, and tried it on. Snug enough. He tried a few steps.
“That should work. Thanks. What can I do with the sneakers? I don’t want to lose them.”
“I will put them in a safe place for you. Also your shotgun.” Frank tied the sneakers together and handed them to Anwar. He hesitated, studying the shotgun, then surrendered it.
“Good.” said Anwar. “Wait here.” He disappeared again into the hangar’s shadowy interior.
Anwar returned quickly, with Sa’id but without the sneakers and shotgun. “Now we can safely cross the base and go to the arsenal. We have a jeep waiting. Mr. Yazdi wants to talk to us again. You can talk to the other Americans. And then to your ambassador.”
That’ll be fun, thought Frank.
* * *
Stripped of weapons, the arsenal’s main floor had been turned into a headquarters for the homafaran. Frank saw no air force police, no civilian technicians or Islamic militants. The room bristled with communications equipment, typewriters, a copier.
“Are you in charge of all this?”
“No,” said Anwar. “In fact, that is another problem. Earlier today, before they joined us, some air force police arrested our leaders and turned them over to the Bodyguard. The Bodyguard took them away. For now, we do without leaders. But we want our leaders released, returned to us.”
“In exchange for the Americans?”
“No. Only as part of the conversation. That is why we wanted you. We thought you could understand the Persian way. Yazdi is with your ambassador. And of course Yazdi understands. We can talk to Yazdi. And you, with Yazdi’s help, must make your ambassador understand.”
“My ambassador will not be pleased to hear from me under these conditions.”
“You must make him understand.”
“Comrade Amini.” A homafar in headphones spoke to Anwar in Farsi. Comrade, thought Frank. That’s interesting.
“We have contact with Mr. Yazdi and your ambassador,” said Anwar. “Come.”
Frank sat before a microphone and slipped on the headphones Anwar handed him. Anwar sat beside him and spoke to Yazdi in Farsi. Frank picked out the word inglissi in Yazdi’s reply.
“Is Ambassador O’Connor with you, sir?” said Anwar.
“Yes, he is,” replied a voice that bore as much of an American accent as it did Iranian.
“We have an American with us, sir, who wishes to speak to his ambassador.”
“Put him on.” Frank recognized O’Connor’s voice, and Anwar nodded at the mike.
“Mr. Ambassador, can you hear me?”
“Yes, yes. Who is this?”
“Sir, this is Frank Sullivan.”
“God Jesus. Where the hell are you? And how in the hell did you get there?”
Frank told the ambassador more or less what had happened, embellishing his account with the idea he’d been kidnapped.
“Goddamn it, Sullivan. Rocky was right. We should have shipped you out of here the day you arrived.”
“I’m still here, sir.”
“Rocky got a call from Tom Troy.” O’Connor’s voice had softened. “You just disappeared.”
“Correct, sir. If you get a chance, please let them know what happened and that I’m okay. The other Americans, all the American air force men, are all right, sir. They’re in the same building I am, one floor below. In a fortified bunker, well protected by the homafaran.”
“Protected? They’re hostages, goddamn it.”
“The homafaran say they’re under no restraint. Except for the battle going on around us.”
“Then why don’t you and your Iranian friends just escort them the hell out of there?”
“Sir, there’s no way the homafaran can get us out as long as the base is under attack by the Bodyguard.”
“Who’s in charge of these damn homafaran?”
“Sir, that’s another problem … another part of the conversation. Earlier in the day, the Bodyguard took the leaders of the homafaran into custody. The men I’m with, they need to be back in touch with their leaders. They need direction.”
“That may be a damn tall order.”
“I understand, sir. But anything you can find out might be helpful. And sir, I do have one American casualty to report.”
“I thought you said they were all okay.”
“All the air force men are okay. But an American journalist, Charles Hughes, Cleveland Plain Dealer, has been killed.”
“Good God. Any other casualties? American, I mean. Other journalists?”
Frank looked to Anwar, who shook his head.
“Apparently not, sir.” An uneasy feeling stirred in his stomach. He looked at his boots. “But from what I can tell, hundreds of Iranian casualties.”
“This Hughes interviewed me yesterday,” said the ambassador. “Fine chap. What happened to the body?”
“Here, sir. Same room I’m in. On a table. Under a tarpaulin.”
“Dear God … Look, Frank, I’m sorry I went off on you before. But you do have a nose for trouble. What else is going on?”
Frank relayed all the details Anwar had given him.
“Sounds like a mess,” said the ambassador. “What can we do to help?”
“Can anyone find a way, maybe one of the military attachés, find a way to contact General Kasravi? General Hossein Kasravi. Imperial Bodyguard.”
“If we could get in touch with General Kasravi,” said the voice Frank now recognized as Yazdi’s, “we would arrest him.”
“We need someone who can help us further the conversation,” said Frank. “I’ve worked with General Kasravi in the past. And we need to further the conversation.”
“I understand,” said Yazdi. “We will do what we can. Stay close to the radio. You’ve been helpful. We will be in touch.”
“And Sullivan, for chrissake, stay out of trouble.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
* * *
A gray morning had replaced the thick night when they stepped through the arsenal doors, but the sounds of battle continued. Sa’id sat behind the wheel of an open jeep. Frank climbed into the back while Anwar took the passenger’s seat and spoke to Sa’id in Farsi. Sa’id cut across the open area of the base and pulled up by an outside metal stairway at the far side of the hangar.
“I want to take you up to the roof. You’ll be able to see the whole battle,” said Anwar.
Despite his homafar greatcoat, cap, and boots, Frank felt like an exposed target as they clambered up the rattling stairway to the roof. A brisk north wind greeted them as they stepped over a low wall and onto the tar-topped roof. A dozen homafaran, all armed and several with field glasses, hunkered down at various positions around the roof.
“Stay low and come this way,” said Anwar. They scuttled like crabs along the parapet to the closest homafaran. Anwar spoke briefly and listened long to the excited homafaran, who eyed Frank curiously as they spoke. Anwar took a pair of field glasses from one of the men and peered into the distance. He handed the glasses to Frank.
“Look, that way. Up along Damavand.” Frank swung the glasses in the direction of the gunfire. “Have you ever seen tanks going backward?” asked Anwar.
Frank saw a tank he recognized as a Chieftain, backing up Damavand.
“It is a beautiful sight, isn’t it?” said Anwar. “Look to your right, near the far end of the runways.”
Frank picked up a long column of men, hands clasped behind their heads, marching toward the arsenal.
“What’s left of the Bodyguard unit that had been based here has surrendered. It will soon be over, and the American air force men will be free to leave.”
“What about your leaders, the men in Bodyguard custody?”
Anwar looked out ove
r the base. “Who knows? Perhaps Mr. Yazdi or your ambassador will be able to do something. Inshallah. Perhaps not.” He turned and studied Frank. “As you know, as Sa’id told you, Captain Irfani came to us yesterday.”
“Yes,” said Frank. “I know.”
“We will do what we can to protect you. But this fatwa will follow you wherever you go.”
“I realize.”
“And we cannot be with you. Everywhere. Or all the time.”
Wanting to worry about somebody else, Frank raised the glasses again to study the column marching under guard along the far runway. “What will happen to these men?” he asked.
“Inshallah, they may be all right. There is a stockade beyond the arsenal. They will be crowded, but for now they will be held there. Once the Americans can safely leave, the Bodyguard prisoners will be moved to the bunker under the arsenal.”
“And then?” Frank wondered if he were asking about the Bodyguard prisoners or himself.
“I do not know. We will try to keep them safe from … from those who are quick to shoot. God willing, we will. But these days, Islamic justice can be … swift. Look over there.”
Frank swung the glasses in the direction Anwar pointed. He spotted half a dozen U.S. Air Force officers on the roof of their admin building. All had field glasses trained on Damavand.
“We have a better view than they do. Come. I don’t think we have to crouch anymore.” He stood and led Frank to the far side of the roof. “See that section over there, beyond the armory. We call that the Farahabad base. Homafaran have their barracks there, and last night fighting was very heavy in that area. The television had shown Bazargan’s speech at the prayer meeting at the university and followed that by replaying the Imam’s arrival last week. Some of us began shouting, ‘Long live Khomeini, death to Bakhtiar,’ in the faces of the Bodyguard. They fired, over our heads at first, then at us. Homafaran broke into the armory. Word of the fighting spread, and Islamic militants, also Mojahedin and Feda’iyan, fought their way onto the base. Look that way. From here you can’t see it, but over there is Jaleh Square. A year ago soldiers killed many people there. Now the people control it. They have also seized the Parliament buildings—the Majles—and the old Golestan Palace. As the Bodyguard tanks go backward, soon the people will control all of east and south Tehran.”
“Is that a power station?”
“Yes. Now in the hands of the people. Look beyond it.”
Frank looked out over the far reaches of the city. Funnels of smoke stretched up into low-hanging clouds. Like tornadoes, Anwar the Smarter had said. Somewhere out there, beyond a horizon he could not see, Anwar, Mina, and the children should by now be safe somewhere in America. And somewhere out there, a mole lurked in the precincts of the CIA, still more of a threat than the war that raged around him. And here, perhaps everywhere, a sword known as a fatwa dangled, dancing on an unseen thread. As the dawn broke, he remembered his day job.
“How can I get through to Supreme Commander’s Headquarters?”
“You forget,” said Anwar the Taller. “There is no more Supreme Commander.”
“I know. But we still have a meeting of our…”
“What my cousin called Jayface, correct?”
“Correct.”
“I am very glad for what you did for my cousin. But if I were you, I wouldn’t even think about getting to Padegan-e Bagh-e Shah today.”
“I must.” He wondered why and thought of Belinsky, the perfect consular officer. Always take care of your cover job first. Jayface had been the key to all he had learned about Iran. He suspected this might be his last day on his cover job. He couldn’t ignore it now. He checked his watch. Five after seven. “Can you get me back to my office?”
“I can.” Anwar took the glasses and scanned the airstrip. “The Bodyguard prisoners have passed the arsenal. We can release the Americans. We want you to accompany them.”
“But why?” said Frank.
“We want to send a message to America.”
“What message?”
“For us to know. For the Americans to figure out.”
Anwar left him in the hangar with Sa’id while he headed for the armory. “Don’t forget,” said Sa’id. “Shotgun and sneakers.”
“I’m glad one of us still has a working brain. I had forgotten.”
“Come.” Sa’id led him to the depths of the hangar. Frank looked down and saw around the now empty duffel bag a scattered collection of boots of various size. He stared at the boots he wore that matched the size of Anwar’s. He studied the putative oil stains and suddenly knew he stood in the boots of a dead man.
“These aren’t your boots,” said Frank when Anwar returned to the hangar.
“No,” said Anwar. “They’re yours.”
“The oil stains look a lot like blood spots. Who had them on when he got killed?”
“I do not know,” said Anwar. He shrugged and changed the subject. “But I managed to get through to your ambassador on the radio link. Mr. Yazdi was still with him. They had not been able to contact General Kasravi, but I told them we could now escort you and the American airmen back to the American section of the base. They said they would alert your people there.”
“I still think this is a bad idea,” said Frank.
“I think it would be a bad idea for you to return to the American base dressed as an Iranian homafar. I know you will be cold, but let us take the coat and cap.”
“You can take the boots while you’re at it.”
“Do we have a blanket?” asked Anwar.
“No blanket, sir. But we have tarpaulin.”
“The same tarpaulin you put over the American journalist?”
“Oh, no, Major Sullivan. Different tarpaulin,” said Sa’id, very earnest.
Wrapped in the tarpaulin, Frank sat up front in the open jeep, next to Sa’id.
“Look behind you,” called Anwar from the back seat.
Frank turned and saw the twenty-three American air force advisers clinging to the sides of an open truck.
“Major Sullivan’s air force,” yelled Anwar.
* * *
Munair, in scruffy civilian clothes and a checkered black and white headscarf, climbed out of the driver’s side of an orange taxi as the jeep Frank rode in pulled up behind it. Bill Steele stood beside him.
“What are you doing in that outfit?” said Frank.
“Why are you covered with a tarpaulin?” responded Munair.
“I had to shoot the locks off the front gates to let your buddy in with his taxicab,” said Steele. “No problem, once I figured out who he was. We got more locks. But what’s with you and these homafaran?”
“Long story. Let me get some clothes on and get to our Jayface meeting. One quick take. In the equipment cage in the gym, back wall, under a pile of mats, there’s a trap door. You might want to seal it up. That’s how the homafaran got in. Okay I fill you in on the rest when I get back?”
“Yeah, okay. If you get back.”
* * *
Munair had kept his motor running, steaming over the windows, Gus sat next to him. Frank eased himself into the back.
“What the hell have you been up to?” said Gus.
“Later,” said Frank. “Munair, what are you doing here?”
The navy officer turned to him. “I told you I would help you as long as you are here.” The headscarf obscured the stigmata on his forehead. “Today, this is how I can help, driving a taxi for you. You would never get through in your American car with your American face.”
“Good,” said Frank. “Padegan-e Bagh-e Shah, please.”
“Good,” said Munair. “My other passenger wants the same destination.”
U.S. Air Force guards now stood by the open gates. Munair drove through and turned left.
“Munair thinks we should have an easy trip,” said Gus, half turning toward Frank. “With that war still going on up the block behind us, Damavand is clear this way.”
“No traffic at
all,” said Munair. “Everyone wants to be on the other side at Jaleh Square. I take you the way I came. No problems. Taking you back to Dowshan Tappeh, who knows?”
“Where did you get the taxi?” asked Frank.
“My wife’s cousin. Also his Arafat headscarf. This Palestinian kaffiyeh look is very popular right now.”
“I wish you had one for me,” said Gus.
Their journey proved as uneventful as Munair had predicted. His elaborate precautions seemed unnecessary, but Frank appreciated them. He’d had more than enough excitement through the long night.
Munair removed his kaffiyeh as they approached the closed gate of the compound. Bodyguard troops had evidently replaced the army soldiers assigned to protect Supreme Commander’s Headquarters. Hard-faced young men behind the gates leveled M-14s at Munair as he stepped from the taxi. Two Chieftain tanks, well back from the gates, flanked them. A Bodyguard officer with lieutenant’s bars on his coat recognized Munair and began nodding. He spoke into his walkie-talkie and barked orders to the other troops, who quickly unchained the gates. Munair plunged back into the taxi as the lieutenant waved them through. Munair sped through the gates, then brought them to a squealing halt.
“I made this arrangement before I left,” he said, “but now we must do ID. Let me have your papers.” Frank and Gus handed Munair the plastic pouches that carried their passports, residency permits, and military ID. The lieutenant rapped a knuckle on Frank’s window. Frank rolled it down. The lieutenant peered in, comparing Frank’s features to the identity photos. He nodded, said, “Good,” and handed Frank back his pouch, then repeated the process with Gus. He entered the guardhouse and emerged with the inevitable clipboard. He ran a finger down the list of names, looked up, and nodded. It had taken only seconds for the guards to wave them through the gates. The security check took almost ten minutes while soldiers ordered them out and searched inside and underneath the car.
“They must be very careful,” said Munair as he again slid behind the wheel. “It is not very orthodox. A taxicab entering a military compound at a time like this. We could be a suicide bomb.”
“Let’s hope not,” said Gus.
Munair pulled up by the stairway that led nowhere. “Let us go now. We are late.”
The Peregrine Spy Page 53