The Peregrine Spy

by Edmund P. Murray

  “No glasses. We go to Vassily’s house.”

  Frank felt grateful. He wanted to see the city. Heavy traffic slowed their way. Long, peaceful lines waited at benzene stations. People shut up for days by the heavy fighting crowded the sidewalks under cloudy but mild skies.

  “People think the war is over,” said the Chechen.

  I wonder, thought Frank, remembering a phrase he’d picked up in Angola. La lutte continua. The war continues. Always. Everywhere. All over the world.

  * * *

  “Well,” said Lermontov, “it’s been so long since I’ve seen you. You must tell me what you did during the war.”

  Sipping Lermontov’s vodka, Frank related in detail all that had happened at Dowshan Tappeh. “I’ve got two cables on what happened, one about the battle, one about the American pullout. Also traffic the station filed over the past couple of days, plus some the ambassador filed.”

  “Just some?”

  “I got all I could grab. Even some routine administrative stuff that may have some hints about the policy debate.”

  “Such as?”

  “First, there’s the big debate. Admit the Shah to the States. Keep him out. I brought you several cables on that.”

  “It looks like you Americans will betray another ally. The longer his trip to America gets delayed, the less it seems he will ever get there.”

  Frank suspected Lermontov worried more about his own prospects of getting to America than he did the Shah’s.

  “Then there’s all the other debates,” he said. “Make a deal with the mullahs or send in the marines. Impose sanctions. Seize Iranian assets in the States. Stay here or pull out. Shut the embassy down. Keep it open. They have clearance from the foreign ministry to bring in two Pan Am flights this weekend to fly out all the Americans in Tehran. That sounds like the close-the-embassy side won. At least for a while.”

  “All the Americans?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “Even you?”

  “Even me.”

  “It could be as soon as the weekend?”

  Frank nodded. “And I heard they might haul us all down to the embassy Friday evening and make us camp there overnight to make sure no one’s missing Saturday morning.”

  “Then we have much to do. I’ve arranged for your taxi to pick you up on a street called Behshid that runs parallel to Nezamabad. Thursday at four.” He handed Frank a section of the city map. “If you don’t make it, I’ll see you in Washington.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Frank.

  “Bon voyage.”

  They clicked their glasses. Lermontov drained his. Frank sipped.

  “Now, what else do you have for me?” said Lermontov.

  “Lots of stuff, including a summary the station received of a cable filed by one of our people who met with the Shah in Rabat. Says the Shah looked like a broken man but that he was proud of the fact he’d avoided a bloodbath. Said he has no contact with any of the military leaders in Iran. Makes no mention of him coming to the States.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. Let’s take a look at all these wonderful documents.”

  Frank emptied the contents of his briefcase onto the table. He knew Rocky had doctored much of the material, particularly what purported to have come from the ambassador, but he thought the final product would impress Moscow. Lermontov agreed.

  “This should bring you an excellent bonus, but it may have to wait till we meet in Washington. Meanwhile, I have a modest bonus, a thousand dollars, for the material you brought last time.”

  Frank counted the twenties, wondering if he would have to bum them himself. He signed the receipt.

  “We need to spend some time on contact instructions in Washington,” said Lermontov. He repeated the contact instructions he’d already given Frank, with alterations. This time, under the watchful eyes of the Russian eavesdropping equipment, he told Frank to extend “the greatest possible cooperation” to Howard King.

  “You know how I feel about working with anyone but you,” said Frank.

  “You will extend complete cooperation, understood?”

  “Understood,” said Frank.

  Lermontov made him repeat the instructions.

  “Good. If we do meet again, I will have you repeat this scenario again. Do not attempt to assist your memory by committing any part of this to paper.”

  “Of course not,” said Frank.

  * * *

  “He goes through all that,” said Rocky, “knowing you’re wired.”

  “He plays it to the video cameras.”

  “Yeah, he does. And he plays it by the book.”

  “I don’t see why I keep wearing that damn wire. We never use it.”

  “We might need to check something someday. But the real deal is the tapes go to Henry James so he can convince himself you aren’t playin’ games.”

  “Great. And if I ever slip up and say something on one tape that contradicts what I say on another, he can hang me.”

  “Like that. So don’t ever slip up. Lermontov’s stuff includes a note for you. Says, ‘If you have a problem getting to me on Thursday, put a chalk mark on your safe house door early as you can. I’ll try to get to you that day. If not, I’ll come Friday.’”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t wait till Friday,” Rocky added. “You may be busy packing.” He pushed the note aside. “Somethin’ else we need to talk about. The Wall Street fucking Journal.”

  “Please,” said Frank. “That’s one of the world’s great newspapers.”

  “Yeah, I know. Too fuckin’ great. You heard what happened yesterday?”

  “What?”

  “Some guys tried to shoot up the Inter-Continental, where all the reporters hole up. Not once, twice. Bad news is they didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Dunno. If I did I’d give ’em all medals for tryin’ and a kick in the ass for not killing at least this Wall Street Journal bastard.”

  “What’s he done?”

  “Stuff about our ops here started showin’ up. Accurate. No big stories, just stuff inside of the big stories they run on Iran these days. Nothing that could get anybody hurt. No names. Just … details. You got any ideas?”

  “Only what I told you back in December, about someone giving Bill Steele’s phone numbers out, not just to the Journal guy. BBC, Washington Post, I forget what all.”

  “Yeah, Bill and I talked. But what’s showin’ up isn’t just about Dowshan Tappeh.”

  “Which means it’s gotta be someone in your shop.”

  “Like who?”

  “You must have a deputy who sees everything.”

  “Not everything. Not the way I work. Some things nobody, not my deputy, not the ambassador, nobody sees.”

  “Somebody does.”

  “Yeah,” said Rocky, “the guy who gets it.”

  “Maybe they have a leak at that end,” suggested Frank.

  “But it shows up in stories filed from here, with this Arab guy’s by-line on it.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Frank. “A paper like the Journal may feed material from its Washington bureau into a story filed from here. Or from any other source, for that matter.”

  “Like?”

  “The wire services. AP, UPI, Reuters.”

  “Do me a favor,” said Rocky. “Do me a cable. Langley’s comin’ down on my back to find the leak. Tell them what you just told me about how it could be comin’ outta Washington. Don’t overdo it. Maybe the problem is here. Say that. But at least give’m somethin’ else t’ think about.”

  “There’s something else they should think about,” said Frank.

  “What?”

  “The guy who sends it.”

  “Me?” Rocky’s eyes narrowed.

  “No,” said Frank. “The guys in your communications room.”

  * * *

  At a summons delivered by Bill Steele, Frank and Gus were back in Rocky’s office the next morning.
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br />   “His nibs wants us up in his office,” said Rocky. “I don’t know what about. He said ten-fifteen, but with everything goin’ on around here, I got a hunch it’s gonna be sit and wait a while.”

  Frank and Gus followed Rocky up the concrete steps to the ground floor. The marine they had first met at the back gates while a “Death to America” demonstration raged out front checked their IDs. “Good to see you gentlemen again.”

  “Thank you,” said Frank. “Good to see you.” The marine buzzed them through the gate to the marble staircase that led to the second floor.

  “Sir,” said the marine in an undertone to Rocky, “in view of the circumstances, perhaps you should know. Two newspapermen just went upstairs with Mr. Ross.”

  “Mister who?” said Rocky.

  “Mr. Ross, sir. The press officer.”

  “With some newspapermen?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shit. Let’s hope for the best.” They climbed the stairs. “Lemme take a look in Belinsky’s old office.” Rocky cracked the door and peered inside. “It’s clear. You guys park in here.”

  “Nice touch,” said Frank.

  “Don’t be so fuckin’ sensitive,” said Rocky. “Belinsky wouldn’t mind. Gets you outta the way of nosy reporters, is all.”

  Walking on a dead man’s grave. Frank remembered the Shah’s words. Americans, whistling in the dark as they walk by my cemetery. He thought of Khomeini at Behest-e Zahara. He thought about death, surrounding them. Like a shroud. He walked into the office that had been Belinsky’s.

  “I’ll see what’s up with Mr. Ambassador,” said Rocky. He closed the door behind him.

  “You seem wound a little tight, my friend,” said Gus.

  “A little,” said Frank. He looked around the barren office. “Being in here doesn’t help.”

  “It’s a war,” said Gus. “People get killed. Get over it.”

  “I will. Just … give me a minute.”

  “Sure,” said Gus. “I wonder what those two reporters are after?”

  “Hell, Iran’s the hottest story in the world,” said Frank. “Aren’t you glad to be part of it?”

  “No,” said Gus. “And neither are you.”

  Frank moved around the metal desk and sat in the straight-backed chair Belinsky had used. Okay, he thought. I can do this. “Seems to me the ambassador would want to stay clear of reporters right now.” I can think like a good covert action man should. “And you’d think his press secretary would help him steer clear.” Get over it, he told himself. There’s a war on.

  * * *

  “He says ten minutes,” Rocky announced as he rejoined them. “He’s in a snit about somethin’.” He closed the door behind him, took a chair, and looked from one to the other.

  “What’s with your buddy?” he asked in Gus’s direction. “You decide to move in here, Sully?”

  “No,” said Frank. “I don’t much like embassies.”

  “Speaking of which, guess what happened in Kabul this morning.”

  “Islamic militants took over?” suggested Frank.

  “Worse,” said Rocky. “The ambassador, Spike Dubs, got kidnapped. You were right about what Lermontov gave you on the Islamic militants in Kabul. In fact, Sully, I hate to admit it, but you’ve been right about most of the shit you reported.”

  “Not reported,” said Frank. “You mean tried to report.”

  “Come on. What have I stopped you from reportin’? Lately.”

  “You’re funny,” said Frank.

  “Me? Funny?”

  “Yeah, you.” Frank felt his anger scratching. “Not too long ago, you son of a bitch, you wouldn’t let me report much of anything.”

  “I am nobody’s fucking son of a bitch,” snarled Rocky.

  “Yeah, you are, and now, all of a fucking sudden, you want me to report everything.”

  “Calm down,” said Rocky. He seemed to try to take his own advice. “It took a while, you dumb bastard, but you made your fuckin’ point. Like with that first atmospherics you did.”

  “That you fucking sat on.”

  “For a while I sat on. I finally sent it, didn’t I?”

  “If you guys are really going to go at it,” said Gus, “you want me to hold your coats?”

  “No.”

  “I was only kidding,” said Gus.

  “I wasn’t,” said Rocky. “But you and me don’t need to be goin’ at it, Sully.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hate to admit it, but it took your fuckin’ friend General Fritz to make me realize you and me been on the same side all along it.”

  “He’s no friend of mine.”

  “Yeah, in a way he is. In his own ass-a-holic way. He was so down on you and the job you’d been tryin’ t’ do, he made me realize in my own way I’d been actin like a fuckin’ Fritz. I’m a field man, always have been. But I learned t’ play the headquarters game.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Come on. I okayed your cable on what Lermontov told you was goin’ on in Kabul, right?”

  “Yeah. You did.”

  “If State had listened to what we filed, if the embassy in Kabul had paid attention, we wouldn’t have a kidnapped ambassador. I wasn’t your problem. Your problem was back in Langley and Foggy Bottom.”

  “And you played their game.”

  “You wanna survive in this business, you…”

  The staccato thunder erupted from all sides. Windows smashed, and heavy-caliber bullets penetrated the brick walls. The three men spread-eagled on the floor. When the first wave eased, they crawled for desks and couches that offered some degree of cover. The intensity of the fire picked up, ebbed, crescendoed again. Frank looked across the rug toward Gus. Their eyes met. No wonder I’m wound up tight, he thought.

  He knew high-rise buildings surrounded the embassy compound on three sides, but the heaviest fire seemed to be coming from across Takht-e Jamshid where two taller buildings flanked the six-story Damavand Hotel. The windows in the room where they’d flattened themselves looked out over the open space behind the embassy. He realized those windows had been smashed from the inside by bullets that had pierced at least two interior walls. In the front window, he thought. And out the back. With my bones in between. He thought of the blue and white floor tiles in the dining room of the Damavand and of the dead weight of Belinsky’s body. He wished they were in the steel vault that surrounded the bubble upstairs. He wished he were back at their overcrowded bachelors’ quarters. He wished he were home in Weehawken. Another loud wave of bullets raked the room. Then the firing slowed.

  Stopped.

  “Stay down,” said Rocky.

  Frank felt wedded to the floor, married to its Persian carpet. Stay down? Shit. I may never move again. I wonder if I’m dead. Dust, rising from the rug, tickled his nose. Guess not.

  Automatic weapons thudded from outside the building.

  “The fuckers must’ve come through the fences,” said Rocky. The sound of metal shutters being pulled down clattered through the hallway. “Stay put till some marines show up and close those shutters for us.”

  Frank stifled a sneeze. He tried stretching his legs. They worked, and he felt a familiar pain in his right knee. He heard the door behind him open.

  “Stay down,” ordered a crisp voice. “We’ll secure your window shutters.” Frank heard the shutters rattling down followed by the clang of bullets cracking into them. He looked up and saw a tight pattern of dents in one of the shutters.

  “G3s,” said a marine. “Sooner or later they’ll smash right through these damn shutters.”

  On cue, the sound of machine-gun fire and the clang of heavy metal bullets striking metal shutters rang like a chorus of anvils.

  “There go the front shutters,” yelled one of the marines as he dove to the floor. Still flattened, Frank, Gus, and Rocky did not have to move.

  Again, the heavy-caliber firing eased.

  “What’ve they got over there?” hollered Rocky.


  “Fifty calibers, sir. Maybe some thirties mixed in.”

  “Ambassador wants everybody up on the third floor. Move it.”

  Frank looked up in time to see the chevrons of a marine sergeant turning away from the open door. He stood and looked to Rocky. Rocky nodded. Frank headed out the door and up the stairs to the vault that enclosed the steel-doored communications room and the bubble. He stood aside as Rocky punched in the code that unlocked the door to the bubble. “In.” Frank and Gus edged into the bubble, and Rocky pulled the door shut behind them. The reassuring whoosh stirred a breeze. Rocky grabbed a walkie-talkie that sat on the plastic table. “Tom. Larry. Somebody. Over.”

  “Larry here. Over.” The crackling voice sounded remarkably calm.

  “Get everybody outta the basement. Now. Up to the third floor. Now. You got anything down there you wouldn’t want your mother to know about, bring it with ya’, because the mothers are on their way in.”

  “We got a demolition box we could use.”

  “No time. Grab and run. Now, or you’ll be eating tear gas in a minute.”

  “Roger.”

  Not more than two minutes later, Rocky opened the bubble door to admit two middle-aged men in shirtsleeves. “No need for you guys to know each other. The drill is we surrender the lower floors, which is a good idea because those G3s’ll cut through those metal doors sooner or later. The ambassador’s had the marines stash their M-14s in the vault. They’ve got shotguns with nothin’ but bird shot in them, tear gas canisters, and sidearms they can use only if they gotta t’ stay alive.”

  “Sounds like we surrender again,” said Gus.

  “Yeah,” said Rocky. “We surrender again.”

  “This surrender drill was planned?”

  “Yeah, Gus. Planned and rehearsed.”

  Frank wondered if the kidnapping in Kabul and the attack under way around him could have happened on the same morning just by coincidence. He thought again of his cables on Lermontov’s warning about the embassy in Kabul. Rocky had filed them. He wondered if a government that listened to its intelligence could have prevented the assaults. He thought of himself wearing the opaque glasses Lermontov gave him. Rocky with his hearing aid turned off. Back in Washington, an establishment blind and deaf.