“Rocky?”
“Yuh?”
Frank knew they would never come closer to understanding each other than they had a few minutes before, when Rocky confessed to having played the headquarters game, just before the .50-caliber bullets began to fly.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah,” said Rocky. “I’d been meanin’ t’ talk to ya about all that shit.”
Through the thick translucent walls of their plastic bubble they could see the hazy outlines of ghostly human forms heading into the communications room, the embassy’s skeleton crew filing into its mausoleum. I hope they come out alive, thought Frank.
“You can sniff it,” said Rocky. “By now the first floor should be a blanket ’a tear gas. It won’t stop ’em, but it’ll slow the fuckers down. The ambassador, a military attaché who speaks some Farsi, and an Iranian interpreter who must have very big balls will meet the hostiles on the second floor. No marines. No weapons. The message is we want to surrender. Meantime, if we’re lucky, the ambassador got through to Yazdi or some-fucking-body and maybe, just maybe, we’ll get some fuckin’ I-ranian help to get us outta this mess.”
“Inshallah,” said Gus.
“We would’ve been better off in the communications room,” said one of the middle-aged men, Tom or Larry. Frank guessed he would never know which.
“We’re a whole lot better off here,” said Rocky. “You won’t get more than a whiff of gas through the bubble. And they’re packed like dead sardines in there. Hot, sweaty, and panicked. Fact, I wish I coulda let some embassy creeps in here, but that’s a no-no except for the ambassador, and he’ s off bein’ a general.”
“General surrender,” said Gus.
“Give him credit,” said Rocky. “High command says keep the embassy open at all costs. In the face of that, it takes some brains to prepare for the worst, and then it takes some guts to surrender to try to save your troops from gettin’ their ass shot off.”
“You’re right,” said Gus. “I shouldn’t be so snippy.”
“O’Connor’s a cut above the herd,” said Rocky. “The other night, in the middle of all kinds of shit, General Gast and some MAAG guys trapped at Supreme Commander’s Headquarters, the air force guys trapped at Dowshan Tappeh, and our fuckin’ friend here gone missin’, the ambassador gets a call from some gofer in Washington sayin’ Brzezinski wants an update on the probability of the Iranian military staging a coup to save the country from Khomeini. By that time there is no Iranian military. The ambassador tells the guy to tell Brzezinski to go fuck himself. Flat out. That’s what he says. The guy says he doesn’t think that would be an appropriate response. The ambassador tells the guy to ask Brzezinski if he wants him to translate it into Polish. And then he hangs up. Now, I don’t like him sendin’ a message like that to a countryman of mine, but I gotta give him credit.”
* * *
As the day wore on, chaos and confusion seemed to Frank to play a larger role than the ambassador’s courage. He guessed close to a hundred people huddled in the communications room. In the spacious and air-conditioned bubble, the five of them enjoyed relative comfort. He doubted more than a hint of tear gas rising from the first floor could seep into the air-tight bubble. He resumed normal breathing and felt normal. And then the electricity died.
“I don’t hear something,” said Gus.
“You don’t hear what?” said Rocky.
“I don’t hear the hum of the air conditioner.” In a moment the lights flickered out. No one spoke. In the awful quiet, the muted sound of automatic weapons outside the building took on a new dimension. The firing seemed to come from two separate areas.
“That’s not just G3s,” said Tom or Larry. “One bunch has AK-47s.”
“Maybe the civil war isn’t over yet,” said Gus.
The clang of heavy metal banging on metal changed the conversation. “They’ve got one of those doors shot to hell, and now they’ll batter it open,” said Rocky.
“Yeah, but who?” said Gus. “The G3s or the AK-47s?”
And which one’s on our side? wondered Frank. If either.
The group armed primarily with German-made G3 automatic rifles battered its way in first. The group bearing mostly Russian AK-47s followed quickly. Pushing and shoving but not shooting, the two groups battled to be the first up the stairway to the second floor, where the ambassador, his military aide, and his interpreter waited. Even when he gleaned the details from the ambassador later, Frank remained confused.
“The group that attacked us, the Feda’iyan, obviously operate under the control of George Habash and the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.”
“Obviously?” said Gus.
“You can tell from the black-and-white headscarves they wear,” said the ambassador.
Frank thought of Munair wearing a similar headscarf a few days before. He doubted that devout Munair and his cab-driving brother-in-law operated under the control of George Habash. He stood in the open air outside the bullet-racked embassy with the ambassador, Gus, and Rocky. A cold winter breeze thinned the lingering tear gas. He wanted to do a cable on the attack but realized he did not know enough about what really happened. And he wondered if Rocky would let him file it. Shit, Frank thought. I should give him more credit that that.
“Ibrahim Yazdi sent an Islamic group loyal to Khomeini to pull us out of it,” the ambassador told them. “Yazdi was out here himself with a bullhorn telling everybody Khomeini wanted the Americans protected.”
“And they listened?” said Gus.
“Eventually they did,” answered the ambassador. “But I had trouble figuring out who was who. The first roughneck to get to the head of the stairs, he had one of those headscarves and an AK-47. Right after him comes this other bozo, bare-headed, but his only weapon is a bayonet. I thought he’d run me through. But I guess he was one of the people Yazdi brought in. Each of them starts tugging at one of my arms, like I was some kind of trophy they were fighting over. I guess they agreed to both walk out with me. Then Yazdi got ahold of them, and after a whole lot of palaver the Feda’iyan guy agreed to obey the Ayatollah and get his gang out of here.”
“Now what?” said Rocky.
“Well, we’re trying to get all the Americans over to the residence. It’s shot up pretty bad, but at least it’s not swamped with tear gas. And I didn’t want people standing around out here in the open. Those machine guns are still up there on the rooftops across the street.”
“The residence sounds like a very good idea to me,” said Gus. “Let’s go.”
“Not me,” said Rocky, “You guys go. I need to check my communications room.”
“I believe everything’s under control up there,” said the ambassador.
“I’ll check,” said Rocky,
“Before you go, real quick,” said the ambassador. “Reason I wanted to meet with you three. We have a hell of a problem with all these journalists. Fred Ross, my press officer, does a good job, but he can’t handle them all. Today he let two walk in on me while I was on the phone with the foreign ministry. I could have killed him. I know Frank and Gus have experience working with journalists, and I wondered…”
“No way in hell,” said Rocky. “These two guys, especially Sullivan, know too goddamn many newspapermen from too many different jobs with different cover in different countries. Last thing we need is some newshound recognizing one of them and getting nosy about what in hell they’re doing here.”
“Well, I’m afraid we have a bunch of them already over at the residence, interviewing embassy staff.”
“In that case, hold your nose, guys. You’re comin’ upstairs with me.” With Frank and Gus in his wake, Rocky turned from the ambassador and headed for the embassy’s battered back door.
The tear gas had emptied the building all but totally. Frank’s eyes watered, and he had trouble breathing. He could hear Gus gasping behind him, but Rocky bounded ahead. Frank heard his booming voice.
“What in the fucking hell do y
ou mean, he isn’t here?”
Frank followed the sound of Rocky’s bellow past the bubble into the communications vault.
“He took the morning off, sir. Said he had some shopping to do. Wanted to get some gifts for the folks back home in case we got evacuated.”
“I will fucking kill that fucking little shit. Why didn’t he leave the fucking keys with you?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Rocky came close to hitting the terrified radio technician but slammed his right fist into his left palm and turned his back. He saw Frank.
“Can you believe these assholes? We’re supposed to shred, burn, or blow up every sensitive piece of paper and hunk of equipment in the place. We got just about everything except the fucking code boards that are locked up in that fucking steel closet over there. This asshole knows the combination, but you need keys and the combination to open the fucking thing, and the other asshole who went shopping walked off with the keys.”
“Only one set?” asked Gus.
“No other set,” said Rocky. “One of these idiots lost the other set couple days ago.”
“It wasn’t me,” said the radio man.
“What’s the other asshole’s name?”
“Travis, sir. Travis Teasdale.”
“That’s a name?” said Gus.
“That’s his name.” He tried to smile but couldn’t manage it. “Guys call him Travis T.”
“Travesty,” said Gus. “You’re right. That’s his name.”
“You guys may know him,” said Rocky. “He’s holed up at that frat house you’re livin’ in.”
“I know him,” said Gus. “The one with the hair drier, right?”
“That’s him,” said the radio man.
“He spends more time primping than a woman,” said Gus. “Hair drier, cologne, nail buffer, tweezers, cuticle scissors. Sleeps with a beauty mask over his ugly face and ties up the bathroom for days, in a house that’s got maybe got one bathroom for every twenty people. He’s not very popular with the rest of us. Travesty.”
“He’s gone shopping,” said Rocky, his eyes tearing. “Let’s get outta here, you two. Not you,” he added, thumping the radio man on the chest. “You stay. Breathe deeply. I’ll send a couple of marines up to try to keep any hostiles out. If Mr. Travis T. shows up, get the keys from him and have the marines shoot him.”
* * *
“I’d rather take a chance on machine-gun bullets out here,” said Rocky. “We’ve done a pretty good job of gettin’ missed so far, but the fuckin’ tear gas is a sure thing.”
He looked back at the ravaged embassy. “Shame,” he said. “Just before we shut everything down upstairs we got another message on Afghanistan. Afghan police raided the hotel where those holy warriors held Dubs. Poor bastard got killed. No one knows if the kidnappers killed him or if a police bullet got him. He probably got a hunky-dory security report just before he got kidnapped.” He turned to Frank. “Your Russian buddy can gloat. He told us so.”
“Yeah,” said Frank. “He did.”
“And we reported it,” said Rocky. “For all the good it did poor Dubs. When do you see Lermontov again?”
“Tomorrow. His place. If I don’t show, the next day at our place.”
“After this shit here today I don’t how much longer we’ll be here, no matter what the hunky-dory team has to say. Look, I managed to get a call in to Bill Steele. He’s on his way with an acetylene torch, HC-CH fuel tanks for the torch, oxygen tanks, sledgehammer, crowbar, whatever else he thinks he might need to get that fuckin’ safe open upstairs. He was smart enough to stow some stuff in the basement of the frat house couple weeks back. We got a demolition trunk in the vault, so that’s one thing he doesn’t have to lug.”
“You sure it works?” said Frank.
“Fuck you, Sully. It better work. We gotta get those code boards destroyed before the bad guys come back for another look. I told him to just bring one other guy. No need to stick out any more necks than we have to. Sully, think you can give ’em a hand?”
“Sure.”
“Gus, do me a favor. Take a stroll over to the residency. Stick your nose in. See what’s goin’ on. Don’t talk t’ any reporters. Get back to me here. If you don’t see me, that means I’m inside. Just wait for me here, outta the fog.”
“Will do,” said Gus. He moved off slowly.
“He’s a good man,” said Rocky. “But he doesn’t deserve to be here.”
“None of us do,” said Frank.
They sat on the concrete steps, saying little, until Bill Steele and Cantwell pulled up in a battered gray truck with Farsi lettering on the door.
“Great-lookin’ truck,” said Rocky. “Where’d you get it?”
“Hot-wired it back of a grocery store. One of the servants told me it’d been sitting there.” They started to unload. “How bad’s the tear gas?”
“Like my hair,” said Rocky. “Thinning out but still there.”
“We may have to try to bust the damn safe open,” said Steele. “The torch could set off an explosion if that gas is too heavy.”
“Your call,” said Rocky. “Me, I think I’d rather get blown up than try and knock that door open.”
“We may as well peel off coats now,” said Steele. “We’ll work up a sweat no matter how cold it is in there. We’ll get everything up there before we figure out how to work on the door. Gas masks first. Let me hook you up, Sully.” He pulled the mask over Frank’s face and head and tightened the straps behind his back that secured the oxygen container on his chest.
“Now all you have to do is breathe. The mask takes care of the rest.”
Frank tried to ask what the oxygen tanks were for, but Bill waved his hands and tapped his ears. Frank read his lips.
“Don’t waste your breath.”
The tanks proved much heavier than they looked. Bill tipped one, put one hand under it, and grabbed the circular brass rim at the top and nodded at Frank. Frank latched on to the opposite side of the tank and together they hoisted it.
Holy shit, thought Frank, how many flights?
They struggled up the four outside steps and through the doorway. Bill nodded at Frank, and they set the tank down. Bill rolled it across the linoleum floor, tipped it, and nodded to Frank at the foot of the marble stairs that led to the second floor. They climbed the straight and broad stairway, but sweat drenched Frank’s body. He felt short of breath, and his eyes began to tear by the time they reached the landing. They set the tank down, and Frank grabbed Bill by the shoulder, gesturing toward his mask. He had only a vague image of Bill slinging him over his shoulder and carrying him down the stairs and out of the building like a sack of flour.
Steele propped Frank against the side of the truck, ripped off his mask, and said, “Breathe.”
He gulped cold air and heard Cantwell saying, “I’m about to put an oxygen mask over your face. Don’t fight it. Just breathe through your nose and let the mask do the rest.”
Where have I heard that before? thought Frank.
* * *
“I wondered what the oxygen tanks were for,” he said.
“I hadn’t figured on a gas mask not working,” said Bill. “The oxygen’s for the torch.”
The blurry images around him came into focus. Steele, Cantwell, Rocky, Gus, two marines, and the frightened communications man.
Free of his mask, Frank asked, “Did Travesty get back?”
“Not yet, sir,” said the technician. “But, but Mr. Novak, you didn’t mean that about having the marines shoot Travis, did you?”
“Hell I didn’t,” said Rocky. “But I don’t think they would.”
Rocky assigned Frank and Gus guard duty at the truck while the others relayed the rest of the safecracking equipment upstairs. Frank told Gus about the old beat cops’ technique of taking ten slow, deep breaths to raise the body temperature. They tried it and then tried flapping their arms and hopping up and down.
“Maybe we should just lug some of
this leftover stuff upstairs,” said Gus.
“Been there,” said Frank, “Tried that. Rather not try again. What news from the residency?”
“War repeats itself,” said Gus. “First as tragedy then many times as farce. The big concern over there is getting the generators back working. They’re worried about all the food going bad.”
“The care and feeding of diplomats,” said Frank.
“You know what day this is?” Frank stared at him. “Valentine’s Day. Last time they hit the embassy it was Christmas Eve.”
“Remember Pearl Harbor,” said Frank.
“I do,” said Gus. “Sunday morning. That was a helluva little war you and Rocky had upstairs. Before the other war broke out. Couldn’t have been easy for him. Ownin’ up like that.”
“No,” said Frank. “Not easy at all.”
“Motherfuckers.” An angry Bill Steele vaulted over the iron railing at the top of the stairs. He lunged into the back of the truck and hauled out what looked like a footlocker. He dumped it on the ground. Frank and Gus jumped backward.
“Don’t worry,” said Bill. “It’s not C4. A bump won’t set it off. Just incendiary stuff. Thermite. TM4. Rocky told me not to bother to bring a burn box. Said he had one here. The one he’s got has a tag on it says, ‘Do not attempt to use after June 30, 1973.’ Corroded wires. Dead batteries. Even a bunch of roaches crawling around. Mr. Novak says, ‘Why hasn’t this been replaced?’ Pissed as I am, I say, ‘Ask the chief of station. This is his shop.’”
“Not to worry,” said Gus. “What can he do? Have you shot?”
“He would if he could. Sully, I’m gonna need two of these. Can you haul this one up? I’ll grab another outta the truck.”
Frank carried the surprisingly light trunk upstairs, struggling only on the narrow metal stairway with its tight turn halfway to the third floor.
“Put it in the bubble,” said Steele. “Rocky wants to eighty-six that, too.”
Frank placed his burden in the bubble and followed Bill into the communications vault. Steele plunged into the gaping closet safe with its torn hinges and came out with a stack of boards under each arm. Frank had no idea what code boards were but guessed they had something to do with the cryptographic dispatch of cables. Bill hunched over as he entered the bubble. He stacked the boards into the trunks, then knelt before each, like a priest administering last rites, closed the lids, and exited the bubble. He whooshed the door closed behind him and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
The Peregrine Spy Page 57