“Where did you hear all that?”
“Iranian sources.”
“Bad sources,” said Frank. “I’m not the guy,”
“Hey, level with me. Am I speaking to Frank Sullivan?”
“Someone’s been misleading you, pal. I’m just a low-level embassy maintenance flunky checking on an unoccupied State Department residence. I mean, it would be a hell of a coincidence, you callin’ an empty house just when somebody walks into it.”
“Maybe I dialed a wrong number. Sorry for your trouble.”
The phone went dead. He checked his watch. Three-forty-five. Now what, he wondered? Who else knows about this? Teasdale and even the Wall Street Journal had become unimportant. Only the scroll he’d imagined, the scroll on which his fatwa had been written, mattered now.
* * *
Lermontov arrived precisely at four in his blue Fiat. As he pulled into the garage, he raised a finger to his lips. He’s wired, thought Frank. He waited for the big man to toss his overcoat and hat into the car before he spoke.
“Welcome,” said Frank. “I’m glad you got the message and could get here today. God knows what tomorrow will be like.”
“So, is Saturday definite for your departure?”
“As definite as these things get. I won’t believe it for sure till the plane gets to its destination and I get off in one piece. But come on. Let’s go upstairs. Good to see you.”
They settled in the front room with glasses of chilled vodka on the table. “My rezident extends his compliments. He wants you to know, except for a few dry periods, your work on our behalf has proved excellent. Moscow has approved a large bonus which Howard King will have for you when you establish contact in Washington.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand.”
“I’m impressed,” said Frank. “But I’m afraid I don’t have much for you today. After what we went through at the embassy yesterday.”
“You were there?”
Frank nodded and told Lermontov all he knew about the attack. Lermontov took notes.
“You people can not read the handwriting on the wall.”
I can read my fatwa, thought Frank.
“I understand you also lost an ambassador in Kabul,” added Lermontov.
“So I heard,” said Frank.
Lermontov let the sound of their voices and of Frank’s replenishing their glasses cover the careful opening of his briefcase. He laid a sheet of paper on the table. Frank read as they talked.
I have not brought you any material as you probably will not be able to get classified cables out before your departure. I will be here at least another month helping to rebuild our networks and getting my replacement established. After that I expect another two months in Moscow including some leave time before my assignment to Washington.
“At least another month” bothered Frank, and he suspected it would bother Henry James. He looked up from the note.
“I would appreciate it now if you would repeat your contact instructions,” said Lermontov.
Lermontov printed out another note as Frank recited his instructions, including his line about extending “the greatest possible cooperation to Howard King.”
“Very good,” said Lermontov.
Don’t look so glum, said the newly printed note. You have won.
“I’m sure you and Mr. King will work well together,” said Lermontov.
“I doubt it,” said Frank. “Just get there as soon as you can.”
“See you in America,” said Lermontov.
Frank passed him a one-word note. Mole?
Lermontov’s eyes narrowed. His lips tightened to a slash and his jaw tensed. Slowly, he shook his head. Worried? wondered Frank. Or pissed that I keep asking?
Their good-bye was perfunctory and businesslike, but as he watched the blue Fiat back out of the garage, Frank realized he would miss the oversize Russian behind the wheel. He looked again at Lermontov’s final note. You have won. Three months before, when Lermontov had first expressed his willingness to defect, Frank would not have believed that. Now he did.
* * *
“You couldn’t’ve been halfway out the door before our Travis T. comes up the stairs and real casual walks over to the phone on the windowsill. I guess he watches you walk into the house, then he picks up the phone and dials.”
“What time?” said Frank.
“Three-thirty-three,” said Gus. “That the time it started to ring across the street?”
“No,” said Frank. “Three-forty-two.”
“Tell you what,” said Gus. “He was on quite a while, and I couldn’t tell for sure with his back to me, but it looked like he was the one doin’ most of the talkin’.”
Talking to somebody named Yusef el Baz, thought Frank. They sat on the edge of the bed behind the closed door of Todd Waldbaum’s room. Todd’s radio played martial music broadcast by one of the local stations.
“Then what happened?” said Frank.
“He finally hung up and just stood there, lookin’ out the window. I took a walk over and said, ‘Mind if I use the phone?’ He says he’s expecting a call. I had no trouble gettin’ real nasty with him about tyin’ up the phone like he ties up the bathroom. He says he won’t be long. I go off in a huff, back to the room. This time I don’t care if he knows I’m watching him. Sure enough, a little after four, the phone doesn’t ring but he picks it up and dials. Soon as he picks it up, I’m out the door. He isn’t on long. I hear him sayin’ a whole lot of ‘okays’ and then he hangs up. ‘Done now?’ I say, and he turns and nods and looks like he’s seen a ghost.”
“He had,” said Frank. “His own.”
* * *
Before the first supper shift, Frank, Gus, and Bill Steele met in the basement. Cantwell stood before the closed door at the top of the stairs. Between them Frank and Gus told Bill what happened: the call Frank had taken from Yusef el Baz at the safe house and Teasdale staring out the second-floor window and placing two calls.
“Soon after he makes the first call, the phone rings in the safe house and it’s el Baz. Gus tells me that right after four when my Russian buddy pulls in, Teasdale makes another call. Maybe to tell el Baz that I got company. My guess is el Baz tells him about his conversation with me and Teasdale figures we may be onto him.”
“It may not be enough to hang him,” said Bill, “but I’d sure like to try.”
“What’ s next?” said Gus.
“Tell Rocky,” said Bill. “Cantwell, Petry, and me, we got a meeting with Rocky and the ambassador zero seven hundred tomorrow about the evacuation.”
“Can I get in on that?” said Frank. He wanted to find a way to tell Rocky about the Wall Street Journal and the fatwa.
“No chance,” said Bill. “Rocky would flip out, you showed up uninvited. ’Sides, I need both you guys to keep an eye on Teasdale.”
“Forget Travis T.,” said Gus. “Tell us about getting outta here.”
“Looks like we catch a break,” said Bill. “All the folks here, they figure they can rely on us to hang together, so we don’t have to get to the embassy till Saturday morning. Vans and buses will pick us up. Gus, you’re on the first flight. To Rome.”
“Hallelujah.”
“Frank, you and me got the second flight, along with three hundred and sixty something other people. To Frankfurt.”
“Connecting flight to New York, I hope.”
“That’s the idea. For you, anyway. Stop in London. I’m headed for Boston, but the whole East Coast has had a shitpot of bad weather lately. And they expect an ice storm in Frankfurt.”
“Out of the frying pan into the ice,” said Gus. “What flight is Teasdale on?”
“I’ll let you know on that when I get back from the embassy. Look, I know you guys have personal effects back at the other house. Get ’em tomorrow. I’d suggest right after noon. Midday prayer time. The patrols get a little lax around then. If you do run into one, just act normal, friendly, go on about your busines
s. If they want to search the house, let ’em. Remember the ground rules. One suitcase that’s light enough you can carry it yourself. One small carry-on that fits under the seat. Lotta people will have heavy winter coats to stow in the overheads. No weapons, of course, no knives, scissors, tape recorders. No official-lookin’ papers except your ID. Large amounts of money, jewelry, big radios, even notebooks and maps may get confiscated. And get you interrogated.”
“What about Teasdale while we’re doin’ that?” asked Gus.
“I’ll have Savage and McDonald keep an eye on him. They don’t have to know why. I’ll find a way to get Rocky by himself in the morning. Break it down. See what he wants to do.”
“You think he might run?” said Gus.
“Teasdale? He hasn’t got the balls. Or the smarts. He’s a good sneak, is all.”
“He could try selling himself to the Russians,” said Frank. “They’d love a defecting CIA radio man.”
“You guys are his roommates. Keep an eye on him. Don’t do or say anything to spook him any more than he’s already spooked.”
“He’s been spending a lot of time in the bathroom,” said Gus. “Flushin’ the toilet a lot.”
“Shittin’ in his pants,” said Bill.
“Or getting rid of phone numbers,” said Frank.
* * *
Frank asked Bill to let him have a few minutes alone with the typewriter in his room. “If I can’t go down to the embassy with you guys, I need to get an eyes-only message to Rocky.”
“You type it,” said Bill. “I’ll deliver it.”
He kept the message brief, dealing only with Yusef el Baz’s knowledge of the fatwa. Since they were all leaving the next day, he knew Rocky could do nothing about it, but he didn’t want Rocky to be sandbagged by the remote possibility that something might appear in the Wall Street Journal. He wanted to ask for a gun, but he knew there was no chance of his getting one and no chance of getting one through the airport.
* * *
A four-man patrol with what looked to Frank like G3s slung over their shoulders walked slowly in their direction as Frank pulled the Nova up to the house.
“Not again,” said Gus.
“I’ll get out and try and talk to them. Leave the motor running. If I can, I’ll go down and open the garage door.”
“I hope they all have those things on safety,” said Gus.
Frank climbed out of the Nova, smiling and showing his open palms. He pointed to the house and said, “Fardah Amrika … miram.” With the fingers of his right hand extended and his palm flat, he made a gesture he hoped would convey the idea of a plane taking off.
“Forood?” Frank had no idea what the man had asked. Intelligent, piercing dark eyes peered out from above his full beard. “Mehrabad?”
Frank recognized the name of the airport. “Baleh,” he said.
“In towreh?” said the man, casually unslinging his rifle. “Sefarat-e Amrika?”
American Embassy. “Baleh,” said Frank.
“Pan Am,” said the man with the gun. He nodded toward the house. “Okay.”
Frank started to ask, “Inglissi mi-danid?” but decided to quit while he was ahead. He had permission to enter the house. He hoped. “Mamnoon am.” He turned and walked toward the house. He unlocked the useless wrought-iron gate and climbed the concrete steps. He heard footsteps behind him as he undid the two locks. He glanced over his shoulder to see the four armed men coming up the steps. He held the door open for them and followed them in. They walked through the kitchen and into the front room. The man who had unslung his G3 turned and held the weapon up.
“Gun?” He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the house.
“Nah,” said Frank. “Nah gun.”
“Good.” The man pointed upstairs with his G3. Two of his companions headed up the stairs. The fourth man began poking around in the front room. Frank held up his house keys and pointed down. “Otomobil,” he said, grateful for the near cognate.
“Okay.”
Frank made his way down the front stairs, unlocked and opened the garage door, and watched Gus back in.
“What’s happening?” said Gus as he clambered from the car.
“They’re searching the house. Mostly for guns, I guess.”
“Leaving you alone?”
“I guess.”
“Good sign. Shall we mosey on up?”
“I’m tempted to stay here.”
“Let’s mosey.”
They entered the kitchen in time to see the man Frank had tried to communicate with open the refrigerator door. He bent to peer inside, closed the door, and started to turn away. He stopped and opened the door to the freezer. He reached in and pulled out a bottle of Absolut Frank had forgotten he’d left there. He feared he was about to see the remnants of his Absolut poured down the drain or smashed against the wall. The man studied the label.
“A-be,” said Frank, somehow remembering the word for water. He wished he knew the word for bottled. He wanted to say “bottled water”.
“A-be?””
“Baleh.”
The man unscrewed the cap and sniffed. “Baad a-be.”
Frank pointed to the tap on the sink, nodded, and said, “Baleh. Bad a-be.” He could make no sense of the torrent of Farsi that poured from the man. Then he picked up two words: Evian a-be. The man repeated, “Evian.”
“Evian,” echoed Frank, nodding. Maybe that’s how Iranians say “bottled water.” The man screwed the cap back on the Absolut and returned it to the freezer.
* * *
They’d finished their swift packing and lugged their bags downstairs. Frank had changed pants, discarding the shrunken pair he’d had on the night an AK-47 had rested in his ear. The rest of what he’d decided to take he slung into the suitcase he would check through to Frankfurt. The carry-on held a change of socks and underwear and his toiletries. He suspected Gus had packed in much the same way.
“That’s the lick-and-a-promise school of preparing for a long journey,” said Gus. “Since our holy warrior friends didn’t pour your vodka down the drain, how ’bout we pour some down us?”
“It isn’t Scotch,” said Frank.
“For a sailor on dry rations, any port in a storm.”
* * *
They’d lingered over vodka, sipping and talking in fits and starts. Frank guessed that Gus’s mind was on home, his wife, Rome. His own thoughts flitted from Lermontov to the still active KGB mole in the agency and back again and again to the fatwa. Somehow the fact that a reporter for a major American newspaper knew about it worried him as much as the death warrant itself, giving it a wider currency than he would have thought possible. Munair had told him the fatwa placed an obligation on all devout Muslims, but Frank had not really believed the threat could follow him to America. Now it seemed to be already there.
“Well,” said Gus, “if we’re gonna get outta here, I guess we better get goin’.”
“Let’s go,” said Frank, pushing himself up from the Formica-topped table.
They left the vodka behind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Frank noticed a major change in the decor of the embassy cafeteria, the Caravansari. A huge photograph of Ayatollah Khomeini had replaced the full-color portrait of the Shah above the door.
Stripped of its liquor and luxury goods, the adjacent commissary served as a processing center. Lingering tear gas made the embassy uninhabitable for more than a few minutes at a time, and the consulate proved too small to handle the hundreds of Americans seeking exodus. He’d surrendered his passport, filled out emigration forms, and filed into the Caravansari. He and Gus soon discovered the extent of their luck in not having to arrive the night before.
Snipers had again attacked the embassy from rooftops across the street, but this time with nothing heavier than assault rifles. Islamic guards, assigned by Ibrahim Yazdi to protect the embassy, fired back from within the compound. Apparently, no bullets found flesh.
“The gangs that co
uldn’t shoot straight,” said Gus.
“They shot straight enough to take out the Bodyguard,” said Frank.
“True, but from what I hear we might have faced more danger from the food. Hamburgers and canned corn.”
“I’m glad we missed the bullets and the food.”
“What’s Rocky plan to do about Teasdale?”
Frank shrugged. “Bill Steele tells me Rocky’s arranging for the FBI to pick him up in Rome, take him in for questioning, put him on a flutter box, work up some kind of revealing-classified-information charge, and ship him back to the States.”
He realized he didn’t care what happened to Teasdale. No more than he cared about what might happen to the GRU and Aeroflot hustlers Belinsky had worked with. Belinsky had already been killed, not for his sins, but for his courage. He did worry about what damage the still-active mole in Langley might cause. He worried about might happen to Lermontov. He worried about himself and the death warrant he carried back to the states as part of his baggage. He felt naked without his passport. He’d surrendered all his rials and several hundred dollars in large-denomination American currency to the station’s administrative officer. A receipt gave him a good chance of getting the money back as expenses. He’d left many things behind: his tape recorder, erased tapes, notebooks, address book, scissors, anything that might cause problems when the Islamic militia searched luggage at the airport. He had no problem with anything he’d left, including the money he’d surrendered. But he kept checking his pockets to make sure he had his passport and then remembering he’d turned it over to an embassy employee he did not know in exchange for a Pan Am ticket to New York via Frankfurt and a bus assignment, number 8. He had his ticket home but felt he’d given up his identity.
A booming voice over a bullhorn startled him. “Bus number seven. All passengers on bus number seven, prepare to depart for the airport.”
“That’s me,” said Gus. “I guess this is it.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“All passengers for bus number seven, prepare to depart. Carry your own luggage on board. Stow it in the aisles.”
“We’ll have to have a class reunion in Washington someday,” said Gus.
The Peregrine Spy Page 59