The Peregrine Spy
Page 61
WELCOME TO TEHRAN.
* * *
Three hours later, the plane sat where it had sat when he boarded. Bill Steele had nodded but not spoken when he walked down the aisle past Frank. He’d seen no one else he knew. Twice, armed Iranians had come through, checking passports. After the surly stewards who had staffed their Pan Am flight from Rome, he noted with pleasure that attractive stewardesses now patrolled the aisles, offering soft drinks and sympathy.
“We’re all volunteers,” said one who managed to find a can of seltzer for him. “But I’ll tell you, if we don’t get out of here soon, we may not get out of here at all. Another half hour it’ll be dark. The controllers are on strike again, and after dark we can’t take off without air traffic control.”
“Hey, push come to get stuck, we’ll just make the best of it. I’ll take you out, show you the town, all the bright bonfires, hit a few discos, drink some champagne.”
“Yeah, right,” said the stewardess, whose name tag read CAROL. “When we do get airborne,” said Carol, “you get the first drink.”
“Vodka rocks,” said Frank.
“You got it.”
A moment later, he wondered if they would ever get airborne. Another group of gun-wielding Iranians marched through, again checking passports. The man who looked at his passport held a slip of paper. Frank caught a glimpse and read “Bill Steele.”
The man returned his passport, and Frank said, “Be-bakh-shid. Dast shoo-ii kojast?”
Politely, the man lowered his gun and pointed to the back of the plane, enunciating slowly in Farsi what Frank took to be instructions for finding the bathroom. He edged past the man with the gun and the even more dangerous piece of paper, relieved for a moment to see Bill in an aisle seat. He paused, touched Bill on the arm, and leaned close to his ear.
“These guys have your name, Bill Steele, on a piece of paper.”
Bill nodded. “I know. Rushmore tipped me.”
“Your passport read William Oliver Steele?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“William Oliver doesn’t look like Bill Steele. Since they’re lookin’ for ‘Bill,’ if you’re lucky they won’t get any further than ‘William.’ If you can, show the passport with your thumb over Steele.”
Bill nodded, and Frank continued to the back of the plane where he found one of the lavatories unoccupied. He hadn’t known his bladder had gotten so full. He peed long, zipped himself up, washed and dried his hands, and eased himself out of the bathroom. He looked down the aisle. The men with the guns had moved beyond the row where Bill sat. They edged aside to let him pass. He tapped Bill on the shoulder as he walked by.
The passport check proved to be the last. Frank heard doors closing and, according to his Timex at five-twenty-five, heard the pilot saying, “Flight crew, please prepare for takeoff. All passengers should be in their seats; seat belts fastened; trays in the upright position.”
Silence greeted the announcement, as though no one quite believed it. But soon the roar of the engines rattled the plane, and the 747 began to rock down the runway. The plane climbed swiftly to clear the foothills of the Elborz, then banked, heading west, still climbing as they arced above the Zagros Mountains that rose south of Tabriz. Though near dark had fallen over the tarmac at Mehrabad, at what Frank guessed might be twenty thousand feet a blazing sunset fired the sky.
“America, America, God shed his grace on thee.” The soprano voice sounded strangely familiar. Frank turned and, one seat in, two rows behind him, he saw the woman whose hysterical screams had tried to defend her silent poodle. “And crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea.” Her voice rang like a bell … “America, America…” then quavered. “We’re going home, everybody. We’re going home.”
True to her word, the stewardess named Carol served Frank the first drink. A tray with a tall plastic cup, a single ice cube, and five miniatures of Smirnoff vodka. “I know there aren’t any discos in Tehran,” she said, “but I bet I can find one for us in Frankfurt.”
Frank poured two miniatures into the cup and said, politely, “I’ll drink to that.” But I don’t think so, he said to himself. His mind was on death, not dancing. He felt uncomfortable with the feelings he harbored. He had wanted to beat Teasdale to a pulp the night his hair drier set off what could have become a deadly confrontation with the armed and nervous neighborhood komiteh members who had stopped them. Now he wondered if the homafaran would kill the killer in the black hood. He admitted to himself that he hoped so. Maybe that’s why I carry a death warrant back to America, he thought. He wanted to forgive and be forgiven. But I’m guilty. Against the fear of death, he confessed to knowing the urge to kill.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot. Let me give you the bad news first. Earlier today Frankfurt got socked with an ice storm. Conditions still sound a bit uncertain up there, but once the I-ranians cleared us for takeoff, we weren’t about to delay departure for any damn thing. But we will set down en route at the U.S. Air Force base at Incirlik, Turkey.” A collective groan seemed to rise from the bowels of the plane. “Frankfurt doesn’t know when they’ll get a runway clear. But our idea was to get you guys outta Tay-ran come hell, high water, freezing rain, sleet, ice storms, or snowballs. So we’ll set down at Incirlik, refuel, take off when we get clearance from Frankfurt, but, just in case, we’ll have enough fuel so we can circle or head for somewhere else if we have to.”
Out of Tehran, thought Frank, but so far headed only as far as Turkey, a next-door neighbor.
“And now, just a bit more bad news,” warned the pilot’s voice. “In deference to local custom, we will not serve any liquor until we have left Iranian air space … Like hell. The stews will pour free booze from here to Frankfurt.”
Frank had expected a cheer. His fellow passengers still seemed numb. The pilot sounded disappointed. “Anyway, I’m about to begin a countdown. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one. Ladies and gentlemen, you may unfasten your seat belts. We have just left Iranian air space.”
The plane rocked. The numbed, pent-up emotions exploded. Men and women cheered, shouted, struggled to their feet, yelled, clapped hands, kissed, embraced.
The soprano started another chorus of “America the Beautiful.” A few passengers sitting near her joined in. The song spread. No one, except the soprano, knew all the words, but soon a confused rondo echoed up and down the aisles. “Oh purple mountains majesty and amber waves of grain…”
He listened to the lilting soprano and thought of the ugly scene in the terminal as the Americans battled the Iranians over the caged and sedated poodle. Nah saag, he thought. Then, Shah saag. The Shah as America’s lap dog. “God shed his grace on thee,” sang the soprano. The lyric seemed out of joint. He struggled to remember a seldom sung verse. “America. America. God mend thy every flaw. Confirm thy soul in self-control. Thy liberty in law.” The soprano did not go beyond “sea to shining sea,” and those cautionary notes would not sound.
He tried not to think of the lost Shah. Or of Chatterbox, the poodle that had vanished. He sipped his vodka and thought of Lermontov. Of the mole. The fatwa. The dark, bearded face of the Savak assassin with bloodshot eyes. Long flight home. See you in America.
February 17, 1979
OTHER BOOKS BY EDMUND P. MURRAY
The Passion Players (novel)
Kulubi (novel)
My Bridge to America
with Sam Kusumoto (biography)
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE PEREGRINE SPY. Copyright © 2004 by Edmund P. Murray. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
First Edition: April 2004
eISBN 9781466864368
First eBook editi
on: December 2013