“No, we must go immediately.”
“Just let me pick up my dispatches first. Maybe Hannigan will get to the Royal Teheran, too. Things will be simpler, then. At least, let’s drive by the Soviet embassy and see if we’re being cordoned off from them, too.”
Hanookh’s hand was under his robe. Durell knew he had a gun there. For a moment, the taxi, halted by traffic, filled with tension. Then Hanookh nodded reluctantly.
“I will give you your hour, Durell. After that, I must do my duty.”
Traffic outside the Soviet embassy was less crowded than at the American. Durell ordered the driver to pass the entrance slowly. Men loitered here and there nearby. Two ice-cream vendors’ carts were posted strategically to cover the way in. They looked innocent; but Durell shook his head. “Keep going. Royal Teheran Hotel.”
“What would scum like you do there?” the driver snarled. “Do you plan to throw a few bombs?”
“Shut your mouth and do as you’re told,” Hanookh said harshly.
His voice carried obvious command, startling the driver. He subsided and headed for the modern, travertine towers of the hotel, which was accented with glass, tile, and perforated teak panels. Durell knew that in their nomad robes they would not be admitted into the extravagant lobby, and he signaled the driver to halt at a small cafe nearby, where he could watch the entrance for the embassy messenger. Hanookh was still hungry, and he ordered a dook, a yogurt drink diluted with club soda. Durell turned it down.
“You understand,” Hanookh said agreeably, “that as of this moment, I must place you under arrest? It is my duty.”
“I understand.”
“It will do no good to resist, even if Hannigan shows up personally at this place.”
“You’ve made your point, Hanookh.”
“I admire you, Mr. Durell. I could learn much from you. I trust there are no hard feelings?”
“The lice bite me as much as they bite you, friend.”
Hanookh grinned and smoothed his glossy moustache. “I am glad you are so understanding.”
They waited.
The embassy might as well have sent a brass band, Durell thought, when he saw the big limousine arrive.
For a moment, he hoped it was Hannigan, who might talk some sense into Hanookh. But a girl got out of the car. She wore a smart linen suit the color of fresh lemons, and her heavy black hair was done in a chignon. She carried a manila envelope tucked under her arm. She looked dubious, behind her sunglasses, as she searched the hotel entrance.
“That’s Hannigan’s secretary,” Durell said.
Hanookh smiled. “I know her.”
Durell looked at him sharply. “Yes, I suppose you do. Do you know most of the Iranian employees at our embassy?"
“All of them,” Hanookh admitted. He spread his hands. “It is our business. Would you not do the same thing?”
Durell walked toward the girl. She glanced at him and looked away, not recognizing him in his native robe. But Hanookh, still smiling, pushed back his cowl and said, “Miss Saajadi, do you remember me?”
The girl’s ripe mouth opened; her olive face was a study in surprise. “Oh, but you do look like—”
”I’m Hanookh. We went dancing two weeks ago at the Sha-er Restaurant. With Ike Sepah. Do you remember?”
“What are you doing dressed like that?”
“It’s a long story.” Hanookh touched Durell’s arm. “This is Sam Durell. He is expecting the dispatches you carry from Mr. Hannigan’s office.”
Miss Saajadi looked flustered. “Oh, but I’m not supposed to know—”
Durell sighed. “I’ll take them now.”
Hanookh ordered another yogurt and soda while Durell sat at the cafe table, inwardly cursing Hannigan’s absence. There were a few memos for him from Washington, but nothing from Hannigan. Miss Saajadi had obligingly sent all the dispatches down to the decoding room, and they were in clear.
“Have I time to read these?” he asked Hanookh.
“Yes, but afterward, you must give them to me.”
“They’re confidential.”
“And you are under arrest, for withholding political information required by my government.”
Durell wondered if he should make a break for it. Hanookh would give him some trouble, but not too much. He decided to read his mail before committing himself.
There were two dossiers in excerpt, a critique from State, an evaluation from a White House aide, a cryptic note from General Dickinson McFee, who commanded K Section:
Summary, K Section File Lambda 51/C.22
Subject: Chang Hung Ta—Po
Age: 49
Birth: Believed born Hunan Province, peasant stock, family of eight, sole surviving child, parents died famine 1928, relatives unknown.
Education: Fr. Nolan of Hzu-Tai Mission (see appended correspondence), adopted brilliant child, prodigious memory, sent to Shanghai, missionary funds, British tutor, Sister Marie-Celeste (see attached photo.) M.S. degree, London University. Interpreter in French, German, English. Married Jane Trayne, typist, London; abandoned wife and child I 1936, returned China, government post Nationalist foreign office to 1938. Vanished. Believed underground with Mao T se-Tung. Member of the Long March. Communist Party membership 1946, see File Zeta 56/A/51. See attached photos. See S.D. Analysis Sheet 569-72.
Present Situation: Head of Blue Department, Western Intelligence Division. HQ Peking. A Maoist, leader of Red Guard Banner Group. Devoted to Cultural Revolution 1966-67. Accused of deviationism, reinstated Mao’s personal directive. Believed most powerful intelligence officer Peking this date. Subject most dangerous. Believed cause of destruction Danton Force Taipeh 1961. (See File Lambda 51/C.14-Johnson, George, deceased). Subject is author of volume of poetry Flowers of Truth, advocating atomic war and Red Chinese world hegemony. Art collector, Tang specialist.
Description: Six feet, three inches, weight 265, North Chinese features, history t.b., eyes brown, black hair cut en brosse, scar lower lip to chin. No recent photo graphs.
Analysis: Subject married divorced wife Prof. Alexei Ouspanaya, signed legal adoption papers for daughter Madame Hung Ta-Po, Maria Tanya Ouspanaya, I963. Daughter remained Soviet Union with father. (See File Zeta 54/A/32.9.) Subject has no known criminal a/o political record in West. Can travel freely. Meet with caution. Priority 4A.
Durell put the typed flimsy aside on the café table. Hanookh was drinking coffee and studying the crowded sidewalk. He seemed supremely uninterested in Durell’s material. Durell sighed again. The second dossier covered Tanya Ouspanaya. There was no mention in it of the Peking adoption by Hung Ta-Po. The attached photo emphasized her striking and unusual beauty. Durell considered it for a long minute. Her eyes were cool and haughty, with an objective intellect evident even in the news reproduction. The Tanya he had met was disoriented, confused, emotional. He wondered for a moment if it was the same girl. But it had to be. There was no mistake, no chance for an imposter.
He turned reluctantly to the State Department critique. It was a commentary and evaluation of Har-Buri as a national force in Iran. He was familiar with the analyst.
Precis, Har-Buri, Revolutionary Movement, Iran, SEA-5 Division, Group Chief Henry Talbot-Smyth:
The socio-economic reform and development promised under the present government has failed to achieve breakup of landholder and industrial complexes to the satisfaction of disadvantaged peasantry, and must be considered a failure leading to unrest among underprivileged segments of urban, peasant, and alienated tribal groups. According to Policy Charles paper, Har-Buri’s efforts to gain land reform and egalitarianism of democratic processes should be encouraged with material, political, and economic aid in any manner suitable without upsetting balance of relations with current entrenched Iranian bureaucracy. The demand for liberty and a share in national agro-economic wealth must not be denied. As leader of this movement, Har-Buri seems stable and should be encouraged delicately, to aid in legitimate Iranian aspirations toward
their free destiny.
Durell was so annoyed that he got up and bought a pack of cigarettes with his last few remaining rials and lit one. Hanookh hadn’t touched the fiimsies on the cafe table when he came back. Durell picked up the note from McFee.
Cajun—all gobbledegook aside, watch your step. It’s tricky waters. Ta-Po will kill you if he can. Get the girl. Turn her over to Soviet embassy. Her father, Professor Ouspanaya, is there. Don’t know a thing about her moon trip. It’s a tight Moscow secret. But the pot boils, under the lid. Get Har-Buri. Turn him over to Iranian Security. Cooperate with Colonel Saajadi in all aspects above. Luck, D.McF.
Durell began to laugh quietly, and Hanookh looked at him with thick, raised eyebrows. Durell pushed the papers across the table. The sun was warm. The breeze flicked up the flimsies and he put an ashtray on them.
Do you want to read these, Hanookh?”
“It is not necessary.”
“Because of Miss Saajadi, who works for the American embassy?”
“My friend, I do not apologize for that. You would do the same. Your instructions here are already on my desk, waiting for my attention.”
“And Miss Saajadi is your colonel’s daughter?”
Hanookh began to smile. “Yes.”
“And the colonel is your boss?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that Hung Ta-Po adopted Tanya and considers her as his daughter?”
“The world is full of strange things.”
“And I’m full of the spirit of brotherly love and cooperation. I‘ll go see your Colonel Saajadi.”
“Good. He will be waiting for us.”
Chapter Eight
“GO home and bathe and rest, my dear boy,” said Colonel Saajadi. He spoke in French to Hanookh. “You’ve done very well. I’m desolated about Sepah. A fine lad. The British will be annoyed about Beele. Terrible thing. But I shall write a fine recommendation for you, Hanookh.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Then that will be all.”
Hanookh hesitated and looked at Durell. “The American needs a rest, too. Without him, neither of us would have survived.”
“He will be given every courtesy. Do not worry.”
“Sir, I would beg permission to remain ”
“You are dismissed,” said Colonel Saajadi.
Hanookh’s liquid eyes regarded Durell for a brief and curious moment. His reluctance was obvious, and Durell wasn’t sure what it meant. Then the young Iranian nodded and backed from the room and closed the door behind him with exaggerated care.
Durell was alone with the Iranian Security Chief.
“Come with me, sir,” said Saajadi.
“I like this office,” Durell said. He crossed his legs. He felt a louse crawl across his chest and under his armpit, but he didn’t scratch. “Can’t we talk here, Colonel?”
“There are too many ears listening. You know such problems, eh? You are shocked that my daughter works in your embassy?”
“Standard operating procedure.”
“Eh? Ah. Yes. Amusing.” Colonel Saajadi did not look amused. “Now we will go where we can talk privately.”
“Must we?”
“Please, sir. Your orders are explicit.”
“Yes. Cooperate. All right.”
Saajadi was as slim and sharp as a finely honed saber. His gray hair was thick and his moustache neatly trimmed. His forehead was flat and leonine, his nose prominent, and in profile he looked precisely like a carving on an ancient Assyrian frieze. His mouth was sensual. He stood up quickly, touched Durell’s arm, and led him through a back door in his paneled, modem office, and down a flight of echoing concrete steps to the rear of the building, where a Jaguar sedan was parked conveniently nearby. It occurred to Durell that in this manner no one had seen either of them leave the building.
There was no driver for the Jaguar. Saajadi took the wheel himself.
“My home,” he said, smiling. “Rest, refreshment, and a long chat, and the making of plans to nab Har-Buri, eh?”
“As you say,” Durell agreed. The louse had found a brother under his other armpit, and perhaps some sisters were crawling across his belly. “A bath will be welcome.”
“Of course. You will be made comfortable.”
Saajadi drove impetuously but with precise skill. Durell wondered if by now Hannigan was looking for him. He hoped so. But he didn’t have too much faith left in Hannigan, any more than he trusted anyone in this world of myth, glazed over with modernity, and quaking with Moslem conservatism. The center of Teheran lies at 4500 feet above sea level. The residential areas are on hillsides at 6000 feet. Saajadi drove quickly by the new Senate Building, the Sepasalar Mosque, and headed as if toward Darband, a quiet mountain village with a good hotel, hot springs, and bathhouses. But after a time he turned the Jaguar into a side road, passing walled villas secluded behind ornate cypress trees. He took a left turn, then another. They went through a piney woods, and skirted a deep ravine. Durell thought they were going much too far out of the city. Then Saajadi tapped the horn, and gates opened for them, and they passed onto a fine shell driveway between ornamental shrubbery, skirted a lush garden, and then a glimmering, mosaic, convoluted villa appeared.
“My residence,” Saajadi said.
Roses bloomed in an orgy of profusion along a stone terrace. Arched doorways, espaliered fruit trees, fretted walls, and antique carvings were everywhere. Durell wondered what sort of salary Colonel Saajadi drew as chief of security in his particular department.
“Ah, my daughter,” said Saajadi. “Home for lunch, my dear?”
The same girl who had delivered the dossiers from the embassy stood just inside the main entrance. She smiled meaninglessly at Durell, all her concern concentrated on the colonel. “Did all go well?”
“Perfectly, my dear. You may go back now.”
Her linen skirt was tight across her wiggling bottom as she stepped down the walk and took the Jaguar away. Durell didn’t like her, he decided.
“Come,” said Colonel Saajadi.
Again, Durell was impressed by the curious emptiness and lack of witnesses. A villa this size should have swarmed with servants, obsequious and visible. But he saw no one. The colonel’s boots made sharp clackings on the mosaic floor. He glimpsed inner courtyards where fountains played and more roses bloomed. Galleries and balconies right out of the Arabian Nights ran endlessly overhead. They should have been packed with peeping, veiled beauties, he reflected. But there was only empty sunlight and shadow.
And then deeper shadow. The colonel led him down a flight of steps, along a gloomy corridor, and opened a heavy plank door fitted with elaborately forged hinges. His slim brown hand gestured.
“In here, Mr. Durell.”
“You go to extremes for privacy.”
“I do my best work here, sir.”
“Would you have one of your servants draw me a bath, get my clothes from the hotel, and bring some food?” Durell spoke blandly. “I’d like some caviar, chello-kebab, and lots of coffee.”
“It will all be arranged.”
He went in ahead of Colonel Saajadi. It was against all the rules of procedure to do so. But he had been ordered to cooperate, after all, by General McFee himself .
The room was almost entirely bare. It had solid stone walls, a desk, a single chair, a tin-shaded lamp. He had time only to think of all the barren back rooms in all the crummy police stations in all the corners of the world, and then he turned to Colonel Saajadi.
The colonel hit him with a metal object in his hand. He couldn’t see what it was. But he felt a tooth break as he fell, and he tried to grab at his gun, and suddenly he was hit in the face again, by someone he couldn’t even see through the mists and roaring red darkness that surged up at him. He struck back at Saajadi, tried to make it to the desk in the center of the room, hoping to get around it for a respite. Blood gushed into his mouth. He heard Saajadi call out in a sharp, military manner. Other men rushed into the room. He
was carried back by their weight and his hip slammed into a corner of the desk. He was bent double, and managed to drive his knee into someone’s groin, and was re warded by a sibilant hiss of agony. Then he went down under a pounding, pushing, pummeling weight.
He let himself go limp.
After a time, the ceiling stopped its carousel revolutions. The light glared in his eyes. An elegantly booted toe prodded his ribs.
“Mr. Durell?”
“So much for orders,” Durell said.
Chapter Nine
“NOW we understand each other,” said Colonel Saajadi.
“Was Hanookh in on this?”
“No. His life, too, is in great peril.”
“He doesn’t know anything of value.”
“You did not tell him how to find Har-Buri’s headquarters?” Saajadi was angry. “He says you had a map.”
“Yes, I had. It’s gone now.”
“You did not show it to Hanookh?”
"No."
“Or tell him precisely where you found Tanya?”
“No. Let Hanookh be.”
“I may. I may not. It depends on you.”
Durell felt with his tongue for his broken tooth. He spit it out, along with a gobbet of blood. Oddly enough, he felt the lice as an irresistible itching now, and he gave in and scratched at himself. “May I sit up, Colonel?”
“Yes. Be careful. We know all about you. We respect you. We know how competent you are.”
“I made a great showing just now—I think not.
Saajadi laughed. “Ah, well, it was merely to put things into perspective, right at the start. You are in my country now, Mr. Durell. In my house. In my private jail, if you like. So you will be cooperative, obedient, and amiable. If not—who will miss you? No one knows you are here. Hanookh will be lucky to live through the night. For the record, you could still be wandering in the Dasht-i-Kavir.”
“No. I phoned my embassy.”
“Ah, that could have been a—how do you say it?-—a ploy by other agents. Hannigan will be perplexed, nothing more.”
Assignment Moon Girl Page 8