Assignment Afghan Dragon (8 page)

“But he didn’t tell you directly what it was all about?”

“No, he did not.”

Durell followed the girl into the Iran Air jet.

Meshed was a place of fruits and farms, of minarets spiraling high over holy places, the Imam Reza’s mausoleum, of pilgrims on their way to the tomb of Nadir Shah and the sacred enclosures where all nonbelievers were forbidden. Meshed was a garden exuding the scent of growing things and possessing the aura of religious fervor that amounted to a strange ecstasy. It was a quiet storm, fed by the Shi’ite feasts, under a milder sun than in the Seistan; a storm like the swift rippling movement of a whirlpool.

Here were memories of barbarians and the glory of the Sassanids, of nomad wars and the monstrous avalanche of the Mongols led by Genghis Khan, who left behind them fire and destruction and mountains of bleached skulls. Meshed was the Place of the Martyr, where the Imam Reza confronted the Caliph Harun el Rashid in a conflict between orthodoxy and Shi’ism. Pilgrims to the holy places in Meshed bring in a tide of money, coins and rugs and goats to sell, with which to make their pious offerings.

There were modem things today, however: sugar refineries and parks, traffic circles and broad boulevards, avenues shaded under gentle trees, and bazaars selling turquoise and embroidered skin coats, soapstone platters, rugs, antiques, clay tablets and beads for the religious pilgrims.

Over all lay the heat of summer, which still drove the inhabitants to sleep on their flat roofs and terraces in search of a cool breeze from the mountains toward Quchan.

Among the other passengers in the plane from Zahidan, only the young German woman with her older husband showed any interest in Durell and Anya. She was    statuesque    and full-fleshed, a modern Valkyrie with     long blond hair done up in a     tight, sedate braid atop her head; her hands were long and strong, free of jewelry, not even a wedding ring. She did not exchange anything more than monosyllables with her businessman husband, who was engrossed in corporate tallies taken from his     attache case. Durell was aware of her pale    gray eyes straying his way, and so was Anya.

Anya seemed annoyed. But Anya was interested in the Chinese and the others, as if wondering which, if any of them, could be working with Zhirnov—or perhaps Peking. The blond woman got up once and bumped her soft, pliant hip against Durell’s shoulder as she made her way to the back of the plane. She apologized most profusely, first in German that identified her to Durell’s ear as a Berliner—West or East? he wondered—and his guess was verified when she gave her name as Frau Hauptman-Graz. She waved a - negligent hand toward her husband, who was engrossed in his business papers.

“My husband, Hans, he is not a tourist. But I am.” When she smiled, her teeth were strong and white and rapacious. “You are touring this part of Asia, also?”

“Yes, indeed,” Durell said.

“Meshed is supposed to be a beautiful city, filled with a religious excitement, I hear, an air of holiness,
nicht?
”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“And perhaps we shall meet there at the sights to see.
Bitte?
”

“It would be delightful.”

She pouted, towering over Durell in his seat like some Norse goddess seeking her prey. “My husband Hans, he is always busy, I am often lonely and need— companionship? A guide? It would be pleasant to share experiences in Meshed with you and your lovely wife.” 

Anya said hostilely, “We are not married.”

“Ah. So? Well, times have changed, of course—”

“Are you married?” Anya asked pointedly.

The blond woman turned slightly pink. “I do not wear Hans’s ring, but that is only because—”

An announcement from the cockpit broke it off. The woman sat down again next to her husband and stared out the small window. Anya considered her hands. “The bitch,” she murmured. “But then, I suppose you find it commonplace, a man like you is attractive to a certain type of woman—”

“You could have been kinder. She’s from East Berlin. Her accent gives her away. A good Communist, no doubt, like you,” Durell suggested.

Anya shrugged. “Not all Communists are ‘good.’ ”

“And not all of them follow Moscow’s line, is that it?” Durell murmured.

“I do not understand.”

“The Black House in Peking would hardly send conspicuous Chinese into Afghanistan and Iran to hunt for the dragon. They would use Maoist fellow travelers who would stand out less against the color of the local people,” Durell said. “Like the Indian, up ahead. Or perhaps the two men who look so American, behind us.”

Anya was a bit pale. “I did not think of that.”

“Do so, then,” Durell said.

Not once had
Herr
Hauptman-Graz looked up from his business papers. It was a bit too obvious. They were amateurs. But then, Durell supposed, you can’t always be sure of quality when you have to hire outside help.

They were followed from the airport in Meshed. The sun was hot and glittering, and there was a thin haze of pale golden dust in the air. The rest of the passengers scattered and vanished in the waiting room, seeking taxis or being met by friends for the trip into the center of town. Durell chose a cab and had the driver take them to the bus station on Tehran Avenue, where he and Anya then chose another taxi down Pahlevi Avenue, past the banks and the HOMA air office. The same black Mercedes that had picked up
Herr
and
Frau
Hauptman-Graz at the airport doggedly clung to their trail. It was so obvious that Durell wondered if there was a second-layer surveillance team, hiding beyond the Germans. But if there were, he couldn’t find it, nor could he spot a parallel team on the side streets.

He ignored the Pars and Darbandi Hotels and the Kousravi Nou, and told the second driver to go out Jahanbani Road, where more modest quarters were available. After the first twenty minutes, the Mercedes seemed to have lost them, but he didn’t count on it. Anya sat stiffly, her back very straight, staring ahead as they rode.

The hotel he chose was small and reasonably clean, on a side street off Kousravi Nou. Not more than eight blocks away was the sacred enclosure of the Imam Reza shrine, the Gauhar-Shad mosque, and the great bazaar catering to pilgrims and tourists alike, although the latter were hardly made welcome. There was a privacy to this Shi’ite fervor that made the exclusion of foreigners more than a bit obvious.

They ate lunch at the Safa, down the street from the hotel in a narrow lane where traffic could be watched. He did not see the Mercedes again. They ordered tea from the huge samovar that bubbled on the zinc counter, and
chelo kebabs
, rice heaped high on a platter with a sauce of walnuts, the
kebabs
of chicken skewered and broiled over a charcoal brazier. The place was smoky and noisy with local inhabitants. Durell chose a table against the wall, where he could see the open doorways in the narrow lane and watch who entered and left. He did not see the Hauptman-Graz couple. Anya behaved nervously, her eyes rarely meeting his. She started to talk about Zhirnov, and wondered what might have happened to her boss, Colonel Skoll, but he cut her off, not knowing who might understand English at the crowded tables near them. She looked at him worriedly and picked at her food. Durell found himself ravenous and cleaned up his plate, ordered a bottle of Iranian wine, and ate the flat Moslem bread, and thrust a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table into his pocket.

“Surely,” Anya said finally, “you have a special purpose in coming to Meshed?”

“Yes.”

“You do not trust me to tell me about it?”

“I want you to stay in the room. Don’t answer any knock on the door unless you are sure it is me. Don’t go out, don’t use the telephone.”

She smiled tiredly. “I am confused,” she admitted. “I have betrayed my mission, made an enemy of Zhirnov, for saving your life. Why did I do it?”

“Perhaps you have a conscience,” Durell said.

“But my own life is destroyed. I do not know where to go, Where to turn.”

“Stay with me,” he said.

Her mouth was wry. But he thought it was a very ripe and promising mouth. She said, “I am alone now. I cannot appeal to my own people. If the German couple are what you say they are, agents of the Black House in Peking, then they are after me, too. What am I to do? Seek political asylum in your country?”

“There are worse choices, Anya.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I am Russian. I am a Soviet citizen, a loyal citizen. If Zhirnov is working for traitors—hawks, if you like—then I must do what I can to stop him and take my chances with my superiors when I return to Moscow.”

“Stick with me,” Durell said. “We have the same goal in mind, for the most part. We can help each other.”

“How can I be helpful? By remaining locked up in a tiny hotel room? Let me go with you, please, for whatever you have in mind.”

She looked lovely and appealing, he thought. But it was in the nature of his business never to take anything on face value. True, she had saved his life from Zhirnov. But then he wondered about it. The whole thing could have been a subtle arrangement to place her at his side, to put her in his hands, seemingly. He felt a brief rage at what the business had done to him. He had to live with convoluted suspicion, acting out a chess game of mistrust in which move and countermove made endless progressions, until they were alone, totally and irrevocably, cut off from the ordinary, open intercourse which most men enjoyed and took for granted. When he looked into the girl's apparently candid eyes, he felt a rebellion against what his years in the business had done to Mm. He sipped his hot tea with care—you didn’t drink ordinary water in these parts.

“Please, Sam,” she said again.

“No,” he decided.

The room looked secure enough. There was a solid bolt on the door and the single window opened on the sheer side of the building above an alley. There was a common bathroom at the end of the hall, and he waited until Anya had freshened up in there. The double bed seemed clean enough, with brass head and footboards. A single light bulb dangled from a cord in the ceiling. It was not the most plush hotel in Meshed, but it seemed safe enough.

“Two hours,” he promised. “I’ll be back by then.”

“I shall wait.”

He paused in the narrow corridor until he heard her bolt the door, then went down the rickety stairs to the crowded, noisy street. He walked to the Kousravi Nou and turned right to the traffic circle where it met Tehran Avenue. The Imam Reza shrine now loomed to his left. In the early hours of the afternoon, the heat of late autumn had built up until traffic was dampened somewhat, although the ubiquitous taxis, crowded with numerous fares, were still in evidence everywhere. He ignored several and kept walking. Ahead was the sacred enclosure, forbidden to foreigners, although he could visit the famous museum and glimpse the Gauhar-Shad mosque. He went along with the tide of fervent pilgrims headed that way, aware of his being an alien here, conscious of his height and obvious Western origin. Now and then he caught a hostile, angry face from some devout Shi’ite who resented his presence even here on the crowded boulevard. He had no intention of trespassing. His mind kept reviewing the thumbnailed passage in Homer Fingal’s blue bound copy of the Tao Te Ching, and he knew exactly where to go.

But it was not that easy.

He did not see the Mercedes that had followed him part way from the airport, but suddenly he felt the warm pressure of a breast against his arm and a hand slipped through to his elbow.

“
Herr
Durell! How fortunate we meet again here in this enchanting place! You are not with your wife? And I am not with my husband! So. We shall be tourists together, yes?”

It was
Frau
Freyda Hauptman-Graz. She was as tall as he, and her grip was strong on his elbow. She wore a pale gray suit that went with her ice-gray eyes, and a pink gauzy scarf over her head like a veil, in deference to Moslem habits. Her makeup made her look like a photographer’s model.

“Come,” she said. “Come with me.”

“Your husband won’t mind?”

“
Ach
, he is always absorbed in his business. It is machine tools, you know. He lives and breathes lathes and stamping machines and drill presses. He has so little time for me! So little inclination. His juices have dried up, I think.”

She matched his stride easily as they turned toward the great bazaar just below the shrine off Safavi Avenue. He scanned the traffic for the Mercedes, but could not spot it, nor could he detect any shadowers in the crowd of pilgrims that surged along with them. Perhaps she thought she was competent to handle him alone—one way or the other.

“This way,” she said. “It is so nice to see you privately like this. Without your wife—who says so emphatically that she is not your wife. You have traveled far together? Where did you meet? She does not seem to be as American as you, dear
Herr
Durell.”

“Annie is fine, but she’s a bit tired. She’s resting.”

“Ach, but you are not in any of the major hotels. Most of them are so—so uncertain, here in Meshed, You must be staying with friends?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

She frowned behind her veil. “I do not truly understand you. Perhaps my English is defective. You have friends in Meshed?”

“I wouldn’t call them friends. Associates.”

They had entered the bazaar area, and were swamped in a tidal wave of noise, the clamor of bells and the cries of hawkers, the shouts and arguments of dickering buyers and sellers. The little shops were all open to the street, displaying their wares of copper and brass, turquoise jewelry, rugs, lambskin coats, Japanese transistor radios, even motorcycles. The smells of coffee, tea and spices mingled with the dung of little donkeys and the everpresent odor of urine. He remembered the thumbnailed phrasing in the Tao Te Ching:
a house without walls, a home where no one lives
. Somewhere here in the bazaar, in one of the shops, was the contact Fingal had tried to lead him to. To search for Nuri Qam in Meshed without such a lead was all but impossible. He knew that K Section kept a listening post here, close to the USSR border, in a silversmith’s place in the southeast corner of the great bazaar, but he had no intention of leading Frau Freyda there.