The Peregrine Spy (13 page)

Frank suspected the general had pulled one of his textbooks off the shelf the night before. Still, the general’s fascination with civic action could give them the chance to conduct meetings with a semblance of purpose, even if there was no hope of putting the ideas into practice.

Meanwhile, far more important to Frank were the hints they were beginning to get from their counterparts that they might have information worth pursuing: Khomeini’s use of cassettes; a comment the general had made about the “big men upstairs who people think will stage a coup.” He believed he and Gus, with patience, could soon learn more.

During the tea break, Major Nazih guided Frank up the hallway, away from the others. “Is there a chance,” said Nazih, “your driver could be alerted for a possible assignment this afternoon?”

“He’s Iranian Army,” said Frank. “He should be responsive to a request from you.”

“But he is assigned to you. There is a possibility, only a possibility, mind, His Imperial Majesty may be able to see you this afternoon.”

“Wow. That’s short notice. I have no clearance from my embassy, or from Washington.”

“I do apologize for the short notice. But as I’m sure you understand, His Imperial Majesty faces enormous pressure these days. Enormous demands on his time. And, after your work with Haile Selassie, I’m sure you’re used to the ways of emperors.”

Frank turned away, embarrassed by Nazih’s fluttering lashes. “I’ll have to discuss it with my embassy,” he said.

“I’m sure with your authority you can make the necessary arrangements.”

What the hell does he mean by that? wondered Frank. “I’m afraid I have far less authority than you imagine.”

“I do, I confess to you, have a very strong imagination. It’s a uniquely Persian attribute. Meanwhile, just in case, you might alert your driver.”

“I’ll go try to find our driver now,” said Frank.

“Do tell him it’s just an alert. I won’t know for sure till midday. After our meeting.”

“What time shall I tell him?” asked Frank.

“I … I really don’t know. Not yet, I mean. I’ll know by midday.”

Frank didn’t bother getting his parka. He spotted Ali as soon as he stepped into the cold air, standing at attention like a soldier disguised as a civilian by the car that he’d parked in an area close to the building where parking was prohibited. Frank crossed to him quickly.

“Ali, is it possible you might be able to drive me to a meeting, a part of town I really don’t know, this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not sure what time, and I may have someone else with me.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I am not supposed to tell you, sir, and please do not tell anyone I told you, but Major Nazih already alerted me.”

“Good. I was hoping he might have. Then you know when and where to pick us up?”

“Yes, sir. Fourteen-thirty hours. By the guardhouse at Dowshan Tappeh.”

“Correct. Thank you, Ali.”

What a piece of work this Nazih is, thought Frank. The outside stairway that led to a blank wall on the second floor distracted him. He studied the whitewashed stone where it stopped. Maybe a door opened there, once upon a time, since bricked over. But he could detect no outline, no shadow of where a door might have been.

Shortly after noon, their dark waiter with the drooping mustache entered the room. He went directly to Nazih and whispered in his ear. Nazih nodded, glancing at Frank. The Jayface meeting concluded just before one.

Nazih helped Frank into his parka. “Good news,” he said. “We’re confirmed for three-thirty.”

Strange, thought Frank. That a waiter should bring the news to Nazih. Then he remembered that the waiter worked for
Savak.

“Could you have your driver meet us?” asked Nazih. “Say, at two-thirty by the guardhouse at Dowshan Tappeh?”

“We can meet at two-thirty,” said Frank. “And I’ll let you know what my embassy says.”

“They will agree,” said Nazih. “I can assure you.
Tout à l’heure,
Major Sullivan.”

*   *   *

Anwar joined him at the foot of the stairs. Cold air rushed in as Major Nazih left.

“You have such interesting friends,” said Anwar. “I take it you see the Shah this afternoon.”

“I think I was the last to know,” said Frank.

“Beware,” said Anwar smiling. “What play was it … the ides of March? Of course.
Julius Caesar
. Shakespeare is popular among us, you know. All those kings and queens and courtiers, full of intrigue and so much like our own royal court today. We can identify with all that, probably much better than Americans.”

“Well, Kennedy gave us a taste of Camelot.”

“Perhaps. But not like here. The Russians could also understand. Caesar. The Czar. The Shah. All the same man. His Imperial Tyranny. ‘Beware the ides of March.’ Here we might say beware the tenth of
Moharram, Ashura
. Only a few weeks away. Do you know about it?”

“A bit,” said Frank. In fact, he knew nothing, but he suspected he was about to learn.

“It honors the martyrdom of Hossein, son of Ali, the first Imam, and his seventy-two companions, all killed in a battle on the plains of Karbala in the month of
Moharram,
nearly thirteen hundred years ago. And then, more than eleven hundred years ago, the Twelfth Imam disappeared. He was only an infant. We still await his return, the way the Jews still await the Messiah, the Messiah you Christians think was Christ. Some among us think the Twelfth Imam will return when Imam Khomeini’s plane sets down out of the sky from Paris.” Without pausing, Anwar looked away and said, “But that’s mere history. You’re more interested in news, isn’t it?”

“Both,” said Frank.

“There will be news, more arrests. Soon. Including Karim Sanjabi. You know who he is?”

“Head of the opposition?”

Anwar nodded. “He has gone to Paris to meet with Khomeini. When he returns he will be arrested, with others, including another National Front leader, Mahdi Bazargan.”

“Won’t the National Front object?”

“Yes, but not too loudly. Sanjabi’s arrest will make it possible for others to move up, especially with Bazargan also out of the way. Opposition fronts are always divided, aren’t they? I don’t refer to Iran, of course, but divided opposition helps to keep tyrants in power.”

“How do you know these things?”

“Friends. No. Not friends. Sources. You might ask His Imperial Majesty about it.”

“I don’t think so,” said Frank. “I think it’s going to be just, you know, just a courtesy call.”

*   *   *

Frank drove the Fiat to the embassy for a hastily called meeting in the ambassador’s office. Along the way, he briefed Gus on what Nazih had arranged.

“It’s not just that I don’t like this guy,” said Gus. “I flat out don’t trust him. He worries me.”

“He’s cooking up something,” said Frank. “So far I don’t see anything to do but go along.”

“What he’s cooking up may be you,” said Gus.

*   *   *

“Should I have said I’m too busy to meet with the King of Kings?”

“Maybe just that you’re not qualified to meet with him,” said Rocky.

“It really is terribly abrupt notice,” said the ambassador, folding his delicate hands on the glass table in the plastic bubble. “But my overnight cables include one saying that, at the request of the National Security Council, Mr. Sullivan here should be prepared to accept an invitation to pay a courtesy call on His Imperial Majesty. Did you receive something similar, Rocky?”

“I received something.” said Rocky, glaring briefly at Frank. “Something that flat-out contradicts an earlier cable I got saying, again, absolutely no contact.”

“Well, we can’t ignore the National Security Council, now, can we?” said the ambassador.

Nazih knew, thought Frank. How the hell could he know?

“Mr. Ambassador, sir. Rocky. I have to tell you. This Nazih character, he seemed to know the meet had been approved.”

“Who the fuck told him?” said Rocky.

“How the fuck would I know?” answered Frank. He turned to the ambassador, whose ruddy complexion had turned a shade more florid. “Sorry, sir. But I told Nazih I would have to check with my embassy, and he said, ‘They will agree.’ Something like ‘I assure you, they will agree.’”

“Doesn’t mean he knew,” said Rocky.

“Sounds like he knew,” said Gus, earning a cold glance from Rocky.

“He knew, and it worries me,” said Frank. “How did he know? And how can we do what we’re supposed to if a guy like Nazih knows all about us and what we’re up to before we do?”

Frank remembered what Pete Howard had said about the Shah’s ambassador, who seemed to know everyone in Washington. He thought about the rivalries back home, Near East Division versus Soviet, both opposing Covert Action and all hostile to the National Security Council. Nazih’s words and the NSC cable approving a meeting between Frank and the Shah made him suspect that somewhere there must be a leak, and he wondered how much of a threat that leak might be.

“Seems to me this Nazih character may just be blowin’ smoke,” said Rocky.

I wonder, thought Frank.

“Be that as it may,” said the ambassador, “I believe we have no choice but to have Sullivan go through with it.”

“There’s desk jockeys back at Langley Near East Division’ll have a shit fit,” said Rocky.

“I believe if we all just view this as little more than a Sunday afternoon courtesy visit…” The ambassador let his sentence trail off.

“That’s how I see it,” said Frank.

“I guess I’m not feeling too fucking courteous,” said Rocky. “I also don’t like you taking an Iranian Army driver up there.”

“I should have preferred an embassy driver myself,” said the ambassador. “Proper protocol.”

“Major Nazih had already made the arrangement,” said Frank. “Without telling me.”

“Like I said, you aren’t qualified for this. You let an Iranian Army faggot outmaneuver you.”

“What’s this?” said the ambassador.

“Long story,” said Rocky. “Look, Sullivan, we got no fuckin’ choice. Get in your car with Gus here and get back to Dowshan Tappeh. You meet your driver and Nazih and go make nice with the Shah. Don’t stir up any trouble. Then get your ass back here and let me know what happened.”

*   *   *

“It’ll make a nice story for that son of yours,” said Gus, “how you hobnobbed with the Shah of Iran, but I worry about what Nazih might have waiting for you up there.”

“I’ll tell you all about it,” said Frank. “Right after I get to tell Rocky.”

“You may be in for a long day,” said Gus. “Don’t worry about the Jayface session. I’ll bang out a cable on that—and keep a candle in the window for you.”

*   *   *

Nazih sat up front with Ali. Frank slouched low in the back. The falling temperature had rimed the light snow that had fallen in the city. As they ascended into the Elborz Hills under a now sparkling blue sky, Frank noticed that the accumulated snow far exceeded what had fallen in the lower parts of Tehran. The highway itself had been cleared except for a light and, Frank guessed, recent dusting. Ali followed a series of twists and turns, punctuated by an increasing military presence as the iron gates of the palace came into view. Through the gates and banks of tall plane trees, Frank could see a vast, square, drab white building.

“That’s the palace?” he asked.

“That’s the palace,” answered Nazih.

A semicircle of guards with bazookas formed behind the gate as Ali pulled up. Soldiers with casually held automatic weapons lined the car on both sides. Ali rolled down his window. Nazih leaned across the seat and beckoned to a guard with officer’s bars on his greatcoat. Nazih showed no identification, but the officer spoke into a crackling walkie-talkie. Frank noticed the video camera perched on top of the guardhouse aimed their way. He saw no signal, but evidently the officer standing by their car did. With a wave of his hand, he ordered the gates open. Ali eased the Chevy through. He stopped, put the car in neutral, and pulled on the hand brake.

“We must alight now,” said Nazih, in a bored tone. “For security.” He launched himself out of the car. With a grunt, Ali swung himself out of the driver’s seat. Frank followed their lead. Soldiers with metal detectors sounded every inch of Frank and Ali, checking keys, spare change, belt buckles, and, from Frank, even a pen with a metal clasp. Nazih endured a much more cursory check. As the car started up the drive, Frank noticed two Chieftain tanks sited on knolls to either side of the drive. The cannon protruding from the turrets loomed threateningly, but their size and frozen aspect convinced him the tanks were museum pieces, meant to impress rather than attack.

Then the turrets moved. The cannon lowered, aimed straight at the car.

“Whoa,” said Frank.

“Not to worry,” said Nazih. “That’s just to let us know they can, if they have to.”

“I feel like the groom at a shotgun wedding,” said Frank.

“What a charming expression,” said Nazih. “Perhaps that’s just what you are.”

As they approached closer to the palace, Ali swung off to the right onto a narrower road. “We’re not going to the palace?” said Frank.

“Not there,” said Nazih.

They climbed toward a smaller and handsomer building with high arched windows and a steeply sloping roof. It commanded a slope marked by the winter-bleak shell of formal gardens.

“We’re going here,” said Nazih. “Here His Imperial Majesty has his offices.” He pointed and said something to Ali in Farsi.

Ali answered in English, “Yes, Major.” He eased the Chevrolet into a marked parking area.

Frank checked his watch. Three-fifteen. Fifteen minutes early.

“Some of us who spend some time in these precincts call this the ‘small palace’ or the ‘real palace,’ even the ‘Russian palace.’ Have you spent any time in Russia?”

“None,” said Frank.

“I’m surprised. You should. I don’t know if there’s a Russian word for château, but if there is, particularly a provincial château, I think it describes this building.”

“I take it you have been to Russia?” said Frank.

Nazih ignored the question. “When your ambassador comes to visit His Imperial Majesty, which these days is quite often, he usually sees him over lunch in the main palace. Important, of course, but His Majesty has asked to meet you in his offices. In the subtleties of court culture, that indicates you are of a lesser stature than the ambassador. But, if you consider the distinction between dining room table and office, you rank perhaps as someone to be met with in a more businesslike setting. Do you follow me?”