The Peregrine Spy (29 page)

“You havin’ trouble getting some of your intel filed?”

“Like that,” said Frank.

“An atmospherics is a good idea. I didn’t know you were so savvy.”

“Gus’s idea.”

“Figures. Sometimes you need a few gray hairs to figure out how to get the job done, despite the job.”

“That sounds like a cop talking,” said Frank.

“Ex-cop and still a cop,” said Rushmore. “Air force police, remember? It’s my day job. Then I get to work on my other job.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Yeah. It’s about what we all do. Though I sometimes wonder why.”

I know why, thought Frank. At least for me. I will contact you. Tomorrow would make it a week. He guessed the general had heard nothing more about Nazih. And I sure as hell haven’t heard from Lermontov. He wondered if the British ambassador had.

*   *   *

Gus had already stashed Bunker’s commissary order in their refrigerator when he picked up Frank at Rushmore’s cubbyhole. His shopping foray had been a success. “A few substitutes,” he said, “and more frozen steaks and lamb chops than he’ll ever be able to eat, which means we may get some, and pancake mix and powdered milk and powdered eggs, and we can get him some real eggs on the local if he wants. If he doesn’t mind paying for it, I don’t mind buying it.”

Frank took over the driving as they left Dowshan Tappeh for the embassy.

“He does kind of overdo,” said Frank as they pulled through the gates and onto Farahnaz.

“Like his luggage … and his language,” said Gus.

“Do they have a course in that?”

“What?”

“The way he talks.”

“I dunno,” said Gus. “I’m like you. I got recruited sideways. Taught hand-to-hand down at the farm but never took Junior Officer Training.”

“But you’ve worked inside a long time.”

“God rest my soul, that I have. Archie is typical of a breed. You’ve met mostly the opposite. A guy like Pete Howard. Almost always overseas. Does whatever he can to avoid Langley. Then there’s the guys who do whatever they can to avoid overseas, unless it’s maybe Paris or London. Archie Bunker is typical of that breed.”

“You oughta quit calling him Archie.”

The nature of the city’s traffic had changed. In the absence of protests, burning buildings, and roadblocks of smoking tires, the careening craziness of Tehrani drivers had become more like peacetime Beirut or high-noon Mexico City. Frank, grateful for their Fiat’s stick shift, adjusted to the pace, slicing right to left, in and out of clogged, zigzagging lanes.

“You oughta be a taxi driver.”

“I was,” said Frank. “In New York.” He hated to think of all the jobs he’d tried so he could concentrate on the next novel or short story or poem. And yet, he’d always wound up trying to find the best way to do the job, as Rushmore had said, despite the job.

*   *   *

When Frank and Gus arrived at the ambassador’s office, they found Rocky and Bunker listening to the ambassador, muttering on the phone. He slammed the receiver down.

“It never ceases to amaze me, in our highly technological age, the ways that technology—sometimes—works. And often does not work.”

“You get through?” asked Rocky.

“Of course not.” He turned to the new arrivals. “Welcome, gentlemen. Grab some chairs. All I wanted to do was put in a call to the British Embassy, a few blocks away. Couldn’t be done. But if I wanted to call Paris and talk to the Great Ayatollah … Well, we all know something about Paris. It can take a year or more for an ordinary Parisian to get a telephone, and even then half the time you can never get through to anyone. Phone service here is much, I mean very much, worse. Most of the time. But Khomeini can get off a plane from Baghdad, land in Paris, and an hour later be on the phone to Tehran, Qom, Isfahan, or wherever else he wants.”

“Allah-o akbar,”
ventured Gus.

“Allah has nothing to do with it,” said Rocky. “God isn’t on this holy man’s side, but the Soviet Embassy and the KGB
residenza
in Paris sure as hell are. Khomeini had an operation going there with some of his Americanized front men, Yazdi, Ghotzbadeh, a bunch of ’em. He walked into an operation with phones, fax machines, cassette recorders, whatever, as soon as he got off the plane, and guess how all that got in place.”

“Not divine intervention, I’m sure,” said the ambassador. Frank noticed he looked well rested, his cheeks ruddier, the bags under his eyes less pronounced.

Bunker had been quiet. Frank guessed he’d had time enough to deliver the jargon-weighted messages he’d conveyed from Langley, Foggy Bottom, and the Executive Office Building.

“Well,” said the ambassador, “on to the business at hand. There are quite a few topics. I’ve made some notes.”

The ambassador impressed Frank with his ability to take charge without flaunting his authority. He brought Frank and Gus up-to-date on the meeting that had been going on before their arrival in a manner that wasted a minimum of Rocky’s and Bunker’s time. He described the overnight cable traffic tasking the team to provide details of plans being made for a military coup and providing a long list of questions for Frank to pursue with the Shah.

“I want you to read the cables before you leave here. I must confess to you the intelligence requirements you are asked to place on the Shah are rather—extensive. There is no way you could ever handle them all in a month of meetings.”

“All I can do,” said Frank, “is listen to what he has to say.”

“Agreed,” said the ambassador. “The British ambassador and I meet with the man almost daily. He’s quite upset, by the way, about Khomeini on the BBC. He believes it’s a sign the British government is plotting to overthrow him.”

“He may be right,” said Rocky.

“Be that as it may, in the nature of things I should be the one to pursue most of the requirements laid on Sullivan, and Frank, I intend to convey that in my own response to the cable.”

“That’s good,” said Rocky, “but what we really need t’ do ASAP is t’ get Fred here into the loop and find out what the fuck is goin’ on with the top military.”

Frank and Gus looked at each other and shrugged. Their unplanned dumb show, Frank realized, might only serve to show how dumb they were. They looked at Rocky, the ambassador, Bunker. Fred cleared his throat.

“There’s a strong feeling back at Langley, and at the highest level of the National Security Council, that the Iranian Joint Chiefs of, er, I mean, the highest levels of the Iranian military are planning a coup which would depose the Shah and install the Crown Prince as regent.”

“I thought the Crown Prince was in Texas,” said Gus.

“He is,” said Bunker. “But he could be returned soon enough.”

“Has anyone asked him about it?” said Gus. He looked to Frank for help, but Frank had decided to say nothing. “Or his father?”

“That’s not germane,” said Bunker.

“Look, you two,” said Rocky, shifting his glare from Gus to Frank. “They’re plotting a military takeover right in that building where you guys sit around all day. You got their waiter signed up, and you mean to tell me you can’t find out a fucking thing about their plans for a coup?”

“We’ll find out about it,” said Bunker.

Maybe we’ll find out about it, thought Frank. If they have any plans for a coup.

“I’m glad you’re on board,” said Rocky. “Sullivan, you also got this pissant air force major feeding you all kinds of noise, and you haven’t even made a move to recruit him. At a minimum, you should have him and the general taking some money, begging for visas, doing little illegal favors like getting some not-too-difficult-to-get documents.”

“I concur,” said Bunker, looking down at Frank through his steel-rimmed glasses. “I grant that the team has done a good job on the previously accessed cables I’ve read, but, barring any precluding factors I’m not aware of, serious recruitment, beyond one servant, appears a nonstarter.”

Precluding factors, thought Frank. Definitely a nonstarter. He sensed something unsaid, hanging in the atmosphere, but he couldn’t figure what. For another hour, they worked over the operational approach Frank, Gus, and Bunker should follow in the days ahead. They were winding down when the ambassador called for a break. Bunker asked directions to the men’s room, and Rocky called Frank aside. They stood by the window that looked out over the sycamores and pines.

“Bunker tells me you’re working on a fucking atmospherics cable, and that sounds like you found a way to go behind my back on reporting some of this shit you’ve been wanting to report.”

“You’re the boss,” said Frank. “I don’t want to go over you or around you. I just want to do the best job I can.”

“Maybe you do,” said Rocky. “Look, Bunker’s real upset.” Frank detected the hint of a smile. “Troy drove him down here. Bein’ nice to the new big man in town, right? Passin’ the time ’a day, Troy told him about the dud grenade that got tossed in your window.”

Frank nodded. So that’s what’s wrong.

“That’s the room you gave Bunker, right?”

“It’s the best room in the house,” said Frank. “I was still in it till yesterday. But we figured, he’s the head of the team…”

“Well, he’s upset. Thinks you’re settin’ him up t’ get fragged.”

What a lovely idea, thought Frank, “Is that why he was so quiet today?”

“Well, that and the ambassador kind of lit into him about all the dumb requirements.”

“That can’t be his fault,” said Frank.

“No, but he was here. Hammer the messenger, right? What about our other business?”

Frank didn’t have to ask. He knew Rocky meant Lermontov. “No word,” he said.

“That Cossack fucker. He’s letting us stew in our own borscht.”

Frank nodded, appreciating the mix of Rocky’s metaphors and sure that he was right. “How ’bout the Brits?” he asked.

“No word. I ask the ambassador couple ’a times a day if he’s heard anything from his buddy Hempstone. Nothin’. I put in a couple calls t’ Mosley. Asked Eagle-1 t’ pull his sleeve. Nothin’. Meantime, Soviet Div’s havin’ a shit fit. Bunker’s the wrong guy to send over t’ tell me about it. Keep our little plan between you and me. Don’t tell Bunker shit.”

“I won’t,” said Frank. “But it’s not going to matter if we don’t get to our target, or if the British wrap him up first.” He had an idea, but he knew the risk he’d be taking if he spelled it out to Rocky.

“Least I know he’s still in town,” said Rocky. “
Savak
says he’s working the students pretty hard, farting around with his
Tudeh
party.”

Frank decided to take the plunge. He inhaled sharply and began, “Look. What happens if we—if you get off a cable? Ask the folks back home to try to get the Brits to back off.”

Rocky studied him. “The folks back home?”

“Yeah. Near East. Soviet Division.”

“National Security Council?”

“That might be a good idea,” said Frank. “I guess Brzezinski has the clout.”

“And your friend Pete Howard?”

Frank’s throat tightened. He nodded.

“Tell me,” said Rocky, “what did your friend Pete Howard tell you to do about Lermontov?”

“Follow the briefing I got from Near East. Stay away from him.”

“How ’bout if Lermontov got in touch with you?”

Frank had feared that Rocky would back him into a corner. Lie, he told himself, but as close to the truth as you can.

“Guess he kind of left that up to me.”

“Kind of, huh?”

Frank looked away just as the ambassador reentered the room.

Rocky followed his glance. “We should be in the bubble for this. But fuck it. I’ll send the cable. Eyes only Brzezinski. That may keep it away from the cowboys at Langley, but you can bet Pete Howard’ll see it. And push Brzezinski to get on with the Brits. Good idea.” He punched Frank on the arm, a short punch but hard enough to sting. “You reel in that KGB bastard and keep me in the loop on it, I don’t give a shit if you do get Bunker fragged.”

*   *   *

To Frank’s surprise, Bunker wanted to get in some work. “Look, do you have copies of that material at the house? The civic action proposal and the atmospherics cable?”

“Ah, no,” lied Frank, as he eased the Fiat through the embassy gates.

“Regulations, you know,” said Gus.

“Well, all that’s going to change,” said Bunker. “I’m cleared to take certain levels of nonclassified documents to work on at home. I do it all the time at Langley. It makes no sense not to do it here. I’ve requisitioned a typewriter and a false-bottom desk for the house. They’ll be in place tomorrow. Tonight we’ll have to go by the office and pick up copies. I want to put in some work, and I don’t want to sit around that office. I could use a glass of wine.”

Frank began to wish he hadn’t lied about the copies he and Gus had been working on at the house, copies that he’d tucked into a T-shirt in the middle of the T-shirts in the middle drawer of the chest of drawers in his new room. Which reminded him.

“Ah, Fred?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I’d been meaning to ask. Are you okay in the room you’re in?”

“Well, as a matter of fact … Tom Troy said that was your room before I got here.”

“Yeah, it was. But it’s the nicest room in the place, and Gus and I figured that as head of the team…”

“Nonsense. I mean, I appreciate that, but if you’d gotten comfortable in that room…”

“Well, yeah, I kinda liked it,” said Frank. “Kinda got used to it.”

“Let’s skip the fact that I’m head of the KUSTAFF team. I don’t want to push you out of your room.”

“Okay. We can switch whenever you want.”

“Tonight,” said Bunker.

*   *   *

“This is very good,” said Bunker.

To cover Frank’s lie, they’d detoured by the office at Dowshan Tappeh and picked up copies of the atmospherics cable and civic action program. After snacking on leftovers, Bunker had decided to work on the atmospherics cable first. He’d downed a half-full water glass of wine before he’d begun work, poured another, and then barely touched it. Frank noticed he read like an editor, not a censor, crossing out very little, using quick, incisive strokes to make what Frank hoped were minor changes.

“I hate passive verbs,” said Bunker.

“Funny,” said Frank. “So do Gus and I. We thought we got most of ’em.”