The Peregrine Spy (31 page)

Bunker’s anticipation of the changes requested by their Jayface counterparts in the civic action program proved accurate—not extensive but enough to require a complete retyping of the first section they had worked over the previous afternoon. It would be a breeze for a professional agency secretary, but as tensions increased, all the secretaries had left for home.

“I suggest we ask the Iranians for secretarial help on this,” said Bunker.

“Good thinking,” said Gus.

“After all, it’s not exactly classified material,” added Bunker.

“Very good thinking,” said Frank. Otherwise, I’d be the one retyping the crap.

Bill Steele had brought a heavy load of mail from the embassy. The take included two letters and a package for Gus, a letter from Jackie and even one from Jake for Frank, and a letter for Bunker that his wife must have mailed before he left. Gus and Fred tore into their mail, retreating to opposite corners of the room. Frank wanted to wait till evening when he was alone in his room to read his letters. He’d already squared his plans for having dinner at Anwar’s home with Gus and Bunker. It had been sticky. Gus had the assignment of recruiting Anwar, but Anwar had invited only Frank. Frank had tried to make light of it.

“What can I tell you? He said he only wanted me and my apple pie.”

“It makes sense,” said Bunker. “You’ve had the entree. If it’s going to work, you’ll have to be the one to take it to the next level. Once he bites, you can turn it over to Gus to close.”

“Makes sense,” said Gus, his back still turned. He said nothing more.

*   *   *

Anwar lived in a neighborhood new to Frank yet not far from Frank and Gus’s house off Damavand. Their street was just north of the sprawling air base. Anwar lived on the south side of Dowshan Tappeh, off a street that bore the same name as the neighborhood, Niru-ye-Haval.

“We could live in military housing, but my wife prefers being close to her family. They are Baha’i and very wealthy. We have a separate house but in a compound that is all her family.”

“I hope you like your in-laws.”

“I do.”

Though their drive was a short one, Anwar had taken the precaution of dressing in civilian clothes. Even in this neighborhood, Frank suspected, a man in military uniform with a foreign passenger might attract hostile curiosity.

“But you’re not a Baha’i, are you?” said Frank.

“Oh, no. I’m a reasonably devout Twelver Shi’ite. Not as devout as our friend Munair, but devout.”

“No knots on your forehead?”

“Correct.” He smiled, more relaxed than Frank had seen him. “That is … uniquely Munair.”

“I read that the National Front leader, Mahdi Bazargan, also has a bump like that.”

“True, he does. Like Munair, he sees no contradiction between being a devout nationalist and devout Muslim.”

“Some of the foreign journalists say Bazargan may be Khomeini’s prime minister.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps there may be many prime ministers in the next few months. But there will be only one ruler.”

“Khomeini?”

“Why is it so hard for you Americans to see that?”

“Because we never heard of him until a few months ago.”

“You are so blind,” said Anwar.

“You are so right,” answered Frank.

“You know you lost Munair.”

“Lost him? How?”

“You’ve noticed how he studies you. When I told him I had decided to trust you, he seemed to accept that,” said Anwar. “Until Colonel Bunker arrived.”

“Oh.”

“Admiral Hayati, Kazem Hayati, who is in charge of the navy, instructed Munair to cultivate you. They are very close, but now Munair doesn’t think you can be trusted.”

“How can we change his mind?”

“We? You talk as though you’ve recruited me.”

“You’ve been helpful.”

“Not that helpful. You’ve put Munair in a difficult position. He cannot disobey his admiral, but his belief in Islam makes it difficult for him to trust Americans.”

“I guess I can understand that,” said Frank.

“Good,” said Anwar. “And perhaps I can help you with Munair.”

*   *   *

The gated compound reminded Frank of similar enclosures in Ethiopia. Anwar dimmed his lights as a guard peered through a small window in the metal gate. In a moment the gate swung open. Anwar pulled past an opulent main house and off to the right where three more modest dwellings clustered around a lopsided shed that served as a garage. Anwar ignored the garage. He parked alongside the farthest of the houses and led the way inside.

“Mina. We’re here.”

Nothing could have prepared Frank for Mina. Tiny, beaming, miniskirted, booted, wearing a cashmere sweater, she bounced down the hallway.

“Oh I’m so glad so glad so glad Anwar finally brought you. We never see anyone the least interesting these days and Anwar’s told me so much about you and you sound so interesting and I’m so glad he finally brought you. Hi. I’m Mina.”

“And I’m … breathless. How do you do?”

“Frank Sullivan. I know who you are. You aren’t breathless. Come in. Come in.”

“I have a gift. Something for dessert. I know Anwar’s looking forward to it.”

She peeked under the tin foil. “A pie. Apple pie?”

“It’s been in my refrigerator. It will taste better if you can warm it up a bit.”

“You baked it yourself?” Mina asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Anwar’s always, always asking me to get cook to bake an apple pie, but cook hasn’t the faintest. I’ll be right back. Anwar, take his coat.” Pie in hand, she retreated up the hallway.

“She’s quite mad,” said Anwar. “And I must admit, though a man shouldn’t say such things about his wife, I love her very much.”

“Congratulations. And of course you should say such things about your wife.”

“Thank you.”

He hung Frank’s parka in a wardrobe closet and led the way into a sparsely furnished but comfortable dining room. The house proved more spacious than it looked from the outside—a long hallway and wide staircase, high ceilings and hardwood floors. A settled, flickering fireplace warmed what might otherwise have seemed a chill elegance.

“We have some very fine Russian vodka and some even finer Iranian caviar.”

“Two of my favorite commodities in all this world. But I must admit I haven’t had any caviar since we came to Iran.”

“Like many things, it is hard to come by these days.”

“Poof,” said Mina, coming back into the room. “My family has it stored by the case. Since you brought us apple pie, we’ll send you home with a couple of pounds.”

“Mina. We have a tin. Not pounds.”

“I’ll run across later and fetch some from auntie’s pantry. But not now.” She pronounced “auntie” as most Americans would, “antie.” At other moments, her accent had sounded British.

“How do you like your vodka?”

“Well, if I’m going to be having it with caviar, just plain would be fine.”

“You sound like a Russian,” said Anwar.

“No, but I learned how to drink vodka with caviar from a Russian.”

“Was she very beautiful?” asked Mina, spooning caviar onto a salad plate.

“Mina, you’re being rude.”

“I’m not rude. Just inquisitive.”

“He was very big,” said Frank, “and not at all beautiful.”

“No matter what people say, Iranian caviar goes very well with
barbari
.”

Mina Non Sequitur, thought Frank. And nonstop. He had already discovered the flat Iranian bread that tasted wonderful fresh from the oven but tended to stale quickly. The piece he broke off felt warm and soft. He used it as a spoon to scoop up a heavy portion of caviar. The combination of tastes melted the tensions that had stiffened his neck and shoulders.

“Wash it down,” said Anwar, handing him a water glass half full. He raised his own glass.
“Na zdarovye.”

“Now who sounds like a Russian?”

“They are our neighbors, after all.”

They sipped their Stolichnaya and settled themselves in straight-backed chairs semicircling a compact glass coffee table.

Anwar glanced at his wife, smiling. It seemed he couldn’t look her way without smiling. “Mina doesn’t drink.”

“I’m surprised you do.”

“We’re at home,” said Anwar.

“We were more at home in America,” said Mina.

“That’s true. Mina is American, you know.”

“No,” said Frank. “I didn’t know.”

“Born and mostly bred.” Her eyes, huge, almond shaped and hued, danced to the leaping rhythms of the fire. “My parents live in Los Angeles.”

“I thought,” Frank hesitated, “I thought the house next door…”

“Oh, it’s my father’s house, but Ameh Nasserine, my father’s sister, and her terrible tribe occupy it.”

“We met in Texas,” said Anwar. “I was in training and Mina was at university. Her father was not too happy about it all, especially about my bringing his daughter back to Iran.”

“The Baha’i—my family is Baha’i—have always been persecuted in Iran.”

“Not under the Shah,” said Anwar.

“Yes, under the Shah. The Shah himself has been good to many Baha’i, but what he does hasn’t changed what others do.”

“You’re right,” said Anwar, nodding solemnly, then smiling.

“I know so little,” said Frank.

“We can change that,” said Mina. “You can come every night for the next month and I’ll give you the standard lecture course, Baha’i 101, and you’ll learn…”

“Mina,” said Anwar, laughing. “Major Sullivan may have a few other things to do.”

“Oh, I know, but it’s been so long since another man noticed me, since another man’s been able to notice me.” She turned to Frank. “It’s been months since I’ve been able to go out of the house without a great coat down to my shoe tops and a chador to cover my hair and my hands and most of my face except maybe one eye to try to see where I’m going. Don’t misunderstand me.” She reached out and touched Frank’s knee. “Anwar is a wonderful husband. A woman couldn’t ask for a better man, more affectionate, more attentive. And he’s wonderful in bed.”

“Mina, please.”

“But once in a while it is rather nice to be noticed by someone other than your husband. Just noticed. I’m not talking about any mad affair. Just noticed. Please come more often.”

I am breathless, thought Frank. He smiled and began to understand Anwar’s reflexive grin whenever he looked Mina’s way. “I’d love to,” he managed to say, “but Anwar’s right. There are some other things I have to be doing.”

“Oh you men.” She must know her pout is charming, thought Frank. “You’re all alike. Like Anwar with his air force and his meetings and his great concern about the Shi’ite revolution. Poof.”

She popped up from her chair, turned, and headed for the hallway. She didn’t flounce, but, sure they were watching her exit, she did twitch her tiny, well-rounded butt.

Mina was not gone long. Frank heard her boot heels tapping toward them on the hardwood hallway floor. The sound reassured him. Tapping. Not stomping. If she’d been angry, her anger had melted, and the smile she turned on them as she entered the room made both men respond with schoolboy grins.

“Dinner isn’t served just yet,” she said, settling into her chair, “but it will be soon. Even cook seems to realize this is a special occasion. Please have some more caviar and please come see us again. Soon.”

Frank, more than content with vodka and caviar, followed Mina’s polite lead and with a teaspoon dropped a modest black mound onto the no longer warm but still fresh
barberi
. Then he did it again. He could wait all night for dinner.

“I couldn’t spare you Mina, of course,” said Anwar, “But at least we spared you the children.”

“Oh, wow,” said Frank, swallowing a mouthful of caviar too quickly. “You needn’t have. How old are they?”

“Four and six,” said Mina. “I could go fetch them.”

“Mina, please. We have things to discuss it would be better for the children not to hear.”

“Please,” said Frank. “I’d like to meet your children. I have a son of my own, eleven now, and I miss him very much.”

“Then you’re married,” said Mina.

“No. Separated. Divorced,” said Frank.

“Why Major Sullivan,” said Mina. “You’re blushing.”

“It … it must be the fire,” said Frank.

“I’ll fetch the children.” And she was gone.

*   *   *

An uncomfortable silence eddied between Frank and Anwar. They toyed with caviar and vodka, and Frank wondered if Anwar felt as awkward as he did. Neither had ever spoken of their children before.

Mina seemed to have been gone only a moment. Frank looked up to see her framed in the doorway, a hand on the shoulder of each child. A lovely family portrait, but troubling. He glanced at Anwar, who should be in the picture.

“Our son is Anwar. Another Anwar,” said Mina. “I understand you know Anwar the Taller. Anwar our son was born in America. Our daughter, we call her Mina Two, was born here.”

Frank looked to Anwar, then back to Mina and the children. He hadn’t realized how much Anwar and his wife looked alike. The same spare frame and sharp features, almond eyes and olive complexions framed by neatly cropped dark hair. Seeing the children brought it home.

“I’m the older,” said young Anwar, bowing very formally. Mina curtsied.

“You’re a very beautiful family,” he said to Anwar.

“Thank you,” said Mina.

“Are you in the air force?” asked her daughter.

“No,” said Frank. “I mean, yes. But the American Air Force. Not the Iranian Air Force like your father.”

“Do you have children?”

She’s as inquisitive as her mother, thought Frank, glancing and smiling at Mina.

“Yes. I have a son. He’s eleven.”

“That’s older,” said young Anwar.

“Why didn’t you bring him to dinner?”

“Oh, he’s way off in America.”

“Silly. No one brings their children to Tehran these days,” said the solemn Anwar. “It isn’t safe.”

“Can you take us to America?” asked his sister.

The children lingered. The four-year-old Mina settled on Frank’s lap while her brother, still standing, grilled him about America.

“I was born there, you know, but I don’t remember it much.”

“Perhaps one day soon,” said his mother, “you may get to live there again, and meet Major Sullivan’s son.”