The Peregrine Spy (74 page)

“We tell Rocky. We keep an eye on him. Beyond that, I don’t think much. If he’s the one who did it, the damage’s he’s done is done.”

Bill stared at the kitchen phone. “He did it. I can feel it in my bones.”

*   *   *

Frank had rechalked the safe house door that morning. He’d decided not to make his street-corner pickup with Lermontov and hoped the Russian would show up that afternoon rather than waiting for Friday. He’d asked Gus to sit in Todd Waldbaum’s room, apparently reading. Through Todd’s open door Gus had a clear view of the rotary phone on the second-floor windowsill.

“Three-thirty?” said Gus, checking his watch.

Frank adjusted his. “Three-thirty.”

*   *   *

As he crossed the street to the safe house, he glanced up at the window that cradled the telephone. No one stood there. Don’t look back again, he cautioned himself. He closed and locked the safe house door behind him and began his tour of the hushed rooms. Finding nothing out of order, he had just begun to pour himself a vodka when the phone rang. He checked his watch. Three-forty-two. He took a shallow sip of vodka and picked up the phone.

“Hello.”

“Is this Frank Sullivan?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Yusef el Baz.
Wall Street Journal.
”

“The hell you say. What made you think anybody was here?”

“You’re one of several people on a list circulating among the reporters in town. Said to be knowledgeable about what’s going on.”

“Sure you didn’t just get a call? From a guy letting you know someone would be here?”

“I’ve been trying to track you down for a couple of days. There’s a story going around that there’s a death warrant out on you, what Muslims call a
fatwa.
”

Frank felt his throat tighten as though some unseen hand had wrapped the cord of the phone around his neck.

“Are you still there?” asked the voice on the phone.

“Yuh,” croaked Frank.

“Supposed to be tied in with the CIA man, Charles Belinsky, they assassinated couple days back at the Damavand Hotel.”

“Where did you hear all that?”

“Iranian sources.”

“Bad sources,” said Frank. “I’m not the guy,”

“Hey, level with me. Am I speaking to Frank Sullivan?”

“Someone’s been misleading you, pal. I’m just a low-level embassy maintenance flunky checking on an unoccupied State Department residence. I mean, it would be a hell of a coincidence, you callin’ an empty house just when somebody walks into it.”

“Maybe I dialed a wrong number. Sorry for your trouble.”

The phone went dead. He checked his watch. Three-forty-five. Now what, he wondered? Who else knows about this? Teasdale and even the
Wall Street Journal
had become unimportant. Only the scroll he’d imagined, the scroll on which his
fatwa
had been written, mattered now.

*   *   *

Lermontov arrived precisely at four in his blue Fiat. As he pulled into the garage, he raised a finger to his lips. He’s wired, thought Frank. He waited for the big man to toss his overcoat and hat into the car before he spoke.

“Welcome,” said Frank. “I’m glad you got the message and could get here today. God knows what tomorrow will be like.”

“So, is Saturday definite for your departure?”

“As definite as these things get. I won’t believe it for sure till the plane gets to its destination and I get off in one piece. But come on. Let’s go upstairs. Good to see you.”

They settled in the front room with glasses of chilled vodka on the table. “My
rezident
extends his compliments. He wants you to know, except for a few dry periods, your work on our behalf has proved excellent. Moscow has approved a large bonus which Howard King will have for you when you establish contact in Washington.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand.”

“I’m impressed,” said Frank. “But I’m afraid I don’t have much for you today. After what we went through at the embassy yesterday.”

“You were there?”

Frank nodded and told Lermontov all he knew about the attack. Lermontov took notes.

“You people can not read the handwriting on the wall.”

I can read my
fatwa,
thought Frank.

“I understand you also lost an ambassador in Kabul,” added Lermontov.

“So I heard,” said Frank.

Lermontov let the sound of their voices and of Frank’s replenishing their glasses cover the careful opening of his briefcase. He laid a sheet of paper on the table. Frank read as they talked.

I have not brought you any material as you probably will not be able to get classified cables out before your departure. I will be here at least another month helping to rebuild our networks and getting my replacement established. After that I expect another two months in Moscow including some leave time before my assignment to Washington.

“At least another month” bothered Frank, and he suspected it would bother Henry James. He looked up from the note.

“I would appreciate it now if you would repeat your contact instructions,” said Lermontov.

Lermontov printed out another note as Frank recited his instructions, including his line about extending “the greatest possible cooperation to Howard King.”

“Very good,” said Lermontov.

Don’t look so glum,
said the newly printed note.
You have won
.

“I’m sure you and Mr. King will work well together,” said Lermontov.

“I doubt it,” said Frank. “Just get there as soon as you can.”

“See you in America,” said Lermontov.

Frank passed him a one-word note.
Mole?

Lermontov’s eyes narrowed. His lips tightened to a slash and his jaw tensed. Slowly, he shook his head. Worried? wondered Frank. Or pissed that I keep asking?

Their good-bye was perfunctory and businesslike, but as he watched the blue Fiat back out of the garage, Frank realized he would miss the oversize Russian behind the wheel. He looked again at Lermontov’s final note.
You have won
. Three months before, when Lermontov had first expressed his willingness to defect, Frank would not have believed that. Now he did.

*   *   *

“You couldn’t’ve been halfway out the door before our Travis T. comes up the stairs and real casual walks over to the phone on the windowsill. I guess he watches you walk into the house, then he picks up the phone and dials.”

“What time?” said Frank.

“Three-thirty-three,” said Gus. “That the time it started to ring across the street?”

“No,” said Frank. “Three-forty-two.”

“Tell you what,” said Gus. “He was on quite a while, and I couldn’t tell for sure with his back to me, but it looked like he was the one doin’ most of the talkin’.”

Talking to somebody named Yusef el Baz, thought Frank. They sat on the edge of the bed behind the closed door of Todd Waldbaum’s room. Todd’s radio played martial music broadcast by one of the local stations.

“Then what happened?” said Frank.

“He finally hung up and just stood there, lookin’ out the window. I took a walk over and said, ‘Mind if I use the phone?’ He says he’s expecting a call. I had no trouble gettin’ real nasty with him about tyin’ up the phone like he ties up the bathroom. He says he won’t be long. I go off in a huff, back to the room. This time I don’t care if he knows I’m watching him. Sure enough, a little after four, the phone doesn’t ring but he picks it up and dials. Soon as he picks it up, I’m out the door. He isn’t on long. I hear him sayin’ a whole lot of ‘okays’ and then he hangs up. ‘Done now?’ I say, and he turns and nods and looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

“He had,” said Frank. “His own.”

*   *   *

Before the first supper shift, Frank, Gus, and Bill Steele met in the basement. Cantwell stood before the closed door at the top of the stairs. Between them Frank and Gus told Bill what happened: the call Frank had taken from Yusef el Baz at the safe house and Teasdale staring out the second-floor window and placing two calls.

“Soon after he makes the first call, the phone rings in the safe house and it’s el Baz. Gus tells me that right after four when my Russian buddy pulls in, Teasdale makes another call. Maybe to tell el Baz that I got company. My guess is el Baz tells him about his conversation with me and Teasdale figures we may be onto him.”

“It may not be enough to hang him,” said Bill, “but I’d sure like to try.”

“What’ s next?” said Gus.

“Tell Rocky,” said Bill. “Cantwell, Petry, and me, we got a meeting with Rocky and the ambassador zero seven hundred tomorrow about the evacuation.”

“Can I get in on that?” said Frank. He wanted to find a way to tell Rocky about the
Wall Street Journal
and the
fatwa
.

“No chance,” said Bill. “Rocky would flip out, you showed up uninvited. ’Sides, I need both you guys to keep an eye on Teasdale.”

“Forget Travis T.,” said Gus. “Tell us about getting outta here.”

“Looks like we catch a break,” said Bill. “All the folks here, they figure they can rely on us to hang together, so we don’t have to get to the embassy till Saturday morning. Vans and buses will pick us up. Gus, you’re on the first flight. To Rome.”

“Hallelujah.”

“Frank, you and me got the second flight, along with three hundred and sixty something other people. To Frankfurt.”

“Connecting flight to New York, I hope.”

“That’s the idea. For you, anyway. Stop in London. I’m headed for Boston, but the whole East Coast has had a shitpot of bad weather lately. And they expect an ice storm in Frankfurt.”

“Out of the frying pan into the ice,” said Gus. “What flight is Teasdale on?”

“I’ll let you know on that when I get back from the embassy. Look, I know you guys have personal effects back at the other house. Get ’em tomorrow. I’d suggest right after noon. Midday prayer time. The patrols get a little lax around then. If you do run into one, just act normal, friendly, go on about your business. If they want to search the house, let ’em. Remember the ground rules. One suitcase that’s light enough you can carry it yourself. One small carry-on that fits under the seat. Lotta people will have heavy winter coats to stow in the overheads. No weapons, of course, no knives, scissors, tape recorders. No official-lookin’ papers except your ID. Large amounts of money, jewelry, big radios, even notebooks and maps may get confiscated. And get you interrogated.”

“What about Teasdale while we’re doin’ that?” asked Gus.

“I’ll have Savage and McDonald keep an eye on him. They don’t have to know why. I’ll find a way to get Rocky by himself in the morning. Break it down. See what he wants to do.”

“You think he might run?” said Gus.

“Teasdale? He hasn’t got the balls. Or the smarts. He’s a good sneak, is all.”

“He could try selling himself to the Russians,” said Frank. “They’d love a defecting CIA radio man.”

“You guys are his roommates. Keep an eye on him. Don’t do or say anything to spook him any more than he’s already spooked.”

“He’s been spending a lot of time in the bathroom,” said Gus. “Flushin’ the toilet a lot.”

“Shittin’ in his pants,” said Bill.

“Or getting rid of phone numbers,” said Frank.

*   *   *

Frank asked Bill to let him have a few minutes alone with the typewriter in his room. “If I can’t go down to the embassy with you guys, I need to get an eyes-only message to Rocky.”

“You type it,” said Bill. “I’ll deliver it.”

He kept the message brief, dealing only with Yusef el Baz’s knowledge of the
fatwa
. Since they were all leaving the next day, he knew Rocky could do nothing about it, but he didn’t want Rocky to be sandbagged by the remote possibility that something might appear in the
Wall Street Journal
. He wanted to ask for a gun, but he knew there was no chance of his getting one and no chance of getting one through the airport.

*   *   *

A four-man patrol with what looked to Frank like G3s slung over their shoulders walked slowly in their direction as Frank pulled the Nova up to the house.

“Not again,” said Gus.

“I’ll get out and try and talk to them. Leave the motor running. If I can, I’ll go down and open the garage door.”

“I hope they all have those things on safety,” said Gus.

Frank climbed out of the Nova, smiling and showing his open palms. He pointed to the house and said, “
Fardah Amrika … miram
.” With the fingers of his right hand extended and his palm flat, he made a gesture he hoped would convey the idea of a plane taking off.

“Forood?”
Frank had no idea what the man had asked. Intelligent, piercing dark eyes peered out from above his full beard.
“Mehrabad?”

Frank recognized the name of the airport.
“Baleh,”
he said.

“In towreh?”
said the man, casually unslinging his rifle.
“Sefarat-e Amrika?”

American Embassy.
“Baleh,”
said Frank.

“Pan Am,” said the man with the gun. He nodded toward the house. “Okay.”

Frank started to ask,
“Inglissi mi-danid?”
but decided to quit while he was ahead. He had permission to enter the house. He hoped.
“Mamnoon am
.
”
He turned and walked toward the house. He unlocked the useless wrought-iron gate and climbed the concrete steps. He heard footsteps behind him as he undid the two locks. He glanced over his shoulder to see the four armed men coming up the steps. He held the door open for them and followed them in. They walked through the kitchen and into the front room. The man who had unslung his G3 turned and held the weapon up.

“Gun?” He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the house.

“Nah,”
said Frank. “
Nah
gun.”

“Good.” The man pointed upstairs with his G3. Two of his companions headed up the stairs. The fourth man began poking around in the front room. Frank held up his house keys and pointed down.
“Otomobil,”
he said, grateful for the near cognate.

“Okay.”