“No more Pan Am flights?”
“No more,” said Novak.
“Well, that’s to be expected, I suppose.” O’Connor turned, first to Gus, then to Frank, then to a point somewhere just over their heads in the infinity beyond the sofa. “I’m glad to have you here, gentlemen, because to tell you the truth all this has caught us pretty much by surprise.”
“Mr. Ambassador…”
O’Connor cut Novak off with a raised hand.
“Yes, yes, I know you told us trouble was coming, and it’s here, but there’s more out there than the usual bunch of radical students and Communists and left-wing guerrillas. There are people out there we don’t know about and
Savak
either doesn’t know about or isn’t telling us about. Merchants, even some of the military, conservative, religious people—we don’t know much about them or why they’re out there.”
“
Savak
keeps us pretty well wired into the turban men,” said Rocky.
“Oh, yes,” said the ambassador. “God knows we talk to
Savak.
We talk to the Shah, his advisers, the top military, and we talk to the Israelis, who always seem to know more about what’s going on than we do.”
“What does the Shah say?” asked Gus.
O’Connor glanced at Rocky. Rocky acted as though he hadn’t heard.
“I get the feeling…” The ambassador hesitated. “I talk to the Shah just about every other day. He talks and talks, but I get the feeling, he wants … something.”
“We know what he wants,” said Rocky. “He wants to run.”
“We’ve been told that,” said O’Connor.
“A source close to the highest level,” said Novak.
“I know, Rocky, I know you’re doing a good job with what you’ve got to work with, but you’ve only been here a few months. And the embassy’s resources have been cut to the bone. In 1960 the ambassador here had twenty-three political officers. Today I have eight. And we need to reach out beyond the Iranian assets we’ve got who tell us the Shah is in perfect health but afraid and our only enemy is
Tudeh
and the Soviets.”
“We know the Soviets created, pay for, and run the
Tudeh
party,” said Novak. “And we damn well know the
Tudeh
party has its hands into all those Muslim groups.”
“We know because that’s what
Savak
tells us, and sometimes I think what
Savak
tells us is what they think we want to hear.”
“Don’t sell
Savak
short.”
“Barbarians,” said the ambassador. “And we get blamed for creating them.”
“They didn’t get the heavy stuff from us. Israeli intelligence taught ’em that stuff. And Mossad still has a tight in with
Savak
.”
“You’re right,” said the ambassador. He turned to Frank and Gus. “The Israelis don’t even have an embassy here. No diplomatic recognition. Just a mission. But Mossad appears to be very active and well informed.”
“I don’t know,” said Rocky. “They seem to make too much of this religious business.”
“And that’s not what Washington wants to hear, is it?” said the ambassador. “Washington’s requirements keep asking for confirmation that the Soviets and the
Tudeh
party they run here are responsible for everything. Somehow I’m not quite convinced this Khomeini character is a Soviet asset, but then we don’t know a hell of a lot about who the hell or what the hell Khomeini is.”
“He’s being used,” said Novak.
“Maybe he is,” said O’Connor, “but I’ve been here two years…” He looked down at his hands, clasped and unclasped them. “Well, nearly two years, and I’ve never seen anything like this.” He glanced from Gus to Frank, but, as he continued to speak, sitting stiffly in his stiff leather chair, he again looked over their heads. “The Shah himself approved this project of yours. He thinks the military can play a role in winning the loyalty of the people. Whether it’s too late for that or not, I don’t know. Your contacts at Jayface have the advantage of being younger officers. The only one I know is General Merid, the army man. At least one, the navy captain, is said to be quite religious. Are you a Catholic, Sullivan?”
“Lapsed.”
“Good. You may be more understanding than a holier-than-thou.”
“He means me,” said Novak. “Ever since we got a white man for Pope last month, he’s been on my case.”
“White man?” said Frank.
“Yeah. First time we had a white man for Pope since we had all those French Popes back in the fourteenth century.”
“What about all those Italians?” said Gus.
“Hey, don’t tell me you consider Italians white?”
“You know you don’t mean that,” said the ambassador.
“Hell I don’t.”
Frank knew Novak was a product of New York, from somewhere in the far reaches of the Bronx. He’d been one of the rare Polish Catholics at DeWitt Clinton High School at a time when most students were Jewish, and he’d gone on to Fordham and Georgetown. Despite a doctorate in Slavic studies and many years working in Europe, though, the rough Bronx edges had not worn off.
“Rocky just likes to shock people,” said the ambassador. “But it won’t hurt in this situation to have some understanding of the religious impulse. There’s more than politics involved here. At least politics in the usual cold war terms.”
Novak looked pained. “At least with a good Polish Pope we’ve got someone who understands Communists. And the cold war.”
The ambassador ignored him. “I’m glad you’ve started meeting with your counterparts at Jayface. There’s no need for you to just hang around until Bunker arrives.”
“I still wonder about that, sir…”
O’Connor waved Novak off with a pale hand.
“I know you wanted to wait till the whole team was here, but we need to see what we can find out about this mess from some new sources as soon as we can, don’t you agree?”
“I don’t think we’ll find out much from these bozos in the first damn place,” said Novak.
Frank rubbed the bridge of his nose with the fingertips of both hands to cover his smile. Evidently the ambassador had already won a round against Rocky. Frank had become accustomed to tension between the agency’s chiefs of station and the ambassadors they worked with. He’d learned the same problem existed between the KGB’s
rezidents
and the ambassadors at Soviet embassies. Some natural instinct had always managed to keep him out of the line of fire.
* * *
The bitter smell of burning tires pinched their nostrils as they walked across the lawns and under the sheltering pine trees and towering sycamores that stretched from the embassy to the iron back gate. Spirals of black smoke curled into the gray sky beyond the leafless top branches of the sycamores. An uneasy hush had replaced the shouts of the demonstrators.
“Sounds like all’s quiet on the embassy front,” said Gus.
“Maybe they heard we’re heading for the back gate,” said Frank.
“Do you think your buddy Novak really arranged all that?”
“No, not really. Not at his own embassy.” He glanced back over his shoulder and up through the branches of the sycamores. One spiral of black smoke made him think of a Midwest twister looking for a place to settle. “At least, I don’t think so.”
Two marine guards stood at the gate. One studied the papers pushed through the bars of the gate by an excited Iranian in his twenties. Others pressed behind him, keeping up a low, unintelligible murmur and waving clutched papers above their heads.
The other marine stood apart, studying the narrow street beyond the gate and the windows of the apartments that watched the back of the embassy like rectangular dark gray eyes. The second marine, whose dress greens bore the stripes of a corporal, turned and saluted as they approached.
“Your car’s waiting for you, sir. Right behind that shed.”
“Thanks,” said Frank. “But what’s going on at the gate?”
“Host-country nationals, sir. Waiting for the consulate to reopen.”
“For visas?” said Gus.
“Sir, yes, sir, but it would be better, sir, if they didn’t get too good a look at you gentlemen. They might get too curious, if you follow my meaning, sir.”
He was the perfect marine, thought Frank. Tall, fair, solidly built, square shouldered, and square jawed. He might have marched right out of a recruiting poster. Well trained, absurdly young, but aware of his responsibility and capable of exercising authority. Or at least trying to.
“You mean all those folks want to get away to the country of the Great Satan?” said Gus.
“Sir, it wouldn’t surprise me if some of the same crew who were out at the front fuckin’ gates a few minutes ago shouting ‘Kill the Americans’ bop-assed around the block and are waiting out here now, begging for a U.S. visa, sir.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” echoed Gus.
“But I would appreciate it, sir, if you would sequester behind that shed where your car is until you’re ready to leave. Out of sight, out of mind, if you know what I mean, sir, and we don’t want these I-ranians getting any ideas about you comin’ out that gate.”
“I think we better get the car.” Frank realized the marine was getting nervous, and polite young men with guns worried him when they got nervous. The corporal escorted them to the car.
“Give me three minutes, sir. Get your engine nice and warm. Then drive around the shed nice and easy, and we’ll swing the gates open for you. After that, you’re on your own.”
Frank made a mistake. While the engine warmed, he lowered his window. And forgot it.
The gates swung open. Frank drove through in second gear, turning to his right as he exited. A bony but strong hand thrust suddenly through the window and grabbed his left wrist.
“Please, sir, take me with you to American.” Frank braked, and a circle of Iranians began to close around the car. “I am very America. My English is excellent. I can work well very hard.”
Frank tried to pull his arm away, but the Iranian, short and slightly built, held him with intense, pleading dark eyes and bony fingers in a viselike grip. He worked his head and shoulders into the car, breathing hard in Frank’s face.
“I’m not going to America,” said Frank.
“Where are you going, sir? What is your destination now? Where do you stay in Tehran?”
Frank tried again to pull away. “Our assignment has been changed,” he yelled into the ear of the man who held his wrist. “We’re going to Ethiopia. A very poor country in Africa where many people are dying of leprosy.” He saw the intense eyes falter, and the grip on his arm eased. “But I’m used to lepers. I’ve worked with lepers in Africa before.” He pulled his arm free, and the Iranian drew back, mouth agape, staring at Frank.
Frank began to ease the small Fiat through the crowd. Young men in dark trousers and heavy sweaters and jackets still pressed close, flanked by women in long black coats and chadors on one side of the street and middle-aged men with black mustaches in parkas or somber coats on the other. The crowd backed off, encouraged by a few young men who stretched out their arms, gently moving people away to make a path for the car. Frank studied the face of one college-age man who helped to part the crowd. He expected to see anger and hate but instead sensed sadness and something deeper that he couldn’t name. It lay in the eyes, dark, quizzical, bewildered.
“We betrayed them,” said Gus. “And I don’t want to be here when they really get mad.”
* * *
“So far,” said Frank, “I got a hand grenade through the window, a message from the palace that freaked out Rocky, and an Iranian wannabe-American who nearly pulled my arm off.”
“Sounds like a pretty good day,” said Troy, rocking back in his chair, laughing.
“Despite all that,” said Gus, “we would like to file some cables.”
Troy swiveled toward Gus. “Do you really have to?”
Gus glanced at Frank, and Frank answered for both of them. “Yeah. Yeah, we do. We need traces on our Jayface friends, especially the little army major with buddies at the palace, and to see if there’s any derogatories, especially on the guy from the air force, because if there’s not he might be worth going after, but also just on g.p.’s it might not be a bad idea to let our friends back in Virginia know that we put in a dishonest day’s work for our honest day’s pay.”
“Okay, okay. I get the message,” said Troy. “You can use the IBM in Rushmore’s office. Don’t take your time. I’m gonna have to stay and baby-sit you two, starting with opening Rushmore’s safe and getting you the typewriter ribbon, and sometime tonight I wanna get home to dinner.”
“Ah, about that hand grenade?” said Gus.
“A dud,” said Troy. “No way it could explode. Just a message. The window’s fixed, and tomorrow we ought to be able to get some plates put in up there.”
Just a message, thought Frank. Like the shots that got my headlights in Beirut. And it’s only the beginning. He could sense more trouble coming. From the streets. From the Shah. Perhaps from Lermontov. And, for sure, from Rocky.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I’m going to need help with cables,” said Frank. “I’ve only worked inside once, but right now I’ve forgotten most of what I learned. And I don’t even know the cryptonym for Iran.”
“SD,” said Gus. “Don’t sweat it. I’ll be your secretary. Immediate Flash, NOFORN?”
“Why Immediate Flash?” said Frank. “This stuff isn’t that important.”
“That’s why,” said Gus. “Immediate Flash makes it sound important. We don’t want anybody in Langley to get the idea this is some bullshit assignment.”
“Okay,” said Frank. He shrugged. Maybe someday I’ll get to understand bureaucrats. Immediate Flash meant the highest transmission priority. The cable would be in Langley within seconds of being sent from the embassy. He had to struggle a moment for NOFORN. No Foreign Distribution. Which meant only American clients of the agency would see it.
Gus popped in one of the ribbons Troy had given them and placed a typeface ball in the IBM Selectric typewriter. “We’re KUSTAFF,” said Gus as he banged out a request for any available backgrounds on their Jayface counterparts. “Peregrine, that’s you, right?”
“How’d you know my cryp?” Frank had not learned his own cryptonym until he first worked inside a station in Lusaka.