“Neither do I,” said Frank.
* * *
Fred Bunker had been quiet and tense through their Jayface meeting. With Nazih on their minds, the Iranians had little to say. Frank tried to fill up the time reporting on the role he had played in the previous day’s press conference. During their tea break, he had walked the hallway with General Merid, assuring him he had nothing to fear from
Savak
or the prime minister.
“They questioned me about the phone call I received from Evin prison. I told them all I could. I did not recognize the voice, and nothing the caller said could help me identify him. I recounted the conversation in great detail. They thanked me. I couldn’t believe. They thanked me and said I could go. They would be in touch if they needed me. I couldn’t believe.”
“You are not a target,” said Frank. “I can assure you.”
“Colonel Kasravi still does not return my phone calls.”
“Don’t worry,” said Frank. You are not important, he thought. Jayface is not important. Aloud he said, “You are not a target, not a suspect.”
* * *
His meeting with Kasravi left him feeling better. Kasravi called the press conference “successful … thanks to you.”
I needed that, thought Frank.
“Just before it started we learned Agence France Presse had filed a story, citing sources in Tehran, saying the prime minister had died of a heart attack two days ago. I used the line you suggested, telling them His Excellency the prime minister, General Azhari, wanted them to know that reports of his death had been greatly exaggerated. They laughed, and from that point on it was easy. As you expected, they did try to ask questions about many other things, especially the health of His Imperial Majesty. I answered them all as we rehearsed—I had been authorized and informed only on the medical condition of the prime minister, I had no knowledge of this, not been informed about that, not been authorized to comment on the other thing. They must think I am very poorly informed. Otherwise, it went quite well.”
“Congratulations,” said Frank. But he worried about Kasravi. Being so publicly identified with the military government would not win him any friends among the clergymen who seemed so close to taking over.
* * *
The Shah told him it had already happened. “I spent some time Sunday watching the
Ashura
marchers, first on television, then over the line of march by helicopter. I have never seen so many people. Millions. Only because this preacher speaks on BBC. He tells our people to be there and to give flowers to the soldiers. My friends the British allow him to use BBC to issue his commands, and our people obey him. My friends the Americans ask me when I plan to leave my country. When will my son return from America to become regent? When will I name a Regency Council or appoint a Council of Experts? Such ideas these people have. Ambassador MacArthur, when he was here, he had a wonderful expression for such people. He said such people whistled in the dark as they walked past the cemetery. My friends the Americans, whistling in the dark as they walk past my cemetery. So far in the dark they can not see that
akhund
Khomeini, that he already rules our country. Yesterday he went on BBC again, calling for a national strike on 17
Moharram,
a week after
Ashura.
And the people will do it. Cassettes of his message already flood the bazaar. A Council of Experts. Hah. The people heed only one expert, this foul-smelling mullah with a black turban and a blacker heart.”
Though his pessimism ran deep, the Shah seemed animated by it. He spoke with more energy; his eyes flashed with more intensity than Frank had seen in recent visits. Color had returned to his cheeks. With his back to the illuminated map that showed Iran at the center of the globe, he stood taller, less shrunken into himself.
“The French ally themselves with these black reactionaries. The British and you Americans abandon me. The Russians wait to pick up our pieces. But we will not disappear for you.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Frank. “Can I help in any way?”
The Shah nodded. “We heard what you did yesterday. Arranging the announcement of the prime minister’s stroke. That was good. Perhaps you can help us do more things like that. Improve the way we handle the foreign press. Maybe even the BBC.”
“I would be glad to help, sir. And Colonel Kasravi is a good man to work with.”
“He has always been loyal,” said the Shah.
Loyal, thought Frank. That’s what matters. He wondered how much loyalty the Shah could count on. “Should I convey your thoughts on my working with the news media to Colonel Kasravi?”
“No. Better he should hear it directly from us.”
Frank had noticed the Shah’s inconsistency in his imperial use of the first person plural. He tended to speak of himself as “we” when his confidence and sense of command were strong. He used the singular “I” when he felt more isolated, alone. Since the Shah seemed confident at the moment, Frank decided to risk a question.
“Sir, on the question of dealing with the foreign press, may I ask you something?”
“You may.” The Shah changed his posture, clasping his hands behind his back, jutting out his chin, and puffing up his shrunken chest. The Mussolini pose, thought Frank. He inhaled sharply and plunged ahead.
“Sir, it’s rumored that efforts are under way to put together a civilian government.”
“Who conveyed this rumor to you? This General Merid person?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. If it had come from him, we would say ignore it. He is a person of no importance.”
“I understand, sir, the question came up at the press conference yesterday. Colonel Kasravi handled it well, saying he had no knowledge of any such initiative.”
“Good.”
“But if there is any truth to the rumor, it might be wise to head off speculation.”
“No. Your ideas are good, but this is not a matter for public comment. We have not confided what we are about to tell you to your ambassador. But we will confide in you, in part as a rebuke to your government. We will not announce publicly at this time, but you may report to your government that Shapour Bakhtiar will head our next government, a civilian government that will take office within a fortnight.”
“I will report that, sir.”
“And you should give some thought to when and how we should announce this. We want the Americans to know we do not like being abandoned.”
“It must be difficult for you,” offered Frank. “But it can also be difficult for Americans to understand your government at times. I wonder, for example, about my colleague Major Nazih.”
“Your colleague?”
“On the Joint Armed Forces Ad Hoc Committee on Enlightenment, Jayface.”
“Ah, yes. And mixed up, as we recall, with the Russians’
Tudeh
party.”
“Yes, sir. I understand he died, was killed in prison.”
“Really? It could not have been of much matter. We were not informed.”
“It seemed…” Frank knew he was stretching his luck, but he wanted to know why Nazih had been tortured and by whose order. “I wonder why his death was necessary.”
“We do not know.”
“I understand he was tortured.”
“You surprise us. We did not think you were so naive as your President. Or is it a disease all Americans suffer? You have no idea what this country requires of its government. To think we can maintain order without a firm hand. To question us as though America had no prisons or executions. No police brutality or … What it is called, your third degree?”
“All that’s true,” said Frank. His perception of the Shah had darkened. This was the man who feared he would see blood on the snow if the military had free rein, who had told Admiral Hayati he did not want the blood of the people on his hands just to save the monarchy. This some man could so easily dismiss the death of Major Nazih.
For the first time, he caught a hint of a sour, acidlike smell from the Shah’s ill-fitting gray wool suit. Even in Addis Ababa when they hefted weights and sparred in sweaty gym clothes he had detected nothing like it. The smell of cancer. The stink of a dying empire.
“It is not a simple matter,” said the Shah. “Yes, violence and open rebellion demand harsh measures. At times. Your human rights people list our so-called acts of repression, but they forget our acts of mercy. We spared Mosaddeq. We spared Ayatollah Taleqani. We spared even this Khomeini, letting him go into exile rather than prison for fighting our White Revolution.”
“I understand,” said Frank. I understand, and I know my job is to listen and learn. A reporter. Not judge and jury.
“You know, this same Jimmy person praised our White Revolution, and in truth the White Revolution started with pure intention. Like the waters in our
jube
s. Do you know our
jube
s?”
“Yes,” said Frank. “I’ve seen them.”
“So much depends on where you see them. Here, in the foothills of the mountains, they are pure. Designed to provide pure water to the entire city. But as they flow downhill, people corrupt them. Like our White Revolution. Pure at the start. Like the blood in our own veins. Persians can corrupt the purest of intentions. They wash their feet in the
jube
s. They dump night soil in them. What we thought of as a benefit for all became a fresh-water benefit for the elite, corrupted as it flows through us. The source of pure water becomes a sewer, and the people hate us for it. I can feel the
jube
s running through me, through my own arteries, like a…”
Like a cancer, thought Frank. He said nothing. He let the Shah’s sentence die.
* * *
As he reviewed his day with Rocky in the bubble, Frank suggested that only his meeting with the Shah merited a cable. Rocky agreed.
“The ambassador’s gonna be pissed the Shah’s tellin’ you stuff he’s not tellin’ him, but like the Shah said, that’s part of the message. Be sure to get that part in. Get it all in, including the peanut farmer. The stuff about the
jube
-tubes. Straight out. Like a chapter in one of your books. The atmospherics. How he looked. How he sounded.”
Though lengthy, the cable unfolded quickly. Frank ended it on a sad note. “The interview over, his anger spent, the Shah, who had seemed animated and confident throughout, shriveled back into his shell. Mussolini had disappeared. Only the shrunken, cancer-ravaged Shah remained.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
He stashed sensitive material from his briefcase in the safe, including the spare cassette Chuck Belinsky had made for him, cued to the Khomeini’s call for nonviolent revolution. He locked the safe, retrieved his exercise gear from Stan Rushmore’s file cabinet, and prepared for a long-neglected assault on the gym. The heavy bag, motionless, hung as alone, as isolated, as the Shah had seemed at the end of their meeting. He had looked forward to a workout, but even more he wanted to meet with the
homafaran
. Where was everybody? He’d been aware of an unusual rumble from beyond the doors that led onto the basketball court. He tried the doors and looked onto a court flanked with tiered benches of spectators, Iranian and American.
His
homafar
gym buddies clustered near the door. Frank and Anwar the Taller exchanged discreet nods. He spotted Bunker, Cantwell, Reggie Manning, Stan Rushmore, and another player he did not know on the court. Bill Steele sat by himself on a courtside bench. Frank joined him.
“How come you aren’t in there?”
“Foul trouble,” said Steele. He kept his eyes fixed on the game. A scoreboard at the far end of the court showed Visitors 62, Home 68, Minutes, 12:05.
“Who’s home?” asked Frank.
“They are. Better record.”
“Who’s the monster?”
“Brian Brawley. All bad. Played for the Air Force Academy. Big. Good. And a thug.”
Brawley, as if demonstrating Steele’s description, muscled his way to the basket, leapt with surprising agility for such a big man, and, despite a hard foul by Rushmore, slammed in a basket.
“That’s about to make it seventy-one,” said Steele. “The son of a bitch also sinks his foul shots. Time for me to get back in there. That’s five on Stan. He’s out, and I got four.”
“Brawley?”
“Not but three.”
“Mind if I sit here?”
“Hell, no. Glad you could come out. We need all the support we can get.”
Steele trotted onto the court. Stan Rushmore, dripping sweat, shuffled over to the bench.
“I’m gettin’ too old for this. How you doin’?”
“Okay,” said Frank. “Their big guy looks pretty good.”
Brawley swished his foul shot. “Damn good,” said Rushmore, “and a mean motherfucker.” Brawley turned and raced downcourt before his shot had cleared the net. His teammates trotted behind him. “We can still beat ’em. Watch.”
Reggie Manning brought the ball upcourt. No defender turned to face him until he had crossed the halfcourt line, and by then he had passed to Cantwell, cutting rapidly across the court. Each of the Trojans moved well without the ball, and four crisp passes later Bunker, with his steel-rimmed glasses taped to his head, found Manning all alone on the far baseline. Feet and shoulders squared away, knees bent, Manning arced a two-handed set shot that rattled in.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” one of Brawley’s teammates yelled at another. He followed his words with an angry, errant in-bounds pass that Reggie Manning stole and drove to the basket for an uncontested lay-up.
“See what I mean? Five-point game. We’re right back in it. Except for Brawley down low, none of these guys play defense. They’re all too busy thinkin’ about their next shot.”
“Reg-gie, Reg-gie, Reg-gie.” Frank looked up to see Tom Troy waving a towel and leading a tight cluster of Dowshan Tappeh agency people in a chant.
“Troy’s Trojans,” said Rushmore. “They call us ‘the Scumbags,’ but we still got a chance.”
“Six guys?”
“Yeah,” sighed Rushmore. “Last game of the tournament and that’s all we could suit up. They got twelve. And one of them’s fuckin’ Brawley.”
Downcourt, Fred Bunker picked off a ball from behind a casual dribbler. He fired a long pass to a streaking Cantwell, who caught up to it like a wide receiver, leapt toward the basket, sailing with impressive hangtime, and banked in his shot. Brawley called for a time-out.