“Thank Allah for little things,” said Gus, studying the medal Frank had brought to him.
“And gimme both the fuckin’ medals. They get pouched back t’ Langley.” Gus and Frank surrendered their medals. “Maybe you’ll get’m back someday.” Rocky gave them no chance to protest. “Sully, I need to talk to you about your Lermontov meet. Gus, can you take care of a cable on the Jayface business?”
“Can do.”
“I got a typewriter all set up for you, brand-new ribbon, in an empty office two doors down. Just be sure the ribbon—and the ball—get back in my safe.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Gus grunted as he heaved himself up from his chair.
“You’re gettin’ old, Commander,” said Rocky.
“Tell me about it,” said Gus.
* * *
“I got some good news for you,” said Rocky, as he and Frank settled into the bubble. “The Holy Ghost says you and Belinsky get to stay. Listen. Information in your previously cited cable notwithstanding, Ident A and Ident B, while observing all due precautions, should, in view of the importance of their current obligations, remain in place.”
“I guess that’s good news,” said Frank. “If you consider staying here good news.”
“You’re the guy wants t’ recruit Lermontov. Speaking of which, more good news. The Holy Ghost okayed giving Lermontov a sanitized version of your palace cable from the other day. Also, I drafted a note for Lermontov. About the stuff he gave you last time on Afghanistan.”
“I still don’t know what that was about.” He realized he’d put more edge in his voice than he’d intended.
“Keep your pants on. I’m about to let you know. Scary shit. You know the Soviets installed a government in Afghanistan couple months back. But the puppets ain’t dancin’ so good. They’ve got a strong Islamic opposition, almost like here. The holy warriors want to attract some attention, and they figure the best way to do that is to go after some high-profile foreigners. KGB has some Dari-speakin’ Soviet Muslims inside the opposition. They say American officials look like the target of choice. Moscow worries that America might start payin’ attention t’ Afghanistan if the Afghanis knock off a couple of high-level Americans. The Soviets would just as soon we didn’t pay any attention and let them take over the country in peace.”
“I have to admit,” said Frank, “I’m more worried about the Iranians knocking off a couple of midlevel Americans.”
“Hey, didn’t the Holy Ghost himself just tell us not to worry about that?”
“Okay,” said Frank. “I won’t worry about that.”
“Good,” said Rocky. “Anyhow, my note to Lermontov, which you better read ’cause I tried to make it look like it came from you, asks him to keep those cards and letters comin’ on Afghanistan, updates as often as possible. I figure we got a responsibility to warn our buddies in Kabul to lock their doors at night even though I know it won’t do any fuckin’ good. State will do a security check and find out that everything is hunky-dory, and next day the ragheads will park a ninety-ton truck bomb in front of the embassy.”
“You truly do love the State Department, don’t you?”
“Good and bad, like any shop,” said Rocky, “but their security people strike me as all bad. If I were a betting man, I’d bet they’ve got more Americans killed than all the terrorists in the world put together. Meanwhile, the Holy Ghost’s gettin’ as antsy as I am about Belinsky settin’ up this GRU meet. He better make it happen soon.”
* * *
Rocky’s harsh words about the State Department security apparatus had echoed in Frank’s mind when Lermontov laid into him with his own harsh words about the recent take.
“You give us intelligence we already have. We know the Shah soon will leave. Because you talk to him about it doesn’t make your information any more valuable.”
“I thought you found the information I’ve provided useful,” Frank had said weakly.
“Until recently. Moscow asks, seriously, if this relationship is worth continuing.”
“I’ll try to do better,” Frank had said.
“You better.”
* * *
Frank had returned to the embassy, fearful they might be on the verge of losing Lermontov. Now, as they sat in the bubble, Rocky let him know things he had never known before about how the superpowers played the Great Game at this level.
“They’re pullin’ your chain,” said Rocky. “Classic agent handling. Give him some money. Get him salivating. Then tell him he ain’t worth shit.”
“What’s the point?”
“What they want out of you is more product for less money.”
“Like the capitalist robber barons,” said Frank.
“Exactly,” said Rocky, “’cause that’s what they are. Exploiters of the proletariat. And you, my friend, in their eyes, are a fuckin’ prol’. You came back in here with your tail between your legs and your head hangin’, like you’d been whipped for not barkin’ loud enough. Your Soviet buddy played you because he was playin’ for the video cameras his
residenza
and Moscow will look at. They’ll say, ‘Attaboy, Vassily. You sure played that American boychik like a pro.’ And you, you asshole, took it all for real.”
“I guess I did,” said Frank. “But I still think, for Moscow’s sake, we ought to try to get him some hard stuff.”
“I’ll send a prayer up to the Holy Ghost,” said Rocky, “see what he comes up with, but you better tighten up your asshole. The game gets rough around now. And we still don’t know what games Lermontov may be playin’.”
Lermontov had proffered no bonus, but the envelope under the passenger’s seat weighed heavily in the briefcase Frank carried up to the bubble.
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” said Rocky.
Frank took little interest in the take. He worried about what games Lermontov, Henry James, and Rocky might be playing. I wanted to play with the big boys, he thought. I got what I wanted.
Rocky opened an envelope marked “Eyes Only” and handed Frank the single page it contained. On it was a one-word question.
Belinsky?
* * *
Ali dropped them at Dowshan Tappeh after their morning Jayface meeting. For a change, they found Stan Rushmore in his office.
“Well, hello, stranger,” said Gus. “Who told you you could use our office?”
“These days,” said Rushmore, “I gotta believe you guys see more of it than I do. Hey, Sullivan, you know the papers are back on the street?”
“January 7, right?” said Frank. “I knew today was the day, but I haven’t seen any.”
“I picked you up a copy of the one in English. Figured you might want to see it.”
“I appreciate that,” said Frank, though in truth the prospect of looking at it depressed him. Nice to see a local paper, he thought as he skimmed, but it wasn’t the
Armed Forces Times
.
* * *
After another taxi ride with Lermontov’s gofer, Frank emptied his false-bottom briefcase on the table in another nondescript safe house.
“I think you’ll be happy with today’s take. It includes special analyses on the probable local impact of a Khomeini takeover from our chiefs of station in Moscow, Kabul, Baghdad, and a dozen other Mideast capitals.”
He hefted the huge envelope that had come by pouch onto the table. Rocky had told him James had the Near East Division working on it for weeks.
“You’re serious,” said Lermontov. He tore open the envelope and began glancing through the individual reports.
“It’s meant for internal briefings with one set going to the National Security Council and from there maybe a précis to the White House.” Frank guessed that James would have had it laced with a shrewd blend of actual but sanitized reporting and carefully calculated disinformation. “There’s an overall executive summary and separate summaries for each country.”
“If the reports turn out as good as they look, this will mean a special bonus for you. The mere fact you could get them says a lot for you.”
“How big a bonus?” said Frank.
“That depends on a final evaluation,” said Lermontov, his head buried in the reports. “Tripoli looks interesting. They say Qadaffi will shut down your station, and the embassy, within a month.” He opened another report. “But Kabul seems to appreciate little of what’s going on there.”
“I didn’t say all our stations were great. Just that this gives you an idea of the best they can come up with.”
“The best,” muttered Lermontov, “from the not very bright.”
* * *
“I’ve got a virgin safe house on hold for any meets you have with Lermontov about his defection, or about Belinsky and our penetration agent,” said Rocky, secure with Frank in the bubble. He handed Frank a sealed envelope. “It’s all in there, location, two sets of directions. One for you. One for Lermontov. Set of keys. Never been used as a safe house before. The embassy took it over from the Germans when they closed down their Goethe Institute couple months ago. I talked the ambassador into lettin’ us have it. He owes me, so he said yes. It’s even got a phone that works. But the house isn’t wired, so bring your trusty little tape recorder. Draft a note to Lermontov and slip him his stuff at your next meet.”
“Will do,” said Frank. “Thanks.”
* * *
Lermontov himself picked up Frank for their next meeting at a prearranged street corner near the British Embassy. Heavy, wet snow had fallen earlier in the day, downing power lines, then turning to slush as rising temperatures turned the white flakes to gray rain.
“No need to bother with the glasses,” said Lermontov. “Your people know where I live, and that’s where I’m taking you. I have good news for you.”
Lermontov broke out both vodka and caviar, plus a loaf of black Russian pumpernickel. “Baked fresh at the embassy,” he said. “Just for you. I can’t chew the pumpernickel, but my
rezident,
and Moscow, want me to toast you.
Na zdarovye
.”
“Na zdarovye,”
Frank responded. They clinked glasses and, Russian fashion, bolted down the vodka.
“You’re getting better,” said Lermontov. “More Russian. The material you brought me from your various Near East stations strongly impressed everyone at our embassy who has looked at it, at least on a preliminary basis.”
“Good,” said Frank. “You had me thinking I let you down lately.”
“You had. But you redeemed yourself. Here.”
He tossed an envelope in Frank’s direction. Frank ripped it open and began counting. Fifty twenties. Frank counted it again. “It’s only a thousand.”
“Interesting, how quickly traitors become greedy,” said Lermontov, heaping caviar onto a spoon.
“I wish you wouldn’t use that word.”
“Traitor? You are too sensitive. But what is your expression? To call a spade a spade, no?”
“No,” said Frank. “In polite circles we call a spade an implement for digging. And in polite circles we acknowledge that the material I gave you deserves much more than a thousand.”
“Preliminary,” said Lermontov. “I can assure you, if it stands up under analysis in Moscow, you will receive more.”
“Good,” said Frank. He hoped he sounded convincing, but he’d begun to hate playing the role of greedy traitor.
* * *
Frank wondered if the general had another first name, but he had never heard him referred to as anything other than Fritz Weber. When he met him the next afternoon, he saw why. The nickname fit like his well-tailored air force uniform. His brush-cut gray hair stood at attention, an extension of his ramrod posture. The soft folds in his leathery face contrasted with the cutting-edge creases in his trousers. Frank tried to determine the color of his hooded eyes. He could do no better than dark.
“So you’re Sullivan. Heard about you.”
Frank said nothing. They did not shake hands.
“Fritz and I had an interesting meeting with the Shah,” said the ambassador. “He told us his plans for leaving. Which do not jibe with what he told you.”
The ambassador had used the secure line from the palace to set up a meeting with Rocky and Frank in his office. Frank, who did not get the message until he returned to Dowshan Tappeh from his Jayface session, arrived last.
“What I don’t understand,” said the general, “is why Sullivan here meets with the Shah in the first place. Ambassador O’Connor’s accredited to the Court of His Imperial Majesty, right?”
“Accredited, in fact, to the Peacock Throne,” said O’Connor. “To the Shah himself, that is.”
“Then why the hell is this CIA flunky meeting with him.?”
“At the Shah’s request. They have…” The ambassador looked to Frank.
“We met many years ago,” said Frank. “In another country. He remembered me. Heard I was here and sent word for me to come see him.”
“We didn’t like the idea at first,” said the ambassador. “But it can sometimes get a little sticky saying no to a King of Kings.”
“I still don’t much like it,” said Rocky.
“But I think Mr. Novak and I agree,” said the ambassador, “that on balance it turned out to be a positive for us.”
“Chain of command means chain of command,” said the general. “Break it and you muddy the waters. Like the Shah telling this spook one thing and us another.”
“The issue…” The ambassador got no further.
“The issue is this guy should not be talking to the Shah.”
“The question, I should say, comes down to this. The Shah told us today he intends to leave not later than the seventeenth, only six days away, and that he plans to fly direct to the United States. But, Frank, he told you that when he leaves he plans to stay close to Iran, so he can return quickly after his generals stage a coup.”
“He may have changed his mind,” said Frank.
“Huh,” snorted the general. “Who does he think he is? Jimmy Carter?”
“Sir,” said Frank, turning to address the ambassador, “you know my reporting reflects doubt on the military’s ability to bring off a coup.”
“Not just your reporting,” said the ambassador.
“That’s the goddamn problem,” thundered the general.
“Please,” said Rocky. “You’re upsetting my hearing aid.” He adjusted the volume knob.
“Stuff your hearing aid,” said the general. Frank suspected that Rocky no longer heard him.
“I’m over here on a mission assigned by our change-his-mind-a-minute President to encourage the Iranian military to get on with it. To take over with as little bloodshed as possible, hopefully with no bloodshed, before this holy man and his Commie supporters get a chance to move in. I know about your reporting, Sullivan, and it sucks. The same kind of pissing and moaning your outfit did in the early days about Vietnam. ‘We can’t win the war.’ Now we got you saying we can’t win this war, and I tell you we can.”