then he heard footsteps. his automatic covered the door. the code of the knock was flawless; even so when he unlocked the door he slid into ambush in the comparative safety of the wall and swung the door open, ready to blast the hostile if it was a hostile. but it was ibrahim kyabi, bundled up and pleased to be here. "sorry, dimitri," he said, stamping his feet, a little snow in his curling black hair, "but buses are almost nonexistent."
rakoczy relocked the door. "punctuality's important. you wanted to know who the mullah was in the bandar delam helicopter when your father was murdered, poor man i've got his name for you." he saw the youth's eyes light up and hid a smile. "his name's hussain kowissi and he's the mullah of kowiss. do you know it?"
"no, no, i've never been there. hussain kowissi? good, thank you."
"i checked him out for you. he appears to be a fanatic anti-communist, fanatic for khomeini, but in reality, he's secretly cia."
"what?"
"yes," rakoczy said, the disinformation perfectly justified. "he spent a number of years in the u.s., sent there by the shah, speaks fluent english, and was secretly turned by them when he was a student. his anti-americanism's as false as his fanaticism."
"how d'you do it, dimitri? how do you know so much so fast without phones, or telex, or anything?"
"you forget every bus contains some of our people, every taxi, truck, village, post office. don't forget," he added, believing it, "don't forget the masses are on our side. we are the masses."
"yes."
he saw the young man's zeal and he knew ibrahim was the correct instrument, and ready. "the mullah hussain ordered the green bands to shoot your father, accusing him of being a plant and dupe of foreigners."
all color left kyabi's face. "then then i want him. he's mine."
"he should be left to professionals. i'll arrange a't "
"no. please. i must have revenge."
rakoczy pretended to think about that, hiding his content. hussain kowissi had been marked for extinction for some time. "in a few days i'll arrange weapons, a car, and a team to go with you."
"thank you. but all i need will be this." kyabi pulled out a pocket knife, his fingers shaking. "this, and an hour or two, and some barbed wire and i'll show him the extent of a son's revenge."
"good. now the women's march. it's definitely scheduled in three days. wh " he stopped aghast, abruptly leaped for the side wall, pulled a halfseen knot. a section of the wall swung open to give access to the unlit rickety fire-exit staircase. "come on," he ordered and raced down it to freedom, kyabi blindly following in a panic run. at that moment without warning the door burst open, almost torn off its hinges, and the two men who had shouldered it open almost fell into the room, others on their heels. all were iranian, all wore green bands, and they charged in pursuit, guns out.
down the stairs three at a time, hunted and hunters, stumbling and almost falling, scrambling up and rushing out into the street and the night, into the crowds and then rakoczy went straight into the ambush and into their arms. ibrahim kyabi did not hesitate, just changed direction and fled across the street and into the crowded alley and was swallowed up in the darkness.
in an old parked car across the street from the side exit, robert armstrong had seen their men go in and rakoczy caught and kyabi escape. rakoczy had been quickly bundled into a waiting van before many people in the street knew what was happening. two of the green bands strode over toward armstrong, both better dressed than usual. both had holsters on their belts for their mausers. people moved out of their way uneasily, watching without watching, wanting no trouble. the two men got into the car and armstrong let out the clutch and eased away, the remaining green bands mixing with the pedestrians.
in moments robert armstrong was part of the rush-hour traffic. the two men slid off their green armbands and pocketed them. "sorry we lost that young bastard, robert," the older of the two said in fluent english, americanaccented. he was a clean-shaven man in his fifties colonel hashemi fazir, deputy chief of inner intelligence, u.s. trained and savak before the separate secret service department was formed.
"not to worry, hashemi," armstrong said.
the younger man in the backseat said, "we've got kyabi on film at the embassy riot, agha. and at the university." he was in his twenties, with a luxuriant mustache and his lips twisted cruelly. "we'll pick him up tomorrow."
"now that he's on the run, i wouldn't if i were you, lieutenant," armstrong
said, driving carefully. "since he's pegged, just tail him he'll lead you to bigger fish. he led you to dimitri yazernov."
the others laughed. "yes, yes, he did."
"and yazernov'll lead us to all sorts of interesting people and places." hashemi lit a cigarette, offered them. "robert?"
"thanks." armstrong took a puff and grimaced. "my god, hashemi, these are awful, they'll really kill you."
"as god wants." then hashemi quoted in farsi, "'wash me in wine when i die,/at my funeral use a text concerning wine,/would you wish to find me on the day of doom,/look for me in the dust at the wine shop's door."'
"cigarettes, not wine'll kill you," armstrong said dryly, the lilt of the farsi words beautiful.
"the colonel was quoting from the rubaiyat of omar khayyam," the young man in the back said helpfully in english. "it means th "
"he knows what it means, mohammed," hashemi interrupted. "mr. armstrong speaks perfect farsi you've a lot to learn." he puffed his cigarette for a while, watching the traffic. "pull over for a moment, will you, robert?"
when the car stopped, hashemi said, "mohammed, go back to the hq and wait for me there. make sure no one no one gets at yazernov before me. tell the team just to make sure everything's ready. i want to start at midnight."
"yes, colonel." the younger man left them.
hashemi watched him vanish into the crowds. "i could use a large whisky and soda. drive on for a while, robert."
"sure." armstrong let out the clutch, glanced at him, hearing an undercurrent. "problem?"
"many." hashemi studied the traffic and the pedestrians, his face set. "i don't know how long we'll be allowed to operate, how long we're safe, or who to trust."
"what else's new?" armstrong smiled mirthlessly. "that's an occupational hazard," he said the lesson well learned from eleven years as adviser to inner intelligence, and twenty years before that in the hong kong police.
"you want to be present when yazernov's interrogated, robert?"
"yes, if i'm not in the way."
"what does m16 want with him?"
"i'm just an ex-cid, special branch, on private contract to help you fellows set up the equivalent service, remember?"
"i remember very well. two five-year contracts, the last happily extended until next year when you retire with a pension."
"fat chance," armstrong said disgustedly. "khomeini and the government'll pay my pension? fat chance." it was very much on his mind that now all his iranian service was wasted, and with the devaluation of the hong kong dollar
since he retired in '66, his real retirement would be scratchy. "my pension's had it."
the dark eyes hardened. "robert, what does mi6 want with this bastard?"
armstrong frowned. something was very wrong tonight. the youth kyabi should not have escaped the net and hashemi's as nervous as a rookie agent on his first drop behind the lines. "far as i know they don't. i'm interested in him. me," he said casually.
"why?"
such a long story, armstrong thought. should i tell you that dimitri yazernov's a cover for fedor rakoczy, the russian islamic-marxist you've been trying to catch for months? should i tell you the real reason i was told to help you grab him tonight is that, quite by chance, mi6's just discovered through a czech defector his real name is igor mzytryk, son of petr oleg mzytryk who back in my hong kong days used to be known as gregor suslev, master spy, we thought long since dead.
no, we don't want yazernov but we do want i want the father who's supposed to live just north of the border somewhere, within reach, oh, god, let him be alive and within reach, for we would dearly like to debrief that sod by any means possible ex-intelligence chief, far east, senior lecturer in espionage at vladivostok university, senior party member and god knows what since.
"i think we think yazernov's more important than just tudeh liaison with students. he's a dead ringer for your kurdish dissident, ali bin hassan karakose."
"you mean he's the same man?"
"yes."
"impossible."
armstrong shrugged. he had thrown him a bone; if he didn't want to gnaw it that was his problem. the traffic was snarled again, everyone hooting and cursing. the big man shut his ears to the noise, stubbed out the local iranian cigarette.
hashemi frowned, watching him. "what's your interest in karakose and the kurds if what you say's true?"
"kurds straddle all the borders, soviet, iraqi, turkish, and iranian," he said easily. "the whole kurdish national movement's very sensitive and easy for the soviets to exploit with heavy international implications throughout asia minor. of course we're interested."
the colonel stared out of the window, lost in thought, snow falling lightly. a cyclist squeezed past, carelessly banging the side of the car. to armstrong's surprise usually hashemi was well tempered he furiously wound down his window and cursed the youth and all his generations. grimly he stubbed his
cigarette out. "drop me here, robert. we'll begin with yazernov at midnight. you're welcome." he started to open the door.
"hang on, old son," armstrong said. "we've been friends a long time. what the hell's up?"
the colonel hesitated. then he closed the door. "savak's been outlawed by the government, so have all intelligence departments, including us, and ordered disbanded at once."
"yes, but the prime minister's office has already told you to continue, undercover. you've nothing to fear, hashemi. you're not tainted. you've been told to smash the tudeh, the fedayeen, and the islamic-marxists... you showed me the order. wasn't tonight's operation following this line?"
"yes. yes, it was." again hashemi paused, his face set and his voice thick. "yes, it was but! what do you know about the islamic revolutionary komiteh?"
"only that it's supposed to consist of men personally selected by khomeini," armstrong began honestly. "its powers are loose, we don't know the who, how many, where, or when they meet or even if khomeini presides or what."
"i now know for a fact that, with khomeini's approval, in future ultimate power is to be invested in this komiteh, that bazargan is only a momentary figurehead until the komiteh issues the new islamic constitution which will put us back to the time of the prophet."
"bloody hell!" armstrong muttered. "no elected government?"
"none." hashemi was beside himself with rage. "not as we know the term."
"perhaps the constitution'll be rejected, hashemi. the people'll have to vote it in, not everyone's a fanatic support "
"by god and the prophet, don't fool yourself, robert!" the colonel said harshly. "the vast majority are fundamentalist, that's all they've got to hang on to. our bourgeois, rich, and middle classes are tehranis, tabrizis, abadanis, isfahanis, all shah-sponsored, a handful compared to the other thirty-six million of us, most of whom can't even read or write. of course whatever khomeini approves will be voted in! and we both know what his vision of islam, the koran, and sharia is."
"how soon will... how soon will they have the constitution ready?"
"do you understand so little about us, after all this time?" hashemi said irritably. "the moment we seize power we use it before it slips away. the new constitution went into effect the moment that poor bastard bakhtiar was betrayed by carter, betrayed by the generals, and forced to flee. as to bazargan, pious, honest, fair, and democratically inclined, khomeini-appointed, legal prime minister pending elections, the poor bastard's just a dupe for anything and everything that goes wrong between now and then."
"you mean he'll be the scapegoat be put on trial?"
"trial? what trial? haven't i told you what the komiteh considers a trial? if they charge him, he's shot. insha'allah! last, and why i can't think straight and i'm so angry i need to get drunk, i heard this afternoon, very privately, i heard that savak's been secretly reorganised, it's going to be rechristened savama and abrim pahmudi's been made director!"
"christ almighty!" armstrong felt as though he'd been smashed in the stomach. abrim pahmudi was one of three lifelong friends of the shah who had been to school with him in iran and later in switzerland, who had risen to become high in the imperial council, savak, and, it was rumored, after the shah's family? his most-sought-after counselor and who right now was supposed to be in hiding, waiting an opportunity to negotiate with the bazargan government on the shah's behalf a constitutional monarchy and the shah's abdication in favor of his son reza. "christ almighty! that explains a lot."
