2

After checking in the university directory, I cut across campus toward the building housing the offices of an outfit calling itself the Confederation of Iranian Students. I took my time. Statler had struck a few raw nerves and I was preoccupied with ghosts. Phil was a shrewd man, and there had been an unspoken thought behind his words throughout our conversation: regardless of my academic qualifications, I didn’t belong at a university; I belonged in a circus. I didn’t believe it, but it bothered me that Phil might.

The circus had been good to me, had fed me and even brought me a measure of fame. But there’d been complications; Nature had compounded the irony of my birth by endowing me with an I.Q. that on a good day, so I was told, hovered a notch or two above the norm. I’d also been told I was ambitious. Being a smart, ambitious dwarf can get tedious, and my drives and frustrations eventually landed me on a series of psychiatrists’ couches. That phase of my life lasted as long as it took me to discover that the average psychiatrist was more neurotic than I was.

Books came next. Eventually I earned my doctorate in criminology—no doubt as a means of scratching some perverse psychic itch. Meanwhile, the university and I had made the mutual discovery that I was a good teacher, and that had led to an offer of a teaching position. My satisfaction lasted about a month; teaching had provided me an escape from the circus, but it wasn’t enough. I hadn’t been able to stand the security. I’d longed for the blood and sweat of the marketplace. Six months after I’d accepted a teaching position, I had my private investigator’s license and a downtown office which, exactly as in the movies, consisted of dirty windows, a desk, two chairs and an answering service. Occasionally I even had a client.

My brother, Garth—like me a refugee from the flat, golden landscapes, warm people and deadly boredom of the Nebraska corn belt—tended to find all this postcircus activity faintly amusing. He could afford to, since he wasn’t suffering the disastrous effects of a recessive gene three generations old. A strapping six feet two inches tall, Garth was a lieutenant in the Plainclothes Division of the New York City Police Department.

The office of the Confederation of Iranian Students was located in the basement of a sciences building on the western edge of the campus. It was presided over by a very attractive girl sitting behind a scarred desk piled high with what looked like cheaply printed political tracts. Her eyes were large, moist, black as her raven hair and with the same mysterious slivers of light flashing through them. I cleared my throat. The girl looked up and smiled brightly, exposing a line of white teeth that were a perfect complement to her hair and eyes, and to the earth-brown flesh of her face.

“Hello, Dr. Frederickson.”

It’s hard to remain anonymous when you’re the only dwarf professor on campus, but I was still flattered. “Salaam,” I said, watching for her reaction. “Uh, hale shoma chetore?”

“Khube! Merci!” the girl said, beaming. “Shoma?”

“I’m fine,” I replied, “but that’s the extent of my Persian vocabulary, except for a few pungent colloquialisms which I’ll spare you.”

“Where did you learn Farsi?”

“Oh, I’ve picked up a few words from Dr. Khayyam.”

Her eyes clouded. “Dr. Khayyam?”

“He’s a friend of mine. We play chess once or twice a month.”

“Oh.”

Her smile fluttered and was gone. Since I didn’t consider our earlier brief queries about the state of each other’s health very controversial, I assumed it was the mention of Khayyam’s name that had dampened what looked like a promising friendship. I wondered why. Darius Khayyam was the chairman of the Department of Middle Eastern Studies. As far as I knew, he rarely mentioned Iran or Iranians outside his class. A thickness in his speech that could have been pain whenever the subject came up had led me to suspect that his reluctance could be the result of some intense personal suffering, and I’d never pressed. But it seemed that Darius and the girl weren’t on the best of terms.

“You and Dr. Khayyam don’t get along?”

“It’s not that,” she said, averting her gaze. “We … tend to avoid unnecessary contact with Dr. Khayyam.”

“Hmm. Sounds political.”

“I’d rather not discuss it,” she said quietly.

“What’s your name?” I asked, anxious to get the conversation back to higher ground.

“Anna. Anna Najafi.”

“Anna’s a beautiful name, but it doesn’t sound very Iranian.”

The girl flushed. “It is short for Andalib.”

“Well, Anna, I hope you’ll teach me more Farsi.” That helped some; she was smiling again, and I pressed my advantage. “How did you know my name?”

Anna seemed surprised. “Why, everyone knows you, Dr. Frederickson. You should see the scramble at the beginning of every semester to get a seat in one of your sections.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t seen you in one of those sections.”

She giggled. “I’m a graduate student in microbiology, and I don’t have any electives. If I did, you can be sure I’d be there.”

“Anna,” I said, sensing that we seemed to be back on speaking terms, “I’m hoping that you can help me; I’m looking for someone. Does the name Hassan Khordad mean anything to you?”

Anna thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. It’s an Iranian name and I’d recognize it if he were a student here.”

“He’s not a student, but he may know one.” I showed her the publicity photo. “This is what he looks like.”

She studied the photo, then handed it back. “I’m sorry, Dr. Frederickson. I don’t know him. I’d remember a face like that.”

“You’re sure? You’ve never seen him on campus?”

“No.”

“The photo’s been retouched,” I persisted. “He has a scar on his right cheek.”

The girl shrugged. “So do thousands of other Iranians. It is a salaak, a scar left by a virus infection peculiar to Iran.”

So much for the scar. “Do you know any students who are interested in circuses or weight lifting?”

“I don’t understand.”

“The man I’m looking for worked in a circus. Before that he’d done a lot of weight lifting. He may have known someone at the university, and I thought the key to their relationship might be a common interest.”

“Ali Azad is the vice-president of our organization,” Anna said, an odd catch in her voice. “I’ll call him. He may be able to help you.” Anna picked up the phone on her desk and dialed a number. She spoke in rapid Farsi, occasionally glancing up at me. I heard my name mentioned twice, along with Darius Khayyam and another name that I didn’t quite catch but which had a familiar ring to it. She finished and turned her attention back to me. “I caught him just as he was leaving,” Anna said, hanging up. The lights in her eyes had gone out; her voice was crisp and polite, but distant.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied coldly. She gestured toward some papers on her desk. “Please excuse me, Dr. Frederickson. I have work to do before I go to class. Ali will be here in a few minutes.”

She abruptly began shuffling papers in a way that precluded any further conversation. Her mercurial shifts in mood fascinated me; once again I’d apparently struck the wrong key on a strange instrument I was playing blindfolded. I settled myself into a chair and looked around.

Except for the stacks of political pamphlets and a rundown mimeograph machine in one corner, the office was clean and uncluttered. There was a closed door to the left of Anna’s desk. The walls of the office were covered with posters, most of them radical leftist in nature; Che Guevara stared down at me from a variety of revolutionary poses. There was a large, trick blowup of a man sitting on a toilet seat and reading a comic book; even without the crown on his head I recognized the Shah of Iran. There seemed little doubt what place the Confederation of Iranian Students occupied in the political spectrum.

The entire upper half of one wall was covered by a huge, multipaneled photograph of the most magnificent ruins I’d ever seen. I would have liked to ask what and where they were, but the atmosphere in the room was still tense and I decided to leave well enough alone. There was a ghostly aura about the ruins, a visual magnetism that imparted a faint sensation of vertigo, a feeling of Time and Space transcended. In the foreground, two huge pillars thrust up into the sky; atop one, a sheared section of stone that must have weighed several tons was balanced precariously, defying the centuries’ insistence that it fall.

When I turned back to Anna, I caught her watching me out of the corner of her eye. I rose and walked to her desk. “Anna, something I said upset you. Please tell me what it was.”

She glanced up, but whatever she was going to say was cut off by the sound of a door opening and closing behind me.

“I will talk to you, Dr. Frederickson.”

Turning toward the sound of the voice, I found myself looking into a pair of gleaming brown eyes with a hot brilliance only slightly damped by the large horn-rimmed glasses the man wore. He was short, only a foot or so taller than I was, but tension crackled about him like static electricity; he seemed like a taut guy wire ready to snap under one more turn of some emotional winch. I put his age at around twenty-five: probably a graduate student working for his Ph.D. His skin was darker than Anna’s; a goatee and pencil-thin moustache lent him a sinister, Mephistophelean air that he obviously cultivated.

“I am Ali Azad,” he said, stepping forward and grasping my hand firmly. He sounded like a diplomat greeting an enemy negotiator. “Your reputation precedes you. I’m glad we have this chance to meet.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

He didn’t smile. His eyes bored into mine, but I held his gaze. “How welcome you are depends on your real reason for being here.”

“Didn’t Anna tell you? I’m looking for a man, an Iranian.”

“Why?”

“He’s not where he’s supposed to be.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he said sharply. “Why should a missing Iranian interest you?”

“I was hired to find him.”

“Whom are you working for?”

“A client.”

“What is his name?”

“That doesn’t concern you,” I said evenly. The questioning had become a bit too one-sided, and Azad’s hostility had ruffled my usually benevolent demeanor.

“But you would have me bandy about the names of student members!” he snapped. His eyes grew rounder, bright with unbridled passion. “How much does the C.I.A. pay you?”

He’d snuck up on me with that one. My consternation must have shown on my face, because Azad dropped his eyes and began to seem less sure of himself.

“Look,” I said, “I obviously make you nervous, but I’m damned if I know why. I’ve been accused of a lot of things, but never of passing a physical for the C.I.A. I came here looking for information that might help me find a man who’s disappeared. That’s all. I certainly can’t force you to cooperate, so I think we’re both wasting our time.” It had the right ring for an exit line, and I headed for the door. Azad’s voice stopped me.

“Please wait, Dr. Frederickson,” he said. I turned with my hand still on the knob. The Iranian made a gesture that could have been broadly interpreted as an apology. He nodded toward the closed door. “We can talk in the other room without being interrupted.”

The door by Anna’s desk led into a smaller inner office, and I followed Ali Azad into it. There was a screen door at the opposite end looking out on a small patio piled high with garbage cans. He motioned for me to sit down on a lumpy couch. I remained standing.

With all the psychological undercurrents swirling around the girl, Azad and me, I was having trouble keeping my mind on why I’d come in the first place. I showed him the photograph. “His name’s Hassan Khordad,” I said. “I thought you or someone else might have seen him on campus.”

He seemed to be only half-looking at the picture, and I had the impression his thoughts were racing ahead of him. “I don’t know him,” Azad said quietly. Sweat had dewed his moustache; he swallowed and licked his lips. “You mentioned something to Anna about this man being a weight lifter.”

I unfolded the circus poster and handed it to him. Thin, white lines suddenly appeared in the dark flesh around the corners of his mouth. “There’s reason to believe he had a friend here at the university. A student.”

“I don’t believe that!” he said tersely, his fingers curling like talons around the edges of the poster. “I know every Iranian at this school. Not one of the students would be a friend to this man.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know what this man is.” His voice had fallen to a soft, hate-filled hiss. “He is a chagu-kesh.”

“What’s a chagu-kesh?”

Azad eyed me intently. “I’m still not convinced you don’t already know.”

“In which case it wouldn’t hurt for you to tell me, would it? But I don’t know.”

He stepped to the door looking out on the patio. A light breeze wafted in, bringing the smell of flowers struggling somewhere out in the early spring. “Literally translated, it means ‘someone who draws a knife.’ It is a Persian term for a thief or murderer. If you want to know the place of men like this in recent Iranian history, you should ask your friend Dr. Khayyam. He lived a part of it.” He sucked in his breath, slowly let it out. “His sister died a part of it.”

The information intrigued me; Darius had never mentioned a sister. But I noted the animosity in the student leader’s voice and decided I wanted no part of whatever feud existed between my friend and the student group.

“Dr. Khayyam is just a professor now. I’m here, so why don’t you tell me?”

There was a long silence during which Azad continued to stare out the door. I waited. “The man you’re looking for is—or was—obviously a member of the Zur-khaneh,” he said at last. These are men totally dedicated to physical fitness. The weights, weapons and wooden paddles they use in the rituals they perform are part of a kind of national exercise that dates back centuries. In a very real sense, these athletes are part of Iran’s cultural heritage; they perform for state occasions and visiting dignitaries. They spend much of their time in the Zur-khaneh, a special gymnasium in Tehran.” He paused, cleared his throat self-consciously. “Most of them are deeply religious.”

“Except when they go around killing people?”

His eyes were flashing when he wheeled to face me. “I am trying to be honest with you! Are you mocking me?”

“No, Azad,” I said, suppressing a sigh. “I’m listening.”

“There is a small group of men selected from the Zur-khaneh who serve as the Shah’s personal bodyguard. They’re a personal army, and they’re very well taken care of. Those are the men I mentioned; it was those murderers who helped bring the Shah back to power after the people had forced him to leave the country. You must have heard about that.”

“A little.” I knew more than a little, but I wanted Azad’s version of events, unfettered by what he thought I knew. “When did all this take place?”

“I’m surprised Dr. Khayyam hasn’t mentioned it.”

“He hasn’t.”

“In 1921 the present Shah’s father, Reza Shah, seized power from the Qajar dynasty in a coup d’état.” He paused, added wryly, “Not that it made much difference. Iran in the twentieth century has always been controlled by foreign powers because of its oil and its strategic geographical location—first by the British, then by the Americans. In 1941 the Allies removed Reza Shah and installed the son in his place.”

“Why?”

“The war. There was our oil, and Iran represented a land bridge to Russia for essential supplies. The Allies were worried about Iran’s neutrality, and they thought they could ensure Iran’s security by installing Reza Shah’s twenty-year-old son on the throne as their puppet. After the war the Western powers found it convenient to leave the son in power because the cold war had begun and Iran represented a bulwark in the Middle East against the Russians. In the meantime the British continued to bleed us of oil, and there wasn’t anybody in a position to do anything about it until 1950, when Mohammed Mossadegh was elected Premier.”

“And who supported Mossadegh?”

“The people!” Azad said fiercely, clenching and unclenching his fists; he was in a world of his own, a warrior in a battle that had taken place when he was no more than an infant. “The people loved Mossadegh, and eventually he became even more popular than the Shah. In May of 1951, Mossadegh nationalized the oil industry. That enraged the British and the Americans, but it made him a giant in the eyes of most Iranians. By 1953 he had assumed complete control of the country by acclamation. The Shah was asked to abdicate or become a constitutional monarch; he panicked and flew to Rome.”

“Obviously, he found his way back again.”

Azad laughed bitterly. “He most certainly did—thanks to the C.I.A. Mossadegh was overthrown in 1953. That was accomplished by C.I.A. operatives who paid out millions of dollars in bribes to men like the one you search for; they acted as conduits for the money, bribing thousands of ignorant peasants and laborers to agitate against Mossadegh. Those who didn’t go along were beaten or killed. Within a few days, the Shah was back in power.

“Hundreds of army officers and government officers were executed. Dr. Khayyam’s sister was an assistant minister. She was raped by a dozen soldiers, imprisoned and then burned alive in her cell. The official report called it suicide, but no one was expected to believe it. Her death was meant to serve as a lesson to others.”

I said nothing. I was thinking of Darius, and his terrible grief weaving a tapestry of pain that had finally folded in upon itself, producing a bitter silence on matters concerning his native country.

“Now it is Mohammed Reza Pahlavi who is in complete control of Iran,” Azad continued. “The United States supports him because he guarantees order, but nevertheless any dissent in Iran is paid for in blood.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ve read accounts of torture in Iranian prisons.”

“Read accounts?” Ali hissed contemptuously. “You cannot appreciate the horror of Iranian torture chambers by reading accounts. You know nothing of these things.”

He was wrong. I had no intention of discussing it, but I had more than a passing acquaintance with torture. A year and a half before, I’d been searching for a man by the name of Victor Rafferty who just happened to be, among other things, a total telepath—and thus a kind of Ultimate Weapon in the eyes of the various intelligence communities. I’d been competing with the Russians, Americans, French and British, and I’d been unlucky enough to fall into the hands of a Russian man-monster by the name of Kaznakov; it was Kaznakov who’d taught me a few things about the calculus of mental and physical agony. If it hadn’t been for the near-miraculous healing powers of Victor Rafferty, I’d have ended as a catatonic staring out the barred windows of some mental institution.

Kaznakov had gotten his when I’d barbecued him with an incendiary grenade during the course of a raid on the Russian Consulate in New York. But the psychic scar tissue from Kaznakov’s lesson still remained to stretch, prickle and throb whenever the subject of torture came up.

“Let’s get back to this Hassan Khordad,” I said, pushing away the memory. “Why can’t Khordad be nothing more than what he appears to be? Why can’t he be one of the good guys?”

Azad’s laughter was thin and choked. “This man is an assassin, a butcher for the Shah. Believe me. Men like him sold the freedom of our nation for a few dirty American dollars. That is why no student at this university would waste spit on such a man.”

I was getting only Azad’s side of the story. I thought of some of the insane fringe groups in my own country and wondered how much of Azad’s account could have been tainted by his own brand of political paranoia. Being in no position to judge, I didn’t. “Even assuming that this Khordad is a killer, isn’t it conceivable that one of your members could still be a friend of his?”

“No. Not unless—”

“Not unless one of your members might not be as anti-Shah as you’d like to believe?”

“I meant nothing,” he snapped. Visibly upset, he suddenly began to pace. His accent had become noticeably more pronounced.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re so positive Khordad is what you say he is.”

He wheeled and held up the poster. His hands were shaking, making the paper rattle. “Why shouldn’t he be any more than what he appears to be? Appears to whom? To you, Dr. Frederickson? I’ve told you that you know nothing of these things!”

“I won’t argue with that.”

“Whatever this man’s stated reason for being in this country, it is probably a lie. A member of the Zur-khaneh has no reason to leave Iran; life is very good for them there.”

“He wants to have his own circus.”

“A fairy tale,” Azad snorted.

“All right, why do you think he came here? Let’s see if you can be a little more specific.”

“I told you: he’s here as an errand boy for the Shah.”

“But what—”

“I can’t talk to you anymore,” he said, forcing the words through clenched teeth. There were tears in his eyes, tears of rage—or something else that I could not yet comprehend.

“There’s more to this business, isn’t there?” I asked quietly. “Why can’t you tell me what it is?”

“Go look for your man in some sewer!”

My interview with Ali Azad was obviously over, and I walked into the outer office. Anna glanced up at me and smiled nervously. On the opposite wall, pools of reflected fluorescent light danced across the photograph of the ruins. In one corner of the picture the torso of a two-headed bull rested in the dust on its crumbled haunches. Behind it stood the remnants of an archway with men and animals carved into its stone facade. There were other such columns and monuments marching off into the distance where they came to an abrupt halt at the base of a series of steep foothills. Even on the backdrop of mountains men had left their mark, but the mountains were too far away for me to determine exactly what form the marks had taken. As I stared at this surreal jumble, it suddenly struck me that I was dealing with people from a culture that was very old, very complex, and—perhaps—finally beyond the ken of an American who’d actually considered it a big deal when his own country had celebrated its two-hundredth birthday.

“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you,” I said, turning back to the young man.

“I’ve said too much already. I’ll speak no more of this matter.”

“What was happening in Iran last October?”

Azad’s smile was more a grimace; his eyes remained smooth crystals of brown ice. “You might call it a celebration of a celebration.”

“You’re being obtuse.”

“You remember the twenty-five-hundredth-year celebration?”

“I do.”

“Oh, that was a sight,” he said mockingly. “The world’s greatest collection of freeloaders all gathered together in one spot, supposedly to honor Iran but eating French food flown in every day specially for the occasion. Anyway, the biggest thing in Iran last October was an art festival commemorating that celebration. I assume that’s what you’re referring to.”

“I’m not sure what I was referring to, but I think you’ve answered my question.”

“God, how I hate the arrogance of that man!” Azad spat out. “In a nation where the infant mortality rate is more than fifty percent, where eighty percent of the population is illiterate and more than half do not have enough to eat, our Shahanshah, our glorious King of Kings and Light of the Aryans, spent more than fifty million dollars to celebrate twenty-five hundred years of monarchy.”