10

For a week I worked my tutor overtime during the day, and spent most of my nights immersed in the language tapes Ali had provided me with, along with three volumes of Farsi–English dictionaries. I didn’t get much sleep, but if I was right about Garth’s absence being a second, command invitation, I’d have plenty of time to catch up on my sleep—perhaps forever. At least I’d be able to chat with my captors in pidgin Farsi. I didn’t see that I had any choice but to go, and the SAVAK knew it. One person had already died for my sins, and it was time to pay my dues. I stayed with the tapes all through the flight, then dropped them and my recorder into a toilet wastebasket.

Seen from the air, Tehran seemed no more than a dusty, blurred adjunct of the desert; in fact, it was the latest Shangri-La for every hustling high roller in the world, the end of the rainbow floating on a subterranean sea of black, bubbling gold. It was as if, on this section of the planet, Nature had painted only from the earth end of the palette, and the people, living as they did in the midst of brown sand, rock and mountains, knew no other colors and could build only in terms of their immediate surroundings. Or perhaps it was the desert which altered everything to suit its own taste. All of the buildings were the color of the surrounding earth. The rest was desert and barren, rolling mountains. The plane banked. Somewhere in the distance, to the east, was a flash of blue that could have been water.

My cholera shots hurt, and I knew I was running a slight fever. The woman at the consulate where I’d picked up my visa had insisted there was no cholera in Iran, but I’d remembered Darius’ words on the subject and taken the series of shots anyway. The doctor’s remark that the vaccine, under the best of conditions, was only about forty percent effective would be a sobering reminder to carefully watch what I ate and drank, assuming I had a choice of cuisine. There was no doubt in my mind that even the runt of any cholera litter would cackle with joy at the sight of my soft, relatively sterile Western innards.

The 747 came in to a smooth landing, and I watched out the window as the plane rolled over the broad gray strips of concrete laid out across the sand. Once the plane abruptly braked to a halt as a khaki-colored military jet swooped low over us and landed on the runway a few hundred yards ahead. There were large pieces of artillery and soldiers in jeeps with machine guns lining all the runways, reminders of the tensions in the Middle East and the pervading paranoia that is the ugly court jester in most dictatorial regimes.

Most of my fellow passengers were Iranians, who stared openly at me. In that respect these people, with their dusky, rugged beauty, were no different from the people of Los Angeles, or New York, or Chicago; I was a dwarf, and thus an object of curiosity. However, a good rapport had been established when they’d discovered I could carry on the rudiments of a conversation in their language.

The plane finally rolled to a stop beside a gleaming terminal at the end of the runway. Outside the window, armed soldiers, their weapons nestled in the crooks of their folded arms, stared impassively out at the desert. I remained in my seat while the others rose and filed out. Only then, in the name of optimism, did I reach into my pocket and take out the slip of paper on which Ali had written the name of my contact in Iran: one Parviz Maher, who was supposed to be a student at Tehran University and who worked as a professional tourist guide during the summers. I tore the paper into small pieces and dropped them into the ashtray. According to the plan, Maher was supposed to meet me at the airport. It was his job to find me; my job was to stand around looking like a dwarf.

I felt no guilt at taking Ali’s money, which I’d promptly put in the bank. I’d made it very clear to him that I considered my chances for success to be nonexistent. My pessimism hadn’t seemed to make any difference; for Ali, it was enough that I’d agreed to go.

The Tehran airport, located at the western edge of the city, was not particularly large, despite the fact that it serviced the nation’s capital. The dry, hot air of the early morning was exhilarating, and I walked briskly toward the terminal, stopping briefly to gaze at the mountains in the distance.

There was someone waiting for me inside the terminal, but it wasn’t Parviz Maher—not unless the student guide had recently been drafted into the officer corps of the Iranian army. Not surprisingly, the officer spotted me immediately and came forward with the braced stride that is the universal stamp of the military man. Responding to instinct, the muscles in my legs bunched under me and I half-turned, prepared to sprint back out onto the runway. I stayed where I was, my rational mind reminding me why I’d come in the first place—to make a simple trade-off. Besides, with eight thousand miles and an ocean separating me from home, there weren’t too many places for me to run.

A glance to my right showed that another officer was closing in on me from that direction, and I didn’t have to look behind or to my left to know that there were men there too: I could feel them. None of them carried guns; considering the armored division hanging out on the runway, they obviously didn’t feel the need.

The first officer, a tall, trim man with sharp, angular features and smoky, hooded eyes, stopped a few paces in front of me and clicked his polished heels together. We stared at each other for a few moments; then the man pressed the palms of his hands together and bent forward at the waist in an elaborate bow.

“Dr. Frederickson,” the man said in passable English, “I am Captain Mohammed Zand. Welcome to Iran.”

That wasn’t exactly what I’d expected to hear, and I blinked. The men behind and to my left had stopped a short distance away. The officer on my right, a young man with soft, delicate features, approached, bowed and grabbed my luggage. His eyes were open and friendly.

“Salaam,” I ventured wryly.

Both men grinned. They seemed immensely pleased. “Salaam, salaam,” the young man said. He glanced at his superior, and Zand nodded. The young man put down one of my suitcases and extended his hand. I shook it.

“Unfortunately, the lieutenant cannot speak English,” Zand said. “But he too bids you welcome.”

“Where’s Garth?”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on. I’m here, so you’ve got no more need for Garth. You win, so let’s play fair and let him go.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Frederickson, I understand your words, but they have no meaning for me. Perhaps you could explain further.”

“Never mind.” Obviously, it was game time, and I had no choice but to continue playing and hope for an eventual peek at the rule book.

“Would you come with us, please?” Zand asked politely.

“I’d like to call the American Embassy,” I said evenly.

“Of course.” Zand smiled. “In fact, well be going right by there. Perhaps you would care to attend to your business in person.”

“Uh, yeah. I’d like that fine.”

“After you finish your business at the embassy, I am sure you would like to rest up. You must be tired after your flight. We have taken the liberty of making a reservation in your name at one of our better hotels. Would four o’clock be convenient?”

“Convenient for what?”

“Oh, I am sorry. We would be proud if you would agree to see our city. Four o’clock is a good time because it is cooler then. With your permission, I will serve as your guide during your stay in Tehran.”

Zand and his subordinate had a good act. The young lieutenant carried my luggage as Zand led the way toward Customs. The smoky-eyed captain muttered a few words to the customs inspector, who smiled nervously and let us pass through without even a cursory glance at my luggage. I was impressed.

“Mehrabad Airport is not as big as Kennedy Airport,” Zand said conversationally. “I know; I have been to your country.”

“Mehrabad is cleaner.”

We exchanged a few more pleasantries as we passed through the gates of Mehrabad, past the main entrance and over to the curb, where a long black Mercedes-Benz was waiting, its chauffeur standing rigidly at attention on the sidewalk next to the car’s open doors. Zand snapped a finger and the chauffeur moved to the rear door and bowed low. I got into the back seat. The lieutenant got into the front beside the chauffeur, while Zand positioned himself beside me. As the car pulled away, Zand leaned forward and spoke a few words to the driver. I caught the words “American Embassy.”

“Maybe I’ll wait until later to visit the embassy,” I heard myself saying. “You’re right; I’m tired now.” If Zand was so willing to take me to the embassy, I could see it would do me no good to go there. I could imagine the embassy officials’ reaction to my story that the two smiling army officers in the chauffeured limousine outside had dropped me off so that I could report my brother’s kidnapping.

“As you wish,” Zand said. He gave new directions to the driver, and in slightly less than an hour we were outside the plush Tehran Hilton, northwest of the city.

It seemed a good time to ask for a look at the rule book. “The hotel looks very pleasant,” I said. “Now why don’t you tell me where my brother is?”

Zand shrugged, looking sincerely pained. “I still do not understand why you ask about your brother. I know nothing of this.”

“Then tell me what you plan to do with me.”

He smiled. “You are tired now. We will talk later. In the meantime, if there is anything I can do to help make your stay more comfortable, please call me. The man at the desk will put you in touch with me immediately. Remember, you are our guest. Please do not hesitate to ask for anything.”

There didn’t seem to be much point in arguing, so I didn’t. The bell captain took my suitcases and hurried inside, where he waited, holding the elevator doors open for me.

“Until four o’clock, Dr. Frederickson,” Zand said. He waved and disappeared back into the brown leather depths of the Mercedes. The lieutenant was still looking back and smiling as the car pulled away from the curb and merged with the rest of the traffic.

Inside the hotel, the bell captain and two assistants did everything but carry me bodily up to my room. The bell captain took my passport, and I gave the three of them a good tip.

My accommodations had to be the equivalent of the Presidential Suite; there was a large patio overlooking a garden in the middle of a large inner courtyard. In the center of the room, midway between the bath and a huge double bed, was a small, tiled reflecting pool. The sheets of the bed had already been pulled back, and an array of English-language magazines and newspapers was neatly stacked on a mahogany stand beside the bed. I kicked off my shoes, removed my jacket and lay down. I picked up one of the newspapers, Kayhan, and leafed through it. Finally I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

I was rudely awakened by the telephone and politely reminded by the desk clerk that Captain Zand would be arriving in a half hour to pick me up. I shaved, showered, dressed in clean clothes and went down to the lobby just as the Mercedes—freshly washed and polished—pulled up outside. The bell captain and the same two assistants ushered me out and into the back seat beside Zand, who was alone except for the chauffeur. The captain’s smile was pleasant enough, but the garlic on his breath almost made my eyes tear.

“You slept well, Dr. Frederickson?”

“Yup.” It was true. For the first time since Neptune’s death, I’d slept without dreams. While my grief for Neptune and concern for Garth were in no way diminished, another part of me had been revved up by the game in progress: I’d never heard the SAVAK accused of killing with kindness.

“Excellent. With your permission, we will have a light snack, then take a tour of the city.”

“Sounds good. I’m hungry.”

“You must try some of this garlic,” Zand said, removing a jar from a large basket on the floor of the car. “This garlic has been aged for seven years; it does not leave a smell on the breath.”

I glanced sideways to see if he was joking; he wasn’t. I politely declined the garlic, mumbling something about an allergy, but I ate the rest of what was presented to me—thin, tender slices of cold chicken and fruit. While we ate, the driver expertly guided the car through the streets of Tehran.

“If you will be patient,” the captain said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin, “it will be my honor to show you the high points of our city.” He hesitated a moment and his voice dropped in pitch. “I promise you that most of your questions will be answered later this evening.”

“Will I find out what you’ve done with my brother?”

He laughed and shook his head. “I think this talk about a brother must be some kind of American joke.”

Being completely powerless does have its compensations; for one thing, it saves a lot of arguing. The sleep had refreshed me, and I felt a good deal more relaxed than when I’d stepped off the plane. I leaned back in my seat and surveyed the exotic vista rolling by outside my window.

Once Zand asked me—in Farsi—if I spoke Farsi. I gave him a puzzled look. When he repeated the question in English, I answered no—except for the few simple words of greeting he’d already heard. He poured me a glass of strong brandy he called arak, then began a running dialogue on the passing sights. Zand was an excellent guide, with a thorough knowledge of the city.

The streets of Tehran were a strange, heady mixture of the old and new; young girls clad in the latest fashions from Rome, Paris or the United States walked side by side with older women who were draped in chadors, the traditional dark body shrouds. Everywhere, in even the smallest sidewalk shops, there were pictures of the Shah and the royal family. The Shah, his queen and their children looked the way any other family might look with a few hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewels jammed onto their fingers and sewn into their robes. Farah was beautiful, a fine-featured woman with hot eyes, high cheekbones and a full, sensuous mouth. The Crown Prince was handsome, with just a trace of an expression indicating that he occasionally found the whole Royal Family number a drag. I liked that.

The Shah himself, despite a crown which to my Western eye made him look slightly ridiculous, had tremendous presence. He seemed, well, regal; if there was such a thing as a kingly look, Pahlavi had it. His eyes were bright and intelligent, if cruel and incredibly arrogant. I didn’t try to read anything else in the face; there was too much royal camouflage surrounding it.

The photographs covered the interiors of the shops like wallpaper, dominating everything, exuding a superficially benign but overwhelming ubiquity that I found humorous and sobering at the same time: Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlavi was obviously not a man to worry about overexposure. If an American President had arranged such a display, he’d have been laughed out of office. But this was not America, and the Shah was not the President; he was an all-powerful monarch whose reign depended, to at least some degree, on the quiet acceptance—indeed, worship—of his subjects. This was accomplished, in large part, by a masterly job of public relations and expert application of principles of group psychology. From the omnipresence of the photographs, it was easy to understand how the Iranian people could eventually come to mistake the man, woman and children for gods. It was an ancient technique that seemed to have lost none of its effectiveness down through the ages. Still I wondered how seriously all of this Royal Overkill was taken by the population; I thought it the better part of wisdom not to ask.

Zand finally ordered that the car be parked. We got out, and I followed the man as he walked briskly under a canopy and down an alleyway into a city within a city. “This is the bazaar,” he said quietly.

It was dirty and smelled of animals and unwashed humans, but its overall effect, seeping into the mind as the odors seeped into the nostrils, was fascinating. It was the ultimate marketplace, a conglomeration of bazaars within bazaars, the whole strung together over acres of land and covered by a rickety wooden canopy with exposed electric wiring that seemed ready to explode into flame at any moment. Everywhere we went, people stared at the sight of the tall army captain walking with the dwarf. I affected a studied air of unconcern.

We spent a good deal of time in the rug bazaar, with my host going on in great detail about the intricate weaving and dyeing procedures that made Persian carpets the finest in the world. I knew a little about Persian carpets and I said nothing; my mind was on the question of Garth’s whereabouts and what the SAVAK was up to. Also, my appreciation of the carpets’ beauty was tempered by the knowledge that many had been produced primarily by child labor, children having the only fingers small enough to perform the fine knotting techniques used for the finest rugs.

We spent another hour in the bazaar, then headed back to the car. It had grown dark, and the stars glittered diamond-hard in the black desert sky that covered the city like an ebony dome. Zand’s running patter had sputtered to a halt, and we rode in silence up above the city to the slopes of one of the surrounding mountains. It seemed the captain considered his duties as guide discharged; he seemed more the military man again, tense, with a renewed sense of purpose.

The driver parked the car at the foot of a hill next to a flight of stone steps that led up to a large, gaily lighted restaurant. “We will wait here,” Zand said evenly.

He got out; I followed and stood beside him. Below us, Tehran was a sparkling sea of lights. The driver sat stiff and unmoving behind the wheel of the car, which was still running.

“Welcome to Iran, Dr. Frederickson.”

As I turned in the direction of the deep, husky voice, the man who had spoken stepped out of the shadows. He was darker than Zand, with a head that seemed just a bit too small for his large shoulders and barrel chest. He had thick, wavy black hair and dense eyebrows that crawled across his brow like giant caterpillars; the eyebrows formed a striking contrast to the carefully tended, pencil-thin moustache on his lip. The eyes beneath the eyebrows were cold, dark and cunning, and his sunken cheeks made his face seem oddly skull-like. He spoke English with barely a trace of an accent.

Zand bowed. “Dr. Frederickson, I would like you to meet Colonel Bahman Arsenjani.”

I shook the hand that was proffered; Arsenjani had fingers with the strength of steel cables. “I’m flattered at the attention,” I said wryly. “Who’s minding the SAVAK store while you’re out here playing charades?”

Arsenjani’s smile never touched his eyes. “Of course, in the circles you’ve been traveling in, it’s only natural that you’ve heard my name bandied about.”

“Of course. It seems you and your relatives are legends in your own time.”

His lips parted and I caught a flash of gold. “How’s your side?”

“Lots of wires and pins. I feel like an erector set.” I hoped he wasn’t thinking of taking me apart.

“But you’re in working order; you heal quickly.”

“And you get Grade A information.”

The preliminary skirmishing over, Arsenjani motioned for me to follow him as he started up the steps toward the restaurant. His broad shoulders rolled beneath the fabric of his suit jacket. He reminded me of a classy version of Hassan Khordad; everything about him smelled of control, discipline and ruthlessness. I was feeling a bit clammy.

We reached the top of the steps and I followed Arsenjani across a wide expanse of marble, past a row of white-clad waiters, to a large, luxuriously appointed table at the north end of the dining patio. Two waiters immediately sprang forward to pull out our chairs. Arsenjani motioned for me to sit down, then sat at the head of the table, to my left. Zand had remained behind.

“Now you will sample some of the finest cuisine in the world,” Arsenjani said, snapping his fingers at the waiters. “I hope you don’t mind; I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for both of us.”

“Thanks. A condemned man’s last meal?”

“I was told you had an odd sense of humor. I can assure you that Iran does not waste food like this on its enemies.”

“Let’s stop fucking around, Arsenjani. You’ve got me, so why not let Garth go?”

He looked at me for a long time without blinking. “‘Garth’ is the name of your brother?”

“You know goddamn well it is.”

“Captain Zand mentioned this curious obsession of yours concerning your brother, so I’ve checked the records. A Garth Frederickson did enter this country eighteen days ago as a tourist. Everything was in perfect order. My men are checking the hospital records at this very moment. Unless he’s gone to the more remote areas of the country, it shouldn’t take us long to find him, and then we’ll see that you’re reunited.” He paused. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“You know I don’t. How about an address for Neptune Tabrizi’s family?”

He snapped his fingers. “The woman who was killed. That’s why your brother came here! And you think—”

“God damn it, Arsenjani!” I hissed, bringing my fist crashing down on the table. I was immediately sorry; it would do me absolutely no good to lose my temper, and I mumbled an apology which I didn’t feel but hoped might throw him off balance.

“You’re really afraid, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.

“Shitless. But I’m here for my brother. When do we stop this game and get down to business?”

Arsenjani’s answer was a thin smile. I stared back at him. “Indulge me,” he said at last. “You have nothing to fear, I assure you.”

A sharp-eyed waiter with a limp appeared with a large basket of soft white bread and chilled crocks of pearl-gray caviar. I sipped at the small glass of chilled vodka that had come with it. “What happened to Parviz Maher?” I asked, made nervous by the silence.

The SAVAK chief slowly buttered a piece of bread, smeared a tiny mound of caviar over it. He nibbled at the bread, then set it down. He carefully wiped his moustache with an embossed linen napkin, then put a flame to a Winston cigarette. “Ah, yes,” he said, picking at a stray piece of tobacco that had fallen on the spotless tablecloth. “You see, we regularly read Mr. Maher’s mail. The codes Maher and his friends use are really quite simplistic. Mr. Maher’s been frightened a bit, but that’s all. Soon he’ll be back running his silly errands for the Confederation of Iranian Students, but that’s all right with us. How else could we keep track of what they’re up to?”

“When are you going to stop jerking me around, Arsenjani?”

He reached across the table for a decanter, poured me a glass of wine, which I left untouched. I watched his eyes; they hadn’t changed. Somehow, he reminded me of a cobra. “Iran is a warm, friendly country,” he said, arching his caterpillar eyebrows. “Of course you’re here because we wanted you here, but you are an honored guest in our country; the fact of the matter is that you’ve done His Majesty a great service.”

“By killing three of your agents and knocking out a good part of your New York operation?”

Arsenjani smiled. “You killed Hassan Khordad and his lieutenants,” he said evenly. “But there is a great deal that you don’t understand. As I said, you have done His Majesty a great service and we simply wish to honor you.” He raised his eyebrows again, this time inquiringly. I said nothing. “By the way,” he continued, “how are Ali Azad and our dear friends who call themselves the Confederation of Iranian Students?”

“You’d know better than I would.”

He clucked his tongue in distaste. “The C.I.S. are like spoiled children who must be slapped occasionally, but not taken seriously.”

“Very gracious of you, especially in view of the fact that you know I’m supposed to be here working for them.”

“Yes, but you’re a professional; you came here looking for their hero, Mehdi Zahedi—and more important to you, it seems, your brother. No matter. I don’t believe you have anything against the Shah.”

“That’s very charitable thinking for the head of the SAVAK. I’d like to think I was neutral.”

“The idea of a king doesn’t offend you?”

“I won’t deny that I’m partial to governments which allow the governed some say over their lives.”

“Do you believe Americans have any real control over their lives? Now you are—what was that quaint saying?—‘jerking me around’?”

Ignoring the laughter in his voice, I looked over his shoulder; beyond the walls of the terrace, Tehran gleamed in the distance like a child’s electric toy, close enough to touch. “Form is important, even when there isn’t much substance.”

“Perhaps the Americans are better suited temperamentally to a representative government than, say, Iranians.”

“I’ve heard that argument before.”

“Hearing an argument, no matter how many times, is not in itself a refutation of that argument.”

“Whatever you say.” I didn’t feel up to a round of word games.

Arsenjani traced a pattern on the tablecloth with a thick, well-manicured fingernail. “Would you be unhappy if I told you that you may have saved the Shahanshah’s life?”

“I’d be surprised. What are you talking about?”

“In good time,” he said slowly. “First, I wish to speak to you of a … sensitive matter.”

“I’m not sure you’ll be doing me a favor.”

Arsenjani ignored me. “No one knows better than I that His Majesty has not always been a good ruler, or even a good man. Indeed, as a young man installed on his father’s throne by mercenary foreign powers, he was positively inept; that, of course, was exactly what the Western powers wanted.”

The waiter with a limp reappeared with more wine, refilled our glasses, shuffled away.

“I speak to you like this,” Arsenjani continued when the man was out of hearing, “because I want you to know that I am sincere in what I say. I assume Ali Azad has babbled to you about the great Mossadegh regime?”

“He mentioned Mossadegh.”

Arsenjani ground out his cigarette. The waiter immediately appeared with a clean ashtray, and Arsenjani lighted another. “The present Shah, when he came to power, had no knowledge of what it takes to rule a country; he had no social mission, no sense of duty. Later, he was thrown out of power and humiliated by Mossadegh and Parliament, with the support of the people.” He paused and blew smoke over our heads. “Now, it is important for you to understand that the Shah was not, and is not, a stupid man. He was badly shaken by those events. Their lesson was not lost on him.”

“Mossadegh didn’t last long,” I said. “And he didn’t go out of his own accord.”

Arsenjani again shrugged his massive shoulders. “It’s true that the Shah could not have returned to power without the help of the Americans. But I ask you to look at the record since then. It’s very doubtful that Mossadegh would have been able to do as much, for the simple reason that by nationalizing the oil industry, he cut himself off from most sources of foreign aid.”

“We’ll never know what Mossadegh would have been able to do, will we? He wasn’t given any time.”

Arsenjani snorted disdainfully. “The Shah’s program of land reform, his ‘White Revolution,’ is unparalleled. The literacy rate has doubled in the last decade. Today the Shah is more than a man who rules only because his father ruled. He’s an urbane, educated man who cares deeply about his country and his people.”

“I’m told the people here cared deeply about Mossadegh.”

“The Shah is a greater man than Mossadegh ever was,” the SAVAK chief said forcefully. There was a slight flush around his cheeks. “And what an underdeveloped country needs more than anything else is a great man. Again I offer you the example of your own country, which seems to survive despite, rather than because of, the men you elect to run it. Someday, perhaps, Iran may be that strong. But that time has not yet come; there are simply too many problems that can be solved only through efficient, autocratic means. The Shah takes care of the affairs of state, and it is the job of men like me to make certain that he remains in power to do it.”

“Spoken like a true patriot, at length and with conviction.”

He didn’t smile. “I am quite serious; I feel that what I say is obvious.” More food came, and Arsenjani gestured out over the expanse of the table. “Eat while it is hot.”

We helped ourselves from platters of steaming rice topped with braised lamb, tomatoes and onions. “You’ve been very patient, Frederickson,” Arsenjani said between mouthfuls.

“I was afraid you’d never notice. You said something about saving the Shah’s life.”

He swallowed a chunk of lamb, sipped more wine, nodded. “It’s quite possible.”

“By killing Hassan Khordad?”

“Correct. You saved us the trouble.” He took another chunk of lamb into his mouth, then closed his eyes, savoring it. I watched the pieces work their way down his throat. “Khordad wasn’t working for us, as you supposed,” he continued, sipping more wine. He suddenly set his glass down hard. His eyes flashed. “In fact, Khordad was a key member of a very dangerous organization sometimes referred to as GEM. You’ve heard of them?”

“I’ve heard of them,” I said, frowning. If it was a ploy, it was a good one, and I couldn’t think of a thing to say. My mind raced back over the events of the past few weeks, trying to sort out the facts and see if they could be rearranged to say what Arsenjani claimed they said, but I was having difficulty concentrating. “The facts—”

“Your problem is that you started off with a basic assumption that was incorrect,” Arsenjani interrupted gently. “Once you concluded that Khordad was a SAVAK agent, everything seemed to fall into place. In fact, the exact opposite was true—which is why we’re sharing this delightful dinner. We take GEM very seriously; Hassan Khordad was a dangerous revolutionary, and his death was a blessing to us.” He hesitated, then added, “A mixed blessing, perhaps. Actually, we were hopeful that he would lead us to the top organizers before you, uh, descended on him and his gunrunning colleagues.”

“The import-export company was a front for the gun smuggling?”

“Correct. That we discovered only recently, and we were about to move in on them in any case.”

“For a GEM agent, Orrin Bannon seemed incredibly pro-Shah.”

The SAVAK chief laughed. “Do you believe that an American who was anti-Shah would be able to get an import-export license from us? He had a good act. In any case, Bannon was a very low-level operative—an employee, really, who worked for money. Only Iranians actually belong to GEM; as far as we know, Khordad was the only contact Bannon ever met. You must have made him very nervous when you started asking questions about Khordad.”

“To say the least.”

“Khordad operated in this country for many years. We found out about him, but GEM got him out of the country a step ahead of us. He traveled for a few months, then finally ended up with what he thought was a safe cover with the same circus you used to work for. I believe you were known then as Mongo the Magnificent; among your friends, the name has stuck with you.”

“I’ll bet you know the color of my bathroom walls.”

“No, but I haven’t had time to review this week’s report,” Arsenjani said smugly. “Anyway, GEM’s activities in your country are more, shall we say, theoretical and organizational. With Khordad, they suddenly had one of their own killers on their hands and weren’t quite sure what to do with him.”

“You’re saying it was GEM that was responsible for Neptune Tabrizi’s death?”

“Correct, inasmuch as GEM was responsible for Khordad’s running amok in the United States.”

“Why was Khordad running amok?”

“Ah,” Arsenjani said, pressing the tips of his fingers together. “Now our information becomes a little vague. I was hoping you might be able to enlighten us in this area.”

Another surprise. “It had something to do with Mehdi Zahedi’s disappearing. I think Khordad’s job was to keep anyone from finding out who Zahedi was, or where he’d gone.”

“Of course.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you know where Zahedi is?”

The question was so unusual that it shocked me into realizing that Arsenjani’s voice and mannerisms, combined with jet lag and Persian wine, were having what amounted to a hypnotic effect. I was still a stranger a long way from home, enmeshed in some very devious business, being asked to play pawn to someone else’s major pieces. It was time for the pawn to back off a bit, which made it my turn to laugh. “Did you bring me up here to pump me?”

“On the contrary, I seem to be the one doing most of the talking; I assure you we don’t need you as an informer, and I would never insult a guest by asking him to volunteer information he didn’t want to divulge.”

Arsenjani, wearing a pained expression, paused to let me speak. He was not a man I would underestimate.

“How did Khordad get involved with Zahedi in the first place?” I said.

“Is it not obvious? The leadership must have saddled poor Zahedi with the thankless task of acting as Khordad’s controller. Now, if we only knew where Zahedi went in such a hurry, we might finally have a line on the leaders’ identities.”

“And no one in the Confederation of Iranian Students knows anything about this?”

Arsenjani laid his palms flat on the table. “Zahedi was a top professional in an ultrasecret terrorist organization. He knew we have informers in the Confederation, even if Ali doesn’t. And Zahedi is very clever; he thought that if he made enough noise we wouldn’t take him any more seriously than we do the rest of those idiot students. Of course, he was wrong; we’ve been aware of his GEM activities for almost a year.”

“What was his role in GEM?”

“Anti-Shah propagandist was his obvious role, but we also believe he was a GEM recruiter.”

“He never tried to recruit Ali.”

Arsenjani smiled. “Would you? No, Zahedi was recruiting professional mercenaries for actual fighting.”

“Aren’t you worried that I might tell Ali he has informers in his organization?”

Arsenjani shrugged broadly. “It wouldn’t make any difference. The information would only set them all to squabbling among themselves, and that would serve the SAVAK’s purpose.”

“You haven’t killed Zahedi?”

“Not yet,” he said softly.

“You know I think Zahedi’s here in Iran. You’re telling me that if he is, you don’t know where?”

Arsenjani laughed sharply. “Ah, I only wish I did. Finding Zahedi would make my life a good deal easier. At the least, it would assure me a larger cottage on the Caspian.”

“Why didn’t you have him assassinated when you had the chance?”

“Frankly, it’s now obvious we should have. As I said, our hope was that he’d eventually lead us to the main organizers. Now it is most important that we find out where he is and why he left.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “If he was warned that you were on to him, it means that GEM has infiltrated the SAVAK.”

He gave a single, perfunctory nod of his head; he looked very uncomfortable. One thing was unequivocally certain: GEM was making Arsenjani’s, not to mention the Shah’s, head spin.

I leaned forward on the table and watched his face as I said, “Who’s Nasser Razvan?”

Arsenjani seemed happy that I’d changed the subject. He gave what appeared to be an appreciative nod, reached into his pocket and removed a maroon Iranian passport, which he laid on the table in front of me. “Nasser is one of our most talented agents. It was Nasser who uncovered the fact that Mehdi Zahedi is a GEM operative. Also, we believe Nasser is very close to unmasking the top leadership.”

I opened the passport and studied the photograph; it showed a dark-skinned man with high cheekbones. The writing, in both French and Farsi, identified the man as Nasser Razvan. “He looks like an American black,” I said as I handed the passport back.

“And he can speak like a resident of one of your ghettos, which is precisely what makes him so valuable. Actually, he’s a Bakhtiari tribesman, but no one who didn’t know would ever guess it. Nasser worked as a laboratory assistant at your university.”

“If Razvan was so close, why did he pull up stakes and fly back here?”

“We’d captured a GEM agent we had reason to believe was top-echelon—”

“Firouz Maleki.” The name in Khordad’s notebook.

“That’s right. Maleki would certainly have been able to tell us what we wanted to know, and we wanted Nasser here when we interrogated him. After all, he was our top American agent.” Arsenjani’s eyes grew opaque. “Unfortunately, Maleki died before we could complete our interrogation.”

“How did he die?”

He glanced up at me sharply. “That’s being investigated.”

“I’ll bet it is. You’re thinking that one of his own terrorist friends may have helped him make a painless exit: the question of GEM in the SAVAK again.”

“Perhaps,” Arsenjani said tightly.

“Why tell me all this?”

“Because GEM, through Khordad, killed your brother’s mistress; we want to destroy GEM. It would seem we have a common interest.”

“You want me to work for the SAVAK?”

“Does that offend you? There are many unresolved questions in this matter that you could help unravel.”

“I’ll give it some thought,” I lied. “You say you don’t know where Mehdi Zahedi is. Do you know that’s not his real name?”

“It’s a nom de guerre. Not being able to learn his real identity has been a major handicap.”

“Why do you suppose Zahedi disappeared on the same day your agent flew back to Iran?”

“That is one of the unresolved questions I was hoping you might have an answer to.”

“I don’t.”

Arsenjani lighted yet another cigarette and studied me through a cloud of blue-white smoke. “It would seem Zahedi somehow found out about Nasser, panicked and ran. It’s very distressing to the SAVAK when a top agent’s cover is blown so quickly and thoroughly.”

“Then you haven’t sent Razvan back yet?”

He shook his head. “And valuable time is being lost.” He paused, sighed. “The fools would even destroy Persepolis.”

“Why should they want to do that?”

“Persepolis is more than just another pile of ruins. It’s a symbol, the very epicenter of our civilization. It’s the crowning jewel of what was once the Persian Empire. Persepolis represents powerful memories; sometimes, memories are all that hold a people together.”

“Persepolis also represents the monarchy.”

“Precisely. Its destruction could have great symbolic meaning to our people. It’s also an excellent hiding place, with a vast network of underground water channels. They planned to kill the Shah during last year’s Shiraz art festival. Fortunately, we uncovered the plot and, in February, were finally able to capture Maleki. Just in time, I might add.”

“Zahedi took off near the end of February. Maybe he found out you’d captured Maleki. He knew you could make him talk. Suddenly he found himself in a very vulnerable position.”

“We must determine if GEM has infiltrated SAVAK,” Arsenjani said to himself. He glanced up and reddened, apparently embarrassed by his own intensity. “But that is my problem.”

“It would be my problem if I started working for you. You know, it’s still possible that Zahedi’s here.”

“Anything’s possible, but I doubt it—especially if he knows we’re on to him. If he is here, we’ll eventually track him down.”

The napkin I’d been arranging into a smooth pyramid fell when I took my hand away. “What am I supposed to tell Ali when I get back? He still thinks he paid for this trip.”

Arsenjani spread his hands on the table. “I’m sure you can make up a story. If you prefer not to, tell him Zahedi is a GEM agent; tell him we know everything he does.” Arsenjani abruptly leaned forward. “When you report back to Ali, you’ll put the fear of God into him. We know everything he does, everyone he talks to; he’ll know he can’t fart without our smelling it.”

“You underestimate Ali,” I said evenly. “He’s too passionate, but he’s intelligent. Iran could use him.”

“Then you tell him to return here and bring his skills back to where they’re needed. Tell him to stop his nonsense and return to help us build a better country for our people.”

“No reprisals?”

“No reprisals. You have my personal word on that.” Now he leaned back in his chair. He looked rather satisfied with himself. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“Yeah. Where have you got Garth?”

Jet lag and wine again; it was absolutely the wrong thing to say, the wrong attitude to take. The self-satisfied smile on Arsenjani’s face froze, then turned ugly. “You’re a fool. Now you will come with me, please.”