15

At the Shiraz police station I was marched to a small room in the rear and motioned into a straight-backed chair. A bank of bright lights shone in my eyes, just like in the movies. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a desk with a scarred, warped top. Arsenjani settled down on that and we stared at each other. He didn’t say anything; I didn’t say anything. I was in no hurry; considering the fact that I had only one card, I didn’t want to play my hand too soon.

I hadn’t had anything to drink for a few hours, and my tongue felt twice its normal size. There were a glass and a carafe filled with water on the desk next to Arsenjani, and I assumed they were there as an incentive for me to give the right answers. That was assuming there were any questions left he didn’t already know the answers to. He seemed in less of a hurry to ask questions than I was to get a drink, so I decided to try the direct approach.

“How about a glass of water for old times’ sake?”

“Of course,” Arsenjani said absently. He poured me a glass from the carafe and I drank it down greedily. He refilled the glass and I drained it again; the water was cool and fresh. He offered me more, but I declined. My tongue was shrinking back to its normal size, and I didn’t need a stomach cramp. Arsenjani covered the carafe and pushed it behind him. “It seems you’ve discovered our little secret,” he continued drily. He was still smiling, but his eyes were colder than it ever gets in Iran.

“What have you done with the girl? She doesn’t know anything.”

“We’re aware of that. She’s already been in touch with us.”

That came like a blow in the stomach. I thought of the young girl with the wheat-colored hair and green eyes and felt a sense of betrayal I knew I had no right to feel.

“Naturally, we’d been looking for you,” Arsenjani continued. “Her call saved us—and her—a lot of trouble. Her behavior may shock you but, you see, Miss Martin knows Iran; when in doubt, call the police. She was simply protecting herself.”

Given enough time to think about it, I’d probably decide she’d done the right thing. In any case, I had other things to worry about at the moment. The door opened and I glanced up at the man who entered. He wore a military uniform. The major’s insignia on the collar tabs harmonized with his commanding presence and clashed with his youth. I didn’t need an introduction.

Mehdi Zahedi/Nasser Razvan looked even more undernourished than his pictures—a condition even the tailored uniform couldn’t quite compensate for. His skin looked like brown crayon over chalk; it was the kind of pallor a man gets from spending a lot of time in a hospital.

Zahedi was no Atlas, but then he didn’t need to be. His eyes were a hot, wet black, and he moved with an electric air of complete confidence and authority that made him seem about a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than he was. I was sorry I’d never heard him speak; I imagined he could really set a crowd to humming.

“Greetings from the Confederation of Iranian Students.” I’d intended to sound ironic, but it came out merely silly.

“Dr. Frederickson,” Zahedi said, bowing slightly. He spoke with a New Yorker’s accent, and I found that amusing; it was so amusing it made me even more homesick. “I’ve heard a lot about you, and I’ve seen you on campus many times. You’re called Mongo by your friends.”

“A lot of your ex-friends are going to be calling you ‘spy.’”

“You call me a spy. Ali and the others call me a revolutionary.”

“Not anymore. Things change.”

“Some things change, but this isn’t one of them. I’ll be returning to New York soon, but that isn’t your concern.”

“My brother is my concern. There’s no more need to bullshit. Did you kill him?”

“We’ll ask the questions,” Arsenjani snapped.

“Look,” I said, deciding it was as good a time as any to slap my one card down hard on the table, “I’ve still got something to offer you. You’re hot to get Boy Wonder here back into place in New York. Frankly, I don’t give a shit what you Persians do to each other, so I’ll cooperate with you. I can easily give Ali such a story as you would not believe. If you release Garth, I’ll help you provide a cover for your man.”

Arsenjani made a clucking sound. “I’m not sure we can trust you.”

“I’ll write him a report, tell him I’m planning to stay on in Iran for a couple of months. At the rate things have been heating up, in two or three months either you’ll have crushed GEM or you’ll all be fighting in the trenches. My only price is that you let Garth go.” My next words were forced out of me as I felt tears well in my eyes and I desperately fought them back. “For Christ’s sake, at least tell me if he’s dead.”

“We have our own excellent forgers,” Arsenjani said. “A report along the lines you propose is already being prepared.”

“All right, you pricks,” I said heatedly. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen if we can’t get down to some serious negotiations. Before I left I sent a detailed report to … someone. That someone will open it and release the information to my press contacts if he doesn’t hear from me soon. Those contacts will dig, and you’ll really be screwed when the newspapers get hold of this story. Old Himself, assuming he stays alive much longer, will be very unhappy with you. You’d at least better check with him before you do something stupid.”

Arsenjani smiled thinly, then leaned over to the other side of the desk and pulled a drawer open. He drew out a large envelope and dropped it on the desk. I could feel the blood rush from my heart, and for a moment I felt faint. It was the report I’d sent to Phil Statler. My card had turned up a joker.

“Those fuckers at Military Intelligence put a mail cover on Statler and me,” I whispered, suddenly short of breath.

“I’m afraid so,” Zahedi said softly, moving closer to me. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, perhaps we can talk seriously. Colonel Arsenjani thinks you may know more than you think you do—or are telling us. You’d be well advised to cooperate.”

“I’m all cooperated out,” I said, feeling drained but trying to gather enough strength for a quick killing attack on one of them. “I know what you’re after, but I can’t help you. I haven’t got the slightest idea who the GEM leader is. That isn’t what I was being paid to find out.”

Zahedi scratched his head, grunted. “I wonder. There may be somebody you contacted, or who contacted you, who at least made you suspicious. Think about it.”

“I have thought about it. I have no ideas, not even an opinion. Look, Mehdi, or Nasser, or whatever your name is—”

“Mehdi is fine. Actually, I’m rather used to it.”

“All right, Mehdi, here I am chatting with the cream of the SAVAK. If you couldn’t find the GEM leaders in all the time you’ve been working on it, what makes you think I could have done it in a few weeks?”

“There are other questions we’re interested in,” Zahedi said, eyeing me intently.

“Me too. Why didn’t you turn right around and fly back to New York after Firouz Maleki died? You must have known Ali would get hyper.”

“I said we will ask all questions,” Arsenjani repeated softly, menacingly. “So far you are not doing well, Frederickson.”

“Tough shit,” I said to Arsenjani. And to Zahedi: “You put on a great act for Ali and his boys, but now it’s over. Your cover was broken when John Simpson found out who you really are. It’s still broken, and all the king’s camels aren’t going to put it together again. You left tracks: Simpson found them, I found them, and in the fuutre somebody else is going to find them. Your career in the United States is over.” I paused, shot a glance at Arsenjani, who was quietly tracing patterns on the desk top with his finger, looked back at Zahedi. “By the way, how did Simpson find out you’re Nasser Razvan? And how did he make the connection so quickly between you and Orrin Bannon?”

“Now we are getting to the crux of the matter,” Zahedi said sharply, pointing a long, bony index finger at my forehead.

I didn’t know, but it was a question to which I’d been giving a lot of thought. Zahedi was too experienced and good to leave chicken tracks behind, even if he was in a hurry; yet John Simpson had gathered enough information in just a few days to get himself killed. I didn’t believe it was simply good detective work; there hadn’t been time. And it hadn’t been luck. Luck is one thing, walking on water something else again.

“Obviously, somebody tipped him off,” I said. “There’s no other way he could have tracked Zahedi so quickly.”

“Of course,” Arsenjani interjected impatiently. “But who gave him the information?”

“Probably somebody in the SAVAK, Arsenjani. That’s a ho-ho-ho on you boys.”

“Who?” Arsenjani snapped.

“Hey, c’mon! How the hell do you expect me to know? I wasn’t the one who got tipped.”

“You weren’t shown a list of SAVAK agents in the United States?”

“No,” I said, puzzled.

The question also seemed to take Zahedi by surprise. He turned to Arsenjani and spoke in Farsi, too rapidly for me to follow. But I was certain he was asking his superior about the list. Arsenjani shook his head impatiently.

“I love it,” I said, grinning. “You mean there may be a list of SAVAK agents floating around somewhere in the United States?”

“Never mind,” Arsenjani snapped. “If you weren’t shown such a list, then how did you find out so much?”

“Riding a dead man’s coattails, and a little luck. I read Simpson’s notes and made a few guesses.” Arsenjani made a noise in his throat which I didn’t like; it sounded as though he were getting ready to spit me out. “C’mon, Zahedi,” I said quickly, “why didn’t you go back to the United States when you had the chance?”

“Cholera,” Zahedi said after a long pause, ignoring a sharp glance from his boss. “I was exposed. Naturally, I had the best medical care, but by the time the disease had run its course the damage had already been done.”

“Ali Azad had already hired Simpson, and somebody had put Simpson on your trail.”

“Yes,” Zahedi said easily. “The rest is history.”

It seemed half a lifetime since Phil Statler had come to me with his problem of a missing muscle act. I was very tired. I slumped in my chair and tried to look defeated, which wasn’t very difficult. I’d given up hope of ever finding out what had happened to Garth, and I was looking for an opening to get at one of my interrogators. “It’s just a damn shame the bright young star of the SAVAK can’t play spy at the university anymore,” I said softly to Zahedi, playing for time.

“Well, as I said, I think your concern is premature,” Zahedi said pleasantly. “I enjoy working in your country.”

The pale young man lighted a cigarette, coughed, then absently reached behind his boss for the carafe of water. Arsenjani grasped the younger man’s wrist and shook his head. It was a small gesture, almost imperceptible, but it bothered me enough to make the sweat on my body turn cold. Circuits were trying to close somewhere in the back of my mind. “If Garth and I don’t go back, there are going to be some nasty questions raised.”

“Really?” Arsenjani said mockingly. “And who will raise these questions?”

“Phil Statler, for one. Garth and I have a lot of friends. Sooner or later someone is going to dig up this whole mess. And Ali’s not stupid. There isn’t going to be any rousing welcome for Mehdi if I turn up missing, report or no report. You’d better hope Garth and I die of old age, because that’s the only thing anyone’s going to believe. Your American operation is blown no matter what you do. Since it won’t serve any purpose to kill us, you might as well let us go.”

“You can’t be serious,” Zahedi said.

I laughed nervously. “I thought I had a pretty good argument.”

“You’ve imperiled a carefully planned operation,” Arsenjani said, real anger shimmering in his voice. “And nothing less than the security of our nation and the life of the Shahanshah is at stake!”

“Imperiled, shit,” I said with a kind of desperate fury. “It’s ruined. Can’t you see that’s the point? This business was your game, not mine. You gambled and you lost; let it go now. Besides, you’ve given fair warning to even the dumbest revolutionaries that you’re breathing down their necks.”

Zahedi was looking down, studying the toe of his polished jackboot, which he was tapping up and down. Arsenjani stared at me a long time; his dark eyes looked as if they’d been flash-frozen in his head. Finally he shifted his gaze to Zahedi and snapped his fingers. Two guards who’d been waiting outside the door marched in.

“Take him out,” Arsenjani said softly.

The presence of the guards surprised me, and I knew I’d waited too long. Still, I thought I might have a shot at Zahedi. I lunged out of the chair at him, but he was quicker—or I was slower—than I’d anticipated; he quickly stepped to one side and hit me on the side of the head. By then the guards were on me. I caught the first one with a stiff jab to the solar plexus. The second guard grabbed me around the neck. I twisted, bringing my knee up hard against the inside of his knee. That set him down. I crouched and spun, but it was too late; Arsenjani was on me like a cat. He parried one blow and brought the butt of his gun down on the top of my head. There was a sound like corn popping inside my skull. I listened to it for a while, then drifted off to sleep.