Frantically they obeyed and all the others - I don’t blame them, the attack so sudden and they unprepared, unarmed, and carefully panicked. Into the bedroom. Empty but for a paralyzed Iranian servant, arms over his head, half under the bed. Blowing the safe quickly, everything into the carryall, then out again and down the stairs three at a time, then away into the milling crowds, Ibrahim Kyabi and the others covering me, retreating perfectly, every objective achieved.
Source’s got to be impressed, he thought again, my promotion to major’s got to be assured, and Father’ll be so proud of me. “By God and the Prophet of God,” he said involuntarily as another surge of ecstasy swept him - not noticing what he had said. “I’ve never felt so fullfilled.” Happily he went back to his work. So far the safe had revealed no treasures, but lots of documents about CIA involvement in Iran, some private ambassador rubber stamps, one cipher book that could be special, private accounts, some jewelry of little value, a few ancient coins. Never mind, he thought. There’s lots to go through yet, diaries and personal papers. Time passed for him easily. Soon Ibrahim Kyabi would be here to discuss the Women’s March. He wanted to know how to disrupt it to further Tudeh objectives and to damage Khomeini and Shi’ism. Khomeini’s the real danger, he thought, the only danger. That strange old man, him and his granite inflexibility. The quicker he’s brought before the No God the better. A current of freezing air came through the broken panes. It did not disturb him. He was warm for he wore his heavy leather jacket and sweater and shirt and underwear and good socks and strong shoes: “Always have good socks and shoes in case you’ve got to run,” his teachers had said. “Always be prepared to run….”
He remembered, amused, running away from Erikki Yokkonen, leading him into the maze and losing him near the Death-house of the Lepers. I’m sure I’m going to have to kill him one day, he thought. And his hellcat wife. What about Azadeh? What about the daughter of the Abdollah Khan, Abdollah the Cruel who though valuable as a double agent, is becoming too arrogant, too independent, and too important for our safety? Yes, but now I’d like both husband and wife back in Tabriz, doing what we require of them. And as for me, I’d like to be on leave again, once more home again, safe again, Igor Mzytryk, captain KGB again, safe at home with Delaurah, my arms around her, in our fine bed with the finest linens from Ireland, her green eyes sparkling, skin like cream, and oh so beautiful. Only seven more weeks and our firstborn arrives. Oh, I hope it’s a son….
With half an ear - as always most of his hearing tuned to detect danger - he heard the muezzins calling for evening prayer. He began clearing the little table. Very soon now Ibrahim Kyabi would be here and there was no need for the young man to know what did not concern him. Everything went quickly into the carryall. He lifted the floorboard and put the carryall into the hollow beneath that also contained a loaded, spare automatic, carefully wrapped in oilcloth, and half a dozen British fragmentary grenades. A little dirt scuffed into the cracks and now no sign of a hiding place. He doused the oil lamp until the wick was just alight, and pulled the curtains back. A little snow had collected on the inside of the sill. Contentedly he began to wait. Half an hour passed. Not like Kyabi to be late.
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 half-seen 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, American-accented. He was a cleanshaven 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.