The voices vanished as the man turned the cap and put the pen on the tabletop with a wry smile. He was handsome and olive-skinned, an importer-exporter of fine carpets like generations of his forebears, American educated, his name Aaron ben Aaron - his main occupation major, Israeli Special Intelligence. “I’d never have figured Abu bin Talak as kinky,” he said dryly.
The other man grunted. “They’re all kinky. I wouldn’t have figured the girl for a hooker.”
Aaron’s long fingers toyed with the pen, reluctant to let it go. “Great gadget, Glenn, saves so much time. Wish I’d had one years ago.” “KGB’ve got a new model out this year, good for a hundred yards’ range.” Glenn Wesson sipped his bourbon on the rocks. He was American, a longtime oil trader. Real profession, career CIA. “It’s not as small as this but effective.”
“Can you get us some?”
“Easier for you to do it. Just get your guys to ask Washington.” They saw Gavallan disappear into the lobby. “Interesting.”
“What’d’you think?” Aaron asked.
“That we could throw a British chopper company to the Khomeini wolves anytime we want - along with all their pilots. That’d make Talbot bust a gut and Robert Armstrong and all MI6 which isn’t a bad idea.” Wesson laughed softly. “Talbot needs a good shafting from time to time. What’s the problem with S-G, you think they’re an MI6 cover operation?”
“We’re not sure what they’re up to, Glenn. We suspect just the reverse, that’s why I thought you should listen in. Too many coincidences. On the surface they’re legit - yet they’ve a French pilot Sessonne who’s sleeping with, and sponsoring, a well-connected PLO courier, Sayada Bertolin; they’ve a Finn, Erikki Yokkonen, closely associated with Abdollah Khan who’s certainly a double agent leaning more to the KGB than our side and openly, violently anti-Jew; Yokkonen’s very close to the Finnish Intelligence man, Christian Tollonen, who’s suspect by definition, Yokkonen’s family connections in Finland would position him to be a perfect deep-cover Soviet asset and we just got a buzz that he’s up in the Sabalan with his 212, helping Soviets dismantle your covert radar sites all over.” “Jesus. You sure?”
“No - I said a buzz. But we’re checking it out. Next, the Canadian Lochart: Lochart’s married into a known anti-Zionist bazaari family, PLO agents are living in his apartment right now, h - ”
“Yes, but we heard the pad was commandeered and don’t forget he tried to help those pro-Shah, pro-Israel officers escape.”
“Yes, but they got shot out of the skies, they’re all dead and curiously he isn’t. Valik and General Seladi would certainly have been in or near any cabinet-in-exile - we lost another two very important assets. Lochart’s suspect, his wife and her family’re pro-Khomeini which means anti-us.” Aaron smiled sardonically. “Aren’t we the great Satan after you? Next: the American Starke helps put down a fedayeen attack at Bandar Delam, gets very friendly with another rabid anti-Shah, anti-Israel zealot Zataki who - ” “Who?”
“An anti-Shah fighter, intellectual, Sunni Muslim who organized Abadan oilfield strikes, blew up three police stations, and now is heading up the Abadan Revolutionary Komiteh and not long for this earth. Drink?” “Sure, thanks. Same. You mentioned Sayada Bertolin - we’ve had her tabbed too. You think she could be turned?”
“I wouldn’t trust her. Best thing to do with her is just watch and see who she leads to. We’re after her controller - can’t peg him yet.” Aaron ordered for Wesson and a vodka for himself. “Back to S-G. So Zataki’s enemy. Starke speaks Farsi, like Lochart. Both keep bad company. Next Sandor Petrofi: Hungarian dissident with family still in Hungary, another potential KGB mole or at least a KGB tool. Rudi Lutz, German with close family over the Iron Curtain, always suspect, Neuchtreiter in Lengeh the same.” He nodded to where Scragger had been. “The old man’s just a trained killer, a mercenary to point at us, you, anyone with the same result. Gavallan? You should get your London people to tab him - don’t forget he chose all the others, don’t forget he’s British - quite possibly his whole operation’s a KGB cover an - ” “No way,” Wesson said, suddenly irritated. Goddamn, he thought, why’re these guys so paranoid - even old Aaron who’s the best there is. “It’s all too pat. No way.”
“Why not? He could be fooling you. The British are past masters at it - like Philby, McLean, Blake, and all the rest.”
“Like Crosse.” Wesson’s lips went into a thin line. “In that you’re right, old buddy.” “Who?”
“Roger Crosse - ten-odd years back, Mister Spymaster, but buried and covered up with all the skill Limeys have - he’s one of those from the Old Boys’ Club, the foulest traitors of them all.”
“Who was Crosse?”
“Armstrong’s ex-boss and friend from Hong Kong Special Branch in the old days. Officially a minor deputy director of MI6 but really top of their cream operation, Special Intelligence, traitor, terminated by the KGB at his own request just before we were going to nail the bastard.” “You proved it? That they terminated him?”
“Sure. Poison dart from close range, SOP, that’s what sent him onward. We had him cornered, no way he could get away like the others. We had him nailed, triple agent. At that time we’d a plant inside the Soviet embassy in London - guy called Brodnin. He gave us Crosse then disappeared, poor bastard, someone must’ve fingered him.”
“God cursed British, they breed spies like lice.”
“Not true, they’ve some great catchers too - we’ve all got traitors.” “We don’t.”
“Don’t bet on it, Aaron,” Wesson said sourly. “There’re traitors all over - with all the leaks in Tehran before and since the Shah left, there’s got to be another high-up traitor our side.”
“Talbot or Armstrong?”
Wesson winced. “If it’s either of them we should just quit.” “That’s what the enemy wants you to do, quit and get to hell out of the Middle East. We can’t, so we think differently,” Aaron said, eyes dark and cold, face set, watching him carefully. “Talking of that, why should our old friend Colonel Hashemi Fazir get away with murdering the new SAVAMA hatchet man, General Janan?”
Wesson blanched. “Janan’s dead? You’re sure?”
“Car bomb, Monday night.” Aaron’s eyes narrowed. “Why so sorry? Was he one of yours?”
“Could have been. We, er, we were negotiating.” Wesson hesitated, then sighed. “But Hashemi’s still alive? I thought he was on the Revolutionary Komiteh’s urgent condemned list.”
“He was, not now. I heard this morning his name’s off, his rank’s confirmed, Inner Intelligence’s reinstated - supposedly all approved by on high.” Aaron sipped his drink. “If he’s back in favor, after all he did for the Shah and us, he’s got to have a very high protector.”
“Who?” Wesson saw the other shrug, eyes ranging the terraces. His smile vanished. “That could mean he’s been working for the Ayatollah all the time.”
“Perhaps.” Aaron toyed with the fountain pen again. “Another curiosity. Tuesday Hashemi was seen getting on the S-G 125 at Tehran Airport with Armstrong; they went to Tabriz and were back in three hours-odd.” “I’ll be goddamned!”
“What’s that all add up to?”
“Jesus, I don’t know - but I think we better find out.” Wesson dropped his voice further. “One thing’s certain, for Hashemi to get back in favor he’s got to know where some very important bodies are buried, huh? Such information would be highly valuable… highly valuable, say to the Shah.” “Shah?” Aaron started to smile, stopped as he saw Wesson’s expression. “You don’t seriously figure the Shah’s got a chance to come back?”