had once been the mountain hideaway of the Hashishiyun, an ancient Ismaili sect that was better known in the West as the Assassins. It seemed appropriate, Oster thought, more so when he considered that the business of the Kashgai, most of whom smoked hashish at all times of the day, was morphine. The Kashgai had seemed genuinely delighted with the weapons, the gold, and the golden pistols that North Team had brought with them from the Ukraine. Oster thought they were a fearsome, shifty lot, and on that first night, in the ruins of the fortress, he had half expected to wake up and find his throat being cut by one of these murderous-looking and intoxicated tribesmen. He had slept fitfully, with his hand holding a Mauser pistol underneath the knapsack he used as a pillow. It was hard to believe that these men, dressed like Ali Baba’s forty thieves, could have found any common cause with Nazi Germany.
Ebtehaj, huge and bearded, with the shoulders of a bear and smelling strongly of liniment, and forever feeding a string of prayer beads through his rope-thick fingers, told Oster how it was that the Kashgai were helping him and his troops. It was the day after their arrival, and after a two-hour hike through the hills the team had rendezvoused with the two trucks that would take them on the next stage of their journey, a drive of more than a hundred kilometers southwest into Teheran.
“It’s not that we’re for Germany,” he explained, “so much as that we’re against the British and the Russians. Germany has no history of interference in Persia. But for these two it is a game about who will control our oil. The British have been here since the last war. But they came in greater force in 1941, to protect Russia’s ass. They deposed the shah, sent him into exile, and made his son, Crown Prince Reza Pahlavi, their puppet. The German embassy was closed. All pro-German Persians were arrested and imprisoned without trial in Sultanabad, including the prime minister. But the real leader of the opposition, Habibullah Nobakht, managed to get away somehow, and now he makes war on truck convoys.
“You see, Captain, Persia is a most independent country. Yes, it is true, the country has been invaded many times. But the invader always came, looted, and then left. It was worth no one’s while to stay here. What would they stay for? Persia is a desert country. But that was before oil, of course, and before Russia realized she had a back door through which she might be supplied by the Americans. Which is how you find us now.
“The British and the Russians tell us that they will not interfere in Persia after the war, but they rule their respective zones like independent provinces in their empires. The Russians make us their cesspit, sending us all their Polish prisoners and their Jews. Never have so many people come to Persia. Maybe a quarter of a million people. And these Poles, they bring all sorts of diseases. All sorts of problems. Why send them here? If Poland is Russia’s ally then why not keep them in Russia? They are Slavs, not Persians. But no one listens.” The wrestler laughed. “All right, so we can fix that, yes? We will kill Stalin, Churchill, and Roosevelt, and maybe they will leave us alone. Then we will kill all the Poles. Only then will Persia be good for Persians.”
The trucks had brought North Team to Teheran’s bazaar, a city within a city, a labyrinth of streets and alleys. Each street specialized in selling a particular commodity, and the wrestler took them to the carpet street, where he had arranged for them to stay in a disused rug factory. Still full of rugs, it proved quite comfortable. Food was brought to them. Their first hot meal in Iran consisted of bread and a soupy stew called dizi, and tea was served from a samovar that made Oster’s Ukrainians feel entirely at home. This was just as well, for Ebtehaj told Oster that, in his opinion, it had been a mistake for Berlin to send Ukrainians on this mission. His Kashgai brothers were half inclined to think of them as Russians, and it took Oster some time to convince the wrestler that Ukrainians were not only different from Russians but that they also had more reason to hate the Russians than anyone.
On Wednesday morning the wrestler took Oster to the main entrance to the bazaar, where they were to meet one of the German agents in Teheran. Oster wore a dark suit and a cap. Since most of the men in the city wore European-style trousers, short coats, and Pahlavi hats, he didn’t look out of place. Oster knew very little about his contact, Lothar Schoellhorn, other than that he had once run a boxing academy in Berlin and, for a while before his posting to Persia, had acted as an assassin for the Abwehr. Oster had half expected to meet a thug, but instead he found himself with a man of considerable learning and culture who held strong views on his adopted city. From the bazaar gate, the three men walked north, up Ferdosi Street in the direction of the British embassy.
“It’s a disappointing place, Teheran,” said Schoellhorn. “From an architectural point of view, at least. The modern part is rather French, and, as a result, somewhat pretentious. Like a poor man’s version of the Champs- Elysees. Even the Mejlis-that’s the Iranian Parliament-is not all that distinguished. Only the bazaar retains something of the old, absolutely Oriental Teheran. Everything else has been modernized into mediocrity, I’m afraid. There’s the odd mosque, of course. But that’s about all.
“In winter it’s much too cold, and in summer it’s much too hot, and for this reason, the British and the Americans each maintain two embassies. Right now the British are in their winter embassy, which you shall see presently. It’s a rather ramshackle building that was constructed, poorly, by the Indian Public Works Department many years ago. Trusting Persians as little as they do, the British still maintain a small escort of Indian infantry for the ambassador’s protection. Here, and at the summer embassy in Gulheh.” Schoellhorn smiled. “It wouldn’t do to attack the wrong embassy.”
Oster glanced around, nervous that someone might overhear.
“Oh, there’s nothing to worry about, my friend. It’s true, the city is crawling with NKVD agents, but frankly a blind man could see them coming. None of them speak Farsi, and even in their zone of occupation to the north of the city, they employ no Persian police or gendarmerie. Which makes them less than effective. Elsewhere, law and order are the province of the British and the Americans. We shall have to be a little careful of the British, I think. But the Americans are wholly ignorant of the Persians and only manage to keep order by virtue of the fact that they are not yet as hated as the Russians or the British. The fellow in charge of the American police, a general named Schwarzkopf, used to narrate a popular cops-and-robbers program on radio-can you believe it? This same Schwarzkopf was the Dummkopf who led the investigation into the Lindbergh kidnapping case, and you will perhaps recall what a mess was made there-and how a German was framed for the child’s murder.”
Schoellhorn slowed a little as they came in sight of a large barrier covered in barbed wire that prevented further progress. Behind the barrier were two armored cars and several Indian troops wearing British uniforms.
“Beyond the barrier and those trees are the British and the Russian embassies,” said Schoellhorn. “They are separated by a narrow side street, but in the wall of the British legation is a narrow wicker gate where a sentry is usually posted at night and which presents your best point of entry. A map of the British compound will be provided, but on the other side of the wall you will find lots of trees and bushes which will provide ample opportunity for cover. There’s a long balustraded verandah on the eastern part of the legation compound, and very likely the Big Three will be immediately behind the French windows. To the west are stables and outhouses accommodating not horses but troops guarding the legation. As I said, they’re Indians mostly. Or, to be more precise, Sikhs. They’re courageous enough, no question. But I gather they’re none too fond of bombardment, or so a friend of mine in the British Public Relations Bureau here in Teheran would have me believe. There was a bomb blast in the city a few months ago and the Sikhs legged it, I’m told. The minute our bombers drop their ordnance, they’ll probably make a run for it.”
“What about the Russian legation?” asked Oster.
“Crawling with Popovs. One in every tree. Even the waiters are NKVD. Floodlights, dogs, machine-gun nests. The building has just been subject to an extensive renovation. A new air-raid bunker, it seems.” Schoellhorn lit a cigarette. “No, it’s just as well your target is the British legation. From the look of things, I doubt Churchill even considers the possibility that he might be assassinated. Still, there’s one thing about the British legation that makes it the safest place in Teheran.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“The water. The British pipe in water from a pure source in the hills to the north. They even sell it to the Russians. It even crossed my mind that you should make this part of your plan. You see, every morning a Russian and an American water cart turn up for their water. But then again, you’d hardly want to be inside the legation walls if and when the Luftwaffe start to bomb the place.”
“Good point,” grinned Oster. “Besides, if we do manage to kill the Big Three, it won’t be water I’m drinking, but champagne. Eh, Ebtehaj?”
The wrestler gave an obsequious little bow. “Regrettably, alcohol is not permitted to Muslims,” he said.
Oster smiled politely and stared beyond the wrestler’s sturdy shoulder at the purple screen of snow-capped mountains that lay behind the city. It would not be easy getting out of Teheran after an assassination, he reflected, and suddenly Oster felt a very long way from home.
