lot to learn.” He puffed his cigarette for a while, watching the traffic. “Pull over for a moment, will you, Robert?” When the car stopped, Hashemi said, “Mohammed, go back to the HQ and wait for me there. Make sure no one - no one - gets at Yazernov before me. Tell the team just to make sure everything’s ready. I want to start at midnight.” “Yes, Colonel.” The younger man left them.
Hashemi watched him vanish into the crowds. “I could use a large whisky and soda. Drive on for a while, Robert.”
“Sure.” Armstrong let out the clutch, glanced at him, hearing an undercurrent. “Problem?”
“Many.” Hashemi studied the traffic and the pedestrians, his face set. “I don’t know how long we’ll be allowed to operate, how long we’re safe, or who to trust.”
“What else’s new?” Armstrong smiled mirthlessly. “That’s an occupational hazard,” he said - the lesson well learned from eleven years as adviser to Inner Intelligence, and twenty years before that in the Hong Kong police. “You want to be present when Yazernov’s interrogated, Robert?” “Yes, if I’m not in the way.”
“What does MI6 want with him?”
“I’m just an ex-CID, Special Branch, on private contract to help you fellows set up the equivalent service, remember?”
“I remember very well. Two five-year contracts, the last happily extended until next year when you retire with a pension.”
“Fat chance,” Armstrong said disgustedly. “Khomeini and the government’ll pay my pension? Fat chance.” It was very much on his mind that now all his Iranian service was wasted, and with the devaluation of the Hong Kong dollar since he retired in ‘66, his real retirement would be scratchy. “My pension’s had it.”
The dark eyes hardened. “Robert, what does MI6 want with this bastard?” Armstrong frowned. Something was very wrong tonight. The youth Kyabi should not have escaped the net and Hashemi’s as nervous as a rookie agent on his first drop behind the lines. “Far as I know they don’t. I’m interested in him. Me,” he said casually.
“Why?”
Such a long story, Armstrong thought. Should I tell you that Dimitri Yazernov’s a cover for Fedor Rakoczy, the Russian Islamic-Marxist you’ve been trying to catch for months? Should I tell you the real reason I was told to help you grab him tonight is that, quite by chance, MI6’s just discovered through a Czech defector his real name is Igor Mzytryk, son of Petr Oleg Mzytryk who back in my Hong Kong days used to be known as Gregor Suslev, master spy, we thought long since dead.
No, we don’t want Yazernov but we do want - I want - the father who’s supposed to live just north of the border somewhere, within reach, oh, God, let him be alive and within reach, for we would dearly like to debrief that sod by any means possible - ex-intelligence chief, Far East, senior lecturer in espionage at Vladivostok University, senior Party member and God knows what since.
“I think - we think - Yazernov’s more important than just Tudeh liaison with students. He’s a dead ringer for your Kurdish dissident, Ali bin Hassan Karakose.”
“You mean he’s the same man?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible.”
Armstrong shrugged. He had thrown him a bone; if he didn’t want to gnaw it that was his problem. The traffic was snarled again, everyone hooting and cursing. The big man shut his ears to the noise, stubbed out the local Iranian cigarette.
Hashemi frowned, watching him. “What’s your interest in Karakose and the Kurds - if what you say’s true?”
“Kurds straddle all the borders, Soviet, Iraqi, Turkish, and
551 Iranian,” he said easily. “The whole Kurdish national movement’s very sensitive and easy for the Soviets to exploit - with heavy international implications throughout Asia Minor. Of course we’re interested.” The colonel stared out of the window, lost in thought, snow falling lightly. A cyclist squeezed past, carelessly banging the side of the car. To Armstrong’s surprise - usually Hashemi was well tempered - he furiously wound down his window and cursed the youth and all his generations. Grimly he stubbed his cigarette out. “Drop me here, Robert. We’ll begin with Yazernov at midnight. You’re welcome.” He started to open the door. “Hang on, old son,” Armstrong said. “We’ve been friends a long time. What the hell’s up?”
The colonel hesitated. Then he closed the door. “SAVAK’s been outlawed by the government, so have all intelligence departments, including us, and ordered disbanded at once.”
“Yes, but the prime minister’s office has already told you to continue, undercover. You’ve nothing to fear, Hashemi. You’re not tainted. You’ve been told to smash the Tudeh, the fedayeen, and the Islamic-Marxists…you showed me the order. Wasn’t tonight’s operation following this line?” “Yes. Yes, it was.” Again Hashemi paused, his face set and his voice thick. “Yes, it was - but! What do you know about the Islamic Revolutionary Komiteh?”
“Only that it’s supposed to consist of men personally selected by Khomeini,” Armstrong began honestly. “Its powers are loose, we don’t know the who, how many, where, or when they meet or even if Khomeini presides or what.” “I now know for a fact that, with Khomeini’s approval, in future ultimate power is to be invested in this komiteh, that Bazargan is only a momentary figurehead until the komiteh issues the new Islamic Constitution which will put us back to the time of the Prophet.”
“Bloody hell!” Armstrong muttered. “No elected government?” “None.” Hashemi was beside himself with rage. “Not as we know the term.” “Perhaps the Constitution‘11 be rejected, Hashemi. The people’ll have to vote it in, not everyone’s a fanatic support - ”
“By God and the Prophet, don’t fool yourself, Robert!” the colonel said harshly. “The vast majority are fundamentalist, that’s all they’ve got to hang on to. Our bourgeois, rich, and middle classes are Tehranis, Tabrizis, Abadanis, Isfahanis, all Shah-552 sponsored, a handful compared to the other thirty-six million of us, most of whom can’t even read or write. Of course whatever Khomeini approves will be voted in! And we both know what his vision of Islam, the Koran, and Sharia is.”
“How soon will… how soon will they have the Constitution ready?”
“Do you understand so little about us, after all this time?” Hashemi said irritably. “The moment we seize power we use it before it slips away. The new Constitution went into effect the moment that poor bastard Bakhtiar was betrayed by Carter, betrayed by the generals, and forced to flee. As to Bazargan, pious, honest, fair, and democratically inclined, Khomeini-appointed, legal prime minister pending elections, the poor bastard’s just a dupe for anything and everything that goes wrong between now and then.” “You mean he’ll be the scapegoat - be put on trial?” “Trial? What trial? Haven’t I told you what the komiteh considers a trial? If they charge him, he’s shot. Insha’Allah! Last, and why I can’t think straight and I’m so angry I need to get drunk, I heard this afternoon, very privately, I heard that SAVAK’s been secretly reorganized, it’s going to be rechristened SAVAMA - and Abrim Pahmudi’s been made director!”
“Christ Almighty!” Armstrong felt as though he’d been smashed in the stomach. Abrim Pahmudi was one of three lifelong friends of the Shah who had been to school with him in Iran and later in Switzerland, who had risen to become high in the Imperial council, SAVAK, and, it was rumored, after the Shah’s family, his most-sought-after counselor - and who right now was supposed to be in hiding, waiting an opportunity to negotiate with the Bazargan government on the Shah’s behalf a constitutional monarchy and the Shah’s abdication in favor of his son Reza. “Christ Almighty! That explains a lot.”
“Yes,” Hashemi said bitterly. “For years that bastard’s been part of almost every crucial military or political meeting, every head of state conference, every secret agreement, and in the last days part of every important meeting with the U.S. ambassador, U.S. generals, every important decision of the Shah, of our generals, and present every time a coup d’etat was discussed - and turned down.” He was so angry that tears ran down his cheeks, “We’re all betrayed. The Shah, the revolution, the people, you, me, everyone! How many times have we reported to him over the years together, and me dozens of other times? With lists, names, bank accounts, liaisons, secrets that only we could find out and know. Everything - everything in writing but one copy only - wasn’t that the rule? We’re all betrayed.”
Armstrong felt chilled. Of course Pahmudi knew all about his involvement with Inner Intelligence. Pahmudi had to know everything of value about George Talbot, about Masterson, his CIA opposite number, Lavenov, his Soviet opposite number, all our short and long contingency planning, invasion planning, operations to neutralize the CIA’s top secret radar sites with men like young Captain Ross.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, at the same time furious that their own sources had not forewarned them.
