Klosters was reaching for a partially translated version of the Persian Kayhan when his secretary brought Crossley to his office. Klosters rose and asked her to bring in some coffee. He shook hands with Crossley and invited him to sit down on a chair beside his desk. If Crossley noticed that this new seating arrangement was definitely more formal and professional than in previous meetings, which had taken place away from the massive ambassadorial desk, he didn’t let on.
Pointing to a painting of the Alps that hung over the sofa, Crossley said, “Someday I’m going to visit your beautiful country. Are you a skier?”
“Am I Swiss? Yes, I grew up on skis.”
“That was a wonderful dinner party on Saturday, Pierre. Elizabeth enjoyed it also.”
“I’m confident that Madame Touré learned a lot about the environment, although I’m not sure how much English she understands. She is a pleasant person,” the ambassador agreed.
Unprompted, Crossley launched into his version of the meeting at the Foreign Ministry. “The Minister’s bottom line seems to be, either I find this CIA officer, in which case the Minister promised to let him leave the country, or they find him themselves and hand him over to the Iranian judicial system.”
Klosters’ secretary had brought two cups of coffee during Crossley’s rendition and both reached for their cups.
Klosters, who had listened quietly, took a sip of coffee and said, “If your man enters the Iranian system, the Velayat-e-Faqih, his crime will be judged according to Sharia Law. The normal punishment for stealing, for example, is the amputation of four fingers of the right hand. The sentence for spying would be capital punishment. The threat of executing an American citizen would give a great amount of leverage to the Iranian administration. I assume that your people think that the information this man produces is worth putting American foreign policy in the debt of the Government of Iran, if he is caught. I have been assuming that your man is on an American passport. Perhaps not? I don’t even want to know, unless he’s using a Swiss passport, in which case my government would be upset.”
He looked at Crossley who shrugged, “I don’t know myself. Frankly this happened because I refused to authorize cover for him in my section.”
“Quite right too!” Klosters said in a somewhat louder voice.
He added, “What about the article in the Washington Tribune that caused this brouhaha? Entre nous, I am so glad that we don’t have these leak problems in my country. Where did the information come from do you think? I don’t understand what motivates leakers, and why they’re not treated as criminals.”
“With all due respect, Pierre, freedom of speech is the ‘American Way.’” Crossley hung quotation marks in the air with two fingers of each hand.
“There’s freedom of speech and then there’s irresponsible behavior. I suppose that the intent makes the difference.”
Klosters then brushed his mustache with the fingers of his right hand, “Well, thank you for sharing your information. While we work for two separate countries, obviously what happens in your Section does have an influence on us. So you’re right to keep me informed. In the same spirit, I must share something with you.”
Klosters chose his words as he fussed with his ascot for a second, “Jeff, my wife was shopping in the Grand Bazaar when a woman, an Iranian woman, gave her a sheet of paper and said, ‘Give it to the American Crossley.’ That’s all there is to say, I’m afraid. It took place in a couple of seconds. The woman must have been watching my wife for a while because she waited until my wife’s bodyguard was in the back of a store for a few minutes. She gave her this paper.”
He retrieved a folded sheet of paper from a folder on his desk. The paper seemed to have been crumpled before it was neatly folded. “It’s in Farsi. You’ll understand it.”
Crossley took the paper and unfolded it. In large handwriting, the note fairly screamed:
MR CROSSLEY STOP YOUR WHORE WIFE ELIZABETH FROM SLEEPING WITH MY HUSBAND. HER DRIVER JAFAR IS MY HUSBAND.
Crossley looked at Klosters and saw that he knew what the message said.
“Sorry about that, old man. Hopefully it’s only about sex.” Klosters said.
Crossley looked past Klosters toward French windows on his left. This was not true, not possible. There had to be another explanation. How many other people knew? Had Klosters informed his Foreign Ministry? Had the Swiss Government informed Washington? Was there any chance of keeping this quiet? Would a talk with Elizabeth make this go away? He felt humiliated.
His thoughts turned to Jafar. Obsequious bastard! He probably had bragged about his conquest to other drivers.
What about his career?
He turned back toward Klosters. Only about sex? Only?
39. Persian Gulf: Aboard the U.S.S. Allen Dulles
As the Dulles, a 567-foot, Aegis Ticonderoga-class cruiser with thirty-three officers and three-hundred- twenty-seven men, entered the Strait of Hormuz on its way to join Carrier Task Force Ronald Reagan in Bahrain, Captain Brian Navarre, the Dulles’s Commanding Officer, came onto the bridge and asked Lieutenant Pelletier, the Officer of the Deck, “Where are those Iranian Fast Patrol Boats? We need to be ready to play their favorite game of ‘chicken.’”
As CO, his presence on the bridge was not necessary at this point but he knew that any encounter with the FPB’s. In the past, they had been mostly Boston Whalers and Swedish-built Boghammers. However, in a recent war game, the Revolutionary Guards had brought out a new boat they called the Ya Mahdi that the Iranian spokesman had claimed was remote
