The Peregrine Spy by Edmund P. Murray Page A

sent them with their mother to my family near Rasht. We have some olive trees up there, land I bought for my parents.”
    Frank resolved to get himself a street map, even if it meant photocopying section by section the map on Tom Troy’s wall. He knew the day would come when he would have to negotiate the city without Ali’s help. Ahead, he spotted a long tangle of motionless cars. He expected Ali to make one of his sudden cuts into a side street. Ali continued straight ahead, edging to his left.
    “Traffic jam?” asked Frank, wondering how a tie-up could have developed when there were so few trucks or cars on the streets.
    “Not traffic jam,” said Ali. “Benzene line.” Ali now drove on the wrong side of a broad, two-way street. The few vehicles coming in the opposite direction kept to the far right.
    The veil of steam on the windows had thinned and, refracted through streams of moisture, Frank could see the long cluster of double- and triple-parked vehicles. Drivers stood in groups, stomping their feet and flapping their arms to keep warm. From his newspaper reading Frank knew that Iran, despite its vast supplies of oil, suffered gasoline and fuel shortages because strikes and sabotage had hit the refineries as part of the growing rebellion against the Shah’s government. The jumbled knot of cars curved up a street to their right. He couldn’t spot the end of the haphazard line or the filling station it targeted.
    “Peaceful,” said Ali. “But people will get killed on that line, get into fights and get killed, when it starts to move. Persians don’t know how to queue.”
    Frank squinted through the steam-streaked window, troubled by the thought of even a few Iranians killing each other on filling station lines in the middle of a revolution that saw Iranians killing each other by the hundreds.
    “The same for cooking oil,” said Ali. “Men will kill for benzene, and women will cut and scratch and claw, and yes, even kill for cooking oil.”
    Ali turned to the right onto another broad avenue. On their left chain-link fences, topped by concertina wire, partly obscured a vast complex of two- and three-storied buildings of poured concrete. Armored personnel carriers and jeeps with mounted machine guns patrolled both sides of the fence. Two tanks stood sentinel outside what appeared to be the main gate.
    For the first time that morning they encountered heavy traffic moving fast in both directions. Ali drove ahead another half mile and swung into a traffic circle with scattered vehicles that swirled like angry bees. Ali accelerated where Frank would have slowed, cut right where Frank would have eased left.
    “Remind me never to drive in this town,” said Gus from his back seat. Frank made a mental note to drive like a New York cab driver.
    Ali snapped the Nova to the right coming out of the circle. He crowded the curb, slowed, and began tapping his horn as he approached the main gate. He edged the Nova into the narrow alley created by the two tanks. He rolled his window down, stuck his head out, and waved toward a kiosk.
    A young soldier with a corporal’s inverted chevrons stepped out, one hand holding a clipboard, the other on the handle of a holstered .45. A half dozen other soldiers with automatic weapons stepped out from behind the kiosk. They kept their weapons at hip level but trained on the car. Gus sank low in the back seat.
    Ali spoke to the corporal, who appeared to recognize him. As the corporal relaxed, Ali tugged what Frank guessed were his own military ID papers from the thick rubber band that secured them to his windshield visor. Ali spoke slowly in Farsi, glancing at Frank and Gus, as the soldier checked and returned his papers. The soldier studied his clipboard. From Ali’s jumble of Farsi, Frank heard him enunciate, “Soo-li-van. Siimp-sohn.”
    The soldier nodded and peered through the window at Frank and Gus, who had removed his cap and sat upright. The soldier waved them through; the