The Peregrine Spy by Edmund P. Murray Page B

gates parted wider, and Ali drove ahead.
    He picked his way toward the largest of the buildings, a multisided structure shaped like a gerrymandered voting district. They pulled up parallel to an outside staircase where a trim, coatless man of about Frank’s age stood waiting. From his brief exposure at Dowshan Tappeh Frank recognized the blue uniform as Iranian Air Force. Ali killed the ignition, tugged at the emergency brake, said, “Wait me,” and eased his bulk from the car.
    Gus wiped the window on his right with his glove and studied the staircase.
    “That’s what I thought. Those stairs don’t go anywhere,” he announced.
    “Looks to me like they go up,” said Frank.
    “Yeah. They go up to the second floor, but there’s no door up there.”
    Ali opened Frank’s door. “No one is here but the major. He will take you upstairs.”
    “Up those stairs?” called Gus from the back seat.
    “No. No one understands those stairs. Up stairs inside.”
    They clambered out of the car. The slim, dark-eyed Iranian Air Force officer saluted with a motion that managed to combine crisp, military respect and an open curiosity.
    “Major Anwar Amini,” he said. “Welcome.”
    Frank moved toward him, hand extended, saying, “Frank, ah, Major Francis Sullivan. U.S. Air Force.” They studied each other intently as they shook hands. “And this,” said Frank, “is Lieutenant Commander Gus Simpson, U.S. Naval Reserve.”
    He realized how stiff and formal he sounded. Gus lightened the tone.
    “Call me Gus,” he said, shaking Major Amini’s hand and grasping him by the elbow.
    “Anwar,” said the major.
    “Glad to meet you, Anwar,” said Gus.
    “Anwar,” echoed Frank.
    “I will be part of the interservice committee working with you,” said the major.
    “Jayface?” said Gus.
    “I’m afraid so.” Anwar smiled. “Our bureau is just upstairs. Please. Will you follow? The sergeant will be waiting for you when you are finished.”
    “Thanks for the ride,” said Gus.
    Ali grinned, saluting in mufti.
    *   *   *
    They followed Major Amini, who ushered them in through glass doors, then up a broad marble stairway under an unlit crystal chandelier. Frank’s first impression of luxury quickly faded. Bare concrete floors, plasterboard walls, and weak fluorescent lights greeted them on the second story. The walls seemed to ooze a damp chill. Frank sensed an odor like cabbage that had been cooking too long. He noticed a coat rack of metal pipes with a few wire hangers, a single military overcoat, and, on the rack above, an air force officer’s cap.
    As they crossed toward an open-doored conference room, the fluorescent lights went out. They entered a spacious but windowless rectangular room.
    “The others will just be coming,” said the major. “Let me take your coats.” They shed their parkas. Anwar carried them to the hallway coat rack.
    “Can I get you some tea?” he asked as he returned. “Cold drinks?”
    Frank’s stomach rumbled. “Tea,” he said.
    “Tea,” echoed Gus.
    “Maybe some rolls,” ventured Frank.
    The major pressed a green button on the wall. Frank’s mind veered from the button to speculation about how the room was bugged and by whom. He barely heard Anwar’s question.
    “Do you have an agenda for today’s meeting?”
    Frank looked blankly to Gus.
    “Well, ah, no,” said Gus. “We thought today should be more of an exploratory, ah, get-acquainted, exploratory session. Tomorrow…” Frank admired the sincerity of his frown. “Tomorrow we’ll have an agenda.”
    Fuckin’-A we will, thought Frank. He realized again how ill prepared they were for their hastily conceived mission—and the hidden agenda Pete Howard had given him.
    “I’d like to hear your thoughts,” said Frank. “I mean, while we’re waiting for the others. Your thoughts on the situation. The situation and what we might do.”
    Anwar smiled. His eyes were watchful, alert. “You have seen the situation.