by Deno Trakas
Again I became obsessed with the news, especially desperate for reports on the Shah’s medical condition. I took a radio from my apartment to my office and suffered Danny’s smoking so I could listen on and off all day—what was a little lung cancer compared to a world-changing event like this.
The immediate news was that the Shah needed a splenectomy. His American physician called in the famous Michael DeBakey to perform the operation, but the Panamanian doctors who’d been tending the Shah were insulted that they were passed over, so they insulted DeBakey. I wondered if Sadegh had reached one of them and if this was all a stalling tactic so that the Shah would die during the squabbles—a clever ploy. Then the Shah decided that he wanted to leave Panama because he needed better care than he was getting, and because he was being ripped off. Extradition was mentioned, but, as Sadegh predicted, nothing came of it. But where could the Shah go? If he returned to the U.S., we feared, the hostages would be executed, so we didn’t want him. No other country in the world wanted him either, except Egypt, where his old friend Anwar Sadat would welcome him, despite the turmoil that would be sure to follow the Shah’s arrival there.
As the days passed, it became clear that Sadegh’s plan had not worked because the Shah wasn’t dead and he wasn’t going to stay in Panama. And sure enough, a week after the call from Azi, the Shah left for Egypt, where he’d have his operation, where he’d live for four months, where he’d die, which would not end the hostage crisis, but would bring on the unrest that led to the assassination of Sadat.
On the day of the Shah’s operation in Egypt, I was stepping out of the shower, getting ready for school, when I heard a knock on my door. As far as I could remember, no one had ever visited me at 7:30 on a Friday morning, so I was afraid that something bad had happened. I toweled off, pulled on a robe, and went to the door. A man with a blue suit, sunglasses, and a long pink forehead asked if I was Jason Nichols. When I answered that I was, he took out his wallet, held up an identification card that I couldn’t read, and said he was Agent Jenkins from the CIA and would like to ask me a few questions.
“About what?” I said, nervous.
“Azadeh Ghotbzadeh.” He pronounced it Goats-a-day.
“Is she okay? Has anything happened to her?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“What, then?”
“We wonder if she might be able to help us communicate with Sadegh Ghotbzadeh.”
I let him in. I wasn’t sure if I believed him, but I sure as hell wanted to hear him out.
Jenkins looked around my sparsely furnished apartment without comment, then sat on the edge of my plastic couch as if he were afraid the duct tape that patched the rips might crawl onto his pants. I sat in my wobbly recliner, facing him. He leaned forward like a salesman, folded his sunglasses, put them into his breast coat pocket and took out a dime store note pad as if he were checking his grocery list. He asked me how long I’d known Azi and the nature of our relationship. I told him the truth: I taught her for one semester, dated her for one week, received one letter. He seemed disappointed—I don’t think he believed me—and then asked if he could see the letter. Automatically I said no, it was none of his business, but I told him that a lot of it was redacted; she merely said she was all right, the hostages were all right, Sadegh hoped to end the crisis but the situation was confusing. He asked if she’d given any details about the power struggle or the condition of the hostages. I said no. He took notes, then asked, “How about phone calls?”
The question caught me by surprise, scared me, so I stalled, convinced myself that if I lied, he would know. “Yeah, she called me once, about a week ago.”
“What was the nature of the call?”
I wondered if he had known about the call all along, if he could have listened to it. “Nothing much. She just called because she missed me and knew that our correspondence probably wasn’t getting through. She said she was okay and hoped the crisis would end soon.”
He studied my face for a second, not long enough for his doubt to be antagonistic, wrote something in his pad and sat back. “Nothing else?”
“She mentioned the Shah and his condition and speculated that it would help if he died from his illness.”
Jenkins nodded and wrote more, then looked up again. “Let me explain our situation to you, Mr. Nichols. But first, I must emphasize, it is imperative that our conversation remain confidential, if you want to help us end the hostage crisis. The more people who know about this, the more likely it will fail.”
“Okay, but stop right now if this is going to be dangerous for Azi.”
“It won’t be. As you know, our government has been attempting to effect the release of the hostages since day one. We are unable to communicate directly with the Iranian government, such as it is, for various reasons, the main one being that the Ayatollah and the mullahs have forbidden it. However, we are investigating all indirect lines of communication that are open to us. We are trying to make contact with Ghotbzadeh and Bani-Sadr (he pronounced this Banny Satyr) through a number of intermediaries. At times we have believed we were close to making a deal, but recently the Ayatollah gave a speech saying that the Parliament would have to decide the fate of the hostages. So we feel frustrated, but we are always searching for new potentialities. We are able to monitor some calls from Iran, and we traced one to you from one of Ghotbzadeh’s private lines—it was one of the few times he has used it to call the States as far as we know. So we thought we should talk to you, ask about your relationship with Ghotbzadeh, and look into the possibility of enlisting your help if it should be necessary and if you would be willing.”
This was too much. I laughed. Jenkins gave me a deadpan look. “You want me to be an intermediary between the U.S. and Iran?” I asked.
“Not exactly. But we thought that if you were willing and if we decided that it would be useful, we might arrange to fly you to Paris with one of our men to meet with Ghotbzadeh and his niece, or just with her.”
“Azi’s his cousin. And if you want to fly me to Paris to see her, I’m all for it, but I’m not sure what my role would be . . .”
He scratched his head and little pieces of dead skin drifted onto his lap. “We hoped you would have more information, and you may not be useful after all, and we have not planned anything yet, but one of our greatest difficulties in negotiations with Tehran is the absence of trust. Ghotbzadeh does not trust most American officials, especially the CIA, and it would be dangerous for him to be seen with anyone prominent. So, since you and Azadeh had a relationship here”—he looked down as if to hide the fact that he knew more than he should—“he might believe you if she vouched for you. Perhaps you could deliver a message for us, something as simple as that.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Jenkins.”
“Okay, tell me Agent Jenkins, why should Azi help the CIA? You know how her cousin feels about the agency.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sniffled and said, “We assume that you and she and Ghotbzadeh, all of you would like to see the immediate termination of the hostage crisis. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
“I can’t speak for them, but yes, I think that’s true.”
“You know Azadeh better than we do.”
But there was a lot about her I didn’t know—for example, would she come to Paris to see me? “She might agree to something like what you’re proposing, but I can’t be sure. And of course I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her safety. If it would be dangerous for her, I don’t want any part of it.”
“Understood.”
“I still don’t see why the CIA can’t reach Ghotbzadeh without going through me and Azi. Surely you have contacts over there, being buddy-buddy with SAVAK and all.”
He shook his head, put his note pad back in his pocket, and took out a business card. “I don’t have time for sarcasm, Mr. Nichols. But I’ll answer the question anyway. SAVAK more or less disintegrated with the overthrow of the Shah. Most
of our people over there have evacuated. Some have been killed. One of the reasons we’re interested in you is because, frankly, you’re a nobody—you can fly under the radar.”
It was the first time I’d ever heard the radar expression and despite being called a nobody, I kind of liked it, being compared to an invisible plane. Although I had always been liberal enough to suspect the CIA of gross and immoral schemes, this one appealed to me. We had a common goal, after all. I said, “Okay, I want to help. What do you want me to do? Write her?”
“No, definitely not. I mean continue to write her as you’ve been doing, but no more than that. Obviously they read your letters, since they redact parts of them, so mentioning this possibility would be the easiest way to place her in jeopardy. We would have to arrange it through our French friends at the other end. Of course, nothing may ever materialize from this. I came today mainly to find out what you know and to assess your fit for this mission. The word “mission” hung in the air for a second, weighty with importance and a hint of danger, as though we were in a scene from Three Days of the Condor and not in my Goodwill-furnished apartment.
“Do I take it, then, that you are receptive?”
“I’m receptive.”
He leaned forward, stood, brushed himself off. I stood too. He gave me his card and said, “Here’s my number if you think of anything that might have slipped your mind.”
I took it. “Okay.”
“I will get back to you. Meanwhile, don’t do anything, and don’t say anything to anyone. If we proceed, you’ll be working for the CIA, and our policy is that our agents and assets observe absolute secrecy, with the exception of spouses and parents. Is that a problem?”
This time “asset” hung in the air between us. I liked it. His emphasizing the secrecy of the mission and referring to me as an asset made it seem all the more real, not to mention critical. “No, no problem. But one more thing—how’s it going, really? Is there any solution in the works, anything not reported in the press?”
“I wouldn’t be here if there was.” He put on his sunglasses, shook my hand, and left.
CHAPTER 8
Days. Weeks. No call from the CIA. No call. Sounded like a drug I was prescribed to prevent bouts of hope.
One day, after a stop at my mailbox, I passed Dr. Sheldon’s door, and he called me in.
“Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, Jay.” Presiding behind his executive desk, even though he was wearing a coat and tie, he looked sunburned and relaxed as if he’d spent the weekend at Pawley’s Island.
“No problem.”
“Sit.” I slid into one of his supplicant chairs as he pulled out a desk drawer and removed a manila folder, opened it. My piece on Oman seemed to be the only contents. He studied it as if he were checking his golf score and it wasn’t adding up right. “I’m not sure what to do with this. It’s interesting and funny, but it’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. My conversation was pretty wild. Oman certainly isn’t a traditional novelist.”
Sheldon flipped through it and said, “Yeah, I thought about using Fair Game in the Non-traditional Narrative seminar, but in the end I decided it wasn’t serious enough. What do you think?” He dropped my article on his desk and leaned back.
“I like him and I think he’s the real thing—he’s irreverent, but also smart and imaginative, kind of like Vonnegut, but I wouldn’t want to compare Fair Game to Slaughterhouse-Five.”
“Exactly.” Sheldon gave me a nod that made me feel as if he’d tested my critical acumen and found it satisfactory. A rare moment compared to all those other grad school moments when I felt like a fraud. “Maybe I can use this if you write an introduction explaining why this approach to Lare is appropriate.”
“Sure, I’ll give it a try. I’m just relieved you didn’t reject it outright.”
“Not at all. I like it. By the way, did you ask him if he can come for a reading?”
“Yes. He said he’d be glad to for a thousand dollars.”
“That sounds a little high, but we’ll see. I’ll let you know and you can call him back.”
“Sure. It’ll be a pleasure to give away someone else’s money.”
He snickered. “You’re still planning to take comps in the fall, aren’t you?”
“That’s the plan today. I might change my mind tomorrow.”
“How’s the studying?”
“Slow, but I hope to shift into high gear this summer.”
“I’m sure you can do it. Let me know if I can recommend books or anything.”
“I will, thanks.” I felt I had used up my time, so I stood. “And thanks for working with my essay.”
“My pleasure. You’re the first to turn one in, and I’m glad to get started.”
I stopped what I was doing and turned up the TV in Nadia’s living room—the Iranians were claiming that Carter had sent Khomeini a letter, apologizing for our past behavior and admitting our mistakes. Carter denied it, and the press seemed to believe Khomeini over Carter. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“What, Jay?” Nadia said.
I explained what was going on, the importance of an apology and how it was worded. But it didn’t mean much to her. The news from Iran changed superficially from day to day—the crisis had now lasted five months—but nothing significant ever seemed to happen, so America’s frustration turned to boredom, and the networks devoted less and less time to it. I went back to putting slices of American cheese on buns to be broiled while Nadia cooked hamburgers on the stove. “I want to buy Hitachi,” Nadia said.
“What?”
“Hitachi,” she repeated, turning to face me for emphasis.
“What’s that, a TV?”
“No, no, to cook.”
“Oh, hibachi.”
“Yes. I cook lamb on patio for Easter.”
“I don’t like Easter,” I said.
“Why, Jay?”
“Too much church when I was growing up. Good Friday. Palm Sunday. Ash Wednesday. Thankful Thursday, or whatever. I had to go to all of them because I was an altar boy. And the services were sooooo long, and sooooo Greek.”
“Okay, no church. Just food.”
“I can handle food. I can worship food. I can probably handle a prayer.”
“Okay, I do food, you do prayer.”
“It’s a deal.” Nadia poured Worcestershire sauce in the pan and the hamburgers sizzled. I put the baking tray into the oven. “Have you always been Christian, Nadia?”
“Yes, like my mother, Lebanese Christian. She take me to Jerusalem when I am little.”
“Didn’t your father want you to be Muslim like him?”
“Yes, but mother say no. She say Islam not good for the women, and, especially in Middle East, too many Muslims are fanaticals. Like Khomeini.”
“Of course there are Christian fanatics too, but I guess this crisis has proved her point.”
“Damn right.”
She turned off the stove and slid the pan to a cold burner, patted my butt on the way to the refrigerator, then got out a bowl of salad and began to mix it with vinegar and olive oil. She loved to feed me and said she wanted to fatten me up. Almost every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she’d come to my office after her 3:00 class, ask if I wanted to come over for supper or go out or whatever. Usually I said no because of Azi, or because of my workload, or because I was broke. On the rare occasion when we went out, we went Dutch and cheap because I couldn’t afford it otherwise. I explained what Dutch meant, said I supposed the Dutch were the only people who shared the expenses of their dates. Nadia said most of the men she’d dated in the U. S. must’ve been Dutch.
As we sat down to eat, Nadia asked unexpectedly, “You want to pray now?”
We never prayed before meals, but I said okay and bowed my head. “God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food.” I thought I’d stop there, leave it lighthearted with the prayer that my father liked to use when we were grow
ing up, but I kept going. “Let us also ask him to watch over the hostages and all those who are trying to help them, and ease the worries of their friends and families, and ease the worries of all of us in these troubled times. Amen.”
“Amen,” she said and put her hand on mine. “Good prayer, Jay.”
After we ate and washed the dishes, she asked if I could stay a while. “I have a lot of work to do before tomorrow,” I said.
“Go to bedroom, work, I stay here and watch the TV. I just like to have you here.”
I’d done it before and found it to be pleasant and effective, so I agreed and went into her bedroom. As I graded papers, I could hear her sitcoms, her “homework,” which she claimed were the best teachers of American language and culture.
She let me work for two hours before she came in and lay beside me, snuggled up. I kept working, but then she kissed my neck and started unbuttoning my shirt and lightly scratching my chest with her long, painted fingernails. I gave up and dropped my papers on the floor, slid down beside her, and began to let go of the day, to replace it with Nadia’s scented sexy body.
We settled together like bags of sand and for a few minutes I felt as if I’d never move and we’d fall asleep like this and sleep for twenty years. But then she licked my ear and went back to unbuttoning me. I pushed her sweater up above her breasts to reveal a lacy pearl-colored bra that she must’ve bought from Shandonshop, her favorite store. I touched its silk, and for some reason a joke popped into my head.
Nadia caught me smiling and said, “What are you smiling?”
“Nothing.”
“What? You must tell.”
“I just remembered—Woody Allen said that he wanted to be reincarnated and come back as Warren Beatty’s fingers.”
