A Single Spy

by William Christie

  “Why didn’t you take a train through the Soviet Union directly to Teheran?”

  “I went the way the Germans wanted me to,” Alexsi lied. “The Swiss textile firm that is my cover also has business in Turkey.”

  “Your contact in Teheran will be Comrade Matushkin in the Soviet embassy,” said Sergei. “Ostensibly a commercial attaché but one of us. A colonel. No one else will be read in to your mission.”

  A diplomat with immunity for a contact, Alexsi thought. If something went wrong the diplomat would only be expelled. While he would be hanged. “Tell him to be social. I’ll be staying away from the embassy, but I’ll make sure I run into him in town.” The sight of his Berlin contact hanging like meat in the Gestapo cellar proved the risk of dealing with someone less careful than yourself.

  Sergei nodded. “Your identifier is as follows. The person initiating the conversation will ask if you have met before. The other will ask if he has ever been to the Italian city of Florence. The reply will be no, but he has always wanted to see Michelangelo’s famous statue of David.”

  “Simple enough,” said Alexsi. “Any other orders?”

  “Has your assignment from the Germans changed since you reported it?”

  “No. Establish espionage networks and prepare for sabotage actions.” Alexsi would never again mention invasion.

  “Then merely keep us informed of those activities, taking care to identify fascist operatives and both pro- and anti-Soviet elements in Iran.”

  The conductor came walking through the car. “Ankara, one half hour.” He said it in four different languages.

  “I must get my luggage together,” said Alexsi. “Anything else?”

  “No,” said Sergei. “Good luck.”

  “Good luck to you,” Alexsi replied. Sergei would need it, if not from Stalin then definitely the German Army.

  He went off to find the attendant of his sleeping couchette. So old Yakushev was gone. Well, the future belonged to the Sergeis of the world, who would diligently execute their orders to the letter no matter who gave them, or even if they happened to contradict those of the previous day. Alexsi’s thoughts expressed themselves in Russian for the first time in a very long while. Ugadat, ugodit, utselet. Sniff out, suck up, survive.

  44

  1941 Teheran, Iran

  She straddled him, using her feet curled around his legs just below his knees to push herself up and down. At first deliciously slowly, and now more deliberate as she was approaching the finish. He’d shown her all the little movements she could make to increase her enjoyment, and she had embraced every one. Now her rocking was faster, and her eyes glassy. She was near.

  “Go as fast as you need to, my love,” Alexsi whispered in Farsi. Iranian men would never let their women make love in the dominant position.

  She took him at his word, speeding up until that wonderful moist sound of their sweating skin slapping together sounded like a steam piston. Wrapped up in pleasure, it was that moment when it was as if he wasn’t even there.

  Her head thrust up toward the ceiling, and all her muscles tightened. Alexsi gathered her breasts in his hands, lightly rolling her rock-hard dark-brown nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

  She grabbed his wrists and the cry tore loose from her throat. Not for the first time he was glad he had bought a house. Otherwise the neighbors would be impossible to deal with. With this going on he couldn’t even keep a maid—he had to have a housekeeper come in.

  She convulsed, and her cries continued lower now, and throatier. Alexsi didn’t come. He didn’t dare. Once these Iranian women got a taste of climax they couldn’t get enough. She had already come once from his tongue, and this was her second atop him.

  She collapsed on his chest, sliding her arms under his armpits to pull herself up and kiss him. Alexsi wrapped his arms around her. “Ah, my Zahra,” he said tenderly.

  “By God,” she declared. “If women knew the Swiss made love like that, no man in your country would be safe.”

  “Will you tell them?” he asked playfully.

  “No,” she said, kissing him again. “There aren’t enough Swiss to go around in Teheran. You’ll be my little secret.”

  He hugged her, and she put her face in his neck and gave a little sigh of contentment. Muslim men were supposed to get up and wash right after sex, and women liked to be held. So there was another point of contention.

  She was married to a general. In Iran if you fucked an unmarried girl and were found out, someone would be killed. Her, at least, and by her family. An honor killing—she had to die because they felt dishonored. And most likely you, too. There were none of what the Americans called shotgun weddings. Not with infidel foreigners. No, everyone ended up dead.

  He nearly ran his hand through her hair, but she had expensive permanent curls in the Western style, and if he displaced them there would be trouble. So instead he traced the curve of her buttocks. She was perhaps ten years older than he, though that was uncertain. Alexsi had done many foolish and dangerous things, but asking a woman her age was not one of them.

  He was still inside her, and still semihard. She shifted herself slightly to enjoy it. Most women were sensitive afterward, but this one had the private parts of a crocodile. “So what have you been up to?” she asked in that sleepy postclimax voice.

  He always let her ask him first. They were such gossips. But then if all the women were allowed to do was sit in a room with other women, what did anyone expect? They were their own spy network, and had become his network. Their husbands were all looking to trade information for money and influence, and what wasn’t outright lies was the fantasy of conspiracy that Muslims loved so much. And what was neither was simply incorrect. The women were rich, educated, and well connected, but still kept in a tight little box by Iranian men. They knew everything, and were frank about everything but their own plots and plans. “I’m worried about my business,” he replied. “If the British invade like everyone says, then things won’t settle down for months, if ever.”

  “They will invade,” she said confidently. “The Russians from the north, and the British from the south. Any day now.”

  He playfully slapped her buttocks, and she groaned happily. She liked a friendly spanking, not too rough, to warm herself up. “That’s not what I wanted to hear, Zahra.”

  She chuckled. “Well, that’s what will happen. Within the week. The Shah has always been too sympathetic toward the Germans. The Allies gave him an ultimatum to expel the ones here, and he refused. The German Army might be smashing their way through Russia right now, but they won’t get here fast enough to save him.”

  “Perhaps the Shah will make a deal instead, to keep them off?”

  “Too late,” she said. “Now that the British have put down the revolt in Iraq they’ll move against him. They’ve always wanted our country anyway. Would you believe King Farouk of Egypt warned the Shah of the entire British plan?”

  Unlike the NKVD, the Abwehr was effusive in their praise when he radioed them this stuff. It was easy. Six months in Teheran, and all he had to do was go into business. He was making money hand over fist, and the money took him into the highest social circles. The foreigners because he was a successful foreign businessman. The Iranians because he was a rich foreign businessman who actually spoke Farsi and wasn’t one of the arrogant Englishmen they despised. Just as Yakushev had said: he was in a position where people couldn’t wait to tell him things.

  It wasn’t all sex, though as always the Russians had been astute in their training. Men were concerned with how to get ahead today, while women worried about the future, and that of their children. So if Iranian men were not about to work toward that goal, their women would. A private boarding school in Switzerland. A loan of some money to speculate in gold. A word with a diplomat about a visa. A relative with textiles to sell. Alexsi was always ready to give them what they wanted. “Will the Shah fight?” he asked.

  She only laughed at that. “He will ord
er the army to. But no one will tell him that all the division commanders are negotiating the best deal for their surrender. The British will pay more. And they’re afraid the Russians will kill them before they have a chance to put up the white flag. Or send them to Siberia if by some chance they survive. So of the four divisions in the north, there may be a race south to see who can reach the arms of the British first.”

  “How will so many troops make it down three roads?” Alexsi asked innocently.

  “Their officers, my silly Swiss. They will get in their staff cars and have a road race between themselves, leaving their poor soldiers behind.”

  If the Iranian men heard this, their manhood would shrivel out of sight. But Alexsi knew this was far more realistic than them boasting they would crush the British if they dared invade.

  She went on. “And I am sure the British agents have already made their golden promises to the three divisions in the south.”

  “I’ll have to be quick to get as many of my goods as I can out before that happens,” he said, talking like a good Swiss businessman.

  “If you need help, darling, let me know.”

  She was already a silent investor in one of the fabric companies he bought from. Family money, and he was fairly sure her husband had no idea. Which was fine. Alexsi wanted as many people dedicated to his prosperity and survival as possible. He kissed her forehead. “Here I am worried about my business, and I haven’t asked about you.”

  “You’re so sweet. Kayvan is trying to arrange another marriage with some little girl. Instead of ever learning to use his member properly he’ll just keep marrying virgins to save face.”

  Kayvan was her husband. Muslim men were permitted four wives. Which was just a recipe for chaos, as far as Alexsi was concerned. Life was hard enough as it was. “Idiot,” he said.

  “That’s all right,” she said into his neck. “At least I have my Swiss.” And then she laughed.

  “What?” Alexsi said.

  “I was just thinking, the way the Germans are racing through Russia the British might have a shorter stay in Teheran than they think. Do the Germans compare to the Swiss in bed, I wonder?”

  “Much rougher, I would guess,” Alexsi said.

  She laughed again, and pushed herself up so she could whisper in his ear. “I know the Swiss are famously neutral, my darling. Which is a wonderful thing in the midst of war. But you still speak German, and mistakes do happen. The Allies will round up all the Germans in Iran.”

  “My dear, both the British and Russians know the difference between a Swiss and a German.”

  “This may be so,” she said. “But if need be, my people can get you across the border into Iraq. And then Turkey is only a short journey.”

  Even in the upper classes marriages were made as tribal alliances. She was a Lur of western Iran, and her husband a Bakhtiari. Both of the highest rank. “Unless Germany invades Switzerland also, my dear, I am perfectly safe.”

  “I pray to God this is so,” she said. “Know you anything of the military arts?”

  Alexsi was afraid that even if he acted calm she would notice his breathing. So he rose up in the bed, taking her along with him. “Every Swiss man must spend a time in my country’s army, Zahra. Why do you ask such a thing?”

  “It is good to know what there is to trade. If bargains need be made.”

  Oh, these women were something. They made their men look like simpletons. Alexsi warned himself to never underestimate them.

  “Now may we do it again?” she asked sweetly.

  45

  1941 Teheran, Iran

  It was green and shaded behind the walls of the Turkish embassy. Just the antidote to the Teheran summer. Since Alexsi was a good Westerner he had to wear a suit and tie in this heat, like the rest of those fools. Even Iranians had to suffer since the Shah had taken women out of the chador and put men into suits.

  He watched the English and Americans smack the balls back and forth across the tennis court, sweating like cheese in their white flannels. Idiots.

  A servant brought him a glass of ayran. The yogurt, water, and salt over ice was the perfect Turkish invention for summer. Teheran was so dry his mouth always felt like dust.

  Alexsi felt the approach, and turned before the hand came down on his shoulder. “Excellency!”

  He and Ambassador Davaz embraced by gripping each other’s biceps. “How are you, my friend?” the ambassador said, giving the traditional Turkish greeting. He was short and built like a cannonball.

  “Fine, thank you,” Alexsi replied in classical Turkish.

  The ambassador made a sweeping gesture toward the more austere man standing beside him. “Allow me to introduce my successor, Ambassador Ilhami Uzel. Ambassador Uzel, Mr. Walter Berger. A most distinguished Swiss businessman. And a great friend of Turkey.”

  “A rare privilege, Excellency,” Alexsi said, shaking hands. “The friends of Turkey welcome you from their hearts. Your predecessor is as cherished by us as he is respected.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Ambassador Uzel replied.

  Ambassador Davaz was smiling. “Now that I am leaving, I can afford to be undiplomatic for once,” he told Ambassador Uzel quietly. “Herr Berger is my favorite European in Teheran. Not only has he the soul of a Turk, but does he not speak the most poetic Turkish?”

  “Yes, most refreshing,” Ambassador Uzel replied. “Do I detect perhaps a touch of an Azeri accent?”

  “I have spent much time in the north on business, Excellency,” Alexsi said.

  “Regrettably, we must continue our interminable rounds,” Ambassador Davaz said, gesturing over his shoulder at the embassy secretaries anxiously hovering behind them. “We will see you at the reception tonight?”

  “Of course,” Alexsi replied.

  The ambassador embraced him again, tighter this time, and whispered in his ear, “Thank you for the wonderful farewell gifts.”

  “Poor things compared to your hospitality,” Alexsi replied.

  “My wife cried that in three years of shopping in Iran, she had not found carpet and silver so exquisite.”

  “And I am certain it was not for lack of trying,” Alexsi said.

  The ambassador laughed loudly and undiplomatically. His successor looked a bit pained at the breach of official dignity. They rumbled off with their entourage and Alexsi resumed his seat. At least his drink was still cold.

  Just then he noticed the figure looking at him from the trees. About time. He waved, and of course the fellow hesitated. That Russian love of conspiracy. Alexsi waved again, more insistently. Finally the man gave up and walked around the tennis court to his table. Alexsi stood up one more time to shake hands. “Comrade Counselor, how good to see you.” Now the language of the moment had switched to Russian.

  The only thing certain about Colonel Evgeny Dmitrovich Matushkin was that that was not his real name. He was one of those keen-eyed, pitiless Russian falcons who resembled a commercial attaché as much as Alexsi did a Russian grandmother. Barely past thirty, but there were plenty of openings in Soviet intelligence these days.

  Matushkin sat down and gave Alexsi the critical eye. “Your boldness will be your undoing, David.”

  “Let’s look at it this way,” Alexsi suggested. “Which looks more like a conspiracy? You and I walking alone among the trees, or sitting here having a drink at my table?” He caught the Iranian waiter’s eye and held up his glass, gesturing toward Matushkin. The waiter smiled and bowed. Berger the Swiss tipped well. Now he waited to hear what was bothering Matushkin. Everything with them always began with a complaint. Always.

  And Matushkin didn’t disappoint. “David, we’re not comfortable with what you’re radioing Berlin.”

  “Everyone knows we’re coming in,” Alexsi said. “It’s the worst-kept secret in Teheran. They even know that the British call it Operation Countenance.”

  Matushkin took a moment to digest that. He had to chew over everything he heard at least twenty times before s
wallowing. “But still.”

  “The Germans can’t do a thing about it. And I have to maintain my credibility with them, don’t I?”

  A nod from Matushkin the only concession to that.

  “There’s hardly a stick of gelignite in northern Iran you don’t know about,” Alexsi pointed out. “You have every German radio, and with the radios go the networks. I’ve given you everything.”

  “Thank you, David. You may now restrain your natural impertinence.”

  “You’re very welcome,” Alexsi replied.

  Matushkin chose to ignore his tone. “We have an assignment for you. Of the most vital importance.”

  Alexsi braced himself.

  “It is imperative,” said Matushkin, “that once the Red Army crosses the border any attempt by the Iranians to reinforce their units in the north be foiled.”

  “They won’t resist,” Alexsi said flatly. “A few soldiers who as usual won’t know what’s going on may fire a few shots, but there will be no organized resistance. Nothing is more certain, I assure you.”

  “We cannot count on it,” said Matushkin. “You have tribal connections, yes?”

  Now it was Alexsi’s turn to nod. Unbelievable. The world’s most perfect situation in Teheran, and they were going to send him out in the desert on some useless errand dreamed up by some military genius who knew nothing about Iran. No wonder the Germans were kicking their arses all over Russia.

  “We require that you make contact with the Iranian nomads,” said Matushkin, “and use them as the means of delaying any attempt by the Iranian Army to move their forces north to oppose us. Can you do this?”

  “Look, if you’re worried, throw the same amount of gold at the Iranian generals. You can always get it back later when they come begging you for protection. You’ll never see it again if you give it to the tribes.” No wonder wars lasted so long. People were too stupid.

  “Can you do this?” Matushkin repeated, as if he hadn’t heard a thing.