Bond waited for the precise second when the partisan chief’s back was turned, then swiftly grasped his guards by the neck and smashed their heads together. They fell senseless at his feet. Two more were swiftly upon him, but he . . .
He’d probably get a bullet in the back.
Ian kept his eyes on Siranoush. She seemed controlled and impassive, a different girl from the gunner with the crooked smile. Doubt coiled in his gut. Could he trust her?
Suddenly the commander—for he must be a commander—wheeled and pulled a knife. The ferret dove off his shoulder, chittering, and vanished in a blur. The guards grasped Ian’s shoulders, forcing his arms backward. He drew a sharp breath as his wounded shoulder screamed.
The commander walked toward him, knife foremost. He slid the blade under Ian’s chin.
“You are Bond?”
“James Bond,” he agreed. His passport was one of the first things Arev had taken from him.
“Did you talk, Mr. Bond?”
“In general, or on a particular occasion?”
The knife jibbed against his throat.
“It’s just that talking’s rather a habit of mine. Difficult to break.”
He was speaking in his toniest drawl, all Eton and Sandhurst. The British pukka sahib. Whether the commander understood the words or not, he caught the sneer in Ian’s voice.
The knife snicked his skin.
“You betrayed Nazir. You talked. He died. Yes?”
“No.” Ian glanced over the commander’s shoulder. Siranoush’s green eyes were watchful. She expected to see his throat slit right in front of her. But she wasn’t particularly pleased about it, Ian thought. That was comforting.
“Our friend meets with you. He trusts you with our secrets. Pouf! His throat is cut and thirty years of work in Cairo betrayed. Yes?”
The knife pressed wetly into his skin.
“No,” he croaked. “When I left Nazir he was alive. I was attacked myself before I had a chance to speak to anybody. By the time I regained consciousness, Nazir was dead. I assume the same man attacked us both.”
“Then why are you alive, Bond?” The commander grasped Ian’s hair and wrenched his head back. The knife snicked a little deeper.
I have no idea, Ian thought. The contradiction, again. Turing’s exception that was supposed to explain everything. Only it didn’t.
Siranoush said something in her language. Urgency in her voice.
The commander looked at her. He smiled unpleasantly and turned back to Ian.
“You hear what she says? A man cannot knife himself in the back. He cannot smash his own skull.” He released Ian and stepped back, uttering a terse command in that foreign tongue. The men grasping Ian unfastened his uniform coat. The commander walked slowly around him as though appraising an indifferent horse. Ian felt his broad hands lifting his shirt. The same hand probed the back of his skull. He winced.
“True, insofar as it goes,” the commander said grudgingly. “Tell me, where did you meet Nazir? In his shop?”
“At Shepheard’s Hotel.”
“In the Long Bar?”
“Yes.”
The man muttered something like a curse under his breath. He came around to face Ian. “The Swiss was there? The barman?”
“Joe’s always there.” Ian wished he could massage his neck or stanch the trickle of blood, but his arms were still held in a vise.
“Of course. Because he’s a Nazi spy.” The commander said it carelessly as he set down his knife. He snapped his fingers. From the shadows at the corner of the room, the ferret streaked upward to balance on his shoulder. He lifted his mangled hand to caress it. “But he will not be much longer. Arev, my son—take our guests to their rooms. They will want to change their clothes.”
—
IAN WAS GIVEN a dark suit, abominably cut, and a white dress shirt. From the weight of the fabric and the overall style, he concluded these were of Soviet make.
“Arev says you’re too tall and too pale to dress like an Irani,” Siranoush translated, amused. “It’s enough to get you out of that uniform.”
“I could be court-martialed for not wearing it.”
“Only if you’re caught.”
He must not be caught.
She rejoined them in a drab wool dress. Her bright gold hair was pulled severely into a bun. There were circles under her eyes, and Ian thought, not for the last time, how frail she seemed. As though she had been denied sleep from an early age.
“Arev says you are to be trusted, Bond,” she told him.
“What does that mean?”
“Not very much.”
Could he come and go at will? Wander into the Park Hotel, where Hudson had planned to stay, and ask loudly for his friend? Even if Arev and his pack of NKVD dogs allowed Ian out of their sight, he’d be running a risk. Too many of the Americans lodged with Hudders would know him. Bump into even one of them, and he could kiss his rogue operation goodbye.
“Russians never really trust anybody,” Siranoush added, “and the NKVD is beyond Russian.”
“Particularly when they’re Armenian,” Ian suggested.
She threw him her crooked smile. “Come. Zadiq is waiting.”
“Zadiq?”
“Arev’s father. Also his boss.”
The young man did not react to this exchange; he did not speak English, Ian realized. But he led them back along the passages to the room where they had met the man with the ferret. Two of the high-backed chairs were drawn up to the wooden table now, and Zadiq had spread out a map.
“Here, here, and here,” he said, stabbing the heavy paper’s surface. “That is where we found them. Thirty Nazis. Special Forces. And all their matériel.”
Ian leaned over the table. Tehran sat in the northern saddle of the country, not far from the Caspian Sea. Between sea and city were the Elburz Mountains. He noticed, as if for the first time, how close the Soviet Union was—just the Caspian separated Iran from Russia. Less distance separated both from what had once been Armenia.
Zadiq had pointed to the foothills north of the city, on the fringe of the Elburz range. “They dropped here, south of Tochal. That peak. We were waiting for them.”
“You knew they were coming?” Ian asked.
“We turned two German agents a year ago,” the commander said simply. “They preferred to help us rather than die. A few weeks ago they gave us the drop zone coordinates.”
“Nazir said that you missed a few.”
Zadiq’s expression turned ugly. “You should do so well, Bond. A half dozen men escaped. No more. We will find them in the end.”
Ian held the man’s gaze. “Berlin must know that they came to grief.”
“Our double agents blamed the failure on a drunken traitor. Another German. I regret to say that he was turned by the English.”
“Allies do come in useful, don’t they?” Ian murmured.
“In moments,” Zadiq conceded. “Each of our agents accused the English spy independently of the other. That carries truth in Berlin. Sadly, we do not expect your Nazi traitor to live much longer.”
“Probably better that I don’t know,” Ian said.
Siranoush was frowning. “Are you tracking the Germans who slipped through our fingers?”
“Our agents are in radio contact with them,” Zadiq said dismissively. “We do not think the paratroopers suspect that these two Germans were turned.”
She made a small sound of protest. “Then you must know where they are! You can locate the transmission signal, surely?”
“How like a woman,” Zadiq retorted. “Such foolish questions. These Nazis are constantly on the move.”
“What do you know about the Fencer?” Ian asked. The code name dropped like a weight in the middle of the table. “These are his men, I gather?”
“Ah.” Zadiq’s black eyes flicked over him appraisingly. “We do not know who this Fencer is. Or where he operates. And if the paratroopers are talking to him”—he shrugged—“we cannot listen. We do not know the Fencer’s frequency.”
Ian looked up from the map. It was an Enigma frequency. As he well knew. Bletchley suspected the Soviets had never broken Enigma codes. But . . . “Nazir said that you intercepted the Fencer’s operational plan to kill the Big Three.”
Zadiq held up his hand. “We intercepted Berlin’s communication of Operation Long Jump to our German double agents. The Fencer was mentioned, yes. But of his personal radio transmissions, we know nothing. If he is directing these surviving men—what remains of his team—we are blind and deaf to their orders.”
Ian considered this rapidly. The Fencer must be sending out reams of code right now, to Berlin as well as the paratroopers hiding out near Tochal.
Which meant Alan Turing ought to be intercepting the traffic.
“I think,” he said carefully, “I might be able to help you. Could someone take a message to the British Embassy?”
—
PAMELA KNEW NOTHING about Tehran. She was accustomed to the men in her life managing such things as taxis and fares and destinations and drinks. But she was feeling mutinous and desperate to get away, so she hurled one word at the driver: Casino.
He drove her to the finest hotel in Iran.
The Park had been open only three years. It was the brainchild of Abolhassan Diba, an Iranian with royal blood in his veins, a Sorbonne education, and a considerable fortune in Swiss bank accounts. Diba was an engineering titan intent on modernizing his country. He replaced camels with trucks, plows with tractors, dirt with asphalt. The first telephone exchange in Iran was established by him—and the first Western-style five-star hotel.
You could get a good, stiff drink at the Park, one reason the Armies of Occupation loved it.
A liveried doorman swept open Pamela’s cab and offered her his hand. She exited with her usual grace and stood blinking on the pavement, transported for an instant to Mayfair, years before the war, free of sandbags and rubble and blackout shades. This was how life ought to be. A pang of nostalgia and self-pity pierced her. Then she gathered her furs more closely about her shoulders, lifted her chin, and gave the doorman a dazzling smile.
By the time Michael Hudson walked into the Park Casino, Pamela was tossing dice with Mr. Diba.
—
BOURBON AND RYE were unknown in Iran, so Hudson fetched himself a Scotch, with a mental nod at Fleming. Pamela hadn’t noticed him yet, too absorbed in the novelty of this streetwise game and her suave partner. Diba was dark and protective; he was immaculately tailored and entirely in command of his world. From the lovely flush on Pamela’s skin and her effortless peals of laughter, Michael guessed she was tight. It was the right hour for it. What was she doing here? Had Harriman brought her?
Of course not. Harriman was still going over his notes from the Tripartite Dinner with the translator, Chip Bohlen.
Michael threw back his Scotch and set down the glass. Leave Pammie alone for another ten minutes, and she’d follow Diba home.
He strode across the room and eased his shoulder into the space between Pamela and her neighbor. She had a Pass Bet down and was feebly palming the dice as though they would bite her. The need to appear elegant had clearly superseded any gambling drive Pamela might have had.
“You can’t just drop them on the table like that,” he scolded, reaching for her wrist. “You have to hit the opposite wall of the table when you shoot the dice. Shake them like a martini, darling, then unleash them like a tennis ball.”
“Michael!” she squealed, and threw her arms around his neck. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at that stuffy dinner.”
“I happen to be staying here.” He glanced with just the right amount of amusement at Abolhassan Diba. “And I’m astounded to find you playing anything so American as craps.”
“I’ve never played it in my life,” she said roundly, “but there’s a first time for everything.”
Pamela’s words to live by, Michael thought. But all he said was “Would you be so kind, Mrs. Churchill, as to introduce me to your friends?”
He encompassed the entire group surrounding the craps table, as though she hadn’t been clinging to the potentate’s arm.
“Of course!” she cried. “Mr. Diba, Michael Hudson. He’s with the American delegation to the Tripartite Talks, so we’re great chums. Mr. Diba is the owner of this hotel, Michael. And these”—she glanced vaguely around and waved one gloved hand—“are his people.”
Diba shook Hudson’s hand, retaining it for a moment longer than necessary. “We are honored, Mr. Hudson, that your remarkable President chose Tehran for his meeting. We are unfortunately situated here, as I’m sure you are aware—with oil fields both the Germans and the Russians want. We regard the presence of your leader—and yours, Mrs. Churchill”—this with a nod to Pamela—“as our greatest safeguard against dismemberment by wolves.”
A bold statement for a man whose city was occupied by the Soviets, but Abolhassan Diba radiated security. He probably paid off English and Russian alike, Hudson thought, as the necessary price of doing wartime business.
“Never mind the nasty wolves.” Pamela patted her new friend’s hand. The gesture was at once so alluring and so bracingly like a nanny—her signature style—that Hudson felt a ripple of laughter in his gut. An Iranian prince like Diba could never have met anyone like her. Already, Hudson could tell, Diba was mesmerized.
Hudson offered Pam the dice. “Try again. This time, do it the way I showed you.”
She mimed the movement in the air before him, lips pursed and eyes twinkling roguishly. He was transported that quickly back to her bed, the dim golden light and her body arching above him. He closed his eyes for a second, drawing breath. When he had opened them, the dice had hit the far wall and bounced back. Three and four—a seven. Exactly what she needed.
Pamela glanced at Diba. He bowed, and gestured to the stickman, who moved a pile of chips across the table. Pamela squealed and lifted her arms above her head. Her sable stole slipped to the floor.
“Congratulations,” Hudson said drily. “Now, quit while you’re ahead. Will you excuse us, Mr. Diba? Mrs. Churchill promised me a dance.”
“But of course.” Diba inclined his head, reflexively courteous, but his dark eyes remained fixed on Pamela’s angelic face. She turned the clutch of chips in her fingers like a toddler with a new toy.
“It has been such a pleasure, meeting like this,” she murmured to Diba. “I hope we’ll see each other again before I have to leave Persia.”
“I shall ensure that we do,” he replied.
Hudson slipped the stole over Pamela’s shoulders and steered her away from the craps table. “You’re a dangerous woman, you know that?”
“Why? Because I like taking chances?” she demanded defiantly. “I must cash in my chips.”
“Okay.” He located the grille of the caisse and led her to it. She hesitated for an instant, unwilling to give up her hoard. Like a magpie, Hudson thought, with a bright bit of foil. That was Pamela’s instinct—to collect treasure and turn it over in her hands. The men who offered it were much easier to part with.
The cashier passed a wad of rial notes beneath the grille. Pamela’s eyes widened. “I’d no idea I’d won so much!” she breathed. “Look, Michael—hundreds and hundreds!”
He thumbed through them quickly. “That’s about five pounds, Pamela, at the current exchange rate.”
“Oh.” Crestfallen, she slipped them into her purse. “At least I have cab fare back to the embassy.”
“Let me escort you.”
She glanced up at him, and to his surprise, an expression of fear flickered across her face. “I can look after myself, thank you.”
<
br /> “What’s the matter?” He ran his hand gently down her arm.
“It’s nothing. I’d just . . . prefer to be alone.”
“Because of Harriman? Is he having you followed?”
“Don’t be silly.” She clutched her stole more closely around her in a protective gesture.
He frowned down at her. “What, then?”
“Michael—” She hesitated, her nubile form stiff with indecision and dismay. Then her chin lifted and her blue eyes looked guilelessly into his own. “The other night—when we . . . in Giza . . . Why were you searching through my things?”
CHAPTER 22
Elliott Roosevelt caught a glimpse of Pamela with the OSS fellow as he swung through the doors of the Park Hotel, but he had no intention of stopping to talk to them. He knew Pam Churchill was a whole lot of trouble, and he had enough of it on his hands. His first marriage had lasted only a year; he was extricating himself from his second—the war hadn’t done wonders for connubial bliss. But that suited Elliott just fine. He loved planes and everything to do with flying, and a protracted war was the perfect excuse to stay in the air and a continent away from his wife and kids. The war had freed up all kinds of attractive women, and with the threat of death hanging over them daily, they were always ready to waste a few hours on FDR’s son. Elliott had been damned lucky in his Pop. He’d hated prep school—hated the rules and the ridiculous expectations, all the Republican kids derisively chanting his last name—and he’d refused to go to college even after Pop had gotten him into Harvard. But Elliott figured he could trade on his war record and access to top circles when the fighting was over. There was money to be made in air route expansion after the war, and Elliott knew how to make it. The trick was not to worry too much about rules. Influence was everything.
You scratch my back, he thought, and I’ll scratch yours.
He kept his head down and walked swiftly past Pamela and the Intelligence guy, making directly for the hotel elevator. From the back, he’d be just another man in an Army Air Corps uniform, and there were enough of them in Tehran right now to sell. He punched the call button and the cage descended; when it halted at ground level, the operator slid open the heavy grilled door. His right hand fingered the elegant card of scented paper he’d slid into his pocket that afternoon. It had been delivered to the American legation, where nobody was staying anymore, but Louis Dreyfus made sure all official papers were sent over to the Soviet Embassy several times a day. Elliott had read it in plenty of time.
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