City of Whispering Stone

by George C. Chesbro

  “They didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. They flashed badges that looked pretty real; I wasn’t about to argue with them. They looked mean.” The line went silent for a few moments. When Phil spoke again his voice was deeper, more reflective. “You know, you hear about things like that and you tell yourself you wouldn’t stand for it. Then it happens, and you fold up like an accordion.”

  “Yeah. What’d they want?”

  “They wanted me to show them Khordad’s stuff.”

  “Did you?”

  “Sure. Why not? I took them back to the Garden and we used their master keys. They tore right through his things, and they found where you’d ripped the bottom off his trunk. I figured that’s where you found the envelope.”

  “Did you get that in the mail to me?”

  “Check. I mailed it right after you left.”

  “Did you tell them about it?”

  “No. By that time I was awake enough to be mad, and I figured I’d lie about anything I thought I could get away with. They asked about you, and I told them what I figured they already knew.”

  “Did you tell them I was working for you?”

  “No. Couldn’t see that it was any of their business. Same with the papers. I told them I didn’t have the slightest idea what you’d found, if anything.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t regret it. It looks as if the government is interested in Khordad. If so, there could be big trouble for anybody they figure is getting in the way.”

  “I pay my taxes. Are they going to let me know if they find him?”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Okay, then what I said before still goes.”

  “I’m having a lot of sources of information cut off. I’m not sure what I can do in the rest of the week.”

  There was another long pause at the other end of the line, then: “Stick with it, Mongo.”

  “You’ve got it.” I hung up, downed the rest of my coffee and went to my class.

  I’d been running too long on adrenaline, and I was beginning to pay the price. Still, I pushed through the lecture on criminology, capping it off with the story of how their professor, within the past twenty-four hours, had broken into a cordoned apartment, resisted arrest by two Military Intelligence agents and spent the night in jail. They considered it a real knee-slapper and laughed uproariously.

  After finishing the lecture, I went back to my office in time to meet the mailman. The envelope with the picture and Hassan Khordad’s notebooks was in my slot. I’d placed the photograph Ali had given me of Mehdi Zahedi in with the other items; that was the one I now took out and studied.

  The picture, a blowup of Zahedi taken during a large demonstration at which he had been speaking, was in black and white, and grainy. Whatever Mehdi Zahedi had, it didn’t photograph; but then, charisma rarely does. There was certainly nothing commanding in his physical presence. Yet, to judge by the expressions on the faces of the listeners closest to him, Zahedi had charisma to spare.

  I put Zahedi at about the same age as Ali—twenty-six or twenty-seven. But Zahedi was thinner, made to seem even more frail by clothes that didn’t fit properly. His dark hair was thick and curly, cut short. In the picture he was leaning out over the edge of a raised platform, haranguing his audience. He seemed suspended in air, as if he might have plummeted to the ground a second after the picture was taken.

  After replacing the picture in the envelope, I tucked the envelope under my arm and headed toward the Center for Middle Eastern Studies, where I hoped to find Darius Khayyam.

  From the beginning, at least in my own mind, Darius’ presence had hovered over the case like the ghost in Hamlet. Ali’s remarks indicated that there was a great deal about Darius I didn’t know, things that were deeply resented by most or maybe all of the Iranian students on campus. The question of Darius’ supposed sins intrigued me all the more because he never spoke of Iran, outside the obvious curriculum requirements of his class. Also, as far as I knew, Darius had never returned to Iran since coming to the United States.

  Still, to judge by what Ali had implied, Darius carried secrets about Iranian history and politics that were not to be found in the many textbooks he’d written. I might need to know a few of those secrets; the more I poked at the mystery of Hassan Khordad, the more it seemed his spoor converged with Mehdi Zahedi’s, both trails winding back through the years, with the two men acting out roles that had been defined for them in the past.

  The door to Darius’ office was open. Inside, Darius was at his desk, reading and taking notes. The entire oak surface in front of him was covered with open books and professional journals, the pages heavily annotated in his own hand. His mind was a vast repository of information, making him the best instant resource I’d ever found on virtually any subject dealing with political science, history or geography.

  Tall and large-boned, Darius had very poor coordination; even the simple acts of standing up and sitting were made to seem like complex calisthenics, as if his mind were too busy sorting facts and figures to pay much attention to the network of nerves and muscles that were also its responsibility. His full head of white hair lent him a somewhat imperious air, which was misleading; in fact, Darius was one of the most humble, gracious and approachable men I’d ever met. His dark eyes were set deep in a face that, despite his many years in the United States, still spoke of the desert. His nose was far too large for the rest of his features, which had a refined delicacy about them, as if Nature had relented after the nose and spent more time with the rest of his head. He always spoke softly, with a minimum of gesture, as though his thoughts had to be couched in the same spare style as the prose in his books.

  Darius glanced up from his books and grinned as I knocked on the door and stepped in. “Mongo, my friend! It’s been a while.”

  “Too long, Darius. How are you?”

  “Khubam,” Darius said, nodding his thick-maned head enthusiastically. “I’m very well. Shoma?”

  “Terrific, except that I wish I knew more Farsi.”

  “Then we’ll have to practice more.”

  “I’d like that.” I cleared my throat and touched the envelope under my arm. “I’d like to ask you a favor.”

  “Ask away.”

  “First, what can you tell me about a secret terrorist organization in Iran called GEM?”

  Darius leaned back in his chair and laughed easily. “Where did you hear about GEM?”

  “A student.”

  He laughed again. “GEM is a fairy tale.”

  “There aren’t any terrorists in Iran?”

  He shrugged. “A few; mostly suicidal types. There’s nothing organized. Unfortunately, all the good organizers in Iran work for the Shah. To hear the students here talk—whisper would be a better word—about it, the members of GEM are some kind of supermen. It’s a joke. People who sit safely in this country bad-mouthing the Shah need to believe in heroes in Iran who are doing what the critics wish they had the courage to do. No, Mongo, GEM is a figment of some overheated imaginations; it’s a product of wishful thinking.”

  “I know of at least one SAVAK agent who seems to believe in this particular fairy tale.”

  He frowned. “Who?”

  “You’ll see for yourself. I’d like to find out what these mean.” I placed the envelope on the desk.

  Darius opened the envelope and shook out the contents. He stared at the photograph of the ruins for some time, then leafed through the notebook. The way he’d placed his hand across his brow could have been a natural gesture, but it meant I couldn’t see what emotions, if any, were playing across the surface of his face. It was a long time before he spoke.

  “May I ask where you got this material?” There was an odd tone to his voice that I couldn’t read.

  “I’ve got a case involving a missing Iranian.” I showed him the picture of Hassan Khordad and the circus flyer. He studied both. “I’m looking for this man; I think the picture and that notebook may help me find him.”
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br />   “I believe this man may be more than a simple circus performer,” Darius said carefully.

  “That seems to be the consensus.”

  “He’s the agent you spoke of?” Darius was staring at me intently.

  “Right. I’ve been picking up some information here and there.”

  “Then you have certainly been told that … such men … are strong and very cunning. If this man is missing, perhaps it’s because he does not wish to be found.”

  “That’s been suggested too.”

  “SAVAK agents—and this man is most certainly a SAVAK agent—are very dangerous, my friend.”

  “I don’t have to bring him back alive—just find out where he is.”

  Darius’ eyes kept returning to the photograph of the ruined city. “How can I help you?” he asked distantly.

  “What are those ruins?”

  “Takht-I-Jamshid.”

  I rolled that around in my brain, then tried it on my tongue. “Takht-I-Jamshid.”

  “That’s the Persian name. In the West, it’s known as Persepolis.”

  “I’ve seen another picture of it; in the office of the Confederation of Iranian Students.”

  “Yes. Persepolis is a national symbol. It was built as the capital of the Persian Empire, and sacked by Alexander the Great in 330 B.C. I have some literature on it which you may borrow if you like. You may find it interesting.”

  “Thanks; I will. What’s the platform?”

  “It’s hard to tell. It could be construction for the art festival they have each year in Shiraz. It’s sometimes held at the ruins.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “You sound as if you’d been spending time in the Iranian community.”

  “Some. Do you have any idea why this man might have drawn a circle around that particular section of the platform?”

  Darius shrugged. “Maybe he was merely doodling. What did you say the man’s name was?”

  “Hassan Khordad.” I showed him the photograph again. “You haven’t seen him around here, have you?”

  “No. Why do you assume a man like this would be seen here at the university?”

  “I think he knew someone here.”

  “Really?” He sounded skeptical. “This man certainly wouldn’t feel at home here, and I strongly doubt he’d find a friend.”

  I pointed to the notebook. “Can you tell me what Khordad wrote in that?”

  Darius took a pencil and paper out of his desk, then opened Khordad’s notebook and began to scan the pages. After a few minutes he stopped and nodded his head. “I see where he’s written ‘GEM.’”

  “There’s something written beside it. Can you make it out?”

  “It’s just letters, a number and a name: LS-180, and Firouz Maleki.”

  He wrote the information for me on a piece of paper, which I put in my pocket. “What about the rest of the notebook?”

  He scanned a few more pages, closed the notebook and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mongo, it’s just gibberish; it makes no sense at all.”

  “A code?”

  “Undoubtedly.” The Iranian paused, cleared his throat, then added softly, “I repeat, my friend—this man could be very dangerous.”

  “Thanks, Darius. I’ll bear that in mind.” Any doubts I still had about Khordad’s being a SAVAK agent were fast disappearing; apparently, I’d stumbled on his master code book. Khordad obviously thought that someone named Firouz Maleki was a GEM member. LS-180 could only refer to the new and highly experimental American automatic rifle which had a laser aiming mechanism. I had no idea how a terrorist group could get its hands on the gun—but then, if the latest crime intelligence reports were to be believed, the Mafia had it. One LS-180 would make a formidable assassination tool; a dozen or so would send a battalion running for cover. I could understand why the Shah was nervous.

  Darius was absently studying the cover of the notebook. I watched him, wondering why he was so disliked by Ali and not sure I really wanted to know. “You seem to know quite a bit about these matters,” I said quietly. “Experience?” It was the wrong thing to say. Darius dropped his eyes and folded his hands in silence. I pressed ahead anyway. “I’ve heard a lot about this Mehdi Zahedi, but you’re an internationally known and respected scholar. I’d think that you would be a natural leader for Iranian exiles.”

  “I’m not in exile,” Darius said quickly. “I’m an American citizen.”

  “But the Shah’s people killed your sister, didn’t they?”

  Darius blinked slowly, and his eyes seemed to grow murky. “Is that the question of a friend, or a detective?”

  “Both,” I said, deciding it was useless to lie. “As a friend, I’m interested in your background, but I’d never pry into a part of your personal life you didn’t want to talk about. As an investigator, I’d like to know why Ali Azad suspects you of being Hassan Khordad’s contact here at the university.”

  “Ali said that?”

  “I’m reading between the lines. He said no student here would have anything to do with Khordad. It would seem to me very peculiar that a man would work for the people who killed his sister, but I think that’s precisely what Ali believes. I’d like to know why.”

  “Is this why you came to see me?”

  “That’s part of it, along with the translation. I’d also like your reaction to what I just told you.”

  “Ali Azad is a fool,” Darius said evenly.

  “And Mehdi Zahedi?”

  “Zahedi is a bigger fool.”

  “Why?”

  Darius was trying hard not to show it, but I could see that I’d opened a Pandora’s box of emotions. He was becoming increasingly agitated, while at the same time withdrawing deeper into himself. “Those two young men are fools because they believe they can overthrow the Shah by violence,” he continued in a hollow voice. “A revolution in Iran is the unlikeliest thing in the world; pure nonsense. First of all, the Shah’s regime is supported lock, stock and barrel by the United States Government. Iran has our most modern weapons.”

  “They haven’t helped us much in the oil situation; it’s the Shah who’s always bellowing for more money. Maybe the relationship is cooling.”

  Darius shook his head. “The Shah represents a consistently friendly government in the Middle East. He still has our support.”

  “Ali claims Zahedi was neutralizing that support.”

  Darius made a derisive gesture. “With words? More childish nonsense. Zahedi’s a dreamer who doesn’t even understand his own countrymen. He assumes that a democracy would be better for Iran than the Shah.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I don’t. In a way, I support the Shah. He taught me a painful but valuable lesson; he showed me that democracy isn’t for everyone. It won’t work in Iran. The people there need someone to worship and tell them what to do. The fact that Iran celebrated twenty-five hundred years of monarchy would seem to prove my point.”

  “It was the Shah who celebrated, not the people,” I said.

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “Your sister believed differently,” I said softly, probing.

  “Forgive me, but she too was a fool.” Darius’ voice was tight as a drumhead, dripping bitterness like acid from a cracked battery. “She made the mistake of believing in her own people. As I’m sure you’ve heard, she was killed for her social consciousness, burned to death in her cell after being repeatedly raped by the animals who work for the Shah. But in effect, she was killed by her own people.”

  “With some outside help.”

  “The counterrevolt was engineered by the C.I.A., it’s true. But that’s an even worse insult to a people. To take foreign money to betray your country, as the leaders of the phony counterrevolution did, is beneath contempt. In any case, I try not to give it much thought. I no longer have any association with Iran, except as a Professor of Middle Eastern Studies.”

  “You don’t miss your country?”

  “This
is my country.”

  “I mean the land where you were born.”

  “No,” he said with a perfunctory wave of his hand, “I don’t miss Iran at all.”

  “But you left voluntarily?”

  “Yes. I was never a political man. I wasn’t then, and I’m certainly not now. It was my sister, Farah, who was the revolutionary. After her death, my life in Iran became unbearable. I sold all I had and came here.” He shrugged. “End of story, my friend.”

  “Could you go back if you wanted to?”

  “Of course. I don’t wish to. It’s also probably true that I could wield considerable influence against the Shah in academic circles. I don’t wish to do that either. You see, I don’t blame the Shah for the fall of Mossadegh. Pahlavi is—has become—a politician, and power is his lifeblood, his game. I blame the people who could not hold on to a great prize when it was given to them. That is why Mehdi and Ali find my position less than attractive; I simply do not believe in Iran.”

  He paused, smiled wryly. “Do you know what’s happening in Iran at this very moment? They’re fighting a cholera epidemic. I happen to know that because I have friends in the United Nations, but you’ll never read it in the papers because Iran refuses to report its cases to the World Health Organization. So the disease continues to spread. The Iranians are too proud to admit they have cholera; it’s that kind of chauvinistic, destructive pride which will always damage them.”

  Darius swallowed hard. Beads of perspiration had appeared on his forehead. A car backfired in the distance. “Mehdi and Ali are young and romantic,” he continued quietly. “But talk is cheap. If they choose to fight, let them fight. As for me, I consider their actions a waste of time. They’re right in assuming I would do nothing to help them. On the other hand, they’re wrong in thinking I would work against them. I know nothing of this Hassan Khordad.”

  “Ali thinks Zahedi’s speeches were beginning to have some effect in this country, inasmuch as they were generating support here for a revolution in Iran. What do you think?”

  “You can’t be serious. First of all, there is no revolutionary movement in Iran. They’re deluded if they believe one man’s hot air can offset the Shah’s guns and the millions of dollars the Iranian Government spends each year on public relations. Politicians talk but, like Mao, they know that power comes from the barrel of a gun.”