Stephen Coonts - The Disciple

Out of this swirling cauldron of emotions came one concrete thought. He decided to meet with Davar’s spy, give him Grandfather’s manuscript-and he was going to do it sooner rather than later.

When I got the call on my cell phone from Davar, I was amazed. She wanted to meet at a mountain pass north of Tehran, she told me in English. She gave me the time, 2:00 A.M., and left it at that. We had previously agreed that any meet would occur three nights after I received the call.

I got out a map and looked for this pass. Found it, and got really antsy. The road led up a canyon, through the pass and down the other side. If Davar was followed, our only options were to drive on over the mountain, so we would be on the side away from Tehran, or to hike along the ridge in one direction or the other.

The place had no easy exits, which was very bad. Did she just not realize how wrong the place was, or was I being set up? Did someone tell her to lure me out there?

I buttonholed Joe Mottaki, Israel’s man in Tehran.

“I need a weapon,” I said.

“I have a pistol. Nine millimeter. I can let you borrow it.”

“A rifle, too, if you have one.”

“The pistol holds thirteen cartridges. If you need more than that, you’ll be in a war and had better shoot yourself.”

The guy was a real ray of sunshine. “A rifle,” I said.

So he came up with one. An old AK-47 with two magazines. I was less than thrilled. AKs are not known for their accuracy. The warriors in these parts like to shoot them from the hip, empty a whole magazine in the general direction of their enemy, spray and slay. Sometimes they get lucky-usually they don’t.

I spent the afternoon contemplating my luck and listening to tourist visa pleas. Just before quitting time, Abdullaziz Nasr Qomi came carefully down the stairs, leaning on his crutch. He saw me and his face lit up. “It’s been two weeks,” he said. “Has my visa come?”

“Sit right there and let me check.” He made himself comfortable in the visitor chair on the other side of the room divider. Fortunately my colleague Frank Caldwell was out for the day, so he didn’t have to witness my treason.

I trotted upstairs and checked with the clerk. Nothing from the State Department today, and I hadn’t seen anything this week.

I went downstairs to tell Qomi the bad news. “Not yet,” I said. “Maybe you had better check back in two more weeks. I can’t imagine it would take more than a month to get a yes or no.”

He took a deep breath and glanced around the room. Then his eyes found me again. “Why would they say yes?” he asked.

I smiled. “Why would they say no?”

He had no answer to that so levered himself up and went up the stairs. I sat there alone contemplating my navel. I had disobeyed the rules when I marked the yes box on the visa app form, and in doing so had gotten Qomi’s hopes up. If he was turned down-and I suspected that he would be-what was I going to tell him?

You didn’t get approved for a tourist visa because you are an uneducated Islamic peasant from a third-world shithole, and we have found folks like you never, ever leave the U.S. of A. if they can get there.

While I was sitting there, someone came trooping down the stairs. I knew he was an American when I saw his shoes. Now the trousers, the shirt and jacket, and the clean-shaven white face. Behind him was an Iranian male.

“Hey,” he said. “My name is Herman Strader.” He shoved his passport through the window at me. “This guy is Mustafa Abtahi. He’s been writing letters to the State Department in Washington asking for a visa and hasn’t gotten any answers. The people upstairs said to talk to you.”

I pretended to scrutinize Strader’s passport. Meanwhile Herman and Mustafa arranged themselves in the only two chairs on their side of the divider. “What kind of visa?” I asked.

“Hell, I dunno. Guy wants to go to America. He’s an engineer. Works for a mapmaker here in Iran. If you can get him to the States, I got a job for him in my construction company.”

Three minutes later I had it all. Strader’s wife, Suzanne, thought Mustafa Abtahi should get a chance at America. While Strader was talking, I looked Abtahi over. He seemed okay, no obvious deformities or diseases, so when Strader ran down, I asked him in Farsi who he knew in America. A brother in Hoboken, he said, and launched into a five-minute exposition of his brother’s life and car repair business. He was voluble, well spoken and engaging. I liked him, too. Actually, I liked most of the Iranians I had met during my stay. Maybe I’d been here too long already.

Finally I stopped Abtahi’s speech with an upraised palm and spoke to Strader in English. “Mr. Strader, we are not accepting immigration visa requests these days from Iranians. They have Khomeini and the mullahs to thank for that. Nor are we supposed to recommend anyone for a tourist visa unless we are absolutely certain that they will not overstay their visa.”

Strader looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Half the taxi drivers in New York are from Iran. Where in hell have you people been?”

“I don’t run the government, sir; I merely work for it. Greater fools than I make all the big decisions. As I was saying, we are not supposed to recommend anyone for a tourist visa. However, if I do and Mr. Abtahi gets one, goes to America and overstays his visa, he will become an illegal alien. If the INS snags him, out he goes.”

Strader made a noise with his lips and tongue.

“If you are employing him, you might get in trouble. It’s a federal crime to knowingly employ an illegal alien or help him obtain false documents, such as a Social Security card or driver’s license. In fact, it’s a felony.”

That shut him up.

I took a tourist visa app from my desk drawer. “You and your wife need to do some thinking. Here is a tourist visa application.” I passed it through the hole.

He took it, nodded and stood. Abtahi had obviously been trying to follow the conversation and had gotten lost. His face mirrored his confusion.

After they left, I went down the hall to my soundproof phone booth and placed a call to Jake Grafton on the satellite telephone.

“Hey, Tommy,” he said.

“Hey, boss. Got a favor to ask. I approved a tourist visa application for a guy named Abdullaziz Nasr Qomi and haven’t heard back from the State Department. I doubt they’re going to approve it. Could you check on that?”

“Tommy-” he began.

“This is a personal favor I’m asking, Admiral. This guy has only one leg, and he needs a chance. I want the app approved.”

He hesitated for about three seconds, then said, “Spell the name.”

After I did, he said, “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Guy named Mustafa Abtahi is maybe going to submit a tourist visa application.” I spelled that name, too. “If he does, I’d like it approved as well.”

Grafton chuckled, then the chuckle became a belly laugh. “Tommy,” he said finally, “you are supposed to be a rough, tough spy guy.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone else you want smuggled in? A widow, orphan, child prodigy or somebody with a weird disease?”

“Not right now.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

Jake Grafton was in his office at Langley when his assistant, Robin, brought him a cassette tape. “They just brought this upstairs. Said you would want to listen to it as soon as possible.”

“Thanks.”

When the door closed behind her, he got out his old tape player and slipped the cassette in. This player had some miles on it, but it still worked pretty well. Even the earphones. He put them on and pushed the play button.

“-ed to chat. I thought we might meet for drinks tomorrow evening.” A man’s voice, one Grafton recognized.