City of Whispering Stone Read online

  I put the notebook in my pocket and turned my attention to the photograph. It was a picture of the same ruins I’d first seen inside the office of the Confederation of Iranian Students; beautiful pillars of stone and rubble stretched out across a desert landscape.

  However, there was a difference: Hassan Khordad’s photo showed the skeleton of a huge wooden platform rising up from the center of the ruins in the middle of a large, open floor of stone. Someone—probably Khordad himself—had circled two areas of the scaffolding in red grease pencil.

  After putting the trunk back in order, I put everything back into the envelope, tucked it under my arm and went looking for Statler again. He was in an office, relaxing with a cigar and a stein of dark German beer.

  “You want a drink, Mongo?”

  “I’d pass out.”

  “Did you find anything in that son-of-a-bitch’s trunk?”

  “Maybe. I want you to do me a favor.” I handed him the envelope. “Seal this up good and mail it to me Special Delivery, care of the university.”

  “Sure. What’s in it?”

  “It could be Hassan Khordad’s reason for being here, or his reason for leaving.”

  The night air felt good on my face and in my lungs. It hadn’t been a completely unproductive day; I had a manila envelope that could conceivably lead me to Khordad, and, as if to reassure me that I was doing something right, I had two men following me.

  The Chevrolet pulled up to the curb and both of them leaped out. They immediately moved to flank me, one to the front and the other to my rear. They had professional polish in the way they moved, but none of the other characteristics of the average hood; their eyes were clear and cold, but their faces were unmarked. They might have been twins; both looked in excellent shape, on the near side of forty, with suits—one blue and one brown—that had come off pipe racks. They looked very middle-class and very mean.

  I had a license to carry a handgun, and I owned a Beretta which fitted nicely into a specially tailored shoulder holster. The problem was that both were home in the bottom of a drawer. The gun was a memento of a trip to Sicily, where I’d researched a series of monographs on the genealogy of a particularly nasty Mafia family. In Sicily the gun had felt good; back in the United States it had made me feel like the trailer for a B movie, so I’d put it away.

  An older habit had been harder to break. I carried razors embedded in the toes of my shoes; illegal, but highly effective against anyone who might find a well-dressed dwarf a tempting target. Nasty, but essential. In my first year with the circus I’d almost been killed twice before I’d picked up on the razor business from other dwarfs. Also, I’d taken the trouble to learn virtually every nerve center and pressure point in the human body. That had given me a weapon, and the tumbling skills which I’d parlayed into a black belt in karate had given me a delivery system. I wasn’t exactly defenseless. The problem was always determining just how much defense to use.

  I watched the two men and waited for an opening. They were good, and they’d chosen a dimly lighted, deserted street where no one was likely to hear—much less pay attention to—any yelling I might do.

  The blue-suited one in front was close enough so that I could see scalp shining through the close-cropped red hair on the sides of his head. I could sense the other, heavier man moving up behind me, cutting off my rear. I stood perfectly still and affected a moderately stupefied expression. The man in front of me began to relax.

  “Get into the car, Frederickson,” the redhead said. His voice was even, well modulated, like that of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Like his partner, he seemed an odd choice for a run-of-the-mill pickup chore.

  “But we haven’t been introduced.”

  “Get in the car.” He set his feet and motioned toward the curb.

  It didn’t seem like a good idea; I remembered the picture Garth had shown me of Simpson’s puffed, blue face staring up at me from his stone bed in the morgue.

  Neither man was showing a gun. I waited, listening to the big man’s footsteps behind me. The smile on the redhead’s face bordered on contempt, but my feelings weren’t hurt; his contempt would give me the advantage of surprise.

  The car, parked at the curb behind a truck, still had its motor running. I waited until the redhead reached for me; then I slipped under the man’s outstretched arm and headed for the space between the car and the truck. But they had position. The man behind me grabbed my arm and spun me around. His partner recovered, then stepped forward and aimed a roundhouse right that glanced painfully off my shoulder.

  Shifting my weight to my left leg, I lashed out with my right at the big man’s kneecap. He grunted and went down with a surprised look on his face. I wheeled and drove the side of my hand into the redhead’s thigh. But he was no slouch either; even as he clutched at his thigh with his right hand, his left bounced off my ribs. I spun again, absorbing the blow, driving my stiffened fingers into his side. He doubled over and I came up hard with my knee into his face. I felt his cheekbone crack, and he went down to his knees. I tensed, ready to kick the razor in my shoe across his throat, but I held back. Had either man pulled a weapon on me from the beginning, I probably wouldn’t have hesitated to kill. But they hadn’t, and that slowed up my reflexes. I regretted the decision when it was too late. The redhead reached inside his coat; when his hand emerged it was holding a gun.

  There was no chance of getting close to him again. I flipped backward, hit the sidewalk, leaped up onto the hood of the truck, rolled over and dropped down to the street on the other side. I could see the redhead’s legs coming around the rear. I rolled under the truck and came up on the other side, behind him. He turned, but not fast enough. I locked my hands together and drove them hard into his back, above his right kidney. His gun clattered to the sidewalk. I picked it up and moved into a position from which I could cover the two of them. Both men stared, uncomprehending. The heavyset man was still on the sidewalk, clutching his shattered kneecap. His partner’s face went from a greenish white to a reddish hue that almost matched his hair.

  “Now you get in the car,” I said, pointing the gun at the man’s belly. “And put your buddy in with you. Move!”

  The redhead hesitated, and I clicked the hammer of the gun back; the man helped his crippled partner to his feet.

  “Put him in the front,” I said. “You drive.” I waited while he eased the other man into the passenger’s side, then followed him with the gun while he walked around the car and slid in behind the wheel. I got into the back.

  Now, with a cocked gun at the back of his head, the man took directions well. In ten minutes we were outside Garth’s precinct station. Inside, Sergeant Harry Stans did a double take.

  “Mongo!”

  “Hello, Harry,” I said. I pressed the barrel of the gun against the redhead’s spine, and he helped his partner forward to the desk. “I’d like to prefer charges against my two friends here. Aggravated Assault and Battery will do for a start. While you’re at it, I’d also like to find out who sicked them on me, and why.”

  “Sergeant,” the redhead said, “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Well,” Harry drawled, “that’s very encouraging. First I have to warn you that you have the right to remain silent.”

  Harry’s voice droned on, a little too matter-of-fact for my taste. But then, I was a prejudiced party. Harry, with his perpetually razor-nicked face and pouched eyes, was only a year and a half away from retirement; he’d seen enough in his time so that the sight of a dwarf pushing around two slightly used thugs wasn’t cause for any great excitement.

  When Harry had finished, the redhead very carefully reached inside his coat. I tensed, and Harry made a move for his gun. Using two fingers, the man slowly pulled a billfold from an inner pocket of his suit jacket and laid it on the desk in front of Harry.

  “Will you look inside my wallet, please?” the man snapped impatiently. It annoyed me that his voice had lost none of its arrogant, comm
anding tone. “There’s an identification card there. I think that will explain everything.”

  Harry reached out for the wallet, opened it. His face blanched.

  “My name is Victor Lanning,” the redhead continued. “My partner’s name is Wendell Biggs. You can verify who we are by calling the number on that card.”

  Harry picked up the phone and dialed the number. He talked for several minutes. I could hear only his end of the conversation, and I didn’t like it—especially when he got to the “Yessirs.” He hung up and turned his attention back to me.

  “You really screwed up this time, Mongo,” Harry said, a slight tremor in his voice. He got down off his chair, came around to the other side of the desk and gently took the gun away from me. “These men are from Military Intelligence. Their boss wants you locked up.”

  6

  My first reaction had been regret that I hadn’t shot them both, and a night in jail did nothing to sweeten my disposition.

  “Military Intelligence! How the fuck was I supposed to know they were Military Intelligence?”

  Garth sighed and sat down on the bunk across from me. “They said they identified themselves.”

  “That’s bullshit! Now, you tell me: why would I want to screw around with two Military Intelligence agents, bust one up, then top it off by marching them down to the fucking police station? Does that make any sense?”

  “Nope,” Garth said easily. “That’s why I believe you. But it doesn’t make any difference. They’re not bringing any charges against you.”

  “Against me? I’m bringing charges against them!”

  Garth stared at me for a long time, and when he spoke his voice was strained with the special tension of a cop’s sense of reality. “You know better, Mongo. The night in the slammer was just to show you who’s in charge. You won’t get anywhere; they’ll tie you up in red tape until you can’t breathe.”

  “Garth, those bastards jumped me.”

  “They claim they made a mistake. Case of mistaken identity. You weren’t who they thought you were.”

  “Sure,” I said, choking on a mouthful of jailhouse coffee, “they thought I was the ghost of Frodo Baggins.”

  “Frodo who?”

  “Forget it.”

  “You forget it. Drop it, Mongo.”

  “There’s an international espionage ring run by dwarfs!”

  “You’re jabbering at the wrong guy, brother. Look, you’re lucky you’re getting out of this with a night in the can. You know what could happen to you if they really wanted to make a point.”

  “Yeah? Well, how’s this for a point? I’m not leaving this cell until someone does bring charges. I want to find out why those guys were after me.”

  “You’re not going to find out, and you know you’re not going to find out. They want the whole matter dropped, and dropped it shall be.”

  Garth was sitting quietly, staring at the backs of his hands. My mind raced, trying to make the necessary connections. “Okay,” I said at last, “let me tell you just what I think is going on. Now, they did not show me any identification, but that isn’t really all that surprising; they must have an illegal bug in the C.I.S. office. They’ve got no business messing with a civilian, and they know it. They must have been on my case because of this Khordad thing. They’d been following me for a while, but they didn’t move in until I made a stop at the circus. They were afraid I’d found something.”

  “Did you?”

  “Are you asking me as my brother or as a cop?”

  “Your brother is a cop.”

  “Well, I’ll talk to my brother, because I think the cops have been doing a crappy job on this.”

  “Now you’re talking about Simpson?”

  “Right. That’s homicide. Simpson’s tied into this Khordad case; I know it. And you want me to believe the cops aren’t going to assign somebody to dig into Simpson’s death? Why isn’t someone going over his office right now with a vacuum cleaner? Go look for yourself; everything’s just sitting there.”

  “Do you have any idea how many major crimes there are in this city every day?”

  “But at least the department could go through the motions. Simpson’s files haven’t even been removed. I think somebody gave the word to lay off the Simpson case; it’s like what happened with Victor Rafferty.”

  “You were going to tell me what you found at the circus,” Garth said evenly.

  “Khordad’s trunk had a false bottom. I found some papers in it, and those papers are what those two jokers from Military Intelligence were after. They had no intention of identifying themselves, because that would have given me some clue as to what they wanted and why they were on my tail. When I got the drop on them and brought them in here, it screwed up the whole deal. They had to tip their hand to get out, but they couldn’t very well press charges without giving away the whole show.”

  “You mean an illegal bug?”

  “I mean the admission that Washington is working hand in glove with a network of foreign agents, right here in the United States. How would it look if the story broke that the United States was helping the SAVAK carry out the assassination of an Iranian national?”

  “What are you talking about, Mongo?”

  “I think there’s a connection between the disappearances of Khordad and Mehdi Zahedi. Khordad killed John Simpson, possibly because Simpson found out that Khordad had killed Zahedi. Those papers I found could supply the proof. I’m going to have them translated; then I’ll get copies to you.”

  “Don’t bother,” Garth said quietly.

  That stopped me. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “The case is closed as far as the N.Y.P.D. is concerned.”

  There was nothing apologetic in his tone; somehow, I felt there ought to be. “Why? The State Department and Pentagon getting nervous?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Garth said evenly. “I’m just telling you what I’ve been told. I did check personally with the Immigration people; Hassan Khordad has never had any difficulty with them. He’s perfectly legal all the way. Oh, and by the way: I asked them to run a check on this Mehdi Zahedi. As far as Immigration is concerned, he doesn’t even exist.”

  “No? Then who’s this guy who’s been running around making speeches for the past year?”

  “Beats me. But one thing’s certain: his name isn’t Mehdi Zahedi. That name isn’t in Immigration’s files.”

  “You find that out and you’re satisfied to let it go by?”

  “Hey, nobody’s letting anything go by. First, Immigration isn’t our responsibility; the government does its job, and we do ours. Second, the visitors from Military Intelligence make it obvious that things are being handled at a higher level. They probably just don’t want anybody botching things up.”

  “What you mean is that you’re letting them pressure you off the case.”

  “Watch your mouth, Mongo,” Garth said softly. “For Christ’s sake, nobody’s checking anything off, but espionage isn’t our department either.”

  “Murder is.”

  “There’s no proof yet that Khordad killed anyone. If there is a foreign espionage ring operating here, then I’m sure the government boys are taking care of business. I think you’re just pissed off because we won’t help you find Khordad.”

  “Garth, those government men were after me, and they were after me because I’m after Khordad.”

  “I don’t know why those men wanted you, but I do know they’re working for the government. Don’t you believe they’re working in the national interest?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “No, it’s not. What’s your problem?”

  “My problem is that I feel a bit put upon. Those two men not only tried to mug me, they made up a fool story about thinking I was someone else.”

  Garth considered it for a few moments, then said, “I don’t blame you for being pissed off. If I thought there was something being covered up, I’d fight it—and you damn well
know I would. So far, I have no reason to believe things aren’t going through the proper channels.”

  “You haven’t been talking to the people I’ve been talking to.”

  “Maybe not. But it still looks like government business, and if I were you I’d forget it.” He smiled thinly. “Of course, you’re not going to.”

  “I’ve got a client.”

  “Who wants you to dig up Hassan Khordad. Drop it, Mongo. It’s bad business. One of two things is true: either the government wants to find Khordad too, in which case you’re not needed and probably in the way; or the government doesn’t want him found, which means you could be in a lot of trouble if you do find him. Either way you lose.”

  I stood up and walked to the cell door. “Am I free to go now?”

  “Free as the proverbial bird, and let’s hope you don’t end up a turkey.” Garth paused, then continued very seriously: “Get out of it, brother. Remember what happened with the Rafferty case? This smells just as bad. You’re going to wind up with the dirty end of whatever stick they want to shove into you.”

  “Thanks, Garth. I’ve got a ten-o’clock class to make.”

  After picking up a buttered hard roll and a carton of coffee for breakfast, I went back to my office at the university, where I kept an electric razor. While I was sipping at the coffee and running the razor over my face, I checked with my answering service. Phil Statler had called. I dialed the number he’d left.

  “Yeah?” He sounded sleepy.

  “Phil, it’s Mongo.”

  He woke up fast. “Listen, you move in some pretty fast company.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “I had some visitors last night. They banged in here past three o’clock in the morning. Can you imagine that? Three o’clock in the fucking morning?”

  “I can imagine it. Who were they?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer, but I wanted to ask just for the record.

  “Government agents.”

  “What department?”