Free The Peregrine Spy by Edmund P. Murray Page A

supposed to have someone else? A colonel from the…”
    The general had cut him off. “No, no colonel … ah, the colonel won’t be able to work with us. Other pressing duties.”
    “I see.” In this case not even a name, thought Frank. “No replacement?”
    “No,” said General Merid. “His branch has … pressing duties.”
    “Oh, that’s right,” said Gus. “A chicken colonel from the Imperial Guard.”
    “A what?” said General Merid.
    “Chicken colonel. You must have heard that expression.”
    “No, no,” said the general, laughing. “Tell me. What does it mean? Chicken colonel.”
    “It’s the insignia, at least in the U.S. military. A colonel’s insignia is a silver eagle. The joke is that a colonel’s insignia isn’t a real eagle, just a chicken.”
    By now General Merid was laughing so hard his eyes teared. “Chicken colonel. I can hardly wait till I see him to make fun. Colonel Chicken.”
    “It’s a good name for him,” sniffed Major Nazih. “He won’t be missed. He’s a zero only good for keeping his nose up Savak ’s ass.”
    Frank had glanced around the table. If the Imperial Guard chicken colonel wouldn’t be reporting their meetings to Savak, he wondered who would. He wondered about the general. Had Savak briefed him on the American passion for civic action programs? Perhaps Nazih, his irreverence adopted as cover for a clever agent. Or Major Amini, Anwar, the friendliest of the crew? Why was he so friendly—and cautious?
    Frank shivered. He’d been so wrapped up in thinking about their meeting, he’d forgotten that he sat next to Ali, heading back to their office at Dowshan Tappeh. The air cutting through the car’s partially open window had turned chillier.
    Behind him, Gus snored, a light, wheezing sound. Frank studied the all but empty streets. They told him nothing. He rolled up the window.
    *   *   *
    “You got trouble,” barked Troy as they entered his office. “Novak wants to see you, and there’s a mob burning tires outside the embassy gates.”
    “Nice,” said Gus. “Between a Rocky and a hot place.”
    “Here, I drew you a map,” said Troy. “There’s a back way in. They say that’s quiet. But you might be better off if the mob gets you. Novak’s got a bug up his ass about something. I just got off the fucking scramble phone, and my ears are still ringing.” He handed the map to Frank. “Take the Fiat. The Chevy’s bulletproof, but it looks too fuckin’ American. Now get goin’.”
    “Both of us?” asked Frank.
    “Well, he just wants to see you. But nobody goes anywhere alone in this town these days. I can’t spare an escort, so Gus, you’ll have to go with him. Which might be a good thing. Facin’ a pissed-off Rocky, it might be a good thing to have a genuine knife fighter along.”
    “Knife fighter?” Frank couldn’t picture Gus wielding a knife in anger.
    “Oh, yeah,” said Troy. “Fact, last time I saw this guy he took out a couple of VCs that tried to off us in a blow-job bar in Saigon.” Frank studied Gus with new eyes.
    “Ancient history,” said Gus. “We’ve got a more recent problem to tell you about.”
    “Just what I need. Another problem.”
    “Frank here got an air mail special delivered through his bedroom window this morning.”
    “You got what?”
    “It looked a like a grenade,” said Frank. “It rolled under the bed, and we decided to get out of there without trying to get a better look.”
    “Couldn’t be too serious if it didn’t go off before you got outta there. I’ll have one of my guys break out his bomb squad gear and check it out.”
    “’Preciate it,” said Gus.
    “Why the fuck couldn’t Rocky keep you guys down in his own shop?” said Troy. “And outta my hair.”
    “You already told us,” said Gus. “Because Rocky wants to have as little to do with us as possible, since he doesn’t want us here in the first damn place.”
    “Yeah, you got that right,” said Troy. “Look,