Free Too Bad to Die by Francine Mathews Page B

Schwartz’s head slid around Roosevelt’s bedroom door. “Just checking, sir, whether you need anything before I head up to the hotel.”
    â€œI’d like you to read something, Sam.”
    The letter from Stalin was lying in its official envelope on his bedside table. It was typewritten in Russian, but Chip Bohlen, a young Russian expert Roosevelt had brought with him, had translated it. Franklin rolled his chair over to the table, Schwartz carefully following behind. “I want your opinion.”
    Schwartz’s gaze traveled swiftly across the lines of translated text. “Uncle Joe wants you to stay at the Soviet Embassy?”
    â€œSays the drive between our legation and theirs exposes me to risk in Tehran. From some sort of ‘demonstration.’ He seems to think a Nazi with a gun could wreak all kinds of havoc. Says I’d be more comfortable at his place, too.”
    â€œSounds like a lot of hooey to me,” Schwartz said dubiously. “Why’s he want you inside his embassy so bad?”
    â€œI’m guessing Stalin doesn’t want to make that dangerous drive. The Soviets aren’t too popular in Persia these days.”
    The Secret Service chief returned the pages to their envelope and set it back on Roosevelt’s table. “The British and Soviet embassies are right next to one another in the same walled compound, sir. Ours is only a mile away. I think my fellas can guarantee your safety for a mile.”
    â€œI believe you, Sam. You’ve never let me down yet. And what’s a German agent or two in Tehran? I bet there’s more than that in Washington and New York.”
    â€œI doubt the Nazis even know you’re headed to Tehran,” Schwartz said. “I talked to Dreyfus only this morning, and he never mentioned trouble.” Dreyfus was the American envoy to Persia. “But the Sovs and the Brits have been holding down the city between them. Stands to reason their information’s better than ours. Has Mr. Churchill said anything, sir? About that gun placement on the Great Pyramid?”
    â€œCommander Fleming assures me it’s nothing,” Roosevelt mused. “He spun me a tale about a German fighter plane out of Tunis. I pretended to believe him.”
    Uncharacteristically, Schwartz began to pace. “I don’t like dropping you in Stalin’s lap, sir. Even if he
is
an ally. If you need to be closer to the conference, stay with Mr. Churchill.”
    â€œWinston would love that. But it would alienate Uncle Joe. Both of us landing in Tehran and pitching camp together! He’ll be suspicious as hell before the three of us even sit down at the table.”
    Schwartz simply looked at him.
    â€œEver been to Tehran, Sam?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œWhy don’t you leave tomorrow—and check the place out? Go over Stalin’s guest room. Take a gander at ours. Look at Churchill’s if you like. I want us to have every option available.”

CHAPTER 6
    A s darkness swept over Giza, the first flakes of snow began to fall fifteen hundred miles to the east, in the foothills of the Alborz mountains north of Tehran.
    A thousand feet higher, snow already lay deep in the twining branches of the ironwood trees; it had been falling since September. The principal peak, Mount Tochal, rose to thirteen thousand feet, and its height would not be free of ice until June. But here, in the forest at the head of the Jajrood River, they’d been lucky, Skorzeny thought—it was not yet winter when they’d set up camp and begun to fight the Persian leopards for their prey. Those clement days were dwindling as November came to a close.
    He was tending a small fire in the lee of a rock outcropping, standing watch while his five men slept. The remains of a roasted ibex lay on a canvas tarp; they’d eaten as much meat as they could hold, aware that it might be days before they hunted again. He would toss the