Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) Read online

  Nearly deaf from the explosion and the acrid smell of black powder burning his nostrils, Marshall stuck his gun an inch from the Iranian’s clenched masseter muscles and wide open eyes while, with his right hand, he grabbed hold of the rifle. After a brief tug of war aided by the Moroccan pulling with both hands, Gold Tooth let go just in time for al Fassi to point the rifle at the man wrenching the passenger door open.

  Immediately, Marshall released the clutch and pushed the gas pedal down to the floor. With the engine screaming, he drove through the barrels bouncing them off his bumper and front fenders like pins in a bowling alley; the militiamen scattered. His head lowered into his shoulders, Marshall did his best to break the world’s record in racing through the gears and sped away leaving rubber on the road. A shot rang out just as al Fassi, leaning to the right, managed to close his door when the speedometer passed fifty. The bullet smashed through the back window and into the dashboard radio.

  After a few seconds, Marshall and al Fassi smiled at each other with relief. Under his breath, Marshall began to first hum and then sing, “Her name was Lola, She was a show girl...”

  Al Fassi glanced at him and joined him, at first very low, and then louder until then were both singing at the top of their voices, “At the Copa, Copacabana ...” Then they roared with laughter. They were alive and free, for now.

  4. McLean, Virginia: The Present

  With a long box in the back seat, Marshall Church drove by the small shopping center at the corner of Old Dominion Drive and Spring Hill Road and spotted one element of the joint CIA/FBI surveillance team before turning around in Greenway Heights. He called in to the team leader and said he was coming in. Now, after three decades, Marshall had taken the G3 rifle down from his den wall under his wife Kate’s approving glance, and today he planned to finally meet its owner.

  Wearing dark slacks, a long-sleeve blue and white striped shirt, and a sports jacket, he parked in front of a 7-Eleven, walked under a SWEET THINGS sign, and passed the fragrant entrance to a small bakery to turn left into a garden with several wrought-iron tables and umbrellas. Just as the surveillance team had told him, there was a room in back of the shop with a door opening to the garden where the McLean gentry had coffee and croissants on Sunday mornings while reading their New York Times.

  Marshall knocked on the white weatherworn wooden door. A tall, broad shouldered young man in a black muscle shirt opened it without speaking.

  “Please tell Hashem Yazdi I’d like to see him,” Marshall said. When, as expected, the bodyguard said he knew no one by that name, Marshall handed him the long box he was carrying and said, “Give him this. He lost it at a roadblock in 1979.”

  The bodyguard, who was probably not yet born in 1979, stayed stone faced but accepted the package and closed the door. A few minutes later, Yazdi opened the door himself wearing new American style jeans, sandals, and a long sleeve dark blue shirt.

  “I am Hashem Aghazadeh,” he said using his passport alias. “Who are you looking for?”

  “We met briefly in Tehran just before the Ayatollah returned. I had to borrow that from you.” Marshall pointed toward the box, now lying half-opened on a coffee table. “I’m returning it and I had hoped you’d invite me in for tea,” he smiled.

  “There is no one here by that name. You’re making a mistake.”

  “Mr. Yazdi, we can have our discussion here unofficially, or we can do it in a government building with a team of interrogators. We have enough charges against you to put you away for years. What do you think?”

  After a pause during which the guard stepped forward, a frustrated looking Yazdi stepped back from the door and waved Marshall in.

  Face recognition technology deployed at JFK airport had identified the scar over one ear and his nearly bald head, but more importantly the dimensions and proportions between his eyes, nose, and mouth as belonging to an operative of al Quds. He had shaved his mustache and dyed his remaining hair black. The members of Al Quds—named for the holy city of Jerusalem—were all true believers and the cream of the crop of Iranian Intelligence. One didn’t volunteer or apply. One was chosen.

  Yazdi said a few words to the bodyguard who left the room.

  “When I was in your country,” Marshall said, “you and your friends made it clear that I was not welcome. Hell, if your guys had been better shots, I’d be dead. I’m extending a better welcome to you than you did to me.”

  “I am confused. You Americans have strange customs,” Yazdi said raising imposing eyebrows and maintaining his tight smile. “As I said my name is not Yazdi.” He went to the kitchenette and put water on the stove for tea, apparently stalling for time. Marshall took it as a good sign. Yazdi was getting ready for a conversation.

  “We followed your career through the years,” Marshall told him. “You’ve come a long way from roadblocks and storming the American Embassy in November ’79.”

  Prepared to play his second card, Marshall got up from his chair and stood by the counter separating the kitchenette from the sitting area. “I understand this is your son’s store. I also hear that he’s doing very well. This is an excellent location for his business. He’s surrounded by upscale neighborhoods.”

  “I am just visiting. He is not my son. My name...”

  “He could have a future here,” Marshall interrupted.

  Yazdi looked at Marshall speculatively. “What do you want?” Looking toward the ceiling for an instant, he added, “You are a bad dream.”

  Was Yazdi admitting their previous encounter?

  “What choice did I have?” Marshall shrugged. “When I leaned that you were here, I simply wanted to meet you and, of course, return your property.”

  The teakettle let out a whistle, and Yazdi shut off the burner. He brought the hot water back to the sitting area where Marshall joined him. Yazdi served tea for the two of them. Balancing his cup in one hand, he sat back, put one foot on his knee, and, showing his gold tooth, he said, “I have done nothing illegal in your country.”

  “On the contrary. You’re here under false documents. I would end up in an unmarked grave if I traveled to Iran under a false name. A senior al Quds officer doesn’t travel to the capital of the Great Satan just for a family visit. I’m not here to threaten you but, as I said, our Department of Justice has a warrant for your arrest, and the FBI has your DNA from the restaurant where you had dinner on Dolly Madison Boulevard last night.

  “I just can’t figure out why they sent you, a known al Quds agent. Is this a suicide mission? Didn’t it occur to your organization that we would know you were here?” Was he talking to a dangle, someone that Iranian intelligence hoped would be recruited by the Americans to then run their officer as a double agent?

  “After I left Iran, I recognized you in one of the photos of the students involved with the hostages.”

  “I was a student but I had nothing to do with holding the American hostages,” Yazdi pronounced after a pause, crossing into new territory. “I thought bringing down the Shah would solve everything. Each group had its own agenda. There were Soviet-sponsored Communists, nationalist democrats, European-type socialists, and Islamists. Those days were exciting, much plotting and maneuvering. Each group was armed and playing for keeps. It was all a long time ago.”

  “Yes, and some of your friends were executed. I remember,” said Marshall as he reached for the sugar. “Every night there was a mini-war in the streets following curfew. After shouting ‘Death to America’ the night before, Iranian kids would ring our bell and ask if our children could come out and play. You’re right; it was a long time ago. Now I’m retired. I get to watch my grandchildren grow up.” Looking up from his cup, he asked, “How about you? You’ve been successful.”

  Yazdi averted his eyes and stared down at the carpet. “I don’t know what you’ve heard. I’ve always been more political than religious, than Islamic I mean. In reality, I was not far from the old Tudeh Party, the Iranian Communist Party, at first. But early on during th
e hostage episode, when the students from the Islamic schools were able to dictate national policy, I realized that more could be accomplished through the Islamists.”

  Yazdi paused, perhaps reviewing memories of his youth like old movie clips. He leaned forward to pour more tea in their cups, and as he offered his guest the bowl of sugar cubes, he exposed a scar above his left ear. The thin white line contrasted with his dark complexion. Yazdi acknowledged Marshall’s look, gave him a tight smile and said, “The war. Much blood but not serious.” He put a sugar cube in his mouth and drank a sip of tea through it. Yazdi had not had an easy life. He might even have aged since Marshall walked back into his life an hour ago. “What do you want?”

  Feeling that Yazdi was heading in the right direction but not yet ready, Marshall asked, “What about the Iraq-Iran War? How did you survive?”

  “Yes, the war,” Yazdi resumed. “I was more action-oriented than intellectual, so I went into the military. I did survive and became part of a network of people who are now in the upper levels of the system. Yes, I survived in spite of the American assistance to Iraq,” he added accusingly, “something Iran can never forgive.”

  Marshall put one arm on the back of his chair. “We were worried that your revolution was going to take over the Iraqi oil fields. Our goal was, and still is, containment”

  The two old adversaries walked through Iran’s recent history since the Khomeini revolution: the internal chaos, the endless arrests and executions, the rule of the street Komites, the religiously sponsored local militias, assassinations of oppositionists overseas, discontent of the current younger generation born after the 1979 revolution, and the tension with the West over Iran’s attempt to regain lost pride and re-establish itself as a regional power by developing its own Islamic bomb.

  Marshall was building the foundation of a shared kinship by recalling dangerous times that Yazdi had survived and that Marshall had watched through the kaleidoscope of Iranian politics. He felt that Yazdi was responding, based on a level of understanding that only someone who had been there at the creation could share.

  Marshall recognized the harsh reality behind Yazdi’s reminiscences. Even in the early days of the Iranian Revolution, Hashem must have had to play down his leftist beliefs to survive the Islamist wave. Marshall assessed Yazdi as someone who could change, who was not forever wedded to an ideology, and perhaps someone whose loyalties were flexible, a hopeful sign for what Marshall had in mind. The wistful quality of Yazdi’s statements offered an additional clue.

  “But all that is history,” Marshal said changing gears to repeat a theme, “I retired, and I’m watching the grandchildren grow. But I’m surprised that, with your background, you’re not already head of al Quds.”

  Yazdi froze for an instant, his cup half raised to his lips, stared at Marshall, and put his cup back down very deliberately. Marshall felt he had hit a nerve.

  “Mousavi has that job. He also has the blood of his rivals on his hands.” Looking in the distance as if viewing a scene in his memory, he said, “I’m lucky to be alive.”

  As if untangling a ball of string, Marshall tugged gently at the end Yazdi had offered and began to pull Yazdi’s story out. Far from being on an official mission, he had flown secretly to America on an alias passport to see his son and his family after orchestrating the attack on the Panorama Hotel in Bahrain. The second strategic nugget from Marshall’s elicitation was Yazdi’s conflicted relationship with Mousavi, a man who had caused the death of several of Yazdi’s childhood friends.

  Yazdi uncrossed his arms. “So now, tell me why you’re here.”

  “First, tell me the truth; you came here to live thinking you could stay under the radar with your false documents,” Marshall said.

  Although Yazdi shook his head, Marshall went on, “I can help you get there, spend time with your grandchildren, but we have a small problem: you’re here illegally. The way the law works here is that you need to leave the country and come back using your true name so that an official authority in the U.S. Government can sponsor you. I can give you a way to come back legally and a means to communicate with us in the meantime. In a year or two, when you’re ready, and you’ve shown us that you’re serious about wanting to live here, the door will be open.”

  “What do you mean?” Yazdi sat forward aggressively and held his hand up toward Marshall. “No, I know what you mean. I will not be your spy.”

  “Wait. Hear me out. I can help you make a life here, and I can help you sink Mousavi’s career.”

  Yazdi held up both hands as if stopping traffic. “You’re asking me to put my life in your hands. If I’m caught, I will not see my grandchildren grow up as you say. Ali Mousavi will interrupt his obsession with chess to see to it.”

  “We understand that. However, you’re a smart guy. Think of the reward.

  We can make your dreams possible.” Marshall stood.

  Taking Yazdi’s silence as agreement, Marshall sat back down and stayed for another hour playing three-dimensional mind-chess with a master before they finally closed in on the details of a deal.

  “This is a win-win for both of us, Hashem,” Marshall said. “We can help each other. We will facilitate the naturalization process for your son and family. We will place one million dollars in an interest-accruing account immediately. When you leave Iran permanently, you will have access to the account. The naturalization process for you will start now. As I said, I’ll have somebody come here tomorrow morning to help you with the paper work.” Marshall held back from mentioning the witness-protection program.

  The two men shook hands. Yazdi took the rifle and gave it to Marshall. “You should keep this.”

  Marshall drove away thinking that Yazdi would be an agile player, like a knight in the early phase of a chess game, able to jump his way across a crowded board. Knights were most useful at the beginning of a game, but hardly ever survived to the end game.

  How far would Yazdi go?

  5. Marin County, California

  Firuz Yazdi lowered the window of his car to confirm that what he was hearing was the foghorn of the Larkspur Ferry as he sped down Highway 101 toward the Golden Gate Bridge and his Mountain View apartment in the middle of Silicon Valley. His black hair was entirely shaved off, but his face sported California stubble. The last eighteen hours were about to change his life. His mind was on his new mission, his first real mission for al Quds, to work on a secret project in Iran. There were two books on the passenger seat next to him, one on Rumi, the thirteenth century Persian poet and Sufi mystic, and the other on Darius, the founder of ancient Persia.

  He had spent the previous day in Davis with his al Quds control, Nasrullah, a professor of Comparative Religion at the University of California. Nasrullah had convinced him to spend the next few months using his computer expertise for the greater glory of Persia. Nasrullah had mentioned “Iran’s Cyber Army” without being more specific. Firuz, a loner with a Master’s in Computer Sciences from the University of California at Berkeley and the co-founder of “Intrepid Computing,” already felt elated at joining a group whose mission would give more meaning to his life.

  Firuz was tempted to get off Highway 101 at Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, curious to know if the alluring sound was from the M.S. Sonoma, the ferry whose destruction he had planned so meticulously.

  He even had done several dry runs. It would have been easy. Take the bus to Larkspur, board the ferry to San Francisco, hide two Semtex bombs, one among life vests past an open door marked, NO ADMITTANCE—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY on the lower level and the other behind the water tank in a bathroom. After debarking in San Francisco, he would sit in back of Starbuck’s at a table overlooking the pier and watch the Friday afternoon commuter crowd onto the ship. Blowing up the ferry while sipping a latte would have been delicious irony.

  He had agonized whether to discuss his idea with Nasrullah to get his authorization and the explosives. Could he damage the boat without killing the people? After all,
the purpose was not to kill as many people as possible. It was to bring the world’s attention to the bullying ways of American policies in the Middle East. What was the American Navy doing in the Persian Gulf anyway?

  Could he carry out an operation against the United States, a country that had been kind to his family and had given him his education? He corrected himself; his education had been sold to him. In other countries, education would have been a right, not a privilege only for those who could afford it.

  Firuz, born in Los Angeles after his family emigrated from Tehran following the Khomeini Revolution in 1979, had always been an outsider. He looked different and was not particularly interested in sports, an essential ingredient for popularity in American schools. He had always been a nerd with his sharp nose in a book, and later in a computer. His classmates always taunted him for his apparent arrogance and disdain.

  Nasrullah’s proposition that Firuz go to Tehran had at first surprised him, but then he welcomed it. He had always been drawn to Persia’s military and cultural accomplishments and had learned that America had been only the last invader, less bloody than the Mongols but more pernicious. He was proud to be needed. But at the age of twenty-eight, what about his family and girlfriend Joy? During the drive down from Davis, he had rationalized his decision and looked forward to connecting with his roots. After all, Nasrullah had said his assignment to Iran would be only for six months, after which he would come back and be even more useful in the United States.

  He had anticipated that Nasrullah would make him into a bomb-thrower. But this secret project already promised him a position more suited to his talents while participating in the renewal of Persia’s rightful place in the world. Nasrullah had hinted that Firuz might replace him as the West Coast al Quds chief when he came back.

  His uncle Hashem Yazdi, whom Firuz had always admired, had stayed in Iran, giddy at the takeover of the American Embassy in ‘79, an unexpected success in which he had played a leading role. Infatuated with the idea of a once glorious and now maligned Persia, Firuz had begun to correspond with his uncle while in college. He now spoke to him on the phone regularly. Firuz didn’t know exactly what Hashem did; only that he had been a hero of the Iran-Iraq War and now was a senior official with the Islamic Revolutionary Guards. He assumed that his uncle was behind this sudden plan, another reason for agreeing so readily.