Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) Page 6

  8. Tehran: Former American Embassy Grounds, Mousavi’s Office

  Yazdi understood that the “Steltzer” meeting was coming to a close when Ali Mousavi looked at his watch. Mousavi had judged and convicted the German professor. His execution had just become Yazdi’s responsibility. He finished his coffee and got up from his chair a split second after Mousavi, disheveled as ever, started to rise.

  Yazdi could feel Mousavi’s deep personal satisfaction as he glanced at his office, what had been the master bedroom of the last American ambassador in Tehran. The take-over of the embassy compound in November 1979, combined with the overthrow of the Shah by Ayatollah Khomeini, had kick-started the renaissance of political Islam. In memory of that glorious event, a photograph of several American hostages, some with blindfolds over their eyes, and of the student leaders who had captured them hung on the wall behind Mousavi’s desk.

  The ambassador had left a cigarette lighter with a U.S. Navy logo in a desk drawer, and Mousavi now kept it in his pocket. He said that it reminded him of American arrogance and strengthened his will to cut the United States down to size. The lighter appeared in Mousavi’s fingers whenever he felt angry or frustrated.

  The chess table with finely carved ivory pieces in a corner of the room reminded Yazdi that Mousavi considered himself an excellent chess player and was also addicted to puzzles, especially cryptograms. Yazdi always tried to bring him back a magazine of assorted mind-twisters from his travels.

  The downstairs of the residence had been broken up into smaller offices. However, the kitchen had remained untouched although the lack of spare parts meant that appliances were not as functional as they had once been. One day, in a fit of anger, Mousavi had ordered them all replaced with new ones from Germany, delivery of which was slowed by the economic embargo imposed by America and Europe.

  Mousavi had the satisfaction that, while the Europeans implemented the embargo on insignificant items, they usually found a way to export the strategic items that Iran needed for its nuclear programs. Lenin’s quote about capitalists selling the rope that would hang them was as relevant today as it was during the Russian Revolution. Although Mousavi had other offices in the city, this one had become his de facto headquarters.

  “The only other time I want to hear about this German saboteur, this CIA tool, is when you tell me that he is dead.”

  “I will take care of it.”

  “Good. Get all the information from Majid.

  “Hashem,” Mousavi added, “I also want to praise you for having such a loyal nephew. This project that Firuz will help us with could become quite significant. Time will tell. It has the attention of the Council of Guardians,” and he nodded toward a photograph of a stern ayatollah in a black turban that dominated the room.

  “Of course, for now, our nuclear hopes take priority. We are a sovereign nation, and no one, especially the Great Satan, will be allowed to interfere in our internal affairs. Frankly,” Mousavi added lowering his voice and moving from behind his desk, “this new project is too much like the electronic games that have such a great attraction to the youth of the West. I can’t take it too seriously. Others do, however,” he looked fleetingly at the ayatollah on the wall, “So...” He spread his arms in a What-can-I-do? gesture.

  Mousavi caught Yazdi’s eye lingering over the photo behind his desk. He stopped and pointed to it. “Yes, you’re in that photo, as a young agitator. Lucky you’ve changed your stripes. The Tudeh hasn’t done well since then.”

  As he walked to his car in the parking near the front gate, Hashem Yazdi watched the black Mercedes S63 AMG come through the gate after being checked by armed Pasdaran guards. He was sure it was Mousavi’s car but was puzzled since Mousavi was not known to share his car. Yazdi followed the Mercedes with his eyes and saw it enter the parking in back of what had been the Chancery, now a museum, a reminder of America’s violation of the great Iranian nation.

  Two men got out of the back of the Mercedes. Yazdi knew the Pasdaran security guard who let himself out of the front passenger seat and thought he recognized one of the passengers, short and stocky with gray hair, a baggy gray suit with a flowery shirt and no tie. Yazdi knew he had run into him in the past but couldn’t quite place him until he heard him speak Russian to his companion, a much younger man with glasses, jeans, and a half-zipped olive green jacket.

  The older man had been the Rezidentura chief for the SVR, the new KGB, in Tehran. Yazdi recalled having met him to discuss the possible transportation of Saddam Hussein’s biological and chemical weapons to Iran before the arrival of the American army. His name was Viktor Kozak he recalled now. His employer’s initials had changed from KGB to SVR but Kozak wore the same suit.

  In the end, the Russians had decided to transport the deadly material by truck to Syria. The more sensitive nuclear equipment was returned to Russia by Ilyushin 76, one of the biggest cargo aircraft in the world. Kozak, who had not seen him, laughed loudly and pointed toward the former embassy to his companion.

  Yazdi drove out of the compound and made a left on Taleqani Street. A death’s head statue of liberty against a star and stripes background decorated the compound wall. A block further he drove by several posters for the two remaining presidential candidates in the forthcoming elections. The Council of Guardians of the Constitution, a body that supported the incumbent president, had approved them both.

  In the bumper-to-bumper city traffic, he had ample time to reflect on his meeting with Mousavi. He had reported to him about his trip to the United States immediately upon his return a month before. He had considered revealing the CIA’s approach, but his survival instincts shut down his impulse in short order. Yazdi had been more confident, more comfortable, at today’s meeting. Finding this German should not be difficult. However, he had respect for the German police and internal security service and would have to move carefully.

  Acting on his conviction that he was not under suspicion, he felt his pocket for his cell phone. As he waited for traffic to move, he changed the Sim card and made a call to Basra, in Southern Iraq.

  The traffic cleared somewhat as he neared the outskirts of Tehran, and he headed for Ayatollah Imam Khomeini Airport to pick up his nephew Firuz. He had tried to call his brother in Los Angeles but had not reached him. How had Firuz allowed himself to get involved with al Quds activities in California? Mousavi had not briefed him on the project that Firuz was expected to work on, but knowing that Firuz had majored in computer sciences gave Yazdi a general idea. Perhaps the goal was to reinforce the regime’s information security systems against foreign, i.e., American, capabilities.

  He wondered briefly what Kozak was up to. Whatever it was, Mousavi had sent his car for him, an indication that it was a high-priority project.

  9. Alexandria, Virginia: Old Town

  Steve got up on one elbow and looked at Kella. She was sleeping. The sun, still low on the horizon, sliced through partially drawn curtains like a spotlight on an expensive painting, highlighting her tawny skin and the copper highlights in her black curls. A beautiful and serene face. A sleeping tiger, he thought. He got up to better close the curtain to let her sleep and went to the kitchen to make coffee.

  How different she was from Vera, who had died the day he was going to propose to her during a skiing vacation in British Colombia’s glaciated Coast Range. Eager to try the ungroomed slopes at the higher altitudes, he had gone heli-skiing for a day while she had gone off with another group with a guide on less demanding terrain. She and her entire group had perished in an avalanche.

  He knew, had he not selfishly gone off on his own, that Vera would be alive. The guilt, the what-ifs had almost paralyzed him. Vera also had been tall and slim without a model’s anorexia, like Kella. He had loved her spontaneity and quicksilver intelligence. It had taken him over a year and Kella’s appearance in his life to accept his devastating loss. Only those who had not gone through a similar experience could talk about “closing the loop.”

  When they
had met in Paris, their mutual attraction had a lot to do with the similarity of their personal tragedies. Kella had suffered a deep personal shock through the death of her best friend at the hands of her extremist father. Obeying his version of Islam, he had slit her throat, and Kella had witnessed the honor killing. Steve and Kella had met the day before.

  Later in Morocco, Steve had escaped assassination attempts from thugs motivated by the same ideology. They thought he was assisting in proving that the immutable Quran was not the only version of Allah’s words. As a result, both Steve and Kella had deep-seated feelings about murder as a means of enforcing religious beliefs.

  The consequences had changed both their lives. The CIA, through his father Marshall, had recruited him for a so-called short-term mission that had taken him into the vortex of Middle East politics and medieval motivations. Kella had grown up in the hardscrabble environment of the Sahara where nature’s deprivations and man’s shortcomings combined to either kill you or make you stronger. Her parents had been killed by Malian army troops during a Tuareg rebellion. Somehow she had survived, wound up in a Catholic orphanage, and had been adopted by Jack Hastings, an American diplomat married to a French woman with Parisian society connections.

  Kella had done more than survive adversity. She had earned a degree from France’s most prestigious school, L’Ecole Nationale d’Administration, had undergone training from the French external intelligence organization, the DGSE, and had been an intelligence officer for a year. Then, like Steve with the CIA, she had concluded that the organization was flawed by bureaucracy and careerism. She and Steve had struck out on their own and succeeded without either the DGSE or the CIA.

  Telling Kella that he was about to leave again had not improved their relationship.

  “Iran? Iran? Are you nuts?” she had said last night.

  “Doesn’t the CIA have its own people? Maybe they only get the safe diplomatic assignments? Why you for heaven’s sake? You’re not exactly unknown. Your picture was in the paper in Paris, remember?”

  Steve refrained from replying, preferring Kella’s anger to run itself out. Kella continued, “Iranian security will arrest you at the airport. Besides, didn’t your father serve there a long time ago? I remember he said that he worked in liaison with the SAVAK, the Shah’s secret service, using his real name for God’s sake!’”

  Steve had not come up with any answers that pacified her.

  Kella came into the kitchen barefoot and wearing a short satin slip that showed her long legs and figure to advantage.

  “The coffee is almost ready,” Steve said in a peace bid, his eyes embracing her body.

  She disappeared into the bathroom for a minute to brush her hair and came out wearing a flimsy bathrobe that did not hide her multiethnic beauty. Born and raised to the age of eight in the Southern Sahara town of Timbuktu, her Tuareg ancestors predated the Arab invasion of North Africa and included a New England ship’s captain taken hostage and sold in Timbuktu after being marooned on the West African coast, and at least one French Foreign Legion officer who went native and stayed with the Tuareg tribe when his regiment went back to France.

  “So, how was your trip? Where did you go again?” she said with apparent indifference.

  Steve was fully aware of need-to-know when it came to his classified work. He was happy, however, that her fury seemed to have dissipated. Wishing to keep it that way, he answered her question, “St. John’s in Newfoundland. The trip was about cover. I met my cover boss, a great guy, who showed me around the town so I could decide where I had lived, gone to school, and so on. I learned about the product and the cover job, of course. When this is over, we should take a trip up there together. It’s a beautiful area – nature in its raw state, but just the opposite of your Sahara.”

  Acting bored, Kella replied, “Really?” She took a sip of her coffee. “Did you bring the paper in?”

  Steve went to get the paper from the driveway and put it on the kitchen table. “If Washington ever gets too boring for you, we can always move to St. John’s. O’Reagan, my cover boss, former Army Ranger, offered me a job whenever I wanted. He’s now in green energy, the wave of the future.”

  “Me? Bored? Ha! Who’s running off to Iran looking for excitement?” Last night’s argument was about to re-ignite, and Steve suddenly got busy pouring himself another cup of coffee.

  “You should practice your alias now,” Kella said, changing tone. “It will keep you from making a mistake later. That’s what I teach, anyway.”

  Steve hesitated. How far should he go? “My name, my alias, will be Christopher Breton.”

  Kella looked at the newspaper headlines for an instant and then turned toward Steve.

  “Have you thought about what you’re doing? What about us? You avoided following in your father’s CIA footsteps but you accept every dangerous mission they give you. Why don’t you just join the CIA and get it over with? They made the offer often enough. If you go to Iran, you probably won’t come back. Whether you do or not, I’m leaving for France tomorrow. I told you my grandfather is ill. You do understand that you’re making a life choice?”

  Steve came to stand behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “I’m not very good at life choices. I can’t keep you from your grandfather and don’t want to. Going to Iran was not my first choice, but LaFont told me that the Pentagon is reviewing its war plans on a daily basis. The available information–intercepts, imagery, our own and from other Intel services–tells us that their nuclear program is very advanced. But we have no agent information on Iranian intentions. I shouldn’t tell you this, but my father Marshall recruited a senior IRGC official. He knew him when he was there during the Revolution. The CIA needs a case officer to handle him and get his information. Only temporarily, a month at the most.”

  Kella stood to face him. “You’re telling me this is a new asset, untested in other words. How do we know he’s not a double? Bait to capture a CIA officer, a spy of the Great Satan? This is worse than I thought.”

  Steve took her hands. “I spoke with my father and he’s convinced this guy is real. He has family here and wants to defect and sort of retire and see his grandchildren grow up here.”

  “Well, why doesn’t he?”

  “Because, if he works for the CIA for a while he’ll get help with his citizenship and a sizeable stipend.

  “LaFont said this may be the last chance and I believe her,” Steve said holding Kella’s gaze with his eyes. “Without solid information to the contrary, everything so far says that Iran will use its atomic weapon, either against Israel or against an American installation, or explode a nuclear device in the U.S., with disastrous consequences for everyone. LaFont said that the information from this operation could stop our government from making a terrible mistake, from carrying out a pre-emptive military action for example.”

  “Well I agree with her on one point,” Kella said. “Making worst-case assumptions hasn’t worked so far.” She turned away from him, took her coffee cup from the table, and looked out the window. “I can’t handle your death-wish compulsion. I want you to leave the CIA and make a life with me.”

  “I’m not with the CIA. But this is important, maybe crucial for this country and for the entire Middle East.” He paused willing her to turn around and face him. “Actually, I’ve been wanting to discuss something with you. Are you going to turn around?”

  “What would that be?” she asked as she turned toward him casually. “What would you think if we opened up a sports store focusing only on SCUBA gear, parasailing, and sport parachuting? And we could run extreme-sports trips. After Iran.”

  “Where did that come from?” she asked raising her voice and shaking her head. “I don’t see you as a shopkeeper. But you’re showing progress, maybe you can get over this CIA thing.” She looked into his eyes searching for commitment.

  “Christopher,” she said using his alias, “I think you’re going to need my help in Tehran. It will be
hard to change my work plans, but I think that I can take enough vacation to keep you alive over there.”

  “What are you saying?” Steve shook his head and raised his arms. “Now you’re the one who’s nuts. You’re not going to Iran.”

  “You can’t go alone. Since your vaunted CIA can’t send any one with you, who’s going to watch your back? Tell me, would you be here today if I hadn’t been with you in Israel? “

  He knew that she was referring to a hand-to-hand fight in the darkness of Israel’s secret underground weapon-of-last-resort complex against the terrorists that had captured it. While he was on the ground, a knife blade slicing into the palm of his hand while he tried to deflect the weapon from his throat. Kella had shot his adversary.

  Kella put her coffee down. “You’re right,” she said taking him by the hand and leading him toward the bedroom, “You’re not good at this type of decision. Christopher. Canadian men turn me on. Come on.”

  Steve was at a loss for words.

  10. Langley: Office of the Director

  Walter Deuel pointed his cigar at Marshall Church. “What do you think of having your son go to Tehran on this mission? You know the agent; you recruited him. You know the country.”

  Their friendship had started during their initial CIA training. Deuel had recruited Church to his sport parachuting club, and later they had volunteered together for their first assignment: Laos, Operation MOMENTUM. President Kennedy had decided to hold the line against communist expansion, and the agency was working with local tribes, especially the Hmong, a mountain tribe of Chinese origin, also interested on keeping the North Vietnamese out of their mountains.

  They were in Deuel’s seventh floor office standing by the large window and looking down at the trees. The leaves were in the process of changing to reddish and golden hues.