Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2), André Gallo [ebook reader color screen .txt] 📗

She took a sip, put her glass down and lay down looking up; the pillows had been thrown on the floor. He leaned over her and kissed her lightly.

After he lay back down, she reached for a pillow and turned toward him. “Jeff had this argument with Washington,” she said. “A month or so ago, over somebody’s assignment. Jeff didn’t want him to come and eventually Jeff won. Except now he just found out that he didn’t win after all, and he’s really pissed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know for sure. I think, I’m almost sure, that it was about a CIA person. That he was supposed to be assigned to my husband’s staff in the Interests Section, and now he’s here but somewhere else.”

“Where is he? You’re talking about another American official?” Jafar’s interest quickened, but he was concerned that she would stop talking if he pushed her.

She rested her head on her hand. “I don’t know. He is here, but he’s not in the Interests Section.”

He put his pants back on and stood, not speaking. He reached for his glass and drank it down.

He looked out the window an instant and then turned back toward her. He had built up her natural guilt over her country’s history of interference, of insults, of breaking the laws of both man and Allah into the wish to atone. He was pleased that he had brought her along so far so quickly, that he was able to turn a conversation into a debriefing. He had translated her emotional needs to his advantage and of course to the benefit of Iran. But he, Jafar, stood to be rewarded.

She looked a bit confused, maybe even afraid, which pleased him. She was an intelligent woman, but he wondered if she understood what she was doing, that their relationship had crossed onto new territory.

“What are you going to do?” she asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

25. Tehran: National Computer Center

The limousine pulled up in front of the tallest building in its neighborhood, perhaps twelve to fifteen stories. Its convex glass front and a black and white pillar on each side made it unusual. However, the attention getter was the broad red band with advertising in Farsi and English. The word “DIGITAL” in ten-foot-high letters on each side of a Farsi inscription revealed the function of the building.

The computer center had sent the limousine. A good sign I’m still in Mousavi’s favor, Steve thought.

A young man with a beard and a shaven head came up to him as he got out of the car, “Are you Mr. Breton? Hi, my name is Firuz. I’m with the center. I’m supposed to show you around.”

They took an elevator to the third floor where Firuz took him to the director’s office. As they entered, a man with a full head of white hair and a white beard down to his chest, contrasting with black eyebrows and black mustache, swiveled away from the computer against the wall to face them across a large and speckled black granite desk. As he turned, his left arm went up in a sign of welcome.

“I am Roberto Lucca,” he said with a deep voice. Lucca was about fifty and was dressed casually in jeans and a long sleeve shirt. Steve felt that a curtain had been raised.

“Mr. Breton, we understand that you might be able to help us,” Lucca said in Italian-accented English. “Firuz will show you around and then we can talk. The National Computer Center is a ten thousand square foot facility. We have about thirty employees, computer training facilities, high performance scientific computers, and large-scale computing systems. I expect you to stay for lunch.”

Looking toward Firuz, he added, “We’ll meet in the conference room in, say, an hour.” Having said that, he turned back to his computer and waved his hand in dismissal.

As they walked toward the elevators, Firuz asked, “What do you want to see?”

“Any room with a computer. My expertise is in maintaining precise and constant temperatures at the least cost. Crucial for sophisticated computers.”

“Any room with a computer? That’s almost all of them.” Firuz said frowning

and looking at his watch. He added, “Some of our equipment crashed last summer during the heat.”

The elevator doors opened, and a man in his later thirties wearing jeans and an M.I.T. T-shirt stepped out and said in Russian-accented English, “Firuz, my man. Good result yesterday, no?”

Firuz smiled at him, “Hi, Marko.”

Marko then noticed Steve, “Excuse me. You are new?” Steve said, “Firuz is giving me the grand tour.”

Firuz and Steve moved into the elevator, and the doors closed.

“My deliverable will be a report with recommendations, so I brought my camera,” Steve said. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

“You can’t take pictures. Not allowed.”

“How about checking with the director on that, Firuz.”

Firuz hesitated. “Well, okay, but when you’re done you have to give us the chip.”

“I will do that after I’ve written my report. The chip will accompany the report. How’s that?”

Firuz grudgingly agreed and they went up another floor. The first door they came to had a sign in Farsi and English: LIMITED ENTRANCE EMPLOYEES ONLY.

Firuz ignored it to open a door that was not protected by signage. He stuck his head through before letting Steve inside. There were about a dozen computer terminal stations, each occupied by intense young men, most with short beards, and women in chadors. Firuz guided Steve past several other doors with LIMITED ENTRANCE signs.

After half an hour, they went by a snack bar. “Let’s stop for five minutes,” Steve suggested.

With a cup of tea each, they sat at a small table.

“Tehran is much bigger than I thought. Everyone is so friendly.”

“Yeah? Where are you from?”

“Canada. Newfoundland. Beautiful part of