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

steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. His eyes became even narrower. Mousavi focused all of his senses on Ahmadinejad; he knew that his survival was at stake. His sensitive antennae had brought him this far. He relied on them. He knew that his performance in this affair would either increase his status and power, or kill him.

“I leave it to you to find the truth,” the president continued. “I am running out of patience with the Americans. And so is the Supreme Leader,” he said referring to the Ayatollah who was also Chief of State.

“They and their lackeys patrol our waters. It’s not the American Gulf; it’s not the Arabian Gulf, as their Sunni allies, apostates all, call it. It’s the Persian Gulf.” He drained his cup and set it aside.

“When you catch the American spy,” he instructed Mousavi, “we will use him as leverage to get the Western ships out of our waters. The Supreme Leader and I have discussed this topic. It is important to catch this Satan Spy! Which should not prove difficult, correct?” He paused only long enough for Mousavi to nod in agreement.

“We want to reveal him to the public on the anniversary of the capture of the American Embassy in 1979, which is in two weeks from yesterday. Mark the calendar and pray for help and inspiration from Allah, the Good, the Beneficent. We may to have to sink an American ship. The sacrifice of our own sailors will be well worth the reward.” Without a pause, he buzzed for his assistant who came in to his office immediately, waiting two steps inside the office.

“Tell General Mashai that I want to see him right away,” he instructed his assistant, who bowed himself out. Mousavi knew Mashai, the Defense Minister, to be an aggressive conservative. He wondered if Ahmadinejad was making policy even as he spoke, or whether this was to impress on him the urgent need to catch the American spy.

“I have another option if that doesn’t work; inflict such a loss on the Great Satan that he’ll have to focus his resources on rebuilding at home.” Ahmadinejad said, pointing his finger at Mousavi. “You know what that is. I hope the cyber project is ready to be activated. That should get those foreign warships out of our waters.”

Ahmadinejad added, “This timing bothers me. Has it occurred to you that the Satan’s Spy is here, or we are told he is here, during our election? Is he here to overthrow our government? A rerun of 1953? Are we told publicly that the CIA is present in order to roil the population, to agitate, to create the expectation that a revolution would receive American support? I want frequent reports,” he said standing up and ending the meeting.

“Yes, Excellency. We will catch the American soon, and I will keep you informed,” Mousavi promised.

“Remember my friend,” the president said as Mousavi got up to leave, “We are here only until the Mahdi returns. Until then, we must do our best to live an Islamic life and allow others who do not now enjoy its rewards to better appreciate them in their submission.” That was the first time that Mousavi had heard him speak about the return of the Twelfth Imam who, in Shiite dogma, had disappeared in the ninth century.

On his way back in the car, Minister of Intelligence Mousavi knew that he had to press harder. Hashem Yazdi was being too passive for one thing. But he didn’t know about Jafar. It was time for Jafar to put more pressure on the American whore. It was time for the cyber technicians to work around the clock.

His intercept team had recently reported on the presence of mysterious transmissions appearing to originate in Tehran. Probably coming from the CIA spy. He didn’t understand why his people couldn’t give him the transcript of the messages, although they did insist that the signal was too short, a millisecond they said, always on different frequencies. It was time that the technicians stopped hiding behind excuses.

Now more than ever, Mousavi feared for his life. However, he still had significant pieces on the board. As he thought about it, he owned all the pieces on the board except for one. He controlled the center lanes. He would stop thinking “middle game” and go into the “end game.” Which reminded him of the young Canadian and his recognition of the Giuoco Siciliano.

What was his name? Oh, yes, Breton. His employment in St. John’s had been confirmed. Not definitively of course. Mousavi had dozens of front companies all over the world, and it was easy to answer the phone to confirm a spy’s existence. He wondered if Breton was still in Iran.

 

42. Outskirts of Tehran

Yazdi stopped the car at a small restaurant. As he parked the car, he turned to Steve and said, “As you say in America, good news and bad news. Mousavi’s latest information is that the CIA spy is Vietnamese-American and has a tattoo.”

He grinned at Steve. “I can guess how you did that. Mousavi is going to realize it’s a head-fake, you know. The bad news is that he asked specifically about you, whether you were still in Iran. The other bad news is that our electronic department detected strange transmissions that might be going from Tehran to an American satellite. They’re focusing on a possible spread spectrum burst transmission that seems to take place every night now for the last couple of weeks.

“They can’t read it. They have triangulated the signal to the general area of your hotel. The signal is very faint, and very difficult to put back together. It takes them about twenty-four to forty-eight hours to figure out the location, the spot where it’s coming from. It’s not going to be long before they conclude that you’re the person they’re looking for. You need to get out