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

CIA as Neda’s killers, the nature of the chase had changed. Until then, the issue had been generic, Iranian counter-espionage’s inability to keep the CIA from operating within the country, a big deal only to a few people. Now the CIA spy had killed an innocent Iranian girl, a poor student, much more concrete and a spark to the powder keg of national pride.

American newspapers had advertised that the CIA was running a high level source under the noses of the Iranian leadership; the American action was a deep insult. Those who had no personal knowledge of the countrywide counter-espionage search had assumed it. To some, the affront was to thousands of years of history and culture from an upstart nation whose main claim to fame was its condescending arrogance based on jealousy and ignorance. To others, who looked through the prism of religion, the insult was to Ali, the Prophet’s cousin and son-in-law, to his son Hussein, killed at the battle of Karbala whose martyrdom was memorialized every year at Ashura, and to Muhammad ibn Hassan, the last of the twelve imams of Shiism.

All Iranians were humiliated to their core, or pretended to be for their own reasons. Others, also for their own reasons, wondered whether to try to contact and help this CIA spy. Mousavi was now harnessing Iranian nationalism, igniting national pride to react to American incursion in Iran’s internal affairs.

Yazdi advised both sides; best seat in the house was also the most dangerous seat in the house. One misstep and he was a dead man. His meeting with Mousavi yesterday, which was also attended by the top civilian, military and IRGC officials with domestic security, had left no doubt in anyone’s mind that the arrest of the Satan Spy was the country’s number one concern. The contest had probably reached the betting houses in London. He wasn’t sure himself on which contestant he would put his money today.

Inside the post office he called Jemshid’s number from a private booth. After speaking to Jemshid a few minutes, Steve came on, “Is speaking on the phone a good idea?”

“Don’t worry my friend. This is an internal number that I call all the time. It’s not on any watch list. I need to know where you want to go. It’s too dangerous to go to use any public transportation. Now, all the provincial cities have your name and description.”

Yazdi watched the entrance from his booth. “My boss’s pride, really his life, is on the line. There is a deadline.” He warned Steve. “To catch you before the anniversary of the capture of the American Embassy in 1979—you know, the hostage-taking. That’s in seven days.”

* **

“Your nephew just left,” Steve informed Yazdi. “We’re all here safe. Are you coming down? If so, get down here fast. I don’t want to stay here very long. I have to keep moving,” he said, sounding impatient.

“I can’t come down right away. I’m meeting with Mousavi every day. If I don’t show up...” Yazdi paused, letting Steve finish the thought. “Well, you can guess what he’s going to conclude.”

“Besides,” he concluded, “you’re safest when you’re not moving. As soon as you get on the road, that’s where the authorities are most likely to find you. The roads to and from all major cities are controlled with road blocks and vehicle patrols.”

Yazdi had been thinking about the operation, the possibilities, and their variations. Articulating the danger for the first time made it more real.

“I don’t know yet exactly where I want to go,” Steve told him, “except to the West, toward either the Iraqi border or toward the Gulf.”

“I know we have contacts in that direction. By the way, your Canadian telephone number is under watch, so don’t use it.”

“In that case,” Steve said, “you better talk to your relative about that.

Hopefully, they’re not looking at past users.”

There was a pause on Yazdi’s end. Then he said, “Okay, better give me Jemshid,” he said, wondering if this caution was too late.

 

50. Yazdi House

Kella, in khaki pants and long sleeve shirt, stood next to Steve on the roof, sharing its wide flat surface with brightly dyed yarn drying in the sun and a tall vertical structure. It was evening and the heat was easing.

“See that?” he pointed to the structure. “Those towers on top of the other houses?” They looked out over the town below, where the skyline was punctuated by hundreds of turrets with narrow vertical slits.

“I thought they were chimneys of some sort. They’re not. Jemshid told me today that they’re wind catchers, the local version of air conditioning. He called them badgirs. He speaks English, by the way. And French.”

“Wow! Did he learn those languages over night?” Kella deadpanned. “Last night, he needed Firuz to translate.”

“I think that last night was an official reception, and he let Fereydum take the lead. He hasn’t been to the U.S., but he has traveled to London and Paris, first as a student, then on business before he retired.” Steve watched Kella sweep her hair off the back of her neck with one hand. “His first son, Leila’s father, was killed in the Iraq War. His other son is here, but he’s working out of town.”

Kella looked at him, impressed. “You learned more than I did today.” She acknowledged. I was looking at those turrets this afternoon. They all look a bit different from each other. Maybe it’s a way to express individuality?”

She cocked her head, as if pondering. “They do a good job of breaking up the monotony of adobe architecture. This one,” she said pointing to the one on Jemshid’s roof, “wasn’t working well enough last night. I’m coming up on the roof tonight if women are allowed this luxury.

“I could never live here,” Kella said quietly. “I guess that women have more freedom than in some other Muslim