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

“Don’t worry, probably a false alarm,” he whispered back. “Shh. Tell me when we’re done saving the world.”

She was sure she was losing body fluids at a life-threatening rate.

“This has to be worse than water-boarding,” she said. “I’m never going to pay extra again to use the hotel sauna. Isn’t there a Geneva Convention banning this torture? Could an Iranian prison be worse?”

“Yes. Quiet.”

They were sitting close together, alert for any sound. Small animals were scurrying around on the roof immediately overhead, but no voices could be heard. The loudest sound was their breathing. Was the visitor gone? Did his presence have anything to do with them?

Eventually, their host pushed the trap door open, and his head appeared. “You can come out. He’s gone, for now.”

On the way back downstairs, Kurosh said, “He claims to represent an important political figure, actually religious figure, but there is no difference, is there?”

Behind Kurosh, Steve looked at Kella and shrugged, “Yes? So what does that have to do with me?”

“This person, whose name he didn’t want to divulge to me, wants to talk to you.”

They reached a library with loaded book shelves reaching a twenty foot ceiling. Kurosh closed the curtains on the two windows.

“Sorry, I still don’t get it. I’m trying to get out of this country alive. What could this VIP want from me?” Steve asked. “Is it really me they want? How do they, whoever they are, know where to find me?”

“I guess their intelligence is better than the government’s, or you would have been arrested by now,” Kurosh offered as self-evident.

“I didn’t admit that you were here, but he knew and said he would be back in an hour.”

“Then we know that they’ve got the house under surveillance,” Kella said.

“Why?” Steve asked. “What does he want to talk about?” He frowned in puzzlement.

“He didn’t say. I’m not the one he wants to talk to,” Kurosh said, appearing bored.

Pointing at her own and Steve’s hospital garb, Kella asked their host, “Do you have any clothes we could change into?”

When the mysterious visitor returned, he was accompanied by two silent but hefty bearded men who were caricatures of body guards.

The visitor wore a white turban, thick glasses, and a trimmed grey beard. Kurosh brought chairs for everyone, but the two body guards remained standing by the door.

“You can call me Hafizadeh,” the mullah said before dismissing the host, and trying to dismiss Kella, as well. His Oxfordian English, direct gaze, and sincere delivery were a charismatic combination.

“My colleague will stay and hear what you have to say,” Steve said feeling somewhat like a tame cobra snake in front of a snake charmer.

“Praise to Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful,” Hafizadeh began. “We know who you are. I have seen a copy of your Canadian passport and, of course, we have all seen your photo in the paper. We know that you are not a Canadian. If you are, it’s irrelevant because you’re with the CIA.

“Congratulations, by the way, on evading capture,” the man added, causing Steve to examine him more closely. Were there more than two teams on the field?

“Thanks be to God. We held off contacting you because we assumed that you would be caught. We think that the odds are in your favor now and that the risk is manageable.” The happiness with which he delivered this conclusion lit up his face.

That was the best news Steve had heard in a while. He looked at Kella and said, “Aren’t you glad that our friend here thinks the risk is manageable?”

“So, whom do you think you’re addressing?” Steve asked trying to match the visitor’s English. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

“Your name is of no matter. We have a message for your government. Not exactly for your government, to the CIA, for Mr. Deuel. We would like you and…” he glanced at Kella, “your colleague, to deliver our message.”

“And when you say we, who are you talking about?” Steve asked.

“I’m the representative of a senior person. He does not believe that Ahmadinejad is good for our country. You saw what he did in the elections. He caused the death of many people. Others were injured. Many are in prison. I hope that it reminds you of Poland in the late 1980s, at the end of your Cold War, because this is history repeating itself. The person for whom I am speaking is the Iranian Lech Walesa. Our group is the Solidarity of Iran. You should help us like you helped Solidarity, for your own self-interests.”

Kella was fidgeting, as if struggling to maintain her silence.

He looked at her, but when he didn’t speak she said, “First, I am not going to confirm your assumption that I am a CIA officer or that I’m associated in any way with the CIA. Whatever your message is, I don’t have to be a CIA officer to deliver the message to the right people in Washington. I can tell you, however, that your message is empty of significance unless the American government knows who is sending it. Whom do you represent?

“For now, I can only tell you that he is an important figure with a large following. His name is known well both here and abroad. He represents … no, he leads … the political and religious groups who oppose Ahmadinejad.

“You probably don’t read the Iranian newspapers, but you should know that the Association of Teachers and Researchers of the Qom seminary school issued a statement against the election and against Supreme Leader Khamenei. The statement is significant. It represents the position of the country’s top clergy of our religious establishment, including the person who sent me.”

“We’ll need the name of your principal,” Steve said. “But, let’s put that aside for the moment. What kind of