Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) AndrĂ© Gallo (top 100 books of all time checklist TXT) đ
- Author: André Gallo
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âThere is no one here by that name. Youâre making a mistake.â
âMr. Yazdi, we can have our discussion here unofficially, or we can do it in a government building with a team of interrogators. We have enough charges against you to put you away for years. What do you think?â
After a pause during which the guard stepped forward, a frustrated looking Yazdi stepped back from the door and waved Marshall in.
Face recognition technology deployed at JFK airport had identified the scar over one ear and his nearly bald head, but more importantly the dimensions and proportions between his eyes, nose, and mouth as belonging to an operative of al Quds. He had shaved his mustache and dyed his remaining hair black. The members of Al Qudsânamed for the holy city of Jerusalemâwere all true believers and the cream of the crop of Iranian Intelligence. One didnât volunteer or apply. One was chosen.
Yazdi said a few words to the bodyguard who left the room.
âWhen I was in your country,â Marshall said, âyou and your friends made it clear that I was not welcome. Hell, if your guys had been better shots, Iâd be dead. Iâm extending a better welcome to you than you did to me.â
âI am confused. You Americans have strange customs,â Yazdi said raising imposing eyebrows and maintaining his tight smile. âAs I said my name is not Yazdi.â He went to the kitchenette and put water on the stove for tea, apparently stalling for time. Marshall took it as a good sign. Yazdi was getting ready for a conversation.
âWe followed your career through the years,â Marshall told him. âYouâve come a long way from roadblocks and storming the American Embassy in November â79.â
Prepared to play his second card, Marshall got up from his chair and stood by the counter separating the kitchenette from the sitting area. âI understand this is your sonâs store. I also hear that heâs doing very well. This is an excellent location for his business. Heâs surrounded by upscale neighborhoods.â
âI am just visiting. He is not my son. My name...â
âHe could have a future here,â Marshall interrupted.
Yazdi looked at Marshall speculatively. âWhat do you want?â Looking toward the ceiling for an instant, he added, âYou are a bad dream.â
Was Yazdi admitting their previous encounter?
âWhat choice did I have?â Marshall shrugged. âWhen I leaned that you were here, I simply wanted to meet you and, of course, return your property.â
The teakettle let out a whistle, and Yazdi shut off the burner. He brought the hot water back to the sitting area where Marshall joined him. Yazdi served tea for the two of them. Balancing his cup in one hand, he sat back, put one foot on his knee, and, showing his gold tooth, he said, âI have done nothing illegal in your country.â
âOn the contrary. Youâre here under false documents. I would end up in an unmarked grave if I traveled to Iran under a false name. A senior al Quds officer doesnât travel to the capital of the Great Satan just for a family visit. Iâm not here to threaten you but, as I said, our Department of Justice has a warrant for your arrest, and the FBI has your DNA from the restaurant where you had dinner on Dolly Madison Boulevard last night.
âI just canât figure out why they sent you, a known al Quds agent. Is this a suicide mission? Didnât it occur to your organization that we would know you were here?â Was he talking to a dangle, someone that Iranian intelligence hoped would be recruited by the Americans to then run their officer as a double agent?
âAfter I left Iran, I recognized you in one of the photos of the students involved with the hostages.â
âI was a student but I had nothing to do with holding the American hostages,â Yazdi pronounced after a pause, crossing into new territory. âI thought bringing down the Shah would solve everything. Each group had its own agenda. There were Soviet-sponsored Communists, nationalist democrats, European-type socialists, and Islamists. Those days were exciting, much plotting and maneuvering. Each group was armed and playing for keeps. It was all a long time ago.â
âYes, and some of your friends were executed. I remember,â said Marshall as he reached for the sugar. âEvery night there was a mini-war in the streets following curfew. After shouting âDeath to Americaâ the night before, Iranian kids would ring our bell and ask if our children could come out and play. Youâre right; it was a long time ago. Now Iâm retired. I get to watch my grandchildren grow up.â Looking up from his cup, he asked, âHow about you? Youâve been successful.â
Yazdi averted his eyes and stared down at the carpet. âI donât know what youâve heard. Iâve always been more political than religious, than Islamic I mean. In reality, I was not far from the old Tudeh Party, the Iranian Communist Party, at first. But early on during the hostage episode, when the students from the Islamic schools were able to dictate national policy, I realized that more could be accomplished through the Islamists.â
Yazdi paused, perhaps reviewing memories of his youth like old movie clips. He leaned forward to pour more tea in their cups, and as he offered his guest the bowl of sugar cubes, he exposed a scar above his left ear. The thin white line contrasted with his dark complexion. Yazdi acknowledged Marshallâs look, gave him a tight smile and said, âThe war. Much blood but not serious.â He put a sugar cube in his mouth and drank a sip of tea through it. Yazdi had not had an easy life. He might even have aged since Marshall walked back into his life an hour ago. âWhat do you
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