Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) André Gallo (top 100 books of all time checklist TXT) 📖

stylized photographs of famous men, gazed from large billboards. She asked, “Who are these men, Farah?”

“They are the dead soldiers, the martyrs, from the Iraq-Iran War. Senseless killing. More senseless killing.”

She paused and, looking out the window on Kella’s side, she added, “There has been much blood, much death. I was seven years old when the revolution... Well, I don’t know why I tell you all this. Too much.” She waved her hand in front of her face as if to cool herself.

Kella wondered if those men knew they were not coming back or if they knew and had accepted their roles as martyrs. Were they really resigned? Did they look forward to a more pleasant afterlife, as their leaders preached?

She wished she had had time to review Iran’s current politics before getting on the plane. However, her degree from France’s prestigious Ecole National d’Administration had given her an appreciation for Iran’s history and culture.

After she checked into her hotel and reached her room, Kella’s thoughts turned from Farah to Steve. She looked forward to making contact with him, her next operational step, with excitement and anticipation. She sent a message to CIA headquarters that she had arrived, gave her room number, and asked for traces on Farah Khosrodad, daughter of General Nematollah Khosrodad, executed after the departure of the Shah from Iran.

 

15. Navārān, Iran

Hashem Yazdi drove north past the city and up a winding road into the hills. The farther north, the less pollution. His father Marshall had told him that revolutionary fervor and anger toward the West was found in inverse proportion to the altitude. The southern suburbs were the lowest. Yazdi stopped at a kebab restaurant and went into a parking lot with a view of the city on one side and of the Alborz Mountains on the other. It was dusk, and the city lights below were clicking on noiselessly. Light still reflected off the snowcaps on Mount Damavand, looking down at them from its eighteen thousand feet altitude.

Steve said, “Marshall sends his greetings.”

“Yes, Marshall. He is not here. You are here. Why?”

“You know how large organizations work. Too many bosses. I would not be here if Marshall and the others didn’t think I was the best.” Determined to move on from his qualifications, Steve said, “I have not been under surveillance since I’ve been here. Tell me about that. Are foreign businessmen often, or ever, under surveillance? Are they generally suspect?”

“Depends. Are you here as an American businessman?” “No, as a Canadian.”

“Canadian?” Yazdi grinned. “Years ago, it was the Canadian Embassy that helped get Americans out of Iran. With false Canadian passports. It made us look childish and was insulting. We are a proud people who remember. The Canadians, they are almost Americans.”

“I’ve been making cover calls on the various ministries, and officials seem to be interested. Well, at least they’re not hostile. Anyway, let’s talk about you. By the way, we made a large deposit in your bank account just before I left.”

Steve then discussed the mechanics of the operation. The permanent case officer would arrive in a month and make more long-lasting arrangements. In the meantime, they agreed to meet once a week. They also agreed on a car pickup in an area frequented by foreigners followed by a meeting in the hills at one of the many informal eating-places in the Alborz Mountains north of Tehran. No cell phone calls, no calls to the hotel. The communications system that Steve set up was a hybrid borrowing from denied area tradecraft but not entirely dependent on impersonal means.

People were coming from the restaurant toward their car, and Steve didn’t like being on stage.

“Should we get something to eat?” he asked.

They walked to steps that led up to a restaurant with tables outside and inside. They settled down at a corner table, and Yazdi ordered kebabs and rice for the two of them. Steve assumed that was the only item on the menu. Two cooks operated a large barbecue behind a long counter. The minimal lighting suggested a romantic rendezvous to Steve. It was far enough out of the city that it might be a favorite for illicit trysts, in which case informants for the Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, the religious police, would keep the place under watch.

“Is this place safe?” Steve asked.

“Don’t worry. I know what we can do here. This is my territory. Trust me.” Yazdi’s initial frown at the question turned into a reassuring grin.

“I do trust you or I wouldn’t be here. Have you been able to learn anything about the nuclear time table since you came back?”

“First, you know that al Quds, or rather the mother organization, the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, your newspapers always call it the IRGC, has a major role in the program. However, I’ve never been on that side of it. I’m not a scientist.”

“We know. You must know others who are directly involved.”

“By chance, I ran into one of my former comrades from fighting the Iraqis, the Iraqis who were getting their intelligence from you. Don’t deny it. Everyone knows.” Yazdi took a breath, looked at the other customers and leaned forward.

“He was in army counter intelligence, one of the guys in the back shooting those who didn’t want to cross the Iraqi minefields. He’s now overseeing security at one of the nuclear sites. It used to be a clock factory, right in Tehran, in the Southern part of the city. It’s between Park-e-Shah and the Khayam Metro station. I have not been inside but I know where it is. There is a large warehouse. They installed a new model centrifuge there about six months ago. It’s about to go operational.”

“Did he say how many centrifuges there were?”

“No. Keep in mind when you photograph it from your satellites and try