Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2)

by André Le Gallo

  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 countries, but not enough for me. Did you know that it takes two women witnesses to equal the weight of one man?” That drives me crazy. Especially when you think that the Prophet’s first wife Khadija, was also his boss.”

  Steve grinned and said, “That explains it, don’t you think?”

  Kella punched him in the shoulder, and Steve laughed as he took evasive action.

  After she told him about Farah’s jaunt into town, he said, “That wasn’t smart of her. You shouldn’t have let her go. Just attracting attention to herself brings attention to all of us. If this guy talks to the police, they will investigate. She told him her real name?” Steve shook his head. “That could be a deadly mistake.

  “It might not mean much to the younger generation, but it certainly means something to anyone who lived under the Shah. Her father was well known. When Khomeini took over, General Khosrodad was one of the first to be executed, and it was big news.”

  “I never asked, but why is she still using her father’s name anyway? I thought that she was married. Isn’t her husband in jail?”

  “She took her family name back after it became clear, although the authorities won’t admit it officially, her husband is dead. She’s very proud of the Khosrodad name. She wears it in defiance or to protest his execution in spite of his loyalty to his country.”

  “Well, for the remainder of our trip, she should use her husband’s name. This is not the time to be challenging the regime. How old is this guy that she met today?”

  They walked toward the rows of wooden frames on which yarn was drying. “Old enough to have been in the Iraq War in the eighties. I’m sure that back in 1979 he was too young to have been up on the news,” Kella said. “In any case, it’s done. Nothing we can do now.”

  “I’ll give her a Staying-Alive-101 talk. Try to get her on the right wavelength.”

  Kella leaned down and felt a piece of yarn. “I wonder if this is for their own use or if it is commercial.”

  Since Steve had no answer, she said, “Speaking of wavelength, we have a message. We are not to transmit messages unless absolutely essential, and never on a preset schedule. Mousavi doesn’t know where in the country we are, but, with time and effort, his people could probably find it. Receiving, however,” she told him, “is not a problem. They asked if we can make our own way to either Khorramshahr, on the way to the border with Iraq, or to the south of Shiraz, the Nayband Marine-Coastal National Park.”

  Steve nodded. “That’s what we needed, an aiming point. I’ll talk to Jemshid. We can’t stay here long, even though SENTINEL insists that we’re safe. We’ll be a lot safer on the other side of the border. Mousavi only has six days until he’s supposed to parade us for the world to see on the anniversary of the embassy takeover.”

  * **

  Behind the long wall in front of Jemshid’s house was a small garden divided by a path that led to the copper studded front door of the house. Jemshid had taken the door from his grandfather’s house, built in the 1800s in what was then the middle of town. From the entrance, the eye had a direct view into a large internal courtyard whose luxuriant colors contrasted with the dried brown dirt of the soil around Yazd.

  The refreshing gurgle of a fountain lent the garden a central focus around which the purple and reds and greens were laid out in rough symmetry. The house was arranged for the downstairs rooms to open onto the garden, including the dining room where Jemshid and his family were hosting their guests.

  Steve, Kella, Farah, and their hosts were having lunch around a large table. The guests sat facing the garden. Although servants brought the food and cleared the table, Jemshid’s wife Maryam, a smiling and energetic woman in her late fifties wearing black pants and a white blouse, was up and down making sure that all was well in the kitchen.

  “It is contrary to the Avestan Code of Zoroastrians to speak at the table,” she had explained at the outset. “Although ours is the oldest religion, we also realize the need to adapt. Besides, we are honored by our guests today and,” she turned to Jemshid who nodded in agreement, “it would be impolite to impose our old ways on them.”
r />   “Where is Naurouz today?” Leila asked.

  Maryam, turning to her guests said, “Naurouz is our son. He is supervising some work on the qanats. He should be back later.”

  “The qanats are the underground water aqueducts that supply the city,” Jemshid explained. “The Romans built aqueducts, our ancestors built qanats. Yazd men are known for their expertise on building and maintaining them. Naurouz is an engineer and works on modernizing the qanats around Yazd. He has one hundred muqannies working for him. We have over twenty thousand qanats in Iran and...”

  “Jemshid,” Maryam interrupted gently. Looking around the table, she said, “Sometimes I think that my husband really wanted to be a professor. Mr. Breton, please help yourself.”

  The conversation soon turned to the exorbitant price of tomatoes as an indicator that Tehran’s misguided policies were the cause of the economic disaster in which the country found itself.

  “Tomatoes,” Maryam said, “are at least twice more expensive than last year. Two times!” Her eyes large, she looked around the circle at each person. “The president is too concerned with the Holocaust, Lebanon, and the Palestinians. Our quality of life is going down. Everything is more expensive; tomatoes are just an easy example. Frankly,” she admitted easily, “that’s more important to us than all those other issues that make headlines. Too much posturing for the foreign media, not enough action to stop the decline of our living conditions. Things were better under Khatami, for sure.”

  Jemshid spoke up with an ironic expression that turned to pride. “Khatami, by the way, is from here. He has been in our house.” He cleared his throat as though inserting punctuation. “A year ago, the usual topic of conversation among my friends was the international economy, the markets in New York and London, and how their businesses were faring. Now, it’s the price of tomatoes.

  “Too much emphasis on spreading the faith beyond our borders. A faith that, for reasons no one understands was communicated to an illiterate Arab, a desert Bedouin, and was designed for a desert people. We, our Community, are the descendants of the original Aryans, or Persians. We have never had to borrow from the Arabs for either a language or a God.”

  Steve looked at Farah, the only Muslim at the table, for a reaction. He guessed that, in some circles, those were fighting words, perhaps even sacrilegious words. He wondered if she was willing or able to do battle on this dangerous religious ground.

  For a second, she didn’t seem motivated to take up the challenge. However, noticing Steve’s glance, she said, “I believe that Shiism will survive and flourish. Unlike, the dominant Sunni branch, Shiias have the advantage of Ijtihad, like constitutional amendments, which have permitted the American Constitution to be a living document, allowing for change. The radical Sunnis are hidebound by the Koran of a thousand years ago.”

  Jemshid, looking at her with increased respect, nodded. The silence at the table was filled by the fountain’s soothing sound coming in through the open door to the garden.

  A hearty broth followed by Chelo Koresh, rice topped with vegetables, lamb in a nut sauce had been accompanied by a mild wine. A hint of cinnamon, cloves, turmeric, and cardamom lingered as the plates were cleared to make room for tea and pastries.

  Changing the subject, Kella asked, “I noticed that your front door has two knockers, one smaller than the other. Is it a special architectural design, or is there another reason?”

  Maryam smiled, “In the old days,” she explained, “and today still to a degree, it is important to know whether a man or a woman is knocking. If it’s a man, a woman cannot go to the door. So a woman visitor uses the small knocker, which makes a different sound. It informs the people inside the house so they will know whether a man or a woman should answer the door.”

  A servant came in and said something that caused Jemshid to frown and leave his seat. “I have a phone call,” he explained, and left the room.

  He returned a few minutes later and sat down. Turning to Farah, he said, “Leila told us that you met Mr. Kharazzi yesterday. That was him on the phone. We still do occasional business together. He is coming here this afternoon to discuss a shipment of textiles.”

  Jemshid stopped for an instant to choose an orange and started to peel it. “However,” he continued, “he also asked if you were still here and said he would like to visit with you. In fact, the textile discussion is a pretext.” Jemshid looked at Farah with concern. “You are the purpose of his visit. The business meeting he wants is not of an urgent nature, in my opinion.”

  Leila giggled.

  “I have no desire to see him,” Farah said quietly, meeting Jemshid’s gaze. “I understand,” their host responded. “However, it would be impolite to refuse.”

  “Well,” Steve interjected lightly, “we can’t have you running around town again. You’re likely to attract more admirers every time you go out.” Everyone except Farah smiled.

  Turning to Jemshid, Steve said, “Could you tell this gentleman she is ill?” “Farah could certainly say that to him directly to his visit if she wishes.”

  Farah indicated her assent by changing the subject. She pointed to the plate of sugared bonbons that a servant had just put on the table and said, “Our community is renowned for these bonbons.”

  “Yes, they’re very refreshing in this hot and dry climate,” Maryam added.

  Steve accepted a bonbon absent-mindedly. His eyes focused on Farah and Kella. All three realized that this Kharazzi could cause their house of cards to tumble.

  At the end of the lunch, he said, “We need to give Farah a good story on how she knows you, where you met, and why she’s here. Kharazzi worries me.”

  “Kharazzi is also a politician,” Jemshid said. “He has influence. He is tied to the IRGC and has connections to people who made their way up after the Iraq War where they all met each other. In that way, he has been helpful to me in my business. He is not a member of our Community, that is.”

  This, Steve recognized, was as close as Jemshid would come to confirming that their worries were well founded.

  * **

  Kharazzi arrived mid-afternoon. Kella, Steve, and Farah stayed out of sight while Jemshid and Kharazzi conducted their pretext of business. Farah’s serene demeanor belied her nervousness. She understood that her objective was to make this man go away, or all of their lives would be in danger.

  To that end, she had avoided using any make-up whatsoever and wore a shapeless black robe. It was not usual to wear a hijab in the house, but she put one on anyway since Kharazzi was a stranger to her. The only person who was not anxious was Leila. She seemed to find the situation amusing and couldn’t get the grin off her face.

  When Jemshid summoned Farah, both he and Kharazzi were standing in the living room. Farah’s continuous obsessing about Kharazzi since she had learned that he wanted to see her, to court her, as everyone assumed, had increased his physical stature in her mind to where he was well over six foot tall. However, she realized on seeing him in person that he was no taller than Jemshid, who she knew was about her own height.

  This realization bolstered her self-confidence although she was still nervous over the turn the conversation would take and how she would turn him down without making an adversary out of him.

  Jemshid hadn’t said how Kharazzi was connected to the IRGC. However, he could vouch from personal experience that Kharazzi had influential connections. Further, if Kharazzi suspected Farah’s role with the so-called Satan Spy affair, how he handled that knowledge would have a definite impact on not only his own career but also on his life as well as hers and Kella’s and Christopher Breton’s. For that reason, she had no room for equivocation.

  Kharazzi, in a dark suit, white collarless shirt and no tie, smiled at her and, as Jemshid eclipsed himself, directed her toward the garden through the open door. Kharazzi seemed a bit surprised at her wan appearance. He, also, no doubt had allowed her room in his fantasies during the last twenty-four hours. He looked like a man who had thou
ght his plan through and saw it as a win-win proposition.

  Farah and Kharazzi went through the Kabuki ritual of ta’arouf, exchanging exceedingly polite compliments. Although the fountain added its mellifluous sounds to the ornamental parterres of the garden, Farah was far removed from the harmony surrounding her.

  Her mind raced, ready to parry whatever thrust Kharazzi had prepared. Under her father’s tutelage, disappointed that his first child had not been a boy, he had brought a fencing instructor to their Navārān home when she was in her early teens. Under his watchful eyes, she became adept with the foil before the revolution changed her world.

  Farah meant to stay on a soothing and neutral topic. “This is such a pretty garden. Of course roses,” she pointed to the red and white flowers, “Persian buttercups, purple iris, yellow narcissus, and two lemon trees adding symmetry. Maryam has done such a lovely job, don’t you think?”

  She could tell that his mind was not on flowers. He had his own battle plan and said, “Tell me something about yourself. Jemshid didn’t satisfy my curiosity, not even a little.” He smiled in a way she assumed he meant to be encouraging, even friendly. She only saw the teeth of a predator.

  “There is little to say, Mr. Kharazzi,” she replied. “I live alone. My family has either passed away or emigrated.” Realizing that the need to give as little information as possible conflicted with her goal of also drawing a negative self-portrait that would make her either undesirable or unacceptable, she added, “My husband was arrested.”

  Kharazzi nodded as if Farah’s answer confirmed his information. He said, “I grieve for you. How long have you lived without him?”