One Step Back
A Titus Ray Thriller
the prequel to
One Night in Tehran
Book One in the Titus Ray Thriller Series
by Luana Ehrlich
Text copyright © 2017 by Luana Ehrlich
All Rights Reserved
Luana’s website: LuanaEhrlich.com
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To Ray Allan Pollock,
for giving an eleven-year-old girl permission to read adult spy novels.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
PART TWO
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
PART THREE
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
PART FOUR
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A NOTE TO MY READERS
BONUS EXCERPT
One Night in Tehran
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Tehran, Iran
October 6, 2014
I was ahead of schedule. Even though I was supposed to meet my asset, Farid Kazim, near Zafaranieh Plaza at eleven o’clock, I was at the designated location an hour early.
Some Agency operatives might consider my early arrival a little excessive. They could be right.
On the other hand, those operatives hadn’t been living in Tehran for the past two years.
I’d arrived in Iran two years ago as Hammid Salimi, the son of an Iranian watchmaker and a Swiss businesswoman. According to my legend—the false identity prepared for me by Support Services at the CIA—I was in Tehran to open up a market for my parents’ line of luxury watches and jewelry.
In reality, I was in Tehran to identify potential assets who might be willing to help fund the opposition and topple the government.
To that end, I’d spent the last two years rubbing shoulders with some of the upper-class members of Iranian society, making friends with businessmen, as well as bankers, and cultivating ties with wealthy entrepreneurs.
During that time, I’d recruited six individuals who were now the core of my Iranian network. Three of them were bankers, two of them were businessmen, and one was a rich playboy.
Farid was the rich playboy.
His father, Asadi Kazim, owned three hotels in Iran; two in Tehran and one in Mashhad. All three of them had been built during the Shah’s regime, and, when the Shah was ousted from power in 1979, Asadi had been allowed to keep the hotels.
According to Farid, his father had always been an ardent Islamist and had publicly supported the revolution from the beginning. Allowing him to keep his hotels was the Supreme Leader’s way of rewarding him.
Now, the Parisian Asadi Hotels were the only hotels in Iran with a five-star rating. However, the rooms were under constant surveillance by members of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC), and foreign dignitaries were warned to use caution when staying there.
Despite that, diplomats, as well as international investors, used the Asadi Hotels almost exclusively, and, in return, the IRGC supplemented Asadi Kazim’s income for catering to them.
Outwardly, Farid appeared to be an Islamist like his father, but a few months after I’d recruited him, Farid had confessed to being an atheist.
I had my doubts about that.
While I believed Farid despised his father and blamed him for his mother’s death, it was hard for me to believe a man who had been praying, fasting, and memorizing the Quran all his life didn’t believe in a god of some sort.
Granted, I had no real belief system of my own, so I might not be the best person to judge someone else’s faith.
Farid had chosen a passive aggressive method for exacting revenge on his father. His means of retribution included spending his father’s fortune on expensive toys, associating with members of the Iranian opposition, and becoming a CIA asset.
As recruits go, Farid had been an easy target.
A member of one of the Iranian opposition groups, the People’s Mojahedin Organization of Iran, had given me Farid’s name, and I’d taken it from there.
After introducing myself to Farid at the wedding of a high-ranking IRGC official, I’d handed him my business card, and, in the midst of a discussion about the groom’s father, I’d told Farid a less than flattering story about my father’s treatment of my mother.
My anecdote was part of Hammid Salimi’s fictional background and totally fabricated, but I could tell it resonated with him.
He’d called me a few days later.
Although he said he was calling because he wanted to purchase a watch for his girlfriend, when he showed up at my apartment, he seemed more interested in hearing about the hatred I had for my father than in buying my baubles and beads.
The two of us met often after that, and it wasn’t long before I realized I’d become a kind of surrogate father to him. Since I was only in my late forties, I had a hard time identifying with this role, but it appeared to be working, so I went with it.
Within six months of meeting Farid, I’d recruited him as my asset. Now, not only was he feeding me intel from his contacts inside the IRGC, he was also supplying me with information about some of the guests at the Asadi hotels.
Douglas Carlton, the head of the Middle East desk at the CIA and my operations officer, had congratulated me on my recruitment of Farid during one of my rare video conferences with the Ops Center. I’d even seen him smile when I’d delivered Farid’s first product—a recording of a conversation between a Russian general and a member of the Iranian President’s security council.
Discerning how Carlton felt—even when I knew I’d exceeded his expectations—was never an easy task. On the other hand, he was sure to let me know exactly how he felt if I messed up—which I occasionally did.
With my own assets, I took the opposite approach. If the intel they delivered was an outstanding product, yielding measurable results, I showered them with praise—along with gifts or a bundle of cash. However, I seldom said anything about the superfluous stuff they dropped on me.
Today, I planned to commend Farid for the information he’d given me on the Syrian President’s recent visit to Tehran. As a token of how useful Farid’s information had been to the rebels trying to overthrow the Assad regime in Syria, I was planning to slip him an envelope full of American dollars.
When I glanced down at my watch, I realized I still had ten minutes left until Farid’s scheduled arrival, and I decided there was enough time for me to do a third recon of the plaza.
Was I yielding to my compulsive tendencies by doing the extra recon?
Probably.
However, two years ago, when Carlton had briefed me on Operation Torchlight, he’d warned me about becoming complacent during my long-term assignment.
Although I didn’t always listen to my boss, this time I did.
* * * *
Zafaranieh Plaza took up a full city block. It was bounded on one side by Ramkooh Boulevard and on the other side by Taheri Street. In the center of the block was a four-story shopping complex, and, along the outer perimeter, were a variety of restaurants and outdoor cafes.
The shopping center catered to the Versace and Pier
re Cardin crowd, and an elaborate fountain at the entrance to the building was a testament to that. Reminiscent of the Latona Fountain in Versailles—minus the nude statues—it served as the focal point of Zafaranieh Plaza.
Surrounding the fountain were several stone benches, and I took a seat on one of them in order to keep an eye on the two men seated a few feet away.
Like most men in Tehran, they were dressed in long trousers, a collared shirt, and a sports jacket.
I wasn’t particularly interested in their wearing apparel.
What caught my eye was their footwear.
It was the type of footwear worn by agents of VEVAK, the Iranian secret police; black leather half-boots with rubber soles and reinforced toes.
Both men were wearing a pair of the boots, and they were scuffed, well-worn, and in need of some black boot polish.
These men were obviously not new recruits.
As soon as I sat down, I spotted Farid making his way across the plaza. He was headed toward an outdoor café where he’d suggested we meet. Although he was staring down at his phone, I saw him look up occasionally and smile at a pretty girl.
One of the VEVAK agents, whose droopy black moustache reminded me of Joseph Stalin, glanced over at Farid.
After studying him for a few seconds, he looked away.
The younger agent, who was sitting next to him, gazed in my direction, sweeping his eyes over the crowd of people who were sitting around the fountain. Most of them were talking on their cell phones or gossiping with their friends.
Since I had no friends at Zafaranieh Plaza, I held my cell phone up to my ear and tried to ignore the VEVAK agent scrutinizing me.
I knew I didn’t look that much different from the other males hanging around the plaza, despite the fact I was born in Flint, Michigan of Caucasian parents. Although my mother was of Polish descent, I’d inherited my father’s coal black hair, brown eyes, and dark complexion.
When an Agency recruiter had interviewed me following my college graduation, he’d made several notations on the application in the section labeled, “Applicant’s Suitability for Covert Employment.”
Specifically, he’d placed checkmarks under various nationalities under the line item, “The applicant has the physical characteristics necessary to blend in with the following ethnic groups.”
That was me, Titus Ray, the blender.
During my early days with the Agency, I’d been assigned to the Latin American desk, and I’d spent several years passing myself off as an Hispanic. Since being transferred to the Middle East desk, I’d been identified as a Syrian, an Iraqi, and a Jordanian. Now, while I was living in Tehran, I was an Iranian of mixed ancestry.
After spending a few minutes pretending to chat with someone, I put down my cell phone and glanced over at the VEVAK agent. He’d turned his attention elsewhere, so I strolled over to where Farid was seated at the outdoor café.
As soon as I greeted Farid, I saw Droopy Moustache get out of his seat and begin walking in my direction. The younger agent followed him a few seconds later.
* * * *
In spite of the fact I’d taught Farid some of the rudimentary elements of tradecraft, when I took a seat across from him, he continued texting on his cell phone, seemingly oblivious to the agents approaching our table.
I couldn’t blame him.
I too felt invincible when I was his age.
As I observed the two VEVAK agents making their way across the plaza, I took out my Agency sat phone and entered a three-digit code, alerting the Ops Center I might be in VEVAK’s crosshairs.
I knew the moment I’d entered the code, my location in Zafaranieh Plaza had instantaneously appeared on the CIA’s Schematic Tracking Grid (STG), the hi-tech system used to monitor the movements of Agency operatives in the field during an operation.
Agency personnel called the system The Grid.
Now, my signal was showing up as a pulsating blue dot on The Grid’s high-definition screen located in the basement of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.
If I didn’t cancel the code within fifteen minutes, a decision would have to be made. Carlton would be the one making that decision.
He’d have a couple of options at his disposal.
First, he could order the Agency’s Reconnaissance and Signals Office (RSO) to reposition a satellite over Tehran. That would take some time, and, even though the images from a reconnaissance satellite were instructive for an ongoing crisis, they weren’t that useful in determining what was happening in real time.
Carlton’s other option would be to instruct the RSO to send a drone over Zafaranieh Plaza. Depending on the drone’s location when Carlton issued the order, the Ops Center would be able to start receiving real time video from my position within fifteen minutes.
That option also had its drawbacks, because the Iranian military machine was very adept at detecting American drones who violated Iranian airspace, and, in the past, the Iranian generals had been quick to shoot them down.
Should that happen, sensational photographs of the disabled aircraft would be sent to every media outlet, and, within a matter of hours, those images would begin showing up on Jihadi networks around the globe. Eventually, those same images would be used in recruitment videos to target potential terrorists.
If I didn’t cancel my distress code soon, Carlton had a third option.
He could choose to do nothing.
Then, everyone in the Ops Center would watch in silence as my pulsating dot went from blue to red and eventually disappeared off The Grid altogether.
Knowing Carlton, he would choose the third option.
After that, he would do everything in his power to negotiate my release from Evin Prison.
* * * *
A few seconds later, the two VEVAK agents brushed past Farid and me and headed inside the restaurant. Once they were out of sight, I picked up my Agency phone and entered the three-digit number cancelling the code.
I wanted to believe Carlton was relieved when he saw my pulsating dot go from blue to green.
I know I was.
“Hammid,” Farid said, finally looking up from his phone, “I’ve been invited to attend General Suleiman’s birthday party on Friday night. Are there any questions I should ask him?”
General Alizadeh Suleiman was a high-ranking member of the IRGC and the head of the Quds Force, a unit of the IRGC responsible for military operations overseas. Since taking over the Quds Force fifteen years ago, he’d reshaped the organization into a militant spy network with well-trained operatives capable of gathering intel from all around the world.
While the concept of Farid asking the general a few questions—questions of my own choosing—was appealing to me, the opportunity to do so seemed highly suspicious.
“I didn’t know you were acquainted with the general, Farid.”
Farid shrugged. “I don’t really know him. He’s one of my father’s friends, but his birthday party is being held in the ballroom of the Parisian Asadi here in Tehran.”
“If you don’t know him, why did he send you an invitation to his party?”
Farid’s eyes narrowed. “You’re always so suspicious of everything, Hammid. It’s just a birthday party. I get invited to lots of parties, especially if it’s being held at one of my father’s hotels.”
The waiter appeared to take our order before I had a chance to respond, but then, when he walked away, I said, “I’m suspicious when something out of the ordinary happens.”
“Well, in this case, if I didn’t receive an invitation, you should be suspicious.”
I nodded. “Okay, I get that, but you should still remain alert. And, Farid, please let me know if anyone shows you any extra attention.”
He shook his head. “You can be assured no one pays any attention to me or anything I do. My mother was the only person who ever showed any interest in me and now she’s dead.”
Although I sometimes encour
aged Farid to talk about his mother’s death, instead of feeding his self-pity issues today, I tried to instill some confidence in him.
“You’re right, Farid. the general’s party sounds like the ideal time to ask him a few questions. I’ll get back to you before Friday and let you know what to ask him.”
He smiled. “Should I see if I could get you an invitation to the party?”
“I appreciate the offer, but that’s probably not a good idea. General Suleiman is no fool. It might look suspicious to him if a watch salesman showed up at his birthday celebration and began asking him questions. You’ll do a much better job.”
Farid seemed pleased with my response. Then, when I gave him an envelope full of cash for the excellent intel he’d delivered on President Assad’s visit to Tehran, he looked even more pleased.
As he slipped the envelope inside his jacket pocket, a man suddenly appeared at our table. The moment I realized who he was, I felt certain the focus of Operation Torchlight was about to change.
I wasn’t wrong about that.
Chapter 2
Farid didn’t appear nervous when he glanced up and saw the man standing there. Instead, as was customary in the Middle East when two male acquaintances greeted each other, he got up and kissed him on both cheeks.
As they embraced, Farid said, “As-salamu ‘alaykum.”
The man returned Farid’s greeting of peace. “W ‘alaykumu s-salam.”
Farid gestured at me. “Hammid, allow me to introduce you to my friend, Amir.”
After we shook hands, Farid invited Amir to join us. When he sat down, Farid gave him a brief description of who I was—the son of Talib Salimi, the famous Iranian watchmaker. In turn, Farid sketched out a brief bio of Amir for me.
I listened politely, but I already knew who his friend was.
He was Amir Madani, one of Iran’s nuclear scientists. I’d recognized him as soon as he’d greeted Farid.
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