One Step Bac

by Luana Ehrlich

  However, both the backyard and the alley were empty.

  I estimated it was at least a thirty-foot drop from the roof to the ground. Could I jump that distance and walk away?

  I felt pretty sure I could, as long as I landed correctly.

  I tried to remember the correct way to land in order to survive a jump from a three-story building.

  Nothing immediately came to mind.

  As the VEVAK agent came around the corner and aimed his pistol at me, I jumped anyway.

  When I landed, everything went black.

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 13

  Tehran, Iran

  January 7, 2015

  I heard voices, but I couldn’t figure out what they were saying. My mind felt fuzzy, like it was full of gauze, or cotton, or fluffy white clouds.

  I floated on the clouds, soaring high, then dipping down to skim over the surface of a snow-capped mountain. The mountain resembled a man’s face, and, seconds later, the man’s features came into sharp focus.

  “Mr. Qasim,” I heard the man say, “can you hear me? Are you awake now?”

  “I . . . What . . .”

  “You’re in a hospital, Mr. Qasim. I’m Dr. Turani, and I’m taking you up to surgery now. You’ve been given something for your pain, so you should be feeling better soon.”

  I wanted to argue with the man who called himself a doctor. I wanted to tell him my name wasn’t Qasim, and I didn’t need any surgery. I felt perfectly fine. In fact, I felt better than fine; I felt wonderful.

  As I struggled to explain my blissful state to the good doctor, another man’s face floated into view.

  It was Fabel Reza.

  He bent down and whispered in my ear. “Don’t worry, Hammid. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  I wasn’t worried.

  Reza was the one who should be worried; Reza was dead.

  Maybe I was dead too.

  * * * *

  The first person I saw when the fog finally lifted was Fabel Reza. He was seated in a chair beside my bed.

  “Welcome back, my friend.”

  I tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  Reza picked up a paper cup and offered me a sip of water. “Don’t drink too fast; you might choke.” After placing the plastic straw between my lips, he smiled and said, “Now, wouldn’t that be ironic?”

  Once I’d taken a few sips, I asked, “What happened? Where am I?”

  “You’re in Erfan Clinic. I’ll explain what happened to you in a few minutes.” He pulled a Syrian passport out of his shirt pocket and handed it to me. “You need to remember you’re Sayid Qasim. You’re a Syrian construction worker who fell off a building and shattered his leg. Dr. Turani and his team have just spent the last four hours putting it back together.”

  I suddenly became aware of a very large cast on my left leg.

  “I broke my leg,” I said, stating the obvious.

  Reza laid his hand on the plaster cast and nodded. “You smashed your femur and tore all the ligaments in your knee.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “My friends and I brought you.”

  “What friends?”

  Reza pulled his chair closer to my bed and said, “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Hammid.” He shook his head. “I’m not talking about the information I’ve been giving you. I assure you that’s been accurate. But, I’ve also been sharing that same information with my Israeli friends.”

  I couldn’t tell if the drugs in my system were messing with my thought processes, so I asked him to repeat what he’d said.

  He leaned in closer and whispered in my ear. “Besides working for you, I’ve also been working for Mossad.”

  Mossad, the Israeli intelligence agency, was notorious for double recruiting—running agents who worked for other intelligence services—so his revelation didn’t come as a complete surprise to me.

  “Is Mossad responsible for this?” I asked, holding up the Syrian passport he’d given me.

  He nodded. “That’s right. When my case officer informed me he was taking me to a safe house because VEVAK was looking for you, I told them I wouldn’t go with them unless they helped me find you. I can’t tell you how they were able to do that, but when they arrived at Omid Askari’s residence, three agents from VEVAK had just entered the house.

  “The Israelis decided it was safer for them to enter the house from the rear, so they drove their van around to the alley in the back of the house. We arrived just in time to see you jump from the roof, and when a VEVAK agent began firing at you a few seconds later, one of the Mossad agents shot him. After that, I helped them put you in their van, and we brought you over here to the clinic.”

  “I’m grateful for your help, Fabel. You saved my life.”

  “The danger’s not over yet. Mossad is making arrangements to get you to a safe house, but the sooner we get you out of here, the better.”

  “Get my clothes,” I said. “We can leave now.”

  As I was removing my hospital gown, Dr. Turani walked in the room. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  I mumbled something about wanting to take a shower, but he shook his head and said a shower would have to wait.

  When he rolled a blood pressure machine over to my bed, two other men entered the room; one was wearing a suit; the other one had on a tan sports jacket.

  They didn’t look like doctors.

  * * * *

  While Dr. Turani was taking my blood pressure, the two men stood by the door observing everything, but saying nothing.

  “Very good,” Dr. Turani said, removing the cuff from my arm.

  Next, he used his stethoscope to listen to my heart. Finally, he stepped back and motioned toward the men. “He’s able to travel now. Just make sure he stays hydrated.”

  The doctor looked over at Reza, who didn’t appear the least bit concerned I was being handed over to the men. “Take good care of your friend,” he said. “He needs lots of therapy.”

  Reza smiled and shook the doctor’s hand. “I’ll do that.”

  Dr. Turani turned and addressed me. “Mr. Qasim, if I may have your passport now, I’ll get your discharge papers ready and then you’ll be able to leave. The nurse should be here shortly with a wheelchair for you.”

  After I handed him the Syrian passport, he shook my hand and left the room. As soon as he was gone, the Tan Sports Jacket Guy walked over to my bed. The Suit Guy stayed where he was.

  “Tell me your name,” he demanded.

  “Sayid Qasim.”

  “What happened to your leg?”

  “I broke it when I fell off a building at a construction site.”

  “Which construction site was it?”

  “Ah . . . Shahid Stadium. I was working on the new event center.”

  He looked pleased.

  * * * *

  Thirty minutes later, I was sitting in the backseat of a mini-van traveling down the Niayesh Expressway. In the seat next to me was the Tan Sports Jacket Guy who told me to call him Micha. His partner, who was driving the van, said his name was Ehud.

  Like most Israeli operatives I’d known, their stoic faces made it nearly impossible for me to get a read on them. Both men were totally inscrutable.

  If I had to guess, though, I’d say they weren’t too happy they were putting their own lives in danger in order to rescue a CIA guy. Fabel Reza, on the other hand, seemed pleased he’d had a hand in saving my life.

  Reza was in the front seat with Ehud, but he was facing toward the rear so he could hear what Micha was telling me.

  Micha was telling me his superiors at the Office—a.k.a. Mossad—had gotten in touch with my superiors at the Agency—a.k.a. the DDO—and both parties had agreed I should remain in Tehran until my broken leg had healed.

  From what I understood, Mossad was providing the safe house while the Agency was providing Mossad with the funds to run it.


  “Once we drop you off at the safe house,” Micha said, “you won’t hear from us again. You’ll be living with Javad Mirza and his family. His wife, Darya, is a nurse, and she’ll be taking care of you while you recuperate. Once you’re well enough to travel, Javad’s uncle will make arrangements to get you out of Iran.”

  “Is VEVAK still looking for me?”

  Micha nodded. “Our sources tell us VEVAK has issued a high priority alert for your arrest. They’ve identified you as an American spy who murdered two of their agents.”

  He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cell phone. “I was told to give you this encrypted cell phone. One of your superiors should be contacting you shortly.”

  “Any idea what happened to my sat phone?”

  “We destroyed it. We thought it might have been compromised.”

  I found that highly unlikely, but I was in no position to argue with him.

  I was in no position to do anything.

  * * * *

  After Ehud turned off the Sangab Highway onto Kohestan Boulevard in western Tehran, I noticed he kept glancing in his rearview mirror, while making a series of lane changes.

  I remembered the Kohestan district was largely a residential area, so I figured his evasive procedures probably indicated the safe house was nearby.

  This was confirmed a few minutes later when he glanced back at Micha and said, “We’re clean.”

  After Micha replied, “Proceed,” Ehud made a right-hand turn at the next intersection and entered a narrow residential street, where each of the modest looking homes was surrounded by a high concrete fence.

  When Ehud slowed down about halfway down the block, a man standing to the side of a wrought iron gate immediately swung it open, and Ehud drove inside.

  The short driveway led up to a single-story residence constructed of rough-hewn bricks and concrete. It was a nondescript structure, but it was to be my safe haven for the next few weeks.

  “This is where we say goodbye,” Micha said.

  I shook his hand. “Thanks for your help. Perhaps I can return the favor someday.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  As I was telling Reza goodbye, the man who’d opened the gate for us, walked up to the van. After speaking with Micha for a few minutes, he went inside the house and came out a few seconds later carrying a pair of crutches.

  When he walked over to the car and handed me the crutches, he smiled and said, “I’m Javad Mirza. Welcome to my home.”

  * * * *

  Although I was pretty shaky, I managed to use the crutches to get from the van to the front door of the safe house. As soon as Javad opened the door, I heard Ehud put the van in reverse and start backing out of the driveway.

  I glanced back over my shoulder in time to see the van pull into the street and disappear around the corner.

  Suddenly, without warning, I experienced a torrent of emotions as I thought about how my life had changed in the last forty-eight hours.

  I’d gone from living the life of a wealthy businessman in a luxurious apartment in Shemiran, where I’d had a closet full of clothes and a well-stocked refrigerator, to being on the run from the secret police and having to depend on a couple of strangers to take care of me. Although I’d been in tight spots before, I couldn’t remember a time when I’d ever felt so alone and disoriented.

  Whether it was the aftereffects of the drugs in my system or my emotional state, a few seconds later, I felt the room start to spin and the crutches slip from my grasp.

  As I struggled to keep my balance, Javad immediately came to my rescue and helped me into a sagging recliner.

  “Easy now,” he said. “Are you okay?”

  “It’s the drugs.”

  “Of course. Let me get you some water.”

  Javad walked across the living room to a small kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator.

  As he handed it to me, he said, “Do you want me to call you Hammid Salimi or Sayid Qasim?”

  “Hammid Salimi,” I said.

  It was all I had left.

  Chapter 14

  Tehran, Iran

  March 7, 2015

  When I noticed the date on the front page of the Al Alam, one of Tehran’s leading newspapers, I suddenly realized I’d been living at the safe house for two months.

  Although I was surprised to see two months had gone by since the Israeli agents had delivered me to Javad’s house, my shock at seeing the date wasn’t because the days had flown by.

  Quite the contrary.

  Ever since I’d arrived at the safe house, my days had moved at a snail’s pace; there had even been days when I’d asked myself if time had come to a complete stop altogether.

  Before Operation Torchlight, I’d been on a few missions when I’d been required to spend several days at a safe house doing nothing. But, during those times, when I’d just been sitting around, I’d also been planning the next phase of the operation, going over possible scenarios, or figuring out an alternative escape route.

  However, other than doing the physical exercises Darya had given me, my days at the safe house had been spent doing absolutely nothing, or, at least, nothing of significance.

  Shortly after my arrival, when Javad had asked me what he could do to help me pass the time, I’d asked him to pick up a newspaper on his way home from work every day.

  I’d specifically asked him for the Al Alam newspaper because, not only did it contain the most up-to-date news about the hardliners in the Iranian regime, it also contained a daily crossword puzzle.

  For the past two months, that’s how I’d been spending my days—doing crossword puzzles, which was amazing in itself, because I’d never been a big fan of crossword puzzles. In reality, I’d always considered them a complete waste of time.

  I still did.

  However, I knew the discipline and cognition required to work a crossword puzzle in Farsi was good for me, and the process also took up a few hours of my time each day.

  In addition to working crossword puzzles every day, I’d also been spending my time studying moves on a chessboard.

  One evening, not long after my arrival, Javad had suggested we get a game of chess going, and I’d immediately agreed, even though I hadn’t played the game since my college days.

  Little did I know, Javad was an excellent chess player.

  When we’d first started playing, he’d won every game. Gradually, though, after studying his plays, I’d learned to anticipate his moves and make my moves accordingly.

  Strangely enough, when I’d won my first game, Javad had expressed more excitement about my victory than I had, and he’d even called Darya into the living room to tell her the news.

  Although Darya didn’t play chess herself, she’d reacted with enthusiasm and congratulated me.

  Their response to my victory was typical of how the two of them related to me. No matter what I attempted to do—whether it was taking my first steps when my cast was removed, or cooking an Iranian pastry—they were always encouraging me.

  I’d never met anyone like them.

  * * * *

  From our very first meeting, I could tell there was something different about Javad and his family.

  At first, I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but, after we’d been together for a few days, I was sure I’d figured it out; it was their attitude, specifically their optimism—they seemed much less cynical than most Iranians and far more hopeful.

  But, when I’d commented on it to Javad, he’d immediately attributed their positive attitude to their faith.

  He told me they were followers of Jesus Christ.

  I was shocked by this revelation.

  Here I was, an American spy, wanted by the secret police, and I was being sheltered in the home of some Iranian Christians, who were themselves under police scrutiny.

  The first chance I got, I brought this up with Carlton.

&nbs
p; * * * *

  Three days after I arrived at the safe house, I received a call from Carlton on the phone Micha had given me. I could tell he was anxious about something the moment I heard his voice.

  “I’ll keep this short,” he said. “I know you’ll understand why.”

  I had no clue.

  “Sure,” I said. “I completely understand.”

  After talking with him for a few minutes, I realized he was probably anxious about the phone itself—he’d always been skittish of any communication device not issued by the Agency.

  When I thought the conversation was drawing to a close, I asked him if he knew the Iranians in charge of the safe house were Christians. He assured me he did, and he said it was nothing I should worry about.

  When I heard that, all my pent-up emotions burst forth in one long angry rant. My tirade was full of disparaging remarks about how the Agency hadn’t protected my assets, and I also threw in a few paragraphs describing how I felt about being confined to a safe house for several months.

  When I finally ended my tantrum, instead of Carlton chiding me about my anger issues—which he often did whenever I lost my temper—all he said was, “I’ll call you next week.”

  After that, he disconnected the call.

  Later, I told myself if Carlton wasn’t concerned about Mossad placing me in a safe house run by Iranian Christians, then I shouldn’t be either.

  Of course, Carlton wasn’t living with the Christians; I was.

  * * * *

  Christianity wasn’t something I’d given much thought to until I was forced to live with Javad and Darya. Perhaps I’d ignored it because I hadn’t been brought up in a religious home; no one in my family had ever shown any interest in God, the Bible, or attending a church service.

  In reality, because I’d had to pose as an ardent Islamist on several occasions, I’d probably given more thought to the teachings of Mohammed, than I’d ever given to the teachings of Christ.