One Step Bac

by Luana Ehrlich

  All that changed shortly after I arrived at the safe house.

  Once Javad told me he and his family were Christians, they were very open about discussing their faith with me, and they didn’t try to hide their religious practices, especially their habit of reading the Bible together, which they did every night following the evening meal.

  After the meal, as Darya began removing the dishes from the table, I’d retreat over to my bed in a corner of their tiny living room, while Javad, Darya, and Mansoor remained at the kitchen table.

  Javad would always begin by saying a prayer, then each of them would read aloud from a small, well-worn Bible. Afterward, they would discuss what they’d read.

  Although I tried to occupy myself by reading the newspaper or working a crossword puzzle, I couldn’t help but hear the Scriptures they were reading and what they were saying.

  As soon as they were finished, Javad would return the Bible to its hiding place behind a wall in their living room.

  Even though they knew anyone professing Christianity in Iran faced intense persecution, including torture, imprisonment, and murder, they didn’t seem to be intimidated by this prospect when I brought it up.

  Javad assured me he was aware of the risks they were taking, but he said each member of his family was ready to give their lives for Christ even as Christ had given his life for them. While I was astonished by his response and in awe of their courage, what I found incomprehensible was the joy each of them exhibited in these circumstances.

  To my complete surprise, as I listened to their discussions every night, I began to question whether the dull ache I sometimes felt in my own life could be the result of my lack of faith in God.

  After a few weeks had gone by, I got up the courage to share my feelings with Javad.

  “These are good questions you’re asking, Hammid.”

  “I didn’t know I was asking a question.”

  “Oh, but you are,” he said, pointing his finger at my heart. “You’re asking questions in here, and that’s where faith first begins. When your dead heart comes alive, that’s a gift from God. He’s showing you mercy, showering you with his grace, even though you’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

  “I don’t think that’s true, Javad. I’ve always been a good—”

  “Here, let me show you what I mean.”

  Javad walked over and removed the Bible from its hiding place. When he opened it up, he pointed to a verse of Scripture and insisted I read it aloud to him.

  Although I’d read the Quran several times, the Quran never affected me the way the words from the Bible did.

  The more I talked with Javad, the more I realized I wanted to have what he had. He described it as “a relationship with the Lord.”

  I had no clue what that meant.

  But, I thought about it all the time.

  Chapter 15

  Tehran, Iran

  April 1, 2015

  As Rahim Mirza briefed me on the final details of Mossad’s plan to get me out of Iran and back to the States, I felt a sense of excitement I hadn’t felt since I’d stood on the roof of Omid’s house and calculated how far down it was.

  It was like I was back in the game.

  Rahim, who was Javad’s uncle, identified himself as a Courier, the title Mossad used for someone responsible for smuggling people and parcels out of a hostile country.

  The most important quality a Courier possessed was confidence, and when Rahim was explaining the two-day trip we were about to make from Tehran to the Iranian/Turkey border crossing at Bazargan, Iran, he expressed little doubt he would be able to deliver me into the hands of the CIA’s station chief in Turkey.

  “I’ve made this trip many times before, and I’ve never had a problem,” he said. “I’m not saying the journey will be easy, especially with that leg of yours, but I assure you it will be successful.”

  Rahim had the perfect cover for a Courier. He was a farmer who grew apples for a living, and for years now, he’d been making monthly deliveries of his produce to a market in Dogubayazit, Turkey.

  When he pulled a crumpled map out of his pocket and traced the route we would take from Tehran into northern Iran and on to Turkey, he assured me the border guards at the Bazargan crossing knew him well. “Sometimes, they even wave me through the crossing without ever inspecting my vehicle,” he said.

  “Are you sure I can fit in the trunk of your car?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I’ve transported much larger men than you.”

  Darya spoke up, “Rahim, you must stop every few hours and let Hammid get out of the trunk so he can exercise his leg. Otherwise, he won’t be able to walk when he gets there.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Javad pointed over to the black cane beside my chair, “Don’t forget your cane, Hammid. I’m sure you’ll need it.”

  I didn’t know whether to be angry or amused at the way Javad and Darya were treating me, but I could hardly blame them for sounding so patronizing when they’d only seen me as an invalid for the past three months, someone who sat around all day playing chess or working crossword puzzles.

  I felt certain they couldn’t imagine I’d been responsible for planning much larger and more dangerous operations than the one Rahim was planning.

  “That’s it then,” Rahim said, folding up his map. “We’ll leave at dawn tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be ready when you get here.”

  As we got up from the kitchen table, Javad walked over and stood between Rahim and me. Placing his hand on each of our shoulders, he said, “Allow me to say a prayer for your safety.”

  “Yes,” Darya said, calling for Mansoor to come and join us, “we must pray for you before you go.”

  Before I knew what was happening, everyone had joined hands—me included.

  As we stood there, shoulder to shoulder, Javad made an impassioned plea for God’s hand to deliver Rahim and me through the mountains of Iran and into Turkey without incident. He ended his prayer by asking God to grant me a special blessing as I returned home to America.

  It was a beautiful, fervent prayer. One I would never forget.

  * * * *

  I was too wired to go to bed after Rahim had left; so once everyone else had gone to bed, I sat down in Javad’s recliner and started working on my last crossword puzzle.

  It wasn’t long before I realized I was having trouble concentrating. All I could think about was leaving Tehran tomorrow.

  I didn’t believe I’d ever return, and I kept asking myself if the two years I’d spent here in Tehran, and the intel I’d gathered, had been worth the lives of the assets I’d lost.

  I was also haunted by Chaman’s face the last time I’d seen her in Jamshidieh Park in front of the statue of Abolqasem Ferdowsi. What had happened to her? Had she also been arrested?

  I felt certain she knew nothing of Farid’s activities, but that would hardly matter to VEVAK.

  As I thought about the way I’d treated her—using her to further my own agenda with Amir Madani, not to mention failing to warn her the secret police might be coming after her—I began to feel guilty in a way I’d never felt before.

  When I tried to rationalize my actions as necessary to carrying out my mission, I suddenly became aware of other instances when I’d been heartless or even cruel toward those who were peripheral to an operation.

  I had always considered myself a pretty good person, but now, for the first time in my life, I began to question whether that was true or not.

  After Javad had shown me a verse in the Bible that said everyone had sinned, he’d explained I would need to recognize myself as a sinner before I could ever have a relationship with the Lord. He’d told me that was the first step.

  Had I just taken that first step?

  * * * *

  Although I was sure I couldn’t sleep, I crawled into bed anyway, but, just before I turned off the lamp, Javad walked
in the room.

  When he came over and knelt down beside me, he also appeared to be wide awake. “Hammid,” he said, putting his hand on my arm, “before you leave, I must ask you a very important question.”

  “Okay, Javad, ask me your question.”

  “Will you make a commitment to become a follower of Jesus Christ?”

  “Yes, Javad, I will.”

  He didn’t seem surprised.

  The next day, when Rahim and I left for Turkey, I felt my life had just begun.

  I wasn’t wrong.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Luana Ehrlich is an award-winning author, minister’s wife, and former missionary with a passion for spy thrillers and mystery novels. She began her series of Titus Ray novels when her husband retired from the pastorate. Now, she writes from an undisclosed location, seeking to avoid the torture of mundane housework, grocery shopping, and golf stories. Occasionally, she comes out of hiding to see her two grandsons or to enjoy a Starbucks caramel macchiato. She resides in Norman, Oklahoma. You’re invited to visit the author’s website LuanaEhrlich.com or TitusRayThrillers.com.

  A NOTE TO MY READERS

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for reading One Step Back, the prequel to One Night in Tehran, Book I in the Titus Ray Thriller Series. If you enjoyed reading this novella, then you’ll enjoy reading the full-length novels in the series and finding out what happens to Titus after he escapes from Iran.

  The following books in the series are available:

  One Night in Tehran, Book One

  Two Days in Caracas, Book Two

  Three Weeks in Washington, Book Three

  Four Months in Cuba, Book Four

  Five Years in Yemen, Book Five (coming in Fall 2018)

  Titus Ray Thrillers Books 1 & 2 Box Set

  Titus Ray Thriller Recipes and Short Stories

  Titus Ray Thrillers are available exclusively on Amazon here.

  I’d love for you to do a review of One Step Back on Amazon. Since word-of-mouth testimonies and written reviews are usually the deciding factor in helping readers pick out a book, they are an author’s best friend and much appreciated. Your review doesn’t have to be extensive; a line or two is sufficient.

  Would you consider signing up for my newsletter? It’s a monthly publication that contains insider information about Titus Ray, plus updates about the books in this series. When you sign up, I’ll send you a FREE eBook copy of Titus Ray Thriller Recipes and Short Stories. Sign up here and receive your FREE book.

  You can find out more about me at LuanaEhrlich.com and more about Titus Ray Thrillers at TitusRayThrillers.com.

  One of my greatest blessings comes from receiving email from my readers. My email address is author@luanaehrlich.com. I’d love to hear from you!

  Blessings,

  Luana

  BONUS EXCERPT

  One Night in Tehran

  Book One in the Titus Ray Thriller Series

  PROLOGUE

  In far northwest Iran, a few minutes after clearing the city limits of Tabriz, Rahim maneuvered his vehicle onto a rutted side road. When he popped opened the trunk of the car to let me out, I saw the car was hidden from the main highway by a small grove of trees. In spite of our seclusion, Rahim said he was still anxious about being seen by a military convoy from the nearby Tabriz missile base.

  For the first time in several hours, I uncurled from my fetal position and climbed out of the vehicle, grateful to breathe some fresh air and feel the sunshine on my face. As my feet landed on the rocky terrain, Rahim handed me a black wooden cane. I wanted to wave it off, but, regrettably, I still needed some help getting around on my bum leg.

  Rahim slammed the trunk lid down hard.

  “You can stretch for a few minutes,” he said, “but then we must get back on the road immediately. Our timing must be perfect at the border.”

  Rahim and I were headed for the Iranian/Turkish border, specifically the border crossing at Bazargan, Iran. He was absolutely confident he could get me out of Iran without any problems. However, during the last twenty years, I’d had a couple of incidents at other border crossings—Pakistan and Syria to be precise—so I wasn’t as optimistic.

  While Rahim was tinkering with the car’s engine, I exercised my legs and worked out the stiffness in my arms. As usual, I was running through several “what ifs” in my mind. What if the border guards searched the trunk? What if the car broke down? What if we were driving right into a trap?

  I might have felt better about any of these scenarios had either of us been armed. However, Rahim had refused to bring along a weapon. Carrying a gun in Iran without a special permit meant certain imprisonment. Imprisonment in Iran meant certain torture, so I certainly understood his reasons for leaving the weaponry back in Tehran.

  Still, a gun might have helped my nerves.

  I was surprised to hear Rahim say I could ride in the front passenger seat for the next hour. He explained the road ahead was usually deserted, except for a farm truck or two, so it seemed the perfect time to give me a brief respite from my cramped quarters.

  I didn’t argue with him.

  However, I thought Rahim was being overly cautious having me ride in the trunk in the first place—at least until we got nearer the Turkish border. I’d been passing myself off as an Iranian of mixed ancestry back in Tehran, and now, having grown out my beard, I didn’t believe a passing motorist would give me a second look.

  When I climbed in the front seat, the cloying smell of ripe apples emanating from the back seat of Rahim’s vehicle was especially pungent. Flat boxes of golden apples were piled almost as high as the back window, and the sweet-smelling fruit permeated the stuffy interior of the car. On the floorboard, there were several packages wrapped in colorful wedding paper. I was sure they reeked of ripe apples.

  We had been back on the road for about twenty minutes when Rahim said, “Hand me one of those apples and take one for yourself, Hammid.”

  Although Rahim knew my true identity, he continued to address me by the name on my Swiss passport, Hammid Salimi, the passport I’d used to enter Iran two years ago. Unfortunately, it was now a name quite familiar to VEVAK, the Iranian secret police, who had already prepared a cell for me at Evin Prison in northwest Tehran.

  After we had both devoured the apples, Rahim rolled down his window and threw the cores down a steep embankment.

  “When you get back inside the trunk,” he said, “you’ll have to share your space with some of those.” He gestured toward the apple boxes in the backseat.

  I glanced over at him to see if he was joking, but, as usual, his brown, weather-beaten face remained impassive. Although I’d spent the last three months living with Rahim’s nephew, Javad, and learning to discern Javad’s emotional temperature simply by the set of his mouth or the squint of his eyes, I’d barely spent any time with Rahim. During the last two days together, he’d never made any attempt at humor, and it didn’t appear he was about to start now.

  I protested. “There’s barely enough room for me back there.”

  “It will be snug with the boxes, but you will fit,” he said. “If the guards open the trunk, I want them to see apples.”

  I felt a sudden flash of anger. “Before we left Tehran, you told me they wouldn’t open the trunk at the border. You said they wouldn’t even search the car.”

  My voice sounded harsh and loud in the small confines of the car.

  However, Rahim calmly replied, “They will not search the car, Hammid. They have never searched inside. They have never searched the trunk. It is only a precaution.”

  He turned and looked directly at me, his penetrating black eyes willing me to trust him. It was a look I instantly recognized. I had used that same look on any number of assets, urging them to ferret out some significant nugget of intel and pass it on to me, even though I knew the odds of their being caught were high.

  He returned his eyes to the road. “
Surely you’re acquainted with making minor changes as a plan evolves.”

  I took a deep breath. “You’re right, of course.” I suddenly felt foolish at my amateur reaction. “Planning for the unexpected is always smart. The more precautions you want to take, the better it will be for both of us. I’m sorry for questioning you.”

  For the first time, I saw a brief smile on his face. “There’s no need to apologize,” he said quietly. “The last three months have been difficult for you. Your paranoia is understandable.”

  Rahim shifted into a lower gear as we approached a steep incline. When we finally rounded a curve on the mountainous road, our attention was immediately drawn to two military vehicles parked on the opposite side of the road about one-half mile ahead of us. Several men were standing beside two trucks. They were smoking cigarettes and looking bored.

  “It’s not a roadblock,” I said.

  “No, we’re fine.”

  Suddenly a man in uniform, leaning against the front bumper of the lead truck, noticed our approach and quickly took a couple of steps onto the highway. He signaled for us to pull over.

  “Say nothing unless they speak to you first,” Rahim said. “My papers are inside the glove box. Do not open it unless I say, ‘Show them our papers.’”

  “I have no papers, Rahim.”

  He eased the car onto the side of the road. “I put them inside the glove box,” he said, “but don’t open it unless I tell you to do so.”

  As the military officer crossed over the highway toward our car, I watched the reaction of the men standing outside the two vehicles. Although the insignia on the officer’s uniform indicated he was a captain in the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC), the men traveling with him were not in uniform. However, that didn’t mean they weren’t soldiers.