One Night in Tehran: A Titus Ray Thriller

by Luana Ehrlich

  I took the schedule and stuffed it inside my jeans pocket without looking at it.

  “You like working for the Agency, Greg?”

  I wasn’t sure whether it was my question or the fact I was beginning to talk, but Greg smiled when he gave me his answer. “Yes, yes, I do.”

  He took a sip of his coffee then gestured at his surroundings. “Obviously, this is a pretty cushy job.”

  “Did you ever go operational, work in the field?”

  His eyes shifted slightly to the left, and he hesitated a moment before answering. I had no doubt he was weighing whether it was more important to keep me talking or follow Agency rules. He decided on the former.

  However, he sounded apologetic when he answered me. “Only Level 4 action, but Martha was Level 2. We met at an Agency in-house party and got married six months later.”

  “So you had to transfer to Support services after you were married?”

  “Yeah. There were some options, but …” he looked over at me, then up at a camera mounted in the ceiling, “you know how difficult it would have been to live any kind of normal life, much less see each other, if either of us had stayed in Operations.”

  I agreed. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

  He nodded his head, drained the last of his coffee, and walked over to the sink, carefully rinsing out his cup.

  “Did Martha have a hard time adjusting?”

  Looking perplexed, he asked, “Adjusting?”

  “You know. Did she miss …” I struggled to find the right words, “her sense of purpose about what she was doing?”

  He thought about my question for a moment. “I don’t think she missed the ops at first. We couldn’t really talk about it, of course, but I suspected her last assignment had gotten a bit ugly. I’m sure that made the change easier.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Look, Titus, you know we aren’t supposed to—”

  “Did she stop believing?”

  There was no mistaking the anger in his voice. “Believing? You mean did she stop believing her actions were helping her country?”

  “No, of course not. I’m talking about that inner calling that—”

  An alarm went off—a steady beep, beep, beep.

  Suddenly, at that moment, Jim burst through a door off the kitchen.

  I had just assumed the door led to the pantry.

  Assumptions can get you killed.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Jim motioned toward me. “Follow me.”

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  As I headed in his direction, Martha and Alex rushed into the room.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Alex quickly walked over to a wall console and entered some numbers on a key pad.

  The beeping stopped.

  Seconds later, the intercom from the security gate squawked. Greg started to answer it, but Jim motioned for Martha to take it.

  She took a deep breath and pressed the button.

  Calmly she said, “Yes.”

  The female voice on the other end was high-pitched and had a Boston accent. “Oh, Martha, it’s me, Teresa. I just need to drive up and have you sign this petition. It won’t take a minute. I hope I’m not bothering you and Greg.”

  Before hearing Martha’s reply, Jim ushered me past the pantry door, through a false wall at the back of the pantry and into a large room. It contained a wall of security monitors, computers, and several different kinds of communications equipment.

  On one of the monitors, I saw a very thin woman dressed in a pair of black slacks and a yellow blouse. She was standing outside the security gate speaking into the intercom. As I watched, she got back inside her Mercedes and waited for the gate to slide open.

  Jim was watching the other video feeds from around the grounds, while also keeping an eye on a nearby computer screen as it rapidly scanned through thousands of images using the Agency’s facial recognition software. As soon as a match for Teresa came up on the computer screen, he hit the button for the gate to open.

  Speaking into his wrist mike, he said, “We have benign contact. Repeat. Benign contact.”

  Alex keyed back, “Copy. Benign contact.”

  Jim looked over at me. “She’s just a neighbor. She called Martha earlier in the week to see if she would sign a petition to keep the city from cutting down a tree on the right-of-way. It’s creating a traffic hazard.” He shook his head. “Teresa’s a champion of lost causes.”

  I took the chance to look around.

  I felt sure the door on the opposite wall led to a safe room. Once a person was inside, the room could not be breached—at least not easily.

  Jim glanced up at me. “Yeah, that’s the safe room, but we’re good right here. Martha knows how to deal with this situation.”

  We watched as Martha opened the front door and invited Teresa inside the foyer. They were smiling and chatting like actors in a silent movie.

  Everything seemed fine, but I found myself wishing I were armed.

  Along with Jim, I scanned the monitors showing the video from the grounds.

  “Where’s the feed from the pool house?” I asked, nervously.

  He pointed to a split screen. “It’s this one. It’s shared with the feed from the garage.”

  We went back to watching the action on the screen, and I asked him to turn the audio on.

  Martha and Teresa moved into the living room where Greg joined them. He was carrying a book, trying to look as if Teresa’s arrival had interrupted his reading. He and Martha sat down on the sofa, and, using Greg’s book for a hard surface, they signed Teresa’s petition.

  As they played out their deceptive scenario, I could see the differences in their operational styles firsthand.

  Greg’s face was stiff, devoid of any expression; his hand movements were jerky and nervous, and his voice was just a bit too loud. However, Martha appeared relaxed, even comfortable, as if she were enjoying herself. Her body posture mirrored Teresa’s movements, and she stayed in sync with Teresa’s conversational pattern.

  After a few minutes, Jim and I watched as the three of them walked toward the front door together.

  “She’s consistently good,” Jim said. “Greg’s always twitchy, though.”

  My nerves eased up, and I turned away from the security console and walked around the room, poking my nose into a wall cabinet, running my hand over some books on a bookshelf.

  “The gun safe is downstairs.”

  I turned and smiled at him. “I’m that obvious, huh?”

  “I’ve been in your shoes, that’s all.”

  He opened the door to a cabinet and took out a pistol.

  “I keep an extra firearm in here. It would have been yours if our security had been breached.”

  “Good to know.”

  He quickly put the gun back in its hiding place.

  “You didn’t hear it from me though.” He made a sweeping motion with his hand. “Of course, no one hears anything in here.”

  I made a mental note of that information. Since everything was being monitored throughout the safe house, at least the communications room was one place I could have a frank conversation without fear of blowback.

  I turned my attention back to the monitors and watched Teresa pull her car into the street. When the gates closed behind her, Jim gave Alex the all clear.

  I looked around the room one last time.

  I said, “Well, I guess I’d better get back out there.”

  Jim flipped a switch to unlock the door leading through the pantry to the kitchen.

  As I walked past him, he put his hand out to stop me.

  “Look, Titus, I know I’m not supposed to know as much about you as I do, but there’s always talk, you know that. Well … I want you to know, I’m here if you need anything or if you’d just like to talk to someone.”

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  I started toward the door, but then I turned back and said, “Could I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  �
�What’s the most important thing in the world to you?”

  At first, he seemed taken aback by my question.

  Then, he quickly recovered and said, “I’d have to say it’s my family. My wife and two kids mean everything to me.”

  I nodded.

  “Why would you ask me that?”

  “An asset asked me that question just before he was murdered.”

  He gave me a look of understanding.

  “So, how did you answer him?”

  “I never got the chance.”

  CHAPTER 3

  On Monday morning, I awoke with a sense of relief mingled with trepidation—similar to the way I usually felt when I was about to embark on a new mission. However, unlike most of my operations, my Agency debriefing should only take a couple of days—depending on who was on the debriefing team and how they were interpreting my narrative.

  When I thought about who might be assigned to my debriefing team, I decided it was time to shave off my beard. I also decided, after studying my face in the bathroom mirror, that Terry Howard was wrong; I didn’t look that bad. Granted, I wasn’t George Clooney handsome, but who was?

  Years ago, someone had told me I was a pretty good-looking guy. Since then, no one had told me otherwise.

  My trainers at The Farm had described my face as one that “blended.” They considered that a good thing. Put me in a restaurant, a bus station, a mosque, and I blended right in. I didn’t draw attention.

  Only, as it turned out in Tehran, one time I did.

  After taking a quick shower, I put on the clothing supplied for me by Support Services—a pair of dark slacks and a blue oxford shirt. My debriefers would be in very formal business attire, but I knew if I looked halfway decent and appeared to be in my right mind, that’s all they expected of me. Unlike Bud Thorsen—who had a nervous breakdown after a two-year stint in Yemen and had arrived at his debriefing sessions in his pajamas—I did not want a transfer to a desk job.

  At least, I didn’t think so.

  After I got dressed, I tried praying again. Javad and his wife, Darya, had told me it was easy, just like talking to someone. They had often prayed for me while I was living with them in Tehran, and I suspected they continued to pray for me even now.

  I bowed my head and told God I wasn’t looking forward to spilling my guts at the debrief. I admitted I was uncertain about my future, and it was eating away at me, and I also asked him to help me control my temper. When I finished, I decided Javad was right—praying wasn’t really that hard.

  Because I had no desire to stand around and make small talk with any Agency personnel, I skipped Martha’s breakfast and remained in my room until Greg knocked on my door.

  Then, I headed down to the festivities.

  I arrived at the lower level conference room just as Martha was coming out the door.

  She gave me a fleeting smile and whispered, “I left you some cinnamon rolls. Make sure you get some.” As I held the door open for her, she added, “There’s also a carafe of lemonade for you.”

  I whispered back. “Thanks.”

  Although the conference table in the room could easily seat ten people, only four chairs were occupied. Douglas Carlton, my official handler and the operations officer for my mission, was seated on the right side of the table all alone.

  He would be in charge of the debrief.

  He was reading from a stack of papers, and I knew he was probably studying the overnight cables. Carlton was someone who prided himself on being a “detail person,” and he would inform everyone of this organizational attribute at least twice in every meeting.

  Carlton was baldheaded with enormous brown eyes that grew larger whenever he disagreed with something being said. He was a meticulous dresser. Today he wore a gray, pinstriped suit, long-sleeved white shirt—with the hint of a cuff showing—and a pastel-colored tie adorned with tiny, silver geometric designs.

  He looked like a Wall Street banker.

  Ours was a love/hate relationship.

  He caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye and quickly got up from his chair and started toward me. I met him halfway. He grabbed my outstretched hand and put his other hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard.

  Speaking each word as if it were a sentence all by itself, he said, “So. Good. To. See. You.” He pumped my hand for several seconds. “You look …” he paused and looked me over from head to toe, “amazingly well after all you’ve been through.”

  “I’ve gotten some rest,” I said, “and I’ve been eating like a horse since I got here.”

  “Good.” He pointed toward a credenza where an assortment of snacks and drinks were laid out. “Why don’t you get yourself something to eat, and we’ll get started.”

  As I turned to go, he patted me on the back. “I understand you didn’t have any breakfast this morning.”

  Carlton always wanted you to know he knew more about you than you thought he did.

  This personality trait accounted for the hate part of our relationship.

  I grabbed a cinnamon roll and a cup of coffee and took my assigned seat at the head of the table. Carlton was seated to my left. He was distributing stacks of documents to the other three debriefers who were seated across the table from him and to my right. They had not been speaking to each other when I entered the room, and they remained focused on other tasks as I sat down.

  The farthest person from me was Katherine Broward, the Agency’s chief strategic analyst. She was intent on texting or entering some information on her iPhone, and she had not turned her head or met my gaze since I’d entered the room.

  Katherine was also dressed in a gray business suit, but, unlike Carlton, she wore a frilly red blouse underneath her jacket. Since she had been with the Agency for less than 10 years, I put her age at around thirty-five, but discerning a woman’s age was difficult for me. Discerning beauty, however, was an entirely different matter, and I knew Katherine was a very beautiful woman. She had long, honey-blond hair, green eyes, and a rather prominent chin.

  At one time, Katherine and I had tried to have a relationship.

  However, I’d only managed one lunch, followed by dinner a week later. Then, I was off to Afghanistan. I don’t remember the excuse Katherine gave me when I asked her out upon my return, but I do remember thinking it was a very believable lie.

  “Sorry, I’m late.”

  Every head turned as Robert Ira entered the conference room.

  As I observed the look on Carlton’s face, I realized he, like everyone else, seemed surprised to see the Deputy Director of Operations show up in person for the debriefing of a covert intelligence officer.

  Carlton quickly got up from his chair. “Deputy Ira, this is a pleasant surprise. I didn’t realize the Director was sending someone over for the debrief.”

  Ira placed a large black briefcase on the conference table. “I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.”

  “No. No. Not at all,” Carlton said. “Here take this seat. I’ll move over.”

  Ira eased his large bulky body into the chair just vacated by Carlton. Then, he opened his briefcase and rummaged around inside it a moment, finally removing a laptop computer.

  The Deputy’s pudgy face, combined with his stringy gray hair and bulbous red nose, made him appear more like a cartoon character than a high-ranking intelligence administrator. However, I’d always suspected his looks were a bit of cunning camouflage for his devious but brilliant mind. In his position, an unappealing appearance went hand-in-hand with an unappealing job.

  Robert Ira was the point man for the CIA’s Director of Operations. He was sent out to look for operational and political minefields that could blow up in the Agency’s face. To that end, he was tasked with assessing the successes and failures of an operation and of evaluating its financial gains and losses. His bottom-line reports to the Director were both feared and cheered. They could bring either curses or blessings on the agent involved.

  I had been the recipient of bot
h.

  However, Ira seldom left Agency headquarters, preferring instead to sit in his office gathering data from operational officers, reading reports, making phone calls, and holding endless meetings. His presence at my debrief signaled someone was definitely worried about some aspect of Operation Torchlight.

  Those worries were well founded.

  Carlton cleared his throat and addressed the room. “First, I’d like to begin by making some introductions, then, I’ll take care of the preliminaries, and, finally,” Carlton paused and glanced over at me, “we’ll hear from Titus.”

  That was partly true. They would indeed hear from me, but I, in turn, would hear from them. That’s the way an operational debrief worked: I would tell my story; they would ask me questions. Some of those questions would be intended to show how much they knew, and how little I really knew.

  I didn’t mind that.

  I’ve never minded finding out what others thought I didn’t know.

  Carlton began his introductions.

  “Titus, I believe you’re already acquainted with Katherine.” Carlton gave her a nod. She, in turn, gave me just the briefest hint of a smile. “You’re also acquainted with Mr. Haddadi, who’s here to help us with any language and cultural issues we might encounter today.”

  Komeil Haddadi had been a high-ranking scientist in Iran’s nuclear program until five years ago when he had walked into the American Embassy in London and defected—much to everyone’s surprise and delight. Carlton was a member of the team who had spent several weeks interrogating him, and I’d never heard Carlton call him anything but Mr. Haddadi. However, since the two of us had spent considerable time together two years ago, while prepping for my assignment in Iran, I’d always called him Komeil.

  Komeil reached across the table and clasped my hand in both of his. “So good to have you back.”

  As Komeil gave me a broad smile, I was reminded of pictures I’d seen of the Shah of Iran. He resembled the Shah enough to have been his brother.

  Carlton finished up his introductions. “Sitting next to Mr. Haddadi is Tony Fowler. He’s our outside observer for this debriefing session.”