My call went to voice mail.
Thirty minutes later, I tried texting him.
He didn’t reply.
Finally, I decided to stop by his apartment.
As soon as I got off Azadegan Expressway—the outer loop around Tehran—I realized my watchers in the white Khodro were back on the job.
I decided it was not to be, and I abandoned my plans to contact Farid until the next day.
The next morning, when Farid still wasn’t responding to my attempts to contact him, I managed to lose the VEVAK agents parked outside my building and drive over to Farid’s neighborhood.
His apartment building had an underground parking facility manned by a security guard, who was seated inside a glass-enclosed booth. I sat across the street and watched the booth for almost an hour, as I tried to figure out how to get inside the garage without being seen.
The first thing I noticed was that the guard had a boring job.
He tried to pass the time by watching a small screen television set mounted above his head. It was daytime programming, which, in Iran, mainly consisted of news stories, clips of IRGC military exercises, and broadcasts of sermons from well-known Imams. None of it appeared to hold the guard’s attention for any length of time.
However, it wasn’t long before I detected a pattern behind his television viewing, and the next time he flipped the channel over to a news program—something he appeared more interested in than anything else—I got out of my car and ambled down the sidewalk in front of the building.
When I arrived at the booth, the guard was facing away from me watching his tiny television.
He appeared completely distracted by a news story about the Syrian Air Force using chemical weapons on a rebel stronghold, and I managed to slip underneath the guard rail and descend the short incline into the darkened parking garage before he saw me.
When I arrived at Farid’s assigned parking space, I found it empty.
I considered that a good sign.
More than likely, Farid had decided to take a trip and had forgotten to cancel our appointment. Since cell phone service was notoriously spotty in the Iranian countryside, I figured this was a real possibility.
Of course, there were several other possibilities, including his being arrested by VEVAK, but since I’d seen no evidence anyone besides the security guard was watching Farid’s apartment building, I didn’t believe anything like that had happened.
When VEVAK arrested someone, they usually set up surveillance around the person’s residence immediately. Then, when friends or family members showed up to check on the missing person, they also took them into custody. It was a much more efficient method than broadcasting someone’s arrest and then scouring the countryside looking for the acquaintances of the accused.
Although I told myself Farid had probably gone out of town, and his disappearance didn’t have anything to do with his espionage activities, I knew there was no way I could be sure of that without checking out his apartment.
However, if I was wrong, and VEVAK had indeed arrested Farid, then showing up at his front door could prove detrimental to my well-being.
With that in mind, I removed my Glock from my holster before taking the elevator up to the fifth floor.
Farid’s apartment took up the entire fifth floor of the building. His father had purchased the five-story apartment building the day after Farid had graduated from Tehran University, and then he’d remodeled what had once been three separate apartments into one large residence for his son.
Even though the public elevator still permitted access to the fifth floor, a visitor was only allowed to enter a wood-paneled foyer outside Farid’s front door. After that, a security code had to be entered on the keypad attached to the doorframe, or someone inside the apartment had to unlock the door after observing the visitor through an overhead camera.
I wasn’t concerned about getting inside the apartment.
What concerned me was whether VEVAK had stationed its agents in the foyer outside Farid’s front door.
While I could have taken the stairs at the back of the apartment and avoided the foyer altogether, the narrow stairwell would have been a kill zone in the event of a firefight between me and VEVAK’s agents.
As I watched the numbers on the control panel tick off each passing floor, I held my gun at my side and pressed my back up against the inside corner of the elevator, trying to make myself as small a target as possible.
When the doors slid open on the fifth floor, I stayed out of sight, while keeping my thumb pressed against the elevator’s open door button on the console.
Nothing happened.
No one stuck their head in the door to find out why an empty elevator had arrived on the fifth floor.
Once I stepped off the elevator, I immediately walked over and looked up at the security camera installed above the door. To make sure the camera was capturing a good shot of me, I kept my face tilted toward the camera when I rang the doorbell.
No one came to the door.
I waited another thirty seconds and rang the bell a second time; still no response.
Finally, I keyed in Farid’s numeric code on the security panel, and after hearing the lock release, I turned the door handle and entered the apartment.
Everything looked normal inside—normal, that is, for Farid.
Chaman had once referred to Farid’s apartment as “a perfect example of minimalist chic.” In Farid’s case, this primarily consisted of black and white furnishings with a minimum of color, plus lots of chrome and glass.
His father hated it. I wasn’t too fond of it myself.
After checking out the front of the apartment, I walked back to Farid’s bedroom, where I hoped to find some evidence he’d decided to go away for a few days.
Because of his extensive wardrobe, it was hard to tell if any of Farid’s clothes were missing, but after I spotted two suitcases on the top shelf, I began to suspect he hadn’t left town after all.
My doubts were confirmed when I checked out his bathroom. There, I found his toothbrush and various hair products scattered across the counter as if he’d just finished using them. I also discovered his toiletry kit stowed underneath the sink.
Now, the possibility that Farid had taken a vacation seemed remote.
I walked across the hall to Farid’s study. The only books on the shelves of the built-in bookcases were some of Farid’s old textbooks from his student days at Tehran University.
Farid wasn’t much of a reader.
However, his lack of literary interest was overshadowed by his passion for high-tech computer equipment. This obsession was reflected in the expensive computer sitting atop his black wooden desk and the two wide-screen monitors beside it.
I bent down and took a closer look at the screen on the right, where Farid’s personal calendar and the previous day’s appointments were displayed.
In the three o’clock time slot, Farid had entered “Meet H.S. at Assar Gallery.” Presumably, those initials stood for Hammid Salimi.
The only other appointment on Farid’s calendar was at noon. “Lunch with Chaman. Meet at Gilaneh.”
Had Farid also missed his lunch with Chaman yesterday?
There was only one way to find out.
Chapter 11
As soon as I left Farid’s apartment, I phoned Chaman and asked her to meet me at Jamshidieh Park. On my way over to the park, I contacted two of Farid’s friends, both of whom had purchased Salimi watches from me.
Although I said I was calling to see how they were enjoying their new timepieces, before I hung up, I brought up Farid’s name. When I asked if they’d heard from him recently, one of the men said he’d talked to Farid three days ago, and the other one said he hadn’t seen Farid in a week.
I was hoping Chaman might be more helpful.
She’d agreed to meet me in Jamshidieh Park in front of a statue of Abolqasem Ferdowsi. Ferdowsi was a famous Iranian poet who was venerated throughout Iran. Statues of him were everywh
ere in the city, and I suspected every Iranian family owned at least one copy of his epic poem, Shahnameh.
I’d even seen a copy of Shahnameh on Farid’s bookshelf.
However, it wasn’t until I arrived at the park for my rendezvous with Chaman, that I realized I’d probably chosen the Ferdowsi statue on a subconscious level.
Since every biographer of Ferdowsi always included the story of how Ferdowsi’s girlfriend had refused to give him shelter when his enemies were trying to kill him, perhaps I’d associated the poet’s life with Farid.
When Chaman arrived, I wasn’t at the statue. I was watching her from a grove of trees near the children’s playground about fifty yards away.
As soon as I was able to determine she wasn’t being followed, I walked over and sat down beside her on a wooden park bench.
“Oh, Hammid, you startled me,” she said, shaking her head. “Why did you sneak up on me like that?”
“I’m sorry, Chaman. I thought you heard me.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I apologize.”
“Maybe I’m just nervous because of what happened to Farid.”
“What happened to Farid?”
“You don’t know? I thought that’s why you wanted to see me.”
“That is why I wanted to see you. He was supposed to meet me yesterday, but I haven’t heard from him, and he hasn’t returned my calls.”
She pulled her manteau closer to her as if she were chilled. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but when we were having lunch yesterday at Gilaneh, two men approached our table and asked to speak to Farid privately. When the three of them returned a few minutes later, Farid told me he was under arrest.”
“Who were these men?”
“They weren’t wearing uniforms, and I didn’t see any kind of identification on their vehicle.”
“You followed them outside?”
She nodded. “I kept shouting at them, trying to tell them Farid hadn’t done anything wrong.” She shook her head. “I’m sure everyone in the restaurant heard me.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t arrest you.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she said, brushing aside my remark with a flick of her hand.
“What kind of vehicle were they driving?”
“It was white. I believe it was a Khodro.”
After Chaman told me about the car, I knew Farid was in trouble. Depending on the type of interrogators VEVAK used and the amount of evidence they had on Farid, that trouble might eventually affect me and the rest of my network.
Now, I had no choice but to get in touch with Carlton and alert each of my assets to the danger Farid’s arrest posed to them.
First, though, I had to get away from Chaman.
“I’m not worried about Farid,” I said. “He can talk his way out of anything.”
She didn’t look all that convinced, but she nodded her head anyway. “As soon as I find out where they’ve taken him, I’m going to call some of my activist friends and organize a protest. Would you like to join us?”
I lied and said, “Sure, but Farid will probably be released before that happens.”
I glanced down at my watch. “Listen, Chaman, I need to go meet a client now, but I’ll call you later to see if you’ve heard from him.”
She seemed surprised. “You’re leaving?” She gestured in the direction of the tea house. “I thought we might have lunch together.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I said, getting to my feet. “I can’t do that today.”
As I walked away, I glanced back over my shoulder and waved at her.
I knew I’d probably never see her again.
As soon as I got back to my car, I sent a text to each of my other assets asking them to contact me, and then I drove over to my apartment and called Carlton.
“Are you saying VEVAK has had Farid in custody for over twenty-four hours now?” Carlton asked.
“That’s right.”
“And you didn’t spot any surveillance at his apartment?”
“None. Maybe they’re just harassing him.”
“Is that just wishful thinking on your part, or do you have some basis for believing that?”
“Farid doesn’t have a good reputation in Islamic circles. He drives flashy cars and wears expensive clothes, and he seldom attends the mosque. Usually, when such undisciplined behavior is brought to the attention of the mullahs, they take some kind of action.”
“That’s true, but I’ve never heard of the mullahs using VEVAK to teach the nonobservant a lesson.”
“Neither have I.”
Carlton was quiet for a moment. “I have to assume you’ve already contacted your other assets?”
“Yes, but I haven’t heard back from them yet.”
“Not even Omid?”
The banker, Omid Askari, was the oldest of my assets and the most responsive when it came to answering my texts or agreeing to meet with me.
“I don’t expect to hear from Omid Askari anytime soon. He’s taken his family to a resort on the Caspian Sea and more than likely, he’s out of cell phone range.”
“What’s your assessment? What does your gut tell you?”
“As much as I hate to do it, I believe I need to go to ground for a few days.”
“I agree. Do that and then contact me the minute you hear from your other assets. In the meantime, I’ll get the Ops Center to see what they can find out about Farid’s arrest.”
After I told Carlton I’d be leaving my apartment in the next fifteen minutes, he said, “Go ahead and turn on your tracker, Titus. I want you on The Grid until further notice.”
Once I got off the phone with Carlton, I packed a carryall with my shaving kit, a couple of changes of clothing, my laptop, and some extra ammo, and then I walked out of my apartment.
Before pulling out of the Shemiran parking lot, I entered my three-digit code on my Agency sat phone. Now, my location was a pulsating blue dot on the Schematic Tracking Grid in the Ops Center at Langley. If Farid’s arrest turned out to be nothing more than the mullahs giving him a slap on the wrist, then my blue dot on The Grid would keep on pulsating.
If not, at least the Ops Center would have a record of my last known location.
When I’d arrived in Iran two years ago, I’d rented a one-bedroom apartment in the Avini district, a lower income neighborhood in Tehran. The lease was under the name of Malik Nasir.
For the last two years, I’d been paying rent on the apartment for six months at a time. Occasionally, I’d even put in an appearance at the place. While I always hoped I’d never have to use the safe house, it was there in case I did.
Now, I did.
After leaving Shemiran, I drove over to the Avini apartment and deposited my carryall, along with my laptop. Then, I grabbed the identity papers for Malik Nasir and caught a taxi to a car rental place near the airport, where I rented an older model Renault.
Since none of my assets had returned the phone messages I’d left them, there was nothing left to do but go check on them in person.
The jewelry store owned by Hosein Jamali was in a high-end shopping district on the outskirts of Tehran, not far from the airport, and I decided to make Jamali’s jewelry store my first stop.
However, as I drove down the street in front of the store, I got caught up in a traffic jam. Traffic had come to a complete stop about a block from my destination, and, like most of the other drivers, I got out of my vehicle and began asking the pedestrians coming from that direction what was happening up ahead.
“There’s been a terrible accident,” one of them said. “A truck hit an old man crossing the street. I’m sure he’s dead.”
When traffic started moving again, I got back inside the Renault, but, for some reason, the closer I got to the accident’s location, the more apprehensive I became.
VEVAK’s modus operandi, particularly when dealing with enemies of the state, wasn’t always predictable. Sometimes, they arrested the person, gave them a warning, and
then immediately released them. At other times, the offender was executed by firing squad within twenty-four hours of his arrest.
The secret police had also been known to murder an enemy outright, especially if the evidence against them had come from a reliable source, and they didn’t want to spend the time and resources on an investigation.
Since Hosein Jamali was a friend of several of the IRGC generals, I feared VEVAK might have chosen to stage some sort of accident instead of arresting him, thus preventing their actions from coming under the scrutiny of the IRGC.
When the line of traffic finally reached the accident site, my worst fears were realized.
Unlike what usually happens in other countries when a victim dies at the scene of a traffic accident, in Iran, the body wasn’t always covered up immediately—I always figured the regime wanted onlookers to confront death in all its messy reality.
As I viewed the exposed body from my car window, I immediately knew the victim I saw lying in the street was Hosein Jamali. Although Jamali’s chest and lower extremities had been crushed by the oncoming truck, his face was instantly recognizable.
I quickly looked away and moved on.
As I drove over to Tehran University to check on Bahram Rouhani, a political science professor who had been feeding me intel on one of the dissident groups in Iran, I received a text from Aviz Davar.
The text was short but reassuring. “I’ll call you later. I’m off to swim now.”
Aviz swam at least three days a week at the Vanak Recreational Center, a members only facility. She was extremely regimented about her exercise routine, and I knew if I texted her back and asked her to call me, she’d wait until she’d finished her swim to get back to me.
Because the Vanak Center controlled access to the facility through a security guard, I felt certain Aviz was safe from VEVAK’s reach—at least for now.
However, I decided after I had visited with the professor and explained the precautions he should take, I’d drive over to the Vanak Center and try to convince Aviz to go with me to the safe house.
One Step Back: A Titus Ray Thriller Page 8
