When he looked up at me with his big doggy grin, I said, “You know, Stormy, us guys are gonna have to stick together now that we have two women living with us. I guess that means we’ll have to be on our best behavior too.”
“You can talk to Stormy later,” Eleanor said, grabbing my hand and practically dragging me in the house. “Let’s open our presents now.”
It suddenly occurred to me that Eleanor might be sorely disappointed when she realized our wedding presents were just a bunch of household items, so I held a whispered conversation with Nikki before we got started.
After she heard what I wanted to do, she smiled and said, “That’s a great idea. Let’s do it.”
I said, “Eleanor, before we open our wedding presents, Nikki and I have a very special present we’d like to give you first.”
“You brought me something else from Morocco?”
“No, it’s not that kind of present,” I said, taking her hand and leading her into the living room.
Nikki and I sat down on the sofa, and Eleanor scooted up in the big armchair across from us, her short legs dangling over the edge of the seat cushion, and her hands folded together in front of her.
She looked over at me, her eyes wide with expectation.
Suddenly, I experienced a flashback of her father and me traveling down a dark two-lane highway together in the mountains of Yemen and hearing him telling me what a neat kid Eleanor was. Minutes later he was dead, shot three times through the heart by a Houthi rebel.
I remembered thinking he sounded like such an incredible father, and now, I had no idea how I would ever be able to take his place.
“You look sad,” Eleanor said. “Is this a sad present?”
“No, it isn’t a sad present.” Nikki assured her.
Nikki placed her hand on my shoulder. “Titus, is something wrong? Would you like me to tell her?”
I shook my head. “No, I’ll do it. I think I’m supposed to do it.”
I leaned forward, and after I took Eleanor’s tiny hands in mine—the same hands that had taken a Glock and shot her father’s killer—I asked her, “Do you remember what your daddy used to say to you if he wanted you to know he wasn’t teasing you, that he was telling you the truth?”
Her eyes lit up immediately. “Yes, if I thought my daddy was teasing me, he told me I could ask him, ‘Is this a kid promise?’ If he said, ‘Kid promise. I’m telling you the truth,’ then I’d know he wasn’t teasing me. He used to tease me a lot.”
“Well then, Eleanor, kid promise; I’m telling you the truth.”
I paused for a second. “Both Nikki and I love you very much, and we’d consider it an honor if you’d allow us to become your parents.”
She looked confused for a moment. “Are you saying you want to adopt me?”
Nikki laughed. “That’s exactly what Titus is trying to say. We want to adopt you as our daughter.”
Eleanor jumped off the chair and rushed over to the sofa, trying to throw her arms around both of us at the same time. “Thank you. This is a great present. The best present ever.”
Nikki looked over at me and smiled. “I’d say that went well.”
Eleanor said she couldn’t wait to tell Bella the good news, and after she went back to her bedroom to call her, I walked over to my carry-on and pulled out the brown envelope Carlton had given me.
I said, “If Eleanor thinks her adoption is the best present ever, she probably won’t care anything about this million-dollar piece of property in Barbados.”
“What property in Barbados?” she asked as I handed her the envelope. I didn’t say anything while she read through the document.
When she finished looking it over, she asked, “Did you buy this for us? And if you did, where in the world did you get the money?”
When I explained Carlton had inherited it from his father-in-law and had deeded it over to us as a wedding present, she just shook her head. “I can’t believe this.”
“You can’t believe it? How do you think I feel? I never imagined Carlton would do anything like this.”
Nikki started flipping through the brochure. “This place looks fabulous. If Douglas hasn’t been using it, does that mean it’s just been vacant?”
“No, the property managers at the resort lease out the property to tourists on a weekly basis. Whenever we want to use it, we just need to be sure no one’s booked it.”
“This is unbelievable. I can’t wait to see it.”
“We’ll need to go check it out soon.”
“Let’s see when it’s available, and I’ll ask for some time off. Eleanor might not think her adoption is the best present ever when she sees this.”
“Douglas actually mentioned Eleanor when he showed me the deed. He said he could see her playing in the swimming pool, and he could see you lounging around the patio reading a book.”
“And what could he see you doing?”
“He said I’d be bored to tears, but at least it would be a chance for us to get away together as a family.”
She leaned over and gave me a kiss. “I love the part about us getting away together, but I’m concerned about you being bored.”
“Why does that concern you?”
“Because when you’re bored, you get into trouble. If you remember, that’s what happened when we met. You were supposed to be having a quiet, boring life here in Norman.”
“You’re wrong, Detective. When I’m bored, I solve murders, chase bad guys, and put away terrorists.”
“Are you saying that’s what could happen when we get away to Barbados?
“Let’s hope so.”
Never the End, Always A Beginning
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Although many people have given me support and encouragement in the process of writing Two Steps Forward, first and foremost, I wish to thank my husband, James, and my daughter, Karis, who have never failed to uplift me with their prayers, strengthen me with their love, and bolster me with their confidence.
I also wish to thank Brian and Marquita Dickinson and Walter Slaughter for their useful insights on Israel. In addition, I’m grateful for Lenda Selph, my editor/proofer, and my beta readers for providing critiques and suggestions, and a special word of gratitude goes to Rachel, Francis, Robert, and Stephen, plus other sources who shall forever remain nameless.
Last, but not least, I’d like to thank all of my faithful readers, many of whom write to me on a weekly basis. Your love of Titus Ray Thrillers keeps me writing past midnight. May you never stop asking, “When is your next book coming out?”
All of you serve as my inspiration.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Luana developed her passion for spy thrillers and mystery novels at an early age, but she didn’t begin writing her series of Titus Ray Thrillers until her husband retired from the ministry. Now, she writes from an undisclosed location, trying to avoid the torture of mundane housework, grocery shopping, and golf stories. However, she occasionally comes out of hiding to visit with her two grandsons or to enjoy a Starbucks caramel macchiato.
Besides being an award-winning author, Luana is a freelance writer, minister's wife, and former missionary to Costa Rica and Venezuela. In addition to being an avid reader, Luana is also a news fanatic, following events around the world on a daily basis, particularly the Middle East. She and her husband are long-time residents of Norman, Oklahoma. She loves to hear from her readers! Email her at [email protected].
A NOTE TO MY READERS
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading Two Steps Forward. If you enjoyed it, you might also enjoy the other books in this series, One Night in Tehran, Two Days in Caracas, Three Weeks in Washington, Four Months in Cuba, and Five Years in Yemen, plus the prequel to the series, One Step Back, a novella providing the backstory to One Night in Tehran.
The next book in the Titus Ray Thriller Series is Three Steps Away, coming in Fall 2020. All Titus Ray Thrillers are available on Amazon.
I’d l
ove for you to do a review of Two Steps Forward 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 also consider signing up for my newsletter? When you do, you’ll receive a free copy of Titus Ray Recipes and Short Stories, plus insider information about the next book in the Titus Ray series, Three Steps Away. You can sign up on my website, LuanaEhrlich.com. or you can sign up for my newsletter here.
On the following pages, you’ll find Chapter 1 of One Step Back, the prequel to the Titus Ray Thriller series.
One of my greatest blessings comes from receiving email from my readers. My email address is [email protected]. I’d love to hear from you!
BONUS EXCERPT
One Step Back
Prequel to One Night in Tehran, Book I
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 Pierre 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.
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