Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) by André Gallo (most inspirational books of all time TXT) 📕

Feeling that Yazdi was heading in the right direction but not yet ready, Marshall asked, “What about the Iraq-Iran War? How did you survive?”

“Yes, the war,” Yazdi resumed. “I was more action-oriented than intellectual, so I went into the military. I did survive and became part of a network of people who are now in the upper levels of the system. Yes, I survived in spite of the American assistance to Iraq,” he added accusingly, “something Iran can never forgive.”

Marshall put one arm on the back of his chair. “We were worried that your revolution was going to take over the Iraqi oil fields. Our goal was, and still is, containment”

The two old adversaries walked through Iran’s recent history since the Khomeini revolution: the internal chaos, the endless arrests and executions, the rule of the street Komites, the religiously sponsored local militias, assassinations of oppositionists overseas, discontent of the current younger generation born after the 1979 revolution, and the tension with the West over Iran’s attempt to regain lost pride and re-establish itself as a regional power by developing its own Islamic bomb.

Marshall was building the foundation of a shared kinship by recalling dangerous times that Yazdi had survived and that Marshall had watched through the kaleidoscope of Iranian politics. He felt that Yazdi was responding, based on a level of understanding that only someone who had been there at the creation could share.

Marshall recognized the harsh reality behind Yazdi’s reminiscences. Even in the early days of the Iranian Revolution, Hashem must have had to play down his leftist beliefs to survive the Islamist wave. Marshall assessed Yazdi as someone who could change, who was not forever wedded to an ideology, and perhaps someone whose loyalties were flexible, a hopeful sign for what Marshall had in mind. The wistful quality of Yazdi’s statements offered an additional clue.

“But all that is history,” Marshal said changing gears to repeat a theme, “I retired, and I’m watching the grandchildren grow. But I’m surprised that, with your background, you’re not already head of al Quds.”

Yazdi froze for an instant, his cup half raised to his lips, stared at Marshall, and put his cup back down very deliberately. Marshall felt he had hit a nerve.

“Mousavi has that job. He also has the blood of his rivals on his hands.” Looking in the distance as if viewing a scene in his memory, he said, “I’m lucky to be alive.”

As if untangling a ball of string, Marshall tugged gently at the end Yazdi had offered and began to pull Yazdi’s story out. Far from being on an official mission, he had flown secretly to America on an alias passport to see his son and his family after orchestrating the attack on the Panorama Hotel in Bahrain. The second strategic nugget from Marshall’s elicitation was Yazdi’s conflicted relationship with Mousavi, a man who had caused the death of several of Yazdi’s childhood friends.

Yazdi uncrossed his arms. “So now, tell me why you’re here.”

“First, tell me the truth; you came here to live thinking you could stay under the radar with your false documents,” Marshall said.

Although Yazdi shook his head, Marshall went on, “I can help you get there, spend time with your grandchildren, but we have a small problem: you’re here illegally. The way the law works here is that you need to leave the country and come back using your true name so that an official authority in the U.S. Government can sponsor you. I can give you a way to come back legally and a means to communicate with us in the meantime. In a year or two, when you’re ready, and you’ve shown us that you’re serious about wanting to live here, the door will be open.”

“What do you mean?” Yazdi sat forward aggressively and held his hand up toward Marshall. “No, I know what you mean. I will not be your spy.”

“Wait. Hear me out. I can help you make a life here, and I can help you sink Mousavi’s career.”

Yazdi held up both hands as if stopping traffic. “You’re asking me to put my life in your hands. If I’m caught, I will not see my grandchildren grow up as you say. Ali Mousavi will interrupt his obsession with chess to see to it.”

“We understand that. However, you’re a smart guy. Think of the reward.

We can make your dreams possible.” Marshall stood.

Taking Yazdi’s silence as agreement, Marshall sat back down and stayed for another hour playing three-dimensional mind-chess with a master before they finally closed in on the details of a deal.

“This is a win-win for both of us, Hashem,” Marshall said. “We can help each other. We will facilitate the naturalization process for your son and family. We will place one million dollars in an interest-accruing account immediately. When you leave Iran permanently, you will have access to the account. The naturalization process for you will start now. As I said, I’ll have somebody come here tomorrow morning to help you with the paper work.” Marshall held back from mentioning the witness-protection program.

The two men shook hands. Yazdi took the rifle and gave it to Marshall. “You should keep this.”

Marshall drove away thinking that Yazdi would be an agile player, like a knight in the early phase of a chess game, able to jump his way across a crowded board. Knights were most useful at the beginning of a game, but hardly ever survived to the end game.

How far would Yazdi go?

5. Marin County, California

Firuz Yazdi lowered the window of his car to confirm that what he was hearing was the foghorn of the Larkspur Ferry as he sped down Highway 101 toward the Golden Gate Bridge and his Mountain View apartment in the middle of Silicon Valley. His black hair was entirely shaved off, but his face sported California stubble. The last eighteen hours were