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

and dark suit, sat in front of CIA Director Walter Deuel’s wide desk and continued to try to obtain the Director’s assistance.

“State is going to fight us on this. We would do better if the request came from you directly. The very idea of introducing a non-official cover officer in Iran so soon after upgrading bilateral relations is going to give them a heart attack. I don’t even want to tell them that our man is not part of our regular NOC cadre.”

Deuel, with short hair that had been gun-metal gray at least since his glory days as captain of Cornell’s lacrosse team, reached for a cigar sitting in a clean ashtray.

“I do remember that the Chargé sent over there by State had refused to come here for a briefing before he went to Tehran. Tell me, why not one of our regular NOCs? Or, why not send Marshall? He recruited XYSENTINEL. Give him an alias passport. We know that he was in Tehran during their revolution, but they don’t. Their records are not that good. I trust him. In any case, using his son. Why? Because he happens to be available? Sounds like a bad idea. Since when is the National Clandestine Service a family affair?”

“Marshall’s experience is a double-edged sword,” Thérèse said, squirming a bit. “As a NOC he would have no official status; there’s little we can do to protect him.”

“You’re telling me that the risk is high and that it’s better for Steve to get caught than Marshall?” Deuel said, pointing his cigar at her. “What about giving him a diplomatic passport and simply inserting him in the U.S. Interest Section?”

“We’ve already tried to place one of our people in the Interest Section, but the new Chargé, Jeff Crossley, turned us down flat. We know him from Islamabad. Good linguist, but he identified more with Pakistani than with American interests.”

She brushed her hair back behind one ear and continued, “Although he didn’t meet with you, we did talk to him before he left for Tehran.” She rolled her eyes, “He doesn’t want to lie to the Iranians. He said that he doesn’t want to create the impression that the Interest Section is a ‘Nest of Spies,’ as the Iranians described the old American Embassy in 1979. Which is fine. Because the presence of American diplomats in Tehran will allow Mousavi’s people to focus on something other than our operations. Besides, if I remember correctly,” she smiled, “wasn’t it your idea to award Steve that medal last year?”

Her eyes glanced at a stockless primitive gun hanging on the wall on a red mat to Deuel’s left, a reminder that Deuel had cut his operational teeth in Laos running guerrillas in the H’mong program, Operation Momentum, and had eventually become Chief of Station in Beijing. He had an appreciation for unofficial cover work after being a NOC in India for three years. He was a good communicator, having inherited this skill from his father, a foreign correspondent in postwar Moscow.

“In hindsight, I wish we had put him in for the Medal of Honor instead. Do you know how many lives he saved by stopping that pathological self-styled messenger of God from firing the Israeli space laser? When they tried and failed to kill Steve in Morocco, the jihadists sparked something in Steve that became the force that stopped them from dominating the entire Middle East.”

“And its oil,” Therese replied. “Unfortunately, he didn’t think much of the CIA officers assigned to support him. He and Kella really accomplished the job on their own.”

Deuel came back to his point, “We agree there. Steve is one of the best, a natural intelligence officer. However, we have our own in-house NOCs. Why him? Steve is not even a CIA officer. We have to borrow him from West Gate. Why don’t you make him an offer he can’t refuse and get him onboard permanently?”

“Because he has already followed in his father’s footsteps: same school, Lehigh University; same major, International Relations; same fraternity, Phi Kappa Theta. He’s made up his mind that he’s going to have a different career from Marshall.”

A discreet knock on the door and a woman with immaculate make-up and hairdo looked in. “Sir, your next appointment is here, Admiral Wynn.” She seemed concerned but positive, almost motherly.

“Okay, thanks Mary,” Deuel replied. “Five minutes.”

Knowing that the Director of the National Security Agency, the biggest gorilla in the intelligence world owning eighty percent of the seventy-five billion dollar intelligence budget, was waiting, Thérèse spoke more rapidly.

“The guy I have in mind to handle SENTINEL full time is still handling an operation in Afghanistan. We could pull him out in about a month and have him replace Steve. Why Steve? Because he’s clean. Surprisingly, his real identity never surfaced, although his picture did appear in a French paper. He’s an authentic businessman. As you say, he’s a natural. He has operational instincts that are beyond training; he can operate independently.”

Deuel put his unlit cigar back in the ashtray, rose out of his Herman Miller ergonomic chair and said, “Yeah, that’s the only thing that worries me about him. Our World War II predecessor, the Office of Strategic Services, turned Hemingway down when he applied during the war because he was too independent. Can you keep Steve in check?” he pointed his finger at her, his eyes searching for the cigar now back in the ashtray.

Thérèse almost laughed at his surprise. “I worry that Steve could be irrationally intransigent.”

She searched for a twinkle in his eye at his tortured alliteration but found none. “You mean stubborn?” she asked with an equally serious look.

“Okay, Thérèse. There are people waiting to see me. What cover for Steve?”

“He’s a Canadian from St. John’s in Newfoundland,” Thérèse said as they walked to the door of his office. “He’s selling green energy to the Iranians who have oil