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

last American ambassador in Tehran. The take-over of the embassy compound in November 1979, combined with the overthrow of the Shah by Ayatollah Khomeini, had kick-started the renaissance of political Islam. In memory of that glorious event, a photograph of several American hostages, some with blindfolds over their eyes, and of the student leaders who had captured them hung on the wall behind Mousavi’s desk.

The ambassador had left a cigarette lighter with a U.S. Navy logo in a desk drawer, and Mousavi now kept it in his pocket. He said that it reminded him of American arrogance and strengthened his will to cut the United States down to size. The lighter appeared in Mousavi’s fingers whenever he felt angry or frustrated.

The chess table with finely carved ivory pieces in a corner of the room reminded Yazdi that Mousavi considered himself an excellent chess player and was also addicted to puzzles, especially cryptograms. Yazdi always tried to bring him back a magazine of assorted mind-twisters from his travels.

The downstairs of the residence had been broken up into smaller offices. However, the kitchen had remained untouched although the lack of spare parts meant that appliances were not as functional as they had once been. One day, in a fit of anger, Mousavi had ordered them all replaced with new ones from Germany, delivery of which was slowed by the economic embargo imposed by America and Europe.

Mousavi had the satisfaction that, while the Europeans implemented the embargo on insignificant items, they usually found a way to export the strategic items that Iran needed for its nuclear programs. Lenin’s quote about capitalists selling the rope that would hang them was as relevant today as it was during the Russian Revolution. Although Mousavi had other offices in the city, this one had become his de facto headquarters.

“The only other time I want to hear about this German saboteur, this CIA tool, is when you tell me that he is dead.”

“I will take care of it.”

“Good. Get all the information from Majid.

“Hashem,” Mousavi added, “I also want to praise you for having such a loyal nephew. This project that Firuz will help us with could become quite significant. Time will tell. It has the attention of the Council of Guardians,” and he nodded toward a photograph of a stern ayatollah in a black turban that dominated the room.

“Of course, for now, our nuclear hopes take priority. We are a sovereign nation, and no one, especially the Great Satan, will be allowed to interfere in our internal affairs. Frankly,” Mousavi added lowering his voice and moving from behind his desk, “this new project is too much like the electronic games that have such a great attraction to the youth of the West. I can’t take it too seriously. Others do, however,” he looked fleetingly at the ayatollah on the wall, “So...” He spread his arms in a What-can-I-do? gesture.

Mousavi caught Yazdi’s eye lingering over the photo behind his desk. He stopped and pointed to it. “Yes, you’re in that photo, as a young agitator. Lucky you’ve changed your stripes. The Tudeh hasn’t done well since then.”

As he walked to his car in the parking near the front gate, Hashem Yazdi watched the black Mercedes S63 AMG come through the gate after being checked by armed Pasdaran guards. He was sure it was Mousavi’s car but was puzzled since Mousavi was not known to share his car. Yazdi followed the Mercedes with his eyes and saw it enter the parking in back of what had been the Chancery, now a museum, a reminder of America’s violation of the great Iranian nation.

Two men got out of the back of the Mercedes. Yazdi knew the Pasdaran security guard who let himself out of the front passenger seat and thought he recognized one of the passengers, short and stocky with gray hair, a baggy gray suit with a flowery shirt and no tie. Yazdi knew he had run into him in the past but couldn’t quite place him until he heard him speak Russian to his companion, a much younger man with glasses, jeans, and a half-zipped olive green jacket.

The older man had been the Rezidentura chief for the SVR, the new KGB, in Tehran. Yazdi recalled having met him to discuss the possible transportation of Saddam Hussein’s biological and chemical weapons to Iran before the arrival of the American army. His name was Viktor Kozak he recalled now. His employer’s initials had changed from KGB to SVR but Kozak wore the same suit.

In the end, the Russians had decided to transport the deadly material by truck to Syria. The more sensitive nuclear equipment was returned to Russia by Ilyushin 76, one of the biggest cargo aircraft in the world. Kozak, who had not seen him, laughed loudly and pointed toward the former embassy to his companion.

Yazdi drove out of the compound and made a left on Taleqani Street. A death’s head statue of liberty against a star and stripes background decorated the compound wall. A block further he drove by several posters for the two remaining presidential candidates in the forthcoming elections. The Council of Guardians of the Constitution, a body that supported the incumbent president, had approved them both.

In the bumper-to-bumper city traffic, he had ample time to reflect on his meeting with Mousavi. He had reported to him about his trip to the United States immediately upon his return a month before. He had considered revealing the CIA’s approach, but his survival instincts shut down his impulse in short order. Yazdi had been more confident, more comfortable, at today’s meeting. Finding this German should not be difficult. However, he had respect for the German police and internal security service and would have to move carefully.

Acting on his conviction that he was not under suspicion, he felt his pocket for his cell phone. As he waited for traffic to move, he changed