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

driver took the Modares Expressway north, then Hemmat Highway east, and then entered the VEVAK complex, the former headquarters for SAVAK, the Shah’s internal security service. Since the arrest of the Minister for Intelligence, Seyyed Mahmoud Hashemi Shahroudi, for not having foreseen and prevented the murder of a radical imam and of several hard line politicians, Mousavi was temporarily occupying Shahroudi’s offices.

Steve, Mulcahy, and the ambassador stepped out of the car. Milad Tower, at 435 meters and one of the tallest structures in the world, loomed a bit farther to the west. The ambassador had allowed himself to be persuaded to seek the appointment with Mousavi based on the words of both Mulcahy and Steve that neither had anything to do with the Baha’i issue and that there was some mistake. Steve, convinced that he could carry out his mission successfully, was damned if he would leave without a fight.

Knowing he was blameless of the charge against him, he felt confident yet apprehensive. After all, this was the guy who would move heaven and earth to find an American spy in Iran. Well, one was about to walk in his office. Steve wondered if he wasn’t outsmarting himself. Mousavi had an impressive reputation, no a bloody reputation. Yet, Steve told himself, he can’t read minds.

As they walked to the front gate, he glanced at Mulcahy, who winked at him with a thin grin.

With Ambassador Hill leading the way, they were met in front of the security office by a tall thin man in a suit, white shirt but no tie. He bowed slightly but ceremoniously to the ambassador, nodded at Steve and Mulcahy when introduced, and took them past the guards to a winding and carpeted stairway. They made a right into a somber corridor on the first floor. Steve could barely see the framed art on the walls, their frames and mats dwarfing the actual paintings. By getting very close, he was able to make one out depicting two turbaned horsemen charging each other.

The aide brought them to a waiting room and said, “I will tell the minister that you are here.” He disappeared behind a door that gave them a glimpse of a large office on the other side. They all looked at each other reacting to his apparently new title.

Twenty minutes later, the aide returned and motioned them into Mousavi’s office. Near to the door and near the wall was a chess table. The pawns were foot soldiers armed with short swords and shields. The knight pieces were warriors on rearing battle steeds. All were finely crafted in onyx, and each was different.

Steve paused a moment to admire them. Each side, white and black, had taken one move and apparently abandoned the game to return later. Steve quickened his step to catch up with the ambassador. They walked over a large Iranian rug toward a desk in the back that looked to Steve as if it could be from a movie set depicting the office of Cardinal Richelieu, except that Louis XIII’s eminence rouge probably didn’t have a picture of an ayatollah wearing a black turban on his wall.

Mousavi seemed undecided whether to rise from his chair but did when the men reached his desk. The aide introduced the three Canadians. Without smiling, Mousavi motioned them to a couch and two chairs to one side of the desk. He motioned to his aide who backed up to a position near the door but stayed inside.

The ambassador congratulated Mousavi on his new position in reaction to which Mousavi, in a futile gesture, tried to pat down his unruly hair.

As a young boy dressed in white trousers and long sleeve shirt brought a tray with tea and tea cups, Mousavi asked each of his guests how long they had been in Iran. When Steve said, four days, Mousavi seemed surprised.

“Have you travelled out of Tehran? Have you seen the culture of our country?”

“No, sir. I have been making appointments with officials about my business here. I hope to interest your government in economizing on energy costs.”

Mousavi took a lighter out of his pocket and began to manipulate it absentmindedly. “Energy? We have oil. We soon will have nuclear power, in spite of the Americans. How can you help?” He smiled indulgently.

“Sir, all industries are affected by temperatures. Both people and machinery need a constant temperature to work at their most efficient rate, especially high tech industries such as nuclear power, and any activity that uses large computers. My company has set the standard for temperature controls. For example, we can make computers operate longer without failures by maintaining constant cool temperatures plus or minus one-tenth of a degree.”

Mousavi, still turning the lighter in his hand, said, “It is too bad, Mr. Breton, that you will not be able pursue this business matter. It sounds interesting.” He looked at his aide, then at the ambassador. “Why does your government believe it has the right to criticize what happens in Iran? We don’t interfere with your internal affairs, and if Canada wishes to maintain an embassy here, neither will Canada interfere with ours.”

Hill looked pained but replied, “That is completely understood, Mr. Minister. I met with your President two days ago. My Prime Minister was merely reflecting the human rights principles that all peoples’ rights be upheld. The view was expressed by some Canadian citizens that their co-religionists in Iran be treated fairly. This is not an extraordinary standard. It is part of the U.N.’s Declaration of Human Rights”

Turning again to Steve, Mousavi asked, “So, you have been here a few days only but already you are involved in Iranian internal affairs. Why?”

“I don’t understand Mr. Minister. How have I been interfering?”

Mousavi looked down at a paper on his desk briefly. “Do you deny that you are in contact with Vahid Kanjani, the son of the Baha’i leader in Esfahan?”

Steve glanced