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

the Supreme Leader and that, at an age when most would be retired, he was rumored to be heading higher.

Unlike the clerics for whom he worked, Mousavi wore a dark suit with a white shirt buttoned to the neck. He was a spare man with a mustache that failed to entirely cover his wet lips. Uncombed graying hair and dandruff on his shoulders gave him the air of a widower who no longer had the benefit of a wife to keep him together, but his gaze was direct and penetrating. Zoran was aware of Mousavi’s reputation, and he didn’t allow himself to be fooled by his physical appearance.

Mousavi, fiddling with what appeared to be a lighter, motioned the guard to bring Qazi in front of his desk. “Dr. Qazi, the charges against you are extremely serious. This is your chance to tell me exactly what you have been doing and what foreign intelligence service you work for.”

“Sir, I am here to help my country. What can I do to convince you? I have only spoken the truth.”

Mousavi’s smile did not reach his eyes. “Why the visit to Kama Electric?” he asked, his gaze penetrating into Qazi’s skull.

Zoran was shocked by the question. How did he know? Mousavi continued to finger the lighter in silence. Zoran’s mind raced. Visiting a power station was not against the law. He began to build a defense but could not articulate it before Mousavi stood, slipping the lighter in his pocket.

“You’re wasting my time. I’m going to hand you over to Majid,” he said. “You tell him everything and you can go back to work. Make no mistake that you can fool us.” On his way out, Zoran walked by a chessboard set up on a small side table against the wall. Was it a decoration? Was it there to impress? A tactic to persuade visitors that a contest with Mousavi was hopeless?

That afternoon, Zoran was brought from his cell to another windowless, but more spacious room. A photograph of the Supreme Leader of the Islamic Revolution glared down from the wall facing the door.               Three chairs surrounded a rectangular wooden table, on top of which was a pad of legal size lined paper and a pen. A guard ordered Zoran to keep standing. Eventually, the door opened to a thin, austere, man in his forties with a lock of black hair falling over his forehead and a ragged beard. He wore the loose gray-brown jacket favored by the theocracy’s apparatchiks.

“I know who you are,” his visitor said. “You can call me by my first name, Majid. I have been in this business ten years. I am the best, in all humility. That is a statement not of pride, which is not rewarded by Allah, but of fact. My mission,” he continued politely like a doctor explaining a procedure to an intelligent patient “is to find out who you work for. Two of our foes that come to mind are the Mujahidin-e-Khalq and the Jews. The MEK is a terrorist group protected by and working for America, for the CIA.”

He had taken a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “Do you smoke? No?” Majid lit up and took a puff. “If you answer my questions, you’ll probably live longer than me. I want you to live. The only road to that outcome is to tell the truth. I don’t use the polygraph. That’s for the CIA, slaves to their own technology.” Majid laughed quietly, inviting Zoran to laugh along with him. “You’re a Kurd so I don’t need to tell you about interrogations. I can play your mind and your body like musical instruments. This is not going to go away. Not without your cooperation,” he looked directly in Zoran’s eyes. “Your full cooperation.”

Zoran grudgingly felt that Majid respected him. Perhaps they could discuss this situation as one professional colleague to another. However, Zoran also detected paternalism and condescension. Squaring his shoulders, he said what he should have said to Mousavi.

“I am Doctor Zoran Qazi. I am here to help the Islamic Republic to weaponize the nuclear program. Instead of arresting me, you should be thanking me. I could have stayed in Germany and made money. If anything happens to me, your weaponization program will suffer a severe setback.”

Majid ignored Zoran’s comment and walked around the table. “You don’t smoke, but perhaps there is something else I could do for you.” Standing close, Majid said, “Are you thirsty? Is there anything you want? I know what you Kurds like. He lowered his voice and said, “I could have a young boy sent to your cell later. Would you like that?”

At Majid’s words, Zoran lowered his eyes. When Majid left the room, Zoran looked up and caught a glimpse of Mousavi in the corridor.

Zoran was left alone for several hours after that initial exchange. Could they have found something suspicious in his room? What was on his computer? It was password-protected and email had not been permitted from Natanz. Did he have addresses that might create suspicion? Dr. Steltzer’s? When Majid came back he said, “Okay, if you’re ready to talk sensibly, we can still be friends.”

Zoran did not admit to any wrongdoing, and he was left alone again, but only for a few minutes. The door opened and Zoran had another quick view of Majid talking to Mousavi before two guards entered the room. They first stripped him naked and then tied him to a bench face down. Then the pain started. The two guards took turns. One liked to use a whip; the other had a wooden cane. Zoran didn’t know how long he was there. He did remember that the beatings started on the soles of his feet.

When the treatment reached his buttocks, one of the guards parted his cheeks, and the other pushed a stiff rolled-up piece of cardboard into his anus. Zoran screamed