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

other roadblocks? I didn’t think so. Stay in the back. We’re on Route 86. We’ll take 65 down to Firuzabad. Our camp is a bit south of Firuzabad. Bang on the cabin if you have to stop. Here is some juice.”

He gave them each a container of Vina Lig multi-fruit juice. “We aim to please. Are we good to go?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and closed the flap. The stiff straw that normally came with soft-sided drink containers was missing.

 

58. Qashqai Camp, South of Firuzabad

On arrival at the camp, Ali led Steve and Kella directly to a tent that apparently had been prepared for them. He said, “The Qashqai are good people but no sense having them see you any more than necessary. Although they’re getting used to us, you’re going to be novelties, and I don’t doubt that we’re a hot topic of dinner conversation.”

In a corner of the tent was a pail of cold water, soap, and a towel. “Wash up if you want. I’m going to go get Mike. He’s my boss.”

Twenty minutes later, Ali came into their tent accompanied by a shorter individual with an enormous level of stored energy that his baggy clothes could not conceal. Mike’s penetrating grey eyes reminded Steve of a character from a science fiction movie, but he realized that they suggested Circassian ancestors.

“This is Mike, but he prefers to be called Sir,” Ali said. Mike shook hands with Steve and Kella.

“I’m told that you have intelligence that is vital to the national security of the United States. Our job is to get you to the coast and hand you over to a SEAL unit. The plan is to get you there. We’ll leave in a couple of hours. Get some rest if you can.”

After they were left alone, Steve turned to Kella.

“Do you think that running shoes and fancy sunglasses, worn on top of the head, are standard issue for Langley’s Spec Ops guys?” They were lying on his-and-hers cots on opposite sides of the tent.

“Yes, I notice that both Mike and Ali have that look. What is a SEAL unit by the way? Sounds weird.”

“SEAL stands for Sea, Air, Land. They are the Navy’s special forces, supermen who can run and swim faster and longer than any human was ever designed for.”

“The agency has spec ops, like Ali and Mike,” Kella said. “The Army has Special Forces; I assume the Air force has its own version, and now the Navy SEALs. Why can’t there be just one for all of them?”

“Now you’re getting into irregular warfare theology. Way past me.”

“You’re giving me a headache.”

They lay back on their cots and remained silent.

After a while Kella said, “I wonder what the noise is. Sounds like the decibel level has gone up just in the last fifteen minutes, like we’re an island in the middle of a crowd.”

At that moment, Mike walked back in. “Scratch what I said about keeping you guys under wraps. Abdollah Mansur Khan, the Qashqai honcho, is spending the night here and wants to honor your presence. Come on,” and he motioned for them to follow him.

As they stepped out, they were literally an island in a crowd of people, and animals. To the right of their tent were hundreds of people, horses, and sheep with a few camels looking down imperiously at the lesser beings that inexplicably also occupied the planet. As Mike, Steve, and Kella approached, the crowd split along each side of a path outlined by Qashqai rugs laid end to end. As they started down the multicolored path, the women, in equally colorful dresses, blouses, and scarves, sang. The men, many wearing riding boots, a sign of status in a society where boys learn to ride almost before they learn to walk, shot their guns in the air.

“Oh man, there goes my budget,” Mike muttered.

The path led to a large tent. When they reached it, Mike stopped them and said, “If you’re invited to do the Choopy dance, don’t.”

Inside the tent were Khosrow and several other men, apparently important tribal leaders. The Khan, a large man in his late fifties wearing a cape and a gray felt two-eared hat, welcomed them in English, “By luck, Khosrow told me you were here.” He turned toward Mike, “Mike wants everything secret.” He laughed loudly, and his tribesmen followed suit.

Women brought in platters of food and pots of tea. The Khan said, “This is not enough. We just learned you were here. I am angry at you Mike.” He pointed to the table. “Help yourself. Here,” he tore a piece of meat off an entire lamb cooked over a spit and handed it to Steve.”

He leaned under the table, reached into a burlap bag, and pulled out a can of Indian Kingfisher beer, which he handed to Steve who said, “You just saved my life.” The can was warm, but Steve nevertheless felt truly grateful.

The Khan took Steve by the arm and pulled him outside where the crowd cheered in expectation. Mike followed, “Oh no,” he said. “The Choopy dance.”

The Khan gave a sign and two men appeared. One carried a thin, flexible stick about four feet long. The other, using two hands, had a wooden staff seven feet long and four or five inches in diameter.

The crowd pulled back. The two men started circling each other in a rhythmic cadence. The man with the thinner stick suddenly turned and tried to hit the other below the knees, but his blow was parried.

They continued for another minute until the Khan stopped the dance and brought Steve into the circle. He gave the smaller stick to Steve and told him, “Like our warriors.”

“The small stick is supposed to be a sword, the heavier one a lance,” Mike explained. “Watch your ankles. I can’t get you to