Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2)

by André Le Gallo

  The invitation to play tennis had been spur of the moment. However, dinner at the Klosters, which included the Iranian vice minister for trade and the Malian ambassador and their wives, had been planned for weeks. The Malian, officially a Sunni Muslim but closer to an animist with a tradition of Sufism, brought his first wife. She was dressed in a traditional Bambara dress, a colorful dark green mud cloth bubu and head dress that made her seem inches taller.

  Although Elizabeth enjoyed the idea of these diplomatic receptions and of being with the people who mattered, part of her felt guilty. Should she not be spending more time with those who had suffered from the West’s arrogant, greedy, colonial policies? She had come with ideas about helping them, much as presidents’ wives often had pet projects such as a reading program, or beautifying the Washington area, or visiting hospitals. Where to find the time? She was so busy attending diplomatic functions because it was part of being an ambassador’s wife.

  There was Jafar, of course. He had taught her so much. Jafar was her pet project. She was helping Iran through him, giving him meaningless information.

  A part of her knew that his questions on the daily affairs of the U.S. Interests Section were outside a driver’s interests, let alone a lover’s. She understood how these things worked. There was no doubt in her mind that he was being forced into his role of informant. She was helping Iran, but helping Jafar as well. No one was the wiser and no one was getting hurt. The bits and pieces of information she was passing to him were absolutely meaningless and far from anyone’s definition of secret.

  It occurred to her sometimes that, eventually, perhaps the Government of Iran would recognize her in a secret ceremony. Would there be a medal? Smiling at herself, she looked like Marlene Dietrich in that fantasy. Maybe she would pick-up smoking.

  She was unhappy that Jafar insisted on driving them even on the weekends. She imagined him chatting with the other drivers outside. She hoped that they would all have a chance to eat in the kitchen. Francine had so much food, and there would certainly be leftovers.

  Elizabeth admired the way Francine had organized the party, everything was so right, so proper. She would remind Jeff to obtain government funds for official china and silverware. She found Francine to be less friendly than during previous social encounters, probably because, in her role as the hostess, she was required to be equally pleasant to everyone. She understood Francine’s role, but still felt a little bit of resentment that she wasn’t being given star treatment.

  Pierre Klosters, on the other hand, was like a mountain lake: clear on the surface with dark depths, cold unless warmed externally. A compact-looking man with a clipped mustache, Klosters’ degree from Oxford had given him rights to a British-accented English and an affectation for ascots.

  During the dinner, Elizabeth enjoyed pointing out the dangers of economic development without proper environmental safeguards to Hawaye, the Malian ambassador’s wife. Having written several articles and papers on the subject, she found it fulfilling to discourse, and teach, about the dangers of overlooking, or rather under-appreciating, the role of vegetation in the balance of nature when man was intent on destroying it by building factories.

  Hawaye, smiling and nodding her head frequently, was clearly happy to be sitting next to her at the dinner.

  * **

  Crossley, his mind on his next telegram back to the Department, asked Klosters, “What are your thoughts on this election? The challenger seems to be popular.”

  “That’s because he is a reformer, a moderate reformer but a reformer nonetheless, on the European model.” Klosters said reaching for his wine glass. “The whole world, including your country Jeff, is coming around to the conclusion that European socialism is, in the end, where society is going. Many of his Iranian supporters/backers have European educations or connections.”

  “I wonder if that’s true outside of the big cities,” Crossley offered, surprised at the ambassador’s confidence. “Also, as prime minister, he ran the economy more like a Soviet centralized plan than like the European model.”

  He glanced at the Iranian minister conscious that his comment might not have been diplomatic. Klosters’ comment reminded him of a class he had taken at the Foreign Service Institute about “image projection,” the idea that it was a mistake to see other countries through the same standards and values, the same glasses, as those you used to measure your own country.

  The Iranian minister had been quiet but now seemed uneasy at the turn the conversation had taken. He took the napkin from his lap and wiped his mouth.

  “It’s interesting to hear the thoughts of outsiders,” he said looking at Crossley, “even when they are inexperienced. Please tell Washington that there is no doubt about the outcome of the election, in spite of your country’s interference in our affairs.”

  “You know that my country has nothing to do with your elections,” Crossley replied under Klosters bemused glance.

  “You don’t think that trying to stop us from having our own nuclear energy is interference?” the Iranian asked, his knife raised. “You are the only country to have used the atomic bomb, killing how many thousands of innocent civilians? You have nuclear weapons. Israel has nuclear weapons. Why shouldn’t Iran have nuclear weapons?”

  Elizabeth nodded but said nothing as she ate a spoonful of her mousse au chocolat.

  Why indeed, she thought. Pakistan also had nuclear weapons. It definitely wasn’t fair to want to keep Iran from having whatever weapons it needed. It was the essence of sovereignty.

  When the Crossleys left at the end of the evening, Klosters reminded Jeff Crossley, “Well, old boy, don’t forget our regular weekly chin-wag on Tuesday.”

  Lying for his country’s sake, he added, “I look forward to it,” and gave him a firm and diplomatically sincere handshake.

  37. Tehran: Al Quds Safe House

  On the way back from a special exhibit on Iranian carpets, Jafar and Elizabeth stopped at their trysting place, the small apartment Jafar had set up in an apartment block rented in part by al Quds to facilitate meetings with agents. Jafar walked in the living room and sat on the sofa. He said, “How about a couple of beers?”

  Elizabeth kicked off her shoes, took off her head covering, and went to the kitchen. Jafar stood and walked to a small octagonal table separating the sofa from an easy chair. He opened a door to a compartment inside, reached in, withdrew his hand, closed the door, and sat back down.

  She came back with a beer that she handed to Jafar. She sat in the easy chair with a fruit juice, took a long sip and said, “I’d love a beer, but Jeff would smell my breath and wonder what I’ve been doing,” she giggled. “If this country ever discovers the elevator, there will be a huge demand. That was a long walk up. Five stories! Love nests should be on lower floors. I’m pooped.”

  “Madame Ambassador, Elizabeth Crossley, you must not be tired yet,” Jafar said.

  She looked at him, catching his slight suggestive smile. He had never addressed her formally when alone.

  He continued. “Tell me again what you said in the car.”

  “You mean about the CIA spy? Why? I told you all that.”

  “Yes, I’m not sure I heard it right. Start from the beginning.” He fixed his gaze on her face.

  “Okay. Last night, Jeffrey was laughing at the stupidity of the CIA because their spy is supposed to have come here from the Far East.”

  “You said Japan in the car. Why did he think that stupid?”

  “But he’s not Japanese; he’s part Vietnamese, probably a mongrel from the Vietnam War, an American soldier with a Vietnamese war bride. Jeff thought it was stupid because there aren’t that many Asians here. So he would stand out.”

  “Did he say that, or is that your opinion? There are many Asians here, doing business.”

  “Really? Well, he said it. He was joking about it. I don’t think that he knows the family details exactly. He was guessing. He thought the man must be Vietnamese because of his name.
”

  “Why? What’s his name? When did he arrive?”

  “It was a hard name that I hadn’t heard before. I didn’t try to remember it because Jeff said that he wasn’t using his real name in Iran. He’s been here about two weeks.”

  “What else?”

  “Oh, the funniest thing. He’s supposed to have a tattoo. On the back of his heel. Jeff said he must have been in a gang when he was younger.”

  “A gang? The CIA hires criminals? I’ve never heard of heel tattoos. Are tattoos that common in America?”

  “You like mine don’t you?” She stood up, turned around and lowered her jeans to uncover a small rose tattoo at the base of her spine. Staying in that position she looked at him over her shoulder.

  He got up from the sofa and put his arms around her from the back, raised her blond hair, and kissed the nape of her neck. His arms still around her, he turned her toward the bedroom and walked her through the door. Giving her a gentle push forward, he said, “Get ready. I’ll be right there.”

  He went back to the octagonal table, reached inside again and turned off the mini-tape recorder.

  38. Tehran: Swiss Embassy

  Waiting for Jeff Crossley in the easily recognized, white-columned building, Swiss Ambassador Pierre Klosters scanned the daily newspapers in his office on Yasaman Street. However, his mind was on the American. Rather than set up an earlier meeting, Klosters thought conveying bad news to his American colleague could wait for the regularly scheduled weekly meeting. It also had given him the time to inform his foreign ministry in Bern’s West Parliament Building.

  Klosters liked rules, structure, and organization, all qualities that his government treasured. He was well on his way to greater responsibility.

  He put La Tribune de Geneve aside and picked up the Tehran Times. What was it about the U.S. that invited these inappropriate sexual escapades? When Swiss diplomats staffed the U.S. Interest Section, one of them was arrested for having sex in his car in a parking lot with an Iranian woman. Klosters had been able to get him out of the country when the in-flagrante diplomat promised to marry the woman.

  As a professional, he had accepted Crossley into his embassy with a correct attitude. Because Klosters believed that he had done an excellent job at representing American positions and interests, Crossley’s appointment had been something of an affront. He understood that the Americans might want to have their own man in Tehran. Crossley had turned out to be intelligent and very culturally sensitive. Further, Klosters had to admit that the American’s language skills were above his own. Crossley was too young, of course. Further, he often showed more interest in fulfilling Iranian objectives than America’s, a puzzle to the Swiss diplomat.

  Klosters was reaching for a partially translated version of the Persian Kayhan when his secretary brought Crossley to his office. Klosters rose and asked her to bring in some coffee. He shook hands with Crossley and invited him to sit down on a chair beside his desk. If Crossley noticed that this new seating arrangement was definitely more formal and professional than in previous meetings, which had taken place away from the massive ambassadorial desk, he didn’t let on.

  Pointing to a painting of the Alps that hung over the sofa, Crossley said, “Someday I’m going to visit your beautiful country. Are you a skier?”

  “Am I Swiss? Yes, I grew up on skis.”

  “That was a wonderful dinner party on Saturday, Pierre. Elizabeth enjoyed it also.”

  “I’m confident that Madame Touré learned a lot about the environment, although I’m not sure how much English she understands. She is a pleasant person,” the ambassador agreed.

  Unprompted, Crossley launched into his version of the meeting at the Foreign Ministry. “The Minister’s bottom line seems to be, either I find this CIA officer, in which case the Minister promised to let him leave the country, or they find him themselves and hand him over to the Iranian judicial system.”

  Klosters’ secretary had brought two cups of coffee during Crossley’s rendition and both reached for their cups.

  Klosters, who had listened quietly, took a sip of coffee and said, “If your man enters the Iranian system, the Velayat-e-Faqih, his crime will be judged according to Sharia Law. The normal punishment for stealing, for example, is the amputation of four fingers of the right hand. The sentence for spying would be capital punishment. The threat of executing an American citizen would give a great amount of leverage to the Iranian administration. I assume that your people think that the information this man produces is worth putting American foreign policy in the debt of the Government of Iran, if he is caught. I have been assuming that your man is on an American passport. Perhaps not? I don’t even want to know, unless he’s using a Swiss passport, in which case my government would be upset.”

  He looked at Crossley who shrugged, “I don’t know myself. Frankly this happened because I refused to authorize cover for him in my section.”

  “Quite right too!” Klosters said in a somewhat louder voice.

  He added, “What about the article in the Washington Tribune that caused this brouhaha? Entre nous, I am so glad that we don’t have these leak problems in my country. Where did the information come from do you think? I don’t understand what motivates leakers, and why they’re not treated as criminals.”

  “With all due respect, Pierre, freedom of speech is the ‘American Way.’” Crossley hung quotation marks in the air with two fingers of each hand.

  “There’s freedom of speech and then there’s irresponsible behavior. I suppose that the intent makes the difference.”

  Klosters then brushed his mustache with the fingers of his right hand, “Well, thank you for sharing your information. While we work for two separate countries, obviously what happens in your Section does have an influence on us. So you’re right to keep me informed. In the same spirit, I must share something with you.”

  Klosters chose his words as he fussed with his ascot for a second, “Jeff, my wife was shopping in the Grand Bazaar when a woman, an Iranian woman, gave her a sheet of paper and said, ‘Give it to the American Crossley.’ That’s all there is to say, I’m afraid. It took place in a couple of seconds. The woman must have been watching my wife for a while because she waited until my wife’s bodyguard was in the back of a store for a few minutes. She gave her this paper.”

  He retrieved a folded sheet of paper from a folder on his desk. The paper seemed to have been crumpled before it was neatly folded. “It’s in Farsi. You’ll understand it.”

  Crossley took the paper and unfolded it. In large handwriting, the note fairly screamed:

  MR CROSSLEY STOP YOUR WHORE WIFE ELIZABETH FROM SLEEPING WITH MY HUSBAND. HER DRIVER JAFAR IS MY HUSBAND.

  Crossley looked at Klosters and saw that he knew what the message said.

  “Sorry about that, old man. Hopefully it’s only about sex.” Klosters said.

  Crossley looked past Klosters toward French windows on his left. This was not true, not possible. There had to be another explanation. How many other people knew? Had Klosters informed his Foreign Ministry? Had the Swiss Government informed Washington? Was there any chance of keeping this quiet? Would a talk with Elizabeth make this go away? He felt humiliated.

  His thoughts turned to Jafar. Obsequious bastard! He probably had bragged about his conquest to other drivers.

  What about his career?

  He turned back toward Klosters. Only about sex? Only?

  39. Persian Gulf: Aboard the U.S.S. Allen Dulles

  As the Dulles, a 567-foot, Aegis Ticonderoga-class cruiser with thirty-three officers and three-hundred- twenty-seven men, entered the Strait of Hormuz on its way to join Carrier Task Force Ronald Reagan in Bahrain, Captain Brian Navarre, the Dulles’s Commanding Officer, came onto the bridge and asked Lieutenant Pelletier, the Officer of the Deck, “Where are those Iranian Fast Patrol Boats? We need to be ready to play their favorite game of ‘chicken.’”

  As CO, his presence on the bridge was not necessary at
this point but he knew that any encounter with the FPB’s. In the past, they had been mostly Boston Whalers and Swedish-built Boghammers. However, in a recent war game, the Revolutionary Guards had brought out a new boat they called the Ya Mahdi that the Iranian spokesman had claimed was remote controlled, could evade radar, and blow seven foot holes in enemy war ships. Forty percent of the world’s traded oil flowed through the Strait, and Iran saw it as a strategic pressure point. The Dulles was already at General Quarters, and its crew was on combat watch stations.

  Navarre knew the geography, the currents, the politics of the region as well as the Order of Battle of the navies operating in the Gulf. That education began when studying the world’s bottlenecks at the Naval Academy and had been a subject of continuing education. Although the map was firmly in his mind, he glanced at it for a visual. The Dulles was now immediately south of Bandar Abbas, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps Navy Headquarters.

  “Yes Sir,” Lt. Pelletier replied. “The latest information is four FPB’s heading this way at high speed, 230 degrees and 32 miles, coming from Abu Musa. One second Sir, I’m getting more data,” and he looked at the computerized screen in front of him. “Five boats now.”

  Abu Musa was a strategically located five-square-mile island at the mouth of the Gulf. Its ownership was a matter of dispute between Iran and the United Arab Emirates, but Iran had squatter’s rights, enforced by a military presence.

  After hearing from the Combat Information Center’s SPY-1, which could manage hundreds of simultaneous contacts at ranges greater than one hundred nautical miles, Pelletier said, “They’re moving right along, sir. We’ll be closing in less than half an hour.”

  Navarre, tall with short black hair and a solid build, planted himself firmly. “Let the show begin,” he said quietly. He called down to the Tactical Action Officer to get the ship’s helicopters up and, in a few minutes, the two Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawk LAMPS III helicopters were flying to meet the Iranians.