Steve was reluctant. He wished that Yazdi could communicate directly with CIA Headquarters. For a moment he considered giving him Kella’s device. If it fell in the hands of Mousavi’s technicians, however, they might be able to break the code and listen to the transmissions to and from other cases endangering the lives of the agents.
“Breton, I have to tell you,” Yazdi leaned toward Steve looking intense, worried, and angry at the same time. “You have to leave Iran. At least leave Tehran. You’re not the only one in danger.”
“All right,” Steve replied.
He understood that the safety of the agent always came first. Yazdi had always minimized the risk, confident that he was in the best position to evaluate the level of the day-to-day danger. His obvious concern was new and Steve decided that he had no choice.
“OK, but we still have to figure a way to get the cyber information.”
He looked at Yazdi trying to fathom what his network was going to turn out to be.
43. Tehran: Crossley Residence
When Jafar knew that Jeff Crossley would be at the office, he called Elizabeth at home. Crossley had fired him on the spot following his meeting with Klosters. Elizabeth picked up the kitchen phone. She was still mulling her options after her talk with her husband. It had not gone well. She at first denied the accusation but eventually, in tears, admitted that she had been having an affair with Jafar. She was thinking that she might go back to Washington. Staying in Iran was out of the question. It was one thing to help this benighted land while living in the official residence of the ranking American diplomat. It was another to go totally native and live like they did, unless she could figure a way to maintain her accustomed quality of life.
She was surprised to hear Jafar’s voice. It was her first conversation with him since that fateful day. “Hello Elizabeth? How are you?”
“Oh, Jafar, I’m so miserable. How did Jeff find out?”
“I don’t know. Do you think that your maid told him?”
“Absolutely not. Maybe he saw us together somewhere, and we didn’t see him?”
“I need to see you, Elizabeth. Can you come to our apartment? You know where it is.”
“Jafar, I think it’s best if we stop it right here. Jeff was so angry.” Elizabeth had worried Jeff would consider divorce, and she wanted to initiate the proceedings if it came to that.
“Elizabeth my love, I need to see you. We can’t just let it end like that.
Tomorrow at three. I will wait for you. I will be there.”
“Jafar, no, no!”
“Elizabeth, yes. Listen closely.” The next voice she heard was her own repeating what Jeff had told her about the CIA man who was in Tehran. She had been so proud of herself that day. She had given Jafar what he wanted but had not divulged the actual name of the officer, which she had learned from a telegram that Jeff had brought home one night.
“Did you hear that, Elizabeth? You don’t want your husband to get this tape do you? Maybe I should just send it to Washington. Would that be the end of your husband’s career? Would you go to jail? Spying ... a public trial ... a horrible prison with women who might kill you themselves ... the death sentence for espionage? No one wants that. You can avoid it, so easily, right now.”
The imagery was so vivid in her mind that she gasped. “Jafar, you must give me that tape. That’s not fair. What do you want?”
“The name of the CIA man. His name and you can have this tape. I need that name now, on the phone.”
“No, I don’t know.”
“You can find out, I’m sure. You have your ways, don’t you, my love.
Give me the name now, and I will destroy the tape.” “But how will I know if you destroyed it?”
When she spoke the words, Elizabeth realized she had just admitted that she knew the name.
Crying, she said, “You are horrible. I can’t do that. I can’t.”
“Your choice. If you give me the name, that will be the end. You’ll never hear of this again. No one will know. You can live your life as if nothing had happened. I’m already beginning to forget. Tell me and get it over with. Or live with the consequences.”
She whimpered but said nothing. She heard Jafar say, “Come on, a little effort, a few seconds more and it is over.”
She cried silently not wanting to give Jafar the satisfaction of hearing her. She took a deep breath, looked behind her to confirm that she was still alone and, in a barely audible voice, said, “Christopher Breton. Burn the tape. I don’t ever want to hear from you again!”
The phone went dead. She looked at it for a moment and put it back on its cradle slowly. She went to her bedroom, closed the door, then hurried to her bathroom and threw up.
44. Tehran: Farah’s Apartment
Steve, Kella, and Farah finished their dinner, cooked by Farah’s maid Zohreh, and were still sitting around the table having coffee. The fragrance of onions, garlic, and marjoram spiced the air.
They had discussed the elections over their meal. Farah hoped and prayed that Ahmadinejad would be defeated but was skeptical that the challenger would be allowed to win. After the vote, both candidates had declared their total confidence of victory. The country was waiting for the official count.
Steve got up to close the door to the kitchen. He came back to his seat and said, “Farah, we’re going to leave Iran, but the airports are most probably closed to us by now. In any case, it’s not worth the risk. We have to assume that the police will track us here one way or the other. I’m sorry. You could leave through the airport now before your name is added to the watch list.”
“I am not surprised,” Farah said. “It was inevitable. I can be ready to leave forever in twenty-four hours. I’d like to wrap up some loose ends, check with the bank, talk to the lawyer, things like that. In any case, even in normal times, flying out commercially is more difficult than you think. First you buy a ticket, usually a couple of months ahead of time. Then you give your passport to the airline which gives it to the government. And you don’t know whether you’ve been given an exit visa until you show up at the airport the day of your flight.”
Steve looked at Kella, frowning slightly, and turned back to Farah, “Okay. You’ll have to come with us. You have about twenty-four hours, but not to tie up loose ends. That’s only going to telegraph our move. Someone else is going to help us. Our first stop is going to be Yazd. What I’d like you to do is tell Zohreh that you’re going away for the next ten days or so to Tabriz. If she is questioned, that’s what she will say. They’ll think we’re trying to leave the country by using the smuggling routes to Turkey. Someone is going to pick us up day after tomorrow at five a.m.”
What he didn’t say was that, since Kella’s nightly transmissions from the hotel had been discovered, her transmissions from Farah’s apartment also would be located. However, since the signal was only a fraction of a second and was not more frequent than once a day, it would take Mousavi’s men time to find the new location. They were on the edge. Yazdi was going to drive them. He hoped that Hashem was not being too optimistic with his timing.
“Farah, remember the pharmacist you told me about a couple of days ago?” Kella asked. “The one who helped some of your father’s friends get out of the country through the Kurdish smugglers’ routes? Could you ask him to make the same arrangements for us, for you, I mean? The police must be aware of him by now. He’s probably one of the information sources that they’ll check with when they hear that we plan to go to Tabriz. Leave a respectful amount of money with him to give the plan credibility. While they look for us to contact the smugglers in Tabriz, we’ll be getting out through another exit. Right, Christopher?” she said using Steve’s alias.
Steve was looking at a map. “Right. Kella will give you money if you need it. On your next message to Headquarters, tell them where we’re going and say that, from Yazd, we’ll head west either to the Iraqi border or to the coast. They have to tell us where their capabilities are best, where t
hey can pick us up. This was not in the plan when I was in Washington. We were going to leave the way we came, legally through the airport.”
“Farah, remember, you’re only packing for a ten-day absence,” Kella said. “No need for your Jean-Paul Gautier dress. Too bad. Nice dress. Use the space instead for good walking shoes. The first impression you want to leave with the counter-espionage people who come here is that you’re coming back.”
“I’ll need to borrow a chador,” Steve said.
* **
That evening, early election returns gave the challenger hope, and he declared victory before the day was over. Jubilant crowds poured out in the streets.
* **
On the morning of their departure, Steve looked out the front window of the apartment, dressed in a black chador that hid his gender and shape from head to toe. He knew that this could be the run for his life, for all three of them. If caught, there was no doubt that they would be executed as spies. He had put their lives in Yazdi’s hands, Yazdi’s and his “Z” friends who he said would help them exfiltrate the country.
When he left the hotel, he knew that, as far as Mousavi and his people were concerned that was as good as an admission of guilt. Then, when Yazdi said that Kella’s transmissions had been detected, there was little doubt that Mousavi would come to the right conclusion. Should he have left Tehran earlier when he could just get on a plane? More importantly, should he have put Kella on a plane?
Now, he was not only endangering himself, he was risking the lives of Kella and of Farah, who may not have really understood what she was getting herself into, and of people he hadn’t met yet but who, on Yazdi’s word, would put themselves in harm’s way. He had no more time to second-guess himself He saw a car pull up in front of the building, park and shut its lights.
“OK, girls, he’s here. Let’s go.”
Farah answered. “Wait a minute, I’ll be right there.”
Kella was nearing the front door. She glanced at Steve, frowned, and went toward the bedroom, “I’ll get her.”
A few minutes later, all three went out with either suitcase or backpack down the stairs. Kella carried one of Farah bags.
A young man with a shaved head and a black beard met them about halfway. He looked at the three black chadors coming down toward him and hesitated.
Steve uncovered his face and said, “Firuz. I didn’t expect you. Where is your uncle?”
Firuz looked at Steve closely and smiled, “Mr. Breton. I didn’t recognize you.” He took a couple of bags from Kella and Farah.
“That’s the idea.”
“My uncle said to pick you up and drive you to Yazd. He couldn’t come. I know the road.” He took a couple of bags from the women, and they went out to Firuz’s Peugeot parked on the street.
This was the first time that Yazdi had not carried out a commitment. Until then, he had been extremely reliable. Steve was juggling possibilities and the significance of the change in plans. Firuz seemed ready to take them to Yazd. How much did he know? It was too late to examine Firuz’s true sympathies. Steve felt like he had tossed the dice. He hoped they weren’t loaded.
45. Tehran: Crossley Residence
The day after her fateful telephone conversation with Jafar, Elizabeth Crossley claimed to be ill and hardly spoke to Jeff from the time he came home to the time he left again in the morning. In fact, she truly felt ill. Her life, which had seemed organized and on track until the phone call, was suddenly unhinged. She thought she was in control and that things were working out as planned, but now the bottom had fallen out of her world. How could she have failed to recognize what Jafar had been up to, that he didn’t really love her, that he was using her?
Espionage! The word reverberated in her head. It was an ugly word, something that others did, others who had no respect for other nations’ dignity and honor. She felt that she had lost her own dignity and honor. She had deeply wanted to make up for American mistakes of the past but didn’t quite know how until Jafar had offered her a path. It had seemed at the same time benign and easy. There would be no losers.
Jafar had used the word to scare her. What she had done couldn’t possibly be interpreted as espionage. She didn’t want to believe it, but in the back of her mind, she suspected that some might not understand, or even twist what she had done, and apply that dirty word to her. Eventually, wouldn’t Jafar and his organization discover the information anyway?
His organization. She had never really thought that beyond Jafar was an organization, until now. By helping him, she was helping Iran. Didn’t every country have the right to protect itself? She had concluded long ago that the United States was the world’s bully. What was the meaning of sovereignty if not the right of self-defense against bullies? She now understood Jafar was part of a larger organization. People had told him what to do. He had obeyed, and he had received a salary; he had only done his job. How many others besides Jafar knew that she had slept with him? She now knew that he had taped at least one conversation. Were there videos as well? He had never been truly in love with her. He had used her. She felt dirty, violated.
What about Jeff? She hadn’t told him yet about the blackmail. Should she tell him tonight? Did she have a choice? How were Jafar and his organization going to use the information? Was this going to be a burden she would have to carry until the end of their tour in Iran? What was Jeff going to say? Would this make divorce inevitable?
Her head was in a spin. She needed some air. She dressed to go out, a loose manteaux and a hijab. On her way to the front door, she hesitated by the liquor cabinet but didn’t stop. In the street, she walked to the nearest main street and hailed a cab. She gave him the address of a shopping center on Vali Asr and sat back, trying to put Jafar on a back-shelf for now. However, their last conversation could not be erased. Her eyes looked sightlessly from the taxi. Nothing registered, however, only Jafar’s voice, and the sound of the tape. Stopped in traffic, the driver brought her out of her nightmare, “Here Madame,” he said as he handed her a green band like one he wore around his wrist. “Our candidate won. Ahmadinejad lost. It is a great day. Allahu Akbar. I will drive for you, for nothing. My gift for this wonderful day.”
Without thinking about it, she put it on her wrist and smiled at the driver’s triumphant mood.
When she got out of the cab, she noticed many others with similar green arm and wristbands and signs. There was a festive atmosphere in the air. Unconsciously, she followed the direction in which the gathering crowd was moving. As they surged forward, more people joined from side streets and came out of stores. Soon, the crowd spilled out on the street from both sides and even dominated the streets, the uncontested domain of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Many left their cars and joined the surging throng.
The mood suffused Elizabeth and overcame her self-pity. She forgot about her problems. She was happy to be part of the crowd. These people believed that their efforts had won the day, that their personal situations were about to improve, that their country had a winning ticket.
She had been on the street for a couple of hours and was now one of tens of thousands. She became vaguely aware that the police had appeared on the edges of the crowd, in the shape of uniformed and booted men with long batons and helmets with clear plastic visors. The movement of the demonstration was unstoppable, rhythmic shouts and slogans an intoxicant. She was mouthing the sounds at the top of her lungs without understanding them, only that they were the expressions of a winning people making history and that she was part of that history. It was better than visiting schools or contributing her time to any cause. She felt at one with these enthusiastic people. It was where she had long hoped her fate would take her.
They were now assembled in a vast square. Elizabeth was tall enough to see that the crowd was packed shoulder to shoulder in all directions. On one side, the joyful shouts seemed to shift to anger and challenge. A bus on the far edge of the square was trying to change direction. She first smelled smoke and then saw tha
t the street in front of the bus was blocked by fire. Smoke poured out of a building on another side of the square. She saw trucks disgorging more uniformed troops with batons. She could tell that the pattern of the crowd’s movement had changed. Some were rushing toward that street, mostly young men. Others, many women, were trying to edge away.
Elizabeth directed her eyes toward screams coming from another direction, and found herself on steps leading up into an official looking building where the crowd on one side was being thinned out by a powerful water cannon followed by a row of baton-swinging riot police. Several bloodied demonstrators, including women, had been knocked to the ground and were trying to crawl away.
All of Elizabeth’s emotions rebelled at the sight. These baton-wielding brutes stood for all that was wrong, bullies inserting themselves unjustly into the people’s victory. The demonstrators in front of the policemen were throwing stones at them, and she scoured the ground for projectiles. She was soon as close to the policemen as she dared and, together with other young men and women, throwing anything she could at them.
A few minutes later, she heard popping sounds, like firecrackers. She stood up to search for the source of the new sound when something knocked her to the ground. She yelped in surprise. She was aware of a number of faces leaning down over her before she lost consciousness.
* **
The next day, Mousavi seized the initiative. Iranian TV and newspaper headlines fairly shouted:
AMERICA KILLS IRANIANS IN EFFORT TO PROVOKE BLOODY BACKLASH -SATAN’S SPY SEEN SHOOTING STUDENT NEDA AGHA-SOLTAN.
The articles accused the new American administration of typical Western hypocrisy and were all accompanied by Steve’s passport photo as “Satan’s Spy,” and directing all citizens to be on the lookout for this man.
The Iranian president accused America of interfering in Iran’s internal affairs, as it had repeatedly in history, starting in 1953 when the CIA had overthrown its democratically elected prime minister Mossadegh.
Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) Page 20