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

by André Le Gallo

  With a wry grin, he smiled and said in excellent English, “If you can convince me we’ve got the right address, we’re the cavalry.”

  * **

  A short while later, Steve and Kella shared the back of a large pickup truck with five sheep, a lot of straw, farming tools, and boxes of colorful Qashqai wool saddlebags. The truck bed had wooden sides about six feet high and a canvas roof. A tailgate kept the sheep in, and a canvas curtain tied to the tail gate prevented anyone from seeing into the back. However, the bleating and the smell could not hide what was inside.

  Steve and Kella were hidden under a weatherproof black tarp behind the boxes. As the truck crossed a bridge over the Rudkhaneye River, Kella whispered, “I hate this.”

  Steve, with a hand on a small backpack that contained Firuz’s CD, said, “We have to stop meeting like this.” Not getting any reply, he added, “It won’t be long. We can get some air after we go through the roadblock.”

  Before thanking and leaving Kurosh, Steve and Kella had learned that “Sunglasses” was an agency officer using the name Ali and that his friend “Boots” was Khosrow Khan, a cousin of the Qashqai leader Abdollah Mansur Khan. The agency had a small number of its paramilitary officers, most of whom had served in the special operations forces of the military, in Iran under the legal authorization of a 2008 Presidential Finding.

  Steve asked Ali to wait while he printed out passes that would resemble the one Kurosh had obtained, but Ali merely said, “Don’t worry about that. We got here without passes.”

  He pulled tomans, Iranian currency, from his pocket and said, “This is the best Laissez Passer around here. Besides, the guard at the roadblock is a Qashqai. Getting in was not a problem; we’re going back the same way.”

  The truck stopped moving, and Steve assumed they were in line to get through the roadblock. The sheep were bleating, and one was trying to eat through the tarp pressing against Steve’s knee. Steve gave him a gentle elbow punch, which produced no results. He tried again with more force, and the sheep backed up complaining loudly about the violation of his space. The wait dragged on until, finally a guard approached them.

  Steve could hear but could not understand a conversation that was getting more heated. There was yelling and shouting then silence, and then the voice of a second guard and what seemed like bargaining. Khosrow and Ali got out of the truck, untied the back flap, lowered the tailgate and someone climbed in. Steve and Kella stopped breathing. They could hear the sheep complaining and Khosrow’s voice answering. A few minutes later, Khosrow got out, the gate was closed and the truck was moving again. Steve and Kella pushed the tarp aside and breathed while the sheep looked at them with as much interest as they were capable of.

  After a few miles, the truck pulled over, and Ali lowered the gate and stuck his head in. “Listen up. Things are good, except that the cost of your exfiltration went up by the cost of one sheep. I hope you’re worth it.”

  Steve laughed. “Our Qashqai friend at the roadblock disappeared. Off duty? Who knows? The captain would settle for no less than an entire sheep. Didn’t even want the Tomans. Who can blame him?”

  “Can we ride up front now?” Kella asked.

  “I don’t think so. Can you tell me that there are no 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 the coast if you have broken bones.”

  Steve and his opponent/partner started the dance. Suddenly the big stick swung parallel to the ground aiming at Steve’s ankles. Steve jumped over it and hit the other man on the shoulder before he could regain his balance. The crowd shouted in surprise and encouragement.

  Then a tribesman rushed in and whispered to the Khan who took Mike aside. An instant later, Mike gathered Steve and Kella, and the Khan stopped the contest. Mike said, “We’re leaving. There’s a police vehicle coming this way.”

  As he led them away, he added, “There’s an agreement with the police. They get a generous donation every year, and they leave the Qashqai camp alone. They wouldn’t be breaking the rules unless there was major reason and you’re probably it. Get whatever stuff you have and meet me by that truck over there in one minute.”

  Steve and Kella ran back to their tent. Steve made sure that Firuz’s CD’s were in his small knapsack, and Kella put her make-up kit/communications device in her bag. They ran to the truck where Mike and Ali were loading two motorcycles and setting them upright on the truck bed with tie-downs and straps. Each man double-checked the contents of the saddlebags and Mike shouted, “We’re good to go. How about you guys?”

  59. Nayband Marine Coastal National Park, Iran

  As they pulled out of the camp, the Khan stopped them and told Mike, “A truck full of soldiers is following the police car, about one kilometer behind.”

  Taking a dirt road, Mike drove quickly away from the camp. Ali was in the back with the bikes while Steve and Kella were in the cabin, Kella seated in the middle in front of a dashboard-mounted GPS showing roads and trails with altitude contour lines.

  “See, things are looking up, we’re riding up front,” Steve said. Kella, rolling her eyes up, said nothing.

  Steve, smiling at Mike said, “I don’t know why you were nervous. I could have taken that guy.”

  “Maybe, or he could have broken your leg. I wonder how long our friends are going to be able to stall the police. Khosrow is named after a Qashqai leader killed by Iranian troops during the last Qashqai uprising in the 60’s,” he explained. “There’s no love lost there. He’ll think of something to slow them down.”

  Mike shook his head. “A truck full of soldiers,” he said quietly. “They’re smelling blood.”

  Downshifting over the bumps, Mike told them, “There’s a good paved road heading south toward the coast. We’ll make better time if we take it than go cross-country. Except if they knew you were in the camp, they’re setting up road blocks as we speak.”

  After twenty minutes, they stopped. Mike said, “The paved road is up ahead about five hundred yards. We’re going to send Ali ahead on his bike. He’ll signal us if there’s a road block.”

  They all got out, and Mike helped Ali roll one of the two BMW R1200GS bikes down the ramp. The bike looked well-scuffed. However a closer look revealed a machine in A-1 condition and somewhat bigger than the bikes that were seen in Iran.

  “It’s altered for military use,” Mike explained. “We had the manufacturer put ‘150 cc’ on the side here,” he said, pointing, “because anything bigger is illegal in Iran. It’s really an 1170 cc bike and anyone who knows bikes will realize it.

  “In your honor, we put bigger tires on it in case we need to cross the sandy hills of the Zagros Mountains between here and the coast.”

  Both Mike and Ali put on black helmets giving them communications. Ali mounted and gunned his machine toward the road. They waited a few minutes in silence, listening for sounds of vehicles in back and of gun fire in front.

  Finally, Mike said, “Battle of the Granicus River, Alexander the Great, hammer and anvil. Why do I feel we’re on the wrong side of this tactic?”

  He listened attentively then said, “Okay, all clear ... so far. Ali is heading south on the road. He’ll be our recon.” They got back in the truck and moved down the trail toward the road.

  A short while later, the sun set to their right over the Gulf, on the other side of the mountains. Steve looked at Kella with mixed emotions. She had been right about being needed on this mission. He had needed either her or someone just like her, steady, with personal insights into human nature that he knew were beyond his own, and with technical skills she had learned from her time with the French intelligence service. Why didn’t he feel right about having accepted her help?

  That day in Alexandria neither of them really knew what would be involved. Any CIA mission was by definition risky. Breaking other countries’ laws always was. If the policy makers felt they needed more than what legal methods could produce, then it became the role of the CIA to obtain that information, necessarily using extraordinary means to break through the obstacles that the host country had built around the information.

  That forces in Washington would give them away before they even got started; that the mission would become a sort of rallying cry for Iran’s leadership looking for a foreign boogeyman to get the Iranian population’s mind away from domestic problems, from the price of tomatoes to the right to have your vote counted; that there would be leaks both in Washington and Tehran making their jobs almost impossible, all of these unknowns trumped the clandestine trade craft that they could bring to bear.

  Steve told himself he had been naive to think otherwise and assume that his judgment and ability to weigh risks would be sufficient to keep Kella safe and get the job done. There were forces at work that he had not even imagined, let alone could control, that made his own capabilities seem puny indeed. He should never have allowed Kella to join him. Her life had been at risk from day one. He should have simply refused her help. He recalled now the scene and how she had convinced him; he had been willingly manipulated. He knew that he might very well act in a similar fashion if the scene were to be reenacted.

  What about Farah? Was her death his responsibility? Kella had taken the lead in her recruitment, and he had made the final pitch. Again, Farah had willingly joined them. In retrospect, Farah had unconsciously been open to an opportunity to achieve closure by exacting revenge for the death of her father. She was dead for having allowed herself to work with Steve and Kella. In fact, she had seized the opportunity. Should he have pointed out the dangers more explicitly?

  Suddenly, Mike slowed the vehicle down just enough to make a U-turn. Heading back north, he brought the truck up to seventy-five miles an hour. He instructed Kella, “Tell me before we get to this trail on the right that will take us to the yellow pin,” and he pointed to a blue line on the GPS map in front of her. The pin was on the West side of the road.

  “Ali spotted a roadblock. Not clear if they saw him. He’s off the road. That yellow pin is our emergency meeting point in this section of the road. After that, it’s on the bikes all the way.”

  60. Manama: U.S.S. Dulles

  A tall, red-haired Sea, Air, Land officer stood at attention in Navarre’s shipboard office and said, “Captain Navarre, I’m SEAL Lieutenant Duncan from the Naval Special Warfare Task Force reporting for duty. My orders were emailed to your ship a couple of days ago. I have four men with me. Their names and ranks are included in our orders, sir. My RIB and weapons were put onboard yesterday. I’d like to brief you on our mission.”

  “At ease, Lieutenant; SEAL assignments usually emp
hasize stealth, mini-subs, that kind of thing. Why a Rigid Inflatable Boat this time?”

  “In this case, speed will be more important, Sir.” Duncan’s prominent chin seemed to emphasize his statement.

  “Let me get my exec and my tactical activities officer. We’ll do this in our conference room.”

  When they were all there, he said, “Proceed, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir, our mission is to pick up two CIA operatives on the Iranian coast and turn them over at a helicopter pickup. According to my last information, they were being taken to the coast by two CIA Special Activities Division officers from here,” he said, pointing on a wall map to Firuzabad, “to here,” now pointing to the Nayband National Park. “On motorcycles, cross-country. Iranian authorities were in hot pursuit at the last report, according to the NCS Chief Thérèse LaFont and her Near East Division Chief Jason Farrish who briefed me and my team this morning.”

  “Where did this briefing take place Lieutenant?” Navarre asked. “Fifth Fleet Headquarters, Sir.”

  Navarre made a point of sitting back, hiding his heightened interest. “Go ahead Lieutenant.”

  “I’m guessing the beach pickup may take place under fire. We’ll see. Depending on the size of the hostile force, we may need extra help. We’re scheduled to pick them up at this park at sunrise minus forty-five minutes, or 0514 hours local time, 0944 Zulu.”

  “Where do you want us to take you, exactly?”

  “Sir, if I understand the ops order correctly, the Dulles is about to leave for the Somali Coast imminently.”

  Navarre appreciated the understatement. He said, “Yes, we’re putting out to sea in an hour.”

  Duncan continued, “If you could drop us off here,” he pointed again to the map, “at 0414 local without deviating from your normal course, we’ll take our boat to the beach under cover of darkness. That gives us an hour to reach our objective. Our boat shouldn’t appear on Iranian radars. Their radars and their patrol boats will be too busy tracking the Dulles. At least, I hope so.” He smiled.