Absolutely loved it! With her first novel, Mary Yungeberg skillfully combines a carefully researched plot within a refreshingly high-octane thriller. I was on pins and needles!
– Nicholas Guilak, Actor, Screenwriter, Producer
I couldn’t stop reading…finished it in less than twenty-four hours and hated to see it end. Everything else on the shelf seems boring now.
– John R. Waltner
Terrific! Very exciting…Mary has created compelling, well-developed characters. Flows like the proverbial river – with plenty of plot twists and drama.
– Joan Hall Hovey, Award Winning Author of Night Corridor
* * *
CONSUMMATE BETRAYAL
by
Mary L. Yungeberg
SMASHWORDS EDITION
* * *
Consummate Betrayal
Copyright 2011 by Mary L. Yungeberg
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.
Adult Reading Material
* * *
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not;
and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
CHAPTER ONE
New Year’s Eve
Sa-id Harandi looked around the living room of his Old Town Alexandria, Virginia home and rubbed his hands together, pleased with his preparations. Flames popped and snapped in the fireplace, providing the warm, cozy ambience he hoped his guest would enjoy. A bottle of single barrel Jack Daniel’s whiskey and a squat, crystal tumbler reflected the fire’s glow from where they waited on the round walnut table. Glancing at his watch, he headed for the kitchen to retrieve the simple repast he’d created that afternoon.
He chuckled, thinking about the token argument he’d get from Rowan Milani, the son of his oldest friend. You know I don’t like Iranian food, Sa-id. Why do you persist in shoving it down my throat? “Because it’s your heritage and you should be proud,” he murmured. He’d known Rowan for more than thirty years and had watched him grow from an insouciant young boy to a driven, dangerous man. He sighed. The transformation had been fraught with grief for everyone involved.
The doorbell chimed, ending his reverie, and he placed the tray of kebabs, baklava and fruit on the table next to the whiskey before walking to the door. Checking the viewer, he saw his guest standing on the front stoop with a black leather jacket slung over one shoulder, dressed in a royal blue, cable knit sweater and black jeans. He smiled and turned the deadbolt, flinging the door wide. “Rowan, come in, please. It’s a pleasure to see you.”
Rowan stepped through the door, flashing a quick smile in return. “It’s always good to see you, Sa-id. Sorry I’m late.”
Grateful for an evening devoted to simple friendship, he grasped Rowan’s forearm, gazing into the intense, dark eyes. “How are you? And how are your parents and your sister?”
The younger man raised a brow and his smile twisted, almost into a sneer. “I’m fine, and I’m sure my parents and Bettina are as well.”
He let go of Rowan’s arm and frowned. “Surely you were with them for Christmas.”
The sardonic gaze remained. “We’ve been over this a thousand times, Sa-id. Let’s not reprise it tonight, OK?”
Regretting how he must sound, he gestured toward the table with both hands. “Forgive me, I’m a rude host. Pour a drink and sit down. I hope you don’t mind – I grew nostalgic this afternoon and went to the market for a few old favorites, the kind of things your father and I snacked on as young people, years ago in Tehran.”
Hoping his apology was adequate, he watched Rowan toss the leather jacket on the sofa and wondered for a moment how many pistols and knives his friend had concealed on his person. Shaking his head to chase the thoughts away, he ignored the edginess threatening to unravel his peace of mind. When he and Rowan met, their agenda didn’t revolve around their long friendship, but he hoped – had planned for this evening to be different. Meeting the younger man’s gaze, he saw that the whisker smudged face held only affection. “You never stop trying to shove Iranian food down my throat. Aren’t you having your usual wine?”
Relieved that he hadn’t offended his friend, Sa-id smiled. “It’s in the fridge. Go on now and pour your whiskey while I get it.”
When he returned with the crisp 2002 Chateau Montelena chardonnay, he could only see the back of a shaggy, dark head against the top of the sofa facing the fireplace. Rounding the corner, he took a seat in the adjacent recliner. Rowan looked up from where he’d slouched, legs stretched toward the fire with the tumbler of whiskey clasped in both hands, resting on his belly. “This is nice, Sa-id. Thanks for the invite. I didn’t have any plans for New Year’s Eve and this beats another airplane seat or cold hotel room.”
The unsettling edginess gripped him again as he watched Rowan scratching his jaw through the whiskers. He knew the younger man hated wearing a beard, but his line of work made it necessary from time to time. “You have travel plans I presume?”
Rowan glanced at him and then looked away, taking a long draught of whiskey before replying. “In a week or so, but until then I’m doing some research – and growing a beard, of course.”
Realizing he’d been staring unseeing, he blinked and sipped the fruity wine. “Ah, research? That sounds interesting.” He tried to smile but failed, producing a grimace instead. “I’m sorry. For some reason, I can’t seem to relax tonight. I truly want to celebrate the end of a productive year and the start of a wonderful new one, for both of us.”
First giving him a smirk, Rowan tossed back the rest of the whiskey. “It’s all right, Sa-id. My only plan for tonight is to relax and suffer through whatever crap I have to eat for this early celebration of Nowruz that you’re foisting on me. I can’t believe you haven’t pulled out a bowl of cucumber yogurt to go with our drinks.” His friend sniffed. “And the scent of Persian spices is stuffing up my sinuses. Please don’t tell me you’ve got a big pot of Polow somewhere to go with those kebabs.”
Shaking his index finger, Sa-id rose from the recliner. “You’re incorrigible. Just for that, we’re going to dig into that crap, right now.” He swallowed more wine. “You should embrace your Iranian heritage, Rowan.”
He held his breath and waited when Rowan stood up and turned away to refill the tumbler with whiskey before sliding back down on the sofa and scowling up at him. “For God’s sake, Sa-id, how many times do we have to rehash this?”
Disturbed by the reservoir of anger he glimpsed in Rowan’s eyes and fearful that he’d stirred the rage residing beneath the younger man’s veneer of civility, he sank back down on the recliner. “Forgive me for overstepping my bounds, but mark my words – you cannot escape who you are. And regardless of your American birth, your father is Iranian and his blood flows through your veins.”
Rowan snorted and shook his head. “And my mother would tell you that hot Italian blood makes me who I am. My father embraced his new country with passion. Bettina and I were raised as American children. You know that Sa-id, you were there.” Rowan sounded weary. “I could repeat his stories in my sleep.”
Sipping the wine and listening, Sa-id thought about how much he’d like to share the culture he still valued and missed. However, with Rowan, his efforts would be rebuffed. Before he could respond, his friend continued. “Hell, I don’t even have an Italian name to honor my mother’s side of the family. They went overboard when they chose a Celtic name, don’t you agree? Rowan is not an appropriate name for a proud son of Iran, Italy or America.”
Rowan looked at him and raised a brow. “My understanding of Iranian culture isn’t lacking, believe me. I know what my life would be like if I’d been raised as a dutiful Shiite in the Islamic Republic.” Rowan shrugged. “Now please – enough of this useless conversation. Let’s enjoy the evening. I’m starving. How about we order a pizza?”
* * *
Mid-January
Sa-id leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes as the documents he wanted began to print. While he waited, he gazed at the gently falling snow, illuminated by the street lights outside his office window at the Council of American-Islamic Relations headquarters in Washington, D.C. When the printer stopped, he yawned and glanced at his watch. It was almost seven o’clock in the evening, much later than he’d planned to stay. Careful to erase the tracks of his subterfuge, he switched off the computer monitor and shoved back his chair.
Rowan and the president would appreciate what he’d found. He’d been a liaison and a secret conduit of information to his friend on behalf of the United States for more than eight years. Following the trail of money – funds that C.A.I.R. funneled to numerous Islamic organizations abroad on behalf of the Muslim Brotherhood, he enabled Rowan to intervene and stop many terror plots before they could threaten America.
Sa-id shoved the papers, still warm from the printer, into his briefcase. Another clever plan, this one originating in Pakistan, would be stymied. Thinking about how Rowan would handle this particular situation, an involuntary shudder rippled through his body. It was best he didn’t know too much about his friend’s activities. He just watched, listened, and forwarded information.
It was the least he could do for the country that allowed him to live at peace and in complete freedom, instead of complying with harsh Islamic Sharia. And yet, he’d maintained his identity as an Iranian, possessing dual citizenship with both countries. Smiling sadly, he wondered if his homeland would ever escape the debilitating, choking dysfunction of the Islamic Republic.
Poised with one hand on his briefcase and the other on his coat, his eyes widened as the door to his office swung open. Two men entered and he looked from one to the other in confusion. They wore dark blue jackets and lanyards with CIA printed in heavy letters. One was stocky, with black hair and close-set blue eyes that he would call beady. The other was like a massive bull – tall, broad shouldered and muscular, with blonde hair and hard brown eyes.
The stocky man stepped in front of him, and he caught the aroma of grilled onions. “Mr. Harandi, my name is Seth Hancock.” Pointing at his companion, whose body filled the doorway, the agent continued. “This is Lucien Talbot. We’re with the CIA and we’d like to talk with you about your activities at C.A.I.R.”
Heart pounding, he stared first at the cold eyes and then the thin lips, compressed in a firm line. Doing his best to stop the shaking in his legs, he attempted to sound calm and reasonable. “My activities? I’m a Computer Security Specialist. I’m responsible for many aspects of the network and computer systems here. How does that concern the CIA?”
The bulky man gripped his upper arm with a heavy hand. “We have a car waiting. Come with us now, please.”
Apprehension burgeoned to panic as Sa-id realized he was trapped. How could this be happening to him? This was the United States – not Iran, where this kind of abduction was common. For a moment, he thought about Rowan and his concealed weapons. He’d give anything to have his friend’s courageous presence with him now. “It’s late. Couldn’t we meet tomorrow? I could take the day off and come to Langley, or wherever you choose.”
The agent jerked his head in an impatient gesture. “Right now, Mr. Harandi. We need to talk with you tonight.”
* * *
Secured to a wooden chair by yards of duct tape that held his body upright and his arms and feet immobile, Sa-id waited. The bone chilling cold made his teeth chatter, and he squirmed in helpless terror. So far, neither of the men had returned to talk with him. Of course, that must have been a ruse. But he couldn’t imagine what they wanted with him or why they would employ such tactics.
After shoving him into the back seat of a black Suburban with darkened windows, the big blonde had torn a length of duct tape from a fat roll, bound his wrists behind his back, covered his mouth and then pulled a black hood over his head. They’d driven for what seemed like hours and he had no idea whether they were still in the District, or if they’d taken him into the surrounding area outside the Beltway. They must be somewhere remote, or else how could he have been hustled from the vehicle like a criminal without attracting attention? Despair filled his heart, and beneath the hood, he closed his eyes.
Dozing fitfully, he jerked awake when someone yanked the hood from his head. Fluorescent lights switched on, flooding the room with blinding light. Blinking, eyes watering at the harsh brightness, he strained to see who was standing in front of him. A thickset man with heavy jowls and slicked back, onyx hair stared at him.
“Sa-id, you are very cunning. It has taken some time to expose your duplicity – valuable time that has seen the death of many holy warriors.”
The calamity he’d feared, that had lurked in the recesses of his mind for years, had overtaken him. He’d been careful, diligent and meticulous about security. Now, though, it had all come to naught. But wouldn’t the CIA know he worked on behalf of the United States? Why had the agents handed him to this man? He tried to sort through his jumbled thoughts, but nothing made sense.
The man who’d pulled the hood from his head stood in front of him, breathing hard. Dressed in an elegant black suit with a white shirt and red silk tie, he looked out of place in the dingy room that reeked of diesel fuel. A work bench and shelves, filled with boxes and tools lined the dull gray walls. A pile of greasy looking rags sat in one corner and assorted rakes and shovels were propped against the wall next to the work bench. A closed wooden door appeared to be the only exit, and he wondered if he was in someone’s rural workshop.
As he watched, his adversary strode back and forth, black patent leather loafers gritting on the filthy cement floor. “Sa-id, you will tell me the name of your associate, the one who takes the knowledge you give him and uses it to murder the Brotherhood’s warriors. This man – he is like a ghost, defying Allah’s will in many countries. That will not, must not, stand.”
Reaching out, the man tugged on the duct tape covering his mouth and then ripped it off, making his eyes water as he gasped in pain. “Let me speak plainly, Sa-id. You are Iranian and I will honor you by dealing justly, as the holy Koran dictates. Tell me the name of your associate now, and I will see that you return to your homeland in safety.”
Sa-id didn’t know if he could talk. Voice weak, he began. “I don’t understand. I have no such associate. And I do not wish to return to Iran. The United States has been my home for many years.”
The man patted his cheek. “I have invested many dollars in my quest for the ghost agent who has caused so much destruction. The Brotherhood has lost patience, and so have I. You will tell me his name.”
The cruelty in the dark eyes struck terror, deep inside. But he could never betray Rowan or the United States. “No, I have nothing to tell you. I have no information about an agent who kills holy warriors in defiance of Allah. Please take me home.”
The repulsive stranger chuckled. “I am not in the mood for sophistry. It seems that the depraved culture of your precious United States has captured your soul. Allah’s refining fire will set you free.”
He waited, fists clenched in helpless consternation while his tormentor pulled a needle and syringe from an inside suit pocket, shoved up his shirt sleeve and uncovered his arm. “Your deception and
the actions of your associate have cost the Brotherhood much treasure. Allah’s law will be satisfied. The price must be paid, Sa-id, and it starts with you.”
The man traced the vein in his arm with an index finger and inserted the needle with care. Cold eyes locked with his as the contents of the syringe flowed into his body. “When you awaken, I will have amputated your right hand, in the Iranian tradition of punishment.”
Chest constricting in horror, he could only whisper. “Please, you must believe me. I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I have no covert associate.”
His captor bent in front of him, inches from his face. He could smell sweat and see individual droplets on the thick forehead. The obsidian eyes gleamed. “No more lies, Sa-id.”
As his head tipped forward, his gaze focused on the patent leather shoes, so out of place on the grimy cement. Then he passed out.
* * *
A Week Later
Sa-id lay on his back on the work bench beneath the fluorescent lights, his body wracked with pain. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the intravenous pole and a flask of fluid that kept him alive. His butcher’s face appeared above him. Fevered eyes gazed into his and a gentle hand smoothed the hair off his forehead. “Sa-id, why do you choose to suffer? I have told you – it will never end.”
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