Satan's Spy (The Steve Church saga Book 2) by André Gallo (dark academia books to read .TXT) 📗

in agony and fright. He was sure his rectum was torn. His outcry made the guards laugh.

“Next time you get the coke bottle,” one said.

The other, laughing at the prospect, added, “The broken coke bottle.”

The whipping and the caning continued. Just before the beating reached his head, Majid came back in. The guards untied him and let him sit up on the bench, which he did with great difficulty.

“Give him his shirt back.” Majid said. “A Ph. D. deserves respect.”

As Zoran put his shirt back on, Majid asked, “Tell me who sent you, the Americans? The Jews? Crazy Kurdish nationalists?”

Zoran shook his head but the reference was close to sacrilegious. “My grandfather was not crazy!”

“Yes, your grandfather’s crimes are in your file. For reasons I don’t understand, you were still chosen for this special education program.” Majid shook his head in disbelief. “So, now we know why. Tell me the who. And what is the mission exactly? I want names. Start at the beginning.”

“You misunderstood. My grandfather was a Kurd nationalist, not me. I’m only here to help.”

“We’re going to play a game,” Majid said. “It’ll probably be more fun for me than for you.” He asked the guard for his revolver. He then pointed it at Zoran’s knee and asked, “Who sent you? Who are you working for? Before you answer, let me explain the game. I have two bullets in here. I’ll spin the barrel each time before pulling the trigger. So each time the law of probabilities is on your side, right? Three-to-one in your favor. We’ll start at your knee and work up, OK? Now, again, who sent you?”

“No one sent me!” Zoran cried.

As he was untied, he made a desperate attempt to grab the gun. Majid easily stepped back out of reach and signaled to the guards. One grabbed him from the back, and the other swung a short iron bar at Zoran’s shoulder. In self-defense, Zoran moved his left arm to block the blow. The bar hit his forearm with a neat crack that broke the bone. Zoran fell, hitting his arm on the floor and causing his nerves to explode and his heart stop. He fainted. The guard revived him quickly and sat him back down, still half unconscious.

“Who sent you?” Majid asked again.

Zoran’s left arm shot spikes into his brain. His heart pounded; he could hardly breathe.

“All right,” he said gasping. “My professor ... in Hamburg ... asked for help ... for his research ... a paper he’s writing.”

“What is your mission exactly and who, exactly, sent you? Mossad?” Zoran was now in tears, from frustration, from fear, and from the pain. A small pool of blood had collected under the bench.

“I have never met a Mossad agent, never,” he tried to shout but his voice was a mere whisper.

Suddenly, Zoran felt another presence, and he turned to see Mousavi standing to one side. The iron bar that had broken his arm was in his hand. He took a step toward Zoran and, with the end, gave Zoran’s left arm a shove.

After regaining consciousness, Zoran told Majid everything he knew about Dr. Steltzer.

Back in his cell, Zoran’s review of events calmed him and he pulled the rough blanket closer. His hope that he had redeemed himself was confirmed when his cell door opened. A male nurse walked in and, under the watchful eyes of a guard, washed his wound, put his arm in a rudimentary splint and gave Zoran a painkiller. Zoran leaned back on his mattress after the door closed and he was again alone. He became optimistic. Finally, he was going to get out. He had, after all, committed no crime since he had not been in touch with the German professor since arriving in Natanz. He slept.

* **

Zoran didn’t know how long he had slept when he was awakened and taken to a small courtyard dominated by a wooden platform over which several nooses swayed slightly. First he was in a stupor, refusing to accept any association between his fate and the wooden structure in front of him. Then, paralyzed by the shock that the scaffold was for him, for his execution, his mind made an enormous effort to face this impossible, this absurd reality.

A uniformed guard on each side holding him under his arms, he walked up the steps and listened to the charges: espionage on behalf of external enemies. His eyes were first drawn to the two rows of nooses, all blue. Why blue? And then to the leaden sky against which black birds circled silently looking down at him. As his eyes came back to the prison, a curtain moved on a second floor window overlooking the courtyard.

Then it struck him that this was all too real. His mind reset and he shouted his innocence until a black hood saturated with the smell of fear was put over his head and muffled his voice. He felt the blue noose being slipped around his neck and adjusted just so against his left ear. His grandfather’s picture flashed in his mind. Suddenly, he became weightless for an instant until the rope abruptly stopped his fall, breaking his neck with a sharp jerk to the right.

* **

Ali Mousavi let the curtain drop across the window. His thoughts were no longer on Dr. Qazi; they were on Dr. Steltzer in Hamburg. Although Qazi had been uncertain of the German’s sponsorship, Mousavi was not. Steltzer was a CIA tool. The Great Satan was devious and persistent, but clumsy. The Americans’ arrogance always caused them to over reach. In a battle against Persian subtlety and experience, the CIA could only field amateurs. It was like pitting a chess Grand Master against a mere novice.

Overhead a black bird shrieked.

 

3. Tehran: Early January 1979

One of Marshall Church’s agents, a general on the Iranian army’s general