Titus Ray Thriller Recipes with Short Stories Read online

  When an Agency recruiter had interviewed me following my college graduation, he’d made several notations on the application in the section labeled, “Applicant’s Suitability for Covert Employment.”

  Specifically, he’d placed checkmarks under various nationalities under the line item, “The applicant has the physical characteristics necessary to blend in with the following ethnic groups.”

  That was me, Titus Ray, the blender.

  During my early days with the Agency, I’d been assigned to the Latin American desk, and I’d spent several years passing myself off as an Hispanic. Since being transferred to the Middle East desk, I’d been identified as a Syrian, an Iraqi, and a Jordanian. Now, while I was living in Tehran, I was an Iranian of mixed ancestry.

  After spending a few minutes pretending to chat with someone, I put down my cell phone and glanced over at the VEVAK agent. He’d turned his attention elsewhere, so I strolled over to where Farid was seated at the outdoor café.

  As soon as I greeted Farid, I saw Droopy Moustache get out of his seat and begin walking in my direction. The younger agent followed him a few seconds later.

  * * * *

  In spite of the fact I’d taught Farid some of the rudimentary elements of tradecraft, when I took a seat across from him, he continued texting on his cell phone, seemingly oblivious to the agents approaching our table.

  I couldn’t blame him.

  I too felt invincible when I was his age.

  As I observed the two VEVAK agents making their way across the plaza, I took out my Agency sat phone and entered a three-digit code, alerting the Ops Center I might be in VEVAK’s crosshairs.

  I knew the moment I’d entered the code, my location in Zafaranieh Plaza had instantaneously appeared on the CIA’s Schematic Tracking Grid (STG), the hi-tech system used to monitor the movements of Agency operatives in the field during an operation.

  Agency personnel called the system The Grid.

  Now, my signal was showing up as a pulsating blue dot on The Grid’s high-definition screen located in the basement of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

  If I didn’t cancel the code within fifteen minutes, a decision would have to be made. Carlton would be the one making that decision.

  He’d have a couple of options at his disposal.

  First, he could order the Agency’s Reconnaissance and Signals Office (RSO) to reposition a satellite over Tehran. That would take some time, and, even though the images from a reconnaissance satellite were instructive for an ongoing crisis, they weren’t that useful in determining what was happening in real time.

  Carlton’s other option would be to instruct the RSO to send a drone over Zafaranieh Plaza. Depending on the drone’s location when Carlton issued the order, the Ops Center would be able to start receiving real time video from my position within fifteen minutes.

  That option also had its drawbacks, because the Iranian military machine was very adept at detecting American drones who violated Iranian airspace, and, in the past, the Iranian generals had been quick to shoot them down.

  Should that happen, sensational photographs of the disabled aircraft would be sent to every media outlet, and, within a matter of hours, those images would begin showing up on Jihadi networks around the globe. Eventually, those same images would be used in recruitment videos to target potential terrorists.

  If I didn’t cancel my distress code soon, Carlton had a third option.

  He could choose to do nothing.

  Then, everyone in the Ops Center would watch in silence as my pulsating dot went from blue to red and eventually disappeared off The Grid altogether.

  Knowing Carlton, he would choose the third option.

  After that, he would do everything in his power to negotiate my release from Evin Prison.

  * * * *

  A few seconds later, the two VEVAK agents brushed past Farid and me and headed inside the restaurant. Once they were out of sight, I picked up my Agency phone and entered the three-digit number cancelling the code.

  I wanted to believe Carlton was relieved when he saw my pulsating dot go from blue to green.

  I know I was.

  “Hammid,” Farid said, finally looking up from his phone, “I’ve been invited to attend General Suleiman’s birthday party on Friday night. Are there any questions I should ask him?”

  General Alizadeh Suleiman was a high-ranking member of the IRGC and the head of the Quds Force, a unit of the IRGC responsible for military operations overseas. Since taking over the Quds Force fifteen years ago, he’d reshaped the organization into a militant spy network with well-trained operatives capable of gathering intel from all around the world.

  While the concept of Farid asking the general a few questions—questions of my own choosing—was appealing to me, the opportunity to do so seemed highly suspicious.

  “I didn’t know you were acquainted with the general, Farid.”

  Farid shrugged. “I don’t really know him. He’s one of my father’s friends, but his birthday party is being held in the ballroom of the Parisian Asadi here in Tehran.”

  “If you don’t know him, why did he send you an invitation to his party?”

  Farid’s eyes narrowed. “You’re always so suspicious of everything, Hammid. It’s just a birthday party. I get invited to lots of parties, especially if it’s being held at one of my father’s hotels.”

  The waiter appeared to take our order before I had a chance to respond, but then, when he walked away, I said, “I’m suspicious when something out of the ordinary happens.”

  “Well, in this case, if I didn’t receive an invitation, you should be suspicious.”

  I nodded. “Okay, I get that, but you should still remain alert. And, Farid, please let me know if anyone shows you any extra attention.”

  He shook his head. “You can be assured no one pays any attention to me or anything I do. My mother was the only person who ever showed any interest in me and now she’s dead.”

  Although I sometimes encouraged Farid to talk about his mother’s death, instead of feeding his self-pity issues today, I tried to instill some confidence in him.

  “You’re right, Farid. the general’s party sounds like the ideal time to ask him a few questions. I’ll get back to you before Friday and let you know what to ask him.”

  He smiled. “Should I see if I could get you an invitation to the party?”

  “I appreciate the offer, but that’s probably not a good idea. General Suleiman is no fool. It might look suspicious to him if a watch salesman showed up at his birthday celebration and began asking him questions. You’ll do a much better job.”

  Farid seemed pleased with my response. Then, when I gave him an envelope full of cash for the excellent intel he’d delivered on President Assad’s visit to Tehran, he looked even more pleased.

  As he slipped the envelope inside his jacket pocket, a man suddenly appeared at our table. The moment I realized who he was, I felt certain the focus of Operation Torchlight was about to change.

  I wasn’t wrong about that.

  One Step Back is available on Amazon for your Kindle and in print. Learn more about the author and Titus Ray Thrillers on the author’s website: LuanaEhrlich.com and on TitusRayThrillers.com.

 

 

  Luana Ehrlich, Titus Ray Thriller Recipes with Short Stories

 

 

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