Shadow of the Shah

By John S. Kistler

Shadow of the Shah is a work of fiction, providing a narrative of events that dramatizes the tensions between the United States, Saudi Arabia, and Iran beginning in 1979. The book follows LCDR Jack Donovan, US Navy, who was the protagonist in the author's previous work of historical fiction, New Moon Rising. This novel highlights the life-threatening experiences he encountered from Islamic terrorists in the United States in 1983 after his return from the Persian Gulf.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514472217

John S. Kistler

John S. Kistler is a native of Miami, Florida, and served thirty years on active duty in the US Navy as a naval aviator. He served on six aircraft carriers and twice aboard the flagship of the Middle East Force, USS LaSalle (AGF-3). John is a retired navy captain, and with his wife, Karen, makes their home in Breckenridge, Colorado.

Book preview

SHADOW

OF THE

SHAH

John S. Kistler

Copyright © 2016 by John S. Kistler.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 05/20/2016

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1    Monday, August 15, 1983

Chapter 2    Tuesday, August 16, 1983

Chapter 3    Wednesday, August 17, 1983

Chapter 4    Thursday, August 18, 1983

Chapter 5    Friday, 19 August 1983

Chapter 6    Saturday, 20 August 1983

Chapter 7    Sunday, August 21, 1983

Chapter 8    Monday, August 22, 1983

Chapter 9    Tuesday, August 23, 1983

Chapter 10    Wednesday, August 24, 1983

Chapter 11    Thursday, August 25, 1983

Chapter 12    Friday, August 26, 1983

Chapter 13    Saturday, August 27, 1983

Chapter 14    Monday, August 29, 1983

Chapter 15    Tuesday, August 30, 1983

Chapter 16    Wednesday, August 31, 1983

Chapter 17    Thursday, September 1, 1983

Chapter 18    Friday, September 2, 1983

Chapter 19    Saturday, September 3, 1983

Chapter 20    Sunday, September 4, 1983

Chapter 21    Tuesday, September 6, 1983

Chapter 22    Wednesday, September 7, 1983

Chapter 23    Thursday, September 8, 1983

Chapter 24    Friday, September 9, 1983

Chapter 25    Saturday, September 10, 1983

Chapter 26    Sunday, September 11, 1983

Chapter 27    Monday, September 12, 1983

Chapter 28    Tuesday, September 13, 1983

Chapter 29    Wednesday, September 14, 1983

Chapter 30    Thursday, September 15, 1983

Chapter 31    Friday, September 16, 1983

Chapter 32    Saturday, September 17, 1983

Chapter 33    Sunday, September 18, 1983

Chapter 34    Monday, September 19, 1983

Chapter 35    Tuesday, September 20, 1983

Chapter 36    Wednesday, September 21 to

Chapter 37    Monday, September 26, 1983

Chapter 38    Sunday, October 2, 1983

Chapter 39    Thursday, October 6, 1983

Chapter 40    Friday, October 7, 1983

Chapter 41    Monday, October 10, 1983

Chapter 42    Tuesday, October 11, 1983

Chapter 43    Wednesday, October 12, 1983

Chapter 44    Thursday, October 13, 1983

Chapter 45    Friday, October 14, 1983

Epilogue

For our children:

Laura Christine Kistler Brown

John Andersen Kistler

Scott Erik Kistler

Edited by my brother

Robert Heid Kistler

Also by John S. Kistler

New Moon Rising

PROLOGUE

Had Jack Donovan noticed earlier that he was being followed, he could have easily evaded the small man. But now he was only twenty paces ahead of the stalker, so he stopped at an outdoor phone booth on the Duval Street sidewalk and, after he picked up the receiver, pretended to be dropping a coin in the slot. The pursuer stopped, turned and stared blankly into a store window. After a minute, Donovan hung up the phone and walked back in the direction he had come. When he passed behind the tail, Donovan swiftly grabbed the small man’s left wrist and twisted it upward, behind his back, in one fluid motion, pressing his target’s face against the glass.

Why were you following me? He demanded, speaking in Farsi*. The man did not reply.

Jack Donovan forced the thin, young man into an alley, and easily held him by pressing his face and body against a brick wall while he searched him for a weapon or an identity card. There was neither.

I’ll ask you one more time why you were following me. If you don’t answer I’ll break your arm, Donovan whispered.

I was sent to follow you, the young Iranian said, in Farsi. I was ordered to follow you to your house.

Jack turned him around, facing him, and released his arm.

Who sent you? said Donovan. You will tell me who sent you, and how you report to the one who sent you. Do you understand?

Please, master. If they know you caught me, they will kill me. I beg of you!

He looked at his hapless victim and knew that he was telling the truth. He had been followed twice before, by other men, in the past four months, and it made Jack uneasy and cautious.

What’s your name, Donovan demanded.

Amad Nawaz, he said.

I’ll tell you what, Amad. Tell me the name of the man who sent you, and I will set you free right now. I will not reveal your name to him; you have my word. What is his name, and where can I find him?

His name is Mashhad Mahwah. He calls me from New Orleans; that is all I know – I swear to you in the name of Allah.

Where in New Orleans? Donovan replied.

I do not know, master.

When Mashhad calls, what do you hear in the background? Trucks, airplanes, school children, boats?

No, Mr. Donovan. I hear a train.

Train?

Yes, master. A train. A short train that passes quickly.

Jack thought for a moment.

If you try to follow me again, I will hurt you badly – not like this time. It will be very bad. If you follow me to my home, I will kill you, for I have a family there. Do you understand what I am telling you?

Yes, master, Amad answered.

Tell Mashhad Mahwah that you followed me to a police station, and I went in and didn’t come out. Tell him you didn’t want to go into the police station. He’ll understand.

Yes, master. I will remember.

Turn around and face the wall, Donovan said.

Amad placed his nose on the wall. Twenty seconds later, when he turned back around, Donovan was gone.

CHAPTER 1

Monday, August 15, 1983

The sun was hot in the Florida panhandle on this August morning. At Naval Air Station Whiting Field, forty miles from Pensacola, the young Navy flight instructors arrived at the briefing room only minutes before they began working with their assigned students. Pensacola, Florida had been called the Cradle of Naval Aviation since the 1920s, and the processes and procedures for flight training had changed little during World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. In basic training at Whiting Field, each flight consisted of one instructor pilot and one student following a strict regimen of procedures. Many of the student pilots had mastered the basic flying skills after ten flights, or so. But this was just the beginning. A full year of intense training would follow, including aerobatics, full instrument training, formation flights, and carrier qualification.

Lieutenant Commander Jack Donovan, U.S. Navy, had reported to VT-2 squadron at Whiting Field near Pensacola eighteen months earlier, and was assigned as a flight instructor. He had recently completed sea duty with a helicopter squadron in Jacksonville, Florida, and was now enjoying more time at home, knowing that VT-2 was shore duty and he would not go to sea on this set of orders.

Donovan was a half-inch above six feet tall with a sturdy build. He kept his weight at about 190 pounds, but his waist was still a trim 33 inches. While at the Naval Academy ten years earlier, he played three sports every year – lacrosse, basketball and baseball. For a strong man, he was remarkably light on his feet, and his reflexes were extremely quick. He had rugged facial features, and his skin was showing the effect of spending a lot of time out of doors. This morning, as with most every morning, he was wearing his green Nomex flight suit to work with a khaki fore-and-aft cap. His leather name tag, over his left breast, bore the wings of a naval aviator and his name:

image001.jpg

Jack Donovan

LCDR USN

He parked his 1979 Pontiac Tempest in an area reserved for flight instructors, and walked into the ready room. The ready room was constructed in the Northeast corner of a converted aircraft hangar. The dropped ceiling was 16 feet high and was arrayed with multiple fluorescent light fixtures, several randomly unlit. The 50 or so chairs, facing the schedule board, were steel and wood and had been moved from the Navy salvage yard to the briefing room. Broad, tall steel framed windows faced north onto the airport taxiway, and another set faced east onto the broad apron of concrete between the ready room hangar and the adjacent hangar. Beneath the windows were wooden shelves bearing the load of dozens of three-ring binders that contained the Naval Aviation Training and Operations (NATOPS) manuals that were the bibles for student aviators. The floor of the ready room was smooth, polished concrete.

He looked at the 8' by 30' Plexiglas grease board to his left, and saw his name on the left margin of the board in his order of seniority among the other instructor pilots. He was sixth from the top. Written with a black marker next to his name was Fuller, followed by A-9. This would be Ensign Fuller’s 9th flight in the T-34C Mentor. Jack turned from the board, facing the chairs in the ready room and called, Mr. Fuller. A young man of 23 years rose immediately from his seat and raised his hand.

As Fuller approached him, Jack smiled and said, Good morning, Ensign Fuller. My name is Jack Donovan, and I’ll be taking you on your A-9 hop this morning. Have you studied the procedures, and are you prepared for today’s flight?

Yes, sir. I am. My name is Jimmy Fuller, sir.

Well, Jimmy, let’s go find a table in the next hangar, and have our brief over there. Grab your helmet bag, and we can check the weather, and be briefing in no time.

Yes, sir.

The T-34C Mentor was made by North American Aviation and was designed as a trainer aircraft. Like its predecessor, the B model, it was a low wing, single engine aircraft

With two seats, one forward of the other. The instructor normally took the rear seat of the aircraft, and the student pilot sat directly in front of him. The B model had a piston engine on the nose, while the new C model had improved performance with a turboprop engine.

image002.jpg

North American T-3C Mentor

The A-9 flight, or hop, was a complete review of all that had been taught since Jimmy’s first flight three weeks earlier. The most important requirement for the student in this phase of the syllabus was to master the landing of the aircraft smoothly and safely. It also included climbing right and left turns, descent at a specific rate and airspeed, and numerous simulated emergencies that would enable the young pilot to safely land should he experience an emergency in flight. Since there were sixteen A stage flights, the instructor had an ample opportunity to determine whether the student pilot was able to master flying skills. The A-9 flight is the Safe for Solo flight which would allow Jimmy to solo the next day.

Ensign Jimmy Fuller had studied his procedures well. Donovan and his student walked through the preflight of the aircraft together, allowing the instructor to probe the student for his knowledge of the aircraft mechanically. After they both climbed into their seats, they strapped on their parachutes and shoulder harnesses. The student gave an engine start signal to the lineman in front of the aircraft, and the gas turbine began its high-pitched whining start sequence. At this stage of flight preparation, the instructor could simulate emergencies for the student. Ensign Fuller taxied by using a judicious amount of power, and lightly touching the rudder pedals and light brakes to turn onto the taxiway and, eventually, onto the active runway. When cleared for takeoff by the tower, he positioned his aircraft in the center of the runway, placed his feet firmly on the brakes, and advanced the throttle. He checked his instruments and released his brakes. Immediately the aircraft began a slow movement down the runway. Only rudder movement was used to make turning adjustments on the runway now. His takeoff from Whiting Field was smooth, and he raised his landing gear as he gained altitude. Donovan gave Ensign Fuller several simulated emergencies in flight as they proceeded to Saufley Field. There, Fuller flew 12 touch and go landings at the Navy outlying field. He had memorized all the airspeeds, altitudes and procedures for landing an aircraft. Donovan knew he would be able to tell his student pilot that he was safe to solo when they returned to the hangar after this flight.

After his flight and debrief with Ensign Fuller, Donovan returned to the ready room and looked again at the flight board and saw that he had only one more flight this day, and it was in the early afternoon. He took advantage of his spare time, returned to his car, and drove to the Navy Exchange and purchased a few items for his three-year-old daughter, Janet Ann. The Navy Exchange is like a department store for the use of active duty, reserve, and retired military personnel. Donovan still had time for a cheeseburger at the Officers’ Club prior to his afternoon flight.

The afternoon flight was his student’s second flight since joining the Navy. Donovan introduced basic air work to him, so it was not a difficult flight. By 1530, Donovan had taken his shower and changed into civilian clothes at his room in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Minutes later, he was driving off the base to the day care center to pick up Janet Ann.

Jack Donovan lived with his wife, Aliia, and daughter, Janet Ann, eight miles south of Whiting Field in the neighboring town of Milton. Milton was a comfortable place to live because it was a very small town and the property values were modest. Many instructor pilots bought small homes in Milton because they would most likely spend three years at Whiting Field as instructors. Jack and Aliia had a two year rental lease on a small ranch style home on Pamela Drive, with three bedrooms and two bathrooms. It was clean and pleasant, and its simplicity was mirrored by the neighboring houses on Pamela Drive on the west side of town.

As Donovan sped south on HWY 87 from Whiting Field, he was being followed by a non-descript Ford Falcon almost ¼ mile behind him. The driver of the Falcon was Bernard Bernie Schwartz, a private detective, who worked out of a seedy little office in Pensacola. Approaching the north side of Milton, Donovan slowed to 45 mph, and then parked at a 7-11 market before picking up his daughter at her day care center. The Falcon behind him passed the 7-11 slowly, and pulled into the Carvel ice cream stand next door. Bernie Schwartz did not leave his car, but kept his eyes on Donovan in the 7-11 store. Donovan returned to his car only minutes later with a small bag, and continued down HWY 87 for five hundred yards to the Little Feet Child Care Center. Schwartz followed and passed Donovan again, parking at Eddie’s Feed & Fertilizer Store across the street and two doors past the day care center.

Janet Ann bounded out of the day care center to the pick-up zone – she was carrying a well-worn lunch box and her dad was holding her left hand. He opened the right hand door and fastened Janet Ann’s seat belt and walked around the front of his car and strapped himself in the driver’s seat. He and his daughter continued south on HWY 87, which in town is Stewart Street, and turned right onto Park Avenue. Bernie Schwartz followed.

Jack Donovan had a friend named Walter Christian, who was also a flight instructor. While Walter was on vacation with his wife and daughter, he had asked Donovan to retrieve his mail out of the apartment mailbox every couple of days. Both Jack’s and Walt’s daughters were enrolled at the same day care center.

Janet Ann, let’s stop at Uncle Walt’s apartment, and pick up his mail, Donovan smiled.

Then home?

Of course! But we have to pick up his mail.

So Donovan pulled slowly into the Sea Breeze Apartments parking lot, and he and Janet Ann got out of the car and walked slowly, holding hands, up the five steps to the bank of mail boxes. The apartment building was a modest one, rectangular in shape with six apartments on the first floor and six on the second. He pulled a ring of two keys out of his pocket, opened the mailbox with the small key, and gathered the small bundle. Then they walked up a flight of outdoor steps to apartment 203. He used the other key on the ring to quickly open the door, and the two of them walked in.

It was musty inside, so Donovan walked across the room, dropped the mail on the coffee table, and turned the air conditioner to high cool. Then they sat on the couch and he opened his bag from the 7-11 store and gave a small box of raisins to Janet Ann, and took the other for himself.

Bernie Schwartz was overweight, and with great effort, he opened the door to his car, turned in his driver’s seat and placed both feet on the pavement and stood up. His extra weight was all in his abdomen, so he hitched up the front of his trousers before crossing the street to the apartment building. He had noticed the door into which the Donovans had walked, but could not read the apartment number from across the street. Now in the apartment parking lot, he could clearly read the number 203 on the door. He returned to his car and jotted the number on his pad of paper. Then he drove off to his office in Pensacola.

Ten minutes later, Donovan and Janet Ann turned off the air conditioner, locked the apartment, and drove home.

CHAPTER 2

Tuesday, August 16, 1983

Jack Donovan’s daughter, Janet Ann, had never known her birth mother, Nancy Hepburn. Tragically, Nancy had died only days after her daughter’s birth in May of 1980. Jack had been on sea duty at the time, and arrived home at the final stages of his wife’s illness. The Navy brass were sympathetic with his situation, and allowed him to remain in Norfolk with his infant daughter for six months at the home of his friend, and old boss, Vice Admiral Barry Avadutti. Admiral Avadutti was the Commander of Naval Surface Forces, Atlantic. Jack’s orders were for Temporary Additional Duty (TAD) at VADM Avadutti’s headquarters at Naval Air Station Norfolk. Donovan used his off-duty hours to learn the language of Iran: Farsi, and the language of Saudi Arabia: Arabic. It was a brutal learning experience for him. Unlike learning a European language, Farsi and Arabic had their own alphabet. Also, it brought back many memories of a beautiful woman, Aliia, who he had met in Iran.

In May of 1978, Donovan and his helicopter crew had performed a clandestine kidnap recovery mission near the coast of Iran. The flight resulted in a combat situation where several enemy Iranians were killed. One Navy SEAL in Donovan’s helicopter suffered a serious injury as well. Donovan had received the Distinguished Flying Cross for that mission. Fourteen months later, he and his crew flew a series of flights into a remote part of Iran to extract CIA agents and their families. For those missions he received the Silver Star.

After his temporary duty in Norfolk, Donovan had received orders back to Naval Air Station Jacksonville, Florida. There were many memories in Jacksonville that Jack had shared with his late wife, Nancy, before they were married. Now with a new baby and normal duties of a mid-grade officer, Jack was very busy in Jacksonville.

~      ~      ~

In September of 1981, eighteen months after his daughter, Janet Ann, was born, Aliia Sh’alatah had surprised Jack and Janet Ann by knocking on the door of their house in a suburb of Jacksonville: Orange Park. Aliia and Jack had met in Bandar Abbas, Iran during a port visit just prior to the overthrow of the Shah in April of 1979. They had become close friends during a trying time in Iran when several hundred CIA agents and their families were extracted.

Aliia! Jack exclaimed. My God, it’s good to see you! What a surprise! Come in, come in!

It’s good to see you, too, Jack. You look good.

He put both hands on her waist, and pulled her close and kissed her. Janet Ann came into the living room from the back bedroom. Aliia smiled at her, opened her arms and kneeled on the floor.

And you must be Janet Ann. Your daddy has written to me all about you.

Janet Ann ran to her father and clutched his right leg, half hiding behind him. Aliia stood up, dropping her outstretched arms to her side, still smiling at Janet Ann.

Well, maybe this is too much of a surprise right now. We can get to know each other in time.

Jack said, I think you’re right. She isn’t normally too shy, but with brand new people, well, you know.

I have two little nephews now, so I understand completely; I won’t rush it … not with her, anyway, as she turned her face to Jack, and changed the subject.

As much as I had wanted you for myself, I’m so, so sorry about you’re losing Nancy. I mean that sincerely.

Thank you. I could tell from your letters that you were sincere, he said. You would never wish that on anyone.

They hugged again.

Your letters were a real big help to me, Aliia. I was pretty beat up that summer two years ago. The mailman bringing your letters helped me survive so many down days.

I’m glad. I know it helped me a lot to get your letters, too, Jack.

No one should have to go through what you did. You lost a brother because of me.

I think you know that we had already lost him to the Fadaylan. If you had not killed him, he would have killed your crewman, Aliia whispered. That’s over now. My brother had made the choice, and it had cost him his life.

Thanks for saying that. It has troubled me for a long time.

And you know that you saved the rest of my family that day, including me. You flew us all out. That’s not a small thing.

Losing your brother is not a small thing, either.

But it was the less horrible of two horrible choices. Please remember that. She paused. Let’s don’t talk about that any more right now, OK?

Aliia had kept Jack informed about her family in her letters. Her father, Ben, was working full time for the CIA at Langley now, because his cover had been blown 18 months earlier. Their home was in McLean, Virginia, and the family had made many friends in the United States already. But Ben missed his shipping business and was often depressed over the condition of his homeland, Iran.

Later that afternoon, Jack, Aliia and Janet Ann drove south out of Orange Park down US 17, over Doctors Lake Bridge, and five miles later turned right onto State Road 220. They pulled into an unpaved parking lot and had dinner at an unremarkable looking shack called Whitey’s Fish Camp. The dinner was good, and by the end of it, Janet Ann and Aliia were fast friends, as Aliia had devoted all her attention to the baby.

It’s good to see you with her like that, Aliia.

It’s easy. She’s a sweetheart … like her daddy.

They returned to the house in time to put the baby to bed by 7:30. The two adults sat on the couch in the living room discussing all of the things that had shaped their lives in the past 15 months. Jack looked at his watch; it was 2030.

Good heavens, he said. It’s already 2030."

What time is that, honey? You know I can’t remember Navy time.

It’s 10:30. I have a guest room with clean sheets on the bed.

Your sheets will suit me just fine, thank you, she said. I’ve been thinking about tonight for a long, long time. I love you, Lieutenant Commander Jack Donovan."

And I love you, Aliia.

~      ~      ~

Aliia had stayed with Jack for two weeks in Jacksonville in 1981, and their relationship became stronger. After she returned to her family in McLean, Virginia, she knew she wanted to be with Jack more than anything else. When he received orders to Whiting Field, Florida, Aliia flew to Jacksonville and helped him with his permanent change of station move. She applied for a GS-13 position at nearby Eglin Air Force Base in the Intelligence Department, and was hired immediately because of her fluency in three languages: Farsi, Arabic and English. Her SECRET clearance was expedited through Langley, and she began work sixteen weeks later, after a complete background investigation. Her hours at work could be adjusted to allow Jack to fly at night, when required, with Aliia picking up Janet Ann from the day care on those days.

They were supremely happy in Milton. To protect themselves from unnecessary (and possible dangerous) encounters with those who knew their past, Aliia used Jack’s alias in the town of Milton. Except in their jobs, they were known as Steve and Sharon Randolph.

In March of 1982, Jack Donovan and Aliia Sh’alatah were married by a Navy chaplain in the chapel at Naval Air Station Norfolk, Virginia.

CHAPTER 3

Wednesday, August 17, 1983

Bernie Schwartz drove his rusty Ford Falcon into a parking spot in a run-down, half empty strip mall in Pensacola, Florida. Schwartz crushed the butt of an unfiltered cigarette into the overflowing ashtray in the Falcon, and stepped out of the car and walked across broken asphalt to his office. The lettering on the glass door stated Private Investigations and the weekday hours were posted beneath. He fumbled for the right key, turned the deadbolt lock, and walked in.

The office was deep, but only twelve feet wide. His gray steel desk faced the street; the left side of the desk was against the west wall. There were three utilitarian chairs facing the desk with the backs facing the door. Behind Bernie’s desk and chair, also against the west wall, was a small table with a stained coffee maker, an open bag of sugar, stirring sticks and a half-empty jar of Coffee-Mate. Further back, on the south wall, were six, four-drawer steel file cabinets, none of which matched the others. Tattered file folders and some small cardboard boxes had been randomly dumped on the top of the file cabinets. The west wall displayed an oversized, faded photograph of Pensacola Beach, and the opposite wall a Righteous Brothers concert poster from 1965.

The plainness of the dirty little office was astonishing. It had neither character nor cleanliness. It was a perfect match for the man was now seated at his desk, breathing heavily from his short walk from the car. He was 5 feet 8 inches tall and was about fifty pounds overweight. His quick brown eyes had nothing remarkable to frame them, as his brows and lashes were thin and without symmetry. He looked at his watch, picked up his desk phone, and dialed ten numbers beginning with a New York City area code. The phone was answered immediately.

Rainbow here.

It’s me, Rainbow. Bernard, in Pensacola, Bernie said. I’ve got an address for your business contact. It’s in a town called Milton, Florida, right off of I-10 near Pensacola. I’ll call you with the address after you send my fee by Western Union. It only took me six hours to find him, so your bill is only $1200. Got it? Bernie asked.

Yes. I won’t mail the fee. I’ll have my man deliver it to your office personally tomorrow – in the morning. Will you be there?

Probably. If I’m out when he comes, I’ll return very soon. I’ll stick a note inside the door. That OK?

The line went dead, and Bernie looked at the handset and returned it to the cradle. Then he rolled back in his chair and began the process of making coffee.

The man named ‘Rainbow,’ who Bernard Schwartz called, had answered the call at a pay phone. He was Iranian, with a dark brown complexion and of a small, compact build. Still in the booth, he placed 10¢ in the slot and dialed the operator. He gave her the number he knew from memory and she asked for $1.65 for the first three minutes. He put six quarters, a dime and a nickel in the slot and the call was put through.

Thursday morning, 12:00 noon. As we discussed. Any questions? he asked.

His contact replied, None and hung up, and for a few moments he stared at his telephone, then stood up and stepped to the dresser in the bedroom of his small apartment three doors off of St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans. He had a faint limp, as he had had a severe knee injury during his brief service in the Iranian military.

Abad Ashad looked at himself in the mirror over the dresser. His skin was dark, as most Iranians, but not so dark as to be confused with the black Americans in the Big Easy. His facial features were not unlike the Americans – certainly not like the Africans. He smiled at himself in the mirror, realizing that Americans were so indifferent that they could not tell the difference between an Iranian, Egyptian, or Pakistani, and so he moved freely and easily in the United States, doing the bidding of the Ayatollah Khomeini.

In Bernie’s office there was a bulky, mounted television camera hidden within the stack of boxes on top of the file cabinets on the back wall, and a microphone was hidden in a can of pencils on the desk, with a wire running through the bottom of the can, through the desktop, to a small amplifier near the video camera.

Bernie had already lit a Lucky Strike cigarette, and he began to perspire. He rose from his desk chair, and walked slowly to the bottom drawer of a file cabinet. There were no papers in this drawer, just a gun cleaning kit, a box of ammunition, and a Colt model 1911 .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol wrapped in a towel. He removed the pistol, walked back to his desk, and attached the .45 on a bracket he had mounted under the middle drawer of his desk. He checked that the safety on the weapon was off. He already knew it was loaded and aiming waist high at the door.

CHAPTER 4

Thursday, August 18, 1983

The southern states are hot in August of every year. The air is heavy with humidity. Thursday morning arrived without a cloud in the sky. Bernie arrived at his office already sweating, and he prepared for the arrival of his client, Abad Ashad, who had spent the night at a non-descript, forty-year-old motel about a mile from the detective’s office. Ashad carried a .22 caliber Ruger semi-automatic pistol in a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. He arrived at Bernie’s office in a rental car an hour after the detective opened up. Bernie activated the audio and video switch when he saw Ashad approach the door. He stood up, and shook hands over his desk with his client.

I trust you had a comfortable drive from New Orleans, Mr. Ashad. It’s a pleasure to see you again.

Thank you, it is pleasant to me, too. I am pleasant that you had no difficulty finding the residence of my friend, Mr. Donovan.

I was fortunate that he was so predictable in his actions, Mr. Ashad.

Ashad produced an envelope from his right coat pocket while Bernie slid an index card across the desk giving the address of Walter Christian to Ashad. The counting of the money was easy, as there were twelve one-hundred dollar bills inside. After counting, Bernie allowed his left hand to fall into his lap. When Ashad drew his weapon from the left side of his body, beneath the coat, Bernie was already gripping his .45 under the desk. Ashad’s weapon delivered its deadly missile into the center of Bernie’s forehead, creating a small red dot above his left eye, and throwing Bernie back into his chair, causing his chair to roll slightly, his arms flung wide. Bernie’s .45 caliber bullet tore through the front of his metal desk, but missed its target by less than an inch. Ashad picked up the envelope and the index card and casually walked out to his rental car and began the drive to Milton, Florida.

At the same hour as the murder of Bernie Schwartz, Donovan’s friend, Walter Christian, returned alone to Milton after leaving his wife and daughter in Lake City, Florida for an extended visit with her parents. When Walter entered his apartment, turned on the air conditioner, and smiled when he noticed the stack of mail on the coffee table that Donovan had been collecting for him. He sorted it out in three stacks, then went into the bedroom, changed into his working khaki uniform and drove to Whiting Field and checked in from leave status. He had two 1.5 hour flights scheduled today, and was able to return to his apartment at the Sea Breeze by 1430. Walter opened the door with his key, and lay his flat fore-and-aft cap on the table.

Something was wrong: he remembered he had turned on the central air conditioner earlier in the day to take away the mustiness. But now the air conditioner was off. He walked to the hall and checked the thermostat on the wall, and confirmed that the switch to the unit was in the off position. It was then that he felt the presence of someone behind him, coming from the kitchen. He turned and faced a short man with a raised automatic pistol.

What the hell are you doing in my apartment, pal? Walter said.

I’m here to take your life, as you have taken the lives of so many in my country, Ashad replied.

Listen, buddy. I’ve never taken anyone’s life – not in this country or any other country.

Pray your dirty heathen prayers, Jack Donovan. We are finished talking.

The one shot fired into Walter’s forehead was loud but not deafening, as it was from the .22 caliber pistol. It is a favored weapon for an assassin at close range because it is fairly quiet compared to larger caliber weapons. Also, after the bullet passes through the forehead, because of its low velocity, it tumbles through the brain causing massive damage. Walter Christian was dead before he struck the floor, his house keys still in his hand.

Only two hours later, Donovan left the air station, picked up his daughter at the day care, and stopped at Walter Christian’s apartment to return his house keys. He carried his daughter up the staircase to Walt’s apartment and rang the doorbell. He turned to Janet Ann and they smiled at each other. After a minute, he rang again and also knocked on the door. He looked in the parking lot and saw Walt’s car, and knocked again. Then he used his key and opened the door without stepping in, calling Walt’s name. It was then that he looked at the floor near the kitchen and saw his friend laying on his back. There was a trickle of blood on his forehead.

Still carrying Janet Ann, he approached Walt and saw his open, lifeless eyes. Donovan felt his friend’s jugular vein. He then carried Janet Ann into the kitchen and phoned the Milton Police Department.

Two police cars, one marked and one unmarked, arrived with lights and sirens within five minutes. One officer ran to the back of the building, and the other three entered the open door, with guns drawn but at their side. Donovan had remained in the kitchen with Janet Ann so she would not have to see the body again.

Donovan called out, I’m in the kitchen with a baby in my arms. I made the call to the police headquarters. He then stepped slowly to his left with his right arm raised over his head. His left arm was carrying Janet Ann.

Stay where you are, and don’t move, the uniformed officer said, as he and a detective in civilian clothes approached him. While covered by the detective, the uniformed man frisked Jack. The sounds of the other uniformed policeman searching each room of the apartment were audible.

He’s clean, Mr. Brody.

Talk to me, Commander, Brody said, putting his gun to his side but not in its holster.

"My I.D. is in my left rear pocket, officer. I am a shipmate of the man on the floor, Lieutenant Walter Christian. I discovered him less than ten minutes ago when I let myself into his apartment to return his keys. I had been collecting his mail while he was on leave**. When I saw him, I left the keys in the door and went to him. I saw the entry wound to the forehead, and felt his jugular vein for a signs of life. There were none. Still carrying my daughter, I called you from the kitchen. I touched nothing in the apartment today except my friend’s neck and this telephone.

My name is Detective Ransom Brody. What’s yours?

Lieutenant Commander Jack Donovan, sir. U.S. Navy.

Yes, I recognize the uniform, Commander. I wore one just like it for 13 years. I’m a retired Master Chief. But listen … were we ever in the same squadron? Your name is familiar.

I don’t think so, detective. I don’t recognize you. I had some bad luck in the Persian Gulf a couple of years ago, and my name got in the papers. Aboard USS LaSalle.

Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s what it was. I remember now. Some jackass tried to kidnap your admiral’s wife, right?

Yes, sir. That was the event.

You stationed at Whiting Field, then? the Detective asked.

Yes, sir. Both Walt and I … are stationed there.

Well, I have to tell you, Commander. Every once in a while we get domestic cases involving naval officers, but I’ve never come close to having a bad guy bring his baby with him. So you can relax and lower your arm. Let your commanding officer at Whiting know what’s up, but you go home now. What number can I reach you at Whiting?

Donovan replied, "I’m attached to VT-2*** and my C.O. is Captain Archer Flannigan. When you call the base, ask for 4-2717 – that’s the ready room."

Thanks, commander. I’ll be in touch tomorrow, said Detective Brody.

"There’s another thing I just thought of, Detective.

What is it? Brody asked.

I should have remembered it earlier, but it didn’t click until now. Sir, I felt like I was being followed here two days ago by an old, white Ford Falcon. If he followed me here, then he may have thought I lived here. After all, I picked up the mail and unlocked the apartment. What if the murderer thought he was assassinating me, and Walt Christian had nothing to do with it?

Donovan then glanced away and then looked at the floor, his eyes darting left and right, then slowly lifted them to Brody.

Commander, maybe it’s best we go to the precinct.

It was nearly 1630 before Donovan had been able to leave Janet Ann with a friend across the street from his own house and drive the short distance to the Milton Police Department. Brody rode with him; one of his deputies drove Brody’s car back.

Donovan was invited into Brody’s own office – not the interrogation room. He called on the intercom and asked the desk sergeant to bring in a tape recorder and place it on his desk.

Get it going for me, will you Sergeant? I always screw it up.

Without a response, the sergeant set up the recorder on the corner of Brody’s desk, placed the microphone on the desktop, and depressed the buttons marked play and record simultaneously. Brody nodded and the sergeant left the room.

Brody then asked Jack to repeat the narrative he gave at the house, and then began asking questions.

After a few minutes of routine questions, Brody asked, Why do you think this assassin is after you, Donovan?

I’ve been followed twice before this year, by Middle Eastern men on foot.

Why were they following you?

When I was in the Persian Gulf a couple of years ago, the Iranians took offense at some of the things that went on, such as the Avadutti rescue. They attribute it to me, Mr. Brody.

They’ve been after you before this week, then?

At that moment, the desk sergeant opened the door and leaned into the office. He apologized to Detective Brody for interrupting, but told him that Private Investigator Bernard Schwartz had been killed by a small caliber pistol in his office in Pensacola. Time of death was about 1000.

What kind of car did the private eye drive, Sergeant?

The Highway Patrol said it was parked in front of the office: a white 1964 Ford Falcon.

Thanks, Sergeant, and the policeman left the office.

Detective Brody asked his question again. So these men have been after you before this week?

It would appear so.

What do you mean, ‘it would appear so’?

I’ll be happy to tell you, but you’ll need to turn off the recorder, please.

Brody looked at Donovan hard, and the stare was returned. Brody reached to the control panel of the machine and pushed "stop’’.

It’s all highly classified, Mr. Brody, so I can’t reveal any of that, but they got my name from the press, and have followed my trail. I’ve been able to avoid them so far, here in Milton, because off-base I have another identity … three others, actually. The house I’m renting is in one of those identities. I was given authority by the Vice Chief of Naval Operations to use the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters – the BOQ – as my address in the Navy, and so far, at least, the Iranians have not tried to get to me on base or at home.

Three other identities … how the hell did you do that, Donovan?

Not hard, really. Learned it from an FBI Special Agent I know in New York City: Marty Cardone. First, I searched a large cemetery in Miami, Florida, looking for someone who was born just about when I was, but died before adulthood. It must be someone who was born elsewhere and died in Miami. I found a kid who died at 9 years old. His name was John Granger. Then I went to the Miami Herald newspaper office with his date of death in my hands, and read his obituary in their archives. He was born in Rochester, New York, and his family moved to Miami when he was three years old. Upstate New York doesn’t know he is dead. So I went to New York and asked for a copy of my" birth certificate. They gave it to me and I got a New York driver’s license, and with that, a Social Security number. You see, until a person gets a Social Security number, deaths and births are county events in the separate states, not national events. So Rochester knew nothing about little John Granger dying in Dade County, Florida."

And you did this three times.

Yes. Philadelphia and Norfolk as well.

You know, of course this is against the law, Commander.

I do. But I’m not doing it to commit a crime or steal money, Mr. Brody. I’m doing it to keep my daughter and my wife alive. There is so much written about Jack Donovan that I doubt I could stay ahead of these bastards for a week if I couldn’t hide. You saw what happened to my buddy, Christian. These people are serious.

Do me a favor. We never had this conversation about your fake ID’s. Not ever, Brody said.

You have my word, sir.

Donovan returned home and walked across the street to pick up Janet Ann from their neighbor’s house. When Aliia came home, she made spaghetti dinner for them and noted happily that she was still able to have Janet Ann in bed by 1930. After the baby was put to bed, Jack told Aliia everything that had happened to him this day. Aliia listened attentively.

Nothing happened to our alias, did it, honey? We’re still OK here in this house?

He nodded. We’re just fine here as John and Sharon Granger. The only time I’m Jack Donovan is at Whiting Field.

Then Donovan took a deep breath and called his squadron. He asked the duty officer to tell the commanding officer that there had been an incident that he needed to know about. When he was transferred to the Commanding Officers phone, he discovered that Captain Flannigan had already been appraised about the death of one of his pilots, Walter Christian, but Walt’s name was being withheld until his wife could be notified. He asked if Donovan knew where she was, and he replied that he understood she would be in Lake City, Florida for another week. Captain Flannigan closed the