The Reluctant Spy: Revolution

By John H. Goodwin

The Reluctant Spy: Revolution is the first half of the timely story of Calvin Evan, a smart but flawed CIA agent, beginning with the 1979 Iranian revolution. Cal develops a critical Iranian operative and becomes embroiled in the audacious yet little honored effort to liberate the American embassy hostages. Romantically, hes caught between his love for a rescued refugee and the aggressive intentions of his bosss manipulative daughter. Ensnaring him, the savvy daughter navigates his career away from the political fallout of the missions failure and directs him to the battleground of the 1980s, the Nicaraguan Contra War, where Cal runs an illegal funding operation. Morally conflicted and victimized by his erratic behavior, he slips into a burned-out funk, posted to Switzerland. There, amidst the rise of Middle Eastern terrorism, his past pulls him into conflict with his former Iranian asset, possibly a double agent, and reunites him with his long ago betrayed love, now a death squad target.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524610432

John H. Goodwin

John H. Goodwin is a 1981 graduate of Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service, magna cum laude. John manages global investment portfolios for wealthy American and international families. He resides in New Canaan, Connecticut, with his wife, Pamela; bullmastiff, Maisey; and cat, Finn.

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© 2016 John H. Goodwin. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/31/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1044-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-1043-2 (e)

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.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

The Reluctant Spy is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Prologue

S he thought him a hunk. But what did she know?

He wasn't bad looking, not then. Not exactly an Adonis, dark and beefy, medium height, old enough to have a handsome maturity about him. Fact was, he was on that male boundary that guys run into, the age when it's okay to let go, let the bones fill out, focus less on fitness, more on the comforts of life-- booze, food, and cigarettes. As a guy, age gives you an edge in the competition for women. Maturity is a good thing-- let the exercise go if you want, you have other weapons. It's an easier decision than for women. Age is their enemy. Sounds sexist, and it is. But it's reality too.

Anyway she didn't make those distinctions. He was a friend who had taken her under his wing. She needed that. There was too much time with nothing to do. She lacked a natural curiosity and hadn't developed many friendships, prime target for a predator. The game commenced with rides to places. Then it turned to time together. All very casual and easy. No impropriety. Yet something lurked beneath. You couldn't hear any words, there was certainly no touching. Yet you felt it in the air, in the chemistry, time together builds intimacy, and there are no barriers, no reasons to stop. She felt it. She wondered if he did. This was all new to her and she questioned whether it was just the silly imaginings of a young girl. Sort of the next step in playing house. She wished there were someone to confide in, ask these questions. Yet, he was the only one available. She was dependent on him. He took her around the city, showed her the high rises, the wealthy, the foreigners. Next he brought her to the middle class neighborhood, not very impressive nor very large.

We do not have very many like this. Now we will go to where most of the people live.

They reached the area quickly, in fact it was pretty much everywhere, belting the city like some cancer devouring its host. The dusty streets were narrow and twisting, littered with thousands of cigarette butts, interrupted by the occasional square with a couple of trees and a hint of grass. The blocks of low buildings shook with the noise of cars and buses spewing exhaust, the humid heat trapping the petrol fumes a few feet off the ground like a noxious fog. Children played in the streets, old men sat by the side, drinking tea, waiting for life to end. Near them, but in their own separate bars, younger men drank pungent coffee, looked aimlessly about, cigarettes dangling from their lips. She wondered why in the middle of day they weren't working. In fact, the only ones that seemed to scurry with purpose were the women, dressed in black, many with covered heads.

He showed her the best and the worst. Some small apartments with extended families crowded in. These were the lucky ones. They didn't go hungry, many of the men had jobs. Then there was the great mass, a step down, still subsisting, but bereft of all save the basics. Hope seemed at a premium, jobs intermittent, the outlook bleak. This was a depressing new world to her, where mere survival was an accomplishment.

He saved the worst for last. The fumes were less, but they had been overpowered by a worse smell, the putrid suffocating stench of the open sewer. Children, babies, in rags, played near garbage, searching it for what could pass for toys. Along the desolate streets some blocks were vacant, some crowded with tin or cardboard shacks, no sign of running water, plumbing, or other essentials. The women hid from the heat, emerging only to gather up a crying child. The men skulked about or played cards, surly looks measuring her with evil intent, driving her close to him for protection. She was scared.

Take me from here, please.

He whisked her away, her savior.

I'm sorry, but you had to see. So you know. So you understand.

Back in a better part of town, she ate quietly and listened as he spoke of such poverty, how so few could be wealthy while the masses toiled without hope, starving just blocks from opulence. In the next few weeks they continued exploring. He showed her other examples of inequality, injustice, inhumanity by the few to the many. Then they would quickly depart. He was teacher and protector.

One day he had the afternoon with her. It started with lunch. He seemed to be watching her differently that day. He ate, yet she detected a different hunger in the air and she asked herself the questions again. No one had schooled her, yet it came naturally. Partly instinct, normal to anyone. But there was something else. The feelings surged within, earlier than most girls. She chatted nervously, trying to fill the air. He was uncharacteristically quiet.

Suddenly- Do you have a boyfriend?

She shook her head, embarrassed.

A beautiful young girl like yourself should. Not too early to learn. Then again, boys your age are immature. The ones that are aware... think only of their own satisfaction. They do not know how to please a woman. They are ignorant of the female's needs and pleasures.

He shook his head sadly.

The stigma is unfortunate. All right for boys to start early. But girls are exposed to gossip. Has to be done discreetly and better by someone experienced. Then in the future, you can tell the boys what to do and how. It will be up to you to pace them, control them. Otherwise you will not be satisfied the way you should.

She squirmed in mental discomfort. This was too much. Nonetheless he continued.

I was lucky. I was taught. A girl a few years older. She took the time and explained all, guided me, let me explore her, showed me what to do. She taught me that my true pleasure can only come when we are both satisfied, both ecstatic.

He sat back and watched. She stared at her plate, yet an eye peered up.

She's interested. She's a ballsy one.

I've always felt I should do the same someday. It's terribly embarrassing, even unsatisfying, when you do not know what to do.

He let that sink in, then moved to another topic. But the idea hung in both their minds. The ball was in her court. She was scared and she was excited. She shouldn't do this. A nice girl wouldn't. Besides, she was too young. That's what they would say.

They ordered dessert. They both had pastries, she added ice cream. The little girl in her. He ordered a liqueur. They knew him, but nonetheless brought it furtively. He sipped and sighed at the warming of the eau de vie. A rare delicacy in these parts. He pushed the glass in her direction. Daring. She sipped, stifling a gag by sheer will power. She hated the taste, but enjoyed the afterglow. He paid the bill and they stood to leave. She looked him hard in the eye. The decision had been made a while ago.

I want to learn. Today.

The 'hotel' was in a section not familiar to her, neighborhood lower class, teeming with life, the sinister variety. The front desk clerk didn't question the sight of this thirty-something man and teenage girl. She seemed to be afraid of him. He took the key and her hand, feeling perspiration. She climbed the stairs slowly, hesitantly. He tugged a bit, as you do a leashed dog that tries to wander. He guessed she was having second thoughts.

The room was sparse. A semblance of a bed, passable sheets, chair, bureau with water basin. A fan creaked overhead. The window was open. Outside, the honks of cars, groaning engines, pushcart hawkers... He pulled a flask from his pocket.

Here.

She gestured a no, but that wasn't an option. He had ground rules to establish.

Take a drink.

The tone was commanding, threatening. She hadn't heard it before. She drank and scrunched her nose and eyes in disgust.

Now you learn.

He started to unbutton his shirt. She stood in the middle of the room and watched it come off. Next an undershirt like the old men wear. Great tufts of black hair climbed up and out, only stopping at his neck where the growth circled around and back down his back. With the billowy shirt removed, she saw more girth than she'd imagined. She backed a step toward the door, uncertain, tinge of fear, even panic rising. She was no longer so bold. Her voice quivered, meek and childish. She wanted to be gone, asking-

Can we wait?

He stared, a slight grin registering, answered softly, with just a hint of mockery.

No.

He advanced. She backed another step toward the door, then tried to sprint the remaining space, lunging for the knob, a cry gurgling out. But he'd foreseen the attempt and was quick. His arms reached and caught her at the shoulders, squeezing firmly, hurting just enough. She was stopped dead in her tracks. She started to sob, trying to work up a cry for help. That was no surprise either. He buried his head into her blond hair, inhaled perfume and breathed into her ear.

You do not want to cause a commotion. Not now. Not in this part of the city. There will be no sympathy for your kind here.

She felt the menace of his voice, the nicotine stench of his breath.

Besides, remember, you have no other friends. Just me.

He rested, letting his mind doze. She was the opposite, thrilling in the achievement, triumphant in her victory, entrance into womanhood, this brave new world. She replayed the scene and tried to recapture the excitement. Too hard. The burst of energy, the shaking and twitching, the tickling and the surges.

I'll have to do it again. That's the only way.

She had another thought--

So great. But what's next? How does it get better?

Thus commenced her obsession.

Did you enjoy?

She looked at him. He hadn't moved, eyes still closed.

Yes, I did. Very much.

Are you happy I brought you into this? I was worried you may not have been ready. She considered her teacher's question.

Was this the right way? The right time? And man?

She wavered a moment, doubtful.

But God, so good! And why not him? My one friend. Older and experienced.

I'm happy. Thank you.

She felt the peaceful relaxation of the aftermath. But it was fleeting. She was already thinking about the next one. And always would be. He opened his eyes and scanned her.

Go clean up. I have to get you home.

He studied her buttocks as she strode to the bathroom.

She's strong. Powerful, has the nerve to match. She will work well.

They went out two more times. Each time, they ate and he took her to the room. He showed her a few more things, but she was already ahead, trying to improve the experience. The second time she was disappointed he didn't have any more tricks of pleasure up his sleeve, or interest in more. Furtively, she examined his body and was less and less impressed. She wondered how others would compare. She had seen pictures. She felt a bit guilty. She did worship him. He was her guide, confidant, teacher. She was determined not to forget her gratitude. She owed him that. But still, what can follow?

The next time, he took her to a little restaurant in a square. They sat outside, an awning providing respite from the sun. It was dusty though and sand hang in the air, coating the food before they could eat, not very appetizing to begin with, she consumed little. Besides, small children kept coming to them, begging. He was careful to speak to them, render a few coins, then shoo them away.

Such a quandary. I prefer to dine in peace. But it is not their fault they have no money. Pity those children, they will never have a chance. Not like you.

He shook his head sadly.

That is why I try to help them in other ways.

She was only half interested, but knew he wanted to say more.

In what other ways?

He regarded her with a conspiratorial look.

Do you really want to know?

Yes, I do.

You cannot repeat my words, stays to yourself. Great harm could be done to me. Can I trust you?

Her interest was piqued. She shook her head positively.

You talk to no one, not even your parents?

Again, nodding her assent. He looked around and dropped his voice, told her of his activities, then sat back, letting the information sink in. She found the message exciting, romantic even. Such conspiracies!

My God! If my parents knew...

What do you think?

She shrugged.

Are you sympathetic?

She considered the question. Around her, today, ever since she had come there, she had seen the poverty. Her teacher had shown and explained it to her.

Yes. The people have been wronged. They shouldn't have to live in such squalor.

He was quick with the follow up-

Would you help?

The question was a surprise. Her? What difference could she make? Would her parents be involved? The concept made her nervous and interested at the same time.

How could I help?

The State is strong. They have spies among us who must be flushed out. We have a situation where you could assist.

*     *     *

She walked over to the café, standing out, nobody else like her around. She was nervous, scared. When he had proposed the idea, she was shocked, hurt.

How could he be so willing to share me?

The plan was dangerous, even he admitted that, though he assured her he'd be near. She shouldn't go through with this. That was clear.

What if I don't want to?

He had shrugged, eyes narrowed, and glanced away, frowning.

That is okay.

But the tone and look said otherwise.

He'd be let down. Would he still see me, spend time with me? Would he worry that I'd talk to my parents?

She shuddered, told herself she owed him. This is the right thing to do, however personally unadvisable. But something else was going on in her head. The plan was exciting. She would meet another man. He showed her his picture. The mark- younger, twenties, dark, handsome, tall. She fantasized over a coupling.

What new discoveries?

Tingling in anticipation.

He was there with three others, shirt open three buttons, gleaming dark chest soft and hairless. She sat at the next table and ordered a Pepsi. She heard them chatting, yet felt all four watching her. She was a novelty. A girl alone. A blond Westerner alone.

It ended up being so easy. One of them offered her a cigarette. She joined the conversation. The flirting came naturally, like something inborn. After a while, she feigned fatigue and asked directions to her hotel. She played them well, maneuvered the group effortlessly and soon, he, just he, was walking her back. The mark went with her to the room. Inside, they necked. The protector wanted her to sleep with him and she dived into the tryst with gusto. All she could think of was the exploration, the feelings, the wildness. She wondered what new he could do. What she could do to him.

He kissed her hard and she forced back. She undid his few connected shirt buttons and opened. So different from the teacher. He was rock-ribbed, pecs formed hard and powerful. She kissed him there as he pulled her shirt open, popping a button. He did the same to her bra, yanking it off, and for a moment she wondered how to explain ripped clothes to her parents. The thought was cut short as she shrieked in pain. He had grabbed her breast hard and twisted. She pushed him away, glaring, feeling the hurt raw and burning.

Don't do that!

She growled at him, suddenly reconsidering this adventure, the possible enormity of such a mistake registering. His answer was vicious-

Fuck you!

Then he laughed mockingly and advanced upon her. She tried to slap him but he caught the hand and wrenched her arm. She screamed and he smacked her across the face, sending her to the floor. Her head bounced on the cement barely covered by an ages old rug. Before she could move, he was on her, hand on mouth pushing her face sideways to the floor. He bent down alongside and leered.

You make another cry and I will kill you! Do you fucking understand?

She nodded, mind whirling in shock.

Good.

He sat on her and unzipped his pants. He emerged large, just as she had hoped, yet now fantasy was nightmare. Cupping his hand behind her head, he forced her. When she didn't immediately comply he shook her violently back and forth. Sobbing, she did as instructed, wondering where her teacher was, hating this thing, wanting to bite, give him the worst of pains, but too fearful of what the monster would do in return. He sat on top, smirking, and she wanted to kill him.

He didn't like how she handled him. With a curse, he pulled out and picked her up, dragging her to the bed.

Take all your clothes off.

Please, I want to go.

The sobs had turned to cries. He laughed.

You want to go? This is your room! You brought me here, you whore!

He looked her over, naked, and laughed derisively. She was scared, felt dirty, and now inadequate.

But you'll do.

He put her on the bed, oblivious to the sobs, and attacked. She wailed. He clamped a hand again on her mouth. She wanted to die, closing her eyes, trying to black out the pain, the horror of the moment. She felt faint. Suddenly a crack of metal on bone and screaming, he ripped away. She opened her eyes. He was there, the teacher, comforting, holding her, wrapping her in a blanket, saying she was safe. She discerned other forms in the room. She heard her attacker wailing, pleading for mercy. They were yelling questions at him, hitting. The tables were turned and she was happy. Still, she hurt badly.

The teacher helped her to the bathroom and ran warm water in the tub. He briefly examined her, observing the wounds-

Figured he would do that.

He left her to wash off. Trembling, she examined herself. She felt the lump on her head, face scratched. She looked at her body and could still hear him laughing. She dressed. A few minutes later, a knock. He entered and apologized again.

He is evil. Now you know what they do. How vicious they are. They are killers. Not deserving of life.

He hesitated a moment, then produced a long handle. He fingered a small switch and a blade shot forward.

I should not do this, but...

He placed the switchblade in her palm. She examined the knife, not sure what this meant.

You deserve retribution.

He pushed the bathroom door open and she peered beyond. He was lying on the bed, half conscious, hands tied behind, duct tape over his mouth. The sight of him made her afraid, reminding. Ashamed of her fear, still cognizant of his insults and battery, she let the hate flow in. Surprisingly easy. Still, she was unsure.

What will you do with him?

He shrugged.

He has confessed to his crimes. We are forced to dispense justice quickly. His body will turn up someplace.

You're going to kill him?

He laughed ironically.

You think we shouldn't? If we had not come in, you would not be alive. You were not the first to suffer from his brutality. He has viciously raped, sodomized, carved women into pieces. He is a monster, worse than any animal. He and his kind.

He let the condemnation sink in. Then--

The difference is you can avenge those women. Look him in the eye as you cut. Think what he did to you. I saw the blood. The violation.

He spat the words at her. She felt the venom and it struck home. She also felt the pressure to follow through, as if not to would be cowardice. And somehow, his victory. For a second she questioned the teacher's motivations. Had he not placed her there? She glanced again at the assailant. He turned toward her, groaning, curling into the fetal position. He looked pitiful. But she saw his weapon. The violence and the malevolence steeled her and she rose, walking from the bathroom. Coming closer, she was tentative, thinking he might suddenly come to and leap at her. She observed welts and small cuts all over him. They had tortured quickly and effectively. She stifled a gag, but strangely, couldn't avert her eyes.

Fascinating! They've reduced this strong violent brute to a shaking beaten boy? Why them? It was me who was desecrated!

So what to do?

Behind her, a simple question. Yet so much more, a taunt, a challenge. She breathed deep, fingering the knife. She realized the enormity of the step. A voice somewhere deep said not too late. But he was behind her, pushing, willing her forward.

Besides, that bastard on the bed forced me to this.

She didn't totally believe that, not solely the man on the bed. She wasn't stupid. But it didn't matter anymore. Events had created reality. She moved forward, glanced at two of the captors standing near.

Turn him on his back.

They looked past her, towards the teacher. He nodded. They obliged.

Wake him.

One of them slapped him. He opened his eyes, groggy. He saw her, looked confused. He focused on the knife and then her countenance. Terror welled into his eyes. She drove the weapon down towards his groin, slashing across, cutting. He jerked up, eyes bulging from his skull, scream muffled into the tape. Blood sprayed across the room, reaching her, the captors, the walls. One of the men turned away, retching from the horror. The assailant rolled off the bed, writhing in agony. She watched him for a second, then turned back to the bathroom. She saw the teacher's face, unable to hide his shock at her action. She smiled triumphantly, then went to wash off.

She didn't see him for a week. He came by her family's apartment a few times in his capacity as an employee of her father's. She did her best to steer clear. She replayed the nightmare over and over. She dreamed the horror. She couldn't go more than a few minutes without remembering. Her pubic still hurt. Her mind was bruised, spirit warped. Not broken, not depressed, just changed. But most of all, she hated him. He had put her there. He had seduced her, taken her innocence. Then put her there! As much as the fiend, he had culpability for her rape. She felt betrayed. He, the teacher, the protector, had put her there. She considered confessing to her father. But instead she withdrew for want of any desirable alternative. And that was the problem. He was the only one she was close to. She couldn't tell on him. She needed, was dependent on him. She desired his company. A few days later they dined again. She had called him. They made small talk. Finally she couldn't hold back any longer, almost a whine.

Why?

Why? Why what?

She rolled her eyes at his confusion.

Why did you put me there with him? You romanced me. Made love to me. Then you had me raped! How could you?

He had already won. Hell, the very fact she was here proved that. But he had to make a good speech nonetheless. He sipped his tea, studied her, waited till she squirmed. She did, and he began.

My dear, we have used each other. You are young, but you are not an innocent. Not anymore. I like you, love you even. But I fight for a cause. I fight for my people. I have shown you the oppression, the filth, the poverty. That is the wrong. That horror is far more important than yours or my feelings, greater than your rape. If that is the only thing that happens in the course of a woman's life here, she is lucky. So there, I admit my guilt. Yes, I put you with him knowing he was dangerous. I stand convicted. But you. You have not confessed. Can you not tell me you wanted to explore? You wanted to learn? I did not force you. And that man. Surely you were aware of what that would mean in this society? You picked him up and took him to a hotel room. What did you expect?

He sipped his tea again, letting the question hang in the air. She stared, pouting. He repeated for emphasis.

You did know.

He took her again. She wanted to screw. But the lovemaking was disappointing. She lay next to him inhaling the smoke of his cigarette.

I did not ask before. Do you have sympathy for my cause?

She hadn't considered it much.

Yes, I see the horrors.

Would you be willing to help again? Less dangerous, better security.

The idea was exciting. She wondered if there would be violence. The concept wasn't unappealing. Nonetheless, she tried to sound wary.

Sure.

This time in one of the wealthy neighborhoods. She feared running into someone familiar to the family. He didn't say much as to why this one. Simply that she should meet and bed him. Get to know him. Do it a few times. She would be told more later. He wasn't much older than her, clearly from a family of consequence. She wondered if they meant to execute him. Make an example or something? She met him in a café. Lied about her age. He was there with other boys of money. They sat and drank coffee, watching the parade of people, as bored as the poor across town, but in expensive and clean clothes, riding motor bikes, cigarettes of European or American origin.

He was shy, intimidated. She called him Sari a nickname. He was reluctant to go with her. But she had learned her trade quickly and well. Besides, his timidity made him putty in her hands. In fact, the pursuit was fun. She became the teacher. He was skinny, clearly a boy too idle to build muscles. She toyed with him, undressed him, kept him on the defensive. He was clumsy, unsure.

You haven't done this before, have you?

He prepared a lie, but she was there first.

Don't worry, I won't tell.

Thus armed, she took command. She made him work hard. Finally she took him and was disappointed when he was done within seconds. She wanted to dump the boy, move on to something more interesting, but she'd been ordered to stick with the task. He got better. They tried new stuff, always of her invention. Still, seemed each time she was left emptier.

She was told to introduce him to associates of the teacher. She feigned friendship with these radical students. She did as told, not caring the real objective of the gambit. After a while, she was allowed to move away from him. He had become connected to the radicals. Her job was largely done. She only had to bed him from time to time to check on his inner thoughts, to assure he had been successfully turned.

One day, her parents announced they were moving. At first, the news was a shock. She would leave the teacher. Yet the more she pondered the change, the more she warmed to the idea. A new culture, more open, better for experimentation. Maybe she would find satisfaction. She went to see him one more time. He wanted sex. She considered refusing, then relented. Still not great. After, they lay in bed and he lit a cigarette.

I will miss you.

She stayed matter of fact.

And me you.

We will stay in touch.

Not a question. She looked at him quizzically.

Sometime I may need your help.

He took a drag, then added ominously.

I know a good deal about you. It could be inconvenient.

She stared at a fan overhead, thinking.

I'm no longer the youngster you deflowered. I've grown under your tutelage.

She propped her head on a hand, two small breasts staring, not concerned about inadequacies. She smiled cynically, took the cheroot and drew a long drag, chest heaving outward. She let the smoke swirl around her lungs, then blew toward the fan, watching it spiral up and disperse wildly in the tempest of wind.

And what I know of you could be extremely inconvenient.

Chapter One

C alvin Evan woke with the standard issue headache he had become accustomed to over the past ten years. Mechanically, he dragged himself into a new day. After all this time, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to be achieving. There was no vision, no goal, no conviction.

He had graduated Georgetown University in 1977, a product of the School of Foreign Service. He entered the Company after the obligatory two months backpacking in Europe. Having already been advised of the need to avoid liaisons that would endanger the purity of his work, he had cut his longer-term romantic linkages (no big problem) and had looked to Europe as the last fling of unworried one-night stands. None occurred.

Cal received the standard training. He learned the intricacies of Agency operations and the more direct issues of effective maiming, killing, and other whatnot. But also insinuated, if not outright told, was the primacy of organizational hierarchy. Take orders and lead your subordinates. With time, you can achieve rank. In the meantime, keep your head down, don't threaten the tenured and don't deliver bad news. So the seeds were planted, though Cal's education in the failures of bureaucracy and the ability of professional mediocrity and incompetence to thrive in any organization was still a lesson to be learned over time.

In July of 1978, living in Georgetown, working a government job to his friends and family, and spending more time with former Hoya cronies than he would have anticipated, Cal finally found himself posted to a country desk-- Iran.

With the fall of the Iranian Shah to the forces of radical Muslim darkness led by the Ayatollah Khomeini, Iran had moved from dependable force of stability and bulwark against Soviet expansionism to number one global menace. The West saw a dagger aimed at the oil-soaked Gulf. So, an increasingly nervous White House kept ringing the Company for analysis and assurances that their spy networks in Iran had survived the Shah's fall.

The head of the Iran desk was a certain James Angle Morton (or Jams as he was known around CIA) and he was scared. His networks were suspect. Jams' anguished cries of needing more resources had brought Cal to the Iran desk.

Jams, age forty-five, had been born in London in 1933 into the aristocracy of Britain. His family, politically close to the appeaser Chamberlain in the lead-up to the Second World War, was shocked out of their complacency by Hitler's easy victories. His father managed to escape the Chamberlain connection, and by D-Day was part of General Montgomery's staff in the Allied campaign to liberate Europe. Jams absorbed Dad's lessons in sidestepping tactical and strategic blunders, networking well, always protecting one's flank, and never moving aggressively, unless if in retreat.

Following the fall of Germany, Jams's father resumed a post in Tehran as His Majesty's defense attaché. For five years previous to the war, he had held the same position, with Jams, his mother, and sister shuttling between the UK and the Middle East. The connections built by Jams's dad would serve the younger well through the following years. In 1950, when Jams was seventeen, Dad was posted to the embassy in Washington, D.C. Dad was uncertain as to how to handle his family situation. Jams, mum, and sis had become used to London as a haven from cold, desolate and backward Tehran, but the States was a locale much too lofty not to show more of a family commitment.

So they moved to an acceptable home in Bethesda, and through government-to- government acquaintances, the now college age Jams found himself schooling that fall, not at Oxford, but instead a Tiger at Princeton. The next four years was a gift to Jams and a horror for his parents. His American student peers found the British upper class aura, including the accent, to be the very definition of cool and erudite. Plus, New York City was just an hour by train, and Spring Lake, on the Atlantic, even closer, and the sun shone. Jams fell in love with America and the daughter of one Howard R. MacPherson, distinguished alumnus of Princeton, the O.S.S., and part of the CIA's founding team.

Married to Jean MacPherson in 1955, Jams had the choice of service to either the British or the American governments. With the U.S. his adopted home, he chose the CIA. By 1956, Jean and he were posted to the U.S. embassy in Tehran. It is not known whether the father or the father-in-law had the better laugh. Jams hated that three-year tour, though he did ressurect his father's Iranian contacts. While there, they produced a child, Jane, in 1958. By way of his pedigree, he was tagged as one of the upper class of the CIA, and thus he would survive his mental mediocrity to become an ingrained part of the Agency's bureaucracy. With Jean's money and his lineage, life would be bearable and he would rise to be regarded as America's leading intelligence expert on Iran.

Despite whispers about the Brit who would be a Yank, and real or imagined links to Whitehall, Jams cultivated ties with presidential administrations and built an aura of indispensability. He attained that most amazing of credentials-- the expert beyond doubt. Perhaps to his credit, Jams never lost a deep sense of insecurity. When he would reflect, looking from the Maryland Eastern Shore toward D.C. and Langley, he possessed little clue as to what drove a land as large and complex as Persia.

Perhaps the worst crisis of Jams's marriage came in 1969 when the Company asked him to return to Iran and run Tehran Station. To sweeten the pot, they threw in operational control of the so-called Near East, which stretched from Turkey to Afghanistan. But he had to be in Tehran. The Station had fallen apart due to turnover and general underperformance. Jean didn't want to go back. Young Jane wailed at the prospect. Jams sure as hell didn't want to spend any more of his life there. The Director promised great things in return for the sacrifice. He also insinuated that the state of local disrepair was already on Jams's watch. The point was clear. Move or face an aborted career at the Company. Jams and Jean fought for days. Finally, with conditions for frequent returns to the States and other deals assured, she relented. They were there until 1973.

Upon his return to Langley, Jams retained Iran and Near East purview along with a few other minor titles and direct reports. It was a disappointment. He felt the Company hadn't made good on the original deal to go abroad. There was no big job. But he had nowhere else to turn. Besides, he reasoned, life was good. The job pressure was okay as the Shah of Iran appeared firmly in control and a close ally of the United States. And there was the backstop of Jean's family money. They had a patrician home in Potomac, a wealthy Washington suburb, accompanied by multiple country club memberships and the aforementioned Eastern Shore abode.

But by 1978 the tidy world of American Iran policy had gone up in the smoke of revolution. The Shah hadn't been so firmly in control after all. The Americans had rolled the dice on the autocrat believing since he ruled the government and military, he therefore controlled the country. The world's greatest democracy had once again ignored the lessons of its