Scimitar Strike

By J.L. Graham

The Iranian Quds Force enlists the help of Iranian expatriate Ash Esfahani to arrange for a cartel hit man. The mission is to assassinate the Saudi ambassador to the United States. The plot is uncovered, and the FBI and DEA infiltrate using undercover agent Victor "V-Rod" Rodriquez, aka Hector Cruz. After gaining the trust of the Iranian expatriate, Cruz must now gain the trust of Quds Force operative Ali Falahian.

As the story evolves, the motivation and intent of the Iranian planners is exposed. In 2020, Quds Force Commander Qassem Soleimani was assassinated by a US missile strike. In retaliation, the regime developed "Thirteen Revenge Scenarios." The Iranian public and leadership were led to believe Soleimani's death lay solely at the feet of the American government, but the general's death has ties back to the IRGC. Soleimani's successor, Abdul Reza Sasani's motives are suspect. His rise to senior Quds Force general to replace Soleimani was, by all accounts, natural and expected--only Falahian has long suspected Sasani's role in his mentor's death and has vowed to retaliate.

Ali Falahian has a storied past. As a young intelligence officer in Iraq, he orchestrated the Iranian IED campaign that resulted in many hundreds of US casualties. He was also instrumental in the attack on the Karbala Communication Compound that led to the death of several US military and CIA personnel. CIA operator David James "D. J." Dixon has been hunting Falahian ever since.

The assassination attempt on the Saudi ambassador is not the only threat facing the FBI's National Joint Terrorism Task Force. While the NJTTF chases down intelligence leads and attempts to thwart an attack, Ali Falahian moves on to the next of the "Thirteen Revenge Scenarios."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889827702

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter 1: Los Zetas

Chapter 2: Hashshasin

Chapter 3: Confidential Informant

Chapter 4: The VAJA

Chapter 5: Family Reunion

Chapter 6: A Friend of a Friend

Chapter 7: Scimitar Strike Task Force

Chapter 8: Interagency Cooperation

Chapter 9: Contraband

Chapter 10: Deep Cover

Chapter 11: Unpaid Parking

Chapter 12: Zeta Muscle

Chapter 13: Don't Call Me Cabrón

Chapter 14: Encrypted Communications

Chapter 15: Fruit of the Poison Tree

Chapter 16: Ministry of Intelligence

Chapter 17: Never by the Front

Chapter 18: Extraterritoriality

Chapter 19: The Pickup

Chapter 20: Mixed Signals

Chapter 21: Unchecked Luggage

Chapter 22: Freedom of Operation

Chapter 23: Tactical Response

Chapter 24: In the Open

Chapter 25: Exfiltration

Chapter 26: Last Tactical Mile

Chapter 27: False Flags

Chapter 28: An Angel in My Corner

Chapter 29: Killer of Karbala

Chapter 30: Los Escorpiones

Chapter 31: Through Long Lenses

Chapter 32: ACME Construction Company

Chapter 33: Have We Confirmed the Target?

Chapter 34: I Thought We Had a Solid Candidate

Chapter 35: Red-Eye to DC

Chapter 36: Retracing Old Ground

Chapter 37: Out of the Hurt Locker

Chapter 38: The Merrywood Estate

Chapter 39: A Deed Worth Martyrdom

Chapter 40: The Delivery

Chapter 41: Discovery

Epilogue

About the Author

cover.jpg

Scimitar Strike

J.L. Graham

Copyright © 2024 J.L. Graham

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2024

ISBN 979-8-88982-769-6 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88982-770-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Prologue

fall guy

n. Slang

1. A person who is gullible and easy to take advantage of.

2. A scapegoat.

—Webster's Dictionary

Fifty-three-year-old Ashkan Esfahani fancied himself a man of the world. In reality, he was far from it. Known as Ash by the few friends he claimed or that claimed him, he described himself as well-traveled, educated, linguistically gifted, and culturally sophisticated—at least by southeast Texas standards. Truth be told, his travels had been limited. Since arriving in the US some forty-three years prior, Esfahani had barely ventured out of Texas. Houston had long ago become his adopted home.

Ashkan Bashir Sasani was born in Beryanak, a neighborhood in Tehran just south of its burgeoning business district. His father was Iranian; his mother was Christian Lebanese. The family immigrated to the US when Ashkan was ten years old.

Khalil Sasani, Ash's father, hailed from Isfahan and was a member of the influential Sasani clan. But the elder Sasani had never been a political figure nor had he joined the military. He was a businessman who believed in the tenets of free trade and hard work. Most of all, he sought to provide for his family. Khalil's work in the export business had taken him to many of the world's capitals where he learned to navigate a wide range of cultural, economic, and political systems. He was one of the few not to be taken up by the rhetoric of revolution that swept Iran in 1977. He was also one of the few who escaped his native country before it took hold. To the revolutionary class, Khalil Sasani was the definition of Gharbzadegi, someone stricken by westoxification, a term coined by Iranian philosopher Ahmad Fardid and later adopted by Ayatollah Khomeini during the 1979 revolution.

Khalil Sasani and his family landed in North Carolina in 1977. They moved to Texas two years later, just ahead of the Iranian Revolution and the fall of the Shah. The Iranian Revolution had ushered in a theocratic-republican constitution and the Grand Ayatollah Khomeini as its supreme leader.

Khalil's desire for his only son was to fully assimilate into American culture and gain citizenship in their adopted home. Esfahani never knew the driving force behind the family's move to Texas. The 1979 takeover of the American Embassy in Tehran had convinced his father it was time to leave North Carolina, believing Texas would offer sanctuary from the ever-watchful eye of SAVAK—the Fatherly Eye that tracked the goings-on of Iranian expatriates. Khalil also wanted a clean start for his son; that meant a name change and the abandonment of Iranian roots.

Once in Houston, the family adopted Lebanon as their place of origin and his mother's maiden name, Esfahani. Ashkan Bashir Sasani became Ash Esfahani, a Lebanese immigrant from Christian Beirut.

Khalil had done his homework. He talked to anyone willing to advise on raising a son in America. As a result, young Esfahani was enrolled in a revolving door of activities—swimming lessons, little league baseball, and youth soccer. Of all the groups thrust upon Esfahani, he was most impressed by the Boy Scouts. He dutifully attended meetings, loved wearing the uniform, and excelled at constructing things and earning badges. Father Sasani often commented that his son's success in the Boy Scouts was a precursor to a future military career. Esfahani attributed the Boy Scouts as the impetus for his seeking an engineering degree—joining the military had never crossed in mind.

But like many things in Ash Esfahani's life, aspirations often fell short. Once teenage Esfahani discovered the opposite sex, Boy Scouts became childish and boring. The impressionable neighborhood girls were fascinated by the mystique of the Middle East. The fact one of their classmates spoke fluent French made the allure all the greater.

The Esfahani family never spoke their native Persian outside the home. To all who knew Ash, he was just another kid from the neighborhood. Like most South Texas kids, he'd learned to read, write, and speak Spanish like a native. With his dark complexion and acquired accent, many mistook the would-be Lebanese kid as a transplanted Mexican at least at arm's length.

Esfahani graduated from high school with the same cohort of neighborhood kids he'd been with since middle school—most of which would never venture beyond Houston. Khalil had different plans for his only son. First was citizenship and then college. Throughout Ash's senior year, Khalil had pressured his son to prepare for the citizenship exam, but not just for test-taking purposes, he truly wanted his son to be an American, believing it would shield him from the long arm of Iranian security services.

At eighteen, the Iranian-born Ashkan Bashir Sasani received US citizenship. Esfahani was conflicted between hanging out with neighborhood friends or leaving home for college. His father's wishes finally won out, and he was packed off to Louisiana State University to pursue a degree in engineering. Unfortunately, he lasted only one semester. After returning from LSU, Ash hung around the house moping for nine months before starting at the University of Houston. Esfahani enjoyed the social aspect of college life more than his studies. He spoke a good game, telling anyone who would listen, including his father, that he would one day be a full-fledged engineer. A claim that would fall short, like many others he would profess.

Miraculously, Esfahani managed to graduate. But his mediocre grades made landing a job in his chosen field improbable—no one wanted to hire an engineer whose math skills were subpar. Instead of continuing the job search, he returned to the neighborhood to hang out with friends and the family dole. After several weeks, his father had had enough. Either he finds work, or he finds himself on the street.

Ash took on just enough menial work to appease his father and maintain his social habits. He had few vices to speak of, save moderate drinking, which his mother disapproved of, and overeating, which his father could not understand. He lived with his parents until he was almost thirty. It was 1996. Esfahani set out on his own, having grown weary of his routine.

Having reminisced about his early days in the US, he returned to the Carolinas in search of elusive childhood memories. He stayed away for eighteen months before returning to Texas and his mother's home—his father had suddenly passed away.

With Khalil's death, Esfahani inherited the family home and a moderate amount of cash. Within a month of his father's death, Esfahani had relegated his mother to the basement and the haphazard set of rooms he'd previously occupied. He returned to his old college haunts that encircled the university. He was without a job but flush with cash. And as fate would have it, he met a woman at the Gold Digger's Cabaret, a run-down bar that featured a nightly revue of scantily clad women.

The name of the establishment had not escaped his mother. Ignoring her pleas, Esfahani married his newfound love after only three weeks of courtship. Three weeks later, the marriage was annulled. That was as long as it took for Ginger, the new Mrs. Esfahani, to drain the family bank account. Out of money and romance, Ash managed to get a job at a local used-car dealership—the same dealership that owned the title to his used car.

Esfahani never let on to his new boss that he'd managed to lose his inheritance. Instead, on his first day on the job, he offered to buy the dealership. As it turned out, the owner had been thinking about retirement. But the car dealer would not walk away with the windfall he'd hoped for. Esfahani claimed his cash was tied up in investments but that he'd be willing to enter into a partnership with the option to buy. After too little haggling, he took Esfahani up on his offer and promptly departed for Florida.

In the grand plan, Ash would assume management of day-to-day operations. His partner would retain ownership. After two years, he would buy out the older man completely. Like many of Esfahani's schemes, the grand plan didn't quite work out as envisioned. Eventually, the Iranian ex-pat would end up as the full owner—but after the dealership had lost most of its value.

Ash eventually convinced the old man to leave the new-car business altogether. There were too many extraneous issues—manufacturer quotas, warranties, and requirements to maintain a service department, which meant hiring certified mechanics and all the rest. The used-car business was much less stressful. You could dictate the number and type of vehicles to offer and how to market the business. But the real draw for Ash Esfahani was the ability to sell as is on a mostly cash basis. However, he'd also dabbled in dealer-financed purchase options for a time—until that scheme had gone south.

Chapter 1

Los Zetas

16 March

Houston, Texas

Esfahani was in over his head, and he knew it. The man he was about to meet was not to be taken lightly. The Iranian expatriate didn't know if his nerves would hold up enough to get through the meeting. But orders were orders, and he would follow through regardless. The man he was about to meet, known to him only as Cruz, was a member of the infamous Los Zetas, the Zs. Arguably, one of Mexico's most notorious crime groups, the Zetas was notorious for its long and bloody history.

Their founder, Osiel Cardenas Guillen, had gained notoriety for ordering the execution of his longtime Gulf Cartel business partner, Salvador Gómez, shortly after he'd stood up as the godfather at the baptism for Guillen's daughter. The assassination earned Guillen the moniker Friend Killer and the rank Z-1 in the Zetas' order of succession. Before his arrest and extradition to the US in 2007, Guillen had transformed the Zetas into one of Mexico's most powerful and ruthless criminal organizations, and Cruz was one of them, or so Esfahani had been led to believe.

Esfahani had to calm his nerves and man up. He needed a drink to hold it together. The meeting was scheduled to take place in thirty minutes—just enough time to walk to the liquor store on Southmore Boulevard, a block from the cheap hotel. He'd frequented both the hotel and the liquor store many times over the years. Perhaps he should have paid more attention. When the Zetas' thug suggested that he rent a room in the run-down Southmore flophouse, he hadn't given it much thought. Nor had he noticed the work van parked in front of the liquor store. Had he been more aware, he might have captured a glimpse of DEA Special Agent Victor Rodriquez, the man he would come to know as Hector Cruz.

DEA Special Agent Bill Sheraton led the surveillance op. Dressed in a maintenance uniform, he endeavored to blend in with the surrounding neighborhood of hourly workers who stopped for a drink on their way home.

The DEA agent turned his head toward the rear of the surveillance van discussing last-minute details with his star agent. As a result, he hadn't noticed Esfahani plodding down the street until he was almost on top of them. Sheraton barely had time to tell the undercover agent to duck to the back of the van and mask his own face before the Iranian's bulk filled the windscreen. Such was the issue when dealing with amateurs; they were unpredictable. Such behavior was more the norm than the exception when dealing with the Iranian expatriate.

Chapter 2

Hashshasin

11 March

Houston, Texas

A sect of Ismaili Shiite Muslims known as the Nizari are credited as Iran's first-known for-hire assassins. The eleventh-century Nizari had been led by Hassan Sabah, who'd nicknamed his consorts Hashshasin or assassin. Originating from northern Persia, the Nizari were widely feared for their acts of espionage and terrorism on behalf of their political masters. Their legacy remains in the modern-day Ministry of Intelligence, the infamous MOI, Iran's chief intelligence arm. Within the MOI resides Department 15, a select team of brutal regime enforcers who, like their predecessors, carry out assassinations abroad for the Iranian regime.

Typically, it would be up to Alejandro to close the dealership. But today was his anniversary, so Esfahani had grudgingly awarded the assistant manager an early departure. He preferred to be at his favorite bar by six, especially on Coed Monday. Food was never far from his mind. If he didn't get an order in before half past six, it would be lost in the kitchen as the college students piled in for happy hour specials. He thought he'd be lucky to get to the bar before eight o'clock, commiserating silently to himself in the small washroom just off the showroom floor.

The intruder slipped into the building undetected, sat in the shadows of the run-down showroom, and remained silent. Esfahani exited the washroom and stood over his desk searching for the building keys when he heard a name that hadn't been spoken since childhood.

Ashkan Bashir Sasani, said the intruder, stepping from the shadows.

Esfahani about fainted on two accounts. The man's presence alone was enough to drop him to his knees, but the shock of hearing his real name—one not heard in forty-plus years—had completely disoriented him.

Esfahani noted his tall, angular frame and dark complexion as the man stepped forward. He couldn't quite place the man's accent. His hair was jet-black and shiny. He had a long thin nose, equally thin lips, and what appeared to be a two-day growth of dark facial hair. He wore a black overcoat over his suit. His black dress shirt was open at the top, revealing a thick gold chain.

The man did not introduce himself but pointed to a stack of papers on the desk and said, I think you will find what you are looking for under there.

Esfahani lifted the paperwork and retrieved the showroom keys, looking sideways at the man. He could barely speak but managed to mumble a weak retort, Who are you, and what do you want?

You have abysmal security, said the intruder. Anyone could have walked in here. Not that there is anything worth stealing. Lock the front. We will depart from the back. My vehicle is behind the service bay. Quickly. There is much to discuss, and we don't need one of your bar cronies showing up here looking for you.

As Esfahani worked the lock to the rear service bay, his mind raced with questions. What was happening? Instinctively, he knew this was a dangerous man. But what was his connection to him? Maybe he had been sent by the family of his old partner—who he'd swindled the dealership from. No, that didn't make sense. Since his passing, there'd been no word from the old man's family; they could care less about the nearly defunct dealership. But probably they didn't want to be saddled with the debt that hung over the place. It had been a bad move to sue for sole ownership after the old man died. He should have heeded his attorney's warning to return ownership to the family. Instead, it was they who conceded. And now the debt was fully his alone.

Get in the car. We have to get moving—now, intoned the dark intruder.

Esfahani did what he was told. The rear of the dealership property was connected to a towing service parking lot packed with derelict vehicles—most had been in accidents and were thus undrivable. Others had been abandoned for one reason or another, usually because they were stolen or the owner couldn't afford to pay the towing costs, which were later coupled with outstanding parking fines.

The towing service received a percentage of any recovered fines from the city of Houston. Seeing an opportunity, Esfahani made an offer to the tow service owner. He'd act as the middleman between the towing business and the city's bureaucracy—for a moderate fee.

The tow owner was happy to be rid of the paperwork, and Esfahani was pleased with the additional income—plus, he got to manage the process. Vehicles whose outstanding fines were deemed uncollectible could be sent to auction or sold outright to cover the cost of towing and storage. When a car came in with a resale promise, it was placed on the sales lot and sold on commission. Over time, the scheme had become Esfahani's primary moneymaker. His latest aspiration was to take over the towing service in its entirety, but he was still working out how to structure the deal.

As they drove through the derelict tow lot, these thoughts went through Esfahani's head. The stranger turned north on San Jacinto Street. Esfahani looked passively out the passenger window, watching people pull jackets over their heads and run for shelter from a sudden downpour. He wanted to ask questions, but fearing the answers, he sat quietly. As they drove in the warm rain toward downtown Houston, his would-be kidnapper said nothing. He seemed to know where he was going. Esfahani noticed the man hadn't even checked the GPS for guidance. Two turns later, they were heading northbound on Interstate 69. For the many years that Esfahani had lived in the Houston area, he still had trouble navigating its many beltways and throughways extending from the city center. Peering out the passenger window at the lighted skyline, Esfahani's mind drifted.

If Houston was anything, it was huge in geographic area and population. His on-again-off-again girlfriend, Consuela, claimed Houston was the largest city in Texas, but Esfahani disagreed. His bet was on Dallas. It took a Google search for him to concede she was right.

Consuela loved everything Houston, but especially its sports teams. Then it dawned on him that maybe this was her doing. She was always trying to get him to expand. She'd press him to take over Jimmy's tow service on more than one occasion. He could see through her plan. What she really wanted was to have a role in his business. What if this was a bid by Consuela to take over the dealership? Yeah, that was probably it. They continued driving north in silence.

Chapter 3

Confidential Informant

14 March

Houston, Texas

DEA Special Agent Bill Sheraton was skeptical of the CI's claim but decided to play along. Juan Martìnez had never been much of a confidential informant. His so-called intelligence had yet to bear fruit. His most recent hot tip revealed a new tunnel system being used by drug couriers to move product from Mexico into the US. There were just two problems with that so-called intelligence: its presence was already known to Bill Sheraton and the DEA and that particular network at the San Ysidro border near San Diego had been long shut down.

Juan Martìnez was always a day late and a dollar short. For the eighteen months he'd been on the DEA payroll, he'd provided zero actionable intelligence. That record of failures was about to change.

DEA Special Agent Bill Sheraton was an eighteen-year veteran who preferred to meet his informants away from their home turf. For Martìnez, that meant getting him out of Houston's Third Ward. Sheraton's informants seemed hungry and thirsty, so meeting places typically included burgers and beer. But today, Sheraton didn't have the time, and he'd told Juan as much. The veteran agent also deviated from standard protocol one other way—by discussing CI business over the phone.

Listen, Juan, today's not really a good day to meet, lamented the seasoned agent. How about you give me the down and dirty over the phone, huh?

And then the informant dropped the intel bomb that would shape Bill Sheraton's career path in ways he couldn't have anticipated. Martìnez came right out with it.

I was contacted by a Syrian to conduct a hit.

Sheraton wasn't sure he had heard him correctly. Wait, what did you say? Followed immediately by, Hold up, Juan, before you say anything else, where are you? Can you talk without being overheard?

Martìnez said he was nearby—parked at Mason Park near the ball fields. Agent Sheraton told him to wait ten minutes and then drive to the Taquitos joint on Harrisburg Boulevard. Sheraton would meet him there in fifteen minutes.

Get a table in the back and order food for both of us, but no beers for me today, he said before hanging up.

Sheraton didn't need this distraction—especially today. He was about to put the clamps on a major player in the Mexican drug trade. He'd considered not answering Juan's call at all. Chances were this was just another ploy to get paid and stretch out his service.

Martìnez was a classic low-level grifter who was always into one scam or another. Sheraton dealt with his type daily. But it wasn't every day that a CI claimed to be connected to a Syrian hit. Sheraton stuck his head into the DEA chief counsel's office.

Sir, I have to run across town, exclaimed the DEA agent urgently. Something's just popped up, and I have to meet with a CI. It may be nothing, but I won't know until after I take the meeting. I'll be back as soon as I can. If you want to start the deposition, I'll catch up later today.

Sure thing, Bill, replied the chief counsel. I'll handle the deposition. We won't have transcripts back until late this afternoon, so take all the time you need.

Sheraton slid into the booth and leaned toward the informant.

Let's have it, Juan, said the agent, checking around the small restaurant. I hope you didn't bring me here just for a free lunch.

Martìnez was short on details, and Sheraton didn't want to press him—at least not in the open. There'd be time for that later.

My cousin called me saying she wanted to introduce me to her boyfriend and that he might have a business proposition, started the CI. So we met.

Sheraton looked skeptical but didn't respond.

Look, I don't know this guy from Adam…all I know is he's an old dude who's got the hots for Consuela. That's my cousin.

Yeah, I got that. Did you catch a name, Juan? probed the agent.

I think it's Ash or some shit like that, replied the informant.

Okay, when and where did you meet this Ash character? asked Sheraton.

Yesterday, at a motel on Southmore. It was a short meeting—a few minutes only. He said he was looking for someone to do a hit on an important person. He hoped I could put him in touch with one of the Mexican gangs, revealed Martìnez.

And did you? pressed Sheraton.

Well, no. I'm no gang liaison, Sheraton. What do you take me for?

What else? asked the agent without leading.

I'm not too keen on geography, but something didn't fit.

Go on.

The guy said he was Syrian, right? But I'm pretty sure Consuela said he was from Lebanon.

And your point? pressed the agent.

‘Well, maybe this guy's one of those deep plants or something, conjectured the CI. Like the TV show The Americans. Except the folks on that show were Russian…but you get the picture, right?"

Let's stick with what was actually said and leave the conspiracy shit out of it for the time being, said the agent, growing even more skeptical.

It was common for interrogators to threaten a reluctant informant with jail time. It rarely worked. Seasoned informants understood the limits of such threats and rarely gave in to such tactics. However, one method that produced results was the threat to put the word out in the neighborhood. Even a hint that you were cooperating with the police meant certain peril.

Sheraton rarely took this approach. He preferred to not shape an interview with threats or scripted questions. It was better than the story that emerged organically. This approach had limits. It was common for witnesses to fill in blank spaces with information that sounded like it fit or made their role appear more or less significant than it really was—Juan Martìnez was this category of witness. He tended to editorialize details. Rather than admit when the fine points were fuzzy or facts were unknown to him, he would fill in the gaps on his own.

Martìnez was about to provide more details when the waitress approached with their food. Sheraton motioned with a slash across the throat, directing him to stop talking. Sheraton had heard all that he needed for now. After the waitress departed, Sheraton slid a small notepad across the table and directed the informant to write down the Syrian's name and the location of their meeting. Martìnez said he could only spell the last name phonetically. Sheraton told him that would be good enough for now. Taking back the notepad, the DEA man stood, motioning for Martìnez to finish eating.

Look, Juan, this conversation doesn't go anywhere else. Got it? said the agent, sliding two fifty-dollar bills across the table. I think you best lay low for a few days. I'll be in touch. In the meantime, don't leave Houston. And steer clear from your cousin and her consort. Got it?

Martìnez pocketed the bills and nodded in agreement, raising his beer glass in a mock toast. As he watched Sheraton depart, he signaled for another beer.

Driving back to the office, Sheraton pondered the revelation. He figured there was a more than even chance he was being played. It wouldn't be the first time. Had the tip come from anyone but Juan, it would have prompted an all-stop while the intel was run to ground. Still, the story was so far afield of the usual crap Martìnez offered up that Sheraton felt it might be true or a version of the truth.

The thing about working in intelligence is, information is never perfect, and the picture is never complete. Sheraton knew both conditions applied here. Assets like Martìnez were economic beings. They would dole out information a little at a time in hopes of extended payments. Sheraton figured the CI knew more than what he'd let on—and that he'd likely mixed a good bit of fiction with the truth, if any of it was true. Separating fact from fiction would require the DEA agent activate his intelligence network.

Two omissions would prove critical in the days ahead. First was that Martìnez had met with the Syrian, not once, but on two separate occasions. Second was the fact that an audio recording had been made during the second such meeting.

Chapter 4

The VAJA

11 March

North Houston

After twenty-five minutes of driving in silence, the dark stranger finally spoke. It won't be long now, he said evenly, maneuvering the car from the highway. They headed east on Mount Houston Road through a sparsely populated neighborhood. The man's remark made Esfahani visibly tense.

Don't worry, Ashkan, the man assured him. You have nothing to fear if you are true to yourself, your family, and your faith.

True to himself? He didn't even know where to begin with that notion. His family was long gone. He was the only one remaining as far as he knew. Perhaps some of his father's distant family remained. He knew little of his mother's side of the family. And as far as faith, he'd fallen out of practice many years ago. As far as belief, he'd never given it much thought. He might have opted for a crash course if he had known more about the stranger. Instead, he rode in silence.

The vehicle continued on Mount Houston Road for another five minutes before turning north on Sheridan Drive. Esfahani was getting a glimpse of Houston he'd never seen. It dawned on him how little he knew about his adopted hometown. His entire travel sphere was limited to a dozen square blocks around his apartment and the streets to and from the dealership. The drive was taking them through a heavy industrial area. He noted the heavy equipment and containerized storage and tried to picture their location on a map. Truth be told, he conceded to himself, if he somehow managed to escape this stranger, he didn't know how to return home.

The vehicle entered a heavily forested area, and the sky suddenly darkened—stars disappearing. The hardball road was replaced by broken asphalt, which turned into a rutted dirt track. They drove through the darkened forest for another two or three minutes before coming into a clearing about the size of a football field. The stars were visible again. The strange man stopped, lowered the windows, and killed the engine. The rain had stopped, and the air felt fresh. As his eyes adjusted, Esfahani could make out the silhouette of a disused oil derrick then another and another. The driver got out and motioned for him to do the same, which he did. Esfahani was now terrified. He thought about running but knew that he wouldn't get far. He'd given up exercise many years ago.

Inshallah, he mumbled under his breath. Esfahani didn't know where the words had come from. He had not spoken to them since he was ten, maybe twelve years old.

I believe what you mean is Ishaallaa—the proper spoken Persian. And yes, I agree, ‘If God wills, it will be so,' friend, said the dark stranger, leaning over and picking up a blade of grass and casually placing it in his mouth. The stranger leaned back onto the car hood and looked at the star-studded sky. After a brief silence, he asked, Ashkan Bashir Esfahani, do you know who I am or why I've come to see you?

The stranger threw down the grass and wheeled around so his overcoat spread open long enough to reveal a holstered weapon. I am here to help you focus. To give you purpose. To bring meaning to your life and… He paused. To return you to your faith. The stranger walked back to the driver's door and opened it. Get in. We have much to discuss.

Esfahani reluctantly climbed back into the stranger's vehicle. Avoiding his gaze, he looked straight ahead and into the darkness. He tried desperately to understand where he was and why he was there.

Are you familiar with the poem ‘Shahnameh'? asked the stranger as he put the vehicle in gear and pulled out of the clearing. It is known as the ‘Epic of Kings' in Persian folklore. I will not go into the details. I will leave it to you to research it and make the discovery yourself.

Esfahani chanced a look at the dark stranger but didn't reply.

You asked earlier who I was and what I wanted, said the stranger. "Think of me like the mythical figure Rostam, from the Shahnameh, the mightiest Iranian paladin. As far as what I want, I want nothing. It is your country that wants—that demands your service. They have sent me to guide you on a quest. Think of it as your ‘expedition to Mazandaran.' The details of which will be revealed to you in due time."

They drove in silence, retracing their path back toward central Houston. Esfahani was more confused than ever. The stranger spoke in parables. Who is this Shahnameh he talks about, and what does he have to do with me? He racked his brain, searching for answers that didn't materialize. What could his country want of him? He was not a man of particular talents. For all his claims of sophistication, he was a simple man. A tax-paying American. Iran had not been part of his life since childhood, and even then, his father had demanded that the family distance themselves from all things Iranian. They'd assumed the collective persona of Lebanese citizens. Both of which he'd abandoned upon gaining US citizenship.

The stranger pulled into the dealership and parked. They sat in silence for several minutes before he spoke. I represent the Vezarat-e Ettela'at Jomhuri-ye Eslami-ye. The Iranian VAJA, rattled off the stranger in a language that was no longer familiar. Seeing the confusion on Esfahani's face, he continued. I am an officer in the Ministry of Intelligence. In your father's time, during the era of the Shah, we were called SAVAK. Perhaps you've heard of us?

Esfahani vaguely recalled his father speaking of the Shah's secret police. When he was twelve, he and his father traveled to Lebanon for a funeral. He recalled overhearing his parents arguing in the days leading up to the trip. His father had refused to let his mother accompany them, fearing the SAVAK would prevent their return. This fear also prompted Khalil to obtain Lebanese passports using Esfahani—his mother's family name. Upon their return to the United States, the family relocated to Texas. Esfahani didn't share any of this with his captor. Was it possible he would be held accountable for some transgression by his father forty years earlier?

In reality, the dark stranger was a member of the Quds Force of the IRGC—the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. But for this mission, he was on loan to Iran's Ministry of Intelligence Department 15. Rather than explain that relationship, he would thereafter refer to himself as VAJA.

When did you last see your cousin, Abdul Reza? asked the stranger.

Abdul Reza, said Esfahani. Abdul Reza Sasani?

Yes, the very same, said the man, tilting his head in a sideward glance at Esfahani. He is a very prominent man. A man of great influence and of great conviction. It is he who has sent me, and it is he who seeks your fealty.

But I don't understand, Esfahani responded incredulously. What is it he thinks I can do? Without waiting for an answer, Esfahani added, What position does my cousin hold that he can have such expectations from seven thousand miles away?

Your cousin is a high-ranking member of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard—the Quds Force. Certainly you know this already? stated the stranger as a matter-of-fact.

I did not. I never got to know Abdul Reza. He is at least ten years my senior. In the seven years I spent in Iran, we never interacted, and since then…only once when I was twelve. I was in Lebanon for my uncle's funeral. We met only in passing. He was already a grown man. I was just a kid, recalled Esfahani.

Just the same, said the stranger. He has sent me here to meet with you and to provide counsel.

Counsel on what? exclaimed Esfahani.

On how you are to proceed, intoned the stranger. First, you will go home and pack an overnight bag. We are leaving Houston first thing tomorrow. We will go to the airport tonight and wait. Do not talk to anyone and leave your phone behind. Once we're at the airport, I will provide you a burner phone. You will use it to contact your assistant, Alejandro, and that woman, Consuela. You will tell them you are driving to Dallas on business and will return in two days—nothing more. Do you understand this?

Yes, but when will you tell me what this is all about? Do I get a say? pleaded Esfahani.

You had your say when you were born Iranian, said the stranger. Now go. I will follow at a distance. Do not challenge me, and do not think you can escape me—you cannot. I will follow you to the Park and Fly lot on JFK Boulevard. From there, you will catch the airport shuttle. I will follow in a cab. We will not travel together, but I will keep you in sight the entire time. Now go, said the Iranian, handing over an envelope. In it, you will find a passport and a boarding pass, said the stranger. I think you will like the seat I booked.

Esfahani had been outside the US only once since coming from Iran. He was twelve when he accompanied his father to Beirut, Lebanon, to attend an uncle's funeral. He recalled his father's lamentations during the long flight.

It has been many years since I've been in Beirut, Esfahani recalled his father saying. During its heyday, Lebanon was once called the Switzerland of the Middle East. It was here, Ashkan, I met and married your mother. I went far afield of the political and cultural norms in marrying a Maronite Christian. But somehow, we survived it.

Esfahani also remembered his father's apprehension upon their arrival in Beirut. Lebanon was, by that time, two years into a civil war that would last some fifteen years. The elder Sasani had expressed concern for his son's future. The writing is on the wall in Iran, Ashkan. The Shah will not last long, he'd said. Things will never be the same, Esfahani remembered his father's hesitation. After a pregnant pause, the old man put his hands on the young boy's shoulders and, with tears in his eyes, said, We can never go home.

During their brief stint in Lebanon, Khalil formulated a plan to distance himself and his family from the past. If Ashkan was to have any hopes of a normal life, it would be in America. With the help of his extended family, Khalil could obtain Lebanese passports for himself and his son—his wife, being Lebanese by birth, had maintained hers. During this trip, Ashkan also met his older cousin, Abdul Reza Sasani, the eldest son of Khalil's brother. The future Quds Force officer had caught wind of Khalil's plan for his family but inextricably chose not to interfere.

Chapter 5

Family Reunion

12 March

Iranian Embassy, Mexico City, Mexico

Esfahani thoroughly enjoyed his first-class accommodations on the Aero Mexico flight to Mexico City although he would have preferred an overnight flight. He would have gladly traded the chilled orange juice for a strong drink, but he'd been instructed by the VAJA to abstain from alcohol. Just the same, the service was excellent, especially the breakfast. It was much better than his usual fare. Even after a restless night in the Houston airport awaiting the 6:30 a.m. departure, he felt fresh and alert after the short two-hour-and-twenty-minute flight. The same could not be said of his would-be travel partner seated in the economy plus section. Believing they were no longer subject to surveillance, Esfahani approached the Iranian intelligence officer at the luggage carousel and was ignored. Two could play this game, thought the Iranian expat as he sauntered through the terminal.

As previously coordinated, they were to rejoin at the curbside pickup area, just outside the baggage claim area. Just as Esfahani exited