“There is no one here by that name. You’re making a mistake.”
“Mr. Yazdi, we can have our discussion here unofficially, or we can do it in a government building with a team of interrogators. We have enough charges against you to put you away for years. What do you think?”
After a pause during which the guard stepped forward, a frustrated looking Yazdi stepped back from the door and waved Marshall in.
Face recognition technology deployed at JFK airport had identified the scar over one ear and his nearly bald head, but more importantly the dimensions and proportions between his eyes, nose, and mouth as belonging to an operative of al Quds. He had shaved his mustache and dyed his remaining hair black. The members of Al Quds—named for the holy city of Jerusalem—were all true believers and the cream of the crop of Iranian Intelligence. One didn’t volunteer or apply. One was chosen.
Yazdi said a few words to the bodyguard who left the room.
“When I was in your country,” Marshall said, “you and your friends made it clear that I was not welcome. Hell, if your guys had been better shots, I’d be dead. I’m extending a better welcome to you than you did to me.”
“I am confused. You Americans have strange customs,” Yazdi said raising imposing eyebrows and maintaining his tight smile. “As I said my name is not Yazdi.” He went to the kitchenette and put water on the stove for tea, apparently stalling for time. Marshall took it as a good sign. Yazdi was getting ready for a conversation.
“We followed your career through the years,” Marshall told him. “You’ve come a long way from roadblocks and storming the American Embassy in November ’79.”
Prepared to play his second card, Marshall got up from his chair and stood by the counter separating the kitchenette from the sitting area. “I understand this is your son’s store. I also hear that he’s doing very well. This is an excellent location for his business. He’s surrounded by upscale neighborhoods.”
“I am just visiting. He is not my son. My name...”
“He could have a future here,” Marshall interrupted.
Yazdi looked at Marshall speculatively. “What do you want?” Looking toward the ceiling for an instant, he added, “You are a bad dream.”
Was Yazdi admitting their previous encounter?
“What choice did I have?” Marshall shrugged. “When I leaned that you were here, I simply wanted to meet you and, of course, return your property.”
The teakettle let out a whistle, and Yazdi shut off the burner. He brought the hot water back to the sitting area where Marshall joined him. Yazdi served tea for the two of them. Balancing his cup in one hand, he sat back, put one foot on his knee, and, showing his gold tooth, he said, “I have done nothing illegal in your country.”
“On the contrary. You’re here under false documents. I would end up in an unmarked grave if I traveled to Iran under a false name. A senior al Quds officer doesn’t travel to the capital of the Great Satan just for a family visit. I’m not here to threaten you but, as I said, our Department of Justice has a warrant for your arrest, and the FBI has your DNA from the restaurant where you had dinner on Dolly Madison Boulevard last night.
“I just can’t figure out why they sent you, a known al Quds agent. Is this a suicide mission? Didn’t it occur to your organization that we would know you were here?” Was he talking to a dangle, someone that Iranian intelligence hoped would be recruited by the Americans to then run their officer as a double agent?
“After I left Iran, I recognized you in one of the photos of the students involved with the hostages.”
“I was a student but I had nothing to do with holding the American hostages,” Yazdi pronounced after a pause, crossing into new territory. “I thought bringing down the Shah would solve everything. Each group had its own agenda. There were Soviet-sponsored Communists, nationalist democrats, European-type socialists, and Islamists. Those days were exciting, much plotting and maneuvering. Each group was armed and playing for keeps. It was all a long time ago.”
“Yes, and some of your friends were executed. I remember,” said Marshall as he reached for the sugar. “Every night there was a mini-war in the streets following curfew. After shouting ‘Death to America’ the night before, Iranian kids would ring our bell and ask if our children could come out and play. You’re right; it was a long time ago. Now I’m retired. I get to watch my grandchildren grow up.” Looking up from his cup, he asked, “How about you? You’ve been successful.”
Yazdi averted his eyes and stared down at the carpet. “I don’t know what you’ve heard. I’ve always been more political than religious, than Islamic I mean. In reality, I was not far from the old Tudeh Party, the Iranian Communist Party, at first. But early on during the hostage episode, when the students from the Islamic schools were able to dictate national policy, I realized that more could be accomplished through the Islamists.”
Yazdi paused, perhaps reviewing memories of his youth like old movie clips. He leaned forward to pour more tea in their cups, and as he offered his guest the bowl of sugar cubes, he exposed a scar above his left ear. The thin white line contrasted with his dark complexion. Yazdi acknowledged Marshall’s look, gave him a tight smile and said, “The war. Much blood but not serious.” He put a sugar cube in his mouth and drank a sip of tea through it. Yazdi had not had an easy life. He might even have aged since Marshall walked back into his life an hour ago. “What do you
