HEART OF TERROR

Craig W. Dressler

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Prologue

The enthusiasm of his parents had waned years after the fact when Daoud, or David in English, heard about Shah Mohammed R'eza Pahlavi fleeing Iran. Massive demonstrations caused the progressive leader's downfall. His government, though forward-thinking was corrupt, and, amazingly, it was the movement away from strict sharia, Islamic law, more than corruption which turned Muslim leaders and the populace against him. The U.S. had supported the Shah, so the U.S. took him in for the few remaining years of his life.

Likewise, Daoud had been too young to remember when the Ayatollah Khomeni returned from exile in France. Daoud's parents related with bitterness the massive celebration two million strong when Khomeni's plane set down in February of 1979. The hopefulness in Ayatollah's new regime had long since dissipated as secular corruption had simply been replaced by corrupt clerics who got almost all government contracts for their inefficient companies. With unemployment over thirty percent and inflation about forty percent bitterness is a way of life for those who at first supported Khomeni and his successor once Khomeni died. Just to get a business license one needs a bribe, and it is common to be stopped on the street by police and hit up for protection money. Eighty-five percent of the population refuse to pay income taxes, so lack of support for the government is a serious problem.

Into this mix waltzed Saddam Hussein who thought he saw an opportunity to gain precious Iranian oil fields and invaded about a year into Khomeni's rule. Craziness can beget craziness. Surprisingly, Islamic fanaticism kept Iran from being soundly defeated. Thus began the Iran-Iraq War which lasted for years.

Daoud's childhood was filled with patriotic images of war. Older cousins, even as young as eleven years old went off to war never to return. Iranian lives lost amounted to nearly one million with many dying because the Ayatollah, now called Faqih or supreme leader and commander of the armed forces as well, fostered martydom as a way of life.

With forty thousand teachers fired by the Ayatollah, Daoud grew up lacking a real education except for in Arabic. Seven years learning the "holy" language of the Koran became the central aim of education. Islamic indoctrination knew no bounds.

In 1987 with the Iran-Iraq War still raging Daoud turned eleven and with fear-filled pride he set out shortly thereafter to serve his country. What little schooling he had received had instilled in him blind patriotism. He still remembered his mother's parting words intertwined with a hug, Khoda hafez. It was all he could do not to cry as whispered the same words of good-bye.

The training he underwent was cursory at best and lunacy at worst. Daoud with boys in the same age group stayed in barracks on the edge of a lifeless plain. Daily they would rise at sunrise and after prayer and a little flat bread would train to march out over the plain at evenly-space intervals. Their sergeant voice grew hoarse while yelling attempting to keep his charges the proper distance apart as they marched. Eventually, the sergeant pronounced them ready.

The battlefield near Basra was littered with destroyed tanks, trucks and dead bodies. Vultures circled overhead, and the stench gagged Daoud. The terrified boy heard the command to march and recalled also hearing a few boys saying, Loftan, loftan or please, please… wanting to turn back, but a stick in the hands of the sergeant propelled them back into formation.

The boys' training worked almost well enough to accomplish their goal. Every few minutes an explosion could be heard as the battlefield was cleared of mines. Screams of the dying and those having lost limbs rang in Daoud's ears for months afterwards. His closest friend in the barracks, Ahsan, died that day, and his childhood innocence was also forever lost during that horrific event.

Fleeing the memories of that day became a driving force in Daoud's life. Thankfully, a truce between Iran and Iraq was soon brokered creating an uneasy peace, and Daoud was spared anymore battles. Yet he could not escape the recurring nightmares remaining from that experience.

Hearing this story after the fact did not make it any less intense. My connection to Daoud began some years later in Japan. Part of the thousands of Iranian immigrants in the country, Daoud came from the Azerbaijani ethnic group, the largest in Iran besides Persian. He spoke Azeri not Farsi as a first language. Still scarred from the past those memories continued to plagued his dreams.

By chance we met in Shibuya Park in Shinjuku, a centrally located section of Tokyo. I was teaching English at a YMCA conversation school a short train hop away and would occasionally spend Sunday afternoons at what was then called Little Tehran in Shibuya Park. The walk from the train stop took me past Meiji Shrine, where the Japanese would flock to pay tribute and even worship a long, dead emperor. The walk also included passing through a sector of the park where disenfranchised Japanese youth listened to blasting rock music and hung out. Eventually, I reached Little Tehran. Cross-cultural activities fascinated me, and the booths selling great smelling, spicy dishes attracted me. Even the fact that the Japanese translator of a book disparaging Islam had been murdered did not stop my jaunts into Persian culture.

On one particular Sunday I had just purchased a Persian meal and sat down on a park bench when I was approached by a burly young man. He was not tall but gave the impression of strength.

"You American?" he asked.

"Yes," I responded a little reluctantly not sure where the conversation was headed.

"What your job?" he inquired.

"I teach English."

That was the only opening he needed because he would invariably watch for me on Sundays and sit and chat trying to improve his English. Daoud, as I later learned to call him, worked in construction on the tiny bamboo scaffolding stories high placed on the outside of buildings. One day, though, he fell and badly broke a leg. After learning of his plight from a friend one Sunday afternoon, I visited him in the hospital taking along a few books in English I thought he might like. One was a biography of a doctor, which he read almost immediately. The following Sunday he told me of his dream of becoming a doctor and asked if I knew of a way to help him get to the U.S. Unable to see anyway to help, I let the question slide. Shortly thereafter, my contract finished; I returned to the U.S. and lost track of Daoud.

CHAPTER ONE

BLINDMAN'S BLUFF

Was there cause for concern? When U.S. Customs' officials handcuff and haul you into a cubicle with a window that reflects your image, certainly your ire begins to increase. Being an English teacher I understand gerunds and transitive verbs, but U.S. Customs' officials, the CIA or whoever had locked me in this tiny room were beyond my realm of experience. Perhaps, some paranoid grandma returning from Europe had overheard me speaking about working in Saudi Arabia and done here civic duty by informing on the suspected terrorist planning on wreaking havoc on American society by releasing numerous dangling participles on trusting citizens. I really don't know; I was stumped.

Sure, I had taught Arabs of different stripes, mostly Saudis, but I was a teacher. That's what instructors in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia do. Sure, I had played volleyball with Arabs late at night out in the desert on the outskirts of Riyadh, but nobody in their right mind would want to do anything athletic in hundred-plus temperature during the day. Sure, I had eaten dinner out after class with Saudi students while listening to constant harangues as to why the U.S. is so bad for supporting Israel. But what else is there to do except enjoy legendary Arab hospitality in a country where even Porky Pig cartoons are banned. Do not get me wrong, I would much rather have the current King than a Muslim extremist ruling the country. But, hey, lighten up a little, would you? As I said, though, why I was locked in this little room was beyond my ken.

A big, burly man stepped into the room interrupting my thoughts. His light, short-cropped hair gave the appearance of a balding head; yet his powerful presence would have kept any derogatory remarks on his looks at bay.

"My name is Agent Smith," he flatly stated.

"Yea, right. And I'm King Kong," I sarcastically replied.

Unperturbed, he continued, "We have a situation, and we need your cooperation. You have been cavorting with known terrorists."

"Cavorting! I'm a single guy who doesn't cavort with anyone. I may have been an acquaintance of a terrorist, but not being privy to your watch lists I wouldn't know," I heatedly responded.

"Because of your activities, you may be charge with aiding and abetting the enemies of the U.S. and may face prison time," Agent Smith deadpanned.

"That's ridiculous. What are you going to charge me with? I inquired. "Teaching prepositions to the enemy?"

"The Saudi secret police have been quite thorough in their investigation with photographs and recordings, but there is an alternative to prosecution," he interjected.

Quickly I replied, "You don't have a leg to stand on with those charges. Still I am curious as to what the alternative is."

"Work for us on the inside," Smith bluntly stated.

"Are you crazy? I'm no operative; I don't even know Arabic except for shish kabob, bukra and the never-ending inshallah. The Saudis have their own police for such work. I even had one in class that gave me a Christmas card with a camel eating a Christmas tree. Recruit him," I rambled on.

"Our intelligence sources have informed us that Al Qaeda and splinter groups have been trying to recruit nonarabs because they have so miserably failed after the World Trade Center disaster. We, on the other hand, have also failed to place any operatives of real value within said terrorist groups. That's where you come in," the agent informed me. Heading out the door Smith left me with one parting statement, "Ponder your options until I return."

Rising, I nervously paced back and forth in my cubicle occasionally stopping to stare at my reflection. A thirtyish, slightly overweight male about six feet tall with curly, unmanageable hair stared back.

"How did I get into this predicament?" I asked myself. "My dream was to live an unencumbered life free of strictures. Here I am about to be thrown into the maelstrom of humanity. No, I'll go to prison first. My name is Chase Harte; I am not to be trifled with."

Agent Smith and his superior watched intently as Chase fretted and paced.

Smith spoke first, "He's right, you know. If he refuses, we have to let him go. There's not a thing we can charge him with."

"Yeah, you're right. Nevertheless, I believe he'll surprise us. Predictability isn't one of his character traits. He has that adventuresome spirit that's a distinctive of most in our field of work."

Smith reentered the room. "Well, what's your decision?"

Looking down in defeat, I whispered, "I'll do what you're asking. I must be as crazy as you, but what choice do I have?"

The preceding is an excerpt from a Christian espionage novel which is available from the Barnes and Noble website, and from the Tate Publishing Bookstore at the following link: bookstore/