The Caspian Intercept by RG Ainslee

Author:RG Ainslee [Ainslee, RG]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-12-28T22:00:00+00:00

17 ~ The Russian

Monday AM, 7 November 1979: Tehran, Iran

Naheed strutted into the office, halted in front of the Russian, and dropped a plain cardboard folder on the table.

The Russian sneered. "What is this?"

The Iranian projected a smug self-satisfied arrogance as he said, "Open it and find out."

The Russian gave Naheed a withering look and opened the folder, it held six photographs. The first one showed Sam entering his apartment building.

"Is this Sam Brooks?" said the Russian.

Naheed stood a little taller, his shoulders back, and answered with a crisp, "Yes. One of my men confirmed his identity at the embassy."

The Russian leafed through the photos until he came to the next to last one. He held it close and examined the black and white print in detail. He did the same with the last photo.

Naheed noticed the change in the Russian's countenance. "We have not yet identified the other man. My watcher was alone and chose to remain in place as ordered. Do you wish us to follow him next time?"

The Russian knotted his lips and glared at Naheed. "Incompetence, you should have had two men on duty. Do I have to lay out every detail for you? How do you expect to lead a revolution if you can't even accomplish a simple surveillance?"

Naheed stood speechless, seething with anger. His seeming triumph had turned to naught.

The Russian barked out an order, "Bring this Azad here. — Now."

* * *

Amadeo strolled into the hotel restaurant intent on having a full breakfast before heading to the airport. He settled into a chair at a corner table and awaited the arrival of the indifferent waiter. The morning staff was a hotbed of rude behavior, but the food was okay, if slow to arrive.

The waiter, an older man who took on the airs of an ayatollah, scribbled the order on his pad. As he walked away, Amadeo requested he be served his coffee first. The waiter ignored him.

The large room held only a handful of diners. It was still early, or the hotel guests were trying their luck elsewhere. Ten minutes later, a lukewarm cup of coffee arrived at the same time the East German optics salesman strolled in, followed seconds later by Carl Walker. They sat together three tables away.

Amadeo strained to eavesdrop on their conversation, to no avail, they spoke softly in German. The waiter arrived with Amadeo's order, a tomato omelet with a small slab of Nan with jam. He snubbed a request for a coffee refill.

The two men ate a continental style breakfast of coffee and Iranian pastries. Amadeo nibbled slowly, hoping to pick up on the nature of their business. He made a conscious effort not to look their way or appear interested.

Halfway through the meal, a trio of Air France stewardesses swept into the room and settled at the table between Amadeo and Walker. They chattered away about some indignity suffered at the hands of airport officials at Mehrabad. Their conversation blocked any further attempts at overhearing Walker and his friend but did give a credible excuse to look their way.

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