Agent Jack Teller had to make an ugly choice in his youth. Now, decades later, he and his country must deal with the blowback. Tehran 1953. A new recruit to the recently established CIA, Jack Teller is torn between loyalty to U.S. policies and sympathy for the hopes of a fledgling democracy in Iran—and he must choose which side he will betray. Twenty-six years later, Jack returns to a very different Iran—a nation in the grip of a religious revolution, its populace clamoring for the destruction of “The Great Satan” America. Descending into the deadly chaos at the heart of an emerging struggle between the West and a dangerous new ideology, Jack must risk everything to save one man from Islamic justice—a man he once called his friend. Agent Jack Teller had to make an ugly choice in his youth. Now, decades later, he and his country must deal with the blowback. Tehran 1953. A new recruit to the recently established CIA, Jack Teller is torn between loyalty to U.S. policies and sympathy for the hopes of a fledgling democracy in Iran—and he must choose which side he will betray. Twenty-six years later, Jack returns to a very different Iran—a nation in the grip of a religious revolution, its populace clamoring for the destruction of “The Great Satan” America. Descending into the deadly chaos at the heart of an emerging struggle between the West and a dangerous new ideology, Jack must risk everything to save one man from Islamic justice—a man he once called his friend. Tom Gabbay is the author of The Berlin Conspiracy and The Lisbon Crossing . He previously worked for NBC Entertainment as director of children's and comedy programs, and was creative director of the production partnership between NBC and ITV Television in the United Kingdom. He lives in Europe. The Tehran Conviction By Tom Gabbay HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Copyright © 2010 Tom Gabbay All right reserved. ISBN: 9780061188602 Chapter One As far as I could remember, it was the first time I'd held the dead man's hand. I knew a guy once who was so superstitious that he'd fold the infamous aces and eights whenever he saw them, but not me. I sat back and waited for the action. It had been a long night of busted flushes and gut-shot straights going nowhere and this might be my last chance to pull something back. Of course Wild Bill Hickok was probably thinking along the same lines as he contemplated the hand, unaware that a Colt Peacemaker was about to blow a .45-caliber hole in his luck. Funny. You'd think an old gunslinger like Wild Bill would know to sit with his back to the wall. I certainly did. I glanced around the table. It was the usual Friday-night collection of postmodernist bohemians, New Wave cokeheads, and weekend refugees from Wall Street. I knew the faces and some of the names, but not much else. It was one of the things I liked about Barnabus Rex. Nobody tried to sell you their life story. If they didn't come for the backroom cards, it was for the eight ball, or to feed the old Rock-Ola jukebox, which at the moment was blaring out Blondie's "Heart of Glass" for the umpteenth time. Four and a half years had passed since the fall of Saigon. It had been the end of a chapter for me, but like a lot of other -people, I was having trouble turning the page. Don't get me wrong. I wasn't in any sort of desperate straits, but Vietnam left its mark on anyone who spent time there, and I was no exception. It was a tough place to leave behind, and I'd hung on to the bitter end, not realizing until that last chopper was lifting off the embassy roof that I'd stayed because I had no idea where else to go. New York was the closest thing I had to a home, and as good a place as any to get lost for a while, so I caught a flight from Manila, and two days later I was ensconced in a top-floor loft at the corner of West Broadway and Grand. It wasn't elegant—or legal, for that matter—but it was cheap, and it had space, which was what I needed more than anything at that point. Once I'd cleaned the place up, put some plumbing in, and declared victory over the rats, it wasn't half bad, either. There was even a view, looking south onto the newly built twin towers of the World Trade Center. A guy with long, tangled hair and cocaine eyes decided he'd try to steal the pot for ten bucks. I should've given him some rope, let him hang himself, but I couldn't resist the urge to wipe the silly grin off his face, so I raised back. He folded his bullshit, and that was enough for me. I called it a night. A light October rain was falling as I stepped onto Duane Street and headed uptown, lingering through the no-man's-land of dark warehouses and hidden sweatshops that I still thought of as the Washington Market, even though everyone else had taken to calling it Tribeca. There was something invigorating about the city at this hour, especially down here. The streets were empty and still, but there was this vibration in the air—a charge in the atmosphere that wen