One Night in Tehran: A Titus Ray Thriller
Luana Ehrlich
Author Bio
Luana Ehrlich picked up her first adult spy novel when she was eleven years old. Today, she continues to have a passion for the thriller/mystery/suspense genre of fiction. In addition to being an avid reader, she is also a news fanatic and follows events around the world on a daily basis, particularly the Middle East.
Luana is a minister’s wife and has lived in Norman, Oklahoma for the past two decades. Previously, she resided in Texas and New Mexico and in several states in the Midwest. Along with her husband, she also served as a missionary in Costa Rica and Venezuela.
Occasionally, she reports on the experiences of newly converted Christians for Baptist Press, a national news service for Baptists. At one time, she wrote a weekly column for The Indiana Baptist, entitled “A Story To Tell,” which told the stories of ordinary people who became followers of Christ. Luana is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers.
She began writing the Titus Ray novels when her husband retired from the pastorate. Now she writes from an undisclosed location, trying to avoid the torture of mundane housework, grocery shopping, and golf stories. However, she occasionally comes out of hiding to see her two grandsons or to enjoy a Starbucks caramel macchiato.
Description
He gets involved in a murder in Oklahoma, while being stalked by a Hezbollah assassin, but nothing seems more dangerous to CIA intelligence officer, Titus Ray, than his feelings for local police detective, Nikki Saxon.
In Tehran, while hiding out from VEVAK, the Iranian secret police, CIA intelligence officer, Titus Ray, finds shelter with a group of Iranian Christians after a botched mission to recruit assets inside Iran. Compelled by the unwavering faith of these believers, the battle-hardened, covert operative becomes a believer himself before his new friends manage to smuggle him over the mountainous terrain of western Iran to freedom in Turkey.
Once he returns to the States and is debriefed, he discovers his Iranian mission failed because of political infighting within the Agency. After this revelation, in a hot-tempered outburst, he delivers a scathing indictment against Robert Ira, the CIA’s Deputy Director of Operations. As a result of his insolence, Deputy Ira forces Titus to take a year’s medical leave before giving him permission to return to active duty.
Titus chooses to return to Norman, Oklahoma, where he spent three months investigating the 9/11 hijackers who had been enrolled in the Airmen Flight School at the University of Oklahoma. Before leaving Langley for Oklahoma, Titus hears reports of a Hezbollah hit man who’s been hired by VEVAK to assassinate him for killing two VEVAK agents in Tehran.
As Titus tries to evade the crosshairs of this assassin, he comes across the body of another CIA operative, someone who’d been his close friend. Now, while trying to figure out if the assassin mistakenly shot his friend instead of him, he must decide if the Iranians he meets at a church supper have ties to the man who’s trying to kill him.
Then, one of the Iranians is found with his throat slashed, and Titus becomes a suspect in a murder investigation led by Nikki Saxon, a beautiful local detective. As Titus teams up with Nikki to find the real murderer, the two of them not only uncover several Hezbollah sleeper cells in Oklahoma, but also discover they have feelings for each other. When Nikki gets shot, Titus has to depend on his newfound faith and make several crucial decisions, decisions that will change his life forever.
Book excerpt
In far northwest Iran, a few minutes after clearing the city limits of Tabriz, Rahim maneuvered his vehicle onto a rutted side road. When he popped opened the trunk of the car to let me out, I saw the car was hidden from the main highway by a small grove of trees. In spite of our seclusion, Rahim said he was still anxious about being seen by a military convoy from the nearby Tabriz missile base.
For the first time in several hours, I uncurled from my fetal position and climbed out of the vehicle, grateful to breathe some fresh air and feel the sunshine on my face. As my feet landed on the rocky terrain, Rahim handed me a black wooden cane. I wanted to wave it off, but, regrettably, I still needed some help getting around on my bum leg.
Rahim slammed the trunk lid down hard.
“You can stretch for a few minutes,” he said, “but then we must get back on the road immediately. Our timing must be perfect at the border.”
Rahim and I were headed for the Iranian/Turkish border, specifically the border crossing at Bazargan, Iran. He was absolutely confident he could get me out of Iran without any problems. However, during the last twenty years, I’d had a couple of incidents at other border crossings—Pakistan and Syria to be precise—so I wasn’t as optimistic.
While Rahim was tinkering with the car’s engine, I exercised my legs and worked out the stiffness in my arms. As usual, I was running through several “what ifs” in my mind. What if the border guards searched the trunk? What if the car broke down? What if we were driving right into a trap?
I might have felt better about any of these scenarios had either of us been armed. However, Rahim had refused to bring along a weapon. Carrying a gun in Iran without a special permit meant certain imprisonment. Imprisonment in Iran meant certain torture, so I certainly understood his reasons for leaving the weaponry back in Tehran.
Still, a gun might have helped my nerves.
I was surprised to hear Rahim say I could ride in the front passenger seat for the next hour. He explained the road ahead was usually deserted, except for a farm truck or two, so it seemed the perfect time to give me a brief respite from my cramped quarters.
I didn’t argue with him.
However, I thought Rahim was being overly cautious having me ride in the trunk in the first place—at least until we got nearer the Turkish border. I’d been passing myself off as an Iranian of mixed ancestry back in Tehran, and now, having grown out my beard, I didn’t believe a passing motorist would give me a second look.
When I climbed in the front seat, the cloying smell of ripe apples emanating from the back seat of Rahim’s vehicle was especially pungent. Flat boxes of golden apples were piled almost as high as the back window, and the sweet-smelling fruit permeated the stuffy interior of the car. On the floorboard, there were several packages wrapped in colorful wedding paper. I was sure they reeked of ripe apples.
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