The Minders (5 page)

He entered the room, and before anyone could say a word, he grabbed the radio from his duffle bag, turning it on. It was a broad-spectrum frequency scrambler and jammer.

“It’s o.k. to talk now,” he said, placing the device on the desk.

He then gave Mike a big hug, promising that everything would be fine. Bobby, his godson, and Sean were like brothers. Bobby was practically his son too. He sat down on the couch as Mike retold the whole story, timeline and details. Mike showed him the package received from the county offices, as well as all of the contracts and stadium design specs. He covered the coffee table with everything he had.

Jason grabbed his duffle bag. Reaching inside, he removed a USB flash drive, plugging it into Mike’s computer. He turned the computer off and rebooted into the flash drive operating system. He began typing, bringing up several tabs on the browser and started several other programs. He asked for Mike’s cell phone, reading the URL link from the message and typing it into the computer. On certain web pages he made sure he had Mike’s IP address, in case they were keeping tabs, and on others, he masked it with random global IP addresses. All the while, he was studying the URL routing, to see where it would end up. In another tab, he watched the video of Bobby, several times, looking for clues. He was looking for signs of others in the room, a reflection, a window, a view, anything of value. He then walked over to the coffee table. He reviewed the documents for a good long while, and then moved back to the computer. He sent several emails and sat there waiting, quietly in thought. The dads were both on the couch, noiseless like two scolded boys, staring at Jason as he typed, read, and waited.

A good hour passed as Jason poured over everything on the coffee table and on the computer. He sent and received numerous emails and text messages. He finally leaned back and looked at the two worried dads.

“The bad news is that these guys are very good.”

“Is there any good news?” both dads echoed from the couch.

“Yes!” he said smiling, “We’re
better.”

Jason explained how these Iranians had worked the system in their favor, covering their tracks. He explained, in more detail, how the Thor Network and Onion domains worked to support all of that. Now, this all works great if you are a person, a company or a less sophisticated government. Jason explained how servers operated or owned by the U.S., or manufactured by the U.S. performed most URL routing services.  In short, the U.S. can get the final and real destination of any URL, if it wanted to. It would be highly illegal and confidential, but very much possible.

The message source is somewhat known, at the very least, the city of origin, and perhaps even a section of the city. More importantly, there are other local players. In the county offices, there was at least one person who knew something about this or was part of the plan. Also, the chair re-design showed a new cavity, allowing for inclusions, indicating some risk factors. Some pieces of the puzzle were becoming clear. From nothing, Jason now had multiple leads to follow.

“Why not call the FBI?” Jason asked out of curiosity.

Mike explained he was not sure whom to trust. Besides, if this ever gets out, no Iranian-American would ever be trusted. There were millions of Iranians living in the U.S. All had some persons or loved ones back in Iran, and they had spent decades rebuilding their lives. Mike was not dismissing calls for help, but wanted to be sure that it was the safest route. His son’s safety was paramount.

“We won’t call any of the authorities, but we will have to call others. And, we’ll need money, lots of money to pay for things, and to bribe people.” Jason interrupted, to which Mike got up and directed them to the library.

The walk to the library was down a beautifully decorated hall with artfully framed LCD screens, which adjusted the imagery to the taste of the person closest, and who happened to have a pre-programmed active RFID tag on them. Mike’s watch contained the RFID tag, which changed the pictures as he walked by. They arrived in the library. The lights turned on and adjusted automatically. Mike’s favorite music list came on. All the images changed to a tropical forest theme. Mike pulled a beautiful Esfahan Persian carpet back from the middle of the room to reveal a steel door. It had an embedded digital keypad. He typed in a long sequence of numbers and pressed his thumb on the reader. The steel door dropped a foot and slid under the floor. The lights turned on, illuminating a staircase down into a room nearly the size of the library. They all walked down and into the underground room. The room was a large vault with different size drawers and nothing else visible. Mike opened one of the drawers and took out a tray filled with diamonds, hundreds of them, from quarter carat to two carats in size.

“What else do you need?” He asked Jason as he filled a velvet drawstring bag with diamonds.

“Cash, Dollars and Euros, would be great,” Jason said, while standing next to his dad, both with their jaws near the floor. All of those years of coming to this house, they had never known this room existed.

Mike opened another drawer and showed him the cash. He added that he has several accounts in Europe, should he need to access some money while there. Jason took several stacks of hundred-dollar bills leaving the Euros behind. We will get the Euros in Europe from your other accounts. This cash is for our U.S. needs. I will be asking for a lot more, later.

“Anytime, any amount. Just let me know.”

Suddenly there was a commotion above them. It was Mike’s wife Parisa, home from a day out with the girls. She was staring down the pit, as she called it, seeing Jason and Gordon. She smiled, surprised to see them.

“What are you guys doing here? Good to see you Jason, it’s been a while. Come on up, all of you,” she said as she walked towards the kitchen.

“You have to tell her,” Gordon whispered as they were getting out of the vault. Mike pressed a button as he took the final step out of the vault. The door started moving back in place. Mike walked towards the kitchen, after his wife. The other two pulled the carpet back over the steel door and walked back to the office.

Gordon and Jason were back in the office, when Mike’s wife walked in. Happy and smiling, she moved in for a big hug from Jason. Mike closed the door behind him as his wife was greeting everyone, a kiss on each cheek, a hug and a smile.

“What’s going on?” she asked probingly, “You’re all acting pretty weird!”

Mike walked her over to the couch, sat her down, and started telling her as briefly as he could what had happened to Bobby. He told her everything, leaving out the video.

She fell to her knees screaming. A scream only a mother who had lost her child could put across. She started yelling at him, blaming him for letting Bobby go to that god-forsaken country. She wanted to leave the office. Gordon stopped her. Mike grabbed her and brought her back to the couch.

“You have to stay here. We have to talk about things, in this office, and ONLY in this office.” Jason commanded.

She held Mike tightly, as Jason instructed them on how they should behave, and what they can or cannot say and to whom, and other specific cautionary notes.

“Honey,” Mike interjected, “We should keep acting as normal as possible, and let these guys start figuring out what needs to be done.”

Parisa stood, straightening her skirt and blouse, opened the office door, and walked upstairs to her room, crying.

Jason went back to Mike’s computer to install more software. He instructed Mike on how to use the new software for encrypted communication, and on how to initiate money transfers from any account to his two accounts. Jason left the scrambler behind telling Mike that all conversations should occur in this room with the device on. Further, under no circumstances should he talk away from the device or leave his computer on when not around. He prepared his duffle bag by loading it up with the documents from the coffee table. Handing it to his dad, he prepared for his run back to the fire station.

*  *  *

Parisa was upstairs, on her bed, with an album of pictures, each page having just one group picture for each of the kids’ birthdays. She too made an album, similar to Jason’s wife, so she could quickly see how the kids were growing up, what they each looked like, year to year, as well as the family. 

She quickly went past the girls until she got to Bobby’s first picture. She worked her way through the years. They were all in the pictures, her family, Gordon and his wife, Jason and his family, friends, and neighbors. Happy times they were.

As she looked through the pictures, she noticed several without Jason. In actuality, there were many photos without Jason. She recalled the conversations, the roundabout chitchat about where he was or was not, the quiet conversations she had with her husband about what he was or wasn’t doing, all the rumors. Everybody knew just a little, just a hint, just enough to be worried, to be fearful. 

She worked her way back downstairs. Jason and Gordon were getting ready to leave. She walked back into the office, closing the door. She was stone cold. Her face was red and her eyes glossy, yet she was calm. She looked at Jason, straight in to his eyes. They were face to face.

“I don’t know what you did in your secret life, before, whenever! It was something. Something we can use. So, if you have to kill every one of those fuckers, you do it, and you bring my son back, in one piece and unharmed.”

Jason took her hand, kissed it, and promised her just that, and nothing less.

*  *  *

After his run back down the hill, his father dropped him off at his rental car. Jason drove to his hotel, to study the documents and further his plans.

It was Bobby’s second birthday. Mike offered to help, knowing he could not. He was busy with several new and large construction contracts. Added to the stress was the completion of his new office building, in which they had to move within two weeks. Then there were all the interviews he had to do supporting the recruiting process. The company was growing at a rapid pace. On the home front, his kitchen too was a busy place. Parisa was making breakfast and lunch for everyone. The girls were packing their backpacks, getting ready for school. Bobby was in his high chair smiling, playing, and eating his Cheerios. He was the youngest of all, and spoiled by each.

Every morning before he left for work, Mike would sit and stare at Bobby for a good ten minutes, while having his coffee, inhaling the little boy’s essence. It would give him so much energy.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Parisa said acknowledging the offer, tapping him on the backside, as he prepared his briefcase and refilled his coffee mug.

“The girls will help. Gordon and Charlene will be here early to help as well.”

“I told you, the godfather thing would come in handy,” Mike said smiling as he left the house.

Mike had been living in this subdivision, near where Gordon and his family moved after Iran. It was his first and only home in the US. A little small, but he liked it well enough. It was close to the schools and in a good district. The kids had their friends nearby. The low mortgage, allowed him to save a lot of money. His focus was on growing his business. The best part, however, was having his best friend and his family nearby, even though the children’s age discrepancies were vast. He felt a kinship with them, or better yet all of them with each other. Gordon had his son early, whereas Mike had his children much later in life.

Yet another price we pay for living through a revolution
, Mike would always say.

He was proud to have Jason as Bobby’s godfather, and proud to be godfather to Jason’s son, Sean. The two boys were like peas in a pod.

*  *  *

It was nearly noon. Charlene came by, with the fruit platter, cupcakes, and gifts. She was always excited about birthdays. Bobby and Sean had birthdays near each other, both in time and location, so Charlene and Parisa had become a team in getting the ball rolling for each gathering. They were efficient and organized. Both worked leisurely, as they joked and laughed about the kids, husbands, and neighbors. They set the tables, placed the food, and stacked the gifts. All the while taking a sip or two of ice tea, and testing the snacks.

“What time are Jason and family arriving?” Parisa asked.

“They’ll be here around four, after they pick up Sean from daycare,” Charlene said looking at her watch.

“Oh, and I forgot! Jason won’t make it this year. Sorry! He had an emergency at work, and had to fly to D.C.”

*  *  *

Jason hated having to lie to everyone about his work, his trips, and his work life. He had to. It was a matter of safety and national security. It seemed as though his colleagues fell into one of two groups. The ones with families, who were ultra-careful about each decision they made, and who were more strategic in thinking; and those who had no family at all, always shooting from the hip, and purely operational. It was always a match between long-term thinkers and short-term achievers. The main difference between the two was one had everything to live for while the other had little to live for. Truth be told, you needed both to make the best teams.

Gordon knew a little bit more about what Jason did, and was always ready to keep the family and the questions at bay. D.C., the capital, was a regular excuse for these trips. In most cases, it was the starting point for any trip, either logistically or procedurally.

Most of Jason’s orders came directly from D.C., after the morning CIA reviews in the White House Situation Room (WHSR). The WHSR hatched new projects weekly, requiring some action on the other side of the world. Most actions allowed for planning, but occasionally it was an overnight effort. Jason had attended several meetings at the WHSR, pre and post action. The visits were always exciting, and the meetings filled with people and discussions one could never share.

Each visit started with entering the southwest gate of the White House, where the guard would check IDs against the appointment list. Once approved, they escorted you up the West Executive Avenue, moving you towards the west basement entrance. There, another guard would check your access pass and ID. From there, you’d walk down some stairs, several turns later you would find the Mess Hall. Across from that would be the locked doors of the WHSR. Behind these doors, a conference room, surrounded by smaller offices, each filled with workstations, a very small but highly functional space. On every one of Jason’s visits, it was standing room only. Each discussion heated, with the decisions final, and the results often deadly.

*  *  *

Jason’s first career did not start the way it ended. His first love was the air force. He attended the Air Force Academy for two equally compelling reasons. First, his father, a Vietnam era helicopter pilot and all of his inspiring stories. Second, an Iranian girl he met while finishing high school in Denver, who decided to attend University of Colorado, a short drive away from the academy. A fortuitous set of events, as they married each other half way through their university studies.

At first, Jason wanted to be a pilot, then refocused on Computer Science, but eventually succumbed to his deeper desires. He completed his studies in Behavioral Sciences & Foreign Area Studies, with a minor in Foreign Languages. To satisfy his dad, he still learned how to be a pilot and a good one at that, just not as a career. He was excellent in both Farsi and Arabic, flawless in several dialects and completely accent free. It was a very rare skill, no doubt helped greatly by living in Iran, and visiting with Iranians since his time there. Not to mention, marrying into and dealing with the culture on a daily basis. He had the Middle Eastern cultures down to an art. From greetings, to hand gestures, to the humor. He was indistinguishable from a true Iranian compatriot, and had fooled almost everyone who met him for the first time. He loved to play around with people, telling them stories about where he was born and how he found his way to America. At times, it was hilarious to watch. He was so good at it.

It was that, along with his psychological profiles that marked him as a strong CIA recruit. The agency pursued him vigorously during his junior year. They wanted him to leave early, to be part of a special team dedicated to the Middle East, focusing on Iran, Iraq and Afghanistan. They would insist that he join, that he could be a great help to his country. The pressures were too much at times. Jason’s kinfolks were patriots through and through. Nevertheless, Jason wanted to finish his curriculum, just in case he needed to get a real job at some point. His father insisted that he finish his schooling, after which he could select a career. He should always maximize his options. Jason would be the first person to finish college in his family. His dad really wanted that for him, as well as for himself, a matter of family pride.

Jason was, by choice or by accident, preparing himself for deep fieldwork, according to his CIA recruiter. Upon graduation, he did join, going directly to Camp Peary. At camp, he surpassed all areas of testing, from physical to psychological, with his language skills superior to those of his trainers. It took less than two weeks at the farm, before his supervisors realized he was a better language teacher then those assigned to his group. Three weeks into his training, he became a teacher’s aide in both the Farsi and Arabic classes.

His time at the farm became one of teaching and learning. His inputs into the language curriculum completely changed the syllabus for both classes, and eventually the program. Although many of the language teachers were themselves foreign born, they did not have the dual culture mix. That cultural mix helped explain the differences in a way that would make it stick. They had so many of the subtle nuances wrong. Wrong enough to be dangerous in the field. Another critical difference was that the foreign language teachers avoided the hand gestures. It was a lower-class way of speaking. In reality, the gestures were part of speaking to the average person. These gestures and mannerisms were critical on-the-ground skills for any clandestine effort. You had to present, act and smell like a local to blend in best. Jason was a perfect deep cover asset, but with a family and a small child, he decided to focus on special projects and not deep cover.

*  *  *

Jason kept his family in Colorado, to be near his parents, to be far away from both coasts, especially D.C. and Virginia. He wanted to keep his family unsullied, away from his work. That meant a lot of flights, travelling, staying in hotels or rented apartments, or even on a couch at a friend’s house. He felt it his duty, his part in giving back to his country, a family tradition. Knowing the Persian culture so well, he hated what had happened to that country. He hated the spread of the religious extremism, which was born out of the Iranian revolution. He hated how it was spreading like a virus around the globe, forming into two stands, Shiite and Sunni extremism. He would visit and revisit the sad start to it all every time he saw or heard of religious atrocities founded in Islam.

*  *  *

It all began with three neighboring countries: Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan. Each was their own version of a guard dog protecting the yard, Saddam in Iraq, The Shah in Iran, and the Khans in Afghanistan. Each dog kept the others at bay. Each kept their extremists in jail or dead. Yes, all were dictators, but with a vision of westernization and general civility. One day Iran’s Shah decided to break the British and U.S. grip over his country. He decided to start dealing with communist Russia. The first endeavor was to build a gas pipeline from Russia, through Iran, to the Persian Gulf, followed by the purchases of military armaments. More business was surely to follow. The U.S. wanted none of that, so it supported and promoted a revolution. Since Iranians had as many opinions as there were citizens, an intellectual revolution would be impossible. The only common denominator was Islam. Therefore, they dug up an old cleric named Khomeini, and that was that. The Russians, having lost Iran, decided to invade Afghanistan, expecting Pakistan to fall from fear. Their intentions were to build a pipeline down that path. In the meantime, Saddam, seeing Iran’s perceived weakness, attacked Iran to get some oil fields back. On both sides of Iran, the U.S. was supporting, arming and building the fighting forces of those countries. On one side, the group became the Taliban and Al Qaeda. On the other side, you had the Baathists and the U.S. working together, with no long-term progressive possibilities in mind. Iraq was a powder keg waiting to blow.

Yes, that was a simple and unfussy explanation. However, it was a very quick and truthful explanation, which goes down with just one sip of your favorite liquor. The U.S. miscalculated every step, resulting in the shit storm with which we were dealing. It was all of our making.

“In the future, let sleeping dogs, and dictators, lie,” Jason would say, concluding his history lessons. Of course, there was more to it, but with Americans, a short story went a lot further than a long detailed one.

*  *  *

All work related flights for Jason were long ones, with that particular birthday flight taking him from Denver to Germany, for debriefing, and then to Kuwait. His trip from Germany would be via a DHL cargo plane to Kuwait City. From there, it would be an overland trip across the border to the Shiite region of southern Iraq, to recruit a new asset. The new asset was a
Mullah
, a cleric on whom they had been working for several months. Now, it was time for a face-to-face visit. Jason had an innate ability to read people, understand their untold wants and needs, and endear himself in a way that became deeply trusting.

“
He could steal steak right off of the devil’s plate and be thanked for it, by no less than the devil himself,
” his dad would say.

That trip was not too dangerous. But, Jason was sad to be missing Bobby’s birthday. He loved his godson like his own son. Having only one child himself, he loved that his son and Bobby were like brothers. He had a picture of them in his wallet, with the two sitting next to each other smiling, holding their fake wooden swords. He was studying them intently when the inspection call came in from the loud speaker in the cargo section of the DHL plane. The flight was about to land, and the group leader was collecting all personal belongings, and running through a checklist of paperwork, ID cards, money belts, SAT phones, and all else that might be needed.

“O.K. Jason, hand over the wallet and stop staring. And, give me your wedding band!”

“Wait a second!” One more stare. “O.K., here you go.”

“What about your wedding band?”

“I don’t wear one in the summer time. It leaves a tan mark.”

Jason started to inventory his paperwork, checked his SAT phone, money belt, and weapon. He re-visited the folder with the asset details once more. He couldn’t carry the details on him and had to memorize it all. On foreign soil, it was always best to be a crook and not a spy. Smuggling was the best and an honorable crime, especially if you were smuggling inoffensive items like American cigarettes, cell phones, weapons and such. As for the gun, that was easy. Everyone carried one, given the lack of security and the highway robberies one faced routinely. The highway robberies were so common that you lost half of your inventory just getting through. Nothing was better than having cartons of Winston or Marlboro handy. Back home cigarettes could kill you, but here they saved your life.