The Minders (7 page)

Bobby had been in custody for over a week. Other than the occasional treadmill walk, in the fully equipped gym, they kept him locked up. They served him three meals a day. The menu consisted of bread, cheese and tea for breakfast. For lunch, they served him rice and some
koresht
, a Persian meat or veggie stew, and more tea. Finally, they served a sandwich for dinner, with soda or juice. The food was excellent. How he loved Persian food. Yet, he was beginning to crave a simple burger or pizza, and a nice cold beer.

With the exception of his minder, no one else visited him. He still had no idea what the reasons were and when they would let him go. His minder, Hamid Parvaresh, visited daily for their chat session. Apparently, guests had a designated person who watched over them. They maintained the guest’s sanity, with deliberate and routine human interaction.

In Bobby’s case, it was a well-informed and well-educated minder, fluent in English with a slight Bostonian accent, who engaged him in conversation. Not the characteristics one would expect of a foreign jailer, nuanced in all things American. He had his favorite football teams and easily mentioned his favorite players and their stats. He was versed in most of the new sitcoms, their plot lines. It seemed as though he was living in the U.S., and just arrived back that morning. It sometimes felt like two guys chin wagging at a bar, over some beers, after a long day at work.

Parvaresh took a liking to Bobby. His stays were becoming longer and the conversations directed at things Bobby and Parvaresh had in common, with less trivial fillers. They both loved Massive Multiplayer Online games and shared several in common, none of them playable from within Iran by normal means. Instead, all games were reachable via their Qatar or Turkey satellite offices and their servers, or via an ever-changing Virtual Private Network (VPN) list. Iran scoffed at such childish pastimes and, most importantly, video games. Most games violated
sharia
law. However, The Center and its need to access all things western and foreign had established several hard-lined offices in neighboring Turkey and Qatar. Piggybacking on the fiber optics lines the countries had built between themselves, a decade earlier, allowed for the ever-connected offices. The Qatar servers filled a Persian Art Gallery’s back office, while the Turkey servers filled the Iranian
Bank Mellat
branch storage rooms. The art gallery was a highly profitable business. However, the bank branch was but a shell of itself, after the U.S. imposed sanctions on Iranian banks. Because of its location and super security, that particular branch was to remain open no matter what.

The Center tech lab had finally hacked Bobby’s hard drive. It was much harder than the average traveler’s machine. It had a very strong password, which logged you in and decrypted the drive. It seems the conversations between Parvaresh and Bobby did come in handy. Special Artificial Intelligence (AI) software would take the recorded conversations, digitize them, and extract key words and constructs, to create a personalized dictionary. They extracted the password within days, a brute force method, but using an intelligent dictionary, another one of many programs designed and written by Iranians, while working at U.S. companies and organizations, who then shared with The Center. That particular program came by way of the National Security Agency (NSA), crudely titled Smart DIC.

*  *  *

“Good afternoon, Bobby.” Parvaresh entered the room carrying Bobby’s laptop.

“I’ve been instructed to allow usage of this laptop during our visits. Should you want to read old emails, look at pictures, or maybe work on projects you have going on.”

Bobby happily reached out, taking his laptop.

“And, just so you know, we’ve cleared the password, fully inspected all files and programs, and have even removed certain ones.”

“Is there any Wi-Fi?” Bobby asked with a smile.

“Not even a hint. Not even for us. Everything here is hard-lined. All outside windows are double paned with reflective gel fillers. They insulated all walls with aluminum-based material. And, every inch of the building has frequency masks,” Parvaresh proudly proclaimed, but with a hint of sadness. He missed checking his private messages during the day.

“So, no Wi-Fi, no cell service, and yet you have a cell phone hanging on your belt,” Bobby said as he opened his laptop.

Parvaresh took off his cell phone and confessed his love for all things Android. He had recently ordered the new Nexus phone from one of their U.K. based businesses, on which he flashed a custom operating system, a ROM. He placed it next to Bobby on the table. He was showing off.

Bobby found one of his favorite playlists and began playing the tunes on his laptop. He then took the phone and started casually looking at it. He felt the weight, the general feel, the screen and color resolution, the basics. He had one just like it at home. Handing it back to Parvaresh, he walked over to his bed and sat leaning against the back wall.

“That’s a great phone. I think I’ll order one if I ever get back home.”

“You can have mine. If they ever let you leave.” Parvaresh offered.

“You know, Mr. Parvaresh, I can help you with your phone. I’ve built an entire custom ROM for my last phone and still have all the code on my laptop. I have nothing better to do.”

Parvaresh perked up. Custom ROMs were phone operating systems with a cult following, typically fine-tuned to a particular taste. Some people liked their phones highly customizable, some liked their phones super-fast and light, while others liked it barebones with only the original software. Bobby could see that Parvaresh was a believer. Custom ROMs are like porn to some geeks.

“If you could make a wish list of features, what would you like to have on your ROM?” Bobby said, having felt the fish bite on the hook.

Bobby engaged Parvaresh in a multi-faceted conversation about Android. He just wanted to listen to his tunes for a bit longer and didn’t want Parvaresh to leave. They discussed all the features that phones should have, the things they could do with it, the look and feel modifications, and customizations that make it personal and unique. Clearly, Bobby had found a deep passion in Parvaresh, and the reason why he always carried his phone on his belt. They spoke for as long as the battery lasted on the laptop.

The tunes finally ended and Parvaresh excused himself while collecting the laptop. At the door, he stopped and agreed to a longer discussion on the subject, promising to bring the laptop charger next time.

Jason was in the Denver Marriott City Center hotel. Business travelers occupied most of the rooms, making it a great place to be anonymous. He was sitting in his room with a pot of coffee nearby, inspecting all the documents he had received from Mike. He was focusing on two critical clues in the pile of paperwork, the timing and the cavity. The timing and location strongly coincided with the upcoming Super Bowl, planned at the Super Dome that Mike’s company had built. Then there was the armrest cavity. It was bothersome, in that it could hide something. The game, the half-time live show, and global viewership all made perfect sense for a visible attack. He studied the new seat designs in detail, and imagined himself a terrorist.

What would I do?

The blue LED lights were an interesting addition, not to mention the self-contained battery and solar charging kits. Everything turned back to the timing and the cavity. Cavities, or hollow shaped pieces, were more expensive to build in the injection-molding business, but used less plastic. Solid plastic armrests would be cheaper, faster, and easier to manufacture, but used more plastic and were heavier.

The new hollow space requirement irked him greatly. He felt the space was useful, for something. He began to take detailed measurements of the space. It was slightly larger than a Churchill cigar. Room enough for a small amount of explosives. Between the limited explosive weight and hard plastic wrapping, it would be a minimal outward explosion. However, if each seat had a small amount, collectively it could be a powerful statement.

How do you make them all go off at the same time? Or, at all?
He thought.

Security, the week of the game, was near perfect but not good enough for this plan. Bomb sniffing dogs would run the full course and sweep every seat, but were unlikely to find built-in explosives embedded inside a hard casing.

He decided to move forward with the assumption that it would be explosives, and the master plan was an attack during the upcoming Super Bowl. Now there were two major objectives, save Bobby and stop the attack. He called Mike and asked if he could have an engineer meet him near the county offices with all the plans, permits and paperwork.

*  *  *

That afternoon, the head engineer for the superdome construction project met Jason at a café several blocks from the county office. The engineer had with him the full packet and four CD disks. He also brought a laptop containing more of the project deliverables, a massive amount of paperwork, more easily searched in digital form. He wasn’t sure what Jason wanted or what he would be looking for, so he brought everything.

They sat, over coffee, discussing the permitting process for projects of that size. They focused on the approval process and all the differing signatories who would have the final say. The engineer fanned all the new permits across the table and described systematically how one goes about getting permission for every aspect of the project. They reviewed all of the old permits on the laptop, matching new to old, looking for clues. The debate eventually came down to several names, and only one was of Persian origin, Mehdi Karimi. Jason felt deep in his bones, this was his man.

Was he a good guy or one of the bad ones?
Finishing their coffee, Jason thanked the engineer, walked to his car and began making calls.

Within the hour, Jason had a full background check sent to his phone, including credit, criminal and DMV records, as well as recent addresses and phone numbers. Additionally, he found details on his off the book activities, namely a gambling habit, which had placed a heavy burden on his credit cards, and a debt that recently zeroed out. He had paid it off in full. None of this was enough to accuse the man, but enough to force a conversation. To be more precise, a special visit.

Jason began his surveillance of Karimi at work and at the man’s apartment. The apartment search was detailed and complete. The man was single, with an appetite for cheap food and even cheaper liquor. For all the money he made, thanks to taxpayers, he still had cheap polyester suits, wash and wear shirts, and ties a decade old in style and width. Jason knew this guy worked only to feed his habits, gambling, booze, and all things in between. At least he had a job.

The second day of surveillance allowed for another visit to the apartment during which Jason planted his video equipment. With the advent of Wi-Fi, the internet of things, and the ever-connected home computer, surveillance had become so much easier and cheaper. Jason spent just ten minutes in Karimi’s home office. He created an open guest account on his Wi-Fi, then planted and connected several mini Wi-Fi cams, all streaming and recording to servers accessible by his cell phone.

It was now time for the personal visit, time and place TBD.

Having studied Karimi for days, Jason designed a meeting specifically for this man’s state of mind and fixations. He made several stops in preparation. He visited a veterinary supply store, a home improvement store, and a Halloween costume and gag store. From each, he purchased several items to complete the ingredients he would need for his plan. Jason truly enjoyed the special visits. He prided himself on spending time to understand people, to get inside their psyche, all in order to help better facilitate conversations. He loved this part, the game, the mind fucking.

Friday afternoon, and Jason was still on this guy, watching him, studying him. It was 3:30 p.m., the end of another workday for most county employees, lazy and overpaid as they were. Karimi was packing his car with some tubes containing plans and his briefcase. It looked like a work weekend, but could that be, a county guy working on a weekend? Jason cracked his first smile in days.

Jason followed the man home for what he thought would be another night of boring surveillance. No less than thirty minutes later, Karimi came out unchanged, pulling a wobbly carryon back to his car. With the car loaded, the man started driving out of town. Jason followed him for an hour and half, in traffic, to Black Hawk, Colorado.

Once there, Karimi pulled into a casino, parking his car at the long-term lot. Getting out, he continued pulling his carryon towards the main entrance. Jason quickly parked and followed him, safely from behind, hidden amongst the crowd.

Karimi stood in the quick check-in line and within minutes, he had his room key. It appeared he was a regular. With his card key in hand, he began working his way through the sea of gamblers towards the guest elevators. Jason followed a group of three rotund gamblers, reeking of cigarettes and booze, into the same elevator. He followed Karimi to room #218. Jason decided to conduct his visit in that room, that night. Given the man’s proclivities, he would have the whole weekend to work on him.

Jason returned to his car, retrieving his gear. He returned to the hotel and found a janitor’s closet, which he opened with little effort. He was looking for a house cleaner’s cart. Each house cleaner had her own key card, but because of the rush to clean rooms quickly, each cart had an emergency key card hidden, just in case a key card didn’t work, was damaged, or if they accidentally locked the key inside a room. Five minutes into the search, he found a key fastened to the underside of the lower shelf. He grabbed it and worked his way to room #218.

He knocked several times claiming room service. There was no answer. The house cleaner’s key worked perfectly. He entered, placing his bag of goodies in the closet, and then went back to the lobby for something to eat, and to keep an eye on Karimi. Jason ate his steak and potatoes, a casino special for $6.99. The casino figured diners would make up the difference in gambling losses or on booze. Soon after, comfortably full, he began focusing on Karimi again. Karimi was still at a blackjack table where he began the evening. Two empty glasses of booze next to his small dwindling stack of five-dollar chips. It looked like another losing night for the man.

Over the next several hours, Karimi kept ordering more booze and having the pit boss fetch more chips. With his credit balance back at zero, the casino was more than happy to furnish him with all the chips he wanted. The drunker he got, the worse his playing became as evidenced by the rate of shrinking playing chips.

Around the end, Karimi would see the dealers’ six up card, and would draw on his hard 19, looking for that elusive two. He made dozens of mistakes, losing an entire paycheck and more in one sitting. Free booze, dropped off by scantily dressed women, while surrounded by highly oxygenated air, could make any addict drop a load of cash. It was, by all measures, the perfect swindle.

Jason watched from a distance, avoiding direct eye contact with the cameras, especially in the elevator. There he was cautious enough to have a baseball cap on, and to stand behind the others, while looking at his feet. The night was about to end for many. You could always tell by the length of ash hanging from cigarettes glued to the lips of the slot machine players. The longer it was, the more tired they were, and the closer to quitting time. Jason took the hint and worked his way back to Karimi’s room. He needed a break.

*  *  *

Two thirty in the morning the door lock clicked and slowly swung open, hitting the sidewall, door handle crashing into the rubber bumper. The lights were off. Karimi reached for the light switch by the door. It didn’t work. Jason could smell the stench of cheap whisky as the inebriated gambler walked towards the bedside lamp, all the while holding the walls. Drunk as he was, he managed to find the lamp and clicked it on. That too didn’t work. Miffed and still holding the wall, he stood straight looking around. His eyes finally adjusted to the dark room. Before him was standing a man, with his face covered.

“Am I in the wrong room?” he slurred with both arms now reaching for the walls.

“No. You are where you’re supposed to be.” Jason punched him, flat to the ground. Walking back to the door, he put the do not disturb sign on the outside door handle, latched the safety lock, and turned on the TV, on low.

*  *  *

It was nearly dawn, when Karimi finally woke up. The TV had been playing infomercials all night.  There was a stink of vomit coming from his shirt. His arms were duct taped to the armchair. His legs, with bare feet, fastened to the chair legs. His entire upper body taped to the backrest. He was motionless, except for his head and neck. His left hand was bandaged and bloody. Several fingers were missing. Looking around, he found those missing digits in a glass on the dresser by the TV. He started to scream. You could only hear a muffled sound through the tape over his mouth. Karimi was now fully awake, and hung over, desperately needing the bathroom, in a state of shock.

Jason was making himself some tea. Using the Lipton tea bags found on the bathroom counter, by the coffee pot. It tasted like shit, as it was with all free hotel foods. He knew that too well, having spent years living in all manner of lodgings. He had polished off all the pistachios, almonds and cashews in the mini fridge. He dared not touch any of the other food. He came out stirring the tea, his face covered by a black and white Arab
Kufiya
scarf. He pulled up a chair and sat across from Karimi. He took a slow sip and, in perfect Farsi with a slight and charming
Esfahani
accent, mentioned how horrible the tea was. Nothing was like tea from back home. He so missed the bread and cheese from home too. He took his time drinking his tea, reminiscing about things. He fondly remembered one short story after another from back home.

“I remember this one teahouse right outside
Masjid Jom-Eh
. It had the best tea. They would add to each cup just the right amount of fresh rose water. They would serve two cookies with each cup, homemade cookies they were. Late in the evenings, they would also have the most aromatic tobaccos cooking in the water pipes. It was a heavenly and relaxing place to be.”

He drank every sip of tea slower than the one before, stretching out the inevitable painful outcomes for the poor tied up man. Karimi’s eyes were welling up with tears. He was crying and shaking uncontrollably. He was way past shock, and deep in a state of terror.

I think my man is ready now,
Jason pondered as he placed his tea down on the floor.

Jason took out the meds and syringe he had bought at the veterinary store. He prepared a proper dosage of local anesthesia, tapped the syringe for air bubbles, and squeezed a little from the top. He injected the liquid into Karimi’s right foot. He then reached for the bloody branch-pruning clipper placed near the glass holding the fingers.

“You’ll be very quiet now! Yes?” he stood next to Karimi, speaking ever so coldly.

“We don’t want your fingers to have more friends in the glass. So, I’ll ask some questions. You will answer. In return, I will let you keep your toes.” He continued as he removed the tape from Karimi’s mouth. Karimi nodded in agreement.

Holding the clippers in one hand, he reached for his tea and took another sip. He then asked Karimi whom he told. With whom did he confer and with whom did he share the secrets related to the permits. Jason wanted to gauge if Karimi had any clues. Asking a straightforward question was the best way to get started. Why waste time asking for their name, their address, and other irrelevant information. This was not a polygraph test. The baseline had already been established, with the missing appendages.

Jason figured if he asked a broad yet direct question he would get in return an hours’ worth of confused diatribe. From which he could set the stage for a series of more specific and guided questions. It took but two sips of tea before the man spilled the beans. He spent fifteen minutes telling Jason the entire story.