Authors: Max Boroumand
Jason decided to spend more time with Gideon’s group, and to continue his surveillance before committing to any more activities with this crowd. He had to find out more about them. They dropped Jason off back at his motorbike, and made arrangements for further visits, at random places and times.
On the way back to his hotel, he wrote another email to Warren Spencer, asking for everything about Gideon.
* * *
Three days of meetings and exchanging inconsequential intelligence later, Jason had received a full dossier on Gideon. He arranged to meet him alone, a meeting to come clean, hopefully.
They met at a teahouse, in the northern hills of Tehran, with outdoor seating, a respite from the heat, and above the smog. Jason began narrating what he now knew about Gideon’s background. Amazed and angry, Gideon quizzed Jason as to how he got this information, about which very few people knew. Gideon felt vulnerable and in the underdog position. Clearly, Jason was more in the loop, with high-level relationships. To ease the discomfort, Jason came clean with most of what he knew. He also added some newfound intelligence. He told most of what he had learned from the text messages onwards. He could see a sense of relief in Gideon, as though certain aspects of Jason’s story were things that had eluded Gideon and his crew for years.
Gideon followed with their complete story. His group’s main objectives had been to interfere in Iran’s nuclear program. To date, they had been responsible for eliminating nearly a dozen nuclear scientists. Most famously, they had delivered the Stuxnet virus to a nuclear power plant, setting Iran’s centrifuge development efforts back years, or so they thought.
Unfortunately, as hard as Gideon’s group tried, the Iranians were always ahead of the curve with access to technology and manufacturing processes. They kept coming across organizations, companies, people, and resources, outside the country, that fed technology and money back into Iran’s various programs. The sanctions did nothing to hold them back. He laid out detailed accounts of these points of interest, but could not find how and where they linked back to Iran.
“There is a group somewhere in Iran that is planning all of this shit, and we just can’t find them,” Gideon said with such bitterness.
“I believe I have an answer for you Gideon, at least one worth checking out, if you’re willing to help!”
Jason went deeper into the story, adding more details about the biologicals, the looming attack on U.S. soil, Parvaresh and the pinging, and finally The Cultural Center. He did keep The Center location to himself. He needed to maintain some advantage.
“This definitely interconnects with what we believe to be an intelligence group within Iran dedicated to intellectual property.” Gideon considered.
“This could be a key final point in our long search. Where is it?”
“Hold on,” Jason replied calmly.
“I will tell you, but need your help to get my godson out, if he’s in there. You can do whatever you want with the place after we get out.”
“Do we have a deal?” Jason asked.
“Yes. I believe we can help. Let’s work together to make this happen. It’s a win-win,” Gideon replied.
Bobby was feeling a little better. His ribs were still aching with each breath. He finally got to the other man, two beds over, to meet and to chat. They tried to pace the room together, trying to get their strength back. The Center thugs had beaten the other man as well. They had filmed his beating, with a warning to his wife. For the life of them, neither knew why.
The two shared their backgrounds and family details, with no clear correlations. The only thing they had in common, a kidnapping from the airport and delivery to their jail cell. The man was most concerned about his daughter, his eyes tearing up with fear and sadness. Bobby kept reassuring him. His daughter would be fine. He really had no clue. But, what else can you tell a father?
Parvaresh and the other minder would alternate their visits. Making sure all was well, to continue with their relationship building. As much as Bobby hated these people, the visits brought him access to his laptop and a way by which he could message out. He could only hope that it all worked as designed.
* * *
Late one evening, later than normal, Parvaresh dropped by with some Persian sweets and Bobby’s laptop.
“Good evening Bobby. I brought you both some dessert.”
He laid out the sweets, taking some to the other bed. Dropping off Bobby’s laptop, for a thirty-minute break, he left to make some tea. Taking advantage, Bobby loudly whispered to the other man.
“Do you and your daughter have nicknames? What are they?”
“Why do you ask?” the man nervously responded, with half a cookie in his mouth.
“Just tell me what they are, quickly, please!”
The man whispered back the names. Bobby quickly typed them into the computer. Saving the file, he launched his media player. Parvaresh opened the door bringing in tea for everyone.
“Here you go guys, some tea to go with your desserts.”
They all sat around Bobby’s laptop listening to tunes, enjoying some Persian sweets and tea. They chatted about music, their favorites, laughing about some of the oldies but goodies.
“Time is up,” Parvaresh said, on the dot.
He placed the laptop in the bag, shouldering it as he stacked the plates and cups on a tray, leaving for the evening.
“Why did you want the names?” the other man asked, once they were alone again.
“I’m trying something out and I hope it helps.” Bobby turned his head around and buried it in his pillow. He was in pain, but feeling so much stronger. The urge to escape conquered all sorts of discomforts.
Mike’s company delivered the first set of chairs to a local San Francisco storage warehouse. The shipment came from Denver. From there, it would be forwarded to
Khartoum
and then to
Laqawa
, a small village in southern Sudan. It was in this village, in its town hall, where the experimental delivery system would be tested and evaluated.
Laqawa
was a Muslim village with a severe distrust of anything foreign. All attempts to vaccinate the children had failed because to them it was an American plot to neuter them, or worse, another western-based attempt to hurt the Muslim population. This was the story repeatedly told to the Stanford graduate as justification for building the delivery mechanism.
The startup crew picked up the chairs within the hour, relabeling all the crates and preparing the forwarding documents, all for show in case some non-essential person evaluated the paperwork. The back-story had to match. They took the crates to the startup’s location in Palo Alto. The crates were unloaded and brought inside where they were unpacked. Inside each crate were the parts for three blue stadium chairs made of hard plastic with folding arms and seats. Each seat bottom had a built-in lithium battery, charged by the solar cells embedded in the armrest.
After assembling one and completing the wiring, the Stanford graduate excitedly ran to his work area and grabbed a completed cylinder prototype to check the fittings. He brought it over to the chair, lifted the right armrest and found the snap-in lid. He popped it out, inspecting the wires, the holding brackets, as well as the female vapor nozzle and micro-needle placement slots. He gently placed the brass cigar-sized cylinder into the holding bracket. They clicked into place perfectly. He connected the wires on the back, and placed the airtight lid back on.
He began his tests, starting with connectivity. He went to his computer, clicking on some icons, starting the application and diagnostics software. He sent a command. The blue LED lights on the top backrest turned on and then off. Good. That worked, now for the other tests. He had a neutral, pressurized green gas in the cylinder, ready to be tested. He sent another command. A small amount of gas gently floated up, as per the command. Following that came the timed and other release tests. Next, the micro needle injection test. All were perfect. Great, he began to assemble and test the other chairs, separately and together, controlling the chairs using an app on a cell phone.
Both the founders were watching with excitement, tapping the young man on the back with great fervor and joy.
“Great job young man, you’re going to be famous for this humanitarian work of yours,” one commented as he started back to the office, to send some emails and to make phone calls. He had to pull the trigger, so to speak, for the manufacturing of all the remaining seats.
* * *
Henry and his people were keeping a close watch on the group, every person, every location. They had the successful tests on their video feed. Henry kept an eye on all activities inside the startup, while his men followed the startup employees. Emails to the FBI, including video clips, were authored and ready. The prompt would be a call from Jason, or a move by the startup. Henry wrote a special email for Jason insisting on haste and providing him an update on what they had witnessed. He wrote another email for Gordon, to catch him up. He sent them both off and then called his wife to check on the home front.
Henry loved calling his wife with updates. To him, his wife was the big boss. He hated being away from her. He shared everything with her. This was a surprise to Amatis, still staying with Henry’s family. Jason did not talk about work at all. Amatis was pleased to be getting the full scoop from Henry’s wife.
Amatis and Henry’s wife exchanged many timelines and stories where the two men had worked together. Although Henry’s wife was forthcoming, she knew to keep her mouth shut on certain aspects of what she had heard. But, she thought it only fair that Amatis should know a little more about the good that her husband had done despite the means by which they were done.
Amatis, for her part, was grateful to know more, but it only added to her fears and worries.
Mike felt depressed and worried having sent the sample chairs to California. He knew there existed some plan, with disastrous outcomes, over which he had no control. He was exhausted from lack of sleep and felt dead to the world. Gordon visited daily, as both a distraction and a rock for the family, even though he too was worried about his son. They asked each other questions the same question, in so many different ways, both direct and through facial expressions.
Is everything going to be o.k.?
On that particular evening they were sitting in Mike’s office playing backgammon, drinking red wine, with lit cigars balancing on a nearby ashtray. The room was quiet with the exception of dice rolling across a hand-made wooden backgammon set.
Mike had brought an original hand carved set from Iran decades ago. All the pieces were original, with the square dice smoothed at each corner from years of play, making each roll spin for a long time, adding to the charm. This made each game longer and disputes about which number it landed on more colorful.
They were on their sixth game of the night when the computer beeped. Mike hurried over to his computer, moving the mouse to wake up the screen. It was a message on the secured email software. He had the app up and running every chance he got, hopeful for updates.
“Come over here.” He called Gordon over, to read the email with him. They both leaned in reading the email from Henry.
Jason was well and safe. He thinks he’s found Bobby’s location. He has found help and support. Amitis was doing fine. Please tell Gordon, I’m sending him another email with more details.
They moved back to the game, not playing, just sitting, and staring at each other.
“So Gordon, you think he can get Bobby back? Is this going to end soon?”
“I don’t know, Mike, but it seems that he’s gotten pretty close and he’s in good company.” He got up to end the evening.
“I need to go back home to see what the other email says and I’m pretty tired.” He could not wait to get home, worried there was bad news. He had to know.
He bid Mike farewell and left for the evening.
* * *
Safely at home, Gordon went past his sleeping wife on the couch. Giving her a quick kiss on the forehead, he went to his office. He booted up his special OS and logged into the secured email application. He opened Henry’s email.
Jason is in Tehran. He found the building where he thinks Bobby is located. He has some Turks, old friends, to help get him in and out. He has also connected with some Israelis to help in Tehran. Jason will contact us with final extraction plans, at which point you will have to take care of the Denver minder. I will send you the timing, as best as I understand, as well as location. I will send help. Be on the lookout. Be ready.
Gordon turned off his computer. Went back to the couch and gently lifted his wife up to take her to their room. He placed her softly in the bed and covered her. He then went to his safe, in the garage, taking out his gun. He began a complete field strip, cleanup and reassembly. He was not sure if he was preparing to kill someone or if Henry’s man was going to do the deed. In either case, he was getting ready.
* * *
Mike was busy at work the next morning after the long night of playing backgammon, and worrying with Gordon, when the young networking manager responsible for tracking the pings came rushing through the door. She was excited, holding a cup of coffee and a stack of printed paper.
“I have a whole bunch of pings, but a different message.” She sat and laid the paper in front of Mike.
“Show me,” Mike said, sitting straight in his chair.
“The numbers are still as before.” She highlighted a line with the new data and handed the paper back to Mike. It read.
Pinchy;Khoochikam;Moushee;35.7626;51.4190
Mike read it, immediately feeling excited and energized. He called Gordon and asked to meet him at the house as soon as he could. He himself left after several more business calls, with the stack of printed pings in his briefcase and a brand new CD loaded with data.
* * *
Mike arrived home to find Gordon already waiting inside. He rushed in, grabbing his wife’s hand and pushing Gordon towards the office nearly dragging his wife. He closed the doors, turned on the dampener, and announced, “He’s alive. Our boy is alive!”
He slapped one sheet of paper from his briefcase on the desk, pointing at one word in a page full of lines.
“See. There it is. Look at it. It’s him.”
Gordon and his wife both looked. Gordon was confused. Mike’s wife grabbed the paper and sank into the couch with a big smile across her face.
“Gordon,” she said, “We used to call Bobby ‘Pinchy’ when he was a little boy. We haven’t used that name for well over ten, no fifteen, years.”
“Wow, that boy is one smart cookie. We’ll have to send a message to Jason ASAP.” Gordon smiled.
“It’s already done,” Mike interrupted, “Remember, we automated the whole process. Jason gets any new data stream ASAP. They’re packed and sent to his email account hourly.”