Authors: Max Boroumand
“How are things with you and the crates?” Jason asked.
“The crates are all good. We checked on them two hours ago, and nothing had shifted or broken. We’re twentieth in line for inspection. They’re definitely looking hard this time around.”
“Will you be o.k.?”
“Not too worried,” Erdal said.
“The Turks don’t care about people coming through because they know everyone moves on to Europe. So all they look for is drugs, using dogs, and we’re clear on that note.”
“As for the Iranians,” he continued, “They’re only worried about people and don’t care about drugs leaving the country. All they look for is people, the driver, all passengers, and anyone who might be hiding in nooks and crannies, but they are way too lazy about moving heavy crates around.”
“I’m more worried about you. Have you seen the daily
Kayhan
newspaper?” Erdal asked Jason.
“No,” Jason said, “We were on the road early this morning.”
“On the first page, there is an article about three men, two pictured and one described, having kidnapped a little girl. The girl is the niece of an unnamed local
Mullah
. It is a very sad story! You should read it.” Erdal coughed.
“So, they’re looking for the girl and three guys. That would be you guys.” Jason joked.
“Shit! You’re right. I didn’t think about the numbers, just the picture of the two guys!” Erdal suddenly became worried.
“Thanks for the heads up. Call me when you get through.”
“I’ll call in a couple of hours. If I don’t call you, call Baba!” Erdal nervously finished and hung up.
* * *
“How are they?” Bobby asked.
“Good. But, I have bad news.” Jason said, thinking of everyone’s predicament.
“What bad news?”
“You’re all over the news. Apparently, you and some other dudes kidnapped some cleric’s daughter.”
“What the fuck?” Bobby said sitting straight in his chair.
Jason retold the news story he had heard from Erdal. He then began educating Bobby on facial recognition and the psychology associated with recognizing people. Mistaken identity was so common, with the main reason being poor encoding at the time of initial observation. That’s the first time someone sees you or your picture, as compared to seeing you the next time. Second, mistakes were inevitable when comparing two people, mostly because the circumstances for comparison were different; low lights, far away, different hair, and dozens of other reasons. Finally, human nature causes faulty memory all the time. He ended with one basic rule.
“When people think they’ve seen you or recognized you, the only definitive and final confirmation comes in the way you react to their gaze. So, stare back at them as though you’ve never seen them and are happy to meet them for the first time. Never look away, look shy, or look nervous.”
* * *
Nearing the outskirts of
Zanjan
, Jason sat straight, pointing at a road sign. “Good, finally we’re getting near one of my favorite eateries. I’m starving.”
Jason came by this restaurant on one of his visits, years back. Acting the tourist, he was to meet an asset at the
Laundry House Museum,
for a tour package, which included lunch. The lunch was a short walk away from the museum, where he ate the best food he had ever had at a restaurant in Iran. A man, his wife and four children ran the restaurant, a family affair all around. The food was fresh, made with love, as though they were feeding family and friends at a wedding. The ingredients were of best quality, for a public restaurant. Jason took the
Zanjan – Bijar
exit and drove into town.
“Bobby, tear the map and toss it out the window. It’s time to go local, all the way. Are you ready?”
Bobby, tore the map up into stamp size pieces, opened the window looking for a clearing, and then tossed the confetti out the window.
“I’m ready!”
Jason, working from memory, took a wrong turn, then two or three more, but found his way to the restaurant. Parking right across from the restaurant, they got out, stretched a bit, and then entered. They found a table near the window. The tables were clean and empty. As they sat, a waiter loaded the table with water, bread, greens, raw onions, and an assortment of fresh
torshi
, Persian relish. There were no menus.
“
Salam, Khosh Amadeen
.” The waiter welcomed them, giving them a rundown of the days’ offerings, and asked for their order.
Jason responded in kind, ordering several starters, two main meals, and two carbonated
dooghs
for drinks, a popular yogurt based beverage. He sat back, casually taking stock of his surroundings. The place was as busy as it was last time, with families and young couples occupying most of the tables, and solitary elderly men filling the remaining tables. The place was thick with the aroma of great Persian food, intermixed with that odd cigarette or two that people still smoked at the table.
Jason eyed a man sitting several tables away reading the
Kayhan
newspaper. He did not want to ask for it, but tried to peak at the article below the fold with pictures of the kidnappers. Noticing his gaze, the man politely offered to give him the paper once he was done. Jason tapped his chest in a gesture of thanks, and started on his bread and greens, waiting for the main dishes.
Bobby and Jason were both ravenous. Looking down at their plates, they ate their starters and the appetizers, never looking up. They were making small talk and Bobby was practicing his Farsi. Unexpectedly, a man tapped Bobby on the back, handing him the paper, with his picture facing up. Nearly choking on his food, Bobby stood up, looking the man straight in the eyes, and took the paper, thanking him.
“Please sit,” the man said, pushing Bobby back down, “Are you folks from around here?”
“No,” Jason said, “My apprentice and I are on our way to Tabriz to buy merchandise. We always eat here on our way up and down. What about you?”
“I work at the museum down the street. Have you ever been?” he asked warmly.
“Oh, yes, several times. It is quite interesting, and beautiful inside. Would you like to sit?” Jason stood up as he offered the man a chair.
Bobby’s eyes widened, looking stunned. He looked at Jason as though that was the dumbest question anyone could ask. The man politely refused, wished them luck on the journey, and left the restaurant. Bobby looked at Jason, with that ever so popular millennial WTF look. To which Jason whispered.
“You must make
tarof
. Didn’t your mom and dad teach you anything?”
In the Persian culture, it was customary to make
tarof
, the art of offering something even if you didn’t mean it, and to do so at every turn in your daily routine. The polite response was to refuse, at the start. Then, the game began. One hoped the other did not take and the other hoped the first did not stop offering. It was a dying custom, but still very prevalent amongst the elderly. If done poorly or not at all, it showed you as rude or culturally unaware, none of which would be helpful.
Bobby was reading the paper, slowly but surely. Jason did not care for the story, but was very interested in the pictures. They were definitely accurate, clear and recent. It was definitely a picture of Bobby. He grabbed the paper from Bobby, turned it upside down, and waited for his lunch. The lunch arrived within minutes. They ate fast. They talked briefly. They finished the meal with a cup of tea. Paying, they took the paper and left.
Back on the road and feeling quite full, they both began feeling sleepy. A few minutes into the drive, while staring at the beautiful scenery, Bobby passed out into a deep slumber. Time slowed to a crawl. Jason’s mind was full of misgivings and worry. The sun was warming up the car nicely as they reached cooler weather in the mountains.
* * *
Erdal was now number one in line. They directed him into slot #44 and ordered him to open the rear doors. The customs area overflowed with bearded armed guards. A forklift moved behind the truck. A man jumped in the back, comparing inventory to the manifest. He marked a bunch of pallets with red chalk and then jumped out. He ordered Erdal to remove all the marked pallets. Erdal began to complain, just enough, about the inconvenience, the timing, the delays, and moved into his salary, his wife, and his kids. He then topped it off with how this delay would make everything worse. He couldn’t complain too much, but just enough to show dismay. They yelled at him a bit and barked the orders again.
Having removed the pallets, Erdal stood by as two men jumped back in the truck and began to look at his inventory sheet, asking questions about the contents of various pallets. They opened one pallet, with a crowbar, then another, and then a third. All seemed to be as written in the manifest. One man jumped back out, looking over the offloaded pallets. While the other stayed behind staring at the back of the truck as though something was amiss. Erdal didn’t want to interrupt as that may cause suspicion, so he decided to cause a bit of commotion with the man inspecting the pallets on the ground.
“Are you now going to open all of these too? They’re in the sun. Let me at least put them back on the truck, and then you can open them,” raising his voice with every sentence.
The first man jumped out. “No need to yell. We’re just doing our job. Now, stand by your truck and be quiet.”
The customs officer then walked in front of Erdal and his brother, staring at their faces as he looked at some photos on a clipboard. Satisfied, he barked his final orders.
“Load it up and get the hell out of here!”
Erdal quickly loaded the pallets. The Iranian side was completed and his paper work stamped. Now to the Turkish side. He drove through to the Turkish side. They quickly weighed the truck, inspected the paperwork, and directed them to one of twelve lanes. This time around, Erdal was number seven in line. Fortunately, his paperwork was marked with the Open Inspection and Open Crate stamps, which made the Turkish side a little bit faster. In no time he pulled into his stall, driving over an in ground walkway used to carry out under carriage inspections in search of Afghan heroin.
* * *
Afghanistan was responsible for nearly 87% of global heroin production. The region between Afghanistan, Pakistan, through Iran, to Turkey, known as the Golden Crescent, was where a very large portion of that heroin travelled. Nearly the entire heroin in Europe got there by way of Turkey.
There were several men with bright lights looking for hidden compartments, places where heroin and opium could be stored, tapping truck parts as they moved. Meanwhile, with the truck doors open, a drug sniffing dog and handler jumped into the back. Erdal’s brother remained in the cab with his radio on to mask any noises that might emanate from the secret compartment. The dog jumped onto the pallets, smelling all manner of odors but none that triggered any alarms. There were no barks and no anguish on the dog’s part. The dog was happy. The handler jumped back out followed by his dog. The underground crew signaled O.K., by turning on their green light. Everything had passed the tests and Erdal was given the go ahead. He got several more stamps on his paperwork. Leaving the border area, they began the drive to
Ankara
.
* * *
A good twenty minutes away, Erdal made a call. Jason and Bobby were jolted straight when the phone rang. Bobby woke up so suddenly, he hit his head on the side window, slurping a bit of drool from the edge of his mouth.
“
Salam
!’ Jason picked up.
“Can you speak?” Erdal asked in Farsi.
“Yes,” Jason responded in English.
“We made it through both sides. We’re good, safe and unharmed. We’ll be dropping off our cargo in two days. I’m going to call Baba with the update. How are you?”
“We’re on the up side of our mountain trip. We’ll be there late afternoon, hopefully,” Jason replied happily, as he repeated the news to Bobby.
“O.K. then, be safe, and be careful Uncle, and may God be with you. Keep us posted.” Erdal hung up.
* * *
Bobby was happy for the girl and her father, but looking around he didn’t recognize anything.
“Where are we?” he asked.
Jason told him he had slept for nearly two hours, and that they were over an hour away from
Tabriz
, after which they were going to drive down towards the Iraq border. Bobby was happy to have napped. His ribs were hurting from over eating, but the nap helped relieve some of the pressure. “I never knew Persian food could hurt so much!” He joked.
“Wait till it comes out!” Jason said, as they both laughed away some of their worries.
“Ouch! Please don’t make me laugh,” Bobby begged.
Henry had already prepared a detailed email, especially created for the FBI’s San Francisco regional offices. It contained all the pertinent information regarding the startup. Before sending it, he had to confirm the exact name and number of the person responsible. An expedited email was necessary. The normal channels would be too slow. Henry contacted Warren Spencer, who was now well on his way to Iraq. He called to confirm the FBI contact information and timing. He got the information and the go-ahead.
With the direct number in hand, Henry called the FBI offices. “This is Special Agent Gonzales. Who is speaking?”
“I’m calling on behalf of Jason Caius,” Henry replied, in his most polite tone and with proper vocabulary. Controlling his expletives was torture for him. It made him speak slower, sounding a little stunted, a little retarded, as his friends would say.
“How did you get this number?” Agent Gonzales asked angrily. As if getting personal information, in the digital age, was a difficult task. Any teenager with half a brain can search for or buy someone’s phone number on the internet.
You FBI are so fucking stupid. I found it on a toilet wall, with … ‘for a good blowjob call …’
Henry so desperately wanted to say.
“I was given this number by Deputy Director Warren Spencer, and told to call with the address of a warehouse holding weapons grade biologicals, a warehouse about which you were informed,” Henry calmly forced the words out.
The pain, the suffering one must endure while speaking without expletives. He thought.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you come to our offices, and we can chat about this Jason Caius and warehouse situation.” Gonzales added.
Henry lost it.
“Listen, fuck face, I don’t have time for your fucking bullshit and fucking games. You know what the fuck I’m talking about, so pay attention. We’ve confirmed the warehouse has biohazards. And, we’ve confirmed they’re working on a dispersal system, also at the warehouse. Be ready to take it down. I’ll call you on your cell within the next 12 hours with the exact address. Got it?”
“Got it! Can I have your cell …?”
Henry hung up.
* * *
Gordon had been checking encrypted emails at Mike’s house on a daily basis. If not himself, he had Mike check first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. Finally, there was an email from Baba. It simply read.
Jason and Bobby near the Iraq border. Father and Daughter in Turkey. Safe. Will keep you posted.
That same day, Henry got a call from Baba on his cell phone. They too knew each other well. Baba could not stand Henry’s crassness, yet he had the utmost respect for his friendship with Jason. They exchanged and discussed their plans, giving each other quick updates on everyone’s whereabouts.
Henry, Baba and Henry’s man in Denver were all on the same page. The plans were in place to eliminate the minders.
* * *
It was a beautiful sunny day in Palo Alto. Silicon Valley was buzzing with excitement, as another group of kids became paper millionaires. Paper money made by selling yet another useless cloud-based service for the masses, another dating app, photo sharing app, or perhaps another candy crush wannabe app, or a massive multi player app where you push a button thousands of times over many years, killing zombies and vampires.
No matter, the minder was sitting in his master bedroom checking his emails from work. The automatic coffee maker started grinding coffee and then it began to drip water into the fresh coffee grounds, making for an aromatic morning. A nice dark French roast with a hint of hazelnut was inviting him to come downstairs.
He jumped in the shower. It was a seven-headed shower, three each on opposing walls, and one on the ceiling, all pushing out an even stream of water. Water was covering every inch of his body, a luxury, given the California drought. He was but a couple of minutes into his shower when the house alarm blared loudly all around him. He jumped out, quickly wrapping himself with a towel. Walking to the side table by his bed, he took out his fully loaded Glock pistol. He looked at the alarm pad above his bed. The zone 5 light blinked brightly. That was the side door, downstairs, in the kitchen. The phone rang. It was Bay Alarm calling for an identity check. The minder gave the operator the password and after a quick chat hung up. He put on his robe, and went downstairs with his handgun in the ready position.
He began his search.
* * *
The Denver minder was in the underground parking structure at Mike’s company, having followed Mike that morning as part of his daily routine. It was late in the morning. He checked his messages and email, still waiting for his daily status confirmation. None had been forwarded, a bit unusual, but not alarming. Three or four day communication delays from Iran did happen, occasionally. He didn’t give it much thought.
He decided to step out of his warm car, to get himself a fresh cup of coffee. Mike’s office cafeteria served coffee better than what Starbucks served. He liked this job, surrounded by rich and educated people, an easy target to watch, in a nice area of town, a lifestyle to which he had become accustomed. It was a short walk to the cafeteria. Food would be a welcome addition to his coffee. So, food and coffee it was.
* * *
It was nighttime in Copenhagen. Baba’s fourth son and a cousin were sitting in their car, watching a car parked across from Yasmin Akbari’s house. The Copenhagen minder was in it, engine running, sipping something from a small silver flask, rum perhaps. They had been following him for several days and were comfortable with his routine. The minder didn’t think Yasmin was much of a threat and acted accordingly. Once her lights were out, he would take off for his home.
From a distance, they saw Yasmin’s kitchen lights go out. Before the minder could drive off, they drove towards the minder’s neighborhood to prepare for his arrival, parking several houses away from the minder’s. The cousin got out along with a dog she had borrowed days earlier from a neighbor’s yard, a small Dachshund. The dog was old, quiet, and a bit shaky, perfect for the job. The cousin stood near a tree, leaning in, waiting for the minder to arrive. The minder finally arrived. She began her walk towards his house.
As he was getting out, she was nearing the front of his driveway, slowly following the dog with her fist in a doggy bag getting ready to pick up after the old dog. She stopped in the very middle of the driveway looking away from the minder and his house. She was a beautifully formed woman in her twenties, long black hair, perfect skin, and dark blue glimmering eyes. She looked gorgeous under the street lamp. Walking towards his house, he stopped midway to look at her.
“This is the third night in a row I’ve seen you and your dog. It must be karma,” he said, looking down the driveway.
She didn’t understand a word of what he said, but she didn’t need to. She knew the affect she had on the man. She looked back ever so slightly, smiling at him. She turned away, and re-focused on the dog. He walked down to the bottom of the driveway.
“Hi again! Are you new to the neighborhood?” the minder asked.
“
Ja
!” she said in Danish, again looking at the dog.
The minder moved around, facing her, asking her name.
“
Mit navn er Adrianna
!” she said, hoping it was the last question he would ask. That was all the Danish she knew.
Finally, the dog did his business. She smiled and lifted the blue poop bag covering her fist. She moved forward towards the dog, who was standing between her and the minder. He was looking down at the dog, not looking at her. She lifted her hand further. Two silenced 22 caliber bullets popped through the plastic bag, into the minder’s forehead. He dropped where he stood. There were no exit wounds. The bullets just ricocheted inside the skull until they stopped, making mush out of the brain.
Baba’s son quickly drove to the base of the driveway. The girl let the dog loose, hopeful it would find its way home. They loaded the body into the car. They both got in and drove around the block to wait, listening for sirens. There were no sirens, which meant no calls and no witnesses. They drove back to the house, parked across the street, opened the trunk and grabbed the man’s house keys. Baba’s son walked to the house carrying a small backpack. At the door, he knocked, waiting. No one answered. He unlocked the door and walked in. He started searching for the man’s computer. He found the office, a laptop and a desktop. He took an electric magnet out, plugged it in, and zapped the hard drives on both devices. He looked through the desk, finding a folder with pictures of Yasmin along with related documents. He grabbed those, all the flash drives and CDs, shoving them all into his backpack. He did another quick search around the house, but found nothing. Stepping out of the house, he left the door open, walking back to the car.
They began their drive to the train station. Driving over a bridge, they tossed the gun, house keys and the minder’s cell phone into the river. Dropping off the stolen car at a long-term parking lot, they inconspicuously dropped the minder’s wallet in a homeless man’s lap, and caught a train back to Hamburg. Soon after, Baba got a text message.
We dropped off the package!
Baba called Erdal giving him the news. Erdal then passed the phone through a sliding hatch behind the headrest to the father, in the secret compartment.
“You can call your wife now. She too is safe!”
* * *
Mike’s construction company had one of the best food services around. The offices were far from downtown restaurants, and the nearest eatery was over five miles away, so they had to have great food and service in order to keep the employees happy and close to work. Not to mention, during cold snowy winters, no one wanted to drive anywhere. A professional chef and her staff created the menu, with a forty-five day rotating plan. Their breakfasts were superb, the tea and coffee selection fantastic.
The minder ordered his coffee, large and black with a hint of caramel syrup. He then ordered an egg sandwich to go. Two eggs fried, on a French roll with crushed pepper. He paid and then stood to the side waiting for his order. Looking over the free newspapers stacked ten high. He grabbed one and started reading. In the kitchen, his meal was prepared. They poured his coffee and loaded his takeout box. Henry’s man too was in the kitchen keeping watch, doing his part.
“Order #27 is ready,” a uniformed young lady gently yelled, as she looked around for a taker. The minder walked up, still reading the paper, grabbed the takeout box, barely looking up.
“Thanks,” he said, walking away, carrying his food on top of his newspaper.
Using the underground tunnels, it took a minute or so to stroll back to his car. He diligently looked around as he walked, eyeing people he had seen before, making sure no one was following him. He got to his car, looked around once more, checked the inside, and finally got in. He placed the box on the seat next to him. Opening the takeout box, he breathed in the scent of fresh coffee and egg sandwich. He took a sip of his coffee, a little hot. He placed it back, and started on his sandwich. Crunchy bread, easy to bite, and the eggs made perfectly. He devoured the whole sandwich before taking another sip. The coffee was now a perfect temperature. He sat back and enjoyed his coffee, checking his phone every so often for updates.
* * *
Bright lights were all around the parking lot, making a stealthy move impossible. Gordon and Henry’s man were in the stairwell, waiting. Henry’s man decided to take a walk. Taking out his car keys, he started towards the back wall with gusto, as though he was in a rush and knew exactly where he parked his car. As he got closer, he glanced at the minder’s car, seeing him hunched over the steering wheel. He kept walking, dropping his keys. He bent down to pick them up, maneuvering himself to the aisle in which the minder had his car. He moved around and behind the minder’s car. He kept looking and waiting. A minute or so went by, nothing moved. The drugs had done their job. He sent Gordon a quick text, and then moved to open the car door. The front driver’s side was unlocked. Before opening it all the way, he reached in and grabbed the minder’s gun and car keys.
Gordon pulled right in front and parked. He popped the trunk open and made sure no one was watching. The two men loaded the minder in the trunk, binding his legs and hands, duct taping his eyes and mouth. Gordon got back in the car and drove off. Henry’s man got into the minder’s car and followed.
Watching over the CCTV cameras in the security office was Mike. He watched the whole process as it unfolded. Once they had left the property, he looked at the only other member in the room, the chief of security, a friend.
“Erase everything from cameras two and fourteen, for the last 15 minutes.” He watched as the chief deleted the files for both cameras.
“It’s done!” the chief said, as Mike started back to his office.
* * *
Gordon and Henry’s man ended up at a warehouse belonging to Mike’s company, a place where older construction equipment and sub-standard materials were stored while awaiting proper disposal. Very few had access to the facility. It rarely had a visitor. Opening the gate, Gordon and the other car drove through. Gordon locked the gate behind them. They drove onto the property and towards building K. Gordon backed the car to the door. They both got out and dragged the bound man, who was stirring up and struggling. Inside, they dropped the man on the ground, as he kept thrashing about.