“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.
They finally landed in Kuwait city. The plane doors opened and immediately all of the cool air left, replaced by dry heat. It felt like opening the oven door, six inches from your face, while broiling something dry and dusty. They quickly grabbed their sample cigarettes and digital merchandise in a duffle bag, and ran down the passenger stair-truck. They ran to the SUV, praying it had air conditioning and that it worked. The heat was stifling, with the first hour or two being the worst. It was a three to four hour drive to Basrah, and a two to three day stay, if all went well.
The SUV was modern, well equipped, with spares, gas tanks, and a large repair box, including shovels on the back. On the inside, in the back, was a water tank holding 20 gallons of fresh water. It was well air-conditioned and ready for the drive. The drive took them through a hot desolate desert, as far as the eyes could see. There would be no service until the border. The best thing about the drive was the lack of any speed limit. However, you had to keep an eye out for sand drifts. It could be life ending hitting those at a hundred miles per hour.
They reached the Kuwait-Iraq border after two hours, and refueled before crossing. A thousand dollar donation and a carton of Winston’s helped expedite the crossing. That was the safe part of the trip.
The remainder of the drive would be through troubled parts of Iraq, albeit safer than Baghdad. Thirty minutes across the border and an hour after a SAT call, an escort from Basrah met them, sent by the Mullah to help safely get them into town. They drove an additional two hours, finally arriving in town. Traffic was the major worry. They had to take multiple routes, re-routing several times not to be stuck in a jam. That was when attacks were the hardest to avoid or escape.
Eventually they found themselves at a building near the river. They pulled into a gated, barren yard, bursting with other SUVs, and armed people. This was Grand Ayatollah Muhammad Sadiq al-Sadr’s compound for the day. The meeting was with his son, Moqtada al-Sadr, a twenty-something, up and coming cleric with whom the U.S. had established ties in the hopes of helping control the southern Shiite population. He was an enigmatic, charming character with a powerful presence. He was, at that point, a medium ranked cleric. Yet, he was an influential political and religious figure, with a very strong and obedient following, just like his father.
They met several times over the next two days. The most heated parts of the negotiations covered weaponry for his army, the amount of autonomy he would have over his region, and how much cash flow he should expect. The first two points were near impossible, leaving only one with which Jason could work. The U.S. would not deliver any arms, ever. Nor should he expect any autonomy. In the end, Jason did a great job negotiating. He promised him all the autonomy he knew they would eventually develop. He promised them all the arms he knew he would eventually acquire. Finally, he gave him an enticing cash flow, should they achieve the negotiated milestones, cash that the U.S. took from Saddam’s vaults after the first Gulf War.
In short, Jason gave him nothing of ours, knowing that he would get nothing from them in return. However, the quality time with him resulted in a great profile, but he had a foreboding feeling for where this man was going. The meetings were positive, but deep down Jason knew this man would be yet another thorn in our side. He followed orders, feeling strongly that they were wrong. He should have killed him instead, which was the other option discussed at the WHSR.
* * *
Every trip Jason took to the Middle East was filled with equal amounts of joy and pain. He could not forget his own years there as a young boy and felt so badly for the people whose lives had changed so dramatically over the decades. He had many friends that had left that region in the hopes of finding a better and safer life elsewhere. Nevertheless, no matter whom he spoke to, each one longed for the day they could go back home. Even Jason longed for those days as a child, living in Iran. It left quite an impression on him.
So many things were not what one expected. There were no standards. You could not find a plumbing fixture to replace a broken faucet. For those you had to go to a specialist who would fashion something for you based on the sample item you furnished. There were no lines and no basic order. All lines looked like an arrow. It started with the first person, behind them stood two, and behind them three and so on. It was a first shove, first serve model. Nothing was set in stone. Everything was negotiable. You were in a constant state of negotiation. Simple chaos reigned.
Yet, the warmth of the people, the simplicity of life and the social graces made up for so much of the other missing items. Your choices were always between a small set of things, but all useful. There were only two T.V. stations with very little to watch. The grocery stores had one kind of toilet paper, not a hundred different brands.
The food, fruits, and ingredients were fresh, safe and free of chemicals and preservatives. But, you did have to wash everything, and I mean everything. Life was slower, smoother, and more satisfying. It was not a race to see who had the best and most recent iPhone, car, or clothing. It was a great place to raise a child.
* * *
Alas, in the end and after each trip, the most important thing for Jason was getting home to his family. In th
at case, it was a job well done. Everyone got home safe.
Maybe the next birthday, he would be with his family and not trying to change the course of a region.
9 | Tins of Caviar
Yasmin Akbari was in a constant state of shock and anxiety. She went through the day in fear for her husband and daughter, both of whom were stuck somewhere in Iran. She had no idea where.
Are they in some prison or some other horrible place? She would think.
Most of her friends and all of her family lived in Iran. She dared not call anyone in Iran. The intelligence groups monitored all calls inside Iran. At least back in Atlanta, she had some friends. In Copenhagen, she had no one. She was new to the area and her job. She didn’t know how things worked there, nor did she trust anyone to help. Yasmin had worked for years at The Centers for Disease Control (CDC) in Atlanta, when unexpectedly she got a great offer, involving a promotion and the opportunity to run a division at the World Health Organization (WHO).
Six months ago, she took charge of the WHO’s Vaccines and Biologicals Division, and was the United Nation’s liaison on that subject matter. She had worked in both Africa and the U.S. She was the foremost expert on deadly level-4 biologicals (BSL-4). She had written dozens of research papers and delivered countless seminars globally. She was now at a facility where they conducted deep research on BSL-4s, and where many of the biological samples were stored.
When Yasmin first received her text message, she thought it a joke, done in poor taste. When she did not hear from her husband, and then received worried calls from her relatives asking when they would arrive, she knew it was true. Out of fear for her loved ones, she told people in Iran her husband had cancelled their trip. While back at home, she said they were enjoying their visit to Iran.
The Minders Page 6