* * *
The Turks and Germans went back in history for quite a long time, all the way back to the Ottoman Empire. Germany was the number one destination for those migrating out of Turkey. Nearly two million Turks lived and worked in Germany legally and illegally. The distance from Turkey to Germany made them very adept at smuggling people, contraband, and pretty much anything you can imagine, with the biggest moneymaker being the heroin trade, coming from Afghanistan, through Iran, to Europe and then to the US.
Turkey’s Muslim majority tried hard to be westernized, making the country a great importer of everything that other Muslim countries banned but loved to have, contrabands such as liquor, foreign cigarettes and movies.
From Turkey, all those goods would go into Iran, Iraq, Syria, and spread to every corner, by car or caravan. History and circumstances made the Turks some of the best smugglers around the region.
* * *
Jason arrived in Hamburg, hungry for some good Turkish kebabs and homemade bread. He found his way to the Meram Restaurant where he was to meet Baba, his friend from days working projects in Iran and in the Kurdish region of Iraq. Baba was not only his name, but it also meant father, befitting a man with seven sons and two daughters. Jason parked his car and walked into the restaurant. The place was full of local Turks and a few Germans. Jason recognized Baba at the end of a large table, near the back wall of the restaurant, surrounded by family of all ages. He had gotten quite heavy. Retirement had been good to him.
Baba saw Jason, stood up with his napkin still tucked in his shirt collar, waving him over with one hand, while holding a piece of bread with the other.
“Jason! Over here.” His voice boomed across the restaurant.
Baba dropped his bread, grabbing and pulling away the napkin from his shirt. He wiped his hands clean, and dropped the napkin on the table. He gave Jason a giant bear hug, kissing him on each cheek. He dragged Jason to his side of the table preparing a place for him to sit. Jason felt like a rag doll in the man’s grip and warm embrace. Baba had aged quite a lot too, but he was strong as an ox, strong as ever.
“It’s so good to see you, my brother. You are still looking young and in shape. Don’t you ever age? How is your family?” Baba inundated Jason with questions.
They both sat. Baba introduced his family to Jason. Several boys Jason knew but the rest were new additions. Then there were the grandchildren. Baba went on a tangent with every child. He divulged every proud fact he could recall. He was a happy retired man who was enjoying the fruits of years of smuggling everything in every direction. The introductions took twenty minutes.
“So my friend, what brings you to my humble town? Are you visiting or working? No worries, let us all eat, and we’ll talk later.”
They spent the next two hours sharing mixed meat grill plates, salads, fresh bread, and yogurt drinks. Hands were moving in every direction, grabbing food, passing plates, talking, laughing, and being a large and jovial family. Jason and Baba caught up on all things family related. Every now and again, an elder son would get a text, after which they would whisper in their dad’s ear, followed by sending a text message back. Baba was retired but still in charge.
Dinner was finally over with most of the family departing for their homes. Baba, three of his eldest sons and Jason, stayed behind for after dinner drinks. Baba never drank alcohol in front of the young children. It set a bad example. Still, he loved his whiskey. The restaurant had no liquor license, so all drinks came discreetly in paper cups, and only for their best customers. But, on that night, Baba had to take Jason somewhere more posh.
“Let’s leave this place and go someplace else to talk.” Baba got up, leaving a wad of cash on the table. He grabbed Jason’s arm as he started walking away from the table. For a moment, Jason had thought the night was over, but there was more to come. He was exhausted.
They left Jason’s car behind and drove a brand new Mercedes Benz, a short drive to a small entrance at the end of a narrow alleyway. They drove straight down to the end of the alley. Their car was the only one in the alley. A young man quickly ran out, opening the car door, greeting Baba as though he was a king. Baba handed him a twenty euro and started walking, two sons in front and one in the back near Jason.
The Hookah bar was smoke filled and dark. Small groups gathered around water pipes emanating a variety of tobacco blends, some peppered with hashish. They went to a corner table. The table and chairs were all low to the ground, yet quite comfortable. A waiter arrived with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label, glasses, some ice, and a big bowl of salted pistachios.
“I get these from Iran,” Baba said cracking a couple of pistachios. “And, I sell them all over Germany.”
His son poured the drinks, handing one to his dad and one to Jason.
“Your boys don’t drink, Baba?” Jason asked, stuffed and bloated from over two hours of eating. He was feeling the beginnings of a food coma.
“No. They can drink when they retire.” He smiled, taking a large sip, and then whirling the ice cubes, cooling off the next sip. They do not like to drink when they’re with their father. Respect for elders, religion, and all of that, Baba continued.
He knew they drank but loved the respect thing, and they knew it. He stroked the nearest son on the head. Handing the young man some cracked pistachios to eat, as though he were still a young boy. Baba took another big sip and a puff of his water pipe.
“So Jason, my brother, tell me what’s going on?”
Jason spent the next hour describing all that had happened, from Bobby’s kidnapping to the attempt on his wife. He told him about the biologicals and minders, who were resource-rich, well trained, and blended in like no other group he had ever seen or studied. He had never met such a sophisticated Iranian terror group, dangerous at the global level.
To him what mattered most was getting his godson out. Baba’s boys were both leaning in, ears focused on every word. It had not been this exciting in quite some time. They had heard many great stories from the old days, the adventures of Baba and Uncle Jason. They always referred to him as Uncle Jason from America, the family version of James Bond, having these great adventures in and out of the region. They loved adventures where their dad was an integral part of the story. Knowing their dad was a great storyteller, they knew his part was not as colorful. It mattered not. It was fun to listen to the stories.
Baba leaned back, settling into his comfortable seat, moving the water pipe closer. He took a couple of puffs from his pipe and signaled his boy to pour another glass. He mulled the story over for a while, staring at his boys, all the while cracking more pistachios. Giving each boy a handful and even handing Jason a couple now and again. He took one more large puff of his water pipe, blowing its cloud of tobacco and rose water scented smoke into the air.
“I will help you with everything I have.” Family meant everything to Baba.
“But not for the Americans, for your godson and the insult to your wife.”
* * *
The next day started much later than normal for Jason, battered by the smoke filled air, eating heavy foods late in the day, and drinking whisky and snacking on pistachios until three in the morning. He finally worked his way to the bathroom, shaved his face, brushed the taste out of his mouth and put on his jogging gear. He walked downstairs to find everyone up, and dressed, surrounding a table covered with food, energetically eating breakfast.
“Have some breakfast, Jason,” Baba said invitingly.
“Not yet. I have to run and get some of the tobacco out of my lungs.” He walked to the door and was about to step out.
“Wait. I can’t let you go alone. My son Erdal will come with you. Just wait a minute or two.”
Jason had his own pace and really hated to have an unknown partner. He obliged. He was a guest and had to be polite. Jason and Erdal started running at a slower pace than Jason was used to, each testing the other. Jason wanted to be careful not to tire the young man.
“
You can run a little faster if you want, Uncle Jason.”
Jason picked up his pace. Erdal followed in harmony. Jason kept increasing the pace. The young man kept pace. He started to add grade. Running up hilly roads, any hill he could find. Erdal was there. Jason finally reached his turning point and started back. In the last half-mile, he started to sprint. On the final stretch before the house, Erdal darted past him. Several seconds later, Jason arrived at the door to find Erdal calmly waiting for him, as though he had never run. Meanwhile Jason was breathing through every opening, sweating through every pore. He desperately needed water. After all the food, drink and smoke, he was dehydrated, a desert on the inside. Stepping in to the house, he moved quickly into the kitchen to fetch some water to drink.
“Did I mention that Erdal is a national decathlete champion? I must have forgotten.” Baba laughed, handing Jason a glass of water.
After a quick shower, and slightly full from swallowing his pride, Jason sat down for breakfast.
* * *
The house finally cleared of all non-essentials. Jason laid out his requirements. He needed to get to Tehran and get back to Europe, bringing back either one live or one dead person. He was not sure of Bobby’s status. In either case, he was going to bring him back. While in Iran, he needed access to a safe house and other resources. However, he was not sure how long he would have to stay in Iran before a rapid exit.
Baba could not go himself. Instead, he offered his sons and any resource Jason would need. He told Jason about the storage facilities in Tehran where they could wait for him. Also, given they smuggle Caspian Sea fish and caviar, cold storage was possible in case they had to transport bodies.
Jason handed Baba a small black velvet pouch filled with a quarter of the diamonds as payment, which Baba refused to take, leaving it on the table untouched. Jason knew, as in Iran, it was impolite to take payment so overtly. Before leaving though, the pouch would find its way to Baba.
“Let’s go. We have planning and bribing to get done,” Baba said.
They spent the next several days making arrangements, and plans to meet in Ankara, the staging spot from inside Turkey, and one of many trucking yards belonging to Baba and his business.
22 | Ankara
Jason and Erdal were in Ankara, sitting in a small tearoom playing backgammon, drinking tea, and waiting. It had been two days since they left Hamburg. They flew. The other two brothers were driving their trucks from Istanbul, where they owned several large warehouses and where they stored many of their products for transport. They had warehouses in both Germany and Turkey, each having storage based on what was legal locally or what amounts they had to bribe to store locally. Some runs would be short and some runs would be longer, depending on the warehouse from which they started. Baba’s smuggling business could make any logistic expert weep with envy.
“Uncle Jason, you’re a pretty good player, better than my dad. Where did you learn?” Erdal asked.
“I learned from an Iranian friend with whom I used to play regularly. It’s his son we’re going after.”
“If the man is better than you, I shall like to play him some day. I love this game.”
The games were fast and the tea sweet. They played and chatted about the trip, things to do, and things about which to worry. Both had made that same trip on many occasions, Erdal for smuggling and Jason for other reasons. They practiced their Farsi, cracked a bunch of Persian jokes, and began getting into their roles. On this trip, Jason would be the second driver, the loader, and all around helper. Erdal would be the boss.
Finally, Erdal’s two brothers arrived. They had a package for Jason. In it was all Jason needed for travel in Iran. He had appropriate clothing, his Iranian driver’s license and his Carteh-Meli, a national ID card, a must have for every Iranian. Iran’s systems were now as sophisticated as any western country. Everyone was numbered and tracked. However, most local police, small border crossings and roadside revolutionary guards, were not equipped with technology to verify credentials. Well-forged false documents were the best way to get around, add to that, a decent amount of bribing material, from cigarettes, to dope, to cash, and you were good to go.
They walked to the trucks, made final inspections, and began the twelve hundred kilometer drive to the Iranian border. The first step of the plan was unfolding, a fifteen hour drive across Turkey.
* * *
The two-truck convoy began moving with Erdal and Jason in one, the other two brothers in the second. The further you drove eastward in Turkey, the less populated it became, but the entire drive was spectacular. It was a combination of beautiful flat lands and rolling hills and mountains. Parts of the drive were flat straight highways, and parts were winding roads with gorgeous mountains popping all around you. They drove straight to Dogubayazit, the last city in turkey before the border crossing, a well-deserved rest stop. The drive, done in three-hour shifts, was long and exhausting, demanding a good warm meal and a night’s sleep to recover.
* * *
The next morning, having had their fill of bread, goat cheese and tea, they began the first hurdle, a series of checkpoints. It was a relatively short drive to the first checkpoint, on the Turkish side of the border, at Gurbulak Gumruk Kapisi. The large customs area contained a massive truck stop, inspection areas, and truck repair facilities. The funny thing about borders was that no one cared what you do or have when leaving a country. They only cared when you came in. Here the trucks were inspected quickly, inside and out, and stamped for departure. The trip back would be another story. They drove to the border gates and ushered across into Iran. Stop number two was next.
The Iranian side of the same border was quite another story, a much larger setup, further away from the actual border, spread out and a lot more disorganized. The confusion allowed for easier bribing and circumvention of the process, but it was time consuming. Iran’s border agents do little, knowing the revolutionary guards conducted random inspections along the road and at final destinations with much harsher punishments. The crossing took several hours due to lines, but they finally made it to Bazargan, the first Iranian city. They stopped to make one final inspection, checking the trucks, the goods, and all of their paperwork. From there on, it would be a very serious and dangerous road trip.
* * *
The drive to Tehran was shorter, at around nine hundred kilometers, through spectacular scenery. It was a chilly time of the year, with mountains getting ready for winter snow, showing off colors and shapes with such grandeur. The highways were more modern than in Eastern Turkey, making for a faster drive, thankfully. Apart from several stops along the way for gas and local guard inspections, there was little trouble. Erdal and crew were anticipating a clear path all the way to Tehran, where anyone could get lost in the megalopolis. They thought the nighttime crew of police and revolutionary guards would be as lazy as usual, and make for an uneventful trip. Luck was not on their side though, as trouble began sixty miles outside of Tehran in Karaj.
The trucks were driving close enough to help each other, and far enough to be inconspicuous. A jeep filled with revolutionary guards pulled over Erdal and Jason. The brothers drove by, signaling hand codes. One guard jumped out while the jeep was still in motion. Walking around to Jason’s side, opening the door, he ordered them to step out of the truck, demanding their paperwork.
They inspected the papers, briefly, looking over the truck, and talking amongst themselves. Finally, all guards piled out of the jeep, the first guard came by with the papers, giving every other guard a chance to interject. That was how it worked in a country with a different opinion for each person. Eventually, two of the guards walked back to the truck demanding that they follow the jeep back to the local station, for a full inspection.
Following behind the jeep, they could see two in the back seat facing them with machine guns pointed straight at the truck cab. They passed the two brothers who had pulled over on the highway, and who then began to follow them at a distance. They had
gone through this cat and mouse game before. They were prepared for anything.
Jason and Erdal found themselves at a local police station parking lot. At the lot, they found more revolutionary guard jeeps, several police cars, and a dozen men outside milling about, smoking and chatting in groups. Coming to a stop, a guard told them to get out and stand in front of their truck cab. The jeep leading them turned around pointing the headlights on the two standing men.
Once the lead jeep came to a full stop, they all piled out once more, but this time with more conviction. They were showing off their astuteness, vigor and love for the job. Several moved quickly to the back of Erdal’s truck, attempting to open the door. They tried several times before it dawned on them to ask for the keys. They started shouting, demanding that it be unlocked. Erdal handed one guard the keys, pointing to the one for the lock. The remaining guards demanded their paperwork and IDs, not realizing they had it all in the jeep. After some chaos, several guards went inside with the paperwork in hand.
Erdal desperately wanted a manual check and not a computer check. Everything was fake. Roadside stops were one thing, but station stops so near a large city were an entirely different thing. Erdal knew his brothers were close. As it was the case at other times, the brothers waited close by with several grenades in hand. Two guys with guns would not be sufficient for an escape. However, a loud explosion was good enough to scare most of them away, while they killed the remainder, if need be. Sometimes the confusion and concussion alone were sufficient. Finally, the truck’s rear door opened, with two guards jumping in, and the remainder gathered around, each with an opinion as to what might be inside.
“I wonder what they’re smuggling,” one said, triggering a cacophony of answers.
The two inside started opening crates and moving boxes around, handing several to the men standing outside. They opened the boxes only to find tin cans with Turkish writing on them. They asked what it was, to which Erdal in fluent Farsi replied.
The Minders Page 13