“I don’t read their language, but I think it could be compote. Open one and see.”
One guard took out his knife, struggling to open the can. The others started laughing at his incompetence. Another guard showed up with a can-opener, grabbing another can from the box. He opened it, finding cherry compote. The guard opened several more and passed them around.
“Do you have any other flavors?” another asked as he slurped straight from the can.
They moved more crates around, removing even more boxes. They brought over a truck inspection mirror looking under the body. Finally, they started clumsily reloading the boxes back and locking the rear door. They handed the keys to Erdal, asking him and Jason to follow them to the office.
They walked inside a smoke filled room, lit by fluorescent lights, half of which were flickering. A policeman or soldier filled nearly every seat. All were smoking and drinking tea. Jason and Erdal sat in whatever open seat they could find. A young boy quickly ran up to them offering some tea and cookies. They politely accepted. The woman behind the desk, covered with a tight headscarf, covering her head and shoulders, was the officer in charge. She was staring upwards at a monitor taller than she was. Yet, she was tall enough to rapidly type into the online forms, as she read staring at the bright monitor. Between every other keystroke, she would stare at Erdal and Jason in disgust. Every time she turned to stare, the monitor glow exposed her thick eyebrows and mustache fuzz.
“I don’t see any information for you. Where did you get your ID card?” She barked.
Jason pleaded, in his best Esfahani accent, “I applied and picked up my card in Esfahan, and I am up to date on all my paperwork.”
“Well”, she yelled over all the chitchat echoing in the room, “those Esfehanis may think they’re funny and savvy businessmen, but they’re lazy, and useless with technology. They did not enter the data into the national database yet.”
One of them probably screwed her over, Jason thought, with a smile.
She stood up and walked over to the copy machine, taking with her the ID cards. She took a photocopy for faxing to Esfahan for verification. The copy machine took a quick scan and shot out the photocopy. Jason and Erdal looked around at all the armed guards. They were all high on caffeine and bored out of their minds. They both began planning for an exit.
She grabbed the warm photocopy paper and walked to the fax machine, shaking her head at Jason. She typed in the phone number and fed the paper in. The number was busy. She put it on auto dial and walked back to her desk. Fifteen minutes went by, and nothing. She checked the machine again and saw that the number was still busy.
“Those idiots are using the fax machine to make phone calls.” She complained. Beads of sweat were pooling around her lips and eyebrows.
She tried to call them directly. That number too was busy.
“IDIOTS,” she screamed, handing all the paperwork back to Erdal.
“Go on. Get out. Get lost, the two of you.”
* * *
In no time, they were back on the road, laughing hysterically at the bunch of them. Erdal was laughing the hardest, repeating the scene with the man trying to open the can, and the bitchy woman, her mustache, and the fax machine.
“IDIOTS,” he laughed. “See, I told you Uncle Jason, it’s going to be a fun trip.”
It was a narrow escape. She could have just as easily called the head office in Tehran, and asked for verification. That call would have gotten an immediate response, an accurate response.
They drove for another two hours to their warehouse. Baba had purchased the whole building some thirty years ago and had kept it as a storage facility and safe house for his boys and himself. No one knew about this spot, apart from his family. They drove in through massive gates, happy to reunite with the other brothers. They both hopped out with Erdal still chortling. He quickly told the others the story, giving his brothers a good laugh.
Jason went to the back of the truck, staring for a while, before asking what they were bringing in to the country. The brothers opened the rear door and started moving the boxes of compote. Erdal explained that no one actually measured the trucks in this country and even if they did, they wouldn’t have a clue what size or weight it should be. He pointed out the side panels, as compared to the outside panels. These two trucks were smaller than the rest, used for small package delivery, and both filled with cigarettes. Once they removed all the boxes, Erdal showed Jason the sophisticated inner paneling and the hidden haul.
“Getting people out is much more difficult Uncle Jason, but we will be here and ready for you when you show up.”
They gave him their local cell number, a satellite phone, and a ride to a location of his choosing. Jason chose that location, a square, with the most pings coming from Parvaresh’s phone.
23 | The Hotel
Jason had been to Tehran on many occasions, both before and after the 1979 revolution. The city seemed to grow nonstop, mostly upwards. High-rise apartments were sprouting like weeds over the landscape, seemingly out of control. The citizenry were moving from smaller towns into the capital in search of work and a better life.
All around town there were short-term and long-term stay hotels catering to the weary traveler or the new resident. No one questioned anyone. No one cared. Jason found a hotel near the main square and rented a room. All he had to show was his ID card, for a brief look. More importantly, he had to pay the weekly rate in advance, in cash. No one took credit cards. Even though they existed, the trust factor did not exist. Almost all businesses would scoff at the idea of a credit card. They gave you a look as though you were pulling a gun out and were about to rob them. Cash was and would always be king in that country.
The hotel Jason chose was near the largest cluster of pings received by Mike’s company websites, sent by someone, somehow. Someone around here knew about Bobby and his whereabouts. The largest cluster pointed to several ten-story apartment buildings. From this central point, there were a series of other smaller clusters. Jason scoured them all, restaurants, a dry cleaner, a gas station, and a barbershop. The largest secondary cluster included a small restaurant open for all meals, in which sat about twenty people or so. This would be the best and easiest place to start. A great starting point from where Jason could identify the source of the pings. Golestan Kebab restaurant was to be his new hangout.
He next had to find places from which to communicate with people outside Iran. He had his satphone but needed options for email. He knew the government monitored all internet traffic, focusing on internet cafes. He had to find open Wi-Fi connections nearby. He started War Walking with his phone on search mode. Within several blocks, he found a two-story carpet store and a grocery store, with great signal strength, right next to a small coffee and pastry shop. He had found his wireless messaging outlet. He walked back to the hotel to rest and prepare for the hunt. Hard days were ahead.
* * *
He was up late crafting three detailed encrypted emails for Henry, Baba, and Warren Spencer at Langley. The Langley letter included more details about the startup, and information about his whereabouts in Iran. He detailed his plans, asking for help and local contact information. Henry’s letter included updates, and instructions for Mike to send all pings from the Golestan Kebab coordinates to Jason as they happened. The letter to Baba included a request for a favor. The next morning and after a good night’s rest, he started his walk to the coffee shop. Once there, he connected to the open Wi-Fi, found a Turkish VPN to which he connected, logged into his email account and shot off the messages. Finishing his coffee, he bought a paper and started walking to the restaurant for his first meal.
The Golestan Kebab restaurant was almost full for breakfast. Although most of the pings to date were at dinnertime, Jason wanted to start establishing a presence and to memorize faces. He was going to eat every meal there until he identified the source. He grabbed a corner table, started reading his paper, waiting for the waiter.
“Go
od morning. I haven’t seen you before! What can I get you?” a waiter asked.
Jason ordered some tea, bread and cheese.
“Oh! You’re from Esfahan! What are you doing here?” The prying waiter continued, while taking the order.
The Esfahani accent was quite charming, typically associated with a sub-culture of great wit and humor, and with savvy business people possessing superb negotiating skills, people who negotiated everything. Others in Iran prided themselves for correctly identifying this accent, as though they were the only people skilled in the art. They then followed by trying to be funny or making smart-ass remarks about the prices being fixed and non-negotiable. In truth, they were just nervous, afraid of a fleecing, or worse, becoming the butt of a joke.
Jason endured some of the ribbing, but needed to befriend the waiter. The waitstaff would be the best source of information. He mentioned he was in Tehran looking for work. He gave the waiter a quick skills pitch and asked if any of the customers could help. Jason had his back-story in place and was ready to spend some time at this eatery, days perhaps. Soon enough he had his breakfast, after which he began chatting up the table next to him, studying all the faces.
On the way back to the hotel, he made one more stop at the coffee shop to check his emails. He ordered tea and some sweets. While sipping away at his drink, he downloaded several zip files, the newest batch of data. Finishing his tea, he grabbed the small bag of sweets, and returned to the hotel. There, he unzipped the files and began analyzing the time stamps. On average, the dinners were about forty minutes long. Two to four pings, usually starting around seven.
* * *
It took four days, of three meals a day, before he had identified two probable choices. On the fifth night, he asked one if he had any recommendations for a drycleaner. The young man recommended a local shop that had been in business for ten years, informative, but not the right one. While paying his bill, he confronted the other with the same question. In response, he received a short but earnest reply, a name and address. That address was the drycleaner nearest another cluster of pings, making that man the better of two choices and the likely source. The next step was to follow the young man, see where he lived, where he worked, while still maintaining his presence at the restaurant, in case he was wrong about that choice.
Jason waited for the man to step out of the restaurant and moments later began the tail. It took several blocks of following to figure out this young man was a professional in street craft. Not just lost and confused. The way he walked, changing his gait at random, crossing the street and crossing back, all were telltale signs of training in counter-surveillance. He did it so naturally. Jason followed the man for twenty minutes, but eventually got to his apartment building, one of the buildings in the main cluster. Jason knew he had his man.
Finally, he would be able to eat somewhere else, sans the humorless ass of a waiter. Jason was happy. He came so close to punching the waiter on numerous occasions. Being an Esfahani had its price.
* * *
Old school was the only way to go about watching this man. Jason had no support or equipment. He started by purchasing a motorcycle at a used cycle shop. In Tehran traffic, that was the best and fastest way to maneuver. It blended with the hundreds of other bikes always on the road, surrounding cars.
After several days of following, Jason had identified most of the man’s stops, his home, his work address and his hours. He took full advantage of that to break into the apartment to do a full snoop. He had to be careful. The apartment had triggers placed all around to catch an intruder, to leave traces of an intrusion. Fortunately, there were no alarm systems in place. He did not want to alert the authorities. Plus, an alarm in Iran was useless. No one would ever come to check, and most neighbors would cut the alarm wiring if it went off more than once or twice.
This man was nothing like the county clerk, Jason thought.
Jason found the man’s name, Parvaresh, and as much as he could about his personal life. He was an educated man. Very westernized as shown by his taste in music, videos, food, and art work. He also knew English and German, with a large collection of books in those languages on his bookshelves. He worked at a Cultural Center about which Jason could find very little. He checked local guide shops and spoke to locals, finding nothing concrete. What was uncovered, were more rumors and stories, about what may be going on inside the building. The more Jason dug around the more convinced he was that The Center was the place. What added to the mystery was that no pings ever emanated from within or near the building. Either they had a no phone policy, highly unlikely in a cultural center, or the building had frequency and radio wave dampening measures. Ending the uncertainty, Jason did a walkabout. The Center windows were double paned and gel filled to prevent laser listening devices, with signal masking devices attached to the base of each window. He had only seen those windows at high-end security buildings. This was not a cultural center.
I’ve hit on somewhere important. These people clearly have secrets to hide and protect.
On his way back to the hotel, he stopped at the coffee shop for another email roundup. To his joy, he received some contacts from which he may be able to get help, people with more resources. He called the number provided and setup a meeting downtown for breakfast.
* * *
Early the next day he got up for his routine jog, shave and shower. One of which he should not do and one he could not do, so he just showered. Having an ever-present beard, at any stage of growth, caused less suspicion for the revolutionary guards and allowed for a more anonymous passage through the crowds. As for the jogging, nothing was more suspicious than exercising in public, a very Western trait. It looked like you were running away from something, forcing a takedown by a curious and bored crowd.
Clean and feeling fresh, he got on his bike and rode into downtown, well away from his area. He wanted help, but was not going to trust anyone. It was a good list of Mossad agents, vetted by Langley, but they were not Americans, and Jason was not going to take chances with his godson’s life.
Roads were busy as always. People drove with minimum regard for rules of the road. Each trip would guarantee at least a dozen small accidents. Each resulting in a mini revolution as crowds would gather to express their views, leading to arguments and a harmless scuffle. Red lights were pretty. Lanes were only an estimate of where to be and whether you could fit. The basic rules were to squeeze in or by, if you could. Finally, please use your horn for everything, from signaling a friend, to pointing out an infraction, to flirting with someone, or as an accompaniment to your cursing!
Jason pulled up to a café and parked his motorbike, on the sidewalk chained to a tree. He stepped in, not sure whom he would find. He sat at a table, and ordered breakfast for two, as directed by the man he called earlier. He started on his breakfast, waiting. Soon after, a stranger stood in front of him.
“May I sit here?”
“Of course, please sit.” He said gauging the man, noticing a handgun in a shoulder holster. The man sat and asked if the untouched tea had sugar.
“No,” Jason said.
“Good, I hate sugar.”
The introduction was over.
The man enjoyed his cold tea and started on his breakfast. They both chatted about Tehran, weather, and traffic, while finishing their breakfast.
“It’s time to go,” the man said. “Leave your bike outside. We’ll take my car.” They paid and stepped outside, waiting curbside.
A car pulled up with two others inside, one driver and the other in the back. The man put Jason in the back seat and followed after. With Jason in the middle, they drove off. They placed a dark, dusty hood over his head, as they continued their drive. Jason began counting in his mind, tallying left and right turns and any clues he thought important. He memorized the entire trip.
* * *
The drive ended in an underground apartment garage. They guided Jason up a staircase and into an apartment. Once inside they remov
ed his hood, where he saw several other armed men, some communications equipment, and a small portable satellite antenna system. He heard them chatting in Farsi and Hebrew, intermixed with some Arabic words.
“Welcome to our home. My name is Gideon, and this is my crew.” He introduced the men, offering a little about their background and skill set. A small, fully capable attack group Jason thought.
“So tell me, Jason Caius. Yes, we know a little about you. What are you doing here?”
Jason told them as little as he could, focusing on saving his godson. He told them about Mike’s accumulated wealth. He told them the kidnapping was for ransom. The parents were sickly worried and wanted Jason to help, to have Bobby come back home alive. He needed to keep all else hidden until he knew more about these people.
“What’s your story?” Jason asked, in return.
Gideon too was cautious. The U.S. and Israel were staunch allies and shared a great deal of intelligence, yet remained very untrusting of each other. Not all of their belief systems and agenda were alike. Even though the U.S. Jewish lobby was quite powerful, the Christian Right was more powerful, and never much liked Israel. Gideon described his group as residing inside Iran simply to collect intelligence, typical Jews with Iranian heritage, trained in counter-espionage, and who could live under cover for a long time. His group was responsible for information gathering only as related to Iran’s nuclear program and for finding more assets inside Iran.
The way these guys were equipped, the way they carried themselves, they were a far cry from being typical Jews. The way they fetched people off the street and dozens of other clues, hinted to more than information gathering. Jason became even more cautious.
“So, how can we be of help?” Gideon asked.
“I’m interested in intelligence, for now, and am looking for hands-on people in case I need manpower,” Jason replied.
The Minders Page 14