The Minders

by Max Boroumand

  “Bobby, wouldn’t it be cool eating inside one of those trucks?” Jason said, pointing at the little girl and then at one of the trucks. Bobby got the hint and asked the little girl to go have breakfast with him. She happily got up and walked to one of the open trucks with him.

  Jason moved the remainder of the food around and laid the map back on the table.

  “What do you think, Jason?” Erdal asked, bread and cheese in hand.

  “Well, we can’t all fit in your truck for four days with the little girl. She will have to sit.” He filled his cup with more juice. Freshly squeezed pomegranate juice was his favorite and something you just did not get in the U.S. as easily.

  “So, the dad and girl will go with you in our place. Bobby and I will work our way out another way.”

  “Which way will you go?” Erdal asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” He didn’t want to share his plans just in case they caught Erdal.

  “But I know what I need.” He started writing down a shopping list.

  After breakfast, Jason gave Erdal a list of items for his journey. Primary on his list was a car, with clean Iranian plates, a car that would stay clean for several days or more. He also needed an Iranian national ID card for Bobby. The ID card did not have to be perfect, just good enough to wave around if need be. The back roads they were going to take most likely would not validate the ID online. There wasn’t enough time to forge a good one. In addition to the major items, there were other necessities he needed.

  Erdal took the list and, after reading it, told Jason that it would take several days for his list to be complete. His brother would help and stay until it was done. Erdal, on the other hand, would have to leave that night with the father and daughter.

  Jason agreed.

  * * *

  Jason walked over to the father, who was still holding the pink backpack, and told him about the plans for his family, what he should expect, as well as where he would be going. The father felt a bit more relieved as he was beginning to see an end to this painful trip.

  33 | Family Therapy

  The Sepāh-e Pāsdārān-e Enqelāb-e Eslāmi, or Sepāh for short, also referred to as the Revolutionary Guards, were a branch of Iran's military. Founded after the Iranian revolution and headquartered in Tehran, their main purpose was to protect the country's Islamic system, to prevent foreign interference and to stop internal upheavals, with roughly 125,000 military personnel spread around the country, including the feared Quds Force, their version of Special Forces.

  They had developed into a multibillion-dollar business, and had taken an ever more assertive role in virtually every aspect of Iranian society. They inflicted, on the citizenry, the cruelest treatments ever rumored to exist, with most occurring at these headquarters. It was here where VAJA, the Ministry of Intelligence, had several floors.

  Gideon and his men were in a room known as the family therapy suite, one of the most successful methods of interrogation the Iranians had developed, a scientific and systematic form of group torture, mainly used for breaking teams of dedicated people, who had trained together, worked together, or who were family. The room was white, bright, and pleasant, with ten modern-looking gurneys. The gurneys were five feet apart and were all interconnected.

  All of Gideon’s men were inside, including the stitched and patched up member. They laid each onto a gurney with arms, chest and legs strapped tight to restrict movement. They then attached electrodes to each member’s inner thighs, upper arms, and neck. From under the gurney, a gooseneck microphone and high definition camera curved around and over the head, with cameras focused on each face. Both were recording constantly, each sound, each micro expression, and each word. With everyone buckled in, a uniformed man walked in, ready to work them over.

  “Now gentlemen …” The first words directed at them since their arrest.

  “We are not a cruel people and leave your destiny entirely in your hands. Let me tell you about this room and how things work.” He began to detail the inner workings of the room.

  Electrodes randomly pulsed electric currents, with the following rules. If everyone kept their head off their gurney headrest, the pulse remained at five milliamps, annoying but not painful. The first person who placed his head down would raise the current to 10 milliamps for everyone else, while their current remained at five. Each additional head would increase the current by one milliamp for the others, while bringing their own back down to five milliamps. If all heads were down at the same time, the current would go up to 10 milliamps for everyone. If you talked and divulged valuable information, everyone got a full break, while the speakers’ current went down to five, during the talk. If two or more people spoke simultaneously, the current went up to 10 milliamps for everyone.

  “Pretty simple,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

  Actually, not as simple as you think, nor easy to remember, once you got a dose or two of the shock treatment.

  Shock was relatively more severe as the amperage rose. For currents above 10 milliamps, muscular contractions were so strong that the victim would freeze in place. At values around 7.5 milliamps, breathing became labored and at times ceased completely. They created this technique to break strong bonds.

  “Finally, and for your information”, the man said walking out of the room, “The record before someone spilled the beans is 17 hours. So, let’s start!”

  * * *

  Back in the control room, the intelligence group was monitoring health, speech and content. They recorded everything from words to micro expressions, further parsed by the computer, with correlative analytics applied on the fly. They had archived data stores for every interrogation, as well as news events, police reports, crime scene reports, autopsy reports, and any other related intelligence, all centralized for quick cross-referencing. A lot of science, technology, and experience had gone into this approach, and it had proven to be highly effective and much more useful than the old school methods.

  The CIA had brought the talent for torture to modern Iran, for use by the Shah to squash radicalism and to put the fear of God into anyone who dared speak or act against the monarchy. The original and basic techniques consisted of electroshock, floggings, physical bodily injuries, and depravities of all kinds.

  In general, inflicting physical pain resulted in unsound results. The tortured fell into two categories, those who knew very little and spoke very quickly, and those who knew a great deal and spoke only after tremendous pain, who only gave up enough to get themselves to their deathbeds with some level of final comfort.

  After years of practice, the intelligence group realized that physical torture, inflicted on one person, missed the mark. The missing element was the idea of group dynamics, group cohesion, and the bond that groups had between their members, the bonds and a sense of caring that were worth more to some than to others. Not to mention the sense of guilt that people feel inflicting pain upon a friend or a loved one. It soon became a practice to avoid capturing just one person, but instead to wait to capture a group of people. Thus began the process of collective torture. It took several years to refine the process, to figure out the way guilt, love, and caring worked in a setting such as this. Questions like whom to free of suffering for speaking, the speaker or others, had to be tested. Eventually, and through much practice, they had perfected the family therapy room.

  * * *

  At first, Gideon and his men were keen to keep their heads up. They easily suffered the low current and dealt with the annoyance of keeping their heads up. An hour into it, with bodies fully rigid and tightly attached to the gurney, their necks became stiff and hard to hold up. They took turns laying their heads down for a break. Each took a fifteen second break every fifteen minutes or so, suffering the higher amps. Three hours into the ordeal, they started taking longer breaks more often, and out of turn. Their bodies began to feel the pain of both the amps and the neck strain. The neck pain was moving down towards their shoulders and up through to the he
ad. Muscle contractions were occurring regularly, without the currents. Their bodies were feeling very weak. It was at that low point that the process actually began to work. They began to feel guilty. The need to sacrifice for friends and loved ones began to weight each down.

  Who will go first? Gideon thought.

  Seven hours into it, and well under the record, the wounded Mossad agent began to talk. His first round was 20 minutes of gibberish, useless data. No one saw a reduction in amperage. Mere chitchat was not going to do anything. They had to give up real corroborated intelligence. His second round started almost immediately, and encompassed Jason and the rescue mission. He spilled all he knew about Jason. He figured telling them something other than their own missions would be a safe start. For that, everyone got a thirty-minute breather.

  It was Gideon, who after fourteen hours, began to tell all. His sense of duty towards his men, the pain they all endured, especially the wounded man, proved intolerable. He gave up details on more than five missions, including the assassination of nuclear physicists and the sabotaging of Nuclear Power plants, as well as names of assets they had turned. He gave up times, dates, bullet calibers, explosive switch design, and much more, details that only they would know. Everything automatically crosschecked with the database. Gideon was being forthcoming. It was a great intelligence bounty for the Iranians.

  They had finally caught a major and consequential group of terrorists who had been living amongst them for quite some time. Much work remained looking for the other named assets. Even more work remained to try to change processes and techniques affected by the Mossad’s work to date.

  As for Jason and crew, the revolutionary guards could not care less. However, the hovering Center agents relayed what they had found back to their superiors as quickly as they could. To the revolutionary guards, Jason’s story was of a man trying to get his family out of prison. They knew very little about The Center and its missions.

  The revolutionary guards, the ministry of intelligence, and The Center, each had their distinct roles. This was just an overlap. However, to The Center, the hunt was now on for Jason and the other prisoners.

  34 | The First Leg

  Jason and Bobby would be stuck in the warehouse for several days waiting for Bobby’s documents and a clean car. Jason figured they could get to know each other better. They could share all sorts of stories about each other’s family, life in Iran as a child, and much more.

  Meanwhile, Erdal’s brother was at the airport, for the car, and later to a local university, for a Cart-eh-Meli, for Bobby. The car was the simplest thing to get, but the national ID card was a bit harder. ID cards for girls were easy. It was easy because all were essentially identical photos, taken with the headscarf on, making every girl look like every other girl. For the men, the pictures had to match more closely. Usually they would have one made, but time was not on their side. They had to steal one and the best place for that was a university where all students had to carry theirs daily. If one was lost, they would take several days to report it, because the odds were they had left it somewhere on campus, at a friend’s, or god forbid at their girlfriend’s. Which meant a two to three day life span for each lost card.

  Jason had his chores as well. He grabbed the satphone, looking Bobby over for some measurements. He stepped out of the warehouse for a shopping spree. He drove past several malls, stopping at a busy one with a multi-level outdoor parking structure. He parked on the roof, with clear skies above, for a satellite call to Henry.

  Henry picked up with a, “What do you want?”

  Jason could almost smell the Budweiser on Henry’s breath and a barrage of expletives ready to go in place of punctuation.

  “It’s me, Jason.”

  “What the fuck, man. Where are you? I heard from your dad. Good to know you fucking guys made it. I already gave the good news to Gordon and your honey.”

  “We’re alive Henry. We can’t use our escape route, and had to give it up for the father and daughter we rescued. We’re going to try and get out through Iraq, by way of ….” and before he could finish, Henry piped in.

  “What the fuck are you going that way for? Just have Baba find another ride, through Turkey.”

  “Turkey will be well watched and they’re expecting a group of four. We just can’t take a chance. Besides, I’ve done this road trip from Iran to Iraq a bunch of times. I even have a great lunch place to eat along the way. Bobby will like it. I’m not calling about this. I need you to do something.”

  “What the fuck do you want this time? And what are you going to pay? Just kidding, man, what is it?”

  “You need to tell the FBI about the startup location. Please time it just right. First, take the minders out, both of them, then have the FBI hit the startup. Can you do that for me?” Jason asked in all seriousness.

  “I already have a guy with your dad in Denver. Do you want them clean? And when?” Henry asked eagerly.

  “The one in Denver should be super clean. The one in Palo Alto blew up my house, so I leave that up to you. Given the damage we caused here, I’m thinking 24 hours from now, give or take a little, will be just right.”

  “I have my end covered. What about Copenhagen?” Henry asked.

  “I’m calling Baba after this and asking him to get that loose end tied up for us. Wish us luck and hope to see you soon.” On that note, he hung up and went in to the shopping center for some clothing and other items.

  Bobby needed to get some Iranian style clothing to blend in better with his surroundings. Jason visited a men’s clothier, a pharmacy, a cell store, and ended the shopping spree at a toy store. With bags full, he went back to the car, calling Baba before he drove back to the warehouse.

  * * *

  By late evening, everyone was back at the warehouse. Bobby was now looking as Iranian as any his age. The two teddy bears that Jason purchased became portable storage units, one with a satphone and car charger, and the other with a gun and extra ammo.

  “Bobby, you’re going to have to leave the laptop behind or give it to Erdal to take back with him to Germany. And, stop shaving for the rest of the trip. I need you scruffy. Oh, by the way, if your Farsi is not up to par, I’ll have to wrap your head and jaw with bandages,” he said pointing at the first aid kit he bought.

  “I’ll give my laptop to Erdal. He could bring it,” he said placing it near Erdal’s truck.

  “And, as for my Farsi, check this out.” He recited some Hafez poetry in a perfect accent.

  Hafez was his dad’s favorite Persian poet. Mike raised Bobby, reading poems to him, discussing, parsing and dissecting them.

  “Yeah, my dad killed us with that poet,” Bobby followed, smiling.

  “Sure Bobby, that all sounds good at a party in Tehran. In the villages and outskirts, if you can’t recite the Quran, you’re toast. So give me some loving in that department.” Jason demanded.

  To that, Bobby recited several Surahs from the Quran, this time with a perfect Arabic accent, as though he had been praying daily for years.

  “See, I was trained well for this trip!”

  “Yes, but do you know what you’re actually saying?” Jason asked sarcastically.

  Erdal jumped in, “Do any of the peasants know what they’re actually saying? I mean, really!”

  “So, true!” Jason and the little girl’s father both said laughing. The girl too laughed, for the first time. Seeing her dad smile and laugh made her happy.

  * * *

  Erdal’s truck was now ready for final loading. They went over the details with the father once more and then walked him to the back compartment, past a series of pallets, tightly squeezing against the inner wall as they walked by.

  “O.K, here are the two seats, facing each other, this hole at the bottom can be opened like this, should you need to do your business. Here are your water and food compartments, enough for the whole trip and more, so eat when you’re hungry,” Erdal said. Pointing to everything and ending by pointing o
ut the airflow inlets and light switches.

  “Let’s get your girl in here and give you some time to adjust. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

  The father and girl had their fill of water. They used the restroom one last time. The father then carried his little girl to the truck and through the tight side passage into the hidden compartment. He placed her in the built in seat and told her that they had to be there for the next two days, after which she will be so much closer to mommy. He handed her the backpack and stepped out of the truck. He walked over to Jason and Bobby, giving them each a big hug, thanking them both for all they did. Bobby handed him his laptop.

  “Take this with you. Maybe she can play some games along the way.”

  The father carried the laptop back to the compartment, followed by Erdal who locked them in. They then shifted the crates, covering all of the gaps. Several more crates were loaded in, and the outside doors locked. The father and daughter had a tight two to three day trip ahead of them.

  Jason and Bobby were standing by the truck as Erdal and one brother got in. They were standing outside the cab, by the window.

  “Thank you so much for all your help, and we’ll see you on the other side.” Jason tapped on the door slightly as Erdal turned on the engine.

  “It was my pleasure, Uncle Jason!” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me calling you uncle? My father loves you like a brother.” He winked and started driving off.

  “We’ll see you on the other side!” he yelled, closing the truck window.

  It was nearing eleven at night.

  * * *

  After their first real nights’ sleep and well into the next morning, Jason and Bobby finally woke up to some commotion in the warehouse. Erdal’s brother was back. His eyes blood shot, with clothes wrinkly and well worn. He had slept in them, with lots of tossing and turning. His wrinkled shirt looked like a road map, with all highways, roads and side streets well marked.