Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  CHAPTER SIX

  Road Trip

  TEHRAN IRAN, 2013—five years earlier.

  IT WAS NINE a.m. in the morning local time, and I was taking my morning dump and reading my book Persian Pilgrimages: Journeys Across Iran. I had already spent a lot of time on the internet researching Iran, but I liked to have as much knowledge as possible about any place where I had an assignment. Iran had never been on my list of travel itineraries because of its Islamic revolution in 1979, so now I was engaged in a bit of a crash course on its history and customs. I had, of course, been to its neighbors Iraq and Afghanistan in the service but never to Iran, which was actually too bad, for it was a veritable treasure trove of history. It was also the origin of many of our modern day sciences such as algebra and medicine, the latter having been explored in great detail by a fellow named Avicenna, who is generally thought to be the father of modern medicine. Currently, however, Iran was considered to be a third world country and a menace to peace in the Middle East, which was why I was here on a joint operation with the Mossad code named operation Eagle Feather.

  The objective was to help one of Iran’s most brilliant nuclear scientists escape to the decadent West, thereby crippling their nuclear program while enhancing ours. His name was Farid Ardeshir, and he was thirty-four years old, a shade over six feet tall, good looking, unmarried, and according to his file, hoped to meet a blond, big breasted American woman when he reached the United States and started his new life. He was also a gifted linguist, fluent in Persian, Arabic, French, German, and English, with the last having been particularly useful, as he had earned his PhD at Stanford University. Today, I would be meeting him in the steam room of his gym, where he would don his new identity, and we’d slip out the back door, get into a nondescript sedan, and drive north to meet up with a Mossad agent before crossing the border into Turkey. The first leg of the trip was fairly straightforward and would take about eleven hours if all went well.

  I put down my book, flushed, then took a shower before getting dressed and taking my things down to the car. It was towards the end of summer, but the morning air was still cool, crisp, and dry, because Tehran sat about three thousand nine hundred feet above sea level. By afternoon, however, it might climb to as high as a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, but I personally found it to be a rather comfortable climate and not just because of the temperate weather. The main reason was because I had a long existing allergy to dust mites, but the little fuckers didn’t generally live above three thousand feet, and that meant my sinuses were celebrating sweet relief, and I could smell all the nuances of the city, whether it was the restaurants, car exhaust, or the local flora and fauna.

  Farid’s gym was an upscale place about a half mile from the hotel, and the local traffic was light, although slightly chaotic with few drivers adhering to the rules of the road. The city soon transitioned from taller buildings to two and three story structures, and I had a clear view of the distant Alborz mountains, the pinnacle of which was Mount Damavand. It was an eighteen thousand, five hundred and fifty foot extinct volcano, which resided about fifty miles northeast of the city. It’s funny, I’d always assumed Iran was a flat desert country, but it was quite the contrary with plenty of mountainous terrain and all manner of climates, from arid in the south to subtropical up where it bordered the Caspian Sea. The capital, Tehran, was kind of mixed climate-wise, and tended to be warmer in the southern desert districts and cooler in the higher northern parts of the city.

  At the moment I was in the temperate though crowded middle and luckily managed to find parking along the back street, though I desperately hoped that the sign beside my car didn’t translate as tow away zone. There were plenty of other cars, so odds were on my side that I had parked wisely. I walked two blocks away before turning and heading to the street that bordered the front of the gym. My roundabout route was so that I could do some reconnaissance and spot any security teams that might be watching Farid. Up on my left, and across the street from the gym’s front entrance, I spotted a white Mercedes with two men in the front. They were obviously from MOIS, or Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and National Security, and both sported bushy mustaches, sunglasses, and menacing glares, so, if they were trying to be subtle, it wasn’t working.

  As I reached the entrance to the gym, I spotted a second car with two more security men parked about half way down the block on my side of the street. Shitters, Farid was obviously an important man, and that wasn’t going to make my job any easier. I entered the double doors to the gym and handed the front desk guy a guest pass from my hotel. He was a young, buff, twenty-something with a serious tan and the signature acne of a roider. He grunted something indiscernible then pointed me towards the main workout floor. The place turned out to be modern and as nice as any gym back home, with the only obvious difference being that it was all male. Apparently, women either went to different gyms or came at different times, and I had to admit that the lack of women in tight exercise clothing here was definitely another point for the West.

  I stepped onto a treadmill and did about ten minutes of moderate cardio to warm up then moved over to the leg press before finishing up on the free weights. I doubt the Agency would have been happy that I was taking all this extra time to workout, but I had spent the last eighteen hours on a plane and desperately needed the exercise. It also added to my cover, as what kind of pussy would go to a gym just to use the steam room?

  Finished and feeling the welcome fatigue of a decent workout, I did a little recon of the back door where we would be exiting. It was a typical steel reinforced double door that unfortunately had been chained closed and padlocked, probably to keep people from letting their friends in through the back. So much for fire safety in Iran. I looked around to make sure I was alone then slid out my lockpick tools and quickly set to work on my tiny case hardened foe. It took all of five seconds to get the tumblers in sequence before it clicked open, but I left it unlocked and still looped through the chain so that it appeared to be holding it in place. Step one was complete.

  I headed into the locker area and found the steam room in the back left corner near the showers. I grabbed a towel and headed in, hopeful that I wouldn’t be waiting too long in the intolerable heat and humidity. It was soothing for a short period of time, but, if I stayed too long I’d come out feeling like an over cooked stalk of asparagus. The room was empty except for a man lying on the top bench with a towel over his head, and a slang term for a person of Arabic decent came to mind, but I kept it to myself for two reasons. The first was that it would be fairly rude to say it to a complete stranger, and the second was that it would be inaccurate, as Persians weren’t Arabic. A lot of people grouped them in with the Arabs, but they were, in fact, Aryans of Indo-European origin. The man stirred and peaked out at me from under his towel for a moment before speaking.

  “Hello, white devil, you smell of fornication and godlessness.”

  Believe it or not, that was the code phrase I was hoping to hear, which meant it was time to respond in kind.

  “Yes I do, and soon you too will know the soft center of the infidel.”

  He sat up and smiled as he held out his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, I’m Farid.”

  “I’m Tag, I hear you like big tits,” I said, as I shook his hand.

  “Of course. You don’t?”

  “I like all tits. Big and small.”

  His look turned serious.

  “Is everything ready?”

  “Yep, the car’s out back, and I have your new clothes, identity, and phone right here in my gym bag.”

  It was important that Farid leave everything behind for fear that they might have some kind of tracking sensor in either his clothing or his phone.

  “You ready to give up this decadent eastern lifestyle?”

  “You bet your sweet ass.”

  We left the steam room and headed for the showers for the big transformation. Farid had a full beard, but he would be shaving it off as the first
step of disguising his appearance. We reconvened at the sinks five minutes later, and he smiled and rubbed his chin as he looked at his face, which was now as smooth as a baby’s bottom.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  “Clean and ready to motor boat.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You place your face between a woman’s breasts and wiggle your head back and forth while making a motorboat sound. It’s much more effective without facial hair,” I said, as I mimicked the motion.

  He laughed out loud then rubbed his smooth new face again as he smiled in the mirror.

  “Perhaps when I find a big breasted woman in America, I can try this motor boating thing.”

  “Do or do not. There is no try,” I said, in my best Yoda voice.

  Farid laughed again.

  “Yes, good point, Master Yoda, so I will do this motor boating,” he said, the do done in a Yoda voice.

  We finished getting dressed and headed for the back door, where I had a quick look around to make sure we weren’t being watched. With the way clear, we stepped outside, and I reached back inside and relocked the chain before closing the door, thus covering our tracks. The car was right where I parked it and thankfully hadn’t been towed or ticketed, which was hopefully an omen of good things to come. We loaded our bags in the trunk then took a seat in the car, with Farid at the wheel. He was accustomed to the local roads and traffic and would therefore allow us to blend in better, so it made sense for him to take the first shift.

  “Road trip!” I said.

  He looked at me curiously.

  “I’ve never heard that phrase either.”

  “Well then, time to learn it, because it’s kind of a tradition in America and the subject of endless books and movies.”

  “OK, then let’s get this fucking road trip on the road!” he exclaimed excitedly, throwing up his arms.

  “That’s the spirit.”

  He started the car, and off we went, heading west on Azadi Street, passing the University of Tehran, where scores of college students were milling about between classes. After a couple more turns, we were on the Tehran Qazvin Highway and doing a little over a hundred and twenty kilometers an hour which was about seventy-four. Right now, the MOIS Agents were hopefully still sitting out in front of the gym, waiting for Farid and glaring at passersby with their menacing stares. Eventually they would go in and look for him, and his disappearance would bring about a nationwide alert, so it was imperative to gain as much distance as possible. Their initial search would focus on the city, and, specifically, the airport, which was the reason we were in a car. It would eventually expand to the entire country, but, if all went well, we’d be long gone and already across the border in Turkey.

  The traffic was light at this time of day, and it allowed us to make good time, and, better still, gave me a brief respite from the stress of the mission to enjoy a little sightseeing. Off to the left there were agricultural fields while off to the right there were grassy golden mountains, and it reminded me of the drive along California’s central valley between San Francisco and Los Angeles. It was an interesting phenomena to think of my long lost home that I hadn’t seen in years, though it made sense, because our minds always looked for familiarity.

  A little over an hour and a half later, we were entering the city of Qazvin, and the road was becoming more congested, but Farid drove like the local he was and hit the horn and waved an arm here and there as the need arose. On the other edge of town, a police car sat parked on a side street with two officers inside that appeared to be watching traffic. Farid looked at me nervously, and both of us held our breath as we passed it. A little ways down the road, he checked the rearview mirror then relaxed and smiled.

  “They weren’t the least bit interested in us.”

  “That’s good news and means one of two things. Either they didn’t recognize you sans the beard or they haven’t put out a nationwide alert for you yet,” I said.

  “Good to know, but I have a more pressing problem—namely the fact that I’m starving. How about you?” he asked.

  “Now that you mention it, I realize I’m also starving.”

  I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and managed to get a pretty decent sweat on at the gym. Generally it was important to eat protein within a one-hour window of working out in order for the muscles to begin rebuilding, but I was an hour behind schedule and hungry as hell.

  “Where should we eat?” I asked.

  “There’s a great falafel place on the other side of Qazvin.”

  “Perfect, falafels give me incredible gas.”

  “Me too,” he said, smiling.

  “Then I’ll guess we’ll be hot boxing it.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “It’s just another silly American expression, and one you’ll understand in about two hours.”

  The highway wound north to the fringe of the city then back west, and we exited off to our right and drove to a small restaurant about a hundred yards off the main road. It looked nice enough on the exterior, but once we entered the building, I had a little trepidation. I wouldn’t say that it looked dingy, but it wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine Gordon Ramsey filming one of his Kitchen Nightmares episodes here, where he would most certainly end up delivering one of his profanity laden tirades to the owner and staff.

  “Trust me, the food is excellent,” Farid said, sensing my unease.

  “OK, but my life is in your hands.”

  We went up to the counter, and Farid ordered us falafel plates with hummus, salad, and a side of their famous rice with berries and saffron. I had to admit that, in spite of my initial reservations, everything smelled and looked delicious. We took a seat at a window table, and the owner brought us over silverware and cups of black tea. He returned a few minutes later with our plates of food, and Farid and I dug in like starving hyenas, abstaining from speech until our plates were empty. I leaned back in my seat hoping to take a little of the pressure off my stomach and saw Farid do the same.

  “So, what is your life like back in America?”

  “Well, my job doesn’t actually allow me to spend much time there at the moment, sadly.”

  “So you live like James Bond? New places and new women every week?”

  “Well—new places at least. A few women—not exactly Bond girls.”

  He laughed.

  “Do you plan on getting married and having a family?” he asked.

  “I certainly would like to someday, as I’m not getting any younger.”

  “Yeah I understand—that’s why I’m doing all this. I want to raise my future children in a free society where they can be or do whatever they please.”

  “You won’t miss Iran?”

  “Afraid not. The greatest time in my life was when I was doing my PhD at Stanford.”

  “Yeah, I read that in your file. You know, I went to college there as well, which is probably part of the reason why they sent me—figured we’d have some common ground.”

  “No way! When were you there?”

  “99 to 2003.”

  “Holy shit, I started my doctorate in 2002!”

  “Fucking over achiever! I was only just finishing my bachelors.”

  “What would you expect from a boy from a strict Muslim country. No womanizing or alcohol—all I had as a youth were my studies.”

  “Very sad, my friend.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What the hell brought you back here?”

  “My father had died, and my mother needed me. Now that she’s passed away, I have no ties here anymore.”

  “That’s kind of sad.”

  “Yes it is, but it frees me up to pursue other things,” he said, holding up his hands, the gesture meant to imply two formidable breasts.

  “Everyone needs a dream,” I responded.

  I was just taking the last sip of tea when a group of young college age girls walked in and sat at the next table. Farid glanced over at them then
turned back and smiled at me. I took a quick look at the girls and instantly understood why he was smiling. The girl facing him was particularly attractive and a bit on the chesty side, which was evident even under her headscarf and traditional dress. Ample breasts were ample breasts regardless of how you tried to hide them.

  “Are you sure you really want to go to America?” I asked.

  “Yes, especially if large breasts are the rule rather than the exception,” he said.

  “It certainly is in Southern California.”

  “Then perhaps that is where I will live.”

  We finished our tea, then I told him I needed to pee before we hit the road. Farid pointed towards the far end of the restaurant, and I headed back and entered the bathroom to find that it had stalls, and each housed a hole in the floor with two rectangular foot holds. My hotel had been fairly westernized, so this was my first experience with the usual squat toilets of Iran, but, thankfully, I was just peeing. Interestingly, many Iranian men supposedly squatted down to pee, which seemed like too much work in my opinion. Standing and peeing was the hallmark of being a man and the trade-off for needing more time than a woman to drop a deuce. And, least of all, standing made it that much easier to control flatulence, which could be pretty common during urination. I stepped into the left stall, not bothering to close the door, unzipped and let loose a mighty stream of urine. The gracious restaurant owner had refilled my glass about eighteen times, and now I was emptying a bladder that felt about eighteen times larger than it should. I was at least halfway to empty, or half full if I was a urinating optimist, when I heard the door open behind me.