I leaned over and glanced back inside as I waited for them to finish their conversation, all the while desperately wishing I knew how to read lips. Unfortunately, the only word I had ever managed to recognize was fuck, and that was because it utilized the extremely obvious facial movement of having the top teeth practically bite the lower lip in order to form the hard F sound. None of the people happened to say fuck, so that left me sitting in the dark, both literally and figuratively, as to the content of the conversation on the other side of the glass.
The meeting finally came to an end, and Hamza, the kraut, and the woman left while Farid headed into the next room over. I continued along the ledge and saw the light turn on in the next room, and I stepped closer and peered inside to discover that it was an enormous private bathroom—and my old friend was sliding down his pants and dropping onto the toilet for a deuce. As I remembered, Farid was also not a big fan of public restrooms, which explained why he hung back to use this private commode. Lovely, that would make our meeting a little less pleasant, if not more personal, but at least he didn’t have any compelling reading material, so he would hopefully keep the dump short and to the point. A few minutes passed, and he stood up, flushed, then went to the sink to wash his hands. With the sound of the running water masking my entrance, I climbed through the open window and waited for him to finish up before I spoke.
“Jesus, Farid, the years certainly haven’t made your shit smell any better,” I said.
He was so startled that he jumped backward and banged against the wall with his expression wavering somewhere between anger and shock, but, as recognition dawned, the hint of a smile formed on his lips.
“Tag Finn, you son of a bitch! I can’t believe my eyes! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Well, actually…”
“Hey, wait a minute! That was you at the gym, wasn’t it?” he asked, starting to walk towards me before suddenly stopping, his expression turning from excitement to fear.
“Oh no—fuck,” he said, as he started to back towards the door.
“Farid! Wait! Relax! We need to talk!”
Suddenly it dawned on me why he was having such an odd reaction. It was my final words to him that were now coming back to haunt me at this particular moment. That night on the Aegean Sea, before he stepped off the Gordita, I had warned him that if he ever saw me again, it meant that something had gone horribly wrong, and he needed to flee for his life.
“Wait! It’s not what you think!” I said.
He opened the door and bolted from the room. Shit. Nothing in life is ever easy.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Are you there God? It's Me, Tag
I CHASED AFTER Farid, desperately hoping to reach him before he did anything crazy such as alerting the palace security, but, fortunately for me, he was running deeper into the private area of the palace and away from the checkpoint with the overly vigilant guard. I poured on the speed, but Farid was an athletic guy and maintained an even lead until coming across a set of locked double doors. With nowhere else to go, he went to the right through a different door and into a side room that turned out to be an access stairway for the help, and it descended into the kitchen, where I discovered scores of people cooking and cleaning like a hive of worker bees. There was no sign of Farid, but I looked down at a section of floor that had just been mopped and saw footprints. Bingo! I followed them until they ended at another door which accessed yet another stairway. I followed it down and emerged onto what was the basement floor of the palace. This level was inhabited entirely by what appeared to be off-work staff who milled about mostly uninterested in my presence. I suspected that my tuxedo gave me a certain degree of authority, and it was a clear indicator of the very real class structure that existed in the Emirates. Oddly, Arabs and native Emirates only made up about 39% of the population, which meant that the vast majority of the people working here, and this palace in particular, were poor immigrants and, therefore, basically indentured servants. I continued on and looked for any sign of Farid as I moved past offices, storage rooms, and walk-in freezers before arriving at what appeared to be an employee lounge. A young woman in traditional dress and a head scarf saw me and approached, all the while keeping her gaze downward and subservient as she spoke.
“Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m looking for my friend who just came down here a second ago.”
She looked uncomfortable as though I had asked an indelicate question.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“No, sir.”
“Well—have you seen my friend?”
I was experienced enough at reading people to know that she definitely knew who I was talking about and also probably knew exactly where he had gone.
“It’s important that I find him.”
She stared at me, looking conflicted. Obviously, she lived the life of an employee or, worse still, a servant and, therefore, took orders for a living, but, for some reason, perhaps the location of our conversation, she continued to remain silent.
My educational background was social psychology, so I was familiar with the fact that people had an innate tendency to become very attached and possessive of places or things that they visited or used regularly. One of the first examples of this was the desk you sat in at school. From the first day of class on, you would guard your little piece of real estate with your life, as its humble wood and steel structure were your home away from home. As adults it might become your parking space at work or a particular table at your local restaurant. For the woman in front of me, it was the basement of a palace. These people were at the beck and call of the upstairs elite, but down here I imagine they felt they had dominion, and now I was on their turf and therefore had to behave according to their rules.
“I promise you. He’s a very dear old friend, and I desperately need to talk to him,” I said.
The girl wasn’t buying my story, so I decided I needed to throw in some interesting factoids for credibility.
“The man’s name is Dr. Suleiman Zuhair, but his real name is Farid Ardeshir, and he’s from Iran and would have arrived about five years ago. He’s a brilliant nuclear physicist, and he has a thing for blond women with big boobs, but, more importantly, he gets terrible gas when he eats falafels.”
The girl smiled.
“Everyone gets terrible gas when they eat falafels.”
“Not like Farid.”
“All right then. I’m going to trust that what you say is true, so come this way.”
She looked around nervously then turned and led me to the back of the room, where she pulled aside a gold colored curtain to reveal a plain white steel door. She stepped aside and motioned me towards it, and I was suddenly feeling like Neo from The Matrix about to take the red pill and see how deep the rabbit hole goes. I opened it and stepped inside to find a dark hallway, and I could hear and smell more than I could see. I started walking, and exotic music and the scent of spicy Middle Eastern food was filling the air as I emerged into a large dimly lit chamber with people sitting, talking, playing games, and enjoying life. The wealthy people above must have forgotten about this lower area, and the help moved in to create a world free of their overlords.
I moved deeper into the vast room to find it was lit by small lamps that revealed a warren of life—a virtual hidden city beneath the palace above. Everywhere I looked, humanity in its purest form thrived, and the people here appeared content to enjoy each other’s company and live solely in the simple pleasures of the moment. On my right sat a group of men playing cards while next to them a woman tended to her children. Past them was a group of young girls eating and talking amongst themselves. This place certainly felt far removed from the party upstairs but also—more comfortable, more real. The joys in life were often the simple things, the big three for most being food, folks, and fornication. These people, in spite of a life of servitude, had managed to create their own bubble of freedom, and it was a testament to the human
spirit and stoicism in its most literal sense.
I continued on and looked for Farid amongst the many faces until I at last reached the far wall and found an open doorway with two men standing sentry. They were thin, olive skinned, and likely Indian, considering that Indians constituted about a third of the UAE’s population. Both men stepped forward and blocked my path until a familiar voice called out from the room ahead.
“Let him pass, but keep an eye on him.”
They stepped aside, and I walked through the doorway into a large, fairly crowded room to find Farid, who was thankfully looking a bit calmer.
“Goddammit, Farid! I know what I said five years ago, but I’m not here to kill you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Well, you’re probably going to laugh, or possibly even cry, but the simple answer is that I’m here with an offer to bring you to America.”
Farid laughed out loud.
“Oh really? And does the CIA have another old fishing boat waiting for us in a nearby harbor?”
“Definitely not.”
“Then, I must say I’m feeling a little bit confused.”
“I understand, as this time it’s a little bit confusing, because I don’t work for the CIA anymore. I followed your advice and got out.”
“To do what?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Seriously? Like Magnum P.I.?”
I laughed.
“When the hell did you watch that show?”
“Over the last few years, I’ve become addicted to watching classic nineteen eighties television shows online, and Magnum P.I. is one of my favorites, though now, I must say, I really want to go to Hawaii.”
“I completely understand and get the same feeling every time I watch it, but, unfortunately, my life isn’t quite so glamorous.”
“So, no Ferrari?”
“No, I have a Subaru, and I live in Northern California, and, in case you’re wondering, I don’t reside on a wealthy writer’s estate where I’m tormented by a British majordomo and his two Doberman pinschers. Instead, I live on a houseboat, and the only animal that torments me is my neighbor’s morbidly obese cat Mr. Pickles.”
“So, how in the hell did you end up here?”
“That’s a hell of a question, and it has a hell of an answer. You see, I was living a nice quiet life until about a month ago when a very unique job brought me into the fold of an extremely powerful group of people. As it turned out, it was all a lead-up to yet another job—namely trying to persuade you to come to America.”
“So, these people obviously want cold fusion,” he said.
“Well, yeah, unless you’ve discovered something more exciting—like reusable toilet paper.”
“That already exists—it’s called your hand.”
“Ahh—you’ve still got your sense of humor I see.”
“Yeah, it’s one of the few things I’ve managed to keep, thank God. So, who exactly are these powerful people?”
“Well, needless to say, they have nothing to do with the CIA or that debacle back in Istanbul, but they have serious wealth, power, and influence, so, this time, it’s a completely different situation, because they don’t just want cold fusion, they actually would like for you to join their little group.”
“But why would I risk giving up the life I have here?”
“Excellent question, and, judging by what I’m seeing around me right now, I’d say the reason would be freedom. Real freedom.”
“I see you haven’t lost your keen intuition, because you are correct. I’m not free. Sure, I have expensive cars, a house, and money, but basically I am no different from the people you see around you right now—except perhaps that they actually stand a better chance of leaving this country,” he said, sadly.
“And this place down here is a kind of sanctuary?”
“Exactly, and only one of a few places where we can gather out of sight of the powers that be. Unfortunately, thousands of people are lured to the UAE every day with the belief that they will have a good job and a better life but end up as virtual slaves.”
“So, it’s a lot like America?”
He laughed.
“Not exactly. Here, only a rare few find prosperity or a better life. The vast majority end up like the people you see around you, but down here we have created a place where we can gather and create some degree of organization.”
“And help each other return to your home countries?”
Farid smiled.
“Yes—but it’s not easy. When the opportunity arises, we get the person, or persons tickets, passports, and sometimes even help pay their debt—whatever’s necessary to get them home. It’s very much like your country’s Underground Railroad with all of us being a contemporary multi-person version of Harriet Tubman.”
“Except that you’re stuck here—thanks to a few idiots in the CIA.”
“Indeed. I’m afraid this is now my home.”
I should have known that Farid would be doing something like this. He was too good of a guy to live the life he did here without somehow giving back to those who were less fortunate. It was just like that car accident back in Iran, only these people didn’t need to get pulled out of a burning car, they needed help getting out of a burning life.
“I’m happy to see you haven’t changed,” I said.
“And neither have you. Still playing the hero obviously—out rescuing people and bringing them safely home.”
“All the more reason for you to come with me. I’m your ticket to freedom, my friend, so are you ready to trust me and finally come to America?”
“I trust you—I’m just not sure I can trust your friends.”
“I understand, but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was legitimate.”
“What about all the people I would leave behind?”
“You could still help them—maybe more in absentia. The people that hired me have some serious power. I’m talking politicians, industrialists, royalty—you name it.”
“Yeah, so why would they help me?”
“Well, aside from the fact that you have cold fusion as a bargaining chip, they’re actually pretty decent altruistic people.”
“How long do I have to decide?”
I looked at my watch.
“Thirty seconds enough time?”
Farid closed his eyes and rubbed his head. I actually felt bad, as this was the second time I had come to usher him into a new life, and I damn well hoped the Topless Agenda didn’t fuck it up.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I can go with you. These people need me.”
A woman who was sitting nearby came over and held Farid’s hands as she spoke.
“You have already done so much for so many that you deserve the right to be free.”
“But there is still so much work to be done.”
“And we will do it.”
“But…”
“Please, you have done enough,” the woman said, as she gazed into his eyes.
He looked at her then around the room before eventually turning his gaze back to me.
“OK, I’m in. I will go with you,” he said, solemnly.
He stood up then came over and hugged me.
“It’s good to see you, old friend.”
“It’s good to see you too! Dude, not a day has gone by that I haven’t wondered how you were doing, and I still can’t tell you how sorry I am about how things went down.”
“I know, but it wasn’t you’re fault, and, believe me, I appreciate what you did for me, but the important thing now is that you’re here, and we’re going to complete the journey we started five years ago.”
He led me back the way we had come, all the while explaining how he and the others had created this strange hidden world. The space we were in had originally been designed as a bomb shelter, but the royal family had never had any reason to use it, and it was locked up and forgotten. Several years ago it was discovered by palace servants, and Fa
rid and the others took it over and converted it into a secret domicile where people could take temporary refuge from their lives of servitude. It also was the organizational center and meeting place for their underground railroad, which was fairly ironic, considering it literally existed under the noses of their captors.
We reached the exit hallway, and Farid turned to address the crowd that had gathered to see him off.
“My friends, I am sad to leave you, but once I am on the outside, I promise to continue the work we have begun here.”
Everyone cheered, and he went around and exchanged a number of sad goodbyes, and it was a pretty emotional moment with hardly a dry eye left in the room. Upon finishing, my saintly friend and I walked out to the staff lounge, and we stopped to talk.
“Well, that was pretty fucking emotional,” I said.
“Yeah, I hate saying goodbye.”
“We all do,” I said, as I patted him on the back.
“OK then, what’s the plan?” he asked.
“We need to get the hell out of this country. Originally we were going to fly via private jet, but, as there have been a few setbacks, we now need a new plan, and, as you helped create an underground railroad, I’m hoping you might have some ideas.”
“Well, there are many potential ways, but crossing into Saudi Arabia via the southern desert would be the fastest and easiest way to get out of the country.”
“Through the Liwa Oasis?”
Gordita Conspiracy Page 27