The Minders (13 page)

SAS Flight #935 finally landed in Copenhagen. Jason got through customs quickly and received his three-month short-stay visa stamped right into the passport.

“Welcome to Denmark, Mr. Jones,” the customs agent said, closing the passport, handing it back to Jason.

He was off the grid, yet knew that Warren would try to follow him and his actions. He did not want them to encroach, at least not yet. He stopped at a Tele-Denmark Communications store and bought a local SIM card and cell plan. He loaded it up, turned off the airplane mode, and then connected to his secure VPN service. The emails and text messages all went off immediately. He then walked over to the rental car kiosk, inserted his credit card, and got his car model and space number. A short bus ride later, he was in the car, and checking out at the security gate. A guard scrutinized his passport, visa credit card, then finally scanned the barcode on the windshield and raised the arm.

Jason was on his way to the World Health Organization (WHO), housed in the newly built UN City.

*  *  *

Given that every asset had a local minder, he decided to visit Yasmin at work. He was not sure if Yasmin was a player, a pawn like Mike, or a patsy like the county clerk. The detailed dossier he received indicated nothing out of the ordinary on Yasmin. But then again, the minders too had spotless profiles. He was not going to take any chances. He was even prepared to kill Yasmin, if necessary, a step with which he was comfortable, ready and willing.

On the way to the WHO, he stopped at a local men’s store to purchase a suit and tie. He then made some calls in advance of his visit. He needed to set the stage before his visit. Without a proper invite, he could never get an appointment. He was sitting in a café, looking very much business like, when he got an email indicating he had an appointment, thirty minutes only, standing in for a representative of a U.S. pharmaceutical company. He was only twenty minutes away.

On
Kalkbrænderihavnsgade
Street, a star shaped skewed building housed the main European offices for the WHO. He eventually got to the main gate, where he showed his passport and received parking directions. He parked, straightened his tie, put on his suit jacket and walked to the building where he was to meet Yasmin. The place was brimming with all nationalities. In the lobby he heard so many languages, he felt as though he was at the United Nations. He was at the United Nations building, the European one. He waited no more than ten minutes before a young woman approached him.

“Mr. Jones.
Yah
? Would you follow me please?”

*  *  *

He walked up to an elevator for a ride to the second floor. It was a short walk to a very large office overlooking the deep blue waters of the
Øresund
.

“Hello Mr. Jones.” Yasmin walked from behind the desk to shake his hand.

“I’m Yasmin Akbari. Please have a seat.” She directed him to a conference table. She closed the office door and followed to sit across from him.

“I was told by my superiors that you were here on a short visit and needed to meet urgently. How may I be of help?” she said looking at her watch.

Jason started on his cover story. Telling her about the project for which he was responsible, what they were interested in proposing, and their imminent deadlines. She was very professional, Jason thought. She seemed relatively calm, not too nervous, not too scared, but definitely preoccupied, looking away from Jason and out through the windows, several times, for brief but revealing gazes. She either was hiding something, terribly scared, or riddled with guilt. She was clearly preoccupied with something other than work.

Jason decided to go all in. He got up, sat next to her. He wanted to hit her with some facts. To see how she reacted. He wanted to be close enough to eliminate her if needed. Once seated, he leaned closer and spoke to her in Farsi, a shock to her in and of itself, given that he was acting as an American pharmaceutical executive just a second earlier.

“They’ve kidnapped my godson and are holding him in Iran. What do they have on you?”

She just simply broke down and started crying, as though a floodgate erupted. She walked over to her desk and grabbed a fist full of tissues to blow her nose and wipe her face dry. Jason followed. She then stood in front of her office window, looking out, wiping her tears. Jason kept a close eye on her and stood close enough to react. That moment was a critical decision making time for her, fight or flight. She could not stop the tears. She sat back at the conference table, trying to compose herself.

“They have kidnapped my daughter and husband, and I’ve done a terrible thing,” she said, so burdened with fear and guilt. She told Jason everything.

She didn’t care anymore about what might happen to her. She just wanted her family back and the biologicals destroyed. I would pay for this by going to jail forever she offered. Thirty minutes were almost up, when her secretary opened the door.

“Madam Akbari, your next appointment is waiting.”

Wiping her tears away, she instructed the secretary to cancel all her remaining appointments.

“Is something wrong?” the secretary asked.

Jason stood up, telling the secretary that Ms. Akbari received a call just a few minutes ago about a death in the family and was trying to compose herself. He then led the secretary gently and politely out, closing the door.

He began asking her for more details, sharing nothing with her. She gave him all the details about the biologicals, the quantity and genetic strands that she gave them, and discussed theoretical means to weaponize and disperse the biologicals. She gave him details about her husband and daughter, and their family in Iran. She spent an additional hour jotting down everything she knew on paper. She cared not who Jason was and just wanted it over with. The guilt and fear were eating her up.

“What’s going to happen to my family? What’s going to happen to me? What am I going to do Mr. Jones?”

Jason told her a little more about the minders. Any move divergent from expectations could put her and her family at risk. He told her to stay put, act normal, and he would get back to her when he found out more. She was to talk to no one.

“By the way, do you have any nicknames for your family that only you would know?” Jason asked. To which she curiously responded with two names.

Jason thanked her and left.

He had to get to Germany, where he was to meet an old friend for help.

Parvaresh and Bobby were eating lunch. The lunchtime conversation on that day was about video game designs and improvements made over time. Suddenly the door opened and two massive men entered, lifting Bobby right off of his chair, placing a cover over his head and dragging him out. Parvaresh sat there, mouth open, staring at the extraction process. Clearly, he was not in the loop. He tried to follow, but was rebuffed by a strong hand hitting his chest, with orders to back off.

*  *  *

Bobby, with his head covered, was sitting in a room tied to a chair. Bright lights were shinning right on him. He could feel the heat. A long time passed before others walked into the room. They removed his head cover. He had been in that room before. Two men made of brick were on each side. Several nicely dressed men were standing in front, speaking in English to each other. There was a video camera aimed at him, with the red record light glowing brightly. One of the nicely dressed men began speaking behind the camera, to Bobby’s dad, while the men of brick began beating Bobby.

“Mr. Shams. Let this be a lesson. Do not interfere with our plans and do as you’re told. Should you talk to anyone, ever again, your boy will be killed, slowly.”

The beating then continued for another ten minutes. They recorded the entire beating, every punch, every kick and every sound.

*  *  *

Later that day, Bobby found himself in a bed with bandages covering his face. His upper torso wrapped tightly. He tried to turn. His whole body was in pain. He tried to call out but every breath hurt. Breathing very slowly and shallow was the only way to endure the pain of broken ribs. He had an IV tube in one arm, monitors beeping and flashing numbers above his head. At least he was alive. He gently lifted his head, seeing several other beds in the room. In the far end of the room lay another man, in what seemed to be a similar physical state. He was motionless, looking straight at the ceiling.

*  *  *

Back in Denver, Mike was going through his day. Work was a great distraction during rough times. He was but half way through the day when he got a text message, from a different unknown local number. The text contained a new link to follow. The link took him to a ten-minute video of his son being severely beaten. Behind the scene, you could hear a voice warning Mike to do as instructed. Mike was shattered beyond words.

*  *  *

Yasmin was back home after a quick workout at the gym, feeling a little stronger and better to have shared her secret with someone who might be able to help. She took a nice long refreshing shower, got into her evening home attire, and was about to serve herself some tea. She was waiting for the water to boil as she looked at a framed picture of her family. She missed them so much. She started to pour some hot water over her tea bag, when her cell phone beeped with a text message. She placed the tea on the table and checked her message. She too had a link to follow. Her video showed her husband violently beaten.

At the end, she could hear. “We are always watching. Do as you were instructed. Your daughter will be next.”

She was not sure if it was the visit by Jason or that something else had happened. She was not going to speak to anyone. She was going to obey. Fear and depression conquered her once more.

What have I done?
She cried.

*  *  *

The Center was taking a strong stand, across all relevant assets, making their presence and power felt and well understood.

It was a four and a half hour drive, with one ferry ride, from Copenhagen to Hamburg.  Jason called the car rental agency, extending his time and drop off point. He needed to meet some Turks he knew who were now living in Germany, people with whom he had worked before. He chose a longer drive instead of a short and quick flight. Time was critical, but a drive from Copenhagen would allow him to study his tail, to catch any who followed, be they minders or Warren’s men. The drive was indeed long, with the ferry ride the riskiest. No one was following him. No one knew where he was or where he was going. He felt safe enough to focus on planning and sending emails out to others in Europe, people who might be able to help. He wanted to have backup plans should no one be able to help.

*  *  *

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.