“No one is coming. I’ll stand by the door, and you start talking. What’s going on? What’s with the ‘act normal’ shit? Are you being funny, because you’re really scaring me.”
“They’ve taken my son. They’ve kidnapped my boy.” Mike trembled as he spoke with blood shot eyes.
“Who the fuck kidnapped Bobby? What are you talking about?”
“You know that Bobby went to Iran. He went after his European trek. You remember, right?” Mike stood up walking towards Gordon.
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, yesterday I got a text message with a video.”
Mike told him all about the video, the URL link, and the demand to have chairs replaced. He continued by telling him about the permits being delivered to his office. And, he told his friend about the death threat. Having unburdened himself to his best friend, he started to sob uncontrollably.
Gordon placed his hand on Mike’s shoulder. He was there for him and willing to help in any way he could. He then paused for a moment and, with a trembling voice, he angrily shouted.
“Fuck them! I’m calling Jason. I know how to get him here. I know how to keep it secret. We’ll fix this.”
For the first time in over a day, Mike felt a slight sense of relief. Finally, someone else knew. He was not alone anymore.
6 | Phone Calls
Jason Caius was on the last mile of his daily five-mile run. He loved the Monterey Peninsula trail, with its refreshing ocean breezes, salty air, and the sound of waves hitting the coastline. Running was a habit etched into his genome by years in the military. At times hard on his knees, the runs always felt good. It made him glide through his daily chores and work with renewed energy. This day’s run seemed a little long. He was anxious to get home to chat with his son, Sean, who was now on his second tour in Iraq, a pilot, like his dad and his grandfather.
At the end of his run, he cooled off, patting himself with a towel. Leaning against his car, he was drinking from a gallon jug of cold water. Finally dry and hydrated, he began the drive home. The road and scenery were beautiful, rolling hills on one side and the ocean on the other. He drove past his work, at the Defense Language Institute – Foreign Language Center, where he specialized in Farsi and Arabic, languages and cultures, a school where he had been teaching since leaving his last job. His love of everything Middle Eastern came from living in Iran with his family as a child. His father, Gordon Caius, worked for Bell Helicopter as a pilot instructor for the Iranian Military. Bell Helicopter had hired Gordon after the Vietnam War, with a great pay package and a signing bonus. Taking advantage, Gordon took his whole family on the new adventure to Iran. Jason too, loved the adventures that came with being in a new country, places so foreign that everything was interesting, enticing, and even forbidding for a child. Those years as a child, in Iran, and eventually marrying Amitis, an Iranian woman he met in Colorado, turned him into a willing expert on that whole region.
He ended his morning routine pulling into his driveway, waiting patiently for the garage door to open. He drove straight into his garage, closed the door and ran to his office, with a quick good morning to his wife. His computer was up and running. Skype was on and ready to receive the call. His wife quickly followed him into the office.
“Is he on yet?” Amatis said, sitting next to Jason while handing him a cup of coffee. Black and bitter, just the way he liked it, or the way he got used to drinking it.
Time moved slowly. Slow as molasses, as always, when waiting for your child to call. Something every parent endures no matter where or when the call is to arrive. Finally, Skype chimed with the incoming call tone. At first, it connected with no video, and then reconnected with no sound, and finally after a third time, it was all good, until it disconnected again. On the fifth try, it connected with video and sound.
Fucking Skype, it never works, Jason mused.
“Can you see me? Can you hear me?” Sean yelled into the laptop from which he was calling. You could see people moving in the background, electronic gadgets piled up high on tables, and all manner of commotion surrounding each table.
“Yes. We can hear and see you. How are you?” Both parents said in unison.
“Everything is great, busy but safe, with nothing to worry about.” A comment every parent needs to hear when a child is at war.
They knew better. There was always danger. Fortunately, Sean was in the northern Kurdish Region, dealing with the Kurds mostly. They chatted for several minutes. That was the most each person got on a video call before his or her allotment was over. The calls were mostly small talk, just enough to see that your child was alive and well.
Sean jokingly closed with, “So, I heard Bobby is next door in Iran visiting his relatives! Do you think we’ll bump into each other?” They had been best friends since they were toddlers. The families went back to when Jason and Bobby’s parents became best friends in Iran.
“I don’t know. Although, if you do, say hi for us. O.K. son … I guess this is goodbye … we love you.” Jason and his wife sent air kisses to the screen. The call ended and the video disappeared.
It was so difficult to see the image on the screen fade to black. It always seemed so ominous. They held each other closely, happy their son was fine and alive, a daily worry, no, an hourly worry.
Jason had not thought about Bobby or his dad in quite some time. It was difficult being so far away from Colorado. They spoke less often and saw each other even less, as the months went by. While living in Colorado, the two families had visited each other almost every other weekend. Weekend BBQ’s and dinners were routine events. In addition to being fun, it was a way for Jason to practice his language skills, to chat about politics, and to play backgammon with Mike. Part and parcel of every game were the playful banter about how each player rolled the die or errors they made in moving the pieces. They half-jokingly kept score. It was now 2850 to 1910 or some such ridiculous large number. In reality, the numbers were even higher.
When Gordon first moved to Iran, with little Jason and his mother, they met Mike at a Bell Helicopter meeting covering housing arrangements. Mike had just finished his degree in Architecture from Cornell. He was a newly hired construction manager in Shahin Shahr, a master-planned city, twenty kilometers north of Esfahan. Where, in addition to the normal housing plans, an American School stood along with housing for American expats working at Bell Helicopter, Northrop Grumman Corporation, and others. Gordon and Mike hit it off straight away, with their love of the same football teams, same politicians, and Mike’s fluency in English. Mike became a guide, a friend, and a teacher to Gordon’s family. Jason spent hours learning Farsi and backgammon in Mike’s household.
Gordon’s family and Mikes’ became so close that after the Iranian revolution of 1979, when Mike migrated to America with his wife, he moved close to where Gordon lived in Colorado. Mike’s move to America forced him to delay having kids, spending his first decade building a career and starting his own company. He eventually had two daughters, and lastly, his son Bobby.
Mike’s only boy and Gordon’s only grandson Sean were born several weeks apart. Jason became Bobby’s godfather, and in turn, Mike became Sean’s godfather. The two families were inseparable.
* * *
Feeling nostalgic, Jason picked up a photo album and went into his backyard with a second cup of coffee. He started to look through pictures of the families. Birthday pictures were his favorite, where all the kids were present, and the dates were clear. It was a good way to compare year-to-year, and to measure how fast the kids grew. It was a sad reminder of how time affected the adults. Well into the second coffee, staring at the photo album, his wife came out to sit next to him. She grabbed the album from him and flipped the pages. She smiled, pointing to one of the pictures.
“This is one of my favorites of the two boys, with their football costumes.” Halloween was a big thing at their home.
“Oh, by the way, your dad called my cell and left a funny message,” she
said holding the album tightly in her arms.
“What did he say?”
“Oh, he said something about a green ball changing colors or something like that.” To which Jason jumped to his feet.
“What did he say EXACTLY? What were his exact WORDS?” Jason said, raising his voice.
“I don’t know.” She reached for her cell phone to check again. It connected. She placed it on speaker.
“Hi it’s me, Gordon, can you pass a message to my son. Tell him, the GREEN ball has turned RED. Thanks.”
Jason turned steel-faced as he walked to his office. He called his secretary at the language institute, telling her to find a substitute for the last week of class, that there was an emergency. He then proceeded to pack a duffle bag with clothes and, from the garage, a leather daily planner. He topped it off by tossing in what looked like a radio. He zipped up the duffle bag and was ready to leave.
Something horrible has happened to my dad or mom, or both. He thought.
“What’s going on?” his wife nervously asked following him around.
“Where are you going?” she yelled at him.
“Remember that story I told you about balls changing colors.”
“No!” she said with a look of utter confusion.
“You know the story about my dad and his emergency codes. Codes like the ones we have.”
“Oh, that story!” Nervous understanding began to cross her face.
“Well. It’s never happened before. All my life I was told if the ball turns red, drop everything and come home, it’s an emergency. Well, it’s red now. The ball is RED now!”
“What emergency? This is so childish! Why not call him?”
“No. If anyone asks, I’m on a research project, and it doesn’t matter. When the ball turns red, I have to go home, no matter what. That’s the rule. It’s always been the rule.”
His wife continued to follow him around the house. Begging him to just call and find out what is going on. At least, she said, call your mother.
With three generations in the military, there were always rules established for emergencies, not to mention everything else. Each generation drilled these rules and procedures into the next generation, insisting on usage when appropriate, with abuse never tolerated. This was serious. Something was very wrong. Jason knew he had to go home.
Jason had tried to instill the same rules in his son and his wife, but clearly, he had more work to do. He vowed to fix that upon his return.
He anxiously contemplated what could have prompted his father’s call as he finished preparing for the trip.
7 | The Meeting
Jason grabbed his duffle bag, while his wife prepared to give him a ride to the regional airport. On the way, he unzipped the leather planner, switching all of his credentials with items he picked from inside the planner. He called the airlines and booked a round-trip flight under a different name. He did not know when he would return, but he knew weeklong round-trip tickets caused less attention. Those trips always looked like business trips. Almost two thirds of all flights in this country were business people working elsewhere weeks at a time.
“What’s in the planner? And, who is John O’Brien?” Jason’s wife asked, nervously.
Jason got this look in his eyes, torn between keeping the secrets and spilling the beans.
“It’s from my old days working those special projects!”
“I see, and which projects would those be?” She grimaced tapping him on the knees, knowing he would never say.
“Look honey! I really can’t tell you now. Someday, I’ll tell you everything, when it’s safe and when it’s the right time. For now, just know this stuff will help whatever trouble Dad is in.”
As they got closer, he asked her to stop past the terminal entrance. They stopped curbside. He gave her a hug and a kiss, and then jumped out, winking at her.
“Goodbye my love. See you soon.” With a forced smile on his face, he walked away looking back once again.
Amatis was not sure if this trip would be dangerous. However, knowing her husband, she tried not to worry. He was good at everything he put his mind to. He was always careful. He always had a plan B and C and every other letter in the alphabet. Years of being with him, watching him leave on his special projects, and always returning unscathed, she was sure he could handle his dad’s issues. Moreover, not a situation ever happened without him thinking dozens of steps ahead of everyone else. Jason was a great strategist and tactician.
Once at the ticket counter, Jason handed the clerk his ID, and mentioned the flight to Denver on which he was booked. She typed his name in, asking for his credit card, and ID, and the answers to security questions.
“Yes, I did pack my own bags. Yes, they have been with me the whole time.” Handing the items over, he answered her questions. Several minutes later, he received the boarding pass and his personal items, never seeing the woman’s eyes.
No, if I were a terrorist, I would still tell you the truth, you obtuse creature. He mumbled sardonically to himself.
He thanked her, grabbed his duffle bag and walked towards the gate. It was an hour wait before take-off. On the way, he stopped at a booth and bought several AT&T GoPhone SIM cards, for which he paid cash. He bought a cup of coffee and sat by his gate, waiting, thinking, and worried.
He hated flying, especially on flights that were nothing more than buses manned with bitter and angry employees. In turn, they had to deal with bitter and angry customers, all in the name of profit. He remembered his first flight. It was so memorable and so classy. It was a Pan Am flight to Tehran, via a stop in London. He was a young boy, with his mom and dad, all flying first class. The second floor of the jumbo jet was an actual lounge, with nice comfortable furniture low to the ground, tables with chessboards, salted almonds everywhere, and bottomless sodas to drink. You could sit in any chair in the lounge for as long as you wanted. The food was superb, served on real plates with metal silverware, glass salt and peppershakers, and crystal glassware. It felt as though you were guests in some rich person’s home. It was the same in the back area, except no lounge. People were elegant. The flight attendants were beautiful, happy and nice. They designed the flights to be special. It was special.
For this flight to Colorado, the seats were narrower, packed tight, and cramped. At the same time, people were fatter and wider. There was crap food. Plastic wrapped dog food served in shoeboxes, with enough preservatives to last a generation or five. They served watered down drinks in plastic cups used for urine tests at the doctor’s office. Everything was cheap and priced as if it were gold. Yes, everything was for sale, including the shoebox of dog food, the pillows, headsets, and blankets. Nothing was free anymore. Checking bags cost money, as though anyone would travel with nary a stitch of clothes. Imagine if hotels charged you for bringing a suitcase to your room.
* * *
The gate made the call to board over the PA system. Jason got up and stood in line waiting his turn, finally the line moved. His seat, row hell, seat E, would be tight and uncomfortable. Walking the main aisle he found his middle seat, placed his duffle bag above him, jammed between two carry-ons with dirty wheels. He squeezed his 6’2”, 200 pound, well-built frame in the aisle and sat in his narrow seat. He prayed for good row mates. He dreaded sitting next to anyone wider than the seat, a loud talker, or a smelly person. He kept staring down the main aisle watching the crowd move towards him. Not a smile emanated from any face.
That one could be good. Please, not that one. He kept wishing.
It was always a crapshoot. Finally this petite young woman squeezed by grabbing the window seat.
Thank you.
A gigantic sweaty man was next. He was twice the width of any seat, holding a bag of food, standing by Jason’s row.
“Hi. I’m sitting here. Can you hold this while I put my bag up?” the fat man said, handing Jason a paper bag.
Jason held the greasy-bottomed bag of fast food purchased at the terminal, while
the hungry man placed his carryon, jamming it in multiple directions, smashing what was already up there. He sat. The plane tilted ever so slightly! Jason handed him the greasy paper bag back.
Fuck me! This is going to be a long flight!
“Thanks. My name is Jake.” He reached out to shake Jason’s hand, with hands the size of baseball mitts, yet soft and squishy.
“Hello. I’m John,” Jason replied, shaking his hand, wanting to practice a bit of the persona he had chosen for this trip.
The flight was long, with one stopover, but overall the conversation wasn’t bad, and included a free burger offer. At the very least, Jason practiced his back-story with someone innocuous, and practiced his role-playing skills. It had been a while, but it all came back in no time.
The plane finally landed and taxied to the gate. Jason patiently stood in line, waiting his turn to get off, still chatting with his new friend. Ten more steps and he would be off. He was off. Saying goodbye he picked up the pace and walked towards the train taking him to the main terminal. From there, he caught the first shuttle to the car rental lot. He got his car, and while still at the rental parking lot, he called his dad. No one answered. He left a message.
“Sir, I’m calling from the diner. Your order is ready for pickup!”
The diner was a pre-selected location to meet. He was hopeful it still existed. He wasn’t sure. Worst case, he would just stand outside whatever existed on that spot. He started the freshly aerated rental car, which smelt of pine mixed with perfume and cigarettes, and began his drive. Everything about the car smelled like a cheesy salesman. You could feel the lies and BS dripping from every inch of the matted and stained seat covers. You could just about hear the conversation, the salesman doing his best to pitch a product he knew little about and about which he cared even less. That followed by a buyer, sitting in the passenger seat, just happy to get a free lunch out of the ordeal.
The Minders Page 4
