Friday afternoon, and Jason was still on this guy, watching him, studying him. It was 3:30 p.m., the end of another workday for most county employees, lazy and overpaid as they were. Karimi was packing his car with some tubes containing plans and his briefcase. It looked like a work weekend, but could that be, a county guy working on a weekend? Jason cracked his first smile in days.
Jason followed the man home for what he thought would be another night of boring surveillance. No less than thirty minutes later, Karimi came out unchanged, pulling a wobbly carryon back to his car. With the car loaded, the man started driving out of town. Jason followed him for an hour and half, in traffic, to Black Hawk, Colorado.
Once there, Karimi pulled into a casino, parking his car at the long-term lot. Getting out, he continued pulling his carryon towards the main entrance. Jason quickly parked and followed him, safely from behind, hidden amongst the crowd.
Karimi stood in the quick check-in line and within minutes, he had his room key. It appeared he was a regular. With his card key in hand, he began working his way through the sea of gamblers towards the guest elevators. Jason followed a group of three rotund gamblers, reeking of cigarettes and booze, into the same elevator. He followed Karimi to room #218. Jason decided to conduct his visit in that room, that night. Given the man’s proclivities, he would have the whole weekend to work on him.
Jason returned to his car, retrieving his gear. He returned to the hotel and found a janitor’s closet, which he opened with little effort. He was looking for a house cleaner’s cart. Each house cleaner had her own key card, but because of the rush to clean rooms quickly, each cart had an emergency key card hidden, just in case a key card didn’t work, was damaged, or if they accidentally locked the key inside a room. Five minutes into the search, he found a key fastened to the underside of the lower shelf. He grabbed it and worked his way to room #218.
He knocked several times claiming room service. There was no answer. The house cleaner’s key worked perfectly. He entered, placing his bag of goodies in the closet, and then went back to the lobby for something to eat, and to keep an eye on Karimi. Jason ate his steak and potatoes, a casino special for $6.99. The casino figured diners would make up the difference in gambling losses or on booze. Soon after, comfortably full, he began focusing on Karimi again. Karimi was still at a blackjack table where he began the evening. Two empty glasses of booze next to his small dwindling stack of five-dollar chips. It looked like another losing night for the man.
Over the next several hours, Karimi kept ordering more booze and having the pit boss fetch more chips. With his credit balance back at zero, the casino was more than happy to furnish him with all the chips he wanted. The drunker he got, the worse his playing became as evidenced by the rate of shrinking playing chips.
Around the end, Karimi would see the dealers’ six up card, and would draw on his hard 19, looking for that elusive two. He made dozens of mistakes, losing an entire paycheck and more in one sitting. Free booze, dropped off by scantily dressed women, while surrounded by highly oxygenated air, could make any addict drop a load of cash. It was, by all measures, the perfect swindle.
Jason watched from a distance, avoiding direct eye contact with the cameras, especially in the elevator. There he was cautious enough to have a baseball cap on, and to stand behind the others, while looking at his feet. The night was about to end for many. You could always tell by the length of ash hanging from cigarettes glued to the lips of the slot machine players. The longer it was, the more tired they were, and the closer to quitting time. Jason took the hint and worked his way back to Karimi’s room. He needed a break.
* * *
Two thirty in the morning the door lock clicked and slowly swung open, hitting the sidewall, door handle crashing into the rubber bumper. The lights were off. Karimi reached for the light switch by the door. It didn’t work. Jason could smell the stench of cheap whisky as the inebriated gambler walked towards the bedside lamp, all the while holding the walls. Drunk as he was, he managed to find the lamp and clicked it on. That too didn’t work. Miffed and still holding the wall, he stood straight looking around. His eyes finally adjusted to the dark room. Before him was standing a man, with his face covered.
“Am I in the wrong room?” he slurred with both arms now reaching for the walls.
“No. You are where you’re supposed to be.” Jason punched him, flat to the ground. Walking back to the door, he put the do not disturb sign on the outside door handle, latched the safety lock, and turned on the TV, on low.
* * *
It was nearly dawn, when Karimi finally woke up. The TV had been playing infomercials all night. There was a stink of vomit coming from his shirt. His arms were duct taped to the armchair. His legs, with bare feet, fastened to the chair legs. His entire upper body taped to the backrest. He was motionless, except for his head and neck. His left hand was bandaged and bloody. Several fingers were missing. Looking around, he found those missing digits in a glass on the dresser by the TV. He started to scream. You could only hear a muffled sound through the tape over his mouth. Karimi was now fully awake, and hung over, desperately needing the bathroom, in a state of shock.
Jason was making himself some tea. Using the Lipton tea bags found on the bathroom counter, by the coffee pot. It tasted like shit, as it was with all free hotel foods. He knew that too well, having spent years living in all manner of lodgings. He had polished off all the pistachios, almonds and cashews in the mini fridge. He dared not touch any of the other food. He came out stirring the tea, his face covered by a black and white Arab Kufiya scarf. He pulled up a chair and sat across from Karimi. He took a slow sip and, in perfect Farsi with a slight and charming Esfahani accent, mentioned how horrible the tea was. Nothing was like tea from back home. He so missed the bread and cheese from home too. He took his time drinking his tea, reminiscing about things. He fondly remembered one short story after another from back home.
“I remember this one teahouse right outside Masjid Jom-Eh. It had the best tea. They would add to each cup just the right amount of fresh rose water. They would serve two cookies with each cup, homemade cookies they were. Late in the evenings, they would also have the most aromatic tobaccos cooking in the water pipes. It was a heavenly and relaxing place to be.”
He drank every sip of tea slower than the one before, stretching out the inevitable painful outcomes for the poor tied up man. Karimi’s eyes were welling up with tears. He was crying and shaking uncontrollably. He was way past shock, and deep in a state of terror.
I think my man is ready now, Jason pondered as he placed his tea down on the floor.
Jason took out the meds and syringe he had bought at the veterinary store. He prepared a proper dosage of local anesthesia, tapped the syringe for air bubbles, and squeezed a little from the top. He injected the liquid into Karimi’s right foot. He then reached for the bloody branch-pruning clipper placed near the glass holding the fingers.
“You’ll be very quiet now! Yes?” he stood next to Karimi, speaking ever so coldly.
“We don’t want your fingers to have more friends in the glass. So, I’ll ask some questions. You will answer. In return, I will let you keep your toes.” He continued as he removed the tape from Karimi’s mouth. Karimi nodded in agreement.
Holding the clippers in one hand, he reached for his tea and took another sip. He then asked Karimi whom he told. With whom did he confer and with whom did he share the secrets related to the permits. Jason wanted to gauge if Karimi had any clues. Asking a straightforward question was the best way to get started. Why waste time asking for their name, their address, and other irrelevant information. This was not a polygraph test. The baseline had already been established, with the missing appendages.
Jason figured if he asked a broad yet direct question he would get in return an hours’ worth of confused diatribe. From which he could set the stage for a series of more specific and guided questions. It took but two sips of tea before the man spilled the bea
ns. He spent fifteen minutes telling Jason the entire story.
“I did everything I was asked. I told no one. I know nothing.” Karimi finished, shaking and begging for mercy.
“Again, tell me only the facts. What exactly did you do?” Jason asked.
“I invalidated the permits, re-submitted new orders for a change to handicapped seating, just like the directions you guys sent me,” he said sobbing. Jason kept asking the same questions in a different order.
Karimi was definitely the man. It took thirty minutes to get the details out of him. Jason had planned on a weekend of fun with this guy. What a shame, now for the confirmation part. Jason put the tape back on Karimi’s mouth. Bending down, he poked the sharp edge of the clipper into the bottom of the bare foot.
“Can you feel this?” he asked.
Karimi shook his head, no.
Jason made a cutting motion and dropped a little toe into the glass next to the fingers. Karimi started his muffled screams, and creaking the chair from uncontrolled shaking. He lost all bowel control. The stench of urine, crap, and vomit were overwhelming, a common occurrence and one Jason had expected from such visits.
“I don’t believe you, and you pissed all over the place! Now I’m angry.” Jason made another cutting motion, taking another toe to the holding cup. He then walked over to the nightstand, looking for something.
He grabbed Karimi’s iPhone. He walked back, turned it on, and placed it under Karimi’s working hand. He demanded he press the proper security code or he will lose more toes. Karimi, trembling with fear, managed to press the keys and unlock the phone, after three or four wrong, shaky tries.
With the phone working and open, Jason navigated to the messaging app, found the specific text message with web links, and read the text. He then followed the URL link. He found and read the detailed orders. It was as Karimi mentioned, and all for a reduction in gambling debts of $100,000. They paid this poor bastard just to push some permits through the backdoor, no hostages, and no threats. They had this guy figured out as quickly as Jason had, a greedy, selfish, scared alcoholic little man, with a gambling habit.
Jason copied the URLs, deleted the messages, and wiped the phone memory. He then turned the phone off and tossed it on the bed. He started to collect his gear, placing the empty glass of tea in with his gear. He turned Karimi’s chair around, facing the window, and covered his face with a pillowcase. He cut the tape on the arm containing the hand with five fingers intact. He then walked to the door, looking through the peephole. Seeing no one, he replaced the scarf with his baseball cap, and stepped out of the room. He walked out of the hotel with his gear and the intelligence he needed.
* * *
Karimi eventually broke free, having spent an hour unwrapping the duct tape. He was stewing in his own sewage and vomit the entire time. Fear, the hangover, the weak character, all made him expel his bowels several more times. He sat there for a few more minutes, shaking, crying, and looking out the window, his one leg still numb. Eventually he dared to look down. To his surprise, all of his toes were in place.
He stood only to fall again. He crawled over to the dresser and grabbed the glass, pouring it on the floor. He picked up a finger, realizing it was a plastic prop. He quickly unraveled the bandages on his hand to find all his fingers were in place, numb, stiff, but all there. Jason had bent them inward, bandaged them, and poured red dye all over the bindings.
With all digits accounted for, he crawled to the corner, curled up and sobbed uncontrollably, holding the plastic fingers and toes in both hands.
12 | Cell Phones
Bobby was back on his laptop, enjoying his music. It eased his mind. It made him feel less scared, more motivated, energized. The conversations with Parvaresh were becoming a little stale. There was only so much one can talk on the subject of cell phones. It was becoming trivial. They were both on guard. They would not speak to personal things. Bobby kept thinking there had to be a way to start engaging him, and to figure a way out. At least start doing something to get help, even if he could not get out on his own.
“Mr. Parvaresh, do you think it’s possible to do some programming on my laptop?”
Bobby refused to call Mr. Parvaresh by his first name. He never wanted to feel close or familiar.
“Do what you want with your laptop.” Parvaresh assured him. However, he continued, at the end of every session, I must take the laptop away for inspections by the computer people. They may delete whatever they see as unfit or may take the privileges away.
Bobby didn’t care. He just wanted to do something productive, intellectual busy work, anything. He agreed to the conditions. He stopped the media player, and brought up his Integrated Development Environment (IDE). An IDE loaded with programs used to modify the latest Android operating system, which he used to write a ROM for his own Nexus phone. The exact duplicate of what Parvaresh had hanging on his belt.
“Mind if I watch?” Parvaresh sat next to him on the bed.
Bobby moved over a bit, sat straight, and continued typing on the keyboard. He ran a couple of commands, started the onboard phone simulator and booted the Android OS. It looked gorgeous. Parvaresh was watching with eyes wide open, nearly drooling. Bobby navigated to the settings section, where all the goodies were, and ran through a gambit of possibilities. Parvaresh took out his Nexus phone and navigated to the settings section for comparison.
“My phone has none of those possibilities,” Parvaresh said greedily, as he gawked at Bobby’s laptop.
I know. Bobby smiled.
A tiny synapse explosion later, it hit Bobby like a brick. I think I have a way out.
Parvaresh knew a little about flashing ROMs. For the most part, he thought they were for visual items, unaware of the full built-in potential of Android. Bobby continued setting and resetting more features. From CPU speed control, to memory management, to full system level blocking and control for calls and text messages. These features existed in all android phones, but never exposed to the public. It was a way by which vendors such as AT&T and Verizon could more easily control their customers.
“Do you think you could flash this ROM on my phone?” Parvaresh asked lovingly as he drooled.
Bobby, knowing the Nexus phone intimately, mentioned that he had never worked with Parvaresh’s phone before, and would have to do some testing and evaluations beforehand. A simple flashing might brick his phone. In other words, render it useless.
“What exactly do you need to do on my phone?” Parvaresh asked nervously.
“Nothing serious or invasive just some setting adjustments, some test runs, simple validation of things.” He, Parvaresh, could supervise the entire process.
“I’m going to have to think about it.” Parvaresh got off the bed and moved to the chair, a little sad, knowing that all changes would violate internal security protocols.
Bobby nodded in acceptance, and went back to reviewing his old projects. This time around, he was exploring the possibilities of doing something to help himself. He just had not figured out the exact steps. He looked over all the projects he had completed, and even looked over the incomplete ones, for ideas. He was looking for a way to communicate. His brain was in full analytic mode. He started focusing on how to get a message out of a vault completely walled off and encapsulated by tech counter measures.
Lunch was soon over. Parvaresh got up, collecting the tray items, asking for the computer. Bobby turned the laptop off, tucked it in the computer bag and handed it to Parvaresh. Placing it on his right shoulder, Parvaresh picked up the tray and walked out, locking the door behind him.
Bobby kept staring at the door. He tried to recall all the other departures in which Parvaresh carried the laptop case. It was always on his right shoulder, with the computer bag hip-high touching the cell phone. The laptop and cell phone were within several inches of each other for as long as it took to carry the bag from the room to wherever it was going. Bobby figured at least a 15 to 30 second walk. He smiled as he figure
d out exactly how he was going to communicate.
A door is opening. If only I can have his phone for several days. Bobby prayed.
As all great designers and programmers do, he began writing code in his mind. He sketched out the entire process, and all the necessary steps.
* * *
Bobby programmed for nearly the entire time between lunch and dinner. For the first time during his captivity, he was actually starving. The door finally opened, with Parvaresh carrying the dinner tray in, the laptop hanging on his right shoulder, as always. He placed the tray on the table, laptop on the floor, and sat on the bed with a magazine he had brought with him. He was still thinking about his phone and the sexy new ROM he could have. It was an all-consuming passion amongst Android fans, the idea of manipulating the phone in all ways possible, to actually own your phone, unlike the iPhone, where Apple owned you, with no access to the inner workings, like a child being baby-sat.
There were forums dedicated to every popular Android phone, with subsections for modifying every part of those phones. It was a religion. Bobby could see that Parvaresh was indeed a disciple. He had drunk the Kool-Aid, more than one cup’s worth.
Dinner was quick on that night. Bobby wanted to start working on Parvaresh. He started asking what his concerns were. Parvaresh recited rules against modifying Center phones and security protocols. Bobby explained in detail that he would not touch the existing ROM. There could be a dual boot system in place. While at work, Parvaresh could run the phone as intended. On his time off he could boot into his custom ROM. Parvaresh knew that was against the rules as well, but felt it was safe enough given that no programs or apps on his phone would be touched, plus he figured he’ll just play with it for a while then delete the new ROM in a couple of weeks. Parvaresh gave the O.K., but insisted he be involved in every step of the process. Bobby agreed.
The Minders Page 8
