The Minders

by Max Boroumand

  Jason leaned in and looked the room over. “This will be fine. Where can we get something to eat around here?”

  The man pointed in the direction south of the house. “Several buildings away,” he said, “you can get some pretty good Ash.”

  Jason thanked him, telling him he would be back after dinner.

  “Don’t be too late. I can’t open the door once I’m in bed sleeping. I’m an old man. Bad hearing you know?”

  Jason smiled, leaving the house. He made his way back to the parked car. He knocked on the windshield, waving Bobby out of the car. They started walking in the direction of the soup kitchen. It was only a short block away, nestled in the corner of a building housing an industrial workshop. The sign read simply breakfast-lunch-dinner, no name. They walked inside and sat at a table near the window, a bit colder and breezy, but a better place to keep an eye on the street. On entry, everyone gawked. Just long enough to decide if they knew you, if you were an interesting stranger, or if you were dangerous. Then in a synchronized manner, they all went back to whatever they were doing, some eating, some playing backgammon, some smoking a water pipe, and some just staring at the old black and white TV perched on a shelf in the corner.

  A young man pushed a makeshift kitchen on wheels over to them. There were two rusty grey gas canisters, under a wooden shelf. The cart had, on top, two burners, one with tea brewing and the other holding a huge pot of Ash, a popular Persian soup. This soup was rich and bursting with greens, meats, vegetables and thick noodles, favored in cold winters. The waiter poured two bowls, poured two teas, and covered each bowl with a fresh piece of Sangak bread. He then extended his open hand.

  “That will be 10,000 Tomans.”

  Jason reached in his pocket and gave the young man the money. As the waiter pushed the cart away, they both lunged towards the warm inviting bowl, dipping their freshly made bread, soaking up the juices, and taking bites in between each spoonful. Bobby was inhaling the food. Jason loved this dish and remembered all the times his wife made it, and how wonderfully tasty it was on those cold winter days in Colorado. They ate everything within minutes.

  Jason was leaning back looking through the window, taking a sip of his tea, staring at the reflection of what was on the TV. His eyes nearly popped out at seeing a full screen picture of Bobby, with a telephone number and message. He looked back to read the message. Reading, he noticed the waiter taking a picture of the screen with his cell phone. He quickly turned around to study the room via the reflections in the window. The waiter was looking back in their direction, staring at Bobby. The reflection was clear as a mirror. The waiter took a picture of Bobby.

  “Bobby, you’ve been made. We have to go. But slowly!” Jason whispered.

  Bobby finished what remained of his tea. They both got up. Bobby left first, without looking at anyone. Jason turned around and politely said thank you and goodbye. They walked towards their car. Jason got in and while collecting all the hidden money and the teddy bears, he studied the waiter staring at them from the restaurant entryway. The waiter made several phone calls. Jason opened the trunk and got out. They grabbed the suitcase from the trunk and walked towards the nearest inn. As they got closer to the door, the waiter disappeared back in the restaurant. Jason looked around and once clear, they both ran to the other inn. They knocked incessantly until the innkeeper opened the door. They wanted in, quickly. Finally, the door opened. The innkeeper was mumbling about something, but neither was paying attention. Eventually he mumbled his way back to his own room.

  “Bobby, go to our room and change into layers of warm clothes,” Jason said, pointing to their room. Jason peered out the window looking in both directions, waiting.

  Whom did he call?

  Moments later, Jason returned to the room, and he too got dressed in layers of clothing. They each filled different pockets with money. Jason took out the handgun from his belt loop, made sure it was loaded, placing it back in his belt. He placed the remaining ammo, from inside the teddy, in his jacket pocket. He then took off his Breitling watch and handed it Bobby.

  “This watch has a personal locator beacon built in. Pull this integrated antenna out, which will automatically start the signal. It runs for twenty-four hours, but use it when and if you are within an hour of needing a rescue. Got it?” He stepped back out of the room, and walked to the window.

  He looked across the circle finding a police jeep with two policemen. Standing nearby was the waiter. They were looking around and inside the now abandoned car. One policeman walked towards the nearby inn and started banging on the door. Five minutes of banging later, the door opened. He pushed his way in. Within minutes, he came back out. Walking straight to the waiter, he slapped him in the face. A heated discussion ensued, arms waving around, with more threats of violence. The waiter looked across the street. Tapping the police on the shoulder, he pointed to the other inn. The police paid him no heed and started looking over the car once more. The waiter shrugged and started walking to the other inn by himself. Jason waited and watched.

  Soon, the waiter was at the second inn. Before he could knock and wake the innkeeper, Jason opened the door and dragged the waiter in at gunpoint, pushing him to his room. Bobby closed the door behind them. As the door shut, Jason put his arm around the waiter’s neck for a sleeper hold, pressing until the waiter was out cold. They tied him up and shoved him under the bed.

  Bobby was more scared than he had ever been. They were in deep trouble, without a car and the police on the lookout. Bobby started to sputter and speak, in English, forgetting where he was and what the rules were. Three or four sentences in, Jason told him to shut up. They covered the bed, making sure they hid the waiter well. Jason tore the satphone out of the last teddy bear. He made a quick call to a number leaving a date, time and some numbers as a message. He then placed the phone in his jacket pocket. They were fully dressed for the cold night, and a long walk ahead in search of a new car. They needed a new plan for getting across the border. Jason opened the bedroom door. Standing outside were the innkeeper and two younger men. Each of them was pointing an AK-47 machine gun in Jason’s direction.

  “I am a sleepy old man,” the innkeeper said, “But my sons are not, and they have great hearing.”

  They pushed their way into the room. “We heard someone speak English. Are you Americans?” the innkeeper asked.

  Before Jason could speak, loud banging erupted at the front door. The old man handed his rifle to one of the sons and walked out, closing the door behind himself. He went to the main door, yelling in Kurdish.

  “Who is it and what do you want?” He opened the door slightly, as before. This time, the two policemen forcefully pushed their way in.

  “We’re looking for a suspect,” they said in Farsi. They were not Kurds. Most police and military in that region were not. It was a matter of control.

  “And, we’re looking for a waiter that came in here moments ago.”

  The innkeeper told them the waiter left a while ago, and that there were no guests here. He then went on a rant, complaining about how bad business was, how the inn across the street was stealing his entire livelihood, that they were thieves, and how they were dealing in all manner of unsavory business. Finally, why harass me? He drowned the two policemen in misery, despair, and bitterness. The two left the inn, laughing at the old man, apologizing for disturbing him.

  The innkeeper returned to the room. Seated on the floor, with hands on top of their heads, were Bobby and Jason. In front of them on the floor, were the gun, ammo, and satphone. The old man closed the door and sat on the bed. He looked around a bit, and then under the bed.

  “So, there is the waiter they were looking for! Is he dead?”

  “No. Just sleeping,” Jason said.

  “Good for you,” the innkeeper responded.

  “I would hate to see you kill one of our young men,” he said, telling them to put their hands down. They looked silly like that.

  “So, are you Americ
an? British? Where are you from?”

  Jason spoke in Farsi. We are not Americans, but Iranians who grew up in America, and were visiting relatives in Tehran where we got into trouble.

  “Was it drugs?” the old man asked. “Or, was it spying?” Either one is punishable by death he explained. “Or, was it something completely different?”

  Jason did not want to answer yet. He wanted to know where they stood with these Kurds. Instead, he asked, why they did not turn them in to the police. Why not let the police deal with us no matter what we did.

  “Because, you are in Kurdistan, our country, our laws,” he said standing proud.

  “We deal with our problems, in our own way.”

  The innkeeper’s sons pulled out the waiter from under the bed. The larger of the two sons slapped the waiter in the face, waking him up, as the other untied him. Eventually the waiter got his senses back, scared, and nervous. Pointing at Bobby, he rattled off what he had seen on TV. Pointing and repeating himself, yelling louder each time. The innkeeper slapped the kid, hard, in the face.

  “Where is your pride boy? Didn’t you learn anything from your father? You don’t call the police. You call the elders.”

  The waiter started sobbing, apologizing, railing about money woes. He needed the money for his family, for medicine. He admitted to calling the number on the news bulletin as well, and showed them the cellphone photo of Bobby taken from the TV screen, which included the message and call-in number.

  “You were definitely not involved in drugs. I can tell from how you made the news. You did something a lot worse,” the old man said smiling at Jason.

  “You hurt the government, and that my friend, makes you our friend.”

  The innkeeper stood, handing Jason his gun and satphone back, and offered to help. However, they had to move from the inn to another house. Most importantly, they had to blend in better. The city clothes had to go, replaced with local Kurdish clothing. After changing, they drove to another home on the outskirts of town, even closer to the border. They also quickly and stealthily moved Jason’s car to another, safer location.

  * * *

  Rezadad was ending his grueling day, sitting inside one of the mobile centers, reviewing the last of the asset and Center status reports. It was a blend of good and bad news. Several key assets had not reported. In one case, an entire vector asset group had gone dark. The foreign re-encryption efforts did not affect the rolling six-month backups but, sadly, it affected all other data backups. For now, the hunt for the encryption key and apprehending Bobby were top on the list of things to do. It was past midnight. It was time to go home for a bit of rest.

  On his way out, an analyst stopped him with yet another bulletin report. He looked at the printed page and saw a picture of Bobby sitting at a table. He read the details and knew immediately that it would be a long night. He sat back in his chair, calling in Ali Najafi, the project manager responsible for Bobby, ordering him and a dozen agents back to duty. There had been a photo-verified sighting of Bobby, with an unknown subject, near the Iraq border.

  Rezadad called the Revolutionary Guards’ 5th Division, stationed in Tabriz, to send a patrol to Piranshahr ASAP, faxing them clear photos of Bobby and the photo sent to them on the tip line. Within the hour, the military patrol was on the road and four hours out. Rezadad then dispatched Najafi and the agents to be on the ground in Piranshahr immediately.

  Najafi scheduled a flight putting them there before the military patrol, landing at the municipal airfield near Piranshahr. They called the Piranshahr police station, receiving no responses, very typical of outlier police stations, minimal service, lazy and corrupt. Rezadad knew that the fugitives were making a run for the border. Once at the airfield, the agents would have to wait for the military patrol to pick them up and escort them into town, strength in numbers and the best way to squash local politics and corruption.

  * * *

  It was dawn. You could hear calls to prayer all around Piranshahr. Bobby was just waking up. Jason was wide-awake, thinking, planning, keeping watch. He had a firm grip on his handgun, hidden under the blanket, pointed at the door. He only slept an hour, taking catnaps here and there. There was a quiet knock on the door. One of the innkeeper’s sons came in telling Jason, and the slowly awakening Bobby, that everyone was getting ready for prayers in the living room. It was a subtle invitation.

  Bobby and Jason looked at each other. “Well.” Jason said kicking at Bobby’s feet. “Get up and go do your prayers.”

  Bobby got up and started for the door. “I’m going to tell them you’re a Jew.” He whispered with a smile as he left the room.

  In the living room, Bobby knelt down over a large water basin for ābdast, the ritual washing steps before prayer. They then invited him to stand by the host. Next to him were the elder’s two boys and, behind them, the wife and daughter. The Kurds began their prayers, reciting their Surah’s, with a slight gaze now and again checking on Bobby. Bobby performed flawlessly.

  After prayers, the men went to the kitchen, sitting on the carpet around a table setting. The wife and daughter served them breakfast, rushing around serving tea, all the while eating their own food standing by the stove. Jason joined them halfway through breakfast.

  “Please sit and join us,” the innkeeper asked.

  “Thank you,” Jason said. He then apologized for missing prayers.

  “I am very tired and have been traveling for days. I combined my prayers into two rakaats and did them in my room as to not disturb your family.”

  “Very good!” the innkeeper said, patting Jason on the back.

  “It’s good to know you have not forgotten your prayers, living in America.”

  They all ate as planning and discussions ensued. Nearing the end of breakfast, several more men dropped by the house, all toting rifles, and side arms. They too sat to eat, and immediately the women started hovering, pouring tea, and bringing in more fresh bread, cheese and nuts. The young men brought news to the table, all of which affected the plans. Plans had to change, again.

  The military had two patrol trucks with a dozen men in each at the police station. Another group of men landed at the airport early that morning. They were not military, but looked more official than the military, one young man mentioned. Taking a scrap of newspaper, they drew what looked like a sophisticated long-range drone, presumably to be their eye in the sky. These men from the airport were quite organized and a great deal more professional than the soldiers who accompanied them.

  “Well, it seems we have to make other plans,” the innkeeper said.

  They had originally intended to take the less travelled crossing several miles north. The local Kurds typically used that road due to their well-established relationship with the border guards, well bribed and in their pockets. Most likely, they would have closed that crossing. Moreover, the road had little room for a forced breakthrough, with terrible roads on the other side. The innkeeper suggested sending Jason’s car with two men in that direction, while two men, transporting Bobby and Jason would use the main border crossing. The plan, use Jason’s car as bait. Timing had to be just right.

  Before they left the house, a new report came in. One truck filled with army men moved to the upper crossing, while the other one remained at the main crossing. The men from the airport had split evenly across the two, with Najafi at the main border crossing. The plan would still work, but would be more dangerous.

  Jason’s stolen car, the bait car, started out first. Jason, Bobby and the other two, in the second car, would wait several kilometers away from the border. Jason and Bobby were in the back seat of the second car, when Jason tapped Bobby on the shoulder, having him pull the antenna out of the Breitling watch, starting the homing signal.

  The bait car, with two men dressed in city clothes, drove by the police station several times until they got the attention of one lazy policeman, who was sitting in his patrol jeep smoking. A chase ensued, followed by a call to the main station. Wi
thin five minutes, the drone was above, following the chase. The bait car took the chase towards the upper border crossing. The driver in Jason’s car made his move upon receiving a cell call, the trigger. Both crossings became very active. The military truck at the main crossing left the border to approach the bait car from the rear, closing off any reversals. The upper border crossing had its military truck move down to head off the bait car. The drone, from above, was covering the bait car. Najafi and a handful of agents at the main border crossing were watching everything on a portable monitor. Jason’s car was on the move to the main border crossing, with slightly better odds.

  * * *

  The Erbil U.S. embassy compound was chaotic as usual. It supported thousands of embassy personnel, of which many hundred were CIA employees. Life there was a combination of daily chores and complex military and policy planning and execution. In one office, Warren Spencer had been waiting for news of Jason. His people updated him on the disposal of the minders, and the arrival of the father and daughter at the Ankara U.S. embassy. He was well into his fourth cup of coffee when a soldier ran in, with a report.

  “Sir, it’s Jason’s locator signal. It’s on.”

  “Where is he?” Spencer demanded.

  “He’s on the move, two kilometers away from the Iraq border, and about to cross.”

  “Dispatch the search and rescue crew, ASAP, along with a support helicopter.” Spencer ordered.

  39 | The Mad Dash

  Jason, Bobby, and the Kurds drove the car closer to the border. During fall and winter nights, the border patrol would randomly close the border and then randomly open it again the next morning. Most people did not show up until noon. Border crossers waited until they had some news about the weather, snow cover, and accidents, all of which would delay them, or worse, force them to turn around, except for buses. Buses usually ran on schedule. Only under terrible weather did they stop.

  Jason’s car was waiting by the side of the road, near a gas station. The first morning bus drove by, on time. They moved behind the bus and began tailing it, as if being towed. The bus neared the border crossing, honking its horn fifty feet out. The gate did not open as usual. The bus stopped, with the car bumper-to-bumper right behind. The Kurds, in Jason’s car, were fully armed and ready to shoot, the driver with a handgun and the other with an AK-47. They could hear some talking and banter in the distance. The Kurd, on the passenger side, peeked out of his window, leaning out. He saw an Iranian border guard getting on the bus with a clipboard.