The Minders (3 page)

Looking at a stack several inches high, Rezadad continued the meeting. He grabbed the cover sheet and noticed eleven new possibilities put out by the simulation and analytics programs, three having the highest score. He took the second highest scoring choice.

“We’ve been eyeing this man for some time. I see his son has applied for a visa.”

“Yes! His visit overlaps with another high value target and her family’s visa request. See the first file!” Ali Najaf replied with intensity. 

Najaf was always excitable, especially when probabilities were favorable. It amused him when seemingly obscure things came together. No one was sure if he was a pessimist or an ever-hopeful optimist. Rezadad was never sure of Najaf’s true religious beliefs. He always seemed a little off and a little narcissistic. Everyone suspected Najaf was a mole put there to spy, and would often show his colors via his Islamist remarks. It was a slight bother to Rezadad, but one he knew would happen no matter what. Distrust was a common trait amongst Iranians, and something that might take generations to deracinate. 

Rezadad read both profiles and instantly recognized a project that had come across his desk several times. A project that always had missing parts and one Rezadad hoped he would never implement. Nevertheless, he was under orders to implement it, if possible.

“But, do we have a delivery mechanism as yet?” he asked, reminding everyone of the proposed vector.

“I believe we have one.” Najaf shuffled through a stack of documents that went with the simulation run.

“Here it is.” He slid a folder towards Rezadad.

“His education was funded by us. He recently received his Ph.D. in mechanical engineering, from Stanford, and his dissertation is perfect.” Najaf pinged Rezadad’s laptop with a link to the candidate’s two hundred-page thesis.

“How much did we pay for his education?” Rezadad whispered quietly as he read.

“We paid nearly $500,000 for undergraduate and post-graduate work. He’s a genius and well worth it.”

Rezadad got up, poured himself another tea, and returned to read the dissertation titled, ‘Inoculations and the Zigbee Matrix - A Sub-Saharan Panacea.’ He read, took notes, sketched a diagram or two, and then pinged an engineer upstairs to meet in the conference room. He then asked Najaf to conduct several more searches, handing him new search criterion, and asked that he immediately execute several new vector simulations.

The pinged engineer arrived and sat at the table. She was a tall, elegantly dressed woman, with flowing blond hair and blue eyes, having none of the traditional headscarves and covers, yet another benefit of working at The Center. Rezadad handed her a drawing and asked if the design was achievable at any of their injection molding facilities in the U.S. She grabbed the drawings and walked back to her office. Twenty minutes later, while Rezadad was still drafting project plans, she pinged a message.

“Yes, with some minor modifications we can easily manufacture the piece.”

*  *  *

Soon after, the requested simulation results arrived. Rezadad walked over to an open phone room, notes in hand, closed the soundproof door and made a call. He was on the call for a good thirty minutes, hands waving, yelling, agitated, with cheeks red and flushed. The only time Rezadad looked and sounded like this was when talking to the President, a call he always hated and a conversation he always regretted. Every call to the president was in support of something he didn’t want to do, but had to. As successful as he was, he was still expendable.

This particular project was necessary, and one of several projects to be a divergent event to help distract from nuclear talks and reviews. To Iran, the process of talking and reviews were a means to buy time. They knew that promises would fade by the month, and they needed to create a cushion and to buy more time via a distraction, one that would give them a year or two, and would divert attention back onto the Arab Islamists.

*  *  *

Rezadad stepped out of the phone room, beads of sweat dripping down the side of his face, still fuming from the call and boiling on the inside. He sat back at the conference table and began to lay out the plan.

By late evening Vector #187 had been initiated.

Mike Shams revisited the painful text message dozens of times. He read, re-read, watched the video, and watched again. It just didn’t make any sense.

Why would they take my son? What do they want?
He thought.

He was afraid to tell his family. He didn’t know what to say. He had no answers for the hundreds of questions that would follow. Sunday dinners were when everyone got together, all his kids and their respective loved ones. That Sunday dinner would be the hardest in his life. He so much wanted to confide in his wife, Parisa. She was his rock. She always held steadfast and gave him the strength he needed. The news of Bobby would crush her. This was her little boy. He had to keep quiet and look as normal as possible. At least until he had more answers, knowing full well the calls from Iran were going to pour in over the next day or two, with people asking about Bobby’s whereabouts.

Parisa served dinner on time, a typical Persian fare, a nicely mounded platter of dill rice with fava beans, a side of chicken in tomato sauce, a selection of
torshi
, a Persian relish, along with a side of raw onions cut up into chunks, fresh greens and toasted pita breads. Bottles of Dutcher Crossing and Diamond Creek wines sat at each end of the table. With the table fully set, she called everyone to dinner.

Mike sat through dinner barely eating a thing, deep in thought. He smiled occasionally, nodding his head to comments and answering questions. When asked what was wrong, he merely brought up client issues. Soon enough, dinner was over, with everyone scattering around the house for after dinner activities. Mike could not take the pain of keeping it all in. He excused himself and went back to his office. He once again opened the text message, but this time he followed the link not wanting to watch the video.

The link took him to a page that instructed him on how to install several specific apps on his cellphone, including further instruction, and a second link to follow, once the apps downloaded. The apps allowed anonymous access to the web, messaging and email, without monitoring risks or interception by third parties or governments. It was an application and network infrastructure used by legitimate safety conscious users, and the seedy underground to keep themselves and their actions completely anonymous. Mike installed the apps and worked his way to the URL link with an
.onion
host suffix, which he had never seen or even knew existed. He knew of
.com
,
.net
, and other dot-something endings, but an onion was new to him. He clicked on the link, which brought him to a new page with more instructions.

The page had only one detailed order, topped with an ominous warning. The order, simply stated, was to replace all the handicap seating at the Denver Super Dome. It was the first stadium built by Mike’s company. The designs for new seats were included as an attachment, which he downloaded. The instruction then continued, he should manufacture all seats by a certain date, then store them at his company warehouses between two given dates, and finally install them by a certain final date. All dates and locations were specific and prescribed. They would handle all permits and paperwork. The whole thing sounded stranger by the minute.

Handicapped Seating, Why?
Mike thought, pounding his own head with both fists.

He printed the seat designs sent by the kidnappers. He then began looking through his file cabinets for the original stadium plans. Finding the CD in one of the folders, he popped it into his computer, and began looking at the blueprints. He jotted down some notes as he kept looking through the CD. He found the final and signed Disabled Access Advisory Committee (DAAC) plans, reading those he took more notes. On quick review, he counted 120 plus seats. A small pittance he thought, for saving his boy.

He printed the original seat design and laid them side by side with the new designs. There were only minor differences.  The armrests were slightly thicker. There was a solar strip in one armrest, including a small lithium battery, and a 360-degree blue LED light placed at the top of the backrest. A great idea, one he would have done free of charge without the kidnapping. The entire job was possible with most parts remaining intact. The existing seats were compliant, top of the line in design, and by all measures perfect, the way they were.

Why make the change?

The web page ended with a simple short warning that put a cold, heart-wrenching chill through his body.

You talk. He dies.

*  *  *

It was a restless night, with no sleep, for Mike. He was up by 4:30 a.m. He took a shower, was dressed, and gone before anyone else woke up. He needed to get out. He needed to start on a plan. Sunlight was peeking through the horizon. It was going to be a clear and nice day outside. For Mike it felt like a dark desperate day. He had a hard time swallowing let alone able to eat. He drove to his favorite coffee shack, ordered his regular, paid and drove off. He needed some warmth and caffeine in his body to survive the morning.

It was a fast drive early in the morning. He reached the office complex, drove through the multi-level parking structure at the base of his building, his construction company’s headquarters. He drove straight to the executive area where a sign clearly marked his space. He passed no more than a dozen other cars in the lot. He parked, walked over to the express elevator for a straight ride to his floor, coffee in hand, gripping his briefcase in the other. There were a few lights on. Like him, some were early, also with coffee in hand. As eyes meet, some greeted him and he greeted in kind. He really was not in the mood to be his normal talkative self. He went directly to his office. He sat at his desk, emptied his briefcase, and loaded up the plans and designs on his computer. He brought up schedules for several fabrication facilities and tracked down some down time. He shot off several quick inquisitive emails to supervisors and managers around the country and patiently waited, his mind wandering all over the place. He was alone and afraid for his son.

An hour and a half later, his secretary cheerfully walked in and handed him the daily mail and paperwork, all neatly sorted. After some pleasantries about their weekends, she left him alone.  At the very top of the pile rested a courier-delivered package from the City and County of Denver. The large yellow envelope was bursting with form letters, renewal permits, and copies of the original contract between Tower Construction and the city, along with references to those contract sub-sections covering maintenance and repairs. Added to the mix was strongly worded verbiage about existing errors and oversights. Substantial fines were forthcoming, if not corrected by a certain date. In short, all the paperwork he needed to get the job done without a hitch. It was all included, signed and ready to go, in one package. The installation dates and deadlines perfectly matched the dates in his instructions, an occurrence rare in any government job, especially construction projects.

Mike had never seen permits delivered. Usually one went to city hall, with plans, paperwork and a checkbook in hand, and pride fully in check, for a day of torment. You would sit in small hot offices where a government employee would scrutinize every spec of ink, for conformity to their codes. That day of eating shit preceded more days that were similar, more time, more costs, and eventually you might get your permit to do something, or part of something. It was hell on earth for contractors and engineers, a sanctioned and legal mugging to be sure. Whoever was behind this thing had great influence. Government paperwork was never finalized this quickly or cleanly.

Where else do they have people? Who else is in their pockets? What other influence can these kidnappers’ bring to bear?
Mike could not stop thinking.

Mike thought the task of manufacturing to be easy. However, getting his boy back was something in which he had no confidence and was feeling completely powerless. He just did not know how to get help, whom to trust, today more so than before given how the permits arrived. On the drive in, he had fully intended to call the police or FBI for help. Now, so scared for his son, he wished to remain utterly silent. He just wanted his boy back.

He was going to comply. Yet, the what-if scenarios drowned him in grief. He had to talk to someone. He needed an ear, some help and some advice. He needed his best friend, Gordon. He was afraid to call or to see him, outside his normal routine. He waited until his scheduled squash game at six that afternoon.

For the past decade, Gordon and Mike played every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, with some occasional gaps for injury recovery time, which was more often than not these days, as they each reached the breaking points of advanced age.

*  *  *

This was the longest Monday in Mike’s memory, but he finally found himself at the club. The club was crowded and active, people coming in and out of games. The squash courts were busy, with the regulars chatting about the day’s events, their weekends, their knee pains, and the round-robin standings. It seemed whenever you got a bunch of adult men together, around sports and competition, it permeated into all areas of conversation, the new and faster car, new and better cell phones, new and better yielding mutual funds. It was the modern day version of chest beating. Mike thought this was a funny American nuance, part of the consumerism culture. He loved watching it unfold, especially since he had nothing more to prove. He was wealthy beyond his dreams, beyond most people’s dreams.

He played several rounds with others as quickly as he could. Gordon was his next match. They were finally on the court, glass doors shut, with no one hovering nearby. They volleyed for serve order and began the game. A minute or two into the game, Mike leaned close to Gordon to hand him the ball.

“Gordon, we need to chat after this, in private, and I mean
really
private. I need your help.”

Gordon had never heard the sound of fear coming from his friend, and for the first time he was scared for him. He thought it might be cancer, or some other life ailment, threatening him or his family.

“Sure, do you want to call the game, and go right now?”

“No! We must finish the game. We need to act normal.”

Gordon became worried. This was definitely a life or death issue. They both played as crappy as they could just to finish the game. They walked casually to the locker room, grabbing a couple of robes and towels. They changed and walked into the steam sauna. People were coming in and out. They were cooking in there, but they waited, and finally they were alone. Once alone, Gordon jumped up to look outside the glass door, standing guard he looked back at Mike.

“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.