Shooting the Works with Franklin Dixon

Part 2 of 3

So it turned out that the hot Iranian Computer Science student from FIT who stole my phone was actually a sleeper agent for the Iranian government, and also, actually, actually a double agent for the FBI.  I decided not to try to ride my bike down to the police station.  I just sat and stared at the webpage for the spyware I’d installed on the phone back when it belonged to my cheating ex-girlfriend.

Her GPS tracker was on the 528 now; she was probably headed over to I-75.  She was using Facebook Messenger again, while she drove.  Maybe she would crash and all this craziness would end.

Sleeper: Allah Akbar, and stuff, but I really have no training for this.  I was supposed to be here to learn to be a hacker, not to kidnap babies related to the Secretary of State.

God Knows Who from Tehran: And stuff?  I am warning you.  Your mother will be wearing her own fingers for a necklace if your attitude doesn’t improve.

Sleeper:  so sry.  I am just so unprepared imo.

GKWfT:  Then we shall get you help.  You must go to Fayetteville Georgia and find Hussein Khosrow Al Vaziri.  He is one of our oldest moles in America.  He is cleverer than serpents and more ruthless than lions.

Sleeper:  Ok.  Can you get addrs?  I will put in ggle maps.

GKWfT:  Shortly.

Sleeper:  hve to drv now.  Traffic jam.

But she was lying.  The GPS blip kept moving at 80mph.  She called her FBI contact.

“I’m supposed to pick up another agent in Georgia.  Hussein Khosrow Al Vaziri.”

“Wait.  Isn’t that – I just watched this documentary on him on Netflix.  The Iron Sheik.”

“The who?”

“A pro wrestling champion from the 80’s.  How do you not know the Iron Sheik?”

“I’ve only been here four years.  I have tried to learn as much pop culture as I can, but there’s just too much of it.  You people are just making more of it up all day like it’s your job.”

“Ok, got a line on him.  Fayetteville, right?  Just go wherever your handler tells you for now.  You won’t see them, but a helicopter full of Delta Force will keep visual on you all the way.”

“To do what?  Kill me?”

“Don’t worry.  They’re very good.”

“At killing me?”

Call Ended.

I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t write another shitty clickbait blog to bide the time either.  I just sat and watched the GPS blip going north up I-75 for hours.  She stopped at a KFC, and later, a rest area.  She kept driving through the early morning hours.  I started making myself new Facebook and Twitter profiles.  Monday morning broke outside my window.  Good thing I was self employed/unemployed: Monday morning only meant that I went and got a Red Bull out of the fridge.

Finally she stopped outside what the satellite view showed as a modest suburban Georgia home.  She would go and talk to him face to face.  I clicked around, looking.  I couldn’t remember if I’d bought the feature that let me turn on the phone’s mic and stream sound live.  They didn’t make it easy to find.  I had.  I turned it on.

“You’re a blogger with Vice magazine, you say?” said a woman’s voice. “He’s right in there on the couch.”

“You were born in Iran,” said a gravelly voice, before Sleeper said a word.  “You don’t walk like an American.”

Either she didn’t find a way to respond, or I didn’t hear.

“Caryl,” he said.  “We are going to the Denny’s.  She wants to do an interview.”

A house door opened and closed, then car doors.

“So what is it really?”

“I am under orders from Tehran.  The weapons inspection negotiations.  My mission is to kidnap John Kerry’s grandson to increase our bargaining power against him.”

“That is stupidest plan I have ever heard.  What idiot is running things over there now?”

“I – I don’t know his name.”

“Was rhetorical question.  It does not matter.  We are not idiots.  We will not follow this idiot plan.  We will go and find McMahon.  We will threaten to Shoot the Works.”

“The what?”

“There is Raw tonight in Atlanta.  Will be fan convention before, in afternoon.  We got time to go to Denny’s.”

It was hours before anything else of note happened.

Finally, she sent a text to her FBI contact.

Sleeper:  So we’re at this WWE fan convention.

Agent Kagan:  Yeah, they choppers told me.  When are you heading for Montana?  Is he attempting to reconnect with his ally Volkoff?

Sleeper:  No.  Said he has a better plan.  Something about shooting works?  But I think he’s scaming me.  He said he didn’t have money with him, and made me buy him breakfast at Denny’s.  Then lunch at Golden Corral.  Then we drove through some ghetto and he asked for $100 to buy a gun.  I think he’s just telling me he has a plan so that I chauffer him all over Atlanta and get him into this convention.  All he is doing now is shuffling around and bumming money off people for autographs.  And using it to try to buy a copy of some sort of sex tape involving Hulk Hogan.  I think he is not sane.

Agent Kagan:  Is he officially your senior officer?

Sleeper:  What do you mean?

Agent Kagan:  If his incompetence blows your operation, will you be held accountable?  Will it endanger your position within Iranian intelligence?  Or will all the blame fall on him?

Sleeper:  On him I hope.  Probably.  They seem to have so much confidence in him.  I have no idea why.  He’s a fat old man who farts in too much on long car rides.

Agent Kagan:  Okay.  I think we’re just gonna ride this one out then.

Sleeper:  Shit he’s moving.  Fast. Gtg.