Twenty-Nine Cozy Bears

23

The man is wonder-eyed at the sights and smells and sounds cocooning him and hundreds of others inside the experience of the Tehran Grand Bazaar. In his left hand he holds a small tray filled with marinated olives — zeytoon — which are mixed with pomegranate seeds and crushed walnuts. There are spices in the mix as well which fill his nostrils and seduce his tongue, but he doesn't know their names.

The Bazaar is three, sometimes four levels high. The inside is a wanderlust that covers many city blocks. Each level is open to the level above with the shops lining the walls. Stairs are available in odd places. The activity is to his eyes much like their traffic flows in the streets outside. Absolute chaos. He would not be driving on this trip unless it was on a highway outside of the city heading north.

In his right hand he holds a shawarma chicken wrap, which has an amazing flavor, flavors that have interrupted his thoughts several times to focus on the spices and sauce.

All around them there are street food vendors, with kebabs, chicken, lamb, beef, and a large variety of vegetables, both fresh and roasted. Men's and women's voices rise and wane in natural flows, the language mixing emotions with the musical phrasings of their alphabet.

He has traveled before. He has been to the United States several times. He has been to Australia, Germany, Norway, Sweden. Not until now, has he ever felt that he has been some place unique, where the word foreign has its meaning unchecked. Where the feeling was adventitious, adventurous, and wondrous.

All six of them are there. Luca suggested the answer for their dinner, promoting it with descriptions of good food and a means of dealing with the frustrations built up during the day of politics and restraint. From the smile on Luca's lips, the bazaar was everything he remembered it being, and perhaps a little more.

The crowd is a throng around them. Knots form, causing eddies of pedestrians to flow around. Swarms of friendly voices clear away the knots behind them. The populace as a body is alive and sentient. A hive-mind of shoppers and diners searching for the perfect little street stall to sate their hunger. He is certain that the lions share of details and meanings are missed by him. The whole is sensory gluten. It felt like an environment designed to induce hurry sickness.

Except it didn't. Carpet salesman sat on rugs with prospective buys, drinking tea and smoking. Food vendors were quick to pause their preparations and explain a dish or a spice to those who asked. The throng itself was not at war within the body. There was nothing like the pushing and shoving he expected on the bus ride here. In fact it felt like the populace was conscientiously slowing down, becoming more polite, more accommodating, less needy.

After their morning Orientation meeting with Reza Tabatabai and the four IRGC Quds officers, the group of them met up with another group who described the damage done to the Red Site. From there the discussions began, focused toward fixing this problem. The problems for the Iranians were manifold, but it took the man until the afternoon past lunch to understand why the discussions continued to spiral into a mosh.

"May I ask why we are going over the building plans for the Red site again," he had asked Reza.

The elder looked frustrated, truly frustrated with him, but took in a breath and explained in the tone one uses to repeat what has been repeated and believed to be understood. "We are looking to rebuild it without some of the details, in a short amount of time, so you will have a foundational understanding of the operation."

"But sir," he said carefully, "I don't need a functional understanding of the operation. You do. Your people have what they need already, and my people don't need it at all. Sure, it would have been nice to have the Red Site, but a room like we met in this morning with capable systems to work at and run attacks on, is enough. Perhaps two or three large monitors so we can all see what is happening..."

The little meeting room proved to be too modest for the sensibilities of the occasion, but it was agreed that the main library had a conference suite that could be appropriated without causing too much angst with the university staff, or the librarians.

He walked through the suite with Reza and Dr. Farahnaz Mohseni, the curator for the library. In a short time he began to layout the rooms with equipment and stations, mapping in display and viewing needs. It was not his first Red Team affair. And, while it would be a bit rustic, it would be functional and comfortable.

"You believe, then sir, that these will accomplish the task?" Dr. Mohseni asked him.

He looked to Reza and nodded his head. "Better than I hoped for. I do wish I could have seen your staging and preparations, but this area will ensure that we are not delayed or set back, too much."

"But from what I understood of your descriptions, everyone will be in the same room. How is that to work for secrecy between the teams? Won't this be unfair?"

"Unfair?" the man mused. "Sir, I'm not here to win, I'm here to be of service. I'm the devil your people have been desperate to talk to. I'm here to demonstrate, not amaze, or deceive. I plan on showing you all of the secrets, where all of the mirrors are, how the smoke machine works and where we hide the candy. I only win if your people knock the snot out of any hack or attack that comes down on them, after I've gone home."