Federal Bureau of Investigation
Jacob Farmer et al –v– U.S. Department of Justice
The following report presents events in chronological order
based on testimony in their own voice of persons of interest to the
investigation. Statements have been merged to fill gaps and create a coherent
narrative, then edited for grammatical mistakes and to improve clarity. Identifying
information of video specialists, court reporters, examination counsels, and
other unrelated parties has been redacted.
Statements of Jacob Farmer came from recordings he made on
his cell phone.
In accordance with federal executive order 13927 and
provisions of the USA PATRIOT Act this report in its entirety is classified TOP
Jul 4 – Recollection of Jacob Farmer, Farnaz
Twenty million dollars in
a numbered Grand Cayman account—but I did it for the principle. As usual, the client
approached the “old man,” my alias for my job broker, at the Navy Riders
headquarters. A sizable contract for sure, but I've worked my way up to it. Small
investigations, surveillance. Occasionally clients wanted to make sure they
never saw the mark again. Ever. The United States Navy trained me for such
missions, on Sea, Air and Land. Learning the high tech side helped with
gathering intelligence from gadgets. It helps to know how to get the most from
a running computer. Soon advanced weaponry will dominate the battlefield. Might
as well get with programs like unmanned aerial vehicles. Not to say that I
couldn't take out a target from a mile the old-fashioned way.
Most clients value discretion. Plausible deniability. This
one had no problems giving his name to the old man. Farnaz Sarashpa. Second
generation Iranian. Goes by the name Charlie. Invited me to the family farm for
the initial meeting. Raised all the hair on my neck, which doesn't happen
often. Win or lose, he may decide to eliminate witnesses later. I'm recording
this meeting to ensure the truth comes out after my death. Or his.
The gate guard directs me away from the mansion, to a windsock
in the middle of a wooded area. Amateurish or devious? Certainly harder to bug
a place in the open without walls, but anybody hiding behind a tree can use a
long-range directional shotgun microphone to eavesdrop on the conversation from
fifty meters away. I've done it myself. A marksman can take out a person easily
from four hundred meters away, although I can't see the purpose of that on the
first meeting. Nevertheless, I'll have my hand on my trusted Glock. I always
pack. Old military habits die hard.
The trees clear in front of me. A middle-aged woman in a
white shirt, black vest, slacks, and cap sticks out against an overcast sky. No
one else here. A bit old for a personal assistant. First signs of billionaire
paranoia? With that kind of dough, you turn suspicious of everybody and rely on
precious few trusted, longtime aids.
The night had dumped thunderstorms on the area, leaving
behind a hot, muggy haze. Air conditioner weather. No wonder Charlie sent her to
an outdoor meeting. She stands between two square foldup tables and eyes my
car. Off to the side, a wood rack with five shotguns. This is getting
I park next to an electric golf cart, unsure if my
camouflage jacket confuses her. The generous pockets of military wear hide
weapons and ammunition and other vital items. Mine is not a suit-and-tie
business. The old man should have passed on my credentials. That’s all the
client cares about.
Not that I trust a woman any more than a man, but I do
nothing without half as down payment. Even ten mil buys my retirement to
wherever. I already have all the passports I need and the house by the ocean
picked out. Outdoor bar. Drinks under palm trees while Washington freezes their
asses off during Roland Drummel’s inauguration. For that, I'll schmooze a
My name is Farnaz Laleh Sarashpa and I make this statement
voluntarily under a grant of immunity. For the record, the alleged evidence
presented by the FBI consists mainly of a questionable recording inadmissible in
I met the man known to me as Mr. Seal once, on the shooting
range of my family’s private ranch. For one, the wide-open space gave us more
privacy. Making him prove his prowess would also quickly reveal any impostor.
It’s not as if I can call his references.
He certainly fit his chosen pseudonym. Towering, in
fatigues, broad camouflage jacket, polished combat boots, head clean-shaven, he
walked straight out of a war movie into an audition as high-tech mercenary.
“Call me Norman.”
“And you can call me Charlie.”
For a moment, I thought he’d lose his composure. He probably
did not expect a woman. I often experience that. Many men have a hard time
imagining that a Muslima could inherit an oil empire. True, I'm an only child,
but you also cannot compare the Iran of my father to the religious bigotry
going on now. The Shahbanu and her staff wielded considerable influence on governmental
affairs. Irrespective, I'm American. Naturalized. I took an oath on this
country I love, and nowhere does it say in the Constitution that women can't
pursue the American Dream.
Without betraying much of any emotion, he offered me his
hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Do you shoot skeet?”
“I shoot anything.”
Seal took his time selecting a gun, and after careful
inspection, picked a beautifully engraved double-barreled over/under Caesar
Guerini, a favorite of my father’s, and in a class truly its own. My stackbarrel
Bilanx, perfectly balanced for my handling, and a birthday present from my
father, failed me that day. Or I failed it, losing most of my clay pigeons. Mr.
Seal? He killed all. Nothing survived.
In typical patronizing fashion, he offered his advice, mansplaining.
“You're tensing your shoulders.”
“You have a solution?”
He answered by destroying another target. “Your fighting
last century's war.”
“She's bad for the country.”
“You mean for business.”
“My father always said, ‘America's business is business.’”
“Many good men died defending American values.”
Naturally, I missed my next bird. His objection unbalanced
me. The agency contact had explained Seal’s modus operandi, all red, white, and
blue. With my pitch-black hair, I'm used to people questioning my patriotism,
but not for the money I’d offered. “I understand SEALs have their code. If you
can't handle the job—”
“She'll ruin our country.” He killed another target to make
I figured I’d give this macho man his money’s worth, called
double, and hit one of the birds.
Unimpressed, Seal presented a small drone from his jacket
pocket. No more than three inches across, the copter had four one-inch blades
arranged at the ends of an X. “There are modern ways. Clean. Undetectable.
“There's no sure thing.”
Mr. Seal tossed the tiny drone into the air, killed both targets,
then caught the drone in the palm of his hand. “I never miss.”
“It’s agreed then.” A show-off who had practiced this move
repeatedly, for certain, but he impressed me nevertheless. In any case, I had
few options. All the ads, the superpacs, the rallies had not helped. Carlton
held her lead over Drummel post convention. We needed drastic measures, and
Seal had convinced me that he could pull it off, and would do so by any means
necessary. How, I didn't know and didn't care.