Open Source Page 20

  “What about the Russians?” Chip added, alerting everyone else at the table that he was still there.

  Anton and Fitzgerald looked at Chip, who had been following the whole discussion with interest, trying as best as he could to shield himself from the grief of losing his best friend from childhood by keeping his brain active. Even Casey re-engaged, brought out of the numbness that consumed him by his friend’s stark reminder that perhaps there was another explanation for Mike’s death that no one was considering.

  “Russians?” Fitzgerald asked, puzzled. He looked at Anton and was surprised when he did not see evidence of similar confusion on the black man’s face. Instead, Anton fielded a questioning look from Casey.

  “Do you think that bullet was meant for me?” Casey asked.

  “It doesn’t fit,” Anton replied, shaking his head.

  “What doesn’t fit? And what do Russians have to do with anything?” Fitzgerald asked. He suddenly felt like he had walked into the wrong movie theater after getting up to take a piss, and he had no idea what he was watching.

  Casey tried to bring Fitzgerald up to speed, while at the same time using the opportunity to talk through thoughts that were running through his head like forty-three cars taking the green flag at Daytona. “Wednesday night, a Russian, or someone with ties to that country, deliberately put a hole in the brake line of my work truck and put me in the hospital with bruised ribs and a severe headache.”

  “We don’t know that for a fact. It’s only a theory right now,” Anton interrupted, giving Casey a cautionary look. “And aside from your presence at both incidents, I don’t see an obvious relation.”

  “Well, hear me out for a second,” Casey said. “We know that my brakes were sabotaged. Deputy Fitzgerald’s boys determined that.” Fitzgerald was not aware of a wreck or a case of foul play that his department was working on involving Casey Shenk. But it was not unusual for him to be out of the loop of some investigations. The Chatham County Sheriff’s Office routinely had dozens of active cases on its docket.

  “Russians or not,” Casey continued, “someone wanted to keep me quiet. The wreck didn’t guarantee that would happen, so maybe the shooter tonight was trying to take chance out of the equation.” Casey looked down at the table. “Mike just happened to get in the way.” The realization that he may have been responsible, if only indirectly, for Mike’s death suddenly sank in. The momentary high of once again solving a puzzle was gone. So, too, were the feelings of disbelief, fear, and sadness that had been with him since the shooting. They had now given way to guilt, and above all, anger. He was angry at himself for writing anything about the Baltic Venture in the first place. He was angrier, still, at the people who felt it was their right to play God and deciding that Casey no longer deserved to live. It was their self-important arrogance, whoever they were, that killed Mike.

  Anton could see the pain on his friend’s face. He had seen elements of it before on the faces of individuals charged with drunk driving when they sobered, and on the faces of the parents and relatives of the innocents who died as a result of that individual’s poor judgment. He knew it was best not to say anything, but to wait for the person to talk through their feelings and not try to guess what was going on in their heads or anticipate what response they expected to hear. The same advice worked when dealing with rape victims. Anton relied on his experience and stayed quiet.

  Deputy Fitzgerald thought along the same lines, though he still had no clear idea what the discussion was about, and Chip stayed quiet merely because the two officers were. Casey let them all off the hook.

  “Fuck, I don’t know,” he said, exasperated. Casey truly didn’t know what to think. “Maybe it was just some kid playing with his daddy’s gun. Maybe it was an accident.” Casey didn’t believe that for a second, and he could see that Chip didn’t either. Anton Laycock hadn’t written off the possibility, but he didn’t think it was the most likely scenario, either.

  “These days, you can’t be sure about anything,” Fitzgerald said. “We haven’t even begun an in-depth investigation, yet, I’ll remind you. It’s still too early to rule out anything at this point. We don’t even know for sure what caliber weapon was used.”

  “You said it was a hunting rifle,” Chip accused.

  “I said I believe a rifle was used, but we won’t know for sure until we run ballistics.”

  “Well, it’s after four-thirty. The sun will be up soon, and I suggest we all go home and get some sleep,” Anton said, looking at Casey. “A lot has happened, and we’ll all be thinking clearer tomorrow after some rest.” He turned to Fitzgerald. “That is, if you have everything you need.”

  The trooper’s look told Fitzgerald that the interview was over, and his permission was only asked for out of professional courtesy. “Yeah. I’m finished,” Fitzgerald said. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Shenk. I know this isn’t easy, but I may need to get back in touch with you in the coming days.”

  “Sure thing,” Casey said, relieved that he was going to be able to go home. He needed time to think.

  Anton and Fitzgerald stood up to leave. “Casey, I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon to see how you’re doing. Chip, are you gonna be alright?” Anton asked as Fitzgerald left the tavern.

  “I could use a ride home,” Chip said.

  “No problem. I’ll take you,” Anton said as he put the grey smokey bear hat back on his head. “Maybe you should come too, Casey. You know, just in case.”

  “No thanks. I’ll take my chances,” Casey said. “Besides, I could use the walk.”

  “It’s still raining, man,” Chip said.

  “That’s all right. I can use a shower, too,” Casey replied.

  “Alright, then,” Anton said. “Just be careful. And call me if you need anything.”

  “I will,” Casey said. “Thanks, Anton. Good night, Chip.” None of the men shook hands. Just a short nod from each, and the friends departed.

  The rain had stopped by the time Casey boarded the Greyhound. He handed the driver his ticket and worked his way toward the middle of the bus. He had several empty rows to choose from, and he dropped his backpack in a window seat, taking the aisle for himself. Outboard-center on planes, inboard on buses and trains. Anti-terrorism 101. There were only a handful of other passengers, and Casey wondered how the bus company was even able to stay in business. He was glad he was virtually alone, though. Anonymous.

  Casey reclined his seat a little and folded his arms across his chest. He closed his eyes and waited for the bus to begin the long journey up the coast. He was tired, and he needed time to think.

  As he walked the five minutes in the rain back to his house earlier that morning, before the sun was up, Casey thought about what came next. Deputy Fitzgerald and Anton had both promised to be in touch with him soon—one for more questioning, the other out of concern for his friend’s well-being. He had no problem with either, until he passed his truck. It was still in the parking lot, though Mike’s body had been removed hours before, and a solitary police van was all that was left of the circus. “Crime Scene Unit” was stenciled on the sides and back, and Casey guessed the personnel assigned to the unit were inside, because the only sound outside came from the driving rain and wind. And the startling crack of a rifle.

  Casey knew it would be some time before the sound of the gunshot that ended Mike’s life finally left his thoughts. He was not looking forward to the visual drama he was sure would come when he fell asleep, but he tried to concentrate on the sound of rain on tin roofs as he turned down his street, away from the place where his friend took his last smoke break.

  The gunshot again. Casey knew he couldn’t just sleep it off and wake up the next morning, pretending that nothing had changed in his otherwise mundane, routine existence. Things had changed. His life hit a bump in the road when he rolled the Vandura. It careened into an embankment when Mike was shot.

  Casey knew he was in danger, and doing nothing wasn’t an option. He was convinced
Mike unwittingly took a bullet for him, even if Anton didn’t see a connection between Thursday’s wreck and Saturday night’s shooting. Casey had no doubt. It took Chip to point him in that direction, but Casey did not believe in coincidence. Someone wanted him dead, and that someone killed one of his only friends.

  When Casey got home, he emptied a backpack and stuffed it with five boxer shorts, three t-shirts, a pair of jeans, and four pairs of socks. He went to the bathroom and urinated, retrieved a toothbrush and toothpaste, zipped up the pack, and locked the front door on his way out again. Casey walked back into the rain, crossed the street and banged on the door.

  A light came on in the entryway, and Casey waited as two deadbolts and a chain-lock clacked and clanged before the door opened. Allen stood in the doorway with a baseball bat, ready to put all 290 pounds of his hairy weight behind a swing to knock out whoever the intruder was knocking on his door at quarter-to-five on a Sunday morning. Vince stood in the darkened house behind his “husband,” waiting to see the head-bashing. Allen lowered the bat when he saw Casey and invited him in while Vince turned on the foyer light.

  After a cup of coffee and a long discussion, Casey slept for three hours on Vince and Allen’s living room couch. At nine o’clock Vince drove Casey to the bus station and promised to cover for him if the police came by. After buying a ticket, Casey waited for the eleven o’clock bus that would take him out of Savannah.

  When the bus finally pulled away, Casey let the low rumble of the engine vibrate him to sleep. He was still not sure what came next, but he knew he was worthless sitting in his ninety-odd year-old house on Bannon Drive. He knew if he was going to do anything to figure out who was fucking up his life, he needed help—help from someone who knew better than he did about what kind of shit he had really gotten himself into when he posted a theory about a ship hijacking and a spoiled arms deal. That help was in New York.

  Chapter 25

  Central Algeria

  “Merde!”

  Sofiane cradled his hand and uttered a few more French expletives. He decided that punching the camel in the side of its head was not a good idea. He tried a different tact to get the beast to stand up and move. Talking forcefully, but kindly seemed to do the trick. The Algerian took the reins of the camel and led it onward.

  The sun was just setting, and he needed to make as much ground throughout the night as possible. He knew he was getting close, but he wasn’t sure how much longer his travel companion could keep going. The herder he had met the week before had not only given him food for his journey, but he had also provided Sofiane with a camel to assist him on his trek across the Sahara. Sofiane tried to give the man money in compensation, but the herder refused. The camel had truly been a gift from Allah. He would never have gotten this far had he not been able to ride much of the way. As it was, he still walked some to keep from overburdening his steed. At least the camel was able to carry his pack and the black briefcase for him.

  Despite Sofiane’s efforts, however, the camel was not well. Neither was Sofiane, for that matter, but the 500-kilogram beast was in much worse shape. Sofiane had noticed it around the fourth day after leaving the herder’s place. He had assumed the camel was spooked by something, though there was nothing else on the shifting sands that day as far as the eye could see. The camel had rocked back and forth, moaning in a loud guttural sound that seemed unnatural. That moan turned to a high-pitched bleating as the camel shot forward, tossing Sofiane to the ground in the process. Aside from scraped palms and a few bruises, Sofiane was unhurt. The camel, however, kneeled down and regurgitated everything it had eaten over the previous two days. If the Algerian wasn’t from the city, he may have been more familiar with the behavior of the animal, signaling that it was ill. From that time on, there was no doubt, as the camel got progressively worse. So did Sofiane.

  It started with a nauseous feeling, much like what he suspected the camel was dealing with. Now every joint in his body ached. The dull, nearly crippling pain was only overcome by the occasional knife-twisting in his stomach that doubled him over. No matter how bad he felt, he had to keep moving. Three hours of not-so-restful downtime was all he could afford.

  “It will not be much longer,” he told the camel, and himself. “It will not be much longer.”

  Chapter 26

  Tehran, Iran

  The lights of Tehran drowned out the stars of the night sky just as the lights of any large city in any part of the world did. On this particular night, the stars were not visible, but not because of incandescent competition. The entire sky was masked by a thick cloud of sand, not uncommon during this time of year. Colonel Ahmad Rafi Alam did not notice. He was not here to take in the scenery.

  The soldier passed through the iron gate to the small courtyard and paused at the front door of the large house, by Iranian standards, in the Darakeh district of Tehran. The area was quiet, and relatively crime free. Alam attributed this to the fact that the area lay predominately at the base of the Alborz Mountains to the north, and it was only three kilometers from Evin Prison to the south. He wasn’t sure the proximity to one was worth living so close to the other. He took a deep breath and tried to pat the wrinkles out of his uniform. He knocked loudly on the large wooden door three times and waited.

  A key turned, and Brigadier General Mohammed Qasim Ja’afari opened the door. He was dressed in a yellow oxford button-down shirt, open at the collar, charcoal wool slacks, and brown leather slippers. He looked to Alam more like a tired university professor than a high-ranking officer of the Revolutionary Guard. Ja’afari pushed his oversized glasses back on his nose, adding credence to Alam’s impression, and stepped aside as his subordinate entered.

  “What is wrong?” Ja’afari asked as he closed the door behind him. He assumed something must not be right to warrant the late evening visitation.

  “Are we alone?” Alam asked.

  “Yes. My wife is in Qom with her mother. My son is with her.”

  “Sir, I have not heard from the team—the ones we sent to retrieve the missiles from the ship off of Africa.” Alam could not read the general’s face. He expected a reaction, but got none. “They should have phoned in by now,” Alam said. “It has been almost 24 hours.”

  Ja’afari removed his glasses and looked at Alam. He turned and walked into the sitting room. Alam followed, feeling more and more uncomfortable with the general’s silence. Both men took a seat, Ja’afari in a red leather high-backed chair, Alam on the white cloth sofa. Ja’afari finally broke the silence.

  “Perhaps they are having communications difficulties?” he asked, hoping that was the reason for the tardy report.

  Alam leaned forward and placed his elbows on his thighs. “Perhaps. But I do not believe that is the case. These men were hand-picked by me. They are some of the best soldiers we have in the Qods Force, and if they could not get word to me of the mission’s success by radio or phone, they would have found a way.” Alam studied his hands, searching for the words he had come to deliver. He raised his eyes and said, “I fear they may be dead.”

  Ja’afari could feel the heat of blood flushing his face. He was not happy with the colonel’s assessment. Not because he mourned for the soldiers’ deaths, but because of the ramifications of those deaths if it was true. He stared coldly at the man sitting across from him. “You assured me your plan would not fail—that you had arranged all of the details.”

  Alam felt on the defensive. He did not like it. He sat up straight and tried to calm himself before responding. “General, the plan was a good one. It was simple and thorough. But with any plan....”

  “A good one?” Ja’afari yelled, losing his composure. “The plan failed! How can you say it was a good plan?”

  Alam ignored the general’s outburst as best he could. He continued with his explanation, but with a slightly elevated volume. “With any plan, general, there is risk. Risk of uncertainty.”

  “What were you not certain of?” Ja’afari asked. “That your men
could not complete the job?”

  “Uncertain about the enemy,” Alam said with more anger than he meant to convey. He leveled his voice to try and calm the general down, as well as himself. “We know nothing of the men who hijacked the ship. We went on the assumption that they were nothing more than petty criminals.”

  “You went on that assumption. You planned this whole thing without my consent or counsel. You are the one who failed, Colonel,” Ja’afari said. “Are you now suggesting that the men who hijacked the shipment overpowered your team? That these, petty criminals killed a team of highly trained Qods?”

  Colonel Alam wanted nothing more than to get up and leave right then. “I am saying that is a possibility, General. It is also possible that there is another explanation for why they have not reported back to me. I just don’t know what that explanation might be.”

  Ja’afari stood up and went to his desk in the adjoining room. Alam watched as Ja’afari retrieved a bottle of Trafalgar Dark Rum and two glasses from a bottom drawer. He poured them both a drink and sat down. Though alcohol was haram, and therefore not legal in the Islamic Republic, the general indulged on occasion, from a steady supply of the Mumbai spirit provided by his own men who ran part of the IRGC’s lucrative black market ventures. He reached over and handed a glass to Alam. The colonel was a guest in his house, after all.

  “So what do we do about this?” Ja’afari asked.

  Like any good soldier delivering bad news to a superior, Alam had thought long and hard about that exact question. “We do nothing,” was his answer.

  “Nothing?”

  “Yes, sir. Nothing,” Alam said. “I believe our best course of action, if, in fact, the mission has failed, is to turn a blind eye.”

  Ja’afari took another sip of the black drink in his hand. “That may have been an option if we had cut our losses when the ship was hijacked. But you have guaranteed that our involvement will be known. A stack of Iranian bodies will surely be hard to miss. If they died onboard the ship, they will surely be found by the Russians, who are only hours from the ship’s position as we speak. How, may I ask, do you plan to escape that eventuality?”