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  Alam had anticipated the general’s reasoning. “Because the Russians won’t want the rest of the world to know,” he said. “If they announce that a team of Iranian soldiers were found onboard the Baltic Venture, questions will be asked. It would only be a matter of time before the right questions pointed to the possibility that there was a shipment of stolen missiles onboard. They have already shown by their silence that they are unwilling to admit as much. The political damage at home and abroad would be too much for them to risk letting that information get out.”

  “Perhaps,” Ja’afari said. “But you are only looking at one angle, Ahmad Rafi. The Russians will not want to talk to the press, I agree. But they will want to talk to Iran. The missiles were stolen, and if Iran is fingered as the buyer of those missiles, you can be sure that our ambassador in Moscow will be invited to the Kremlin for a discussion with the Russian president—followed shortly by a call to our dear Mahmoud. And after that...well it will not be good. For reasons we have discussed.”

  General Ja’afari was right. Alam had not thought about that scenario. He swallowed the rest of his rum and placed the empty glass on the end table next to the sofa. The colonel stood up slowly and straightened his uniform. He looked at the general, who remained seated. “I will find out what happened to our team, General. I will fix this.”

  “Will you, Ahmad Rafi? Exactly how do propose to fix this?” The general wrestled silently with both anger and fear. He knew he needed to distance himself from the whole operation. “Please, do not make any more mistakes. For your own sake.”

  Alam ignored the customary salute normally rendered when a subordinate was dismissed from the presence of his superior officer. Instead, he only glared at the General, turned, and casually left the house. When the courtyard gate closed behind him as he reached the street outside, Alam looked back at the front door. The light of the entranceway went out.

  Coward, Alam thought. He had just witnessed first-hand how power corrupts. Alam knew he was going to take the fall for the failed mission. Alone. He remembered a time when he hero-worshipped Ja’afari and the man’s dedication to the Revolution. That dedication had shifted loyalties to career aspirations, and Alam felt he had been betrayed. He spit at the gate. Alam got in his car and began the lonely drive back to the office, trying to figure out what to do next.

  Chapter 27

  New York City

  The bus arrived in New York late Sunday afternoon. Casey bought a hot dog from a street vendor and found a reasonably cheap hotel. He booked a room for the week and took a long, hot shower before sitting on the musty smelling double bed with the yellow pages. He found the address he was looking for on W. 70th Street and wrote it down on an old Burger King receipt he found in his wallet. After watching The O’Reilly Factor on Fox News Channel, Casey found a station that was carrying the Mets game. He fell asleep before the sixth inning.

  He woke up the next morning at eight-thirty and asked the petite Korean woman at the front desk how to get to the nearest subway station. While he ate a sausage and egg McMuffin and drank his morning fix of Diet Coke, he thought about what, exactly, he hoped to accomplish in New York. He admitted to himself that he had probably acted a bit rash by skipping town, leaving Savannah when there were two active police investigations in which he was either a principle witness or the victim. But he needed answers.

  After watching Mike die so violently, and so coldly, Casey was shaken up. He felt sorry for Chip. He knew his friend must have been taking the whole thing badly, after having a night to sleep on it and then waking up to the realization that his best friend was gone forever. At least he had Laura and the kids. Casey didn’t have anyone. But that didn’t bother him. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted to find out who had killed his friend—more correctly, who wanted to kill Casey Shenk, vending route driver, blogger, Braves fan, nobody. He knew that’s exactly who he was—nobody. Casey had no delusions of his own importance, although others apparently thought differently. He was convinced that he was the intended victim of the shooting Saturday night, not Mike. Someone wanted him dead, and he wanted to know who. Preferably before they put a bullet in the back of his head, too.

  Casey checked the address he had written down the night before and looked up at the 15-story building in front of him. Satisfied that he was in the right place, he stuffed the paper in his jeans pocket and walked inside. He checked the plexiglass-encased board to the right of the elevator and found the floor number of the Intelligence Watch Group. For no particular reason, he decided the main entrance would probably be on the lower of the two floors listed for IWG. He pushed the elevator button and made his way up.

  The elevator opened to the ninth-floor lobby. It was actually more of an open buffer zone between the elevator and the front door to the IWG offices—designed for both noise reduction and security reasons. Casey crossed it in five steps and walked into another small lobby. This one at least had a small table and two sitting chairs. A middle-aged woman with thick eyeglasses sat at a desk facing the entranceway, chatting with an overweight and underheight security guard. Both people looked quizzically at Casey, dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, and a Savannah Sand Gnats t-shirt. Based on the visual one-over he was getting, Casey suddenly felt his attire might be a little bit more casual than that of the average visitor to the Intelligence Watch Group. He had packed light and quick early Saturday morning, and he didn’t give his choice of travel wardrobe much thought. At least his clothes weren’t wrinkled. Much.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked.

  Casey eyed the security guard as he approached the reception desk. He was surprised to see that the man was actually carrying a sidearm. Apparently the people at IWG were serious about security, or at least wanted to give that impression. Casey turned his attention to the stern-looking woman. “I’m here to see Susan Williams,” he told her.

  “Do you have an appointment?” She assumed the answer was negative, so she didn’t even check the open diary in front of her.

  “No, ma’am. She’s not expecting me,” Casey answered.

  The jimmylegs straightened a bit to give the impression that he was both thinner and taller than he actually was, and he nonchalantly adjusted his utility belt. He was suddenly suspicious of the unannounced guest. People rarely just “showed up” at IWG—certainly not anyone dressed like they just came back from the company softball game.

  “May I ask what business you have with Ms. Williams?” the receptionist asked.

  Casey hadn’t anticipated any friction when he decided to come to New York. At least not any before he even got through the front door. It never occurred to him that Susan might be the only person at IWG who even knew Casey existed. She was the only person he ever talked to there.

  Casey steadied his voice, and in a low but even tone, trying to evoke an aura of Clint Eastwood’s “Dirty” Harry Callahan, said, “Look, lady. There are some very bad people trying to hurt me right now. Two nights ago, I saw my friend’s face explode when they shot him with a high-powered rifle. That bullet was meant for me.”

  The security guard’s eyes widened slightly as he looked to the woman to gauge her reaction. Her face remained unchanged, and the guard felt embarrassed by his own shock. There was a reason he never tried to join the NYPD, instead choosing the relative safety of contract security work in corporate America.

  Casey continued, undeterred by the receptionist’s stone gaze. “Susan Williams may be the only person who can help me figure out who is responsible.”

  There was a moment of silence before the woman, an obvious professional, held out her hand. “May I see some ID?”

  Casey glanced at the security guard, who had said nothing during the entire exchange, and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He handed the woman his driver’s license and waited as she made a call. When she hung up, she handed Casey back his card and a clipboard with a pen chained to it.

  “Please sign in here,” she said. “Ms. Williams will be out in just
a minute.” When Casey returned the clipboard, she handed him a plastic badge with the IWG logo, a number, and the words “Escort Required” printed on the front. “You must wear this at all times where it will be visible above the waist.”

  “Thank you,” Casey said as he clipped the badge to his shirt.

  The frosted glass door to the right of the reception desk opened. Susan walked into the room and looked directly at Casey, finally putting a face to the voice on the phone. She was surprised that he wasn’t obese, though he dressed just as she had envisioned. She actually thought he was rather handsome—in a t-shirt-and-jeans-guy kind of way. “Hello, Casey,” she said as she put her hand out. “We finally meet in person.”

  Casey returned her smile and shook her hand. He thought she was every bit as hot as her voice led him to believe over the phone. “Hi, Susan.”

  “What brings you here?” she asked. “I mean, isn’t Georgia a little far to be taking a weekend getaway to New York?”

  “It’s Monday,” Casey said.

  “What?”

  “It’s not the weekend anymore.”

  If Susan had any doubt before, she now knew the man in front of her was indeed the same Casey Shenk who both helped her and aggravated the hell out of her over the past week. His deadpan humor was a giveaway. But that humor faded as quickly as his smile.

  “I need your help,” Casey said.

  Susan saw the seriousness in Casey’s eyes, and sensed that he really did need her help, though she didn’t know what for. And why her? “Sure,” she said uneasily. “Umm, why don’t we go inside.” Susan thanked the receptionist and walked through the door to the office spaces with Casey in tow. She stopped at the small conference room and looked inside to verify it was empty before going in. It wasn’t scheduled to be used until after lunch, and she thought they might want some privacy. Susan didn’t want to hold this conversation in her cubicle, where anyone passing by could eavesdrop, especially before she even knew what Casey wanted. She closed the door behind her and leaned against the large oak table.

  Casey sat down in a chair against the wall, facing Susan. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees with clasped hands. He looked up at Susan, who was waiting for Casey to begin, and said, “Somebody wants me dead.”

  Susan examined the man in front of her and could see that he truly believed he was the target of someone else’s evil designs. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked.

  Casey sat up straight. “Of course I am,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. I need to find out who’s trying to kill me before they actually succeed, and you’re the only one who might be able to help me do that.”

  Susan suddenly felt uncomfortable. The fact that she really didn’t know anything about Casey Shenk except his phone number, address, and occupation, shot to the forefront of her consciousness. She wondered what she may have just stepped into, and the possibility that Casey was actually a closet sociopath who came to New York to add her to his list of victims frightened her. She wished she had brought Phil into the room, also. She wasn’t sure being alone with Casey in this circumstance was such a good idea.

  “You don’t believe me,” Casey said, drawing Susan back to the conversation.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just....”

  “It’s just that you don’t believe me.” Casey stood up and looked out one of the windows to the street below. He turned back around and said, “Look, Susan, I wouldn’t take me seriously either. You’re just meeting me for the first time, and all I come up with is, ‘Hello. I need you to help me find out who is trying to kill me.’ It sounds like a set-up for an episode of CSI. But it’s the God’s honest truth. I would tell you to call my friend, Mike, and ask him for his opinion, but the only thing left of him is the small bit of brain and skull that splattered on my shirt and jeans Saturday night when he was shot in the back of the head right in front of me.” Casey saw Susan’s eyes move to examine his pants. Casey smiled. “Not these jeans. I actually own more than one pair.” That made Susan laugh and eased the tension in the room. “I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but I don’t know where else to turn. I really think you’re the only one who can help me figure this out.”

  “Why me? Why not the police?” Susan asked. I assume they’re involved now, right?”

  “Yes, but they won’t look in the right places,” Casey said. “Whereas you...you’ve already done the research.”

  Susan was genuinely confused. “What research? What are you talking about?”

  Casey pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and handed it to Susan. She unfolded it and studied the crude diagram Casey had mapped out during the bus ride from Savannah. To gather his thoughts, he borrowed a few sheets from a young girl traveling to New Jersey with her mother who was seated two rows ahead of him. Using the ink pen he kept in his backpack, Casey drew a circle in the middle of the paper and wrote his name. And next to that, one simply labeled “B.V.” From there, the diagram spread like a spider web. Each strand of the web connected Casey’s name, or the “B.V.” circle, to another block with a different label. There were sub-blocks and crossing lines interconnecting one to the next, differentiating each relationship with either solid, dashed, or dotted lines. Susan did not fully understand what she was looking at, the diagram being an obvious glimpse into Casey’s internal thought processes, but several of the labels stuck out. What intrigued her the most however, were the connections Casey was apparently making between seemingly unrelated elements—unrelated except for their ultimate connection to Casey and/or the Baltic Venture. She knew she was looking at something that went beyond the theories they had come up with the week before.

  Susan looked up at Casey, who had watched her intently for any reaction while she went over the diagram. “I’m not going to pretend that I understand all of this,” she said, waving the paper, but not surrendering it just yet. “But before you explain it to me, I want to take this to my boss. Then you can tell us both at the same time.”

  “Do you think he can help?” Casey asked.

  “I don’t know, but Jim knows just as much about this stuff as anyone,” Susan said. “Plus, I think he’ll want to meet you.”

  “What?” It was Casey’s turn to feel uneasy. “Why?”

  Susan pushed off of the table and walked over to the conference room door. “Just follow me.”

  Chapter 28

  George Smithfield opened the door and dropped his notebook, spilling paper all over the floor and drawing the attention of the other six people in the room. He quickly gathered the reports and printouts and sat in an open chair behind Susan. He handed a piece of paper to the more senior Iran analyst over her shoulder as everybody turned back to Jim, who was seated behind his desk.

  “Okay,” the head of the Middle East/Southwest Asia cell said, “now that everyone is here, we’ll get started. First off, thank you for taking time out of your afternoon schedules. I’ve called you all here because I think we may have a new development in the motor vessel Baltic Venture hijacking that is time-sensitive and requires some creative scrutiny.” Jim Shelton surveyed the room and the people seated around him. “As most of you are aware, IWG published a report about the hijacking on Friday. In that report, we came to some conclusions and possible explanations for events that have either been ignored or overlooked by other parties, including the media, STRATFOR, and the intelligence community writ large. That’s not a criticism, but whatever their reasons for not peeling back the onion on this one, I still think we are on to something bigger than just a ship hijacking. And so does the boss, for that matter.”

  Casey and Susan went to Jim earlier, and Casey outlined the events that had happened to him ever since he posted his theory about the Baltic Venture shipping a cargo of stolen Russian missiles. He told the two IWG employees he believed the story of the Baltic Venture was still not concluded, though someone, probably many people, wanted the world to think it was. The fact that someone had targeted him on two separate o
ccasions proved that, Casey argued. He said that all of the pieces of the puzzle were out there. It was just a matter of identifying those pieces and tying the whole thing together. Jim agreed that perhaps the Baltic Venture episode was more serious than they had first surmised, but he and Susan could not come up with a plausible explanation right then. He decided to enlist the help of others in the company who might help them talk through the facts and assumptions.

  “I want to start by introducing you to Casey Shenk,” Jim said, motioning to Casey, who was leaning on the mahogany credenza against the south wall of the office. “Mr. Shenk has been consulting with Susan on this for the past week and is responsible for much of the leg work that led to our analysis.” Casey caught stares from around the room and looked down at his feet, uncomfortable with Jim’s praise of his efforts.

  “He has now come to us with more information that may speak to the gravity of what we’ve stumbled onto and the conclusions we’ve made,” Jim added. “Because Casey’s theory is, in part, born out of direct, personal experiences, I will let him have the floor to explain it in detail. Casey?”

  Casey didn’t bother standing up. Instead, he let the others in the room turn in their chairs to face him as needed. He didn’t know what type of reactions he would get when he started talking, and he wanted to keep the advantage, in case any debate suddenly turned hostile. He was no stranger to pleading a case in front of a crowd. He had to do just that many times while he wore a uniform. He learned that he was much more effective if he was relaxed and comfortable, and at that moment he was perfectly comfortable right where he was.