Truth in Hiding Page 5

  Andie resumed it. “Raad is giving a lecture tonight at Georgetown,” she said. “It’s open to the public, so you can go hear him speak and then catch up with him after that if you don’t want to wait until tomorrow.”

  “That’s great,” Casey said. “What’s he talking about?”

  “The rise of Iranian oppression since 2007,” she said. “It’s part of a seminar course in Iranian democracy he’s teaching there, and also the subtitle of his new book, Withering on the Vine.”

  “Have you read it?” Casey asked.

  “No, my calendar’s full just reporting on American politics. Hell, I hadn’t even thought of Raad since I left New York until you called and asked me to find out what he’s been up to since he got here,” Andie said. “Why, is it any good?”

  “I don’t know,” Casey said with a grin. “I haven’t read it either. I read slow as shit, and when you throw in Foreign Affairs, Political Science Quarterly, and the forty-or-so email reports I get every day, I’m lucky to get through three books a year. Plus the Braves and Falcons eat up a lot of my free time.”

  Andie nodded her head. “I know what you mean.”

  “Well, after tonight I won’t have to read it anyway,” Casey said, getting back on topic. “I’ll just listen to Raad give the audience the highlights.”

  “You’re right,” Andie said. “That’s probably all it’s going to be.” She studied Casey’s face for a moment and said, “Besides, you didn’t come down here to just sit in a class, did you?”

  “Not exactly,” Casey said. Andie had been an employee at IWG for a total of one day when bombs ripped through Manhattan in 2011. As far as Casey’s involvement with The Council, she was there from the start. Casey had used her help then, and he was using her again now. But in this case, he planned on keeping her as far away as possible—just in case things went sideways. “I’m just going to give Raad some information,” he said. “Which isn’t much, to tell the truth. But he’s the one who’s really invested in this. I’m just the part-time help.”

  Chapter 9

  “And it will only increase, the further Iran moves from the guiding principles of its constitution.” The auditorium filled with applause—most enthusiastic, some merely polite—as Dr. Davood Raad gathered his notes and waved. He moved from behind the podium and shook hands with various university officials in attendance. Students and other guests began to file out of the building.

  Casey left his seat and moved towards the stage, against the flow of bodies in the aisle. He was easy to pick out because he was the only one not headed for the door, but Raad didn’t notice. The good doctor was too busy conversing with well-wishers and admirers who wouldn’t let him leave. But someone in the back did take notice.

  Casey stopped four rows from the front, and inquisitive voyeurism took over. The pause was triggered by a noticeable change in Raad’s demeanor from light-hearted chit-chat to aggravation to worry—all in a span of seconds. Casey surmised that whatever the two men standing next to Raad said to him was not good news. The fact that Raad initially seemed angry at their mere presence made Casey focus his attention from Raad to the unwelcome pair instead. They were younger than Raad, maybe even younger than Casey. Definitely darker. Casey was sure the men were of Middle Eastern descent, Arab or otherwise, but in the melting pot of the United States, they could have just been students from Wisconsin who happened to be attending Georgetown University as undergrads. Because he couldn’t hear the conversation, Casey couldn’t get any more information beyond that, except for the observation that one of the men wore a black leather jacket that Casey wouldn’t mind owning.

  The trio parted ways, and Casey stepped out of the aisle to let leather jacket and his friend pass. Casey smiled politely as the men went by. He only received an angry glare in return from one of them, and he was completely ignored by the other. “Alright. Fuck you, then,” Casey said under his breath. He looked back to the front of the room and saw Raad heading for a side exit. “Dr. Raad,” Casey called loudly.

  Raad turned upon hearing the familiar voice. “Casey, my friend,” he beamed, extending a hand. “What brings you here? You are not a student here now, are you?”

  Casey shook his head and Raad’s hand. “No, sir. Still taking classes at BMCC.” He smiled and added, “Slowly but surely.”

  “Certainly cheaper than here,” Raad said with a sweeping gesture to indicate the campus where they were standing. “But the education is just as valuable—any education.” Raad looked around the auditorium as the last few attendees made their way out. “So what does bring you here then?” he asked.

  “Actually, I came to talk to you about Iran’s nuclear test a few days ago,” Casey said. “I wanted your opinion about the regional implications.”

  Raad clasped his hands in front of him. “Is that all?”

  Casey did his own scan of the now-empty room and said, “And I have some news related to The Council. I didn’t think you’d want to talk about it over the phone.”

  Raad raised an eyebrow and said, “You are right about that.” He lowered his voice even more, gazing at the ceiling above. “They are always listening.”

  Casey knew Raad was right. Even a face-to-face discussion about The Council was risky in a semi-public venue. “Could we talk in your office? Back at Jennings?” he asked.

  “An excellent idea. But I’m afraid I cannot spare the time this evening. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  Casey agreed, and the two men decided to meet at the Jennings Institute office the following morning. They shook hands, and Casey walked back up the aisle toward the front exit.

  The few trees that adorned Georgetown’s Red Square provided minimal concealment, but the people leaving the Intercultural Center after the lecture made up for it. The exterior lighting exposed Casey well enough for a positive identification, and the man blended with the crowd of students heading to wherever it was American college coeds headed on Friday night. He put the thought to the side and focused on the job at hand. Following Mr. Shenk.

  Chapter 10

  Not far from Georgetown, Scott Parker set two drinks on an elevated table and returned to his seat. A steady rumble of conversation from the crowd of mostly government workers kicking off the weekend would have drowned out the background music if there were any. The atmosphere was light-hearted, rowdy, and private all at the same time. That was why Parker suggested he meet Adam Miller there.

  Still in the navy blue suit he wore to work, minus the tie, Parker was a mirror image of most of the other patrons. His appearance was in stark contrast, however, to the dark-haired man in a polo shirt and pressed jeans who sat across from him. The two middle-aged men had been friends as undergrads at Northwestern University, but they had gone in different directions after graduation, and they hadn’t communicated at all over the ensuing seventeen years. When Miller was able to reach him at his White House office, Parker was both surprised and curious.

  “So how did you get my number anyway?” Parker asked.

  “Through the chief of staff’s office,” Miller said.

  “Okay. How’d you get his number?”

  Miller laughed. “I was setting up a meeting with him.”

  Parker tilted his head. “You’re meeting with the White House chief of staff,” he said. “And your job is what, exactly?”

  “I’m a diplomat,” Miller said. “Well, sort of. I work for the Ministry of Foreign of Affairs.”

  “You mean the State Department?”

  “No, the Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” Miller said. “I was born there, remember? So after I graduated, I went back. One thing led to another, and I ended up staying.”

  “No shit,” Parker said. “I always thought you were American. I’ll be damned.”

  “I am American,” Miller said, smiling. “My parents are American citizens, so that made me an American as soon as Mom squeezed me out. But since I was born there, I’m also Israeli. The best of both worlds,” he said as he took a sip of his He
ineken.

  Parker shook his head and did the same. “Man, I guess I was too busy chasing girls around campus to pay attention.”

  “It probably never even came up,” Miller said. “The dual-citizenship thing didn’t even matter until I went back and decided to stay.”

  There was a brief silence before Parker asked, “What does a ‘sort-of diplomat’ from Israel need to speak to Kurt Vanek about, anyway?”

  “New ambassador,” Miller said. “Unlike most of the people who are assigned this post, Moshe Safran has never been to the United States. My job is to make sure he gets comfortable with his new surroundings as quickly as possible.”

  “And since you grew up here, you were nominated to babysit,” Parker said.

  “Something like that.”

  Parker smiled and raised his glass. “Well, it’s good to have you back, Adam, even if you’re leaving as quickly as possible.”

  Miller returned the gesture. “I’m not gone yet, but thanks.”

  Parker finished off his beer and asked, “When are you taking the ambassador to see Vanek?”

  Miller put his glass down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sunday,” he said.

  Parker gave Miller a quizzical look and asked, “Why not wait until Monday? Or next week? Is it that important the new guy makes the rounds before then?”

  Miller shrugged his shoulders. “As quickly as possible, right?”

  Parker contemplated that answer, while he made a vain attempt to get another drop of beer out of his empty glass. He was struck by a thought as soon as he set the glass back down. Parker’s eyes narrowed, and he lowered his voice. “He wouldn’t be going there to talk about Iran, would he?” he asked.

  “I’m sure it’ll come up, why?”

  Parker grinned, and he leaned back a little. “Now it makes sense,” he said. “A new ambassador just days after Iran conducts its first nuclear test. Coming to the White House on Sunday. Israel’s planning something, aren’t they?”

  “I’m sure the Prime Minister’s going to make a statement condemning the test, but I don’t work for the Prime Minister, so I have no idea.”

  “Come on, Adam. You think we don’t know what Israel’s been up to? I mean, who do you think has been giving you guys the intel to....” Parker looked around to make sure no one was within earshot even with all the noise in the room. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to his college roommate. “We tell you guys where they are, and you go get ‘em.” He smirked and leaned back. “Right? You’re like the junkyard dog, and we just let the chain out a little more when there’s pickers inside the fence. ‘Sick ‘em!’” He laughed and picked up his empty beer glass, disappointed it was still empty.

  “What are you implying?” Miller asked evenly.

  “I’m not implying anything,” Parker answered. “I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.” He studied his friend’s face for a reaction, waiting for a reply. He didn’t get one—not the one he was looking for.

  Miller stood up and pulled a ten-dollar bill from his pocket. He tossed it on the table and said, “Well, it was good to see you again, Scott.” Parker stood up as Miller came around the table. The Israeli leaned close to Parker’s ear and said quietly, “If I knew anything, I wouldn’t tell you. And fuck you for asking.” He turned and was gone, lost in the crowd of bodies.

  Parker picked up his empty glass one more time, confirmed there was nothing left, and got up. He stopped after two steps, pocketed the bill Miller put down, and found the exit.

  Chapter 11

  One block off of Dupont Circle, the Jennings Institute Washington office was located in a non-descript building of dirty white stone and glass. The institute was sandwiched between the Embassy of Papua New Guinea on one side and an unassuming condominium complex on the other. The only indication Casey had that he was in the right place was a three-foot-high sign near the sidewalk. He checked his watch and confirmed the time, but decided Dr. Raad wouldn’t mind if he was fifteen minutes early.

  Casey pulled hard on the door, not expecting it to be as heavy as it was. He moved quickly to the security desk, acting like he’d been there before just to put the guard at ease. Casey suspected the Jennings Institute didn’t have many visitors at 8:45 on a Saturday morning, and he hoped the annoyance at having to put his magazine down wouldn’t prevent the guard from pointing him towards Raad’s office. He was right, and the man gave him the room number and directed him to the elevator, returning to his reading without a second glance.

  Casey got off on the fifth floor and moved down the hall where the arrow on the wall indicated 5204 should be. There were no other employees or visitors that Casey could see, and the building appeared to be deserted. When he turned the corner towards the back of the building, he was relieved to know that he wasn’t alone. He still had not seen anyone, but at least he heard voices. From the sound of it, the voices were having a heated conversation about something, and as he approached his intended destination, he realized the sounds were coming from Raad’s office. The door was shut, so Casey stopped outside and listened, trying to discern the subject of the mostly one-way conversation inside.

  From what he could make out, the occupants of the room included Raad and at least one other person, but as far as what they were talking about, he had no clue. Farsi, Casey thought, not surprised. The analyst had been trying to learn Farsi in his spare time, but his commitment was not where it should have been, and his progress was stuck somewhere between slow and non-existent. The words he could understand didn’t help decipher the conversation at all, and the best he could do was to try and remember a few phrases he heard and possibly translate them later. He made a mental note to call Susan when he left Raad’s office and ask her. Maybe he would learn something new.

  When the noise subsided, Casey decided it was safe to knock on the door and let himself in. He did have an appointment, after all. Casey stopped at the entranceway as Raad and his visitor quickly looked to identify the intruder. Casey was surprised to see the same man from the night before—same leather jacket, same annoyed expression. Raad made a short comment, and leather jacket nodded before leaving.

  “Casey, so good to see you. Please, please, have a seat,” Raad said, motioning to an empty chair. Raad took a seat on the other side of the small coffee table in the middle of the room. The two men stared at each other in silence for a moment before Raad smiled and asked, “When did you arrive in Washington?”

  “I drove down yesterday,” Casey said.

  “You drove? From New York?” Raad asked.

  Casey wasn’t sure if Raad’s astonishment was genuine or not, so he shrugged his shoulders and changed the subject. “How’s your book sales?”

  This time it was Raad who shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t worry about those things,” he said. “My publisher deposits money into my account every month, and that is all I care about. If my accountant ever tells me I need to watch my spending, then I suppose I will start to pay attention.”

  “Hell, I’m happy when I can pay my rent, buy a six pack, and still have money for pizza each month,” Casey said. “I damn sure don’t make enough to need an accountant.”

  “It wasn’t always like this,” Raad said pensively. “We had nothing growing up in Tabriz. Only each other. Family. But I got out,” he added. “I was the lucky one.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by that,” Casey said.

  “I know you didn’t,” Raad said. “Not to worry.” His smile returned. “You wanted to ask me about the nuclear test,” he said.

  Casey was relieved that he hadn’t upset the man. He didn’t know Raad well enough to know which subjects were taboo, and he was glad to end the banter and get down to business. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I thought you might be able to give me a better idea about what effects the test will have on the region than what the press is putting out.”

  “Yes,” Raad said. “The American media’s hyperventilation where Iran is concerned breeds nothing but fear in the
public psyche and bellicose table-thumping from your politicians.”

  “You don’t think it’s warranted?” Casey asked.

  “No, I don’t,” Raad said. “For one, what threat does Iran really pose to America? If they take this test to the next step and actually develop a warhead able to be placed on a ballistic missile, can it reach America?”

  “They don’t have any with that kind of range,” Casey said. “But they’re working on them.”

  “Without a doubt,” Raad said. “But that does not mean they will be successful. It may be a decade before they are. And a lot can happen in ten years, my friend.”

  “You mean diplomacy?” Casey asked.

  “Perhaps,” Raad said. “The election in 2013 has already opened that door, but is America ready to walk through it? They have had the opportunity before and failed to act, because they always demanded that Iran stop its nuclear program as a pre-condition to talking. Now America must accept that Iran has this capability, and the two sides can move on to other topics—as equals.”

  “Equals?” Casey asked with raised eyebrows.

  “Equal in that both are nuclear states,” Raad said. “I’m only saying they may start talking to each other again—beyond just one phone call, I mean—which is more than they’ve done officially in over thirty years. It will take time before anything of substance is discussed, I imagine. And I wouldn’t expect either country’s embassies to re-open anytime soon. But eventually they will.”

  Casey pulled a folded piece of blank notebook paper and a pen from his back pocket and jotted down a few notes. When he finished, he looked back up and said, “Okay, that’s one way this can play out in America. But what about locally? I mean, how does ‘nuclear Iran’ affect things around the region? Or even within Iran itself?”