Truth in Hiding Page 6

  “In Iran, it is a victory,” Raad said. “And I don’t care if you are a supporter of the regime or you hate them. Obtaining nuclear weapons has become a matter of national pride.”

  “What about Khamenei’s fatwa?” Casey asked.

  “Ah, yes. The ‘no nukes’ fatwa,” Raad laughed. “A smokescreen, my friend. Just as your politicians said. But Khamenei, as wretched as he is, he’s no idiot. By outlawing the use of nuclear weapons as something prohibited under Islamic law, the Supreme Leader not only tried to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, relying on the misperception that he truly is all-powerful, but he also brought in the support of the opposition who viewed the pursuit of these weapons as another chance for them to defy the Ayatollah. He removed a major platform of several protest groups this way. And let us not forget that Khamenei outlawed the use of nuclear weapons, not the possession of them. A subtle difference from his 1995 stance, no?”

  “That wasn’t just something that got lost in translation?”

  Raad shook his head. “Not at all. As I said, Khamenei is a shrewd actor.”

  Casey took in everything Raad said and decided the project Jim Shelton had him and the others working on back at the office wasn’t so academic anymore. He promised himself that when he returned to New York he’d push for excluding any options that didn’t assume Iran had a fully-functioning nuclear arsenal. They might not have one now, but if Raad was right, they would have one soon enough. “Well that’s good to know,” Casey said. “I don’t mean good that they’re planning to go that far, but good to know there’s no question. It kinda puts a little more urgency in coming up with a strategy for dealing with the whole situation.”

  “I suppose it does,” Raad said.

  “Even if that’s just getting folks to the table sooner,” Casey added.

  “But who would come to that table?” Raad asked.

  “You mean besides the United States?”

  “Precisely,” Raad said. “Or did you think both sides should jump right into bilateral discussions?”

  “No,” Casey said. “I hadn’t thought about it at all. I guess I just assumed it would start with the P5+1 group, and after a few rounds, the presidents would join in.”

  “And that is the problem,” Raad said. “This UN group has repeatedly failed to get anything done. If the United States wishes to have meaningful discussions, they should not invite the rest of the Security Council and Germany to tag along.”

  “And that’s how Iran sees it?” Casey asked.

  “It’s the way they should see it,” Raad said. “Perhaps in another year we will have an idea of what they are willing to do, but until then, we can only speculate.”

  Casey nodded, conceding the point. Neither man said anything to carry the conversation further, and before Casey could speak up, Raad broke the silence, reading the younger man’s mind.

  “So what news of The Council?” Raad asked, leaning forward to indicate the answer should not be spoken loudly lest others might hear.

  “I think we hit a wall in New York,” Casey said. “Greg Clawson died in prison last week, and there’s no forward movement on finding out who Mitchell Evans was, let alone what connection he might have had to The Council’s decision makers.” Casey shook his head. “I don’t see what else I can do.”

  Davood Raad smiled. “Not to worry,” he said. “You have done quite enough already.”

  “What do you mean?” Casey asked.

  Raad scratched his close-cropped beard and peered over his glasses. “My friend, the information you gave me about Keith Swanson’s activities was the first break I’ve had in years investigating The Council. Thanks to you, I was able to connect a high-level employee in the Department of Energy to that group.”

  “Who?” Casey asked.

  Raad waved his hand in the air. “Do not worry about that,” he said. “Just know that you have made this possible, and it is now starting to pay dividends. Things are already changing, Casey. And you were the one who made it happen.”

  Casey shook his head and said in a voice louder than Raad would have liked, “Nothing’s changed. Swanson isn’t in jail. Hell, he’s still Cogburn’s chief of staff. He’s not even lying low after Tony Ward shot him in front of hundreds of people. And apparently it’s easier to get facetime with the president than that guy.”

  Raad tried to calm the younger man down. “Listen, Casey, just because you do not see dark clouds, does not mean a storm is not on the horizon. The Council thrives on the secrecy of its activities, which is why it has taken me decades to peek behind the curtain. And why we must not let them know we can see. There will be a time when we can pull down that curtain and expose them for who they are, but that time is not now. We must have patience, or the curtain will close again, and The Council will disappear into the fog once more.”

  Casey was used to Raad’s cryptic discourse. He figured it was accentuated on the lecture circuit, so he didn’t ask him what the hell he was talking about, though he wanted to. Whatever insight Raad had gained into The Council’s inner workings was something Casey knew he would have to find out later. But Casey was not so willing to just cut and run—not when he was the reason Raad had apparently made progress.

  “Then tell me what I can do,” Casey said. “I’m not going back to New York ‘til Tuesday, so maybe I can be of some use while I’m here.”

  Raad stood up and brushed his hands on the front of his slacks. “Really, there is nothing more to do, Casey,” he said. “Only waiting.”

  “Waiting,” Casey repeated as he stood up. “Waiting for what?”

  Raad smiled as he put his hand on Casey’s shoulder and led him toward the door. “For the right moment.”

  Now Casey was tired of the puzzle-speak. He stopped abruptly and faced Raad. “And when is that?”

  Raad let his hand slowly drop to his side. “Soon,” he said. “Let us find out what The Council plans on doing about Iran first. Then we will have the chance to expose them before something happens.” He removed his glasses and added, “That will be the right moment. For the first time since its creation, The Council will be prevented from dictating the turn of world events. But we must have something to hang them with, or we may never get the chance again.”

  Casey nodded slowly. Raad made sense, and Casey chastised himself for choosing expediency over permanence. Giordano would not agree, but if they were going to bring down The Council for good, it would take patience and a little bit of self-control. Casey knew that, but it took Davood Raad to remind him.

  “You’re right,” Casey said. “I’m sorry for the outburst.”

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” Raad said. “I know what The Council did to you, and I understand your eagerness to make someone pay. Justice is not an exclusively American concept, you know.”

  That drew a laugh from Casey. “No, it’s not,” he said as he moved toward the exit. He opened the door and stopped before leaving. “I meant to ask you...that guy who was in here before me...with the leather jacket?”

  “Yes?”

  “What did he do to piss you off so bad?” Casey asked.

  Raad stared blankly at Casey. “I’m not sure I....”

  “It sounded like you were tearing him a new asshole before I came in,” Casey said. “It looked like you were giving it to him last night, too. After the lecture.”

  Raad smiled. “That was a student I was helping with a paper,” he said. “His professor gave him a low score, and the young man blamed me for giving him faulty information.” Raad shook his head. “I try to help the Iranian students succeed when I can, but sometimes this younger generation just wants things handed to them without having to do any work for themselves.”

  “I’m glad to see that isn’t exclusively American either,” Casey said. “Well, enjoy the rest of your weekend, sir.”

  “And you too, my friend. I will let you know of any progress should things begin to happen,” Raad said, speaking cryptically again as they moved into th
e open passageway.

  Casey made his way to the elevator and heard Dr. Raad’s office door close. He felt slightly dejected, as if he had failed in his mission. The information Raad gave him would definitely help the group’s project back at IWG, but the information Raad didn’t give wouldn’t help Paul Giordano in the least. He needed a name. Casey wasn’t heading back to New York for three more days. Maybe by then he’d get Raad to throw him a bone.

  The elevator signaled its arrival, and Casey stepped in. He pulled the sleeve of his jacket back and checked his watch. I guess I can be early, he thought.

  Chapter 12

  Despite being over 200 miles southwest of New York, Washington, D.C., in January was just as cold. As he left the Jennings Institute, Casey pulled his jacket collar higher on his neck to protect against the wind that wasn’t there when he arrived. He was quick to note that none of the other pedestrians around Dupont Circle appeared to be as concerned about the possibility of frostbite. Maybe they’re used to it, Casey thought. But he wasn’t. After a lifetime in South Georgia, Casey’s blood was too thin to ever be comfortable when the temperature dropped below fifty. At times he felt more akin to the gators of Folkston than the humans north of Chattanooga.

  Casey tried to orient himself at the circle, looking for a sign that would point him toward the metro station. He looked at the hotel stationary where he had written down directions to Andie Jackson’s apartment the night before and put any thoughts of The Council on the backburner. Casey hadn’t forgotten that his primary reason for coming to D.C., at least the reason Jim Shelton agreed to let him go, was to find information to support IWG’s analysis of possible ramifications of Iran’s nuclear test. He hoped to exploit the two resources he had in the town. Dr. Raad was the first, providing the Iranian perspective. Andie was the second.

  Andie offered to check with one of her colleagues in the White House press corps about any chatter coming from the Executive Office concerning initial reactions to the test. She thought the information would benefit Casey’s project by giving him insight into the internal debates and not just the official statements. Andie reasoned that options were rarely discarded completely in Washington, and what the president and his team decided to do or not do in the first week, might not translate to policy shifts made a month down the road. In any case, the military was likely planning operations for every course of action, and if the Intelligence Watch Group was doing the same thing, Andie didn’t see how a separate set of eyes on the problem could hurt—not when the U.S. government was one of IWG’s biggest clients.

  Casey found the sign he was looking for and made his way to the train.

  Thankful for the relative warmth of the D.C. metro, Lev Cohen peered over the newspaper he was pretending to read in the back of the train car. He flipped the paper over to read the front page headlines below the fold—or that’s what he wanted the people around him to think. The former Mossad assassin had boarded the train car a full four seconds before Casey Shenk, following from the front and using Mr. Shenk’s focus on getting a seat to his advantage.

  When Casey was situated in a forward-facing seat at the middle of the car, occupied with his cell phone, Cohen shifted his weight slightly. His back angled to the aisle, Cohen watched Casey through his reflection in the window. Cohen had been tailing the former vending route driver since Casey left the Georgetown lecture hall the night before, and the visit to the Jennings Institute only deepened the Israeli’s suspicion. He began formulating a contingency plan. Unlike his last assignment that involved Mr. Casey Shenk of Savannah, Georgia, Lev Cohen was not there to kill him, but he was prepared to do just that.

  Casey rang the buzzer to 3C when he arrived at the weathered brick two-story building in Arlington. A short walk from the metro station, the building was divided into five sections, each containing four apartments with a common door to the outside. The building was older, but it wasn’t old, and judging from the Honda station wagon and rusting pickup truck out front, Casey surmised the rent probably wasn’t that high—relative to other places around the District.

  “Hello?” a voice answered from a box above the four buzzers.

  “Andie, it’s Casey,” he said. “Could you let me in?”

  “Hello?” Andie’s voice repeated.

  Casey huffed. It was too damn cold outside to be playing games. He leaned closer to the speaker and raised his voice. “Andie, it’s me, Casey. Could you just open the door? I’m freezing my ass off.” He pressed the buzzer again.

  The box crackled. “Push the button on the speaker if you want to talk,” Andie said.

  Casey stepped back and reassessed the 1970s technological marvel and shook his head, smiling at his own stupidity. He did as Andie instructed. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I hope I’m not too early, but you mind if I come up?”

  “Top of the stairs to the left,” Andie said as a loud click indicated the door was unlocked.

  Casey pulled the door open and stepped into the building. Before the door swung shut, Casey was pushed forward and felt a stiff jab in his lower back. The sharp pain was quickly followed by a hand on his left shoulder and what felt like a pipe digging between his shoulder blades.

  “No noise,” a gruff voice whispered inches from his ear. “Keep moving.”

  “Who the fuck are....” Casey’s question was cut short by another blow to his kidney. “All right. Shit. I’m going,” Casey said between teeth clenched in pain. The two men moved up the creaking wooden stairs and stopped on the top landing. A gentle push of the pipe that Casey figured was more likely a pistol told Casey to stop stalling and knock on the door. He obliged, and five seconds later the door opened.

  Before he could give a warning, a blinding flash filled Casey’s vision as the butt of the pistol struck him hard behind the ear. The flash was replaced by darkness, and Casey collapsed at Andie’s feet. Lev Cohen kicked Casey’s feet out of the way and shut the door, turning the deadbolt while keeping his eyes and Glock G30S fixed on the speechless woman in bare feet and sweatpants in front of him.

  “Sit,” Cohen said with a down motion of his gun. Andie did as she was told, and when Lev was satisfied he wouldn’t get any resistance from this stranger he kicked Casey in the gut to wake him up.

  Casey groaned and slowly rolled onto his elbow, sliding to the closest wall for support. He looked over to Andie and, seeing that she was apparently unharmed, up at his assailant. A hint of recognition tapped on his memory bank, but he couldn’t come up with an identity for the man in front of him. “What do you want?” Casey asked.

  “The first thing I want is for the two of you to move over to the couch,” Cohen said. Andie and Casey stood up cautiously and walked further into the apartment to the worn leather sofa. When both were seated, Cohen moved in front of them, keeping his pistol trained on Andie as she was the unknown quantity in his calculations. The last thing he needed was an overzealous martial arts expert disarming him—a possibility Cohen wasn’t willing to risk. “It seems I misjudged you, Mr. Shenk,” Cohen said, still standing to project an image of power over his seated hostages. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have let you off so easily last time.”

  Casey’s face betrayed his confusion.

  “I had other wolves to deal with five years ago,” Cohen said. “And while it appeared you did your part back then, things have certainly changed, haven’t they?”

  Casey quickly thought back to what he was doing in 2010 and where he may have run into the man with the gun before. Five years earlier, Casey was driving a vending truck in Savannah—until he heard the story of the MV Baltic Venture. It was that event that landed him at IWG in New York. And it also nearly got him killed, claiming the life of Mike Tunney, instead. Casey’s eyes widened, and the recognition he sought was unmistakable. “Cohen?” he asked, knowing but not believing.

  “So you remember,” Cohen said.

  “Yeah, last time we met you nearly broke my hand with a rifle stock,” Casey said. He rubbed the back of his he
ad. “I’d say nothing’s changed since then.”

  Now that he and Casey were re-introduced, Cohen opened his jacket and holstered the pistol. Before he removed his hand from the grip, though, he looked at Andie and asked, “Is there going to be any trouble?”

  Andie shook her head, still having no idea what was happening.

  “Good,” Cohen said, focusing again on Casey. “So, Mr. Shenk, would you mind telling me when you decided to betray your country and start selling secrets to the enemy?”

  “What?”

  “Was it before or after Eli Gedide sent me to kill you?” Cohen asked.

  “Hold on a minute,” Casey said. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Davood Raad,” Cohen said. “You’re helping him. Or do you deny that? Despite meeting with him last night at Georgetown and then again this morning at his downtown office?” He watched as Casey exchanged looks with the woman next to him. “So it is true.”

  Casey remained silent.

  “That makes you an accessory,” Cohen said. “So please, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your head right now.”

  “Because I didn’t do anything,” Casey said.

  “Nothing?” Cohen barked. “You think the deaths of almost a dozen Mossad agents in six months is nothing?”

  “Whoa, wait a second,” Casey said. “What Mossad agents? Look, I’m helping Raad bring down The Council so they don’t have free rein to manipulate world events as they see fit. If they’re involved in...whatever you’re talking about, you should be thanking me. Maybe we can stop them before any more people die.”

  Cohen’s eyes shifted between Casey and Andie, both of whom sat eagerly awaiting a response.

  “The Council?” Cohen asked.

  “Isn’t that what this is about?”

  “This is about you working with a known operative for Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and Security,” Cohen said. “That’s what this is about. And if you’re providing information to Raad on planned covert operations, I’m here to make sure you never get that chance again.”