Truth in Hiding Page 7

  “Okay, first of all, I don’t have access to any covert operations plans even if I wanted them,” Casey said. “And second, I would never sell out my country, so fuck you, sir.”

  “And Davood Raad is a scholar, not a spy,” Andie said, speaking for the first time since Cohen and Casey made their violent entrance.

  “A scholar,” Cohen said with a grunt. “Davood Raad has been working for the Iranian government longer than you’ve been out of diapers, I’m afraid.” He turned his attention back to Casey. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you were unaware of Raad’s regime service?”

  Casey winced as he shifted his weight on the seat. He took a deep breath and exhaled audibly, sinking gingerly into the cushions. “I know Raad worked for Mir Hossein Mousavi in the ‘80s, if that’s what you mean. But he left when Khomeini died and Mousavi wasn’t prime minister anymore.”

  Cohen shook his head. “He never left,” he said. “Raad was a spy during the revolution in ‘79, and he’s been a spy ever since.”

  “What about his anti-government publications?” Andie asked. “He’s pretty much known around the world as one of the regime’s most vocal critics.”

  “And because of that, he has the ability to travel anywhere he wants,” Cohen said. “Western governments welcome him with open arms because his arguments reinforce the views they already have. Who better to garner international opposition to Iran than an Iranian who once worked for the Islamic Republic’s prime minister?” He looked directly at Casey and said, “You trusted him. As have many others. It’s that trust which Raad takes advantage of, manipulating people into handing over their countries’ secrets or those of their allies. For years, Raad’s activities have been of no great concern, but recently things have changed.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, but why should I believe you?” Casey asked.

  “Because you would never sell out your country,” Cohen said. “And if you meant that when you said it, you can’t take the chance of not believing me.”

  Cohen’s reasoning made sense, and if Raad was working for the Iranian government, Casey could understand why Cohen was suspicious of his meetings with the man. Given the circumstances in which Casey and Cohen met the first time, he could even understand the Israeli’s erroneous assumption that Casey had access to classified information Raad might be looking for. What he couldn’t understand, however, was what Cohen hoped to gain by holding him and Andie hostage. “I told you, man, I don’t have access to any secrets,” Casey said. “I haven’t had a security clearance for years. And if Davood Raad is the spymaster you say he is, why don’t you just take him out? Or better yet, turn him in to the FBI?”

  “Because I can’t take down Raad until I find out who’s providing him the information that is getting my people killed,” Cohen said.

  “So you’re going to kick the shit outta anybody you think might be giving Raad secrets until you find the right one?” Casey asked. “That’s outstanding.”

  “Not everyone who meets with Raad has had Russian hitmen and Kidon assassins trying to kill him,” Cohen said. “So when I saw you show up at Raad’s lecture last night, you quickly became a person of interest. And why the secretive meeting so early on a Saturday? I don’t believe in coincidence, Mr. Shenk, and your entry into my operation was too convenient to ignore.”

  “Then let the Israeli prime minister ask our president for assistance,” Casey said. “The FBI doesn’t have to arrest Raad, but they can have a hundred agents working on the case this afternoon if they’re given the order. No offense, but these guys are the best cops on the planet, and they’ll probably find Raad’s source faster than a lone Mossad assassin on foreign soil.”

  “I no longer work for Mossad,” Cohen said. “But I am still sworn to protect the citizens of Israel, no matter whose soil I happen to be on.” Cohen’s aging knees popped as he sat down in a matching chair close to Andie’s couch, thankful for the respite from standing. Despite the drama, Cohen never truly believed that Casey was the one passing operational plans to Davood Raad, but he had to be sure, and their conversation in the unknown woman’s apartment did much to dispel any suspicion he had. “So you really had no idea that Raad was a spy? Or that he was still working for the Iranian government?”

  “Not a clue,” Casey said. “The thought never even crossed my mind until you brought it up. And even now, I still don’t see it.”

  “That’s because you weren’t looking for it,” Andie said.

  “Or because you didn’t want to see it,” Cohen added.

  “Either way, my business with Raad doesn’t have anything to do with Iran’s government,” Casey said. “The Council’s more of an American problem.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned ‘The Council,’” Cohen said.

  Casey was surprised that Lev Cohen had apparently never heard of the group, and he was uncertain whether an explanation would help his case or not. The shroud of secrecy surrounding The Council was precisely what caused its very existence to occupy the realms of conspiracy theory and urban myth. Even Susan’s firsthand encounter with The Council was not enough to convince her of the truth. Casey doubted his word was good enough for Cohen, but perhaps Casey’s willingness to trust the Israeli would be reciprocated if he told him all he knew about the group and Raad’s interest in it. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and said, “Raad was the one who first told me about The Council after the Manhattan bombings.”

  Cohen listened intently while Casey outlined the history of Davood Raad’s investigations into The Council as relayed by the Iranian. He wanted Cohen to understand that Raad had been interested in The Council’s activities long before Casey was enlisted to help, and Casey was only interested in exposing the group for its involvement in the 2011 terrorist bombings in New York City. “I came to D.C. to find out if Dr. Raad had any names I could give to the NYPD that might tie The Council to a prison death a few days ago.”

  “Prison death?” Cohen asked.

  “One of the bombers...well, he was never charged with that,” Casey said. “He was in prison for trying to assassinate a U.S. senator, but I think he was trying to kill Keith Swanson, the senator’s chief of staff—who’s also a member of The Council. Problem is, Detective Giordano of the NYPD is the only other person who believes that.”

  “So you were trying to get information from Raad,” Cohen said.

  “Exactly,” Casey said. He watched Cohen working through the scenario and added, “The only thing I ever did for Raad was identify Swanson as someone he should look into. Raad said that helped him find an insider with the group, but other than that, he told me all we could do was wait for the right moment to expose them.”

  “Who?” Cohen asked.

  “Who what?” Casey asked.

  “Who is the insider Raad mentioned?”

  Casey shrugged his shoulders and sat back in the couch. “He didn’t give a name, just that the guy worked for the Department of Energy.”

  “Do you think he might be the one giving Raad those plans you were talking about?” Andie asked Cohen, reminding the two men that she was still in the room.

  “That depends,” Cohen said. “Would this Council have access to joint American and Israeli covert action plans?”

  “Possibly,” Casey said. “According to Raad, there’s active duty military officers and politicians in The Council who might know that stuff.” As soon as he finished the sentence, Casey realized how bad it sounded. First, because he was relying on an Iranian spy—according to Lev Cohen—to support his argument for the pedigree of The Council’s membership. And second, except for Raad’s declarations, Casey had nothing to back up the assertion. He had personally witnessed the reach and power of The Council, but aside from Keith Swanson and the late Mitchell Evans, Casey didn’t know the name of a single person in The Council.

  Cohen contemplated the information he’d just been given and asked Casey, “Has Raad ever given you a reason for his interest in
The Council?”

  Casey shook his head, mentally kicking himself for never asking. “It never came up,” he said. “I was so focused on exposing whoever was responsible for the New York bombings that I was just glad to find out there really was something behind the guy I saw outside the deli that morning and the cover-up and U.S. reaction that followed.”

  “Well, let’s assume this group has access to operational plans,” Cohen said. “That would certainly explain Raad’s interest in them.”

  “What exactly are the covert plans you’re talking about?” Andie asked. “You said your people were getting killed because the Iranians, I mean, Raad was finding out about them, but we can’t help you unless we know what we’re dealing with.”

  Cohen stared blankly in response to the question.

  “You do want our help, don’t you?” Andie asked.

  “Lady, I don’t even know your name,” Cohen said.

  “Andie Jackson,” she said.

  “And what is it you do, Ms. Jackson?” Cohen asked.

  “I’m a reporter.”

  “Then how can I be sure you won’t ‘report’ anything I tell you?” Cohen asked.

  Andie blinked deliberately. “You’re the one with the gun.”

  “Somehow I don’t think that matters to you.” He looked at Casey and asked, “Can I trust her?”

  Casey looked at Andie and nodded. “She’s been involved with this as long as I have.”

  Cohen stood up and went to each window in the room, closing blinds and drapes one by one. He went through the process less as a precaution against surveillance than as a means to impress upon Casey and Andie that what he was about to tell them could not be repeated. Cohen knew he shouldn’t be telling them anything at all, but time was not on his side. When he was finished, he sat back down on the edge of the chair.

  “For the past twelve years, Israel has been targeting elements of Iran’s nuclear program to hinder its progress,” Cohen said. “A direct attack on their facilities was never our first choice, and we felt that focusing on the development side would be more effective.”

  “What about the Natanz airstrike?” Casey asked. “That was a direct attack.”

  “Again, not our first choice,” Cohen said. “We obviously haven’t ruled out that option, but you can see how ineffective it was, though it did let the world know we were serious. So in the background, we have been tracking the leadership and academic circles to find critical drivers that can be disrupted clandestinely.”

  “You mean assassination,” Andie said.

  “Yes,” Cohen said. “Only our methods are a bit more discriminate than your drone strikes.”

  “I’m not judging,” Andie said.

  Cohen continued. “Until recently, we’ve been successful in targeting those individuals responsible for the progression of Iran’s nuclear weapons program—those who hold considerable influence with the Ayatollah and the Majlis to keep the program a national priority despite the international pressure. But there’s a leak, and now our operations are compromised.”

  “Raad,” Casey said.

  “No,” Cohen said. “Raad runs agents. If the leak is here in America, Raad is receiving the information from an agent he recruited and is passing it back to Tehran. I’m here to plug that leak.”

  “What if the leak is on your side?” Andie asked.

  “Not likely,” Cohen said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because there are very few people in Israel who know the operational details of each hit, and ten percent of them are dead.”

  “So you deduced the leak is coming from America,” Casey said.

  “Not just me,” Cohen said.

  Casey rolled his eyes. “Okay. You and the people you work for. But if there’s already a leak on this side of the pond, why risk telling us about it?” he asked.

  Cohen looked at Andie and back at Casey. “Because I need your help.”

  Chapter 13

  In a nondescript, six-story office building just across the Potomac River from the governing center of the world’s sole superpower, a bi-weekly gathering was taking shape. At first glance, the only thing the men and women taking seats around the massive oak table in the middle of the room or along the walls on either side seemed to have in common was the executive business attire of corporate or government officials, with a few military uniforms thrown in. The occupants of the room ranged in age from 25 to 75, and any outsider eavesdropping on the simultaneous conversations combining to make each individual exchange harder and harder to hear would notice that the majority of races and ethnic groups in America were more or less represented. Attendance varied meeting-to-meeting as schedules permitted, but the importance of that day’s discussion brought more people than usual.

  Scott Parker was one of the last to arrive. He spotted an open seat against the far wall of the conference room that occupied a good portion of the building’s third floor, and he waded through the sea of bodies who would likely only quiet down two minutes after the meeting began. Parker sat down and nodded to his right.

  “Packed house,” he said to Walter Korzen, a perpetually grumpy State Department officer.

  “Yep,” the man replied without turning his head or his eyes from the long center table. He coughed into his fist and kicked the briefcase under his chair a few inches further away from Parker.

  Parker knew from experience it was a wasted effort to try and engage Walt in small talk. The man was never in the mood. Balding, shorter than average, and a little overweight, Walt Korzen was not what you would call a ladies’ man. Parker tended to think of him as the human version of the internet meme sensation, “Grumpy Cat.”

  Walt had been with State for over ten years. A watch officer at the Bureau of Diplomatic Security’s command center in Rosslyn, Virginia, he had applied and been turned down for transition to the Foreign Service Officer program no less than seven times. He hated the odd rotational hours that came with manning the 24/7 watch center that monitored the security of America’s diplomats overseas. His personal social life suffered for it. Not married, with no current prospects that Parker knew of, Korzen lived alone in a pricey but run-down townhouse in Alexandria.

  But it wasn’t his social status that earned him a seat on The Council, it was the connectivity he had as a watch officer and his ability to warn of coming problems in current and future global hotspots that made him valuable. If the watch officer promotion potential was minimal, at least The Council offered him the opportunity to voice his opinions to some of the most powerful people in the country. That, as it turned out, was precisely why many of the people were in the room.

  Detecting that Walter Korzen was grumpier than usual—if that was possible—Parker gave up on the small talk and scanned the room to see who else was there. He counted two army generals, six congressmen, three senators, two former senators, a bank CEO, an undersecretary of State, a deputy undersecretary of Defense, an assistant secretary of Treasury, and a secretary. His eyes moved down the slender length of the secretary and paused at her toned calves, unaided by the high heels so many women with less-shapely curves relied on to achieve the same effect.

  “If everyone could take their seats, we’ll get started,” a voice boomed in deep baritone over the noise. Parker’s attention shifted from ogling the legs of General Maxwell’s personal assistant to the end of the table where Judge Calvin Westbrooke threw menacing stares at anyone who didn’t immediately halt their conversations. There were not many. With a voice that was equal parts God and Darth Vader, Judge Westbrooke had the ability to make even the president of the United States snap to attention.

  “In a moment, we’re going to hear from Cyrus Shirazi on his thoughts for getting Greece back on track before it drags all of Europe down with it,” Westbrooke announced. “But before we tackle that issue, we need to discuss the Iran nuclear test. I’ve asked Simon Wexler from the Brookings Doha Center to give us a verbal primer.”

  “Thank you, Judge.” Wexle
r moved from his seat in the back corner and stood to Westbrooke’s left. “As we all know, Iran has continued to advance its nuclear weapons program despite the economic sanctions levied against it. This week’s underground testing is evidence of just how much progress Iran has made. The initial assessments of how long before Iran would reach the breakout level required for a test was five years. That was two years ago.”

  Wexler paused as a few muted whispers and shifting of weight in chairs indicated that people were listening, and they were concerned. “As we also know,” he continued, “there is a lag time between successful testing and weaponization. Historically, this has taken countries anywhere from five to ten years—if they ever got that far. But given our faulty estimates of Iran’s technical ability to reach the first step in the development cycle, I believe the Islamic Republic will have an operational weapon that could strike Israel or Saudi Arabia by next summer.”

  The noise instantly grew louder as Wexler’s prognosis drew comments from nearly everyone in the room—either to themselves or their neighbor. Judge Westbrooke allowed the commotion to continue for half a minute before slapping his open palm on the table, improvising his daily courtroom gesture sans gavel. It only took three raps before people quieted down and turned their attention back to The Council’s forward contact in Qatar.

  “Thank you, Judge,” Wexler said. “I expected that this estimate might cause some unease,” he said, addressing the audience again, “but I don’t want to seem like an alarmist. On the contrary, I think eighteen months is more than enough time for us to address the problem.”

  “How do you figure that?” someone asked from one of the wall seats.

  “Because now there is no doubt about Iran’s intentions,” Wexler said. “Now the president no longer has to tiptoe around the issue, worrying about provoking Iran with accusations during negotiations. For all intents and purposes, Iran has shut the door on the nuke talks and dared the U.S. to make the next move.”