Open Source Page 8

  Okay, who wanted him to quit posting? He decided he needed to ask someone else to figure that out, so he fished out the number for the Intelligence Watch Group he had written down on a notepad by his computer and dialed.

  “Susan Williams,” the voice on the other end answered.

  “Susan, it’s Casey Shenk. We spoke on the phone last night.”

  “Yes, Casey, hi. I didn’t expect to hear from you today. Truth be told, I didn’t expect to hear from you ever again, unless I called you.”

  “Yeah, well that makes two of us. But I kinda needed a second opinion on something.”

  “Really? About what?” Susan asked.

  “Well it’s more of a first opinion, since I’m not really sure what to make of it,” Casey said.

  “Okay,” Susan said, unsure of where this was going. “What is it?”

  “A comment showed up last night on Middle-Truths. On the Baltic Venture post,” Casey told her.

  Susan remained silent and waited for Casey to continue.

  “All it said was back off,” he told her.

  “Back off? That’s it?” she asked. “What does that mean?”

  “That’s why I called you,” Casey explained. “I don’t know what it means. I assume it meant that someone wanted me to stop posting about the arms deal.”

  Susan winced at the words. Even though Casey had come up with the possibility of an arms deal all by his lonesome, she still got a sick feeling in her stomach when she thought about the amount of information she had given him last night to confirm the shipment in the first place, let alone what type of arms they were.

  “Well,” she began, looking for some sort of advice to give the guy but not finding any. “Who posted the comment? Was there a name?”

  Casey let out an exasperated sigh to audibly demonstrate his frustration at the question. “If I knew who sent it, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”

  Susan bit her lip to keep from blowing up over the phone. Excuse me, asshole. You’re the one who called me, remember? she thought. She took a deep breath and asked, “Were there any other comments, before or after that one, which might give us a clue as to who sent it?”

  “No comments after and just the one you sent before it,” Casey said.

  “I never put anything on your blog.”

  Casey stopped and thought about that statement. He had assumed the question came from Susan. He hadn’t even considered that it could have come from anyone else.

  “What did that comment say?” Susan asked.

  Casey went back to the comment so he could read it to Susan exactly as it was written. He told her that it was sent under the “anonymous” label as the other one had been. He gave her the time it was sent and checked it against the time of the second comment.

  “So let’s get this straight,” Susan said. “At about eight-thirty last night, someone asks who your source is, and an hour later you get a threatening comment telling you to step away from the Baltic Venture hijacking. Is that about right?”

  “That’s about it,” Casey confirmed.

  Susan leaned back in her chair and thought about it before continuing. “Maybe it’s nothing.”

  “What?” Casey asked loudly. He couldn’t believe she wasn’t even going to bite. He thought for sure if anyone would have a theory on the mystery commenter, she would.

  “I mean, it could be a prank. Just someone trying to scare you,” Susan said.

  “Well, I’m not scared. I just want to know who sent it,” Casey said. “And since you told me last night that we could be talking about a secret deal between some rogue Russians and the IRGC, maybe whoever wrote those comments has a little more muscle to back up their internet threats.”

  Susan sat back up and leaned into the phone receiver. She lowered her voice and looked around to make sure no one was listening outside her cubicle. “Damnit, Casey. You came up with that stuff. You can’t even hint that I gave you any help, got it?” When the blood that had rushed to her head began to recede she continued, still keeping her voice out of easy earshot of passersby. “Look. I’ll see what I can dig up. It’s already,” she checked her watch, “quarter to four right now. I’ll call you back tomorrow afternoon with whatever I find. Is that all right?”

  Casey said it was and thanked her. He hung up the phone when the call disconnected, wondering if maybe she was right. Maybe it was nothing. But then again, he argued with himself, maybe it wasn’t. What if some dangerous people were really out to get him? Sure. Casey Shenk, vending route driver, marked for death. Casey smiled at the thought. Aww, what the hell, he thought when he turned back to his computer and typed a response to the anonymous commenter.

  “N-O,” was all he wrote. Only two letters, but Casey thought it was pretty clear. He wouldn’t back off. He wasn’t going to be intimidated by some threatening ‘trons sent his way by someone too lame to even own up to their own comment. Casey figured the comment’s author was probably just a zit-faced thirty year-old still living in his parents’ basement with nothing else to do but troll the internet looking for people he could talk down to just to make himself feel powerful. True or not, Casey thought it might be amusing to play this guy’s little game. And besides, Casey was the owner of “Middle-Truths,” not this other bozo.

  “Not in my house,” Casey told the computer. He folded the screen of the laptop down and decided to forget about it. He would just wait for Susan’s call. Besides, the Braves were about to start a three-game home stand against the Marlins. Some things were more important than international intrigue.

  Chapter 9

  New York City

  Susan walked into the office of the Intelligence Watch Group on Wednesday at precisely 0745, which was precisely fifteen minutes late. She hated being late to work. It didn’t matter that the only things happening at this time in the workday were conversations around the coffee pot or juvenile ribbing about who won, or lost, the game last night. The posted working hours at IWG were 0730 to 1700, Monday through Friday. No one was there to call roll every morning, and she didn’t have to fill in a time sheet at the end of every week, but Susan’s sense of professional pride drove her to get to work before her boss did and leave after he had departed for the day. Some people took her work ethic to be nothing more than blatant brown-nosing, but unlike many of her co-workers, the truth was, Susan actually enjoyed her work.

  Presently, at least, work to Susan was much more interesting than her personal life. Besides, she stayed out of trouble at the office, which was more than she could say for herself when she ventured out of that safety net and actually tried to blend with the populace where, God forbid, she may try to get picked up at a bar or night club. She’d had one too many disasters that started at the bottom of a martini glass.

  Susan dropped her purse under her desk and logged into her computer before she even sat down. She couldn’t sleep last night because her mind was still muddling through the Baltic Venture hijacking. She opened her e-mail and was relieved there were no urgent messages from Jim that she was late on answering. She quickly tagged the e-mails about an upcoming blood drive and a bake sale being hosted by the IWG Christian Studies Group. Susan was bothered by how, at times, IWG seemed to be more like a high school than a premier geopolitical analysis company. She sighed as she hit the “delete” button, wondering why management insisted on trying to give the office a more “family-like” atmosphere. She minimized the mail window on her computer and opened her web browser.

  “Good morning, sunshine.”

  Susan slowly turned around and tried to give a not-so-evil look to Phil who was already leaning on her cubicle entrance, CIA coffee mug in hand.

  “Morning, Phil,” she replied and turned back to her computer.

  “You look like shit,” he offered.

  “People have been telling me that a lot lately,” Susan replied without turning around. She scanned the headlines on the major news feeds and then got up to get a cup of coffee. She wasn’t surprised to notice Phil
still standing by her cubicle. He didn’t even make it to his desk in the morning before he had finished his first cup of joe. “Need a refill?” she asked him as she moved toward the cubicle opening.

  “Sure,” he replied without checking the status of his mug. He made way for Susan to pass and then followed her to the break room, trying not to let anyone notice as he watched Susan’s buttocks subtly move up and down in rhythmic cadence under her brown form-fitting knee-length skirt. Phil was only slightly ashamed of himself, but he had a self-admitted addiction to ogling women’s backsides, especially attractive women like Susan. In his mind it was a medical affliction that could not be remedied by modern science, so he let it go. Still, Susan was the only real friend he had, and he felt a little guilty.

  After filling a styrofoam cup with coffee, Susan poured more into Phil’s mug. Susan began sipping her coffee slowly, after blowing on it to cool it down, while Phil added more cream and what Susan thought had to be a half a bag of sugar to his cup. Susan preferred straight black coffee, not because it tasted better, but because it didn’t trigger an emergency bowel movement that added ingredients tended to bring on, especially when she hadn’t had breakfast, like today. Her anxiety about being late was all but gone, cured by the burning liquid that delivered badly needed caffeine to her blood stream. Susan always thought caffeine was really the crack of white collar America. From what she had observed both on television and in the office, the withdrawal systems of not having either were the same.

  “Long night?” Phil asked when he noticed Susan closing her eyes as she leaned against the stained formica countertop.

  Susan opened her eyes and took another sip. “That’s an understatement. I think I only got about two hours of sleep, max. And that wasn’t even in a row.”

  “Guy problems?” Phil pushed.

  “What? Are you kidding me? I haven’t lost sleep over a guy since...high school, I think,” she said matter-of-factly. Phil was slightly disheartened by that statement, though he wasn’t sure if it was because he felt sorry for his friend’s lack of a love interest or because he subconsciously hoped she had lost sleep thinking about him, though he knew that only happened in the movies. “No, it was work that kept me up, believe it or not,” she added.

  “Jim?” he asked.

  “Well, not directly. He gave me a new project to work on, and I can’t come up with the answers I need, at least not with any certainty. All I’ve got so far are theories based on rumors and sketchy reports, and I have to come up with something quick or Jim will never trust me with anything more than rote translations and data mining, if I’m lucky.”

  “Oh come on. You’re being a bit hard on yourself, don’t you think? You’re one of the best analysts in this place. I think your job is pretty secure,” Phil said, trying to give Susan a little consolation.

  “You’re just saying that because I tape McLaughlin Group for you every Sunday so you don’t have to get your dead-ass out of bed before the crack of noon,” she laughed.

  Phil laughed too, glad to see his friend finally acting more like herself. “That may be true,” he said, “but I still stand by what I said. Even if you don’t have rock-solid sources on whatever it is you’re working on, you can still give your opinion. That’s really what they pay you for, right? Your opinion?”

  Susan knew Phil was right and told him so. She looked at the clock above the water cooler and decided twenty-seven minutes was just enough time for her to get her stuff together before the morning cell meeting. She smiled when Phil suggested they meet for lunch. They could grab a gyro from the Greek deli on the corner, Susan offered as she turned to go back to her desk to get ready for the meeting.

  Susan stopped short and turned back to Phil who was sipping his coffee. Phil jolted suddenly, fearing he’d just been caught red-handed focusing on the seat of Susan’s skirt as she departed. “Do you still have that friend at Langley?” she asked him.

  Phil quickly gathered himself together and responded, “Tom? Yeah, he’s still there. He and his wife just closed on a huge house in Potomac a few weeks ago. I sent them a house-warming gift. Did you know they have a gift shop at CIA?”

  “So you’ve said,” Susan laughed. “Look, could I ask you for a big favor?”

  By 0830 the sixteen analysts who made up Intelligence Watch Group’s Middle East/Southwest Asia cell gathered in the small conference room at the north corner of the ninth floor. There was a larger one on the tenth floor, but that was only used for visiting VIPs or meetings involving the whole company. They waited for their cell leader who was perpetually five minutes late, preferring to be the last one in the room before the meeting started. Jim Shelton had been in the business long enough to know that most staffers viewed the published start time of a meeting to mean that was when they got up from their individual desks and refilled their coffee or got a soda from the vending machine on their way to said meeting. He felt it was unnecessary to embarrass anyone by having them come in the room after the meeting had already started, so he cut everyone some slack. Despite the opinions he knew many had of him, Jim thought he was really a compassionate boss. Susan hoped Jim’s compassion would be evident in this morning’s meeting.

  The analysts for each country or major organization in the cell’s geographically assigned area took their seats at the long, stained mahogany table. Folders, notepads, drinks, and the occasional BlackBerry were set in front of each of them. Some of the material was brought for reference and reporting during the meeting, however, Susan was sure that more than a few people piled the papers high to give the illusion that they were busy at work. The same scene was repeated, in some form or another, three times a week for each of the cells at IWG to keep the cell leaders, and thus the upper management, informed of the progress of ongoing work and to discuss new developments. Most of the people around the table were engaged in light-hearted banter, giving the room a steady noise level that Susan tried to tune out, choosing instead to concentrate on what she was going to tell her boss.

  The noise quickly abated as Jim walked in the door with a general greeting to everyone in attendance. He took his seat at the head of the table closest to the door and opened his binder to start the meeting. After removing his reading glasses from his shirt pocket, he examined the agenda his secretary placed in the front slip cover.

  “Okay, Bill. What did you find out about a UN response?” Jim asked the Pakistan analyst who was trying to discern the possible international reactions to the disappearance of two UN aid workers in Kashmir the day before.

  “Well, Leslie and I think the reaction may be more local, than anything else. You see....” Leslie was the India analyst who worked hand-in-hand with Bill when it came to the disputed territory, which was quite often. It helped that they were married. Susan wondered what they talked about at the dinner table.

  Jim proceeded around the table in similar fashion, asking each person for information on the projects they were presently working. It took a full twenty minutes until he got around to George Smithfield, Susan’s co-analyst for Iran. George leaned over and handed Jim his report, professionally bound in a clear-cover presentation folder, complete with color graphics and captions under every picture. Susan watched incredulously as she saw the report pass her field of vision into the hands of her boss. It was definitely a change from the zero-graphic reports Susan submitted with a single staple in the upper left-hand corner holding it together. She was impressed.

  Susan was even more impressed when George handed her a copy, as well. She had been so focused on her new assignment that she neglected to ask George to let her vet the report before he submitted it. She noticed the cover sheet of the copy he gave her contained both of their names as the report’s authors. Her name was even listed first. She looked over at George and quietly thanked him. George merely smiled at her before he turned his attention to Jim.

  “Sir, this is the report that Susan and I put together for the upcoming nuclear talks in Ankara. You can see we’ve come up
with three primary options for a U.S. negotiating strategy. I broke down those options further to include what tactics might be more to the liking of the other four members of the Security Council and Germany—specifically, what problems they would have with each of those choices.” George gave a one- or two-sentence synopsis of each as Jim flipped through the report, stopping here and there to scan a certain paragraph or look at a graph more closely.

  When George finished, Jim closed his copy and looked at Susan. He focused back on George and said, “Good job, George. I’ll take this and read it more closely this morning. I want you to come see me at 1700 to discuss the options you’ve presented in detail.”

  “Yes, sir,” George said with a brief smile of pride and relief now that his part of the meeting was over. The smile quickly disappeared when he looked at Susan sitting next to him, wondering if he could handle the one-on-one by himself.

  Susan returned the gaze and gave him a reassuring smile as she put her copy of George’s report under her other folders. He really had done a good job, considering he was thrown into the assignment at the last minute and was forced to use her research to come up with valid conclusions and recommendations.

  “Susan,” Jim said abruptly, indicating it was her turn in the hot seat. “What have you got for me?”

  “Sir,” she began tentatively, “I don’t think Iran is trying to buy any air defense weapons from Russia. Not even stolen ones, if what the Russia cell is saying is the most likely scenario.” Jim’s face gave no hint of surprise, affirmation, or rejection of any sort. He merely stared at Susan, waiting for her to continue.