Giordano shrugged his shoulders. “You got me. That’s why I think this pile of shit we stepped in smells worse and worse the farther we dig. Maybe the safest thing to do right now is to stay low and just keep our eyes open.”
“Fuck safe,” Casey said loudly. “We have a chance to expose these assholes right now. If we back off, we won’t have anything.”
“Goddamnit, man, take a look around you,” Giordano said, equally loud. “Do you know how close you came to taking a bullet between the eyes? What good would that do anyone?” He looked at Susan, hoping she got the message, too. Giordano lowered his voice and said, “I have a wife who’s still in the hospital, and she needs me. Truth is, I need her, too. Maybe you should think about the people in your life that you care about, and ask yourself if it’s worth it.”
Casey looked over at Susan, who was staring blankly at the activity going on in the living room. He sighed and said, “I guess you’re right.”
Giordano was relieved. “Look, I’m not giving up on this, and I don’t expect you to, either. But right now isn’t the time,” Giordano said. “Even if the rest of the world believes Arab terrorists were responsible for the bombings, we know different. What’s more, they know we know. We just need them to think we aren’t going to stir up any more trouble for them because we have that knowledge.”
“What if they don’t believe that?” Susan asked.
“Well, ma’am, I think they’re willing to wait and see for now,” Giordano said.
“Why’s that?” Casey asked.
Giordano pointed to the hole in the window. “One shot. One kill.”
Chapter 42
Washington, D.C.
Just five miles west of the White House, across the Potomac River, the most powerful group in America gathered for an emergency session. Individually, the group’s members held only minor sway in the running of the United States Government. In the case of those in office, their influence may be greater, but their tenure was limited. It was the aggregate power of the group’s members, however, that proved its strength. The combination of military and elected officials, past and present, as well as leaders in industry, science, and academia, made The Council the true center of gravity in America. Yet, most Americans wrote the group’s very existence off as myth.
Keith Swanson knew differently. He also knew the danger of membership. When he was young, his father would travel for weeks at a time for “business,” and Keith didn’t think anything about it. He knew other kids whose fathers were salesmen of one thing or another, and they had the same stories. It wasn’t until he was older, years after his father had passed away from lung cancer, that Keith was told the truth.
Emil Swanson was recruited into The Council during World War II, primarily because he was fluent in German and the Polish his grandmother spoke when he was growing up. But he was also brutal. Emil Swanson was an assassin.
During the Cold War, The Council numbered in the hundreds. Most, like Emil, were implementers—people skilled in various trades to execute missions without question. They were told what they needed to know, and they took comfort that they were doing their jobs for the good of America. But that was The Council of the past.
The Council of today was much smaller. Secrecy was the buzzword, and nearly all of the dirty work, when it was needed, had to be outsourced. That was where Keith, the younger Swanson, came in. In a way, he was a salesman like his father. Only Keith’s occupation within The Council really was all about selling a line. He sold Anthony Ward on setting off three bombs in the heart of New York City. And there would have been no problems if Joel Simpson hadn’t let his dick do the thinking for him.
Keith massaged his shoulder under the bandage and knew that wasn’t entirely true. Joel had nothing to do with Ward’s reaction to the media overlooking the white supremacist masterpiece that Friday. Keith knew he had to do better when he vetted his contract help next time.
“Good morning, Keith. How’s your arm doing?”
Keith turned around and tried to smile. “Fine, Madam Secretary. Doc says I won’t be throwing any fastballs anytime soon, but I should get about ninety percent range of motion back in a few months.”
The Secretary of State smiled. “Well, don’t rush it. And make sure you keep up with that physical therapy. Trust me, you don’t want to skip any of that, or you’ll regret it when you’re my age,” she said before she spotted someone and excused herself.
Keith expected to be dressed down. He took her nonchalance as a sign that everything had worked out in the end. He went to look for a seat against one of the walls, away from the long table in the center of the room when he stopped. Not in the clear yet, Keith, he thought.
Anderson Coolidge intercepted Keith before he could sit down and waved a paper in front of his face. “Did you see this? This bitch is gonna sink your boy’s chance at that nomination. And I don’t need to tell you what that means if he loses, and Baynard wins. The President won’t win if he goes against Baynard. We need him to stay in the White House for the next four years, or everything The Council’s worked towards for the last 32 years is for shit.”
“Take it easy, man. You’re gonna have another heart attack.” Keith took the paper from Coolidge and started reading. “The Washington Times. ‘Cogburn’s War,’ by Andrea Jackson.” Keith read the one-page article quickly and handed the paper back. He looked at Coolidge and smiled. “Conspiracy theory. That’s all it is. That’s all Cogburn’s going to say it is, because, guess what? He doesn’t know shit to begin with. You see, Anderson, that’s why you’re a planner, and I’m an implementer.” He patted the 236-pound Coolidge on his sweat-soaked back and said, “I got this one.”
Keith turned away, relieved, and found an open chair as others began taking their seats at the table. He felt the vibration of his phone before he heard it and quickly checked the number. When he saw who it was from, he stood back up and left the room.
Chapter 43
Sistan va Balochistan, Iran
“Hello?...Hello?” a voice answered through the static and intermittent connection.
“Yes, hello? Can you hear me?” Bob shouted into the cell phone as he tried to get to higher ground.
“I can hear you now,” Keith Swanson said. “What is it?”
“I’m going to need another installment,” Bob said.
“When?”
Bob looked back as Pirok Bugti and two other Baloch fighters loaded a crate of rocket propelled grenades into the back of the Toyota pick-up. Another man was being shown how to work an American-made Stinger missile system by a Taliban soldier. “I need it yesterday,” Bob said.
The silence on the line was almost too much for Bob to take. He quickly checked the signal strength on his phone and returned it to his ear.
“Alright. Give me two hours.”
The call ended before Bob could say thanks. He smiled under his thick beard and tucked the phone away. All in a day’s work.
About the Author
Matthew M. Frick is an active duty naval officer who has lived overseas and traveled extensively throughout the Middle East and Europe. His writings have been referenced in journals, theses, and other media in over five different countries, including India, Russia, and Iran (translated into Farsi and located on the official Majlis website). A native of Stone Mountain, Georgia, he currently lives near Washington, D.C., with his wife, two children, and a bluetick coonhound.
The Complicity Doctrine Page 24