Open Source

by Matthew Frick

  “Why not?” Casey decided to stroke Susan’s ego a bit and let her give him her expert analysis.

  “Because Iran needs Russia. The Russians are building their reactor at Bushehr, for chrissakes. If Russia found out Iran was making deals to buy stolen weapons...well, that’s just bad statesmanship.”

  “No one ever said the Iranians were rational actors.”

  “But they aren’t stupid, Casey. They wouldn’t knowingly bite the hand that feeds them. Especially when that hand is a permanent member of the UN Security Council. They need all the friends they can get to stave off any more sanctions like the ones that are slowly choking them right now. It’s the same reason they do so much trade with China. If they really wanted those missiles that bad, why not get the same ones from the Chinese? Legitimately?”

  “You just said why. United Nations sanctions. China helping the Iranians develop a natural gas field is not the same thing as the Communists sending over a boatload of military hardware. The only way Iran can get anything nowadays is to build it themselves or buy it off the black market. Or get it from North Korea, I suppose. I don’t think Kim Jong Il gives a shit about sanctions. But even then, you have to get them into the country somehow, and there’s enough do-gooders out there who are working hard to keep that from happening.”

  “So what about the report?” Susan asked.

  “What report?”

  “The one my company got that the missiles were going to Iran,” Susan said. “I might as well tell you that much. I’ve already told you too much, as it is. Thanks, by the way. I’ll probably have to find a new job after this.”

  Casey thought Susan was being a bit melodramatic, but he felt a little responsible just the same. After all, she just called for an opinion, he was the one who pushed her for information she probably wouldn’t have given up without being made to feel like she was under duress.

  “Look, Susan. I’m sorry. Let’s take a step back and think about it for a minute.” Casey was into it now. He knew Mike and Chip would never take this much interest in his puzzle solving fetish. He posted these theories, among other things, on his blog to try and illicit the kind of debate he was having with Susan right now on the phone. He enjoyed the mental stimulus. Especially when the voice on the other end sounded hot.

  “If you buy off on the assumption that the Iranian regime is probably not the buyer,” he continued, “that doesn’t mean your source is wrong. I assume by report you mean you have a source in Russia that told you this information. Anyway, the report may still be correct, if you change your way of looking at it.”

  “A paradigm shift? You sound so clinical,” Susan said.

  “Well, I didn’t say it like that, but whatever you want to call it, we need to think of Iran as something different than your run of the mill nation-state,” Casey said. “You’re the Iran specialist, you tell me. What makes Iran different than everyone else?”

  Susan chewed on this question for a minute before answering. She felt like she was back in school. Or worse, back at her childhood home being “helped” with her homework by her genius professor parents.

  “Well,” she started, “besides being the only Shia government in a sea of Sunnis, they aren’t that different. They have an appointed leader, like many non-democratic states, an elected parliament, the Majlis, a military...wait. Iran’s military is really made up of two militaries. There are the conventional armed forces and then there is the IRGC.”

  “Bullseye.”

  “You mean you think the IRGC may be the buyers?” Susan couldn’t believe she didn’t think of it sooner. She had concentrated so much all day on searching for anything she could find that would possibly give even a hint of an arms shipment to Iran, that when she kept coming up empty, she forgot to turn off the computer and just use her brain. If the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps was behind the purchase, she surely wouldn’t have found any information from the open sources. While the IRGC commanders liked to brag about their military capabilities, they were also part of a very shrewd business organization that would take extra precautions to ensure they were in no way responsible for tarnishing the image of the Supreme Leader or the institution of the Islamic Republic. They were, after all, the Defenders of the Revolution. Any secret deal for Russian missiles would be just that—secret. She couldn’t have hoped to find anything. Especially in just one day.

  But it made sense. The IRGC operated under the direct control of Ayatollah Ali Khamenei. They were, in effect, an autonomous entity. They did not answer to the regular armed forces, in fact it was quite the opposite. They were not under any civilian leadership, unlike the United States military. They truly were the force that kept the predators at bay, both foreign and domestic. It was very much in the realm of possibility that the Revolutionary Guard Corps had their own people abroad making arms deals with corrupt Russian military commanders or even the Russian Mafia, as Pete Grozny had suggested.

  “That actually makes a lot of sense,” she told Casey, and herself. “I’m going to look into that tomorrow.” She thanked him for pointing her in the right direction.

  “It was my pleasure, Ms. Williams. And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about the classified information you divulged tonight.”

  “Oh, right. Thank you. I shouldn’t have said anything, but I was really hitting a brick wall until I talked to you. I like the way you think, Casey. Would you mind if I called you again if I ever need any help? It would all be theoretical, of course.”

  “Of course,” Casey said. “And yes, you can.”

  “And here, take down my number in case you come up with any other theories about this case, or anything else,” Susan said.

  “I have it,” Casey replied, smiling. “Caller ID.”

  “No, that’s my work number. Here’s my cell phone,” she said and she gave him the number. “I have this one on me all the time, so if I’m not at work you can reach me.”

  “Got it,” Casey said when he was done writing the phone number down.

  “Thanks again, Casey, and good night.”

  “You’re welcome. Good night.”

  Susan hung up the phone and picked up her coffee mug. Cold. She put it back down and looked at her watch. She needed to get some sleep. She straightened up the papers on her desk into a single, unsorted pile and put an open notepad on top of it. She jotted down the letters “I-R-G-C,” turned off the lamp on her desk, and left for home. Again.

  Chapter 8

  Savannah, Georgia

  Casey pulled his pick-up onto the patch of dirt he used as a driveway on the side of his house. Being a vending route driver did have its advantages. Not many, but there were some. The primary one being that Casey set his own hours for the most part. As long as he clocked eight hours, or close to it, and made all the scheduled deliveries, he could begin and end his work days when he saw fit. The beginning, of course, depended on how early the store managers where he made his first deliveries would open the doors for him to do his work. Casey always went to the big businesses first. Big meant Home Depot, Lowes, and WalMart. The earlier he started, the earlier he was done. On Tuesday, that translated to about two o’clock in the afternoon.

  A menacing blue and silver sedan labeled “Georgia State Patrol” was parked just in front of the mailbox of the house across the street. A black uniformed patrolman in a grey Smokey Bear hat was talking with a thin mustachioed white man. The crisp uniform of the officer barely contained the well-defined muscles that covered every bit of his six-foot three-inch frame and contrasted sharply with the yellow tank-top and baggy shorts of the much smaller, much thinner man he questioned.

  “Casey, do you have any flour this nice officer can borrow?” the smaller man yelled from across the street as Casey walked around the truck to the front of his house.

  “What, do I look like a food bank? Tell this pig to take a hike,” Casey replied.

  The patrolman laughed and put out his hand as Casey approached. Casey grabbed the man’s goliath-si
zed paw and smiled. “Hey, Anton.”

  “Hi, Casey.”

  Anton Laycock moved in just down the street from Casey three years earlier after transferring from the GSP Troop in Atlanta. A new husband and father, Anton, or more precisely, Tina, his wife, thought the job of a state trooper at Post 42 in nearby Rincon in neighboring Effingham County would be more conducive to family life, meaning a less-hazardous duty environment. Though he compromised the potential for excitement for his wife’s sake, he still insisted on volunteering for Troop I’s Special Weapons and Tactics, or SWAT Team, which was more of a collateral duty.

  “You off duty?” Casey asked.

  “For now,” Anton said. “Got two days family time before I start nights. I worked that so I could celebrate the old lady’s birthday tomorrow without worrying about having too much wine before going to work.”

  “Tomorrow, huh? Well, tell her I said Happy Birthday.”

  “So do you have any flour for this strapping gentleman, or not, Casey?” Vince Matthews interrupted. Vince and his partner, Allen, lived across the street from Casey and made no effort to hide their gayness from anyone. In the South, that was a rarity, but in Savannah one could almost get away with it without any hassle.

  Casey acknowledged Vince with a glance and looked back at Anton. “Sure, I got some. Why don’t you come up and I’ll get some for you,” he said as the three men made their way to Casey’s front door.

  As Casey unlocked the door, he turned to Vince. “You need some, too?”

  Vince stopped and searched for an explanation for his presence on the front porch but couldn’t find one. “No, but I could use some water,” he said as he invited himself in. Casey sighed and put his keys on the counter as they entered the kitchen. Vince opened a cabinet and fetched a glass.

  “What do you need flour for anyway?” Casey asked the Trooper.

  “Making Tina a birthday cake. Cheaper than buying one,” he answered.

  “Fair enough. Two cups?”

  “Better make it four, else I’ll be coming back for some more, knowing my luck,” Anton said.

  Casey measured out the flour into a ziploc bag and handed it to Anton.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “No problem, Anton. Anytime. Let me know when you want to get together and we’ll watch some baseball and have a few beers.”

  “Sure thing. Thanks again,” Anton said as he headed out the door to his cruiser.

  “How come you never invite me over for a beer and baseball?” Vince asked as they watched Anton drive away.

  “It’s a guy thing, Vince.”

  Vince’s smile evaporated and his face took on a scowling countenance. “Fuck you, Casey.”

  Casey laughed and barely caught the half-empty glass of water Vince shoved at him as he stormed out of the house. When he first moved to Thunderbolt, Casey walked on eggshells around Vince and his much larger, much hairier partner, not wanting to inadvertently offend their sensibilities in the name of political correctness. Now it was just a game, and both sides knew the roles they played. Besides, by their own admission, Allen was more of the husband in that pair and Vince the wife. Who invited wives to drink beer and watch baseball?

  Casey waited until Vince theatrically slammed his front door shut before closing his own. He went to the kitchen and put Vince’s glass in the sink and then opened the freezer. His routine dictated that he ate a late lunch which he also counted as his dinner. Casey knew this was part of the reason he weighed a healthy 170 pounds—overweight, but not obese, for his modest 5-foot 8-inch frame. He surveyed the meager contents of the freezer and decided on a Pepperoni Pizza Hot Pocket and placed it in the microwave.

  Casey walked back into the living room and turned on his computer to begin the start-up process that seemed to take longer and longer each day while the meal-in-a-pouch heated. On the way back to the kitchen he turned on his television.

  “Who is Mustafa Kemal Attaturk?” Casey asked the television. Alex Trebek informed Casey and the contestant on Jeopardy they were correct. After two more clues and answers the microwave beeped four times indicating Casey’s Hot Pocket was ready. He walked the ten feet to the kitchen and got a Miller Lite from the refrigerator. He brought his dinner to the coffee table in front of his faded blue second-hand sofa bed and changed the channel on the TV to CNN.

  Casey caught up on the latest sexcapades of Hollywood’s A-List and highlights from the world of Major League Baseball before lowering the volume on the set and throwing away his trash. His home wasn’t pristine, but Casey had learned the hard way that it didn’t take long before ants smelled food on a table and marched in with military precision to attack the leftovers. He moved to his computer and opened his e-mail. He scanned his inbox and determined there was nothing new worth saving, so he deleted the unwanted solicitations and logged out of his Yahoo! Mail account. He took another sip of beer and went to his blog site.

  Casey spent a good part of his workday thinking about the phone call from Susan Williams the night before. He didn’t think so much about the solution to the riddle of the MV Baltic Venture as he did about the nature of the call itself. He was happy that other people outside the smattering of regulars who followed his blog had actually taken notice. More importantly, he felt good to receive affirmation that what he had to say just might be important, at least in this case. His other life as the author of “Middle-Truths” let Casey exercise his own creativeness as well as transport him from his often mundane existence in Savannah, Georgia. It was a needed outlet, particularly because he lived alone and his friends were either caught up in their own lives, or just not interested enough to carry on a conversation that even approached interesting. Casey generally blamed himself for his dilemma, concluding that maybe Mike was right, and Casey should just forget about all the stuff that goes on in the news. After all, Mike surmised, there was nothing any of them, meaning your average citizen, could do about it. They had carried on that argument several times over a beer or a ride in his truck, but Susan’s call last night reinvigorated Casey and made him believe that maybe one person could make a difference. He subconsciously scolded himself for the cliché, but the fact that someone from an organization like the Intelligence Watch Group actually came to him for help was an unexpected boost to his normally subdued ego.

  Casey checked the comments on his most recent posting from Sunday about the loss of excitement in Atlanta Falcons football after Michael Vick’s incarceration for running an illegal dog-fighting ring. He argued that the Falcons’ front office showed a total lack of backbone for not rehiring perhaps the greatest quarterback of all time. Fearing a public relations disaster and fan exodus if they put a red jersey back on the former money-maker, led no doubt by members of PETA, the Falcons management was willing to sacrifice the playoffs and a possible shot at the Super Bowl for the feelings of a few squirrel-huggers. Casey fairly noted that the same timidity infected nearly every other team in the NFL, no matter how bad they needed the help. Michael Vick committed a crime. He paid his dues. Why punish him, and the fans for that matter, even more?

  There were three comments on this string, all from people he knew in high school. The sentiment was the same as each person lamented the upcoming football season even before it started. Casey moved the cursor to the left side of the screen and opened up the post about the Baltic Venture. Three new comments were added since he shut down his computer and went to bed last night. The first comment was from Mike.

  “Dude, you suck. You should be out here instead. We got three nests last night. And one of the teachers...smokin’!!! She’s a hot biology teacher from Dunwoody. She came to fill in for one of the geezers from her school who couldn’t make it because of her arthritis. I think she digs me. Later. Gonna work some Tunney voodoo on her when we’re out on patrol tonight.”

  Casey laughed. Mike knew Casey would check his blog for comments and chose to send the message to Casey by posting a comment to illustrate what Casey was missing by staying at home wi
th his computer instead of spending the week looking for nesting sea turtles. Mike always found a way to make the most of a bad situation, in this case an island full of Boy Scouts and old hags. It seemed luck never stopped shining on him. The second comment was from “anonymous,” an optional label left for people who didn’t want to be identified, or in Casey’s view, those who didn’t want to stand behind what they wrote.

  “Who is your source?” was all it asked. Casey looked at the time on the comment. Eight-thirty-three p.m. That would put it about an hour before he got a call from Susan Williams. Probably trying to get a response on the computer before she tracked down my number, he thought. He smiled, thinking about the trouble she must have gone through to find his phone number when he didn’t respond. He was watching the Braves, for God sake. He doesn’t spend all of his free time in front of the computer. The smile disappeared from his face when he read the next message.

  He looked around the room as if someone might be standing behind him. The only noise came from the not-quite muted television and Vince yelling at his ten-pound white Yorkie for urinating on a rose bush at the side of the driveway.

  “Back off.” Simple. Cryptic. Unexpected.

  Casey looked at the “anonymous” at the top of the comment. His mind ticked through a list of possible meanings to the comment and why someone would want him to back off. He assumed they meant the MV Baltic Venture story, but he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps it was a misplaced comment that was meant for one of his other postings. A ticked off PETA member upset with his views on giving Vick another chance? A city councilman who didn’t like the road Casey was taking with his argument a few weeks back that there was not enough being done to curb the rat population that seemed to be taking over the garbage dump on Wilmington Island? Possible, but not probable.

  Casey thought about Susan’s call. Maybe, like Ms. Williams, someone else thought Casey was on the right track with his theory about an illicit arms deal and Russia not wanting the deal to go through. Only, unlike Ms. Williams, this person did not want him to proceed on this line of reasoning. Why? He was only posting what he thought might be an explanation on a blog that no one paid attention to anyway. Casey corrected himself. Almost no one paid attention to his blog. Obviously some people had taken notice of his musings about the hijacking in the Baltic Sea. He finished his beer and went to the fridge for another one. Casey figured the answer to his question of why someone would want him to stop pursuing the story could be answered rather quickly if he had the answer to the question of who sent the comment.