Open Source

by Matthew Frick

  The sound of the oven’s buzzer brought Casey’s focus back to the task at hand. After covering a baking sheet in Pizza Rolls, Casey placed his soon-to-be-dinner in the oven and went to his computer to check the day’s e-mails. His virus protection software began its weekly scan, and Casey let out a frustrated sigh. The scan always slowed down the internet to almost unusable speed. He didn’t feel like waiting, so he double-clicked the icon in the bottom tray of his windows display to pause the scan.

  “Since I’m here...,” he said to himself and opened the British Broadcasting Corporation ticker from the start button next to the virus program symbol. Casey kept a running stream of the day’s headlines going across the top of his computer screen occasionally, particularly when he didn’t want to listen to the talking heads on the television news programs. It wasn’t exactly like getting the paper delivered to your doorstep every day, but Casey did enjoy reading the news. It was also helpful when he wanted to re-read the story. This way he didn’t have to wait until the next half-hour to catch something he missed because he went to the bathroom. His e-mail opened while he read the short tidbits the BBC determined were the most important to know that afternoon.

  Casey put his mouse pointer over the news bar to temporarily stop the stream. He wasn’t interested in reading about New Zealand’s rugby match against Australia, but he thought the next story in line merited a closer look. He clicked on the headline and a new window popped open on his screen with a piece about the unknown whereabouts of Israel’s Prime Minister. “Netanyahu Found in Russia,” was the headline. Casey scrolled down the page and read.

  “Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, whose official whereabouts last week were not made public, was apparently on a diplomatic trip to Russia. A source inside the Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs said today that the prime minister was in Moscow to meet with Russian President Dmitry Medvedev. According to the source, who wished to remain anonymous because he was not authorized to speak about the trip, the two world leaders discussed Iran’s efforts to obtain nuclear weapons.

  An official press release published in the Israeli daily Haaretz claimed Netanyahu was in Israel all last week visiting various military installations on a security inspection tour.

  The discrepancy in the reports of PM Netanyahu’s whereabouts seem unnecessary, and a trip to Moscow would not be unexpected. Israel has officially voiced its opposition to a nuclear armed Iran, and Russia is building a nuclear reactor for that country in Bushehr. Prime Minister Netanyahu was likely lobbying for a Russian vote against Iran just weeks before another round of high-level negotiations regarding Iran’s nuclear future are about to take place in Ankara, Turkey.”

  Casey couldn’t help thinking of “Where’s Waldo?” when he finished reading the article. He could buy that the Israeli government didn’t want to advertise the movements of their prime minister, for whatever reason. In today’s world, especially in that region, he didn’t blame them. But after the cat was out of the bag, assuming the leak from the Israeli foreign office was true, why cover it up with another story? He agreed with the author of the article that a meeting between Netanyahu and Medvedev wasn’t anything strange, given the upcoming nuke talks.

  “When are those talks?” Casey asked himself. He did a search on the internet and quickly found that the talks were to be held in Ankara, Turkey (check) to discuss the future of Iran’s efforts to join the international community of nuclear-powered nations (got that already). There. The talks were going to be held the last week of August, from the 28th to the 1st of September. Casey noted that those days excluded the Jewish and Islamic holy days of Saturday and Friday, respectively, but would conveniently start on a Sunday. He smiled at the thought of the political hand-wringing that went into that decision.

  Casey pulled a yellow legal pad from the plastic milk crate that served as a drawer to the table that served as a desk in the mismatched cube that served as a living room. He drew a rough five-by-seven grid and wrote a number in each box corresponding to a day of the month. A line covering Sunday the 31st of July through Saturday, August 6th, represented the time frame of Benjamin Netanyahu’s alleged trip to Russia. The report didn’t specify dates, so Casey penciled in the whole week. Another line marked the days of the scheduled P5+1 talks.

  Casey looked at his hastily constructed calendar and decided to add a couple of other labels. He logged into his blogsite and re-read the post he wrote about the MV Baltic Venture. In the margin at the top he wrote, “BV hijack 28 July.” In the block for the 4th of August he noted that the Baltic Venture was due to arrive in Algiers. On the 5th, he wrote, “RUS deploys ships.” He put his pencil down on the table and stared at the yellow calendar. The Israeli prime minister’s absence from the public eye was during the first week of August, the same week the Russians found out the ship was missing and sortied their fleet to find it.

  “What if both reports were right?” he said. Casey often talked to himself to not only break the silence in the room, but also to keep his vocal cords from atrophying. The dangers of living alone.

  Casey opened up a blank post in his blog and leaned over his computer to start typing.

  A Pirate(d) Ship: Revisited August 10th

  “A week ago I posted a story, and even more questions, about a ship hijacking in the Baltic Sea. At the end of the post I had one question that seemed to be a missing piece of the puzzle...one of them, anyway. I left it up to you, the readers, to try and come up with an answer for yourselves. This was done partly because I thought it would be interesting to see what answers people came up with, but mostly because I did not have an answer myself.

  A quick refresh: The MV Baltic Venture was hijacked 28 July on its way from Finland to Algeria after a stop in Kaliningrad, Russia. She was supposed to show up in Algiers on the 4th of August. When she didn’t make it, in fact, just one day after she missed her port call, the Russian Navy sent a group of warships to find the Baltic Venture and rescue her crew. The level of their response led me to postulate about the cargo the Baltic Venture is carrying.

  Now, that’s a pretty fast response even if, as I suggested, the ship was carrying some military cargo that wasn’t for sale. The question I posed was, ‘who told them?’ Meaning: who told the Russians that someone stole some of their military goods and was trying to smuggle them out on a Finnish freighter?

  I was at a loss for an explanation until today.

  The answer: the Israelis.

  ‘What?!’ you’re probably saying right now, among other choice vernacular that I can’t print or I would risk the end of ‘Middle-Truths.’

  Let me explain. Last week, the same week the Russian fleet set sail for the Atlantic in search of the MV Baltic Venture, Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu went on a trip. Two trips, actually.

  The first was a hush-hush rock star tour of Israeli military facilities. The second was...you guessed it...Moscow. The second trip was not supposed to be known by the general public, probably ever. The first was done to provide a truthful cover for the second should the general public ever find about Trip #2, which they did. Today.

  What do you think old Ben Netanyahu and Dmitry Medvedev talked about over a few vodkas?

  Bingo! You guys are good.

  That’s right, they talked about stolen missiles, or whatever it is on the Baltic Venture. The leaked report to the press that tipped off the world to Netanyahu’s visit to Russia said the two men talked about Russia’s part in the approval of Iran’s nuclear ambitions. I bet they talked about that. Israel doesn’t want Iran to have even the remote chance of ever, I mean EVER getting a nuclear weapon, let alone the ability to produce multiple nuclear warheads to fit neatly inside the nose of a Shahab III or Ghadr-110 ballistic missile to be gift-wrapped and delivered to Tel Aviv after synagogue services let out some Saturday morning. Of course Israel would want to influence Russia somehow since the Russians are building Iran’s reactors, well some of them anyway.

  But what does Israel have
to offer Russia? Not much, truthfully. When Israeli Intelligence found out about the shipment (heading for Iran, perhaps?), the Israelis saw their opening and went to tell Dmitry. But in the game of give-and-take diplomacy, you can bet Bibi didn’t tell the Russian anything without first getting an agreement that Russia would stop helping Iran in the nuclear field. Makes sense to me.

  The question we have to ask ourselves now is: will the Russians live up to their promise? Will they stop helping Iran? I suppose we will have to wait and see. After all, the pirates still have the Baltic Venture. And the Russians are still keeping quiet about the cargo. And I’m the only one publishing the true story (that’s right folks, you’re reading an Exclusive!).

  So now we must take a deep breath and take stock of what we know here at Middle-Truths:

  1. Baltic Venture is carrying stolen Russian military equipment.

  2. Baltic Venture was captured by pirates who have yet to make any demands.

  3. Israel told Russia about the stolen military equipment.

  4. Russian warships are trying to find the Baltic Venture and get the cargo back.

  Of these four truths, which one still leaves something unanswered? Yep, the second part of number two. What do the pirates want? Perhaps a more apt question is, who are the pirates? We’ll think about that one a little bit, and as soon as I come up with the answer, or as close to the answer as I can, I’ll let you know.

  Until then, Fair Winds and Following Seas.”

  The oven’s buzzer sounded again, this time informing Casey that his dinner was ready. “Just in time,” he said, and he logged off of his blogspot and went into the kitchen to retrieve his piping-hot pizza-flavored grease packets.

  Chapter 11

  Southwestern Algeria

  Sofiane Belmokhtari had been walking for three days. When the driver reached Bir Moghrein and the end of any real semblance of a highway system in northwest Mauritania, the Algerian was on his own. He tried to do most of his traveling at night and during the early morning hours before the sun was too high and the heat too oppressive. Still, he was tired. He removed one of the canteens from his pack and wet his lips. That was all he would allow himself. Sofiane had come a long way, but he knew this, the final part of his journey, was only just beginning. He was thankful the ground beneath his sore, sandaled feet was solid. In a few days he would be praying for firm soil to replace the shifting sands of the Sahara that would test his resolve if it didn’t kill him first.

  Sofiane wished there was another way, but that wasn’t his decision. He was told to avoid populations as much as possible. His entry into the city was already arranged to gain no attention, and the Algerian did what he was told. What choice did he have? His path had been chosen for him years ago. Chosen by Allah?

  No. Sofiane blocked the thought from his head. That was the reasoning of the non-believer or apostate—that every man’s actions were ordained from above. It was not the thought of a true Muslim. “Inshallah,” God-willing. He hated that word. It was a word used by others to oppress. “It was Allah’s will that your family should be taken from you,” they had told him. “They are in Paradise now,” they said. That may be so, but Allah did not will that soldier to drink enough alcohol to fell a horse. It was not Allah’s will that the drunk devil gunned down his wife and two beautiful children as they returned from the market. And it wasn’t Allah that sent him on this journey, though that’s what he’d been told. He acquiesced because it gave him the opportunity for redemption—a chance to take from those who had taken so much from him. The road Sofiane walked was not paved in divine will. It was paved in blood.

  It would end in blood.

  The sun began to rise low in the east. He couldn’t see it yet, but the air was already beginning to thicken. Each breath Sofiane took was a little more difficult than the last. He could make out the horizon, but nothing else, just a faint distinction between earth and sky that meant another night had passed and sleep was soon to follow.

  The Algerian looked for a low spot to settle down in. The wind was from the north, so he looked for the southerly base of a dune or a rock—anything that would shield him from the rain of sand that came with every gust. He couldn’t see much yet, but he could hear something. A man’s voice?

  Sofiane stopped and concentrated, trying to discern the direction of the sound. Anxiety took over his body, and for the moment, sleep gave way to safety as his primary concern. He crouched low as the rising sun threatened to reveal his position. The voice grew louder. It was getting nearer.

  Sofiane listened intently to the sing-song rhythm of the voice to his left. He tensed as he heard a guttural moan, followed by another. He chanced detection and craned his neck for a glimpse of the source of the noise.

  A man, shorter than Sofiane, it appeared, walked behind six, no, seven camels. He called to the beasts in a gentle but firm voice, keeping them moving ahead. A camel herder. Sofiane relaxed and slowly stood up. He raised a hand in greeting to the herder who stopped, startled by the sight of another person, kilometers from the nearest town.

  “Greetings,” Sofiane tried to say, though the raspiness of his throat and the dryness of his mouth prevented anything but an unintelligible grunt from coming out. Sofiane realized that he had not talked to another human being in days and swallowed hard before attempting another salutation.

  “Hello,” he managed. The other man called his herd to a stop and just stared at Sofiane. Without waiting for a response, which he was not sure was coming, Sofiane spoke again.

  “Hello, friend. I did not expect to see anyone on my journey.”

  “Nor I,” the other man said.

  “I am Sofiane.”

  No reply.

  “Is there a village nearby?” Sofiane asked. “A place where I may find shelter until nightfall? I have been traveling for some time now and would like nothing more than to rest under the shade of a roof or tree.”

  The camel herder eyed Sofiane with suspicion. He looked at the Algerian’s dusty tunic, dirt-covered turban, and blood-caked sandals. The man was obviously from the north, the herder surmised. Sofiane’s accent tagged him as a Moor from the Mediterranean. The rugged black case tied to Sofiane’s pack seemed out of place, the herder thought, but otherwise the Moor did not appear to be a threat.

  “There is no village for forty-three kilometers,” he answered.

  Sofiane’s heart sank. For a brief moment he let a ray of hope shine in the front of his thoughts—hope for a single day of uninterrupted sleep, away from the sand. His gaze fell to his feet as the weight of the travels ahead crashed heavy on his shoulders.

  “There is no village, but my house is just over there,” the camel man said, pointing over Sofiane’s shoulder to the east. “You may come and rest behind the stable. And wash your feet and face,” he added with a nod.

  Sofiane’s face lit up, and a smile came to him for the first time since he could remember. “Thank you, brother. May Allah bless you for your kindness.”

  “Follow me,” the man said as he called again for his herd to move out. Sofiane followed and did not say another word of thanks. He didn’t want to insult the man. For the entire trek, all he could think of was sleep.

  Sofiane woke just before sunset. The smell of cooking lamb invaded his nostrils and triggered a volcanic rumbling in his stomach. When they reached the camel herder’s home that morning, Sofiane washed the dust and sand from his face and hair and rinsed his feet and arms. After shaking out his turban, he settled in the shade behind the stable, away from the animals. He slept for almost nine hours.

  After wrapping the turban on his head and donning his sandals, Sofiane approached the small fire pit where the camel herder was searing meat and warming bread.

  “As-Salamu ‘Alaykum,” he said when the herder looked up and acknowledged his guest.

  “Wa ‘Alaykum as-Salaam. Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you,” replied Sofiane as he took a seat on the rug laid out before the fire. He e
yed the food hungrily, though he tried not to let his hunger show. He did not want to seem like he was being greedy with his host’s generous hospitality.

  “Here,” said the camel herder, and he placed a piece of lamb from the cooking pan onto a plate that was already occupied by loaves of flatbread. He handed the plate to Sofiane who gave his thanks and quickly began devouring the meat.

  “Be sure to take this naan with you when you leave. You will need it.” He set a small package of bread wrapped in paper and secured with twine at Sofiane’s feet. It was the size of a small, one-speaker radio/cassette player like the one Sofiane kept on the dashboard of his taxi. The taxi he used to drive, he thought. His life driving tourists and businessmen around Algiers was only a distant memory to him now. So much had changed.

  Sofiane silently thanked Allah for this man’s kindness while he ate. He knew he would most likely not have the good fortune of the sleep and food the herder provided until he reached his destination. By then, he thought, it won’t matter.

  Chapter 12

  Savannah, Georgia

  Casey pulled into the A-1 Storage facility at precisely 4:40 a.m. He changed vehicles and moved the Vandura in front of his rented garage to load up for the day’s vending run. The sun wouldn’t begin coming up for at least another hour and a half. The only light in the complex came from strategically placed flood lights along each building that housed the garages. The only movement was from Casey. And the occasional rat bolting for the next patch of darkness. Casey kept a series of traps in his garage in case the rats managed to find their way to the smorgasbord of junk food housed inside.