Truth in Hiding

by Matthew Frick

  Casey thought for a minute and said, “Nobody cared what he said about Swanson killing Prince, because Prince was cremated and gone before anyone could say anything about it.”

  “Right, but there’s plenty of physical evidence left from the three bombs,” Giordano said. “If the right person was interested enough, all that shit is on file, and maybe they could start making connections to back up Clawson’s accusations.”

  “But you couldn’t get access to anything, and you work at the JTTF,” Casey said.

  “Only for six more months when my rotation ends,” Giordano said. “And anyway, I’m not the right person.”

  “Then who is?”

  “Hell if I know,” Giordano said. “But the point is, someone was afraid the wrong people might start listening to Clawson, so they shut him up. Permanently.”

  “And you think Swanson might have something to do with that?” Casey asked.

  “Or The Council,” Giordano said, going exactly where Casey thought he was going. “And that’s the other reason I wanted to talk to you. Has your professor friend found out any more information about The Council? A name we could investigate, even?”

  Casey didn’t expect that question. He hadn’t talked to Dr. Davood Raad in over two years. Ever since Raad first told him about The Council, things had not gone well—meaning Casey was witness to one guy getting smeared across a New York street by a dump truck, the aforementioned assassination attempt, and he and Susan Williams were held at gunpoint before a hidden sniper’s bullet punched a hole in the would-be executioner’s head through the window of Casey’s apartment. That was all within about a week. Through all of it, Casey was only able to confirm the existence of The Council through innuendo and hearsay. And everyone Casey suspected of being a member of The Council, or at least having firsthand knowledge of it, were either dead or out of Casey’s reach.

  “I haven’t talked to the guy since I told him about Keith Swanson and Mitchell Evans,” Casey said. “Truthfully, I thought The Council dialed back their activity after the bombing. Especially since they spent so much effort to clean up the mess.”

  “Well, we still haven’t proved that,” Giordano said.

  “Nothing else on Evans?” Casey asked.

  “Just the body in your apartment,” Giordano said. “In fact, the Evans murder was moved to the ‘unsolved’ case file eighteen months ago. Problem is, we can’t find shit on who the guy was to begin with, and nobody cares enough about him to keep the case open.”

  “So we’ve had nothing new on The Council since Clawson’s trial,” Casey said.

  “Not until this morning,” Giordano said. He could tell Casey was interested, but he needed him to be a hundred percent onboard, or they ran the risk of letting The Council slip through their fingers again—maybe for good. “Look, man. You sold me on this Council business after the bombing, and I haven’t stopped trying to finger the assholes who were responsible. You know what I’m up against. I’ve been shut down at every level from pursuing this angle, but the dust has settled. I think this may be our chance to bring the whole fucking thing down.”

  Casey looked at his watch, and confirmed he was already five minutes beyond the thirty-minute pass Jim gave him—reminding him of Jim’s warning. But Giordano was right. There hadn’t been anything either of them could find that smelled of The Council’s involvement until Greg Clawson’s death. “What do you need me to do?” Casey asked.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Giordano beamed—as much as a man dedicated to finding those responsible for injuring his wife and killing his unborn son could beam. “I just need you to find your professor friend and try to get me some names that are tied to The Council. If I can make a connection between any of those names and the people being questioned in the investigation of Clawson’s death, we might get that break we’ve been looking for.”

  “Will they let you do that?” Casey asked. “I mean, start digging around the Clawson investigation?”

  “I’m just a cop interested in the death of someone I helped put away,” Giordano said. “Nobody’s gonna question that....If we do this fast, anyway.”

  Casey agreed to help, and he descended the stairs back to the train.

  Casey finished jotting the address down and hung up the phone, stuffing the paper in his wallet for safekeeping. As soon as he returned to the office, Casey called the Jennings Institute where Dr. Davood Raad, noted author and critic of the Iranian government, was working as a visiting scholar and advisor to the prestigious think tank. When the receptionist at the institute informed him that Dr. Raad was no longer with them, Casey asked to speak to Dr. Eitan Brackmann. Dr. Brackmann had been the link, through Oscar Horstein, that led to Raad and Casey’s introduction—when Casey first learned of The Council. Brackmann told Casey that Raad was still working for the Jennings Institute, but that he was in D.C., working from the institute’s office there and giving lectures at some of the local universities.

  As soon as Casey heard of Dr. Raad’s absence, a knot formed in his stomach. Paul Giordano had stressed the need to get information as quickly as possible if he was going to be able to look for something connected to Greg Clawson’s death without raising suspicion. Raad would only discuss the The Council in person, and that wasn’t going to happen as long as Casey was in New York and Raad was in D.C. The drive was easy enough...

  “There you are.”

  ...but Casey had other issues to address first.

  “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Susan said as she walked into Casey’s cubicle. “Dan said he’ll give us a thirty-minute crash course in planning at one thirty, but I figured we can at least get together and brainstorm first. Maybe if we already have some ideas on paper, things will go a little quicker.” She sat down in the other chair in Casey’s cubicle and put the end of a pen cap in her mouth.

  Casey stared at Susan without saying a word. He watched her write a heading on the steno pad in her lap, underlining it to separate it from the notes she planned on taking once the brainstorming started. His eyes were repeatedly drawn to the very large, very shiny diamond on her left hand. Casey couldn’t recall ever seeing it before. In fact, Susan never wore jewelry. He knew that much about her after four and a half years and two failed attempts at an intimate relationship. No, he definitely hadn’t seen it before, and a diamond ring like that only meant one thing.

  “Dylan asked me to marry him last night,” Susan said after she surmised the reason for Casey’s prolonged silence.

  Casey refocused with Susan’s declaration, and he sat down. He wasn’t even aware that he’d been standing ever since Susan walked in. “Congratulations,” he said. It sounded as insincere out loud as it did in his head.

  The smile on Susan’s face that grew from her memory of the night before faded with Casey’s statement. “Come on, Casey,” she said. “Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what? I’m happy for you. Really.”

  Susan put the cap back on her pen and closed her notepad. “Casey, I’m sorry things didn’t work out between us, but it didn’t, all right? We’ve been through this before,” she said. “And don’t tell me you didn’t know this day was coming.”

  Casey felt Susan’s admonishing glare before he looked at her eyes and confirmed it. “I know,” he admitted. “It’s just...it’s just that,” he said, waving towards Susan’s hand. “I mean, that’s for real. It’s not talk anymore.”

  “Talk?” Susan asked. “Dylan and I have been dating for two years, Casey. We decided we wanted this six months ago. We were just waiting for the right time. When he knew he wouldn’t have to deploy anytime soon.”

  Casey’s eyes dropped to Susan’s midsection. “Six months?”

  “I’m not pregnant!”

  Casey jumped slightly at Susan’s exclamation. His face reddened. “I didn’t mean....”

  “But that’s what you were thinking,” Susan interjected. “Look, Casey, I’m sorry things didn’t work out between us that way,
but it just wasn’t meant to be. It’s different with Dylan. It was different from the first time I met him.”

  Casey knew Susan was right. The times when he and Susan “dated” were born out of life-threatening circumstances. They became comforts to each other—someone the other could talk to about their shared experiences. But each time, the natural healing process overcame any amorous feelings they had for each other, and their relationship drifted back to platonic. Casey was glad their friendship endured, but after Susan became involved with Dylan Lawrence, “The Man with Two First Names,” Casey’s own loneliness and lack of romantic companionship needled at his psyche—a feeling he hadn’t experienced since Jennifer left Savannah. Decades ago, he thought. Though since he was only thirty-five years old, he knew it was a bit of an exaggeration.

  “I’m sorry,” Casey said. “I didn’t mean to imply that I hoped we could’ve got back together. I knew that wasn’t going to happen.”

  “Then what is it?” Susan asked.

  Casey looked at the floor and said, “I guess I’m just jealous, that’s all.”

  “But that’s...”

  “Not jealous of Dylan,” Casey interrupted. “Jealous of both of you. Together.”

  Susan’s eyes showed her confusion.

  Casey sighed. He looked around the cubicle and at the fluorescent lights above. “I still have this,” he said, leveling his eyes on Susan and smiling to try and lighten the mood.

  Susan leaned forward, understanding. “Casey, you’re not losing me. You’re still one of the best friends I’ve got, and I still need you. Being married doesn’t mean I’m shutting the door on everyone else in my life.”

  “Including me,” Casey said, embarrassed by his adolescent anxiety.

  “Especially you.” Susan patted Casey’s knee and stood to leave.

  Casey looked up at Susan. “Since y’all will be moving in together and consolidating the stuff you both have, can I have your silverware?”

  Susan laughed and shook her head. “We’re going to use that silverware.” She started walking away and paused at the cubicle entrance. “So, one thirty? Will you be able to make it?”

  “What? Oh, Dan’s thing,” Casey said. “Sure. I’ll be there.”

  Susan tapped the cubicle wall and headed for her own space.

  “Can I have Dylan’s silverware?” Casey yelled.

  “One thirty!” came the distant reply from somewhere out in cubeville.

  Casey shrugged and stared at the map of Iran pinned to the cubicle wall Susan had just been standing beside. Circles of different colors surrounded the names of various cities—Bushehr, Natanz, Isfahan, Parchin, and others. Each city had some role in Iran’s nuclear program ranging from research to uranium enrichment to the heavy water reactor at Arak. Casey found a pencil on his desk and put a light oval around the area labeled “Dasht-e Kavir.”

  He stood back and looked at the map. At least I have this, he thought. Susan’s visit just made Casey’s decision that much easier.

  Chapter 6

  Washington, D.C.

  The secretary of Defense removed his reading glasses and looked to the general seated next to him for affirmation. With all eyes on him, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff nodded. No one in the White House situation room said anything. Each person knew the importance of the early morning meeting, and they waited for their boss to respond first.

  The president of the United States sat up straight and put his elbows on the table. He continued to look down at the briefing notes in front of him and addressed the defense secretary directly, though his words were meant for everyone. “A direct assault is out of the question,” he said. “We’re trying to get our folks out of the region, not sign them up for another decade of fighting.”

  The Thursday morning gathering of the president’s closest advisors was just the latest of a series of emergency sessions since they learned of Iran’s nuclear test just forty-eight hours earlier. Along with the SecDef and CJCS, the vice president, secretary of State, national security advisor, White House chief of staff, and deputy national security advisor were all in attendance. They were tasked with bringing the president options for dealing with Iran and the redline set by the U.S. which the world knew had now been crossed—all options.

  The initial presentation came from SecState, who backed harder sanctions on Iran, along with unfettered use of drones within Iranian airspace for intelligence gathering, and if needed, “surgical” strikes against some of the soft targets identified as crucial to the Iranian nuclear program. When asked what those targets might be, the secretary was unprepared to answer, and he suggested that the director of National Intelligence should have probably been in attendance to give his assessment.

  The president dismissed SecState’s semi-diplomatic solution as a “kick the can down the road” option, and he asked the SecDef for his opinion. What the secretary laid out were updated versions of operational plans from the Cold War that had been dusted off in a frantic attempt to come up with a viable campaign against arguably the Middle East’s most powerful military. The numbers he gave the president were not pleasant—too many casualties, too much money, and too much time. Despite all options being on the table, as the administration repeatedly claimed, a conventional fight with carrier-borne airstrikes, an amphibious assault, long-range bombers, and tens of thousands of U.S. troops on the ground was committing political suicide for anyone who backed it and would break the country’s slowly recovering economy in just a few short years.

  “Out of the question,” the president repeated. “So what other options do we have?” He looked around the table for any takers. “Anyone?”

  “We could do nothing,” came from the end of the table farthest away. Everyone turned to get a better look at Scott Parker, the deputy national security advisor.

  “Nothing?” the president asked with wrinkles of incredulity simultaneously appearing on his forehead.

  “Condemn them publicly, sure, but let someone else do the dirty work. Like Israel,” Parker said. “Maybe our best play is just to back them up in private while they attack Iran. We only come in when Israel needs our help—which is what everyone expects, anyway.”

  “Leo?” the president asked, wanting to hear what Leo Ambrosi, the national security advisor and Scott Parker’s immediate supervisor, had to say.

  “Sir, Scott just mentioned an option that’s been bandied about around here for months,” Ambrosi said, “but it’s not something I would recommend.”

  “Why not?” the president asked.

  Ambrosi purposely avoided turning to his left where he could feel Parker’s damning gaze boring into the back of his head. “Well, for one, sir, if we give Israel the green light on this one, the corollary that Scott mentioned is inevitable. We will be in a full-blown military confrontation with Iran before the end of the year, guaranteed. If you want to avoid getting us into another war over there, keep Israel out of it.”

  The president looked at Parker and said, “I appreciate your input, Scott, but Leo’s right. We need to do everything we can to keep Israel’s leash tight right now.”

  “I’m meeting the Israeli ambassador on Sunday, Mr. President,” the White House chief of staff, Kurt Vanek, said. “I’ll be sure to relay that message.”

  “Well, wait ‘til you hear from me for talking points,” the president said. “I’m calling Netanyahu in a couple of hours, and I want to make sure we’re conveying the same message.”

  “And that message is?” SecState prodded.

  The president glanced at Scott Parker before turning to his right. “We do nothing.”

  “Shut the door,” Ambrosi said as Scott Parker followed him into his office in the West Wing.

  Parker sat down in one of the antique chairs in front of Ambrosi’s desk. “What is it?”

  Ambrosi sat and stared at his deputy. “What were you thinking? ‘Do nothing.’ What kind of advice is that?” he asked.

  Parker didn’t answer.

>   “You are the deputy assistant to the president for national security affairs,” Ambrosi said. “When the president asks for options, you don’t just tell him to sit on his hands. We are here at his leisure. If you want to stay in this job for long, give him advice he can use.”

  Parker returned Ambrosi’s stare with an equally stern countenance. “I told the president what I thought he should do in this situation, and in case you didn’t notice, he took that advice.”

  “Some of it,” Ambrosi said.

  “Okay, so he’s not going to unleash the hounds. But he’s not going to commit the U.S. to any kind of violent response, either. And isn’t that the part you’re bitching about?” Parker asked.

  Ambrosi gave in, dropping his gaze. He pulled a paper from under the pile on the center of his desk, moving it to the top and said, “Fair enough. Look, you told him what you think. I’m only saying that you need to work on your delivery. Don’t forget that you’re talking to the most powerful man on earth when you’re in there. And like him or not, he deserves our respect.”

  Parker smiled. “I like the man fine,” he said. “President or not, he still puts his socks on one foot at a time. And I’m sorry I don’t have the polished Ivy League delivery you’re used to, but he also deserves to hear things straight. That’s respect.”

  “I don’t mean to imply that you should hide anything or throw softballs,” Ambrosi said, “but a little less candor next time, all right? You’ve got a lot you can offer this administration and this country, and I don’t want to see you get canned after only two months on the job.”

  Parker raised his hands. “Okay. I give up,” he said. “I’ll work on it.”