“Thank you.”
“Can I go now?” Parker asked.
“Please,” Ambrosi said, motioning to the door. “I need you to get in touch with someone from Bill Cogburn’s staff and make sure the senator’s not thinking of jumping the gun on this one and committing us to anything before the president does,” he added, primarily because he needed Parker to do just that, but also because he wanted to remind Parker that he was the deputy national security advisor, and Ambrosi was still in charge.
“No problem,” Parker said as he left the room. In a parting act of petty defiance, he left the door open.
Chapter 7
New York City
On Thursday, Casey knocked on Jim Shelton’s door as he opened it. Jim was hunched over his desk carefully reading through one of the many reports he received each day, but he looked up at the interruption. “Sir, could I bother you for a minute?” Casey asked.
“Since you’re already bothering me, why not?” Jim said. “What is it?” he asked as he sat up in his high-back leather chair.
“I want to go to D.C.” Casey said.
“Okay,” Jim said. “When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir,” Casey said. He sensed Jim’s reluctance, and he had planned for that inevitability. “I want to consult someone with their pulse on the Iranian street to find out what public reaction to the nuclear test is really like there,” he explained before Jim could say anything. “He used to work for the regime, and I can also get his assessment of how Iran might try to leverage their nuclear capability in the region.”
“What about the project I assigned all of you yesterday?” Jim asked.
“This trip is for that project,” Casey said. “Plus, I front-loaded the rest of the group with my input yesterday to help get things started.”
“And to clear the way for your research trip,” Jim said, voicing what he suspected was the ulterior motive for Casey’s apparently proactive input to the operational planning exercise.
Casey didn’t deny it. “Sir, look, if he was here in New York, I wouldn’t be asking to go,” he said. “I’ll even take leave. You can call it a vacation. But if we want his assessment of the situation, I have to go meet him in person.”
“Because he won’t talk to you over the phone or through email,” Jim said.
Casey nodded.
Jim sighed audibly. “You’re going to see Dr. Raad, aren’t you?” he asked.
Most likely, Jim had no idea Davood Raad had even left New York, let alone set up shop in D.C. But Jim was a smart guy, and Casey knew it wouldn’t take him long to surmise that Raad was Casey’s Iran connection. And Jim didn’t like Raad.
“You’re not planning to go there on a Council hunt, are you?” Jim asked. Before Casey could answer, Jim added, “I know what Raad asked you to do, but don’t forget you almost took a bullet because of your digging.”
Two bullets, Casey thought. “I know, sir,” he said. “I was lucky.”
“But you don’t deny that you intend to talk to Raad about The Council,” Jim said.
“No, Your Honor,” Casey said.
Jim smiled and shook his head. “Alright, point taken,” he said. “But I’m serious about The Council, Casey. I warned you off of them before, and I’m saying it again. You don’t want to keep sticking your nose in their business—especially in D.C. That’s like walking into the lion’s den, and the only thing that’ll come from you asking too many questions is your picture on the evening news when they drag your body out of the Potomac.”
This time, Casey smiled. “I’ll be careful, sir. I promise, I’m really going to ask Dr. Raad about the Iran nuke thing. If The Council comes up, there’s nothing else I can give him,” Casey said. “My only lead was through the bombings, and now Greg Clawson’s dead, Simpson’s dead, Evans is dead, Prince and Ward are dead....It’s a dead end.”
Jim thought for a minute, contemplating Casey’s sincerity. He finally looked down at the open calendar on his desk. “How long do you plan on being gone?”
Yes! Casey thought. He wasn’t sure Jim would agree to let him go when he walked in the room, but it was starting to look good. “Five days,” Casey said. “That’s only three working days.”
“Five days to talk to Raad?” Jim asked.
“I’m gonna go visit my grandfather when I’m there,” Casey said.
“I didn’t know your grandfather lived in D.C.”
“Arlington,” Casey said softly. “He’s buried there.”
Jim nodded his head. That was how he always seemed to learn a little more about Casey’s background—when he least expected it. He waited until Casey made eye contact again. “You’ll be back on Wednesday?”
“Yes, sir,” Casey said. “Well, I’ll be back in New York on Tuesday, but I was going to come back to work on Wednesday.” He watched Jim anxiously, noting that his boss hadn’t agreed to let him go yet.
Jim jotted down the dates in his calendar. “And the group’s okay with you leaving?”
Casey felt victory slipping from his grasp. “I haven’t told them yet,” he said.
Jim put down his pen. “Were you going to?”
“I was going to see Susan right after this,” Casey said. “I mean, if you approved it.”
Jim glanced at the clock on his desk to confirm that he still had time to get more coffee before he had to meet Doc Borglund for the weekly data dump he gave the IWG CEO. “I’ll approve it,” Jim said, “but it’s gotta be charged as PTO.”
“No problem, sir,” Casey said. He had a year’s worth of personal time off that he had to use before October, anyway, or he’d lose it—like usual.
“I can’t justify letting you go on company time...even to visit your grandfather’s grave,” Jim said.
“Sir, that’s just a side trip,” Casey said. “I told you, I’m...”
“...going to see Raad,” Jim said, finishing Casey’s sentence. “I know. But if there’s an off-chance that you go sniffing around The Council outside of a conversation in Raad’s office, IWG’s not paying for that, either.”
Casey got the message. Jim wasn’t buying his story of dropping his extracurricular investigation. Not completely, anyway. But Casey had been telling Jim the truth. He had no intention of talking to anyone about The Council besides Davood Raad. And in that case, it was only to get a name or two that Paul Giordano might be able to use. Giordano was the detective, after all, not Casey—a fact Jim had reminded him of repeatedly.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Casey said. He stood up and thanked Jim, adding on his way out, “I won’t go looking for any trouble down there, I swear.”
Jim watched as Casey left the office. But trouble always seems to find you, Mr. Shenk.
Casey stopped outside of Susan’s cubicle, halted by the ear-splitting cackling unimpeded by the six-foot “walls” that separated one IWG employee’s workspace from another. Casey eavesdropped, but it only took him a second before he learned what the ruckus was all about.
“Honey, that is beautiful,” Sharon from the records division said.
“It must have cost a fortune,” Deb from the policy office observed.
“You did good, girlfriend,” added Wanda from finance.
Casey could only take so much, and he broke up the coven. “Mornin’, ladies,” he said as he walked in. All heads turned to identify the interloper. Casey dismissed their stares and looked directly at Susan. “Could I talk to you for a second?” he asked.
“Sure,” Susan said. The other women took the hint and said their goodbyes, commenting on the various work they still had to do before lunch as they left, whether or not it was true.
After quiet had returned to that corner of the building, Casey sat down. His eyes involuntarily drifted to the engagement ring on Susan’s hand that had been the cause of the commotion. He caught himself, embarrassed, when Susan pulled the sleeve of her sweater further down her arm. She couldn’t hide the ring, but Casey u
nderstood the gesture—we’re not talking about this anymore.
“What is it?” Susan asked.
“I’m going to D.C. tomorrow,” Casey said. He saw a look of concern on Susan’s face, and he added, “Just for five days.”
Susan relaxed. “What for?” she asked. Before Casey could answer, she tensed up again. “Wait a minute. We still need your help on the Iran reactions project.”
“I know,” Casey said. “That’s part of the reason I’m going.”
“The Pentagon?” she asked, thinking maybe Casey had a connection there from his time in the Navy.
Casey knew Susan wouldn’t like the answer, but he didn’t have a good reason for keeping it a secret—not from her. “No, I’m going there to see Dr. Raad,” he said.
Susan put her forehead in the palm of her hand and closed her eyes. “How is he going to help us?”
Casey gave Susan the same explanation he gave Jim a few minutes earlier. He hoped her reaction would be different, but in reality, he suspected it would be worse.
“Why the fuck are you still messing with The Council?” she asked. “How many people have to die before you throw in the towel, Casey?”
He was right. Susan’s reaction was worse. Casey’s hobby of analyzing obscure or underreported news items and posting his theories on the true story behind larger world events based on the connections he made had put not only his life in danger, but Susan’s as well—on more than one occasion. Shortly after he wrote The Complicity Doctrine theory on his “Middle-Truths” blog, Casey was introduced to Dr. Davood Raad. Raad had been an advisor to Prime Minister Mousavi of Iran in the Eighties when he first learned of The Council, and after hearing Casey’s theory following the Manhattan bombings, Raad told him everything he knew about the group.
Shrouded in secrecy, The Council lived in the realm of conspiracy theorists worldwide. After World War II, a group of businessmen, academics, politicians, and military leaders in the United States came together to map out a plan for a new world that would be shaped by American ideals. With no intention of trying to commit their country to ruling an American empire, they focused on ways to influence countries around the globe to accept the United States as the undisputed world leader. They envisioned a world of willful followers who would choose America’s example as the one to emulate. The method preferred by The Council to achieve its goal was manipulation, both political and economic—recognition of the inseparable nature of the two.
When The Council decided to add military manipulation to that list, things began to change. The Iran-Contra hearings brought to light The Council’s first foray into the world of providing arms to groups fighting wars whose outcome they wanted to dictate. History and congressional records provide evidence to how well that went. The Council escaped discovery and public incrimination, but the conspiracies were bolstered, and mere Cold War rumor began to gain more traction in Washington and elsewhere, forcing the group to downsize and reassess its tactics. Things changed yet again on September 11, 2001.
The effect al Qa’ida’s attack had on The Council was two-fold. First, the group became committed to the use of violence as a tool to achieving the manipulation required to attain their goals. And second, they had the top cover to do it. While certainly not the intent, the passing of laws such as the Patriot Act, and the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq made it easier for The Council to push its agenda using the material support of the United States without showing its hand. It was at this point where Casey’s Complicity Doctrine caught the attention of Davood Raad, and he elicited Casey’s help to identify members of the group with the intent of ultimately taking down the clandestine organization.
It was Casey’s acquiescence that placed him and Susan in front of a loaded gun before Mitchell Evans’ life was ended by an unknown assassin. The close call was enough to illicit Susan’s vehement insistence that Casey drop any and all investigations into The Council, but Casey wasn’t as easily deterred. “I haven’t even touched The Council since Greg Clawson was sentenced,” he said. “But his suicide is just too convenient to ignore. Besides, I’m only passing the information to Raad. What he does with it is his business.”
“That’s all?” Susan asked with a tilt of her head.
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
Susan’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “Exposing The Council isn’t your job,” she said. “Ever since you met Raad, you’ve been obsessed with it, Casey.”
“Bullshit.”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t been,” Susan said. “You may have pushed it to the background, behind your other work at IWG, but you can’t deny you’ve tried to tie everything you could to The Council every chance you got. Hell, you’re not even sure they exist.”
“Of course they exist,” Casey said loudly. “The Council almost killed you, too. Remember?”
“It was one guy, Casey,” Susan said. “And yes, I remember. He was shot right in front of me. But he’s dead. Just like you and I were almost dead.” Her voice got progressively louder. “Is that what want? You want these guys to kill you just to prove they exist?”
“That’s not...”
“I’m not finished,” Susan barked. “Is it worth it, Casey? So what if The Council exists. If they’re as connected as you say they are, what does it matter if you find out who they are? If they’re that big, they’ll just keep doing what they’re doing, and you’ll be dead.” She leaned forward and said, “You don’t always have to be right, you know.”
“It’s not about me being right,” Casey said as he stood up to leave. “It’s about finding the truth.”
Chapter 8
Washington, D.C.
Howard C. Shenk, MSG, US Army, World War II. Casey ran his hand over the top of his grandfather’s gravestone. Now more gray than white, the marker seemed on the verge of being overtaken by the newer marble additions to Arlington National Cemetery—the final resting places of those killed in action during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. He stood up and looked east through the trees with a view of the Pentagon below. Casey had never been to Arlington before, and it was the first time he had a chance to talk to the man who died when Casey was just six years old but who had nevertheless been a strong influence on him growing up.
Most of what Casey knew about Master Sergeant Shenk came from stories his father and grandmother told. Fearless, kind, and smart-as-a-whip was how his grandmother described him. Casey’s father painted the picture of a stern disciplinarian who would do anything for his children, but would not hesitate to let them face the consequences if they ran afoul of the authorities, be it the law, school, or otherwise. The one intolerable crime in the Shenk household was lying. Howard Shenk believed the measure of a man’s character was in his ability to tell the truth without regard for the potential consequences, and Casey’s father continued that teaching in his own family.
Casey tried to live up to the expectations of his father and grandfather, though his realist view of life sometimes got in the way. On a higher level, though, his reverence for the truth translated into a vehement loathing of sinsiter falsehood. At first it was limited to lies that affected him personally, but it wasn’t long before Casey learned deception and misdirection could be just as bad, if not worse than outright lies. It angered him more when those deceptions were perpetrated by people in positions of trust, whose decisions and actions affected those who put them there in the first place, and even those who had no say in the matter.
On the drive down from New York, Casey thought a lot about what Susan said. In one sense, she was right. Casey was trying to find any angle he could that would help expose The Council. But he wasn’t obsessed with it. While Susan refused to acknowledge The Council’s existence despite what she’d seen with her own eyes, Casey had no doubts, and he began to see The Council as the product of an even larger culture of corruption that had taken root in the halls of American leadership. It was that mo
ral corruption Casey wanted to call out, and The Council represented its manifestation. He believed that once this group’s actions were brought to light, the good people in Washington—and there were some—would demand a stop to their activity, and America’s ship could be righted.
Casey looked back at the headstone and said, “I don’t know if I can do it, sir, but I’m gonna try.” He peered down the row one last time and began the long walk to the cemetery gate.
“How’ve you been?” Andie asked as she took a seat across the table. Even sitting down, Andrea Jackson was noticeably taller than Casey. It was her looks more than her height, however, that drew stares of admiration, some less discreet than others. Andie was used to the attention her nearly six-foot frame and visibly unblemished African skin got her, and ignoring that attention was second nature.
“I’m good,” Casey said. “How ‘bout you? You happy to be back in the thick of stuff down here?”
Andie smiled. “Yeah, I am,” she said. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was fun working with y’all in New York, but the reporter in me wasn’t ready to let go. I don’t think being chained to a cubicle was what I was really looking for. No offense.”
Casey laughed. “None taken. And I hear what you’re saying. That’s why I try to stay out of the office as much as I can. Like this field trip I’m on now,” Casey said. “Thanks for meeting me, by the way.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Andie said. “My momma taught me to never turn a friend away when they ask for help. Unless they’re from Alabama.” Andie and Casey both laughed at one of the deep-seated prejudices they learned growing up in Georgia. Based more on university football affiliation than anything else, the good-spirited discrimination was acceptable, in contrast to the racial and religious issues that divided the South for so long, and in some ways still did.
“Hi, I’m Penny. I’ll be your waitress today,” a young woman said as she came to the table and handed out menus. Andie and Casey halted their conversation until the woman left with their orders.
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