THE COMPLICITY DOCTRINE
M. M. FRICK
Matthew M. Frick
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The Complicity Doctrine
M. M. Frick
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental
Copyright © 2012 by Matthew M. Frick
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Cover design and photograph © Matthew M. Frick
Published by Matthew M. Frick
Distributed by Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing Select
Also by Matthew Frick
Open Source
For Janelle, Jade, and Gavin
Chapter 1
Sistan va Balochistan, Iran
The small white bus left a rising cloud behind as it sped down the road, alerting the seven figures watching from the surrounding hills.
“Get ready, Pirok,” a voice chirped in Balochi over the handheld radio.
Pirok Bugti pressed the transmit button twice in quick succession. He was ready.
He raised the Soviet-made rocket propelled grenade launcher to his shoulder and closed his left eye. Pirok focused on the road below as a bead of sweat lazily made its way from his forehead to his nose. Was it the heat or the nervousness? No matter. Pirok ignored the uninvited distraction and watched as the bus appeared from behind the hill.
The young Bolch fighter swallowed hard and squinted against the blinding reflection of sun on sand. When the bus was almost halfway through the winding curve along the Pak-Iran Border Check Post Road, Pirok moved his finger off of the trigger guard.
Three more seconds.
“Allahu Akbar,” he whispered as he gently pulled his finger back.
The bus bounced violently off the road as the rocket impacted the vehicle just above the right tire. If the driver had not been thrown through the front windshield, he would have tried to get out of the bus the second it crashed back to the ground and caught fire from the resulting explosion. No doubt the passengers were having similar thoughts of escaping the metal coffin, but those dreams were quickly dashed as automatic gunfire erupted from all sides.
Pirok dropped the now-empty tube and picked up his rifle, scurrying down the hill to join his comrades, firing on the way.
* * * * *
Across the road, one of the turbaned attackers remained concealed. He pulled out a cell phone from the vest over his shalwar and dialed.
“Yes?” a distant voice answered.
“Perfect,” the man on the hill answered loudly, competing with the clatter of rifles below.
“Say again?”
“The coordination was perfect. I mean, the way these guys acted towards each other three months ago? I tell you, I had my doubts.”
The six fighters on the road were firing their weapons in the air, celebrating as a final bullet to the head stopped the last remaining passenger’s escape at the bus door.
“The enemy of my enemy?”
“Apparently.”
“Well, good work, Bob. Keep it up.”
Bob smiled and ended the call. No good-bye. Just the update. He returned the cell phone to his pocket and joined the others who were busy scavenging their victims’ belongings.
Chapter 2
New York City
Casey Shenk opened the door of the conference room and was greeted by seven pairs of eyes. The other five people, including his boss, ignored the distraction.
“Sorry I’m late, sir,” Casey said as he took the closest empty seat at the table—right next to Jim Shelton, the head of IWG’s Middle East/Southwest Asia cell.
“Continue, Oscar,” Jim said.
Oscar Horstein, the lone Israel analyst at the company, looked back at his notes until he found where he left off. “Well, I was saying that I really don’t think the Israelis will make a big stink about it. Are they concerned that Natanz may be back online? Yes. But they are too busy dealing with the immediate threats on their own turf right now. Until things stabilize in Syria, they are going to continue fighting to plug their border in the Golan Heights. And with Egypt’s upcoming elections looking more and more like a potential Muslim Brotherhood landslide, the 1979 treaty they’ve counted on to maintain the peace for three decades may soon be a thing of the past. If Egypt opens the gates any more, there’s going to be a bloodbath on the Sinai.”
“So they’re not worried about a nuclear threat anymore?”
“Not after bombing Iran’s facilities last year. I’m sure they’re still keeping tabs on it, but there’s no indication that Netanyahu or Peres even believe the reports that Iran is actively enriching uranium again.”
“Do you believe the reports?” Jim asked.
Oscar hesitated before answering. “No, I don’t.”
“Bullshit,” Casey said.
Everyone at the table was awake now. Two chairs down from Oscar, George Smithfield smiled, anticipating another Shenk-Horstein throw-down.
“Easy, Casey,” Jim Shelton cautioned.
“Sir, I think Horstein absolutely believes the Persians are back in the nuke business. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”
“Fuck you, Casey,” Oscar said. He didn’t know why he let Casey push his buttons. Just when he thought he was making progress with the anger management classes Jim and Doc Borglund, IWG’s CEO, made him attend to retain his job, Casey always said or did something that pissed Oscar off to no end. He breathed deeply to try and calm down, but his reddening complexion betrayed his anger.
“Look, Oscar, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Casey said, not sure if even he believed that. “I just think you don’t have to defend the Israelis for every little thing just because you’re the resident Israel expert. If anything, that should mean you know when to look through all the crap and tell what’s really going on.” Everyone looked at Oscar for a response, but he just concentrated on his breathing—like he was taught.
Casey allowed three seconds of silence to pass before continuing. Three seconds to let someone else have a chance to speak up. After that, the floor was back open. “Oscar, you had to think about what you were going to say before you answered Jim. That means you weren’t sure. So just say that. Say you aren’t sure whether Natanz is active or not. I don’t know either, but I’d be willing to bet it was never really out of commission.”
“Why not?” Jim asked Casey. He was comfortable letting his subordinates verbally duke it out to a point. But when he saw one side pummeling the other too much, he stepped in with his own shots. This time he wanted to put the crosshairs on Casey. It was good for everyone’s professional analytic development to engage in a little cerebral combat every now and then.
“Why don’t I think Iran ever stopped their nuke program?”
“No. I mean what makes you think the uranium enrichment facility at Natanz wasn’t actually destroyed when the Israelis bombed it last year?”
“I don’t think they have the capability,” Casey answered. “Hell, last year even we didn’t have that capability. Not from the air, anyways.”
“So now you’re an expert on aerial bombing?”
“No, Oscar. I’m not.”
“He was in the Navy,” George Smithfield said, his innocent comment accompanied by an “everybody knows that” look. Casey wasn’t the only one at the Intelligence Watch Group with military experience, but Jim Shelton’s past life with the Nati
onal Security Agency notwithstanding, he was the only one in the Middle East cell who could claim to have prior government service. That wasn’t good enough for some people, however.
“Exactly,” Oscar agreed. “And he wasn’t a pilot, or even an officer for that matter.”
George’s expression changed. He didn’t mean to help Horstein in the debate.
“No, sir, but I can read,” Casey said. “And it doesn’t take much to find out Israel’s order of battle and put it against the underground construction at Natanz, which even the IAEA confirmed. After that, it’s pretty easy to conclude that even if Israel had a GBU-28—they damn sure don’t have a MOP—they would need a shit-load of those bunker busters to move even a fraction of the 200 meters of earth on top of the centrifuges. Israel’s attack was only cosmetic. The Iranians started rebuilding the exterior accesses a week after the bombing.”
Oscar didn’t respond, choosing to concentrate on his breathing instead. When Jim saw that Oscar was done arguing with the cell’s most recent addition to its analyst ranks, he decided to call the match. “Interesting argument, Casey,” he said. Jim looked back down the table to his ego-damaged Israel analyst. “Oscar, I agree with your assessment about the Israelis having more important things to worry about right now, but I also want you to look a little closer into what Casey said. See if you can find out the accuracy of the reports coming from Iran about resuming enrichment at Natanz.”
“That’s a little out of my lane, isn’t it?” Oscar protested. “I don’t read Farsi, so it’s going to be kind of hard for me to confirm anything out of Iran.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m assigning George to help you.”
“Me?”
“You do speak Farsi, don’t you?” Jim asked.
“Yes, sir, but not like Susan. I’ve only been taking classes for two years.” George Smithfield excelled in all of his lessons at the Iranian American Society of New York’s Cultural Center in Greenvale, and although his learning curve during the last year was no doubt accelerated due to his romantic involvement with a beautiful black-eyed member of the IAS Center’s staff named Dasha, he knew he had a long way to go in mastering the Persian language. Working beside Susan Williams every day only accentuated that fact.
Jim had more confidence in George’s ability. “You’ll do fine. But I need you both to work fast on this. IWG’s reputation is one of making valuable, accurate predictions—not commentaries on day-old news. Let’s get ahead of this one and try to pull the curtain back a little on what’s really going on in Tehran that Jerusalem may or may not be worried about.”
“Yes, sir,” George acknowledged. Oscar nodded in response, his blood pressure back to normal.
Jim looked around the table. Everyone had already given their progress updates—everyone except Casey. “Casey, since you missed your turn by coming in late, would you like to add anything?”
Casey saw the tired eyes of his co-workers. He knew several of them probably had to rid themselves of processed morning coffee, and others just wanted to leave. He looked at Oscar, who was doodling on the corner of his briefing notes. “No, sir. I think I already said enough this morning.”
“Alright, then, I guess that’s it,” Jim said. The other people around the table didn’t need any more prodding before they began filing out the door. Jim held up a hand when Casey got ready to leave. “Casey, I need to talk to you for a minute.”
“Sir, I’m sorry I was late. I was watching the news feed from....”
“That’s not what I want to see you about,” Jim Shelton interrupted. “Sit down,” he said when the last person left the room. “When does Susan get back?”
“Today,” Casey said. “But she won’t be in ‘til tomorrow.” Casey paused before saying, “You already knew that.”
Jim Shelton smiled. “You’re right.” He pulled a manila folder from the stack of paperwork in front of him and placed it on top of the pile. “How are you and Susan, anyway?”
Casey reddened. He knew his boss wasn’t stupid, and pretty much the whole office knew Casey and Susan had started dating five months earlier. “We decided to back off for a little while.”
“Is that going to cause a problem at work?”
“No, sir. It’s actually the opposite. I don’t think either of us are good at the office romance thing, and we didn’t want our personal relationship to affect the company.”
“Really?” Jim said. “I didn’t see it as a problem. In fact, I think you two make a great pair. Professionally, I mean.”
“Yeah, well....” Casey looked down at the folder Jim pulled out, hoping the counseling session would end.
Jim got the hint and let his analyst off the hook. He handed the folder to Casey.
“What’s this?” Casey asked.
“Field report. From one of our sources in Pakistan.”
Casey opened the folder and counted three sheets of paper, each marked “IWG CONFIDENTIAL” on the top and bottom. Though the Intelligence Watch Group was a private consulting firm, the company chose to mirror the U.S. Government’s information classification system. He quickly read through each page. When he was done, he looked up at his boss. “How reliable is this?” Casey asked.
“About as reliable as it gets,” Jim said. “Doc Borglund vetted this guy himself four years ago. So far he’s given us nothing but solid information.”
Casey scanned the first page again. “So the TTP is working with Jondallah now? Doesn’t that go a little beyond their mandate?”
“I suppose,” Jim said. “But it makes sense if you put yourself in their shoes.”
“How?”
“The Tehrik-i-Taliban Pakistan has been very active inside Pakistan the past few years despite being pushed from South Waziristan in 2009 following the death of Baitullah Mehsud. But they have also splintered along tribal lines. It only makes sense that some elements moved as far south as Balochistan Province.”
“Okay, but why partner with an Iranian Baloch rebel group? The Sunni connection between the two seems like a pretty thin basis for a marriage,” Casey said.
“Agreed. But if even parts of the TTP thought they could boost the organization’s prominence in the Sunni extremist club, teaming with a group not afraid to take on the bastion of Shia Islam could be just the break they’re looking for.”
“Didn’t they claim responsibility for the Times Square bombing attempt? I’d say that’s gained them enough popularity to keep them near the top of the most wanted list, even with AQAP stealing the spotlight from bin Laden, even before he was taken out.”
“It’s a matter of track record. Claiming to have a global reach and actually carrying out an effective attack are two different things. If the Balochistan element of TTP can take credit for a significant cross-border operation, they may be able to wrestle Hakimullah Mehsud’s contested leadership spot away from him,” Jim said.
Casey picked up the report again and turned to the bottom of the second page. He looked at Jim Shelton. “You think TTP and Jondallah worked together on the IRGC hit two days ago?”
“You said it, not me.”
“But Jondallah already claimed victory on that one. And the Iranians blamed them before the dust even settled. How does that help the Taliban? I mean, as far as your argument of needing more notoriety?” Casey asked.
Jim picked up the field report. He flipped to the last page and put his finger on a sentence three lines from the end. “Baby steps,” he said.
Casey took the report from Jim, wondering what he’d missed. He read the passage Jim had pointed out. “The Taliban now has a base in Sistan va Balochistan?”
“According to our source.”
Casey now gave more credence to the idea that the People’s Resistance Movement of Iran and the Pakistani Taliban were working together. The TTP would not be in that part of Iran unless Jondallah allowed it. Casey put the papers back in the folder. “So what brought them together?”
Jim took the folder and returned it to hi
s pile of documents. “That’s what I want you to find out.”
Casey smiled. “I’m on it, boss.”
He loved a good puzzle.
* * * * *
Casey stopped at the employee break room on the way back to his cubicle. Since he was hired by the Intelligence Watch Group a year earlier, Casey had slowly replaced his addiction to Diet Coke with an equally bad dependence on coffee. He still consumed his fair share of soda, but he was no longer the Coke fiend he had become when he drove a vending truck in Savannah, Georgia, for five years.
“You drink it black?”
Casey jumped, startled by the unexpected intrusion. He set the Styrofoam cup on the counter and wiped the coffee from his mouth, irritated. “When I’m not spilling it all over the floor,” he said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Casey’s irritation quickly faded when he turned to see the source of the laughter behind him. “No problem,” he said.
“I’m Andie Jackson,” the woman said. A full two inches taller than Casey, by his estimation, she was strikingly gorgeous. Her black hair easily reached the middle of her back, and her turquoise blouse and black skirt complemented her African complexion. “You’re Casey Shenk, right?”
“Oh...yes. Sorry,” Casey smiled. He wiped coffee on his pants and shook Andie’s hand. Casey saw the look on her face. “They’re khaki. Coffee doesn’t show up.”
“If you say so,” she laughed. She grabbed the roll of paper towels by the microwave and crouched to wipe up the coffee Casey spilled on the floor.
“Here, I’ll get that,” Casey said, offering to take the roll from her.
“Well, I’m kind of responsible for this mess.”
Casey lowered his hand as Andie stood up and tossed the wet towels into the trash.
She put the roll back on the counter and said, “There. All done.”
The Complicity Doctrine Page 1
