The Complicity Doctrine

by Matthew Frick

  “I think you pissed the Admiral off and scored some approval points in the process.” Though he never had the ambition to run for an elected office of any kind, Joel Simpson was a politician. Not the kind seen on camera courting voters or speaking at union halls and college auditoriums, but a real Washington politician. He was a junkyard dog who wasn’t afraid to tell a mother her baby is ugly. He knew how to play the game behind the scenes—which was exactly where Cogburn wanted him to stay. Especially now that the senator had thrown his hat in the ring and was gunning for the U.S. presidency in the next election.

  Cogburn put his jacket on the coat rack and sat down behind his desk. He was more comfortable there, the massive desk giving him the immediate impression of authority that few questioned. “Yes and no,” he said. “Stevens is a tool. All of the military brass who work with foreign countries are. Too many cocktail parties and not enough time in the trenches.”

  “That’s pretty harsh.”

  “It’s true, though. Especially in Stevens’ case,” Cogburn said as he opened the file drawer of his desk, pulling out a bottle of single malt scotch and a glass. He didn’t offer Joel any.

  “But you don’t think the publicity helped you?” Joel asked.

  “Not with the voters. Hell, I don’t think anyone outside the Beltway watches C-SPAN.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Joel said.

  “Anyway. I got my point across. If Stevens doesn’t like it, let him cry to the Sunday news shows.” Cogburn finished his drink and put the glass and bottle back in the drawer.

  “Let’s hope he does,” Joel said. “The Admiral will help get your name out there whether he means to or not. And how the U.S. deals with the Taliban post-NATO while still drawing down our own presence is one of the most important issues of the campaign.”

  “By important, you mean controversial.”

  “Everything in this town is controversial,” Joel said. “That’s the nature of the two-party system. There’s always opposing views. The trick is to convince the majority of the people that your view is the right one.”

  “And that it’s important.”

  “Exactly. That’s also why we need Ninety-Five to pass.”

  “It’s not very controversial,” Cogburn said.

  “It’s controversial enough. Plus, it’s important.” Both men smiled at the comment. “One more piece of legislation with your name on it, and bipartisan at that.”

  Cogburn sighed. “We don’t have many of those,” he said.

  “We have enough. But one more reach across the aisle this close to the election will remind people of the work you’ve done.”

  “I suppose.”

  “It will, trust me. Curtis Baynard can’t say that much,” Joel said, referring to Cogburn’s biggest challenge to winning the Republican nomination.

  “Of course he can’t. He’s a businessman, for God’s sake.”

  “Exactly. And that’s why he can’t be president. America isn’t a business. We don’t need a fucking CEO, we need a leader—someone who knows what it takes to run a country, not a factory.”

  As if on cue, Cogburn’s belt vibrated. He removed the cell phone from its holster and viewed the incoming text message. He flipped it closed and looked up at Joel Simpson. “I might just censor that last statement and use it in the next debate,” he said, smiling. “Why don’t you go on home, Joel? Maybe take that girl you were dating out to dinner. What was her name again?”

  “Which one?” Joel smiled, standing up to leave.

  “Well, whatever your plans are, have a good night. I’ve got to make a few phone calls before I head out.”

  Joel wondered who his boss needed to talk to, but not too much. He knew getting elected to the Oval Office was a team effort, and everyone in the campaign had their own part to do. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as he left the room, closing the office door behind him.

  When Cogburn was satisfied he was alone, he pulled a note card from his wallet and looked at the phone number scrawled in smeared blue ballpoint. He massaged the bridge of his nose, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  Chapter 5

  New York City

  The dirty apartment by the East River smelled like an ashtray. The stale odor was occasionally weakened by the presence of hot pizza delivered from Aldo’s two blocks away. That is, if the apartment’s residents decided not to smoke while they were eating—which was rare. Tonight was no different.

  The phone in the kitchen area chirped loudly. After the fourth ring, the biggest of the three men in the room pulled himself away from the television, wiping pizza grease from his hand to the front of his sweat-stained tank top.

  “Yeah,” he answered, clearly annoyed.

  “Slight change to the plan,” the voice on the other end said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Alpha has shifted.”

  “Why are we deciding this now? We’ve been planning this for two months,” the big man said, rubbing a finger across the jagged scar on his temple.

  “Don’t worry about why. Just write this down.”

  The big man dropped his cigarette in the sink and wrote the address on his arm with a pen he found on the counter. “Okay.”

  “It’s only a few blocks from the original spot, so you shouldn’t have to case the area much, and it shouldn’t affect the operation’s timing.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so,” the voice confirmed, irritated with the other man’s blatant disrespect. “You aren’t having second thoughts, are you?”

  “Of course not,” the big man said. He slammed the phone down, ending the conversation. He didn’t care if the man on the other end was offended. After Friday, he would never speak to him again.

  Chapter 6

  Susan got to her cubicle at IWG a few minutes past noon. She chose that time to show up at the office because she knew most people would be at lunch. After three weeks away, still dealing with jet lag, she wasn’t in the mood to answer, “How was your trip?” a hundred different times. Like she had gone to Egypt for vacation. It was bad enough she only had two days after returning to generate a comprehensive trip report, and it would probably take her three solid hours to get through the e-mails that had most likely clogged her inbox. She knew she had to verbally debrief Jim about the trip in a little while, but first she needed to talk to Casey.

  Susan dropped her purse on the desk and went to find Casey before she even turned on her computer. As she neared his cubicle, she heard Casey’s voice, followed by a woman’s laugh.

  “I swear, I thought Bob Horner was gonna order a pizza delivered right there at third base,” Casey said.

  “He was a big boy,” Andie laughed. She looked up when she saw Susan standing at the cubicle entrance.

  Casey turned and stood up. “Hey, Susan. Welcome back.” He swiveled the chair around, offering her a seat. Susan didn’t want to sit. “How was your trip?”

  There it was. Susan had been watching the unfamiliar woman sitting in Casey’s cubicle. Now she threw Casey a menacing glance.

  Andie stood up and offered her hand to Susan. “Hi, I’m Andie Jackson,” she said.

  Susan brought her eyes back to the taller woman and gripped her hand a little harder than she normally would have, though she wasn’t sure why. “Like the president?”

  “Andrea.”

  “Oh. I get it.”

  Casey watched the exchange and thought his friend seemed out of sorts. Uncomfortable, distracted, worried? He couldn’t tell. “Andie, this is Susan Williams. She’s the one I was telling you about.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Susan,” Andie said.

  Susan’s eyes dropped a bit, and she forced a half-smile. She looked back at Casey and the smile disappeared. “I need to talk to you for a minute.”

  “Sure,” Casey said. He looked at Andie, then back at Susan and added, “You want to go to your desk?”

  “No. It’s okay,” Andie said, picking up her purse. �
�I’m gonna go get some lunch, anyway. You two stay here.”

  Casey was relieved that Andie volunteered to let him and Susan have some privacy. It kept him from having to ask. “Thanks, Andie. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  “So. She’s new here?” Susan asked when they were alone.

  “Yeah, she just started yesterday,” Casey said. “Doc Borglund wanted me to help her get some background info for something she’s working on.”

  “Oh,” Susan said. She wasn’t sure how to begin. She had thought about Mariam Fahda all night and most of the morning. Each time she came up with what she was going to say to her friend when she saw her on Friday, she got more nervous and frustrated. Regardless of the trouble Mari was in, just seeing her again was going to be hard for Susan.

  “What’s bothering you?” Casey asked, bringing Susan out of her contemplative silence.

  Susan sat down in Casey’s chair and sighed. “I need a favor.”

  Casey leaned on his desk. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I want you to go to breakfast with me tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Casey said with a sheepish grin.

  “Not like that, asshole.” Susan forced a smile, realizing the connotation of her request. “A friend of mine from school is going to meet us there.”

  “I said okay.” Casey acted like he didn’t know why Susan just scolded him.

  “She was my roommate through most of college and all of grad school,” Susan said. She waited until she was sure Casey was paying attention before adding, “I think she’s in some kind of danger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I got a message from her a couple of days ago. I called her last night, and she sounded scared.”

  “Did she say what the problem was?” Casey asked.

  “No,” Susan snapped. “That’s the problem.”

  “Sorry,” Casey said, moving to the other chair.

  Susan closed her eyes. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound bitchy,” she sighed. “I’m just worried, that’s all,” Susan said. She looked at Casey. “I wanted you to come with me for moral support.”

  Casey felt bad for Susan. He couldn’t tell if she was more scared for her friend or for her own sake. Either way, the meeting was apparently something she wasn’t looking forward to. She seemed to be dreading it, actually. “Sure, I’ll come.”

  Susan’s eyes were moist, visibly relieved, and tired. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” Casey said. “Where are we meeting....?”

  “Mari,” Susan said, filling in the blank. She dabbed her eyes with the back of her hands. “We’re meeting her at Soren’s Deli at eight.”

  Casey’s stomach growled. “Can we get there at seven-thirty?” he asked. “I can’t go to Soren’s without having at least two onion bagels, and I want to make sure y’all have my undivided attention.”

  Susan smiled. “Sure,” she said. She was glad Casey was going to come with her. If anything, Casey knew how to ease the tension in a room with his dry sense of humor. Some people took his impersonal cracks and constant changing of subjects in uncomfortable conversations to be rude and juvenile, but Susan knew Casey better than that. It was just a defense mechanism. She called Casey on it one time, and that led to one of their more vociferous arguments. Susan accused Casey of living with blinders on to protect his own feelings, and Casey refused to acknowledge her observation, countering, instead, by changing the subject.

  As Susan turned to head back to her own desk, Casey asked, “Could you take a look at this real quick before you leave?” He lifted the top papers of three different piles before he found what he was looking for. “Here,” he said, handing Susan an open magazine.

  “What’s this?” she asked, flipping over the front cover to see she was holding a six-month-old copy of Foreign Affairs.

  “I was looking into the attack on the IRGC bus, and I found a reference to this article,” Casey said. “We had a copy in the library upstairs.”

  Susan read the title and looked at the author’s name—“What Happens When the Deal Backfires?” by Davood Raad. Susan focused on the first paragraph and the author’s one-line identifier at the bottom of the page. “What about it?” she asked.

  “I wanted to know if you believed Professor Raad’s claim.”

  “That Iran’s making drugs-for-guns deals with the Taliban? That’s pretty much a known fact,” Susan said, “even if Tehran won’t admit it.”

  “I wasn’t questioning that,” Casey said. “I’m wondering about the part where he says groups like Jondallah are taking advantage of Iran’s preoccupation with the U.S. and Afghanistan by getting those guns from the Taliban. Do you think Iran would be so worried about proof of the deal leaking in the first place, that they’d put up with Jondallah getting an occasional cache of arms to use against the IRGC?”

  Susan thought about Casey’s question and flipped through the remaining five pages of the article. She had read other articles by Dr. Raad in the past. He was a political sociology professor at the University of Tehran, but he was also an outspoken critic of the clerical establishment that ran the country. The only reason Dr. Raad wasn’t dead or in prison was because he was so widely published—protected from persecution solely because of his international notoriety. He was also clever enough to mask his criticism as social and political observation in line with his academic profession, rather than outright accusation.

  “Davood Raad is pretty good with getting his facts straight before spouting off about the stupid things the Iranian government does, so I’d feel confident in saying that Iranian dissidents are probably using the regime’s own weapons against them. As for your question about whether Iran is too busy to care? I don’t know,” Susan said.

  “But what do you think?” Casey pushed.

  Susan handed the magazine back to Casey. “Sounds like a cost-benefit problem,” she said. “If most of the weapons are getting to the Taliban in Afghanistan to fan the flames there, and the U.S. pulls out sooner rather than later, then maybe Iran’s willing to lose a few of its own citizens at home as collateral damage. And maybe the drugs are just as important.”

  “What about the drugs?” Casey asked. “What does Iran need with more poppy and heroin on the street?”

  “The idea is that the government is buying the drugs to keep them off the street,” Susan said. “If the authorities can put their hands on them, they can destroy them, since the drugs are going to be smuggled in one way or the other. The heroin is just a form of currency in this case. At least for the Taliban it is.”

  “That makes sense,” Casey said. “But one thing that occurred to me when I read this article was the possibility that the mullahs might actually be happy that Jondallah is getting some of those weapons.”

  “Happy?”

  “Sure,” Casey said. “If Jondallah didn’t have enough hardware to keep hitting groups like the IRGC, the regime wouldn’t have a reason for trying to stomp them out.”

  “So you’re saying Iran is complicit in the deaths of its own soldiers, just because the regime wants an excuse to hang the rest of the Rigi clan?” Susan asked.

  “Exactly,” Casey answered.

  “Now you’re stretching it.”

  “It’s possible,” Casey smiled.

  Susan raised her hand above her head as she walked out, indicating the conversation was over, and she had more important work to do. Casey was used to that.

  “Good to have you back,” he yelled over the cubicle wall.

  Chapter 7

  Washington, D.C.

  Bill Cogburn tightened his necktie and checked his work in the locker room mirror. His political survival required that he go to church every Sunday, but his lunchtime workout was his religion. “Preventive maintenance,” he called it. “Shit,” he muttered as he pulled his tie off and started over.

  “Having problems?”

  Cogburn saw the reflection of Joel Simpson standing behind him. “Afternoon, J
oel,” he said. He tried not to let his annoyance show. Joel knew the senator hated to be bothered when he was working out. That included while getting dressed after a post-workout shower. “What is it?” he asked. It better be important, Cogburn thought.

  It was important—to Joel. “I had to make a schedule change,” he said.

  “Go on,” the senator prompted, concentrating on his Windsor knot.

  “First, I have to fly out tonight to finalize some details for next Friday’s fundraiser. And second, you have a press conference scheduled for tomorrow at twelve o’clock.”

  “At night?”

  “Sorry. Noon,” Joel clarified. Usually Keith Swanson, Cogburn’s chief of staff, scheduled all of the senator’s press engagements, but despite the COS’s protests, Joel had taken it upon himself more and more lately to drive much of Cogburn’s schedule.

  Satisfied with his appearance, Cogburn put on his suit jacket and closed his locker, spinning the lock. “What am I going to be talking about?” he asked Joel as they walked out of the locker room and started back to the senator’s office.

  “Resolution Ninety-Five,” Joel said. “They’re voting on it in two weeks, remember? It’s crunch time.”

  “I know the vote’s in two weeks. I just wanted to know what to prepare for.”

  “I’m sorry for the last minute addition, but your name on the resolution is only one part. It’s the media attention you get in pushing the resolution that’s priceless. In a few months you’re going to need to empty the coffers to get as much air time as you’re gonna generate tomorrow.”

  Cogburn stopped and turned to his aide. “How long is this press conference scheduled for?”

  Joel laughed. “It’s not how long you’ll be filmed answering questions, it’s how many times they’ll show bits of that video on TV stations all over the country. Not to mention radio or print.”