The Complicity Doctrine

by Matthew Frick

  “You don’t think I know that?” Cogburn asked angrily. He did not respond well when people talked down to him, and it seemed to the senator that Joel made a point of talking down to him every chance he got.

  “I know you’re aware of that, Bill. You’re a smart man. And a damn good politician. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. But my job is to make you the next president, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that happens.”

  “Including treating me like a freshman congressman instead of a senior senator.”

  “When I feel it’s necessary,” Joel said. “Look, Senator, you’re a busy man. I’m trying to make sure you are positioned for a slam-dunk in Tampa next August and a victory in November. If that means I have to push you along the way when you need it, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “And right now you think I need to be pushed.”

  “Until you fully grasp what it takes to win,” Joel said.

  The senator shook his head and continued walking. “I have a pretty good idea of what it takes to win.”

  Joel sped up to match Cogburn’s stride. “I’m just saying don’t underestimate the power you already hold.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Look, you might just be one of a hundred U.S. senators, but you are also one of only a hundred people in a nation of 300 million that is a U.S. senator,” Joel explained. “It’s all in how you look at it. And trust me, the media sees you as the latter, not the former—especially now that you’re running for president.”

  “You know, I’m starting to think you want me to get elected so I can take you to the White House with me.”

  “Sir,” Joel said with mock astonishment, “that hurt my feelings.”

  “I didn’t think you had any.”

  “Well...maybe I don’t. But trust me, I want you to win the presidency because you’re the best man for the job. I’m not just saying that, either. This country needs a leader with balls—someone who’ll put America back on top.” Joel was doing more than just stroking the senator’s ego. He really believed that Cogburn was the right choice to be president. For years, Joel had served as a senator’s aide, but until Cogburn came along, he had never worked for someone with such a clear, and similar, vision of what America’s place in the world should be. That place was one of strength.

  In Joel’s eyes, first as just an observer and then as someone on the inside, every politician who came to Washington was a sell-out. Within the first six months after taking office, the primary thing on a Congressman’s mind was how to get re-elected in a year and a half. Senators were no better. They traded their responsibility to run the country for the promise of votes from local special interest groups back home. One politician could hold up the entire National Defense Budget by attaching a rider to fund the building of a science Magnet school in Lincoln, Rhode Island.

  Senator William Cogburn didn’t think like that. From day-one, the man had put national security at the front of his agenda. He understood that the threat of America’s enemies attacking the Homeland outweighed any other concern when it came to protecting United States citizens and their way of life. The loss of two family members and even more friends on 9/11 made sure of that.

  Cogburn refused to be bullied by others on Capitol Hill who thought he was too hawkish, and he gained many enemies because of that stance. But he also earned the admiration and loyalty of a great many others. Joel Simpson was one those people.

  “I set up this press conference because no one else is on the calendar tomorrow. Even the regular White House press briefing was cancelled due to lack of interest.”

  “That’ll help maximize coverage,” Cogburn said. Joel was right. He was too busy to work out details like that, and he was glad to have his aide’s help—even if he was a pain in the ass. Cogburn stopped at the entrance to the Hart building. “Thanks for all your work, Joel.”

  Joel nodded his head, waiting for the senator to continue.

  “Things are going to pick up steam in a hurry,” Cogburn obliged, “and I’m going to need your help more than ever.” He held up a hand when he saw Joel about to speak. “Just hear me out,” he said. “I’ve fought some tough campaigns in New York to get here, but some things may come out in the next couple of weeks that will make those contests look like running for student body president at Copiague High.” He paused to gauge Joel’s reaction. “I’m still wrestling with what I want to convey to the voting public when things turn bad, but I will run my decision by you before I make any official statements.”

  Joel’s eye began to twitch. How many years had he worked to gain Bill Cogburn’s trust and confidence? Now his boss was telling him to his face that he didn’t want his help. Joel wasn’t saddened by the blatant affront. He was angry. “What is it?” he asked, hoping Cogburn would reconsider.

  Joel’s agitation was not lost on Cogburn. By now he was used to his aide’s temper tantrums in the office—behind closed doors. That’s why Cogburn brought it up outside. “I told you, I want to figure out how I’m going to handle things first. But don’t worry, I fully intend to solicit your advice. I just need to decide on a course of action for you to comment on,” he said. “Then you, Keith, and I will sit down and discuss it.”

  Joel reflexively clenched his jaw at the mention of Keith Swanson’s name. “Fair enough,” Joel said as he wiped a bead of sweat from his eyebrow. It wasn’t the first time the senator shut him out. It probably wouldn’t be the last either. But why now? Now, more than ever, Joel needed to know anything and everything that might be an obstacle in Cogburn’s campaign. The stakes were too high for the senator to screw things up. The country couldn’t afford four more years of the incumbent administration, and Joel couldn’t afford for Cogburn to lose.

  Joel got to his car a few minutes later. His cell phone rang as soon as he opened the door. He took the phone from his pocket and looked at the number. “Shit,” he muttered and got inside the car, shutting the door. The phone rang again.

  “Simpson,” he answered.

  “He knows about the press conference?” the caller asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And does he understand why it’s important?”

  Joel rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

  “Good. I don’t need to remind you that passage of this resolution is crucial to moving forward.”

  “You’re right. You don’t have to remind me. I know what’s at stake here,” Joel said, his voice getting louder with each sentence.

  “Calm down,” the caller warned. “Don’t forget that this plan was set in motion decades ago. Everything has led to where we are right now, and you were brought into this because of the position you found yourself in—not because we chose you.”

  Joel fumed, but kept silent.

  “You’ve done well up to now, but we’re at a very fragile point. The Council is more concerned about the outcome of the next election than any other since this began. Bill Cogburn has to win the GOP nomination.”

  “He will,” Joel said.

  “I’m glad you’re so confident,” the caller said. “Just make sure he’s at that press conference.”

  The call ended. Joel tossed his phone into the passenger seat. He wiped the layer of sweat that covered his face with a handkerchief and tried to collect his thoughts. Through the front windshield, he watched a pair of nameless staffers in nondescript, Washington-issue suits exchange small talk on the way to their own vehicles, oblivious to the reality of what happened behind the scenes in the District—what it really took to run this country.

  Joel knew it. He knew it all too well—especially after he met Mitchell Evans. And though he wasn’t privy to every detail of the plan, or even who was involved in executing that plan, he knew the Council Evans had referred to wanted results. Results he was expected to deliver.

  Failure was not an option.

  Chapter 8

  New York City

  The closet door creaked loudly despite Paul Giordano’s best efforts
to be quiet. A muffled moan and a rustling of sheets came from the bed behind him.

  “Be safe out there,” Emily Giordano said.

  Paul turned around and saw his wife propped on one arm, eyes only half-open, smiling. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.” He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed next to Emily.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Your son wouldn’t let me sleep anyway.” She pushed the covers down and took Paul’s hand, placing it on her belly. Paul smiled as he felt a foot—or something—push back. “See what I mean?” his wife said.

  Emily Giordano looked every bit of seven months pregnant, with the exception of the weight gain. Her friends said they were jealous, which made Emily feel good. Paul Giordano didn’t care one way or the other. Emily was going to give birth to their first child, and that’s all that mattered to him.

  Paul brushed his hand through his wife’s hair as she settled back down on the pillow and shut her eyes. “Well, hopefully the little bambino will calm down in a minute.” He kissed her on the forehead and stood up. “I’ll see you at breakfast?”

  “Sure thing, Detective,” Emily smiled, her eyes shut.

  Paul stood in the bedroom doorway and looked back at the bed. “I love you,” he whispered, smiling. Emily was already asleep.

  * * * * *

  Six hours later, Officer Paul Giordano exited the train at Grand Central Terminal. Not only was it the last stop of the night, but it was Paul’s last TORCH assignment. Operation TORCH, which stood for Transit Operational Response Canine Heavy Weapon, was an effort by the New York Police Department’s Counterterrorism Bureau to deter and defeat any potential terrorist attacks on the city’s major subway and transportation terminals.

  “Whadda ya say, Paulo? Feel good?”

  Giordano turned to see Vincent Cesaretti approaching from the platform behind him. To the casual observer, Cesaretti was a mirror image of Giordano with identical tactical gear, helmet, and submachine gun. The only difference was that the younger officer was leading an eager German Shepherd on a leash.

  “Hey, Vince. I’ll let you know how it feels when I turn in this gear,” Paul replied. “If I never sling another MP-5 it will be too soon.”

  Officer Paul Giordano was part of an Emergency Services Unit that conducted regular TORCH patrols. Detective Paul Giordano, however, was to be assigned to the Joint Terrorism Task Force working alongside agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He would start that assignment after his promotion on Monday.

  “I thought you loved rifles.”

  “Rifles, yes. This fucking thing, no.” Giordano raised the automatic weapon slightly, still keeping one hand on the grip and the other on the barrel. He was still on duty, after all. “I’m a sniper, remember. I need something for the long kill.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’ll get to re-live your Marine Corps days in the new job, either, Detective, so just be glad you’re not driving a Crown Vic busting hookers.”

  “I am grateful for that,” Paul laughed. He looked at the clock on the terminal wall. “Well, I’ve got just enough time to turn this gear in and get to breakfast.”

  “You that hungry?”

  “No. I’ve got a hot date.”

  Chapter 9

  Casey almost lost his balance as the stairwell door pushed back violently.

  “Watch it, asshole,” he heard from the other side. The sound of heavy boots tramping down the stairs followed the warning. Casey waited until he heard the outside exit door open on the floor beneath him before trying again.

  He saw a blur of woodland camouflage below before the door closed. When he exited the dingy, brick-front apartment building, he was surprised to see Greg Clawson at the corner with two more, equally scruffy-looking men. Casey met the wiry Midwestern implant the day Greg moved in and even helped him carry the one piece of furniture he brought with him up to the fourth floor. That was about seven months ago. Besides that chance demonstration of neighborly kindness, Casey almost never saw the man. And never before noon.

  “Hey, Greg,” Casey called from twenty feet away. “Was that you I almost hit on the stairs? I’m sorry about that.”

  “It was me, dickhead.” The reply didn’t come from Greg Clawson, but from a much bigger, much meaner-looking guy standing next to Greg. Casey stopped a few feet from the trio. His casual business attire contrasted sharply with the torn jeans, cammies, and t-shirts that marked the other three men.

  “Well, then I guess I owe you an apology,” Casey said, trying hard not to look at the scar on the man’s head that seemed to scream for his attention. “Usually nobody’s up in our building when I leave for work.”

  The big man eyed Casey with contempt and rubbed his scar. Greg Clawson was busy checking the street and smoking a cigarette. The third man was already across the street, lost behind the morning traffic. Scarface’s cell phone rang, and Greg shot Casey a quick glance when the big man turned to answer the phone.

  Casey understood—he was not wanted. He took one more look at the odd pair and headed for the subway.

  * * * * *

  “Ahh. Much better,” Casey said an hour later. He licked the remaining cream cheese from his fingers, claiming victory after devouring two onion bagels.

  Susan put down the coffee mug she was nursing and looked at Casey’s empty plate. “You’re a pig.”

  “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Casey offered in defense.

  Susan didn’t respond. She took another sip of coffee and stared out of the front windows, watching the street.

  “You really are nervous,” Casey observed.

  Susan looked back at Casey and smiled feebly. “You can tell?”

  “I can guess. You aren’t your normal, talkative self this morning. Plus you keep staring outside like you’re waiting for Death to come through the front door.”

  “Not Death,” Susan considered, “just one of his judges.”

  “Is this friend of yours that bad?”

  “It’s not Mari, it’s the memory she brings back.”

  “Memory of what?”

  Susan had given a lot of thought to whether she would tell Casey about the incident or not. There were few people in her life that she trusted as much as Casey Shenk. Considering what they had gone through together the past year after they met because of a hijacked ship named Baltic Venture, there was no reason for her to be afraid to tell him anything. But she was. Before she got to the diner that morning, she had resolved to tell Casey everything. Now she wasn’t sure.

  “Nothing,” Susan finally answered.

  “That’s horse crap,” Casey said. “Something’s got you on edge.”

  “Look, let’s just concentrate on finding out what’s wrong with Mari, and then we’ll talk about it.”

  Casey hated to be in the dark—especially when he was the only one at the table not in on the secret. Since Susan wouldn’t tell him what had her so anxious, he decided to move the conversation to something else. “Do you think money is enough reason for the TTP to team with Jondallah?” he asked.

  He was about to say something else when Susan stood up.

  “Mari,” Susan called, waving to a petite woman with long black hair. Mariam Fahda stopped scanning the room from the deli’s entrance and made her way to the table where Casey and Susan were seated. Susan noticed the dark crescents under Mari’s eyes that contrasted with the natural olive tone of the woman’s skin. She wondered when the last time was that Mari had a good night sleep. The two women hugged before sitting down.

  “Mari, this is Casey.” Mari shook Casey’s hand and eyed him with a look of cautious suspicion. Susan noticed her old roommate’s concern. “It’s okay, Mari. Casey’s a friend. He works with me at IWG.”

  “I can leave, if you want,” Casey offered. Susan kicked Casey under the table. He grit his teeth and added, “But Susan here thinks I may be able to help you with...whatever your problem is.”

  Mari looked at Susan and nodded.
“It’s all right. I really don’t have a choice right now, anyway.” She began digging through her purse which had been in her lap since she sat down. After a few seconds, Mari produced a two-inch-long thumb drive. She handed the data storage device to Susan. “It’s all on there.”

  Casey was distracted as he watched a man in a police uniform enter the diner with a pregnant woman in a tight-fitting pant suit.

  Susan examined the stick in her hand. “What’s on here?”

  “I don’t know,” Mari answered. “I mean, I know what’s on it, I just don’t know what it means.” She lowered her voice and added, “Or why someone is trying to kill me for it.”

  That statement got Casey’s attention. “Kill you?” he asked a little too loudly, eliciting another kick from Susan. “Shit,” Casey said, bending to rub his shin. “Sorry,” he whispered.

  “What happened? Why do you think someone’s trying to kill you?” Susan asked. She was hoping to be able to talk her friend out of the misplaced hysteria that marked Mari’s college days, but Susan empathized with her friend this time. She had been in the same emotional state one short year ago—the year she woke up to how dangerous the world really was.

  “At first, I just thought they were trying to scare me. Then my cat died.”

  Casey looked at Susan for a reaction to Mari’s reasoning, but Susan looked just as confused as he was.

  “And you think these people, whoever they are, killed your cat?” Casey asked when Susan didn’t say anything.

  “Yes,” Mari answered.

  “How did they do it? I mean, how did your cat die?”

  “She was poisoned.”

  “How do you know it was poison?” Casey asked.

  “The vet did a necropsy,” Mari explained. “Look, Ameerah was a healthy cat. There was no reason she would just up and die like that, so I brought her to the veterinarian to find out what happened.”

  Susan processed the back-and-forth between her two friends and asked, “Could it have just been another attempt to scare you?”