The Complicity Doctrine

by Matthew Frick

  “I’m sorry,” Casey said. “I haven’t been able to come up with anything yet.”

  Giordano started to hand the paper back. “Then I guess there’s no reason for me to be here,” he said. “Why don’t you call me when you have something that helps.” It had already been a whirlwind day for Giordano, and he wasn’t interested in Casey’s problem. At eight o’clock he was unceremoniously promoted to detective rank, and no one objected to his request to just sign the paperwork and move one to his next assignment—not with his wife still in the hospital and his unborn son dead after the bombing. He checked in with the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force on the 23rd floor of the Javits Federal Building and spent the rest of the morning with introductions and a tour of the offices before Casey called. Giordano stood up to get back to work, and Casey stood up with him, not taking the paper.

  “I know it doesn’t seem like it,” Casey said, “but I really think those names have something to do with the bombing. Not the physical act itself, but at least the blame.” When he called Giordano’s cell phone, Casey was hoping the cop had access to the New York Police Department’s watchlists to bounce the names off—Al Jensen at IWG couldn’t find anything in the public domain. After Giordano mentioned that he had just started working at the JTTF, Casey’s optimism grew. He didn’t know for sure, but he assumed the FBI’s bad guy database was even more robust than the NYPD’s. “I just need you to check them out.”

  Giordano stared at Casey and then back at the paper he was still holding. He could tell the analyst wasn’t going to go away. Giordano sighed and asked, “Where did you get this, anyway?”

  “It’s kind of a long story,” Casey said with a guarded grin.

  “Humor me.”

  Casey told the detective everything—as he remembered it, anyway. He recounted Mari’s story from the diner that morning and her belief that someone tried to kill her after protesting the changes to her report. “She never came out of a coma after the bombing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Giordano said.

  “All we have left is a thumb drive Mari brought with her, and that list you have in your hand was on it,” Casey said. “Forget about Iran. Forget about Yemen. If I can prove the al Houthi report was the basis for Cogburn’s accusations, then maybe there won’t be any wasted effort looking for Islamic terrorists who had nothing to do with the bombing. Then y’all can concentrate on finding that hillbilly.”

  Giordano couldn’t help feeling like he was talking to a used car salesman. He knew Casey really just wanted help looking into his Iran war conspiracy, but he agreed with Casey’s argument of wasting time on the wrong suspects, whether or not Casey believed it himself. “And this list will do that? It’ll prove al Qa’ida and their boys are innocent?”

  “I won’t know ‘til I find out who those people are,” Casey answered. “But I can’t do that without your help.”

  Paul Giordano folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. “Alright. I’ll see what comes up, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “Thank you,” Casey said.

  “Chances are, none of these names will hit.”

  “I realize that, but it was on the thumb drive, and I can’t just discount it without knowing for sure.” Casey wasn’t sure whether Giordano would actually check the list or just shitcan it as soon as he got back to the office. But he couldn’t pass on the chance the detective would get him some answers, not given the resources Giordano had at his disposal—resources Casey didn’t have. He decided Giordano may be more willing to do something for him if he was assured he would get something in return. “I’ll find out what that tattoo was, and I’ll call you as soon as I do.”

  Giordano squinted against the sun. “Please do.” His eyes scanned the people behind Casey, and he lowered his voice. “You and I may be the only people who saw that guy outside the diner, and that mark on his neck is the only lead we have,” he said. “Right now, no one is working on this angle but me—unofficially—so every day that goes by means the trail is getting exponentially colder.”

  Casey didn’t expect that. “You mean nobody’s looking for that guy?” he said, only slightly louder than Giordano. Casey figured the detective was cautious talking about this for a reason, and he went along with it.

  “No. Like you said, everyone’s focused on a transnational terrorist group as the prime suspect,” Giordano answered.

  “Didn’t you tell them what you saw? I mean, isn’t that good enough?”

  Giordano walked beside Casey and turned around, forcing the analyst to do the same. Giordano wanted to visually clear the area that had been behind him for the past few minutes. “I did report it,” he said, “and I was told to stay in line.”

  “What?” Casey couldn’t believe the FBI, or even the NYPD, would just disregard a piece of material evidence like an eyewitness sighting—from a police officer, no less.

  “That’s why I’m doing my own investigating. No one wants to hear about another Timothy McVeigh—not anymore. Especially not in New York. It’s go big or go home, and al Qa’ida set the bar a decade ago.”

  “How can they just ignore the possibility that someone else was responsible? Are we that prejudiced in this country?” Casey said.

  “I just know I was told to drop it,” Giordano said.

  Casey shook his head. “That’s bullshit, man.”

  “Whatever it is, I need that tat,” Giordano said.

  “You’ll get it,” Casey promised, though he had no idea how.

  Chapter 18

  Susan held the door handle for balance as she left the bar. The resulting steam from a late afternoon shower threatened to suffocate her, sharply contrasting with the excessive cold she just endured inside Crowder’s Cantina. She cautiously moved to the sidewalk, letting the door close behind her. Susan never intended to have more than one drink, but like always, the first drink went down a little too fast, and a second quickly followed.

  Nothing good ever happened to Susan when alcohol was involved. Mari was evidence of that. Most of the time, though, Susan was the sole recipient of the consequences—generally one-night stands that didn’t help her sense of self-worth. As a precaution, Susan avoided the small, white-collar bar two blocks from her apartment on weekends. Mondays were different. It was pretty tame, and after the day she just had, Susan thought she needed the solitude one can only find in a room full of strangers. Plus, the Cantina bartenders were good listeners.

  The Friday morning terrorist attack was still the talk of the town, and when Susan revealed that she was in Soren’s Deli as the bomb went off, the free drinks started coming. There weren’t many patrons in Crowder’s that night—two others at the bar, a couple and one loner in booths—but there were enough to keep Susan there until half past ten without an empty glass.

  No dinner and five gin and tonics was not a good combination, and Susan only made it ten yards before she grabbed a corner light pole to keep her from falling into the intersection. Before she let go, she removed her modest heels, willing to sacrifice her stockings for stability.

  “You all right?”

  Susan jumped, frightened by the stranger who came up behind her. She tried to gain control of her alcohol-clouded vision while subconsciously checking to make sure her purse was secure. Like Susan, the man was dressed as if he’d just come from work. But she knew that wasn’t exactly the case because she recognized him as the one person in Crowder’s who didn’t join in the conversation about the bombing. He’d come to the bar shortly after Susan arrived and just sat in a corner booth, drinking in silence. While she was the center of attention for the past couple of hours, now the last thing she wanted was an audience.

  “I’m fine,” Susan answered, knowing that wasn’t entirely true.

  “You sure?” the stranger persisted. “I can call you a cab.”

  Susan attempted a polite smile. The man moved into the lamp-light and for the first time, Susan noticed how handsome he was. A flash of sobriety hit her as she menta
lly kicked herself for making the observation. Not tonight, girl.

  “It’s no trouble, really,” the man said.

  “No, thank you,” Susan said. “I’ll just walk.” She took four steps past the man and stopped when she saw the sign for Crowder’s. She turned around and headed in the other direction.

  “You sure you know where you’re going?” the man called after Susan passed him for the second time.

  Susan threw him an embarrassed grin, tinged with a bit of annoyance that disappeared as soon as she knew he could no longer see her face.

  * * * * *

  Joel watched Susan Williams cross the intersection. He moved into an alley, away from the lights of the New York City street where he could continue to observe without being seen. Nice ass, he thought as Susan passed under another street lamp a block ahead. Seeing the woman was preoccupied with trying to walk in a straight line, Joel moved from the cover of darkness and followed Susan at a safe distance.

  Joel Simpson had spent most of the morning trying to find out what he could about Mariam Fahda’s friend. If she had been a political opponent of Senator Cogburn’s, he could have used any one of several connections to get her address, credit card numbers, social history, and hygiene practices. But discretion was paramount in this case. Evans didn’t tell him directly, but Joel knew by his tone the lawyer wanted him to do this on his own. From what little Joel Simpson knew of The Council, he understood the importance of compartmentalizing both information and activity, and he was amazed they were able to remain shrouded in secrecy, or at least extreme ambiguity, for decades. It was all about need-to-know with The Council. One day, Joel hoped to be in the know.

  For now, he just followed instructions, and that was to find out what Mariam told Susan Williams before she passed away. Joel found several “Susan Williams” in New York City through a basic internet search, but when he coupled that name with Mariam Fahda’s, he narrowed it down to one—ends up both women went to school together in California. When he opened up the bio of an employee at the Intelligence Watch Group, all the pieces were there. What’s more, the curriculum vitae contained a picture of Susan Williams, making it easy for Joel to wait until the woman left work and follow her from there.

  He didn’t expect when she exited the subway that she would head right for the bar, though. Joel had no idea if she was meeting anyone, so he watched her from a corner booth and tried to learn as much about her as he could, hoping the alcohol would loosen her tongue.

  Ms. Williams turned out to be more in control of her conversation than her coordination. She seemed to be a likeable enough person, but Joel attributed much of that to the minor celebrity status the other people in the bar gave her. The only useful piece of information came when Susan admitted to being at the deli that morning to meet a friend who eventually died from her injuries. Susan announced that she would be paying her respects for her friend at the memorial service the following day. Joel was also going to attend the service, but not to pay any respects.

  Joel slowed his pace as he watched Susan quickly cross the street and enter a high-rise apartment building. She has money, he observed, guessing there was no flat in there less than half-a-million dollars. He walked to the entrance after a few minutes and stopped at the door. There was an attendant on duty, which meant he couldn’t just find a name by a call button outside to determine which apartment was Susan’s. The elevator must have been around the corner, so he wasn’t able to just watch for the number to stop increasing, telling him which floor she was on. Not that that information would help—there had to be at least ten apartments on each floor.

  No matter. Joel’s engineered chance encounter on the street was all he needed. Now he had an opening.

  Chapter 19

  Casey and Susan arrived at St. Patrick’s Cathedral shortly after the memorial service began. It was mid-morning, and though the sun was shining, a steady breeze kept the relative temperature down, allowing the crowd gathered outside to listen to the monsignor’s homily in comfortable silence. The priest spoke into a microphone at the top of the steps, framed by the open hole where the church’s massive doors once stood. Much of the rubble had been pushed aside but not removed, a vivid reminder of the catastrophe that claimed the lives of so many of St. Patrick’s parishioners.

  “I’m going to move closer,” Susan said.

  “Alright,” Casey replied. He watched Susan move gingerly through the crowd, preferring to stay put and take things in from a distance. Susan asked Casey to go with her to the church, claiming she wanted the company to help calm her nerves on the trip there. Casey agreed, but after they arrived, he could tell that she wanted to be left alone. Over three decades, and Casey still didn’t understand women. He was pretty sure he never would.

  Casey surveyed the crowd from the street, which was blocked off to accommodate the mass of mourners, well-wishers, and curious onlookers. What he saw was a microcosm of New York City. From his vantage point, Casey could pick out representatives from every race, religion, and social class that made up the city’s population. The service was held in front of a Catholic church, but Jews, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, atheists, and more were also counted among the bombings’ victims. The memorial was for them as well.

  Casey felt proud to be among these people. He grew up with a bad taste in his mouth for New York, for no other reason than because he was from Georgia. After living in the city for a year, though, he realized how ignorant that feeling was. If anything, New York was the face of America, and Casey was damn proud to be American.

  The mayor of New York City took the podium after a rabbi from the synagogue that was hit finished his prayer. Casey suppressed a smile as he thought of NASCAR and the now-traditional “Shalom and Amen” at the end of the pre-race invocation. He quickly looked around to make sure no one took his stifled snicker to be gross insensitivity. Casey wasn’t looking for him, but he spotted Paul Giordano a third of the way into the crowd. Giordano was also observing the other spectators, only half-listening to the speakers on the church steps.

  Casey made his way toward the detective. He didn’t try to kid himself that Giordano might welcome the company. In truth, Casey was still uncomfortable with how their conversation went the day before, and he wanted the man to know that he wasn’t the asshole Giordano probably thought he was. Giordano saw Casey coming before he got there.

  “Morning,” the detective said as if he expected to see Casey at the service.

  “Howdy,” Casey replied. Both men turned to face the podium, neither saying a word for a few minutes while the mayor continued talking.

  Giordano was the first to speak. “I ran your list last night,” he said. “I got nothing.”

  Casey tried not to sound disappointed. “Thanks for trying.” He hadn’t counted on the detective to find anything, but he really hoped he would have. Anything that would remotely tie that list of names to the report Mari wrote would have helped. Jim Shelton told Casey not to look for a smoking gun, but to focus on the things he could prove, no matter how small. And while Casey was willing to concede the list was not the linchpin that connected the Houthi report to the Yemen attack, he knew it was important. Why else would it be on Mari’s thumb drive?

  Before either of them could say anything else, the area around St. Patrick’s was filled with the sound of applause, given with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The crowd was reacting to the introduction of the memorial service’s next speaker. Casey didn’t even know the man was supposed to be there.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” Senator Bill Cogburn said as he took the podium. He waited for the noise to subside before he began. This was neither the place nor the time to throw grateful smiles and wave to the crowd, pointing out individuals in the audience the senator may or may not actually recognize, and Cogburn knew it. Any other time a politician stood behind a microphone, that type of behavior would be expected, but Cogburn was a pro, and he appreciated the solemnity of the occasion. But...he was running for president
.

  “It’s good to be home,” Cogburn said. He took a moment to pan the crowd, trying to convey that he was talking to each and every one of them. “I only wish my return from Washington came under different circumstances.” A solitary cough from someone in the crowd was the only thing that marred the near-complete silence before the senator continued. “When the good people of New York elected me to represent them in the United States Senate, I vowed to protect you from ever having to relive the tragedy that befell this great nation ten years ago.”

  There was no need to explain what tragedy the senator was referring to. Casey suspected that many of the people in the audience lost someone they loved that day, as the senator had. Casey was not one those people. For Engineman Second Class Shenk, the attack on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon meant an unexpected sortie and more time away from home as his ship was called to patrol the East Coast of the United States until the president and his folks could figure out what had just happened. For Casey, the attack on 9/11 was an affirmation of why he’d joined the Navy in the first place—a sense of duty to give back to the country that had given him so much. He felt no sorrow that day, only a renewed sense of purpose. And while Casey did have sympathy for those who had suffered because of the Planes Operation, he abhorred the exploitation of that suffering.

  Casey reflexively clenched his jaw as he listened to Cogburn. In one sentence, the man not only managed to admit exploiting the devastation of September 11 for political gain, but he was poising himself to turn the Friday bombings into another campaign rallying cry. He looked over at Paul Giordano to see if the NYPD detective saw the same thing, but Giordano’s expression betrayed nothing. Casey wondered if he was being too judgmental.