What the hell is Penrose-Klein, he thought, and how do they fit with Jared Prince? Besides needing to find out that information, Giordano wanted to know how they found out about Prince’s body showing up in the morgue. He could make all kinds of guesses, but he was sure most, if not all of them, would be wrong. He would see what he could find out back at the office.
Giordano arrived at the car and instinctively checked the parking meter to make sure he still had time left and wasn’t parked illegally. He took his keys out and unlocked the vehicle, but hesitated before getting in. Why would someone go through the trouble of erasing Jared Prince’s file, but keep the file itself? That bit had bothered him when the morgue attendant revealed the lack of contents in Prince’s processing record, but Giordano forgot to bring it up when the old woman at the front desk started giving an oral history of the life and times of a dead man from West Virginia.
If Giordano had never gone there asking questions, no one would have ever known about the discrepancy. Once the processing file was complete, it was sent to the basement, and the old woman at the desk most likely never opened it again. There were enough new tragedies coming into the New York City morgue every day to keep her busy. The morgue attendant was the last person to have anything to do with the body before it left the building, and by Colton’s own admission, he only ever looked at his task list—a name and a number. If someone wanted to find out what happened to a person after their trip to the morgue, Colton’s spreadsheet would be all they needed to look at. Deleting that would have a good chance of being noticed. So you leave that and get rid of the incriminating documents within the file.
There’s definitely something bigger going on here. Giordano just didn’t know how big.
Chapter 26
Jazz. Joel Simpson didn’t hate jazz, but he didn’t particularly care for it, either. At least the jazz in Bemelmans Bar was piano jazz—no trumpets or idiot “scat” vocalists at the Carlyle that night. The high-end bar in the Upper East Side was named for the children’s book artist, Ludwig Bemelmans, after he decorated the walls with murals. The place regularly drew celebrities, politicians, and other A-listers, no matter what music was playing. That night it was jazz. And the one thing Joel did like about jazz...it always attracted classy women.
Joel sipped his martini from a corner table under a cigar-smoking rabbit on the wall behind him. His eyes were glued to the calves of a shapely blonde across the room who was nursing a drink that matched her tight-fitting blue dress. Senator Cogburn’s aide was taking his time, keeping pace with the woman’s own drinking so he had an excuse to continue sitting at the table—cover for his voyeurism.
“Can you believe twenty bucks for a damn beer? I knew there was a reason I don’t ever come here,” Keith Swanson said as he invited himself to join Joel.
“Keith,” Joel said, acknowledging the man’s presence without initiating an exchange of pleasantries. “I thought you weren’t coming back until Friday.”
Keith slurped his beer, causing an older couple at the next table to throw looks of disapproval his way. “Wasn’t supposed to,” he said, “but the old lady’s mom was killing me. I couldn’t take the nagging anymore.”
Joel laughed in a show of male solidarity. Truthfully, he thought it was humorous that Keith Swanson was beat down by a woman. Joel would never stand for that.
“Who’s that hottie you’re staring at?” Keith asked.
“I’m just enjoying the scenery,” Joel replied.
“You should introduce yourself, man. She looks lonely.”
“Piss off, Swanson,” Joel said. “You think I’m in fucking high school?”
“Easy, killer,” Keith said. “I’m just trying to help you out. Or did you move in on the skirt from the other morning? Maybe she came to her senses and left that boyfriend of hers to saddle the Washington Stallion.”
“What’s your problem?” Keith asked louder than he should have. “Why the fuck are you even here?”
“I told you. My mother-in-law was...,” Keith started.
“No. Why the fuck are you sitting at my table? I didn’t want your company in the first place, and I damn sure don’t need to be listening to advice on women from a pussy-whipped bitch like you,” Joel said. “And for your information, I’m meeting that skirt’s boyfriend on Saturday morning, so I’ll be saddling her on Saturday night,” Joel said—like he was in high school.
Keith downed the rest of his twenty-dollar beer in two pulls and stood up. “Good luck with that,” he said. “And for your information, Bill wants to meet with us at the office on Friday before the fundraiser. It’ll be before lunch, but I’ll let you know what time when I find out.” He left without waiting for Joel to respond.
I hate that motherfucker! Joel was livid. Who did Keith Swanson think he was, anyway? He was just an errand boy, along for the ride because he and Cogburn played on the same playground as kids. Big deal. It made Joel cringe every time Swanson offered his counsel on matters of national defense or foreign policy, but he felt downright sick whenever Cogburn followed that advice. Hell, he was a TV repairman before Bill Cogburn decided to run for Congress. Since then, Swanson’s been Cogburn’s campaign manager, secretary, and chief of staff—always on the edge of power, without actually having power. He was an outsider.
Joel was different. He was born in the District, and he grew up with the taste and scent of power. He learned early on that the ability to influence others, to manipulate them into doing your will by convincing them it was their will they were following...that was true power. Joel had spent his entire adult life trying to master that skill. It was that skill that got him the job as Cogburn’s aide, and Cogburn’s predecessor’s. It was also what caught the attention of Mitchell Evans and The Council. And The Council had real power.
Joel finished the last of his martini when he saw the woman in blue looking directly at him. He stood up and placed a five-dollar tip on the table, keeping his eyes locked on the woman. He smiled and gave an almost imperceptible nod as he turned toward the hotel lobby. The woman followed and entered the elevator right behind Joel.
Jazz. Even the hookers were classy.
Chapter 27
“Mornin’, George,” Casey said as he walked in the break room of the Intelligence Watch Group offices.
George Smithfield turned and almost dropped the coffee pot as he replaced it without looking. “Hey Casey,” he said.
“How was class?” Casey asked with a smile. “Did Dasha teach you anything new last night?”
“She doesn’t teach, she’s...oh, you mean....” George blushed and left his response hanging as Casey laughed.
“I’m just giving you shit, man,” Casey said. “But since you brought it up, how are you and Dasha doing?”
“You brought it up, but thanks for asking,” George said. “Things are great. We’re thinking of taking a cruise this fall.”
“Really. Where to?” Casey asked as he grabbed a cup from the stack on the counter.
“We’re thinking the Caribbean.”
Casey started making a new pot after he realized he drained the last of the coffee. “Nice,” he said, “but I’d wait ‘til after October if I were y’all.”
“Why?”
“Hurricane season’ll be over by then—less chance of a cancellation or capsizing,” Casey said.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” George said. “I’ll tell Dasha and see what she thinks.” He tried to take a sip of his coffee but pulled back when he found out the hard way it was still too hot, despite the amount of cream and sugar he put in. “Oh, hey, I read that post you wrote the other day. Good job.”
“Thanks,” Casey said. He hadn’t even thought about his Complicity Doctrine post, or the warning from Jim Shelton to take it down, since he left work the day before. Once he decided he needed to leave it up to possibly draw attention away from Susan, he put the post out of his mind. It wasn’t long before George put it back in.
“It’s like one of those Ar
ea 51 conspiracies,” George said. “Like where it doesn’t seem like it could really be true, but because it’s so out there it probably is. You know what I mean?”
“Except, in Roswell, only a couple of people died. And they weren’t even human,” Casey said.
“George!” someone yelled from outside, somewhere in the cubicle village.
“Is that Oscar?” Casey asked as he and George stepped out of the break room.
“Oh shit,” George said. “What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty. Why?”
“Horstein and I are going down to the Jennings Institute to talk with one of his old professors at ten,” George said. “We’re supposed to be leaving right now.”
“George?” Oscar yelled again, closer.
“Over here,” George answered.
“Shut the fuck up!” another employee yelled, unseen, from across the room.
Casey laughed at the scene as Oscar Horstein, veins protruding from his temples, emerged from the far row of cubicles. “Mornin’, Oscar.”
Oscar ignored Casey and looked right at George. “We have to leave now if we’re going to...you were getting coffee?” Oscar’s eyeballs tried to fly from his skull and attack the cup in George’s hand. “We better not be late because you were getting coffee.”
“Take it easy, Oscar,” Casey said. “It doesn’t take half-an-hour to get there. It’s like fifteen minutes, max.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Oscar said. “It’ll take that long just to wait for the subway, plus another twelve on the train.”
“I meant fifteen minutes walking,” Casey said. “Why the hell would you take the subway to Jennings?”
“Oscar said it’s too hot to walk,” George said.
“I said it’s hot, and if we didn’t have to walk, we shouldn’t,” Oscar clarified. He looked at his watch and added, “Now I guess we don’t have a choice. Come on, George. We’re going to be soaking wet from sweat when we get there.”
“Why do you need George to go with you to talk to one of your old profs, anyway?” Casey asked.
Oscar huffed. “Dr. Brackmann agreed to set up a meeting for us with a visiting fellow from Iran,” he said.
“He was just in Iran last week, and we’re going to see if he can tell us anything about activity at Natanz,” George said.
“Who is it?” Casey asked.
“Dr. David Raad,” Oscar said. “Can we go now?”
Oscar turned for the exit, and George followed. After a few seconds, Casey caught up to them.
“Did you mean Davood Raad?” Casey asked.
Oscar didn’t slow down as he went through the lobby to the elevator. “I guess,” he told Casey. “Dr. Brackmann said there was someone at the Institute for the rest of the month that I might be interested in talking to after I told him what George and I were working on. I don’t know if he can help us, but the sooner we finish this project the sooner I can move on to something else.”
“You’re leaving IWG?” Casey asked.
“You wish,” Oscar said. “I mean like working on Kadima’s push for a Palestinian state. Why are you following us, anyway?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I tagged along and asked Dr. Raad a few questions when y’all were done,” Casey said.
“Sure,” George said before Oscar could respond.
“What? No,” Oscar said. “I told Dr. Brackmann I was bringing a colleague. A colleague. Not a whole gaggle.”
“So you want me to stay back?” George asked.
“No, dumbass. You’re working on this project, too,” Oscar said. “You’re coming.”
“But you’re uninviting me?” Casey asked as they all stepped into the elevator.
“You were never invited.” Oscar tried his best to control his temper. He didn’t need his internal temperature to be elevated beyond what the air outside was getting ready to do. Oscar decided that putting up with Casey was a better alternative than added sweat stains—slightly better. The elevator opened on the bottom floor and Oscar said, “Fine. You can come with us.”
“Outstanding,” Casey said. “Thanks, Oscar.”
“Just try not to say anything until George and I are done,” Oscar said.
“No problem.”
* * * * *
“Natanz was never shut down. The damage from the Israeli attack was only cosmetic,” Dr. Davood Raad said.
“I knew it,” Casey said, despite his promise to keep his mouth shut.
Oscar gave Casey an angry look from across the coffee table in Dr. Eitan Brackmann’s office at the Jennings Institute for World Policy. He took a deep breath, refusing to let Casey’s premature intrusion into the conversation get the best of him. He wanted to maintain control—of himself and the interview. “But why did Iran publicly announce that Israel potentially set them back two years with that attack?”
“If you thought there was nothing to see, would you waste your time looking?” Dr. Raad asked.
“I suppose not,” Oscar said.
“Which is precisely what the IAEA thought,” the Iranian professor said. “It is expensive to send a team of inspectors from across the globe to verify these nuclear sites. When Iran said the uranium enrichment facility at Natanz was no longer enriching uranium, Yukiya Amano decided to concentrate IAEA resources on trying to get into Parchin and other places.”
“While the enrichment continued,” Casey said.
“You look surprised, Oscar,” Dr. Eitan Brackmann said. “You’re not the only one who thought Israel’s bombing at Natanz was successful. Though I must point out that Netanyahu was not one of them.”
“You mean Israel knew the attack was a failure?” Oscar asked.
“Not a failure,” Dr. Raad said. “Just maybe not the result they were originally looking for.”
“What do you mean?” George asked.
“The Israelis had every intention of putting Natanz out of commission,” Dr. Raad explained, “but no one else is ready to go to war with Iran. And trust me, Israel cannot win that fight alone.”
“Not without using their own nuclear weapons,” Dr. Brackmann added.
“And if Israel launches a nuclear missile into Iran, any support they had from the West would be gone. Countries like America would have no choice but to shun the State of Israel or become pariahs themselves,” Dr. Raad said.
“But by attacking Iran like they did, Israel showed their resolve to keep Iran from obtaining their own nuclear weapons,” Dr. Brackmann said. “They were able to maintain Western support by keeping the threat of a pre-emptive nuclear strike alive. The result was tougher sanctions on Iran, further crippling that country’s economy.”
“And their ability to finance their nuclear development,” George said.
“Precisely,” Dr. Raad said.
“Sounds like the Complicity Doctrine, Casey,” George said, smiling.
The two professors looked at each other and then at Oscar. None of the three men had any idea what George was referring to. “What are you talking about?” Oscar asked.
“It’s just a blog post I wrote the other day,” Casey said. He was a little uneasy about bringing up the post in front of people he knew practically nothing about. But George had opened that can of worms now, and all Casey could do was decide which ones wiggled out. “I was commenting on how it seemed that the U.S. was using other groups’ conflicts to fight a war with Iran through covert monetary and political support.”
“And they even killed a girl in the bombings last week to keep her quiet about the whole thing,” George added.
There went the rest of the worms.
“Give me a break,” Oscar said.
“It’s actually why I asked Oscar if I could tag along. I wanted to get Dr. Raad’s opinion about Iran’s use of the same doctrine,” Casey said, hoping everyone else in the room would ignore George’s last comment.
Oscar turned to Dr. Brackmann and said, “Sir, I’m sorry. If I had known Mr. Shenk was going t
o waste your time with one of his conspiracy theories, I would have insisted that he not come with us.”
Eitan Brackmann looked at Davood Raad and tilted his head to the door. Dr. Raad nodded and stood up. “If you’ll excuse us for a moment,” Dr. Brackmann said as the two men left the room, closing the door behind them.
“What the fuck, Shenk?” Oscar said, almost spitting the words. He looked at George and wagged his finger in the analyst’s face. “If you hadn’t said anything, they wouldn’t have left. I should have just come by myself.”
“Sorry,” George said.
“Don’t apologize, George,” Casey said. “Oscar’s just got his panties in a wad because he thinks we embarrassed him in front of his old teacher.”
“Fuck off,” Oscar said, watching the silhouettes of the two professors through the frosted glass window in the door. After a minute, he turned to Casey and asked, “What was George talking about, anyway? About a girl getting killed in the bombing. You mean, on purpose?”
“It’s kinda complicated,” Casey said, “but, yes. She was a friend of Susan’s.” Casey waited for that to sink in. Despite Oscar’s temper and air of superiority, he wasn’t a bad guy. Casey blamed the man’s social faults on an ingrained sense of insecurity. Professionally, Oscar was a good analyst, even if he wasn’t readily open to outside assistance—from Casey, at least. “I think she was the reason Soren’s Deli was targeted last Friday.”
Oscar looked at the floor in front of him and thought about how to respond. He was saved from having to say anything when the office door opened, and the two academics returned to the chairs they previously occupied.
Dr. Brackmann looked at Oscar and George before turning his attention to Casey. “You said you posted your commentary about a war with Iran on the internet?”
“Yes, sir,” Casey said.
The Complicity Doctrine Page 16
