“Well, not Iran-proper, anyway,” she explained. “We know Iran tried to purchase the S-300 air defense system from Russia in December 2008. Russia denied any such transaction was even on the table. Whether a deal was in the works or not, when the sale made it to the media the jig was up, and the deal was off. Neither side can afford any more bad press at this point. The Russians are building the Bushehr reactor for Iran, and they’re already taking heat for that. Iran stands by its right to have a nuclear power capability, hence the P5+1 talks. Why would they want to jeopardize any bargaining power they may or may not have before the next round of talks? It looks like the UNSC is about to give Iran the go-ahead, and buying stolen Russian missiles from a black-market seller would make it look like they have more to hide than just a peaceful nuclear program.”
Jim thought about what Susan just said. “Then who’s buying the missiles that are on the MV Baltic Venture? Or is Pete Grozny’s source in Kaliningrad just blowing smoke?” he asked.
Susan hesitated before answering. “I’m not sure, sir.”
Jim leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, cradling his chin in his folded hands. Others around the table fidgeted. Everyone was drawn into the conversation now, drawn by the lengthy silence from their boss.
“So we’re back to square one, then,” Jim finally said.
Susan had decided to take Phil’s advice and give her opinion despite her lack of concrete evidence on either side. “Not exactly, sir. I found nothing that indicated a potential buy from Iran, either military or big government. But that doesn’t mean someone in Iran couldn’t be the buyer.”
“Explain.”
“Well, sir, I think it’s possible the deal may have been made by members of the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps—someone with the money and contacts to make it happen,” she offered.
“Without the president or the Supreme Leader knowing about it?” Jim asked.
“Yes, sir. I don’t think they would let it happen if they did know about it,” she defended herself.
“How could they not know about an arms deal for an entire missile system?” Oscar Horstein, the lead Israel analyst, said, drawing all eyes to the uninvited newcomer into the discussion. “The IRGC works directly for Khamenei. They don’t do anything without his go-ahead.”
Susan’s heart rate increased slightly at the interruption. She thought Oscar had a narrow view that focused solely on the Jewish state. His peripheral knowledge beyond Israel was extensive, but didn’t go much deeper than what he learned on Wikipedia. Susan had dealt with his self-inflated credentials on more than one occasion and lost an argument or two, but she wasn’t going to let him get the upper hand on this one.
“That’s not true, Oscar,” she said. “Fifteen years ago, yes. But not anymore. The Revolutionary Guard is a business. They have their fingers in damn near every aspect of Iranian society and hold controlling interest in everything from oil pipelines to gas fields, road construction and media. Half of the government from the president through members of the Majlis are former Guard members.”
“So? The Supreme Leader is still that, ‘the Supreme Leader.’ And the IRGC mandate to maintain the Revolution still stands, does it not?” Oscar continued the argument.
Susan sighed. She was trying to keep her anger from showing, wondering why this guy even cared. “The Iranian Constitution also has a provision for the removal of the Supreme Leader if his governance is deemed to be un-Islamic or counter-productive to that revolution. Ali Khamenei is not Ruhollah Khomeini. The more protests that occur like the ones in June, the more others in the government may call into question the Supreme Leader’s ability to keep control of Iran. There are members in the IRGC who have already begun lamenting the watering-down of the Revolution and are trying to figure out how to bring the revolutionary fervor of 1979 back to Iran. Does that mean there is a coup brewing? Of course not. It just means that things aren’t as black-and-white in Iran as your World Book Encyclopedia tells you, Oscar.”
There were a few snickers before Jim ended the discussion. “Enough, guys,” he said sternly and evenly, eyeing both Susan and Oscar. He fixed his attention back on Susan. “So you think the IRGC is behind the buy?”
“Not the IRGC itself, just a segment of the IRGC,” Susan said. She was relieved the political science debate was over. “See, the more the IRGC expands its influence into the commercial realm, both legitimately and clandestinely, the more opportunity there is for factionalism within the organization. The same results are apparently happening as former Guard members take public office in one way or another. One of those factions is unofficially led by Ahmad Rafi Alam, a protégé of Brigadier General Mohammad Qasim Ja’afari, who many believe may be in line to take the reins of the IRGC when Mohammad Ali Ja’afari—no relation—steps down as the Corps’ commander.”
Susan now had everyone’s attention. “Alam is a hardcore believer that the IRGC is the last remaining protector of the Khomeini Revolution,” she continued. “I think he may be behind the missile purchase, if anyone is. He has the motivation—protection of the Islamic Republic and their quest for nuclear power—and he has the resources of IRGC, Inc. at his disposal because his sugar daddy is most likely going to be the next IRGC Commander. Alam, and probably Ja’afari, thinks he is doing what is best for Iran. If the P5+1 talks fall through, it’s a safe bet that Iran will continue with its enrichment activities, regardless of the repercussions a failure in Ankara may have on the political landscape of the country. Alam is just preparing for that eventuality. Making the deal under the radar is just one way to keep from jeopardizing the talks on the off-chance they go Iran’s way.”
“How?” Jim asked.
“Because if Iran is seen as arming itself despite the sanctions already in place, they lose any inkling of trust they may get from the members of the UN Security Council that they will abide by the rules in their pursuit of nuclear power. Despite the opinion of most,” Susan said as she shot an accusing glance at Oscar Horstein, “Iran is not irrational—Ahmadinejad’s apocalyptic rhetoric notwithstanding. The Ayatollahs wouldn’t shoot themselves in the foot like that.”
Jim thought about that for a minute and then checked his watch. “Okay,” he said. He gathered the papers in front of him and looked around the table. “That’s it, folks. Let’s get back to work. Jocelyn, I want that report on Sheikh Mohammad’s proposal by 1300,” he added, referring to Sheikh Mohammad Bin Zayed al-Nahyan, the Crown Prince of Abu Dhabi and the number-two man in the United Arab Emirates Armed Forces. Everyone began filing out to their various cubicles or the restroom or coffee pot, as needed. “Susan, hold on for a minute,” he said as she passed by his chair.
When everyone else had left the room, Jim got up and shut the door. Susan prepared to be chewed out as Jim walked back towards her. Jim leaned on the corner of the now-empty conference table and crossed his arms in front of him. “I think you might be right,” he said.
Susan was visibly relieved that she apparently still had a job, as if her employment status were in question every time she gave an analysis. She waited for Jim to continue.
“Although Pete Grozny’s source may not be airtight, and there are still some questions he’s trying to get answers to as far as confirming his theory of stolen missiles on that ship and not a state-sanctioned sale, your theory of a buyer seems to fit. If we are looking at two semi-official bodies making an illegal arms deal, illegal meaning their governments didn’t buy off on the deal, this whole scenario is entirely plausible. What led you to this Alam guy?” he asked.
“I profiled him two years ago when I was doing research into the IRGC TTP,” she said. TTP meant “Tactics, Techniques, and Procedures.” “That was after the discovery of Iranian parts being used in making roadside bombs in Iraq. Everyone fingered the IRGC’s Qods Force as the suppliers, and Alam was a name that kept popping up in nearly every unconventional endeavor the IRGC was working on, from suicide bombings to IEDs.”
“No, I me
an what led you to think of this guy. I’m just trying to get an idea of your thought process, that’s all.”
Susan swallowed audibly and thought about how to answer that. She really had come up with Ahmad Alam’s possible involvement on her own, but only after Casey Shenk had pointed her to the IRGC as an independent buyer. Susan decided it was best not to hide anything from her boss. She trusted him. At least she thought she did. He believed in her, which was as good a reason as any, in her mind, to trust him. “An outside source steered me in that direction,” she said.
“What outside source?” Jim was more interested now, given that he had told her to be tight-lipped about the missile sale. Despite his concern of a possible security violation if Susan happened to share the wrong information, he gave no outward sign of that concern and merely waited for an answer.
“I don’t know who he is,” she almost whispered.
“Deep Throat?” Jim smiled as he thought about the confidential informant who spilled the beans to Woodward and Bernstein, exposing the Watergate break-ins and ending in the resignation of President Richard Nixon.
Susan could feel that she was being patronized and tried to salvage some of her credibility. “No, sir. He’s just a guy who came up with a theory about the Baltic Venture and posted it on his weblog. I came across the theory, thought it had merit, and discussed it with him.”
“You discussed it with him? But you don’t know who he is,” Jim said, repeating Susan’s admission. “What exactly did his theory say?”
Susan told Jim about reaching a dead end with the normal research sources when she tried to find anything out about an Iranian arms deal. She explained how she stumbled on Casey’s blog posting, found his number, and called him. “He already came to the conclusion that there must be an illegal military shipment onboard because of the Russian response to the hijacking. It just seemed too close to the truth, and I wanted to find out what he knew about an arms shipment.”
“Interesting,” Jim said. He thought for a second before standing up and adding, “Conspiracy theorist?”
“I don’t think so, sir. I think he’s just a guy that observes things, puts pieces together, and tries to fill in the holes,” Susan said.
Jim picked up his papers. “Maybe we should offer him a job,” he said. “I want you to type up your analysis as a draft and keep trying to find something concrete to back it up.” He looked right into Susan’s eyes. “Look, just be careful. We don’t want privileged information getting into the wrong hands. The raw information we get, particularly from some of our overseas sources, isn’t for public consumption. We make it part of our analysis tool bag, but by itself, we have to treat it as if it’s classified—not just for our good, but more importantly, for the good of our sources. That’s just sound business practice. Particularly when people’s lives could be at stake.”
Susan didn’t say anything as Jim walked back to his office. She remained standing in the empty conference room for a full minute. Jim always had a way of making you feel personally responsible for the fate of mankind.
Chapter 10
Savannah, Georgia
The Vandura was parked in front of the warehouse/garage door as Casey moved the last of the empty soda crates inside. He heard a voice on the other side of the truck and greeted the owner of the self-storage complex as he pulled down the rolling gate on the back and locked it. Master Sergeant Raymond T. Willis, United States Marine Corps, Retired, had purchased the lot and opened A-1 Self Storage about twenty years earlier to supplement his government pension. He was a good owner and manager who paid his tenants little mind as long as their rents were paid on time.
The old man was showing a potential customer around the premises and waved to Casey while he explained the security access control of the complex. The customer was a middle-aged man who looked at Casey as they passed. He smiled when they made eye-contact and continued around the corner while Master Sergeant Willis pointed out the security cameras and explained that they were out of commission at the moment, but he had someone coming to look at them next week. Casey laughed when he heard that. Old Man Willis had been promising that a guy was going to come look at the cameras next week for going on four years.
Casey walked over and banged on the garage door next to his. When there wasn’t an answer, he banged again. A few seconds later the door rolled up and a wrinkled, sixty-something black man in a faded army jacket poked his head out and looked in either direction to make sure Casey was the only one around.
“Morning, Casper,” Casey said to the man even though it was nearly three in the afternoon. Casper Jones was a Vietnam vet who hadn’t done much since the end of the Vietnam War. Casey was unsure whether Casper had even bathed since then. Whatever body odor Casper did have, however, was masked by the sickly-sweet smell of marijuana that accompanied the cloud of smoke that escaped the building when the door opened. A faint glow of purple was the only light in Casper’s garage. When the door was shut, a switch changed the blacklight to white fluorescence, warming three large, two-tiered wooden tables covered in small, potted cannabis.
“Hey, Mr. Casey,” Casper said. He adjusted his jacket that looked two sizes too big for him and relaxed as much as his paranoid nature would allow. The truth was, Casper Jones was never truly relaxed. He knew if Ray Willis ever found out he was growing weed in his garage, let alone living there, he would be out on his ass and probably back in jail to boot.
Casey pushed over a case of expired Pepsi bottles with his foot. “Here you go, sir. Only one case today, but I have some Fanta and Diet Mt. Dew going out this weekend, so I’ll bring those on Friday afternoon.” Casey always brought his expired or expiring sodas back to the warehouse and gave them to Casper. Even though the drinks were generally good for about a month after the expiration date on the bottle as long as they were still carbonated, and not already flat, the vending company made him get rid of them. The food he could understand. The company owners wanted to avoid a potential lawsuit from some secretary who was “poisoned” after ingesting a “bad” box-full of Sour Patch Kids. The drinks though? Casey figured giving them to Casper was better than tossing them in the dumpster behind Michael’s craft store, which was where most of his expired food ended up.
“Thanks, Casey.” Casper dumped the soda bottles on the floor inside his garage and handed Casey the empty container. He moved inside, pushed over a rogue rolling bottle and shut the door. Casper was a man of few words.
Casey put the empty soda container in his own garage and sorted his money and inventory sheets before locking up. He climbed into the cab of the vending truck and drove it over to the mud parking area that Raymond Willis allotted for him by the front vehicle gate. He got out and moved to the driver’s side of his own truck which was parked a few yards away. As he unlocked the door, he looked up and saw the owner opening the vehicle gate for a departing late-model Volkswagen Jetta. Casey noticed it was the same man who was possibly looking to rent a space. Raymond closed the gate as the car drove away towards the highway and angrily huffed back to the rental office. Casey guessed by the Master Sergeant’s body language that the stranger decided not to rent. He smiled and got in his truck. After pulling a banged up copy of R.E.M.’s “Murmur” from the glove box, Casey turned up the volume and headed for home.
When Casey got to his house, he went straight to the kitchen. He had eaten a pack of pork rinds from the back of the truck around eleven o’clock, but that only served to whet his appetite, and by now his stomach felt like it was beginning to eat itself. He opened the freezer, decided on Pizza Rolls, and turned the oven on after consulting the back of the bag for the correct temperature. Casey opened a beer and settled on the sofa in front of the television while the oven pre-heated. He changed the channel from FX, which he had watched the night before following the adventures of John McClane as he fought off the bad guys in Die Hard. Now he was watching CNN for an update on what was happening in the world outside of Savannah.
The White House
press secretary was on the screen as the news report gave highlights of the daily press briefing from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The focus of the question and answer period covered the administration’s hopes that the next in a series of negotiations between Iran and the countries of the United Nations Security Council plus Germany, the so-called P5+1 group, would result in a final agreement that would allow the Islamic Republic to “pursue the development of nuclear power for peaceful, energy-producing purposes in a responsible manner that includes concrete guarantees that those efforts will not be used to develop a nuclear weapons capability.”
“Good luck,” Casey told the press secretary. Truthfully, Casey agreed with the president’s optimism and his reasoning that Iran had just as much right as anyone to benefit from the use of nuclear power. He knew the president was potentially committing political suicide by taking such a stance, particularly given the track record of not-so-friendly relations and a general feeling of mistrust between the United States and Iran since the fall of the Shah. The CIA-orchestrated toppling of Mohammed Mossadeq in 1953 and the U.S. backing of Saddam Hussein in the bloody Iran-Iraq war from 1980-1988 didn’t help matters any more than the taking of fifty-three American hostages by Iranian students in 1979 did. The president of the United States was ready to put the past where it belonged, in the past. The problem, Casey knew, was that not everyone, in fact most people on both sides of the table, were unwilling to let bygones be bygones. Still, at least the guy was willing to try.
Casey knew it would be a hard sell to the other members of the non-Iranian negotiating team—some more than others. The hardest group to win over, however, would be the voting public at home. Extending a war America was already ass-deep in was one thing, but capitulating to a country who had done nothing but give the finger to the international community for over three decades without so much as a shot fired in anger over the debate would make climbing Mt. Everest in winter seem easy compared to re-election.
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