Open Source

by Matthew Frick

  “Go on,” Gedide said.

  “Casey Shenk. The man you sent me to kill last week.”

  “What about him,” Gedide asked.

  “He is here,” Cohen said.

  “In New York?” Gedide asked. “What for?”

  “I’m not sure, but I saw him enter Grozny’s office building this evening,” Lev said.

  Gedide thought about that. It made sense that perhaps Grozny and IWG were working with Mr. Shenk. Gedide was upset that Cohen had failed in his attempt to kill the man on Saturday, but after Grozny’s report was published, he decided Shenk’s blog was the least of his worries, so he shifted his priorities. Now, given the two men’s proximity to each other, Mr. Shenk re-entered the scenario as a viable target. Perhaps it would be better to eliminate Casey Shenk, after all. Why leave loose ends when they are right in front of your face, waiting to be tied up.

  “What would you like me to do about it?” Cohen asked, unsure that Gedide was still on the line.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” Lev repeated.

  “I want you to make your appointment in the morning, and then return to Israel. Understood?”

  Lev was fuming, but he did not want Gedide to know, so he kept his voice calm. “Understood.”

  “Good. This will be the last communication between us until you return to Israel,” Gedide said. “I expect a debrief in Tel Aviv in two weeks.” Gedide smiled, though no one could see his act. “Then you may take that vacation, yes?”

  Cohen didn’t respond. He ended the call and shoved the phone in the pocket of his sport coat. He didn’t head up to his apartment, instead deciding to go for a walk on the nearly-deserted streets—New York was never truly deserted. He dissected his current situation.

  Two nights before, Casey Shenk was the target of a Mossad assassination. Now he was no longer a threat? What game was Tel Aviv playing that they didn’t know who their true enemies were from one minute to the next? Did his government really believe it had the God-given right to kill anyone who said a cross word against Israel? Or looked at the prime minister the wrong way? Lev’s anger was directed just as much at himself. He was a pawn in that game. He kept it going by killing whoever the bastards told him to kill.

  Perhaps he had seen too much death—allowed violence to be a natural bedfellow for too long. He had heard the saying before that “with age comes wisdom.” Lev Cohen didn’t believe that for a second. He certainly didn’t feel any wiser after forty-one years on this planet. What he did feel, however, was more selfish. That was the only word he could think of to describe it. Not selfish in a material or emotional sense, like one might be selfish by not sharing their olives with a hungry child standing next to them, or selfish in that they were willing to accept the love of another without reciprocation. No, Lev’s selfishness was more primal. And more basic.

  He had grown tired of risking his life to satisfy the hubris of others. He no longer killed to protect his country, he killed to protect someone else’s hold on power, or their ability to influence others who held power. It was not about serving the citizens, or even the ideals, of Israel. It was about politics. And Lev Cohen, Kidon assassin of the Ha-Mossad le-Modi’in ule-Tafkidim Meyuchadim, vowed at that moment that he would no longer blindly play the role of someone else’s trigger-man. From then on, he would be the one who decided to whom he would bring death. Not Tel Aviv.

  Chapter 30

  Casey picked up his visitor’s pass from Ellen, the IWG receptionist, and headed through the glass doors to Susan’s desk. On Jim’s orders, Casey was given an “Unescorted” badge for the duration of his visit, though no one knew how long that would be. Jim, Pete, Susan, and the rest of the IWG team working on the Baltic Venture assumed Casey would return to Savannah when they unraveled the deeper meaning behind the actions surrounding the hijacked ship. Casey intended to stay until he found out who was trying to kill him, and when he knew it was safe for him to return home without fear of being executed. He still had a week of convalescent leave, so he wasn’t worried about money—for now. But what good was a steady job and a roof over your head, anyway, if you were dead? Casey figured he would cross those bridges when he came to them.

  Susan was busy reading and deleting e-mails that had come in to her computer the night before when Casey got to her cubicle.

  “Mornin’ Ms. Williams.”

  “Oh, good morning, Casey,” Susan said when she turned to identify her early morning visitor. Casey waited until an hour after the beginning of the workday to show up. He wasn’t a paid employee of IWG, so Susan didn’t hold it against him. Since he was pretty much under her charge for now, she was glad to have the time to tackle the administrivia that came with the job before having to focus her attention on Mr. Shenk. Not that he was a burden. In fact, he was more of a help than anything else. But he had nothing to do with the day-to-day issues she was paid to monitor, and she was happy to get the non-essential work out of the way. “How was the Econo Lodge?” she asked.

  “Best sleep I ever got,” Casey answered, smiling.

  Susan returned the smile. She caught the sarcasm and was impressed that he didn’t follow his quip with a litany of complaints about the hotel. She knew too many people who would not stay in anything less than a Four-Star establishment. On the other hand, she was glad he was not staying at one of the YMCA hostels spread throughout the city. That told her he at least had some standards.

  “Did you see the news this morning?” Casey asked.

  “About?” Susan prodded.

  “The Russians took back the Baltic Venture.”

  “No, I missed that. Where did you see that report?” Susan asked.

  “On Fox News,” Casey said. “Just a line on the ticker at the bottom. They didn’t mention it on the morning show, near as I can tell. CNN and MSNBC didn’t even have that much.”

  “Were there any details?”

  “Only that the Russians got there and freed the ship. Nothing else. But I got some more information from TASS,” Casey said, taking a seat in the corner chair they had put there the previous day.

  “You’ve been busy this morning,” Susan said. She half-expected Casey to stroll in at lunchtime after sleeping until noon.

  “The free wireless helps.” Casey never travelled without his laptop, and this time was no exception. He always made sure he packed clean underwear and his computer—and not necessarily in that order of priority. For this trip, in particular, he was uncertain of the reception he would get when he showed up out of the blue at Susan’s office, or whether she would even help him at all. In any case, he knew he would be much more effective trying to find answers if he was able to continue those efforts with access to open sources. He was already proving that. Not that some people at IWG didn’t already have the same information about the Russian operation, but Casey’s parallel inquiries of the major Russian media outlets meant that at least he and Susan would have more to go on in making their own analyses, allowing them to better-contribute to the group effort.

  “What did you find out?” Susan asked.

  “Not a lot,” Casey said. “Just the facts, really. Three Russian warships gained contact with the Baltic Venture. I’m guessing they mean visual, or at least radar contact. That was just shortly after midnight Zulu—that’s Greenwich Mean Time,....”

  “I know what Zulu-time means, professor,” Susan said.

  Casey smiled and continued. “At 0200, a Naval Spetsnaz team, I forgot what the Russian name for those guys is, anyway, the SPECOPS team boarded by helo-insertion and took the ship. No mention of any missiles onboard. And the report said all of the hijackers and three of the crew were killed in the ensuing firefight. No Russian troops were injured.”

  “Of course,” Susan said. She could see Casey didn’t believe that last bit either—not if there actually was a firefight. “That’s pretty much what we expected, wasn’t it?”

  “Pretty much,” Casey said. “Except that all the hijackers were reported k
illed. All fourteen of them.”

  “What do you think that means?” Susan asked. It was obvious Casey had a problem with the report, beyond the lack of casualties on the Russian military side.

  “Two things,” Casey said. “Questions, really. First, why would the Russians kill Israeli hijackers after Israel helped them out in this whole mess by stopping the shipment? That’s just bad form, isn’t it?”

  “What if the hijackers weren’t Israeli? Maybe they were just hired mercenaries, and the Russians didn’t feel obligated to spare them,” Susan said.

  “I don’t know. Would Israel hire somebody else to do their dirty work? For deniability, maybe? We should ask your buddy Oscar—see if that’s a possibility,” Casey said. “But what really bugs me is the number of hijackers. Fourteen? I mean, how many crewmembers are on that ship?”

  Susan pulled down the picture of the Baltic Venture Jim had given her that was pinned to her cubicle wall. She checked the numbers on the back. “Twenty.”

  “Fourteen hijackers for twenty crewmembers,” Casey said. “Even if the master of the vessel kept a loaded pistol in his safe for emergencies, don’t you think fourteen is a little excessive? That’s like two armed hijackers for every three sailors.”

  “Two-point-eight,” Susan said.

  “Even worse,” Casey said. “Point is, it doesn’t take that many people to stop a merchant ship. Not when you have guns, which I’m sure the hijackers did. Even if the crew resisted, all it takes is putting a bullet in one of their shipmates and the rest would fall in line. And 99.9 percent of the time, it doesn’t even take that. Just the threat is enough. Merchant mariners aren’t soldiers. They just want to do their jobs, collect a paycheck, and get back to their families.”

  “Isn’t that a gross generalization?”

  “It’s not gross. A generalization, yes, but I’ve never seen anything different that leads me to believe otherwise. No matter what country they’re from.”

  “You have experience in these matters?” Susan asked. She gave Casey a look that made it clear she thought he was giving himself more credit than he warranted.

  Casey understood her skepticism, so he gave her his relevant qualifications. “In addition to being a pretty good Engineman in the U.S. Navy back in the day, I was also a part of the ship’s Visit, Board, Search and Seizure team. First in the NAG, back in ‘99, to keep Saddam from making money off of smuggling fuel and dates, then in the Med, after 9/11. That one was with NATO, looking for terrorists. So, yes, ma’am, I do have some experience in stopping vessels at sea. And I’m telling you, if Abdul Abdullah will give up a dhow full of illegal cargo as soon as he sees one guy with a .45 come aboard, I’m pretty certain the crew of the Baltic Venture, with no reason to run, as far as they knew, would sit quietly, do what they were told, and wait for things to work themselves out. And it damn sure wouldn’t take fourteen dudes with guns to convince them to stay in line.”

  Once again, Susan became vividly aware of how little she knew about Casey Shenk. It no longer frightened her, however. It merely intrigued her. The reason she didn’t know anything about him was because he never talked about himself. He never bragged. Instead, he was content to leak cryptic comments when least expected. If you didn’t pick up on it, then that was your loss. Susan didn’t believe he was secretive. On the contrary, he had just given her a quick snapshot of a part of his past life she was only vaguely aware existed. No, in Susan’s mind, the man sitting in front of her was a puzzle. Just like everything else in her life and in her work. All the pieces were there, you just had to know where to find them—and how to fit them together.

  “Do you see what I’m getting at?” Casey asked. “I mean, fourteen hijackers seems like overkill to me. I just think it’s something that has a different explanation than what the official Russian reports say.”

  “You’re probably right,” Susan said. “But how do we find out what that explanation is?”

  “Well, first off, it would be nice to know who the hijackers were. Were they Israeli? IDF or Mossad? Were they hired guys, as you said? Or are we off the mark altogether, and they were really just guys looking to collect a hefty ransom? I would want to find that out if we can. But I doubt we’ll get a list of names, or anything useful from official statements or press releases,” Casey said.

  “From the government, sure. But what about the families of the dead crewmembers?” Susan asked. “I would think they’re curious to know who was responsible for killing their loved ones. I know I’d be beating down doors until I got answers.”

  “Good point,” Casey said. “I’m sure they’re hoping for answers, but we’re talking about Moscow, not New York. Just because the Iron Curtain fell, doesn’t mean Russia has embraced all Western ideals. Least of all Freedom of the Press,” Casey said.

  “What about the shipowners or insurers?”

  Susan and Casey turned to see Phil standing at the cubicle opening. Neither one had seen the economist arrive. Phil took a sip of coffee before offering a hand to Casey.

  “Hi. I’m Phil.”

  “Casey.” He shook Phil’s hand and looked at Susan.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Casey Shenk, this is Phil Davis. He’s one of our economics analysts and a good friend. He’s sort of a jack-of-all-trades in the office, primarily because he’s not pigeon-holed into a specific geographic area like the rest of us, except on paper. But also because he’s a good listener. I use him as a sounding board all the time.”

  “Nice to meet you, Phil,” Casey said. Now that introductions were over, Casey wanted to get back to business. “What were you saying about the insurers?” he asked Phil.

  “Well, before any of these cargo ships sail, the owners insure the cargo, the ship, the crew, whatever. It’s just like the insurance you have to carry on your own car. How much they pay depends on where they’re going and what they’re carrying. And if something bad happens, the insurance company doesn’t pay a dime until they have done an exhaustive investigation to make sure the claim is legit.”

  “Like drivers, though, some shipowners don’t pay insurance,” Casey countered. “Not if it’s too expensive. Case in point is Somalia. You have to have specific wartime coverage if you sail around the Horn of Africa these days. Some of the smaller companies, like the ones with tramp steamers, can’t afford that extra cost, so they just don’t pay.”

  “But the Baltic Venture wasn’t going to Somalia. They were making a pretty benign trip from the Baltic to the Mediterranean. So, I would bet the owners had insurance,” Phil said.

  “Probably not piracy insurance,” Susan said.

  “That’s precisely why the shipowners and insurance companies are probably trying their damnedest to find out who did this. Besides a delayed shipment, which brings economic penalties, breach-of-contract, all that stuff, there are three dead employees that company has to deal with now,” Phil said. “The insurance companies, including their own personal life insurance providers, if they had any, will at least want to rule out suicide—no payment if that’s the case.”

  Casey realized Phil had been standing at the cubicle at least long enough to overhear his news report to Susan about the crew deaths. He thought about what Phil said, and it made sense. At least, it was certainly another avenue to investigate to try and find some answers. He looked at Susan. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s worth a shot,” she said. She asked Phil, “Would you be able get that information? I mean, see what the insurance companies know? Or the owners?”

  Phil took another sip from his mug. “Sure. I don’t know what I’ll be able to get, but I’ll look into it. I’ve got a contact at Lloyd’s of London who can probably steer me in the right direction. Is an answer by tomorrow okay?”

  “Thanks, Phil. You’re the best,” Susan said, making her friend blush. She turned back to Casey. “In the meantime, I’ll check with George and see if he came up with anything from the Iranian side, and then we can dig some more into how they planned
on shipping those missiles.”

  “Okay,” Casey said as Susan stood up. “Is it alright if I use your phone for a minute?” he asked.

  “Sure. Just push ‘9’ for an outside line, and then you can dial direct.”

  “Thanks.” Casey noticed Phil’s coffee cup as he made way for Susan to leave and go find George.

  “Were you in the CIA?” he asked.

  Phil lifted his mug and looked at the gold seal on the front. “Me? No. But my college roommate works there.”

  “Cool,” Casey said. He always wondered what it would be like to work as an analyst for the Agency. Probably not much different than working at IWG, he imagined. Though he hoped the CIA had better intelligence gathering methods than just surfing the web—for his country’s sake.

  “Hey, did you know they have a gift shop at Langley?” Phil asked.

  “Really?”

  “Don’t egg him on,” Susan told Casey. “Come on, Phil. Time to get to work,” she told her friend as she pushed him into the “hallway,” putting an end to the banter.

  As soon as both of the IWG employees left, Casey moved over to Susan’s chair and picked up the receiver of her desk phone. He took out his wallet, removed a tattered business card, and dialed. After two minutes, his call was transferred.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  A twinge of anxiety shot through Casey’s body. It was the same feeling he had the first day of boot camp. He knew he was about to get an ass-chewing, and he wasn’t convinced he didn’t deserve it. At least in part. “Good morning, Anton.”

  “I’ve been looking for you since Sunday, man. And not just me. Chatham Sheriff’s been asking questions. They’re ready to charge you with all kinds of shit,” the state trooper chided. “You’re the only witness in Mike’s murder, and you just take off? What the hell were you thinking?”