Open Source

by Matthew Frick

  “I’m in New York City,” Casey said.

  “What? Why you wanna go there? Why now?”

  “I’m trying to find out who killed Mike and who maybe wants me dead,” Casey said.

  “Mike was shot in G-A, my friend, not N-Y-C. What the hell you think we’re doing down here?” Anton exhaled audibly and calmed down to his normal baritone. “We got shit so far on the killer, and you sure aren’t helping any by disappearing on us.”

  “Hey, I called didn’t I?”

  “Well, you should have called sooner,” Anton said. “Remember, man, I’m on your team. And you still didn’t answer my question. Why are you in New York?”

  Casey explained to Trooper Laycock that he was convinced everything that happened to him in the past week was connected to his postings about the Baltic Venture hijacking. He told Anton about his discussions with Susan, information he had left out of their conversation in Thunderbolt a few days earlier. Casey pleaded his case for believing the people at IWG were the best assets they had to run that connection to ground.

  “And they believe you?” Anton asked.

  “Yes, sir. That’s why I came,” Casey said. “Hell, they even published my theories, I mean, the theories me and Susan came up with. There’s about ten people working on this thing, and they have international contacts that can probably give us more information than Deputy Fitzgerald’s boys can come up with.”

  “Easy, now,” Anton said. “Those guys are trying their best to find out who killed Mike. They aren’t interested in international conspiracies. They just want to find out who pulled the trigger.”

  “So do I, damnit,” Casey said. “Look, I’m not running from this whole thing, despite what the sheriff or you might think. I’m trying to help y’all out, and if y’all just let me work this angle, maybe we can find some answers sooner. At any rate, I’m probably safer up here than back in Savannah. For all we know, the guy who shot Mike might try again, and I don’t want to be around when he’s ready for round two.”

  “Well, you may be right about that. Assuming he didn’t follow you up there,” Anton said.

  Casey hadn’t thought about that. He wasn’t thinking about having to shake a tail when he was leaving. He figured the bad guys were in Savannah, and that was where they would stay. Still, if Anton couldn’t track him down without Casey calling him, he felt he was safe right where he was. For the time-being, anyway.

  “Alright, Casey,” Anton said. “I’ll run interference for you with the Sheriff’s Office, but I’m gonna have to tell them I talked to you. And they’re gonna want a way to get in touch if anything comes up. I’ll tell them that I will relay anything they have, but I need a number to reach you at.”

  Casey dug into his wallet again for the two numbers he had written down for Susan’s cell and work phones. He read them to Anton.

  “When are you gonna get your own damn cell phone?” Anton asked.

  “As soon as you buy me one, big guy,” Casey laughed.

  “Okay, well don’t go on any more trips without letting me know that you’re leaving the city,” Anton said.

  “Yes, mom.”

  “I’m serious, man. The only thing between you and a cross-state warrant for your apprehension is this 200-pound black man you’re talking to.”

  “C’mon,” Casey said. “You don’t look an ounce over 198.”

  Both men laughed. Casey knew Anton wasn’t lying, and Anton knew Casey knew. Anton was just about to end the conversation when he said, “I almost forgot. Couple of kids found a body up in Port Wentworth yesterday. We think this might be the guy that did a number on your van.”

  “How do you figure that?” Casey asked.

  “Timing’s right,” Anton said. “Been dead since Friday, so that means he was alive when your brakes were cut. Plus he has some scrapes on his hands, look like they were getting infected. Coroner found rusted metal shavings. I asked forensics guys to look at your van’s undercarriage for any possible connection.”

  “When will they know?” Casey asked.

  “Maybe later today. But I only asked them to check it out after we got an ID on the vic,” Anton said. After a pause he said, “The dude was Russian.”

  Chapter 31

  The heavy August humidity threatened to suck the life out of Lev Cohen’s body. The late-morning sun created a thick blanket of steam that could not be seen, but was felt by every visitor to the Mount Hebron cemetery. Lev wiped the perspiration from his forehead and tried to move as little as possible. He arrived seven minutes before the appointed time. That was almost twenty minutes ago. Lev didn’t like waiting—not when he needed information, and especially not when he was merely delivering information.

  He continued to scan the yard of gravestones for any sign of the men he was supposed to meet. He did not know what they looked like, but Tuesday wasn’t a big day for visitors to the cemetery, so he figured they would be easy to pick out. The location for the meeting wasn’t chosen so the Mossad operatives would be inconspicuous, it was chosen because of the open space and privacy it afforded. Lev soaked up more sweat with his handkerchief and turned away from the direction of the cemetery’s entrance. He was surprised to see two men in slacks and button-down shirts sauntering down the hill between the bevy of white stones. How did they get there without him seeing them come in?

  “Mr. Cohen,” the taller of the two men said as he moved his suit coat to his left arm and extended his right to Lev. “I’m sorry we kept you waiting. We wanted to make sure you weren’t followed when you came in.”

  “Right,” Lev said, shaking the man’s hand. He glanced at the shorter man who was shielding his eyes and looking at the Unisphere that was visible over the treeline.

  “That’s from the 1964 World’s Fair,” Cohen explained to the young Israeli.

  “I’m sorry?” the man said, now looking at Cohen.

  “That sculpture. It’s from the World’s Fair that was held here in 1964. It’s meant to represent the smallness of the world and the interdependence we have on one another, because of that smallness.”

  “Really?” the man said as all three turned to look at the 12-story high metal depiction of Earth.

  “I suppose the world did get a lot smaller as soon as man went into space,” Lev mused.

  “Interesting,” the taller man said. “I believe you have some information for us.” Both men now focused their attention on Cohen.

  “How do I know you are the people I am supposed to talk to?” Lev asked.

  “Eli Gedide sent us. Is that good enough?”

  Lev thought about asking for identification, but Gedide was somewhat of an enigma, and any mention of his name in connection to Cohen’s presence in New York at the moment was proof enough for him.

  “The man you are looking for is named Grozny. Pyotr Grozny. He goes by ‘Pete.’ But I don’t suspect you will be talking to the man.”

  “No,” the Mossad shooter smiled.

  “I did not case him long, so I do not know his habits. But I do know that he lives with his wife in Queens.” Lev gave the men the address and a run-down of the landscape, proximity of houses in the neighborhood, and other pertinent tactical information he thought the men would need. “You will want to use silenced weapons. There are quite a few houses not very far apart. And the distance from the train tracks won’t provide you ample noise cover.”

  “Do not worry about that, sir. We are not going to use conventional weapons. They would be too messy for this job. And we want to leave no trails.” Again, the smile.

  Lev detected a condescending tone in the man’s voice. “Of course not,” he said. “Is Mossad trying out new methods for assassination these days?”

  “Not new. Just different,” the taller man said. “But I won’t bore you with the details. Plus, need to know and all that.”

  Lev thought the man’s smile was either a permanent fixture or he was being mocked. Either way, Lev decided he did not like the man. “Certainly. Don’t want to
get the old dinosaur involved. He might just shoot his mouth off and get into trouble again.”

  The man’s smile disappeared. “Mr. Cohen, I am sorry you were taken off this assignment, but....”

  “Taken off? I was never on this assignment—except to get you an address and conduct reconnaissance.”

  The smile returned. “That’s right. You were only supposed to support us after you missed your target Saturday. I’m sure Mr. Gedide never meant for you to actually carry out the job here. My apologies.”

  Lev ignored the sweat that trickled down his face now. He was flushed with anger at listening to this twenty-something piss-ant insult him. It was clear to Lev that the man thought highly of himself and his own skills, more so because he was working for Gedide. That just demonstrated the man’s naiveté, if he hero-worshipped the Tel Aviv bureaucrat. Lev tried to keep down the bile that wanted to creep into his throat.

  “I assume you know my history,” Lev said, “so I am not going to get into an argument with you about the number of notches on our guns. But you would be wise to drop your attitude a bit, my friend. We are not in the business of medals or celebrity appearances. There is no prize for ‘Shooter of the Year.’ We are killers. Plain and simple. Eventually you will realize that there is no joy in what we do. And if you do find enjoyment in death, then may God have mercy on your soul.”

  Lev turned his back on the men and walked down the hill. When he exited the gate to the cemetery, he took a deep breath. The air always seemed fresher when he wasn’t surrounded by the dead. He headed down the street, leaving the two men to finish their job. Lev had passed on the intel he gathered, and now he was to go to D.C., pack his belongings, and return to Israel.

  He just had one more thing to do before he left New York.

  Chapter 32

  “Thanks,” Casey said.

  The woman smiled as she put another bowl of pretzels, imitation Doo Dads, and Chex cereal on the bar in front of Casey. “Dinner?”

  Casey returned the smile. “I’m on a diet.”

  “Pretzels and beer?” she laughed. “Let me know how that works out for you.” She moved to the other end of the bar to take the order of a customer who had just walked in.

  It was a quarter to eight, and the bar was almost empty. The sun wouldn’t set for almost half an hour, and the light outside worked against the ambiance that drew people to Bar 50. Located on West 50th Street, the bar was not trying to capitalize on Manhattan’s heavy tourist base, instead catering to local clientele. No flash, good music, and good company. That’s what made Bar 50 the place to be Thursday through Saturday. But not on Tuesday. And that was just fine with Casey.

  After Anton told him about finding a body with the circumstantial possibility of being the man who sabotaged his truck, Casey thought about little else. The fact that the man was identified as a Russian immigrant with a bad driving record and a two-month stint in a Virginia county lock-up for simple assault fit Casey’s theory of who was responsible for manufacturing his wreck. The fact that he was found dead with an eight-inch flat-head screwdriver protruding from his chest did not.

  Casey was giving more credence to the idea that maybe Israel was behind Mike’s murder since the possibility was raised in the IWG brainstorming meeting on Monday. The dead Russian in Savannah pointed, if not to Israeli transgressions, then at least to the fact that the people who hit his truck weren’t the same people who hit his friend. That assumed the Russian with the recently installed Craftsman appendage was actually guilty of the latter. Casey figured he probably was. Anton said it was a swag, a scientific wild-ass guess, but he thought the coincidences were too great, and Casey agreed. If he lived in Detroit, he might think differently, but he lived in Thunderbolt, Georgia. And coincidences like that just didn’t happen in Thunderbolt.

  Casey had trouble believing in coincidences, anyway. Not when the stakes involved were as substantial as life or death. Accidents were one thing—pre-meditated murder was another. Despite his lack of formal education beyond high school and Navy trade courses, Casey knew a thing or two about history. He read quite a bit, and he knew man was capable of almost anything. Humanity’s track record for diabolical scheming, particularly when politically organized, was a primary reason Casey rarely took things at face value when it came to government machinations. The truth was usually found somewhere in the middle between blind apathy—believing whatever the talking heads told you—and rabid disbelief—the realm of conspiracy theorists whose wild accusations defied reality.

  He shopped the news around the office, and for the most part everyone he talked to agreed that Anton had probably found the man who cut Casey’s brake line. Only one person, however, Susan’s Iran counterpart, George, asked if there were any ideas about who pierced the Russian’s heart with a screwdriver. Casey hadn’t even thought to ask Anton that question when he talked to him. George raised a valid point, whether he meant to or not. Casey thought the answer might shed some light on the motives of whomever it was that killed Mike. He discussed possible scenarios with Susan.

  Like Casey, Susan thought the idea that Israel was the guilty party was worth looking into. Not because they had any damning evidence, but of all the choices they could come up with involving the hijacking-arms smuggling saga, that scenario seemed the least logical—much like everything else that had happened to that point. Casey was a believer in the irrational actions of politicians and government leaders. No matter where they called home. It seemed to him that the closer one got to the seat of power, whether or not they were actually sitting in the throne, the more irrational their behavior was. The mantle of power was intoxicating, and over time it clouded judgment. Whatever reasoning the Israelis had for killing the man who tried to kill Casey just days before, and then following with their own assassination attempt was not clear to him. Because it didn’t make sense to Casey was precisely why his gut told him it was true.

  Casey finished his beer and motioned to the bartender for another one. The salty bar snacks, provided to drive customers to buy more drinks, were working as designed. After two long pulls of cold pilsner, the dryness abated, and Casey looked up at the television in the corner behind the bar.

  The TV was showing Fox News Channel, and The O’Reilly Factor had just started. The closed-captioning was on to prevent any interference with the subdued sounds of The Eagles coming from the jukebox, and Casey read along to Bill’s “Talking Points.” Apparently Mr. O’Reilly didn’t agree with the President’s new nuclear weapons posture or his stance on Iran’s own nuclear program. Coming from any other news show commentator on Fox, Casey might have thought the disagreement was politically motivated, but Bill O’Reilly was one of the few pundits who made it clear that he believed the Islamic Republic of Iran was truly one of America’s enemies. He stated that fact whenever the opportunity presented itself.

  Casey tried not to get lost in the lightning-fast typographic onslaught that apparently caused the hearing-impaired no problems whatsoever. He sat up straighter on his stool as a video, taken from a helicopter, showed two grey-hulled warships in close company with a blue-hulled cargo hauler. The camera zoomed in and confirmed it was the Baltic Venture. Casey refocused on the white-on-black text as the video ended and O’Reilly’s face returned to the left half of the screen.

  Bill O’Reilly commented on the increased vulnerability of America and her allies to terrorists and rogue states with the president’s new nuclear policy. Publicly voicing a policy of threatening only conventional retaliation in response to a chemical, biological, or radiological attack, he argued, opened the door for anyone with a mind and a generous tolerance for painful consequences, to use WME on U.S. soil. WME being: “Weapons of Mass Effect,” the kinder, gentler, and more all-encompassing version of Weapons of Mass Destruction. The Baltic Venture scene was used to underscore the danger of letting a country like Iran, with no fear of economic or military sanctions, run unchecked.

  Casey’s eyes widened as O’Reilly cited a repo
rt by the Intelligence Watch Group. It was the report that claimed elements of Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps had brokered an arms deal on the Russian black market for sophisticated air defense missiles, clearly violating UN sanctions. Bill opined that this news was another example of how even rogue elements within a rogue state were capable, at least in principle, of operating well-outside the boundaries of international treaties and regulations. And Iran was the poster child for that dysfunctional relationship.

  “Wow,” Casey said. There was no mention of Israeli involvement in the hijacking. Fox News was not willing to go that far in giving credence to Casey’s and IWG’s theories. Nonetheless, he was surprised that his efforts had just received exposure on one of the highest rated cable television shows in the country. He felt a small bit of pride, despite the present circumstances.

  “Wow, indeed.”

  Casey looked over at the man sitting three stools down on his left. He remembered the dark-haired man come in, but only peripherally, when the bartender moved down to take his order. Casey was sure they hadn’t been thinking the same thing. Not wanting to be rude by ignoring him, a breach of “lonely guy at a bar” etiquette, Casey smiled and said, “Sorry. I didn’t realize I said that out loud.”

  “I think Mr. O’Reilly is right to be concerned. Letting Iran have nukes while at the same time tying your own hands from using them yourself is just asking for trouble,” the man said.

  “I suppose,” Casey said. “If you believe the Mullahs can’t keep a tight hold on those nukes. I think they’re too smart to act on their verbal threats.”

  “Really?” the man said with a look of incredulity.

  “Besides, the President left open the option to tailor America’s response if needed,” Casey said.

  “If Congress lets him,” the man responded. “Or if he’s not just blowing hot air, as you suggest the Iranians are doing.”

  The man saw Casey’s frustration building, obviously not in the mood for debating. He decided to keep the pot from boiling over. He leaned over and reached out a hand. “I’m Levi Cohen, by the way. People call me Lev.”