Truth in Hiding

by Matthew Frick

  Casey reconsidered his approach on the drive to meet Blocksidge. He knew Andie was right in one sense. He was supposed to be helping Cohen find out who was helping Raad, but the peculiarity of the shady existence—in his eyes—of Horus Rhind kept drawing him back to The Council. He thought of Giordano and the whole reason he came to D.C. in the first place. Cohen’s presence and revelations were unexpected, but they only fueled his desire to break into the mysterious world of The Council. Because Cohen’s mission and his own, if not complimentary, were not contradictory, Casey decided to find out if Parker could help them both.

  “Mr. Parker!” Casey called from twenty feet away, stopping the two men before they entered their vehicle.

  “Do I know you?” Parker asked as his companion moved around the front of the car to join him on the driver’s side.

  Casey stopped his trot and glanced at the other man before turning his attention back to Parker. “I don’t think so,” Casey answered. “I just saw you coming out of the restaurant, and I wanted to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  Parker put the car keys back in his pocket. “About what?”

  “I was wondering if you knew anything about the recent assassination attempts on Iranian scientists that Mossad has been conducting—specifically, why they’ve been failing.”

  Parker looked at his companion who moved a few inches closer to Casey, never taking his eyes off him. “Are you a reporter?” Parker asked.

  Casey felt drops of perspiration trickle down his sides, causing him to shiver despite the layers of clothing he wore to fight off the January evening cold. He swallowed hard. He had no intention of lying to Parker, but he was starting to have second thoughts. Casey decided to avoid the question by asking another one. “Have you met with any Iranians lately?” Every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation of Parker’s reaction.

  “What?” Parker asked with a puzzled look—not the reaction Casey expected. Parker’s friend shrugged. “Look,” he said before Casey could answer, “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but this interview is over.” He took the keys back out of his pocket and opened the car door.

  Casey used his last bullet. “What can you tell me about The Council?” That question got him the reaction he wanted—or didn’t want.

  Parker slammed the door shut and closed the distance to Casey to mere inches with a quick step that caused Casey to flinch. He eyes scanned Casey to his shoes and back. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked with a half-grin.

  “Casey Shenk.”

  “And that’s supposed to mean something to me?” Parker tilted his head towards his friend who had moved to Parker’s side. “Adam, does ‘Casey Shenk’ mean anything to you?”

  Adam Miller kept his eyes on Casey and said, “Nope.”

  “What do you do exactly, Mr. Shenk?” Parker asked. “And don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  Parker’s threatening tone had the reverse effect of what he likely intended. Casey stepped closer, steeled both by Parker’s attitude and the man’s reaction to mention of The Council. “I pay your salary,” Casey said. “That’s what I do. Just like every other taxpayer in this country. But instead of working for the people, you and the rest of your Council buddies just work for yourselves, don’t you? You think because y’all have a secret handshake, you know what’s best for all the rest of us.” It was Casey’s turn to smile. “Tell me I’m lying.”

  Parker’s smile was gone. He jabbed a finger in Casey’s chest, but the IWG analyst didn’t move. “You’re treading on thin ice, pal,” he almost whispered. Miller put his hand on Parker’s forearm and slowly brought his friend’s hand down.

  “We should go, Scott.”

  Parker’s nostrils flared as he forced oxygen into his lungs. “Thin ice,” he repeated as he stepped back and pivoted toward the car.

  Casey’s heart raced, and his head began to pound. He didn’t shy away from confrontation, but he didn’t like it. He was no longer cold, as the rush of adrenaline had caused every organ and muscle to rapidly prepare for action. The fight or flight response that was essential to animal survival also raised the flag that Casey was too far out of shape for the required actions of either route. He stood motionless, suddenly tired as his body tried to return to a normal state of operation without inducing a heart attack or collapsing a lung. His recovery effort was cut short before Parker and Miller even got in their vehicle.

  Five feet away, Casey saw Parker fall violently to the ground. The cause of Parker’s collapse was not immediately evident, and before Casey could take in the situation unfolding before him, his knee buckled, and his elbows hit the pavement as he reflexively braced to prevent his head from ending up as a smashed ketchup packet. Casey saw the man who used his leg as a springboard lunge at the one Parker called Adam.

  Miller stepped back to avoid Casey’s leapfrogger. A twist of his body and a hard chop knocked the pistol from the assailant’s hand. The weapon skidded to a stop three feet in front of Casey. He pulled himself forward, dragging his useless right leg with him and grasped the weapon. He crawled as fast as he could to the cover of a nearby station wagon. Peering around the rear of the vehicle, Casey saw Miller parry a thrust from the attacker who had replaced his lost pistol with a large combat knife.

  Parker remained motionless on the pavement to Casey’s left. Casey noted the tell-tale rise and fall that indicated Parker was at least breathing, though he didn’t know if the man was unconscious or just playing possum. He saw Miller cut the mystery attacker down with a strike to the throat as a second figure sprang from the shadows on the opposite side of Parker’s car.

  A crowbar slammed the top of Miller’s left shoulder, instantly paralyzing the Israeli’s arm, but sparing his skull from a direct hit that would have likely ended his life. Miller dropped to a crouch and turned. He sprang up as the new opponent came on top of him, launching the man backward and onto the hood of Parker’s car. Casey was mesmerized by Miller’s speed and violence. He almost missed the re-birth of the body fifteen feet in front of him. The same man who crushed Casey’s knee recovered from his smashed windpipe enough to pick up his knife and charge Miller once more. Miller was unaware of the man’s rapid approach as he finished off the second attacker.

  Casey felt the cold steel in his right hand and took aim at the back of the gun’s previous owner.

  “Adam!”

  The shout to Casey’s left startled him, and the reflexive twitch sent a bullet high and off-target. Miller turned just as Casey’s head was jarred loose by a size-eleven leather rocket slamming into the side of his face, knocking him unconscious.

  Chapter 25

  Cohen sat on the couch in Andie’s apartment as Andie returned with a glass of water. “Thank you,” Cohen said when he took the glass.

  Andie lowered herself onto the couch next to Cohen, but as close to the edge and as far away from the Israeli assassin as she could. She tried not to let her nervousness show, and her practiced reporter’s voice stayed level as she asked, “So what did you find out?”

  Cohen placed the now half-empty glass on the coffee table and said, “Nothing obvious. Raad wasn’t there.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Andie. “The management at the Islamic center said Raad has been teaching a class on why the Sunni-Shia divide means nothing in the West and how Muslims in America should take a more active role in promoting that example of tolerance across the Middle East and beyond.”

  “You just asked them point blank what Raad’s business there was?”

  “I told them I was doing research for a book on the influence of Muslim academics in countering anti-Islamic sentiment after the 9/11 attacks. They were more than happy to talk to me,” Cohen said.

  “And this?” Andie asked after she unfolded the paper.

  “A list of other influential Muslims who have visited the center.”

  Andie looked over the list of names handwritten on letterhead of the Islamic Heritage Cent
er in Vienna, Virginia. There were only eight names, a few authors Andie recognized, and one that made her pause. “Looks like they gave you some good points of contact to help you write your book…”

  “I’m not writing a book.”

  “…and one that’s not an academic,” Andie said. “This one here, Cyrus Shirazi,” she pointed to the name. “He’s a U.S. congressman.” She handed the paper back to Cohen.

  “Congressman?”

  “From California,” Andie said. “The first Iranian-American elected to Congress.”

  Cohen looked at the name. He was surprised that America, the “Great Melting Pot,” had never had an elected official in the U.S. legislature who was of Iranian origin. Despite the outward façade of universal acceptance, he knew at its heart, America was no more immune from racism and discrimination than the rest of the world, his own country included. “What business would Shirazi have at the center?”

  “Role model speaking to other Muslims?” Andie offered. “I don’t know much about Shirazi except that it was a big deal when he was first elected. What was it...five years ago?”

  Cohen thought for a second. It was probably nothing more than what Andie said, but he didn’t want to just brush it off. “Is there a way you could find out more about this congressman?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Andie said. “How fast do you need it?”

  Cohen checked the time. It was eleven fifty. “As soon as you can get it,” he said. “Did Mr. Shenk say he was going to be this late?”

  Andie brought her laptop to the coffee table. “He didn’t tell me anything about being late. I thought he might have called you earlier,” she said. “He was going to meet Scott Parker, the deputy national security advisor.”

  “What?” Cohen straightened up at the news.

  Andie relayed what Casey found out at the Rosslyn office building and about his plans to confront Parker. Cohen rubbed his temples, contemplating all of the possible outcomes from Casey’s impulsive actions. He couldn’t think of any that wouldn’t end badly for his own efforts to find and silence Raad’s source. He also concluded that there was nothing he could do but wait for Casey to check in and deal with the consequences. If things went sideways after Casey Shenk’s amateur sleuthing, he would have to adjust, but the mission remained the same.

  “All right,” Cohen finally said. “Let’s see what we can find out about Congressman Shirazi.”

  Chapter 26

  It was after one o’clock when Casey woke up. He only knew that because the ticking of the second hand on a utilitarian wall clock was off-sequence from the deeper pounding of tribal drums in his head, drawing his attention. He compared the time to that of his watch and noted the date had flipped to “21.” One o’clock on Wednesday the 21st. One in the morning or afternoon? There were no windows in the sterile white concrete room to tell him if it was still dark outside.

  Two of the six overhead fluorescent lights flickered erratically, only adding to his confusion and growing anxiety. He was seated at a worn metal table where he had rested his head, as evidenced by the small puddle of drool. Casey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and he realized that he was no longer wearing his jacket—and he was cold. He saw his coat on the back of another chair across the room next to one of two closed doors on opposite walls. He stood and collapsed to the ground as soon as he put weight on his right leg, taking the chair with him. Lights flashed in the back of Casey’s eyes as the pain reminded him that his knee had recently been used as a stepping stone. He wasn’t after me, Casey told himself. He was after Parker.

  Casey looked around as if expecting to see Parker, but he was still the only one in the room. He tried to right the chair and pull himself up when he realized his left ankle was zip-tied to the leg and lower crossbar of the metal chair. What the fuck? he thought. He examined his captor’s handiwork and shook his head grinning. Whoever did this to him wasn’t worried about his escaping, because he could twist the chair a few times and the tie would pop. It wouldn’t feel good as it cut off the blood flow to his foot and dug deep into his skin, but he would be free. No. They didn’t need to worry about Casey breaking his plastic shackle and making a run for it, they just needed any escape attempt to be loud enough or slow enough for them to come in the room and stop him.

  As if someone was following Casey’s mental reasoning while he pulled himself back into the chair, the door on his left opened, flooding the room with a rush of not-as-stale air. “So, you’re awake,” Parker said as he shut the door behind him. The screeching of metal chair on concrete floor as Parker took a seat across the table exacerbated the pain of Casey’s throbbing headache.

  Parker was no longer wearing the full business attire of a government power broker that he wore when Casey saw him last. Instead, Parker had traded his overcoat, scarf, and jacket, for the more casual “I-took-a-bullet-in-my-torso-that-just-missed-my-ribs-and-any-vital-organs” bandages more common in an army field hospital than the nation’s capital—or not. Casey winced as he bent his damaged knee and felt no sympathy for the man in front of him. “What the fuck am I doing here?” Casey asked.

  “The good news is, it only appears that your knee is sprained,” Parker said. “The bad news is, until we establish how you just happened to be in that parking lot when a pair of assassins tried to kill me and my friend, you’re in for a lot more than just a sprain.”

  The other door into the room opened before Casey could say anything, and a man in jeans and a blood-stained t-shirt entered, removing thick black gloves that glistened with what Casey surmised from watching five seasons of 24 was probably the same blood that decorated the shirt. “He’s Qods,” the man said to Parker, not even glancing at Casey.

  Parker nodded. “Thanks, Alex,” he said as the man passed through the room and out the other door, never once breaking stride.

  A loud pop startled Casey, and he looked to his right as Miller entered the room and shut the door behind him. He snapped a pistol into a removable belt holster and handed it to Parker. “He won’t be needing this again.”

  Parker clipped the holster to his belt. “Any idea who tipped them off?”

  “Who knows,” Miller said, still standing. “Lebanese Hizballah’s got sympathizers all over. After 2006, that number grew exponentially. Any one of them could have found out and got word up the chain.”

  “That’s Hizballah, though. How did Qods Force soldiers even get into the country?”

  “That is a problem, isn’t it,” Miller said. “I thought Homeland Security was stood up to prevent that.” He grinned.

  “Yeah, well…” Parker started. A chop of steel on wood as loud as the sound of the handgun came from the other side of the door Miller came in from. A blood-curdling scream followed less than a second later. “Maybe he’ll be more help.”

  “More help than the guy you just shot?” Casey couldn’t believe the exchange he was witnessing. The two men in front of him were talking more like two guys discussing off-season baseball trades than people who had just escaped an assassination attempt, killed one man, and—from the sound of it—were torturing another. The scream from the adjoining room had turned to labored sobbing. “Who the hell are you people?”

  Parker turned his attention to Casey. “Why don’t you tell me who you think we are, Mr. Shenk. You seemed to have a pretty good idea outside the restaurant. Or was that just some bullshit show to distract us while your two friends attacked us?”

  Another loud chop. More screaming.

  Casey started to sweat despite the cold. His eyes darted between the two men waiting stoically for his response. “I…I don’t know who those guys were…are,” he stammered.

  “You seem nervous,” Parker said. “You still want to stick to that ‘taxpayer’ line, or are you going to tell me who you really are?”

  The screaming stopped. It was replaced by yelling, followed by a heavy crash against the wall.

  Casey’s head turned in the direction of the noise from the other room. H
e looked back at Parker.

  “You can talk to us, or you can be next,” Parker said, waving a thumb at the door.

  Casey clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. “I’m an analyst at the Intelligence Watch Group in New York,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  Casey waited for another question, but Parker and the other man remained silent, apparently not satisfied with the simple answer and waiting for Casey to continue. Casey couldn’t think of anything else to say that would make the situation he was in any better, and he knew lying would likely make it worse. “I know about Israel’s failed operations to kill Iranian scientists, and I have a good idea who’s tipping the Iranians off. I just don’t know who’s giving him the details.”

  Parker and Miller exchanged looks, and Miller turned a chair around, sitting for the first time since he entered the room. He straddled the seat and folded his arms on the chair back. “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Davood Raad,” Casey said.

  Miller straightened. Casey thought the man stopped breathing until he asked, “Raad?”

  “I mean, I think it’s him. But I don’t have any proof.” Casey purposely left Cohen’s name out of the discussion. He thought he could sell the story as an investigation he was doing as part of his work at IWG.

  “Then what ‘not-proof’ led you to that conclusion?” Miller asked.

  Casey looked at Parker and answered, “He has a contact in The Council.”

  “Isn’t The Council just an urban myth?” Miller asked.

  Casey wondered how far to go after Parker’s earlier warning that he was “treading on thin ice.” He decided that keeping the conversation going was a better option than a beating, or worse, so he went all-in. “They want you to think that.”