Truth in Hiding

by Matthew Frick

  “I’m not too worried about that.”

  Andie’s eyes grew wide. “What?! You better be worried, or you’ll likely be dead. Casey, these are professional killers. Just because Raad is a short, out-of-shape bookworm, doesn’t mean his boys are.”

  “Right. But those ‘boys’ also know there is a Mossad operative in town who’s also a trained killer. I think they’ll be busy trying to stop that threat before they shift their sights to a blogger with no proof.”

  “And if they get to Miller before we start handing out these papers, then they can focus solely on you.”

  “Man, you’re a downer,” Casey said. “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”

  Andie stood up and put the top back on the box. “Let’s just get this done. We’ve got four hours before Raad’s lecture at George Washington, and since your dumb-ass printed six thousand copies, we’ve got a lot of paper to spread around.”

  Casey smiled and adjusted his Atlanta Braves cap. “Where to first?”

  Chapter 34

  It was almost four when Casey and Andie parked in front of the building that housed the U.S. office of the National Council of Resistance of Iran and Horus Rhind Security Solutions. After handing out flyers around Capitol Hill and the National Mall, leaving stacks near newspaper stands and on benches near monuments and Smithsonian museums, the pair had gone through one whole box of paper and were deep into the second. With about 2,000 left to distribute, Casey finally convinced Andie to travel across the river to Rosslyn to drop off half of the remaining flyers at The Council’s front doorstep.

  They sat in the still-running car for a moment, savoring the warmth before venturing back out into the frigid cold outside. A trickle of people exited the building alone or in pairs. Andie figured it would be another half-hour before most of the businesses in the office building closed for the day, and the parking lot would be flooded with white-collar workers leaving enmasse for the comfort of their suburban dwellings.

  “Where do you want to leave these? Or do you want to hand them out individually and risk getting invited to another sit-down discussion?”

  “Oh c’mon. That’s not gonna happen,” Casey said. “It’s still daylight, and there’s too many people around.” He unbuckled his seat belt and looked at Andie in the passenger seat. “Are you getting cold feet?”

  “My feet are already cold,” she said. “They were frozen by the Lincoln Memorial stop. And no, I’m not getting scared. I’m just cautious.”

  “Cautious.”

  “That’s probably one of the reasons I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? It was a joke.”

  Andie laughed and Casey smiled, relieved. “You got me,” he said. He turned the ignition off and grabbed the door handle. Then he froze. “Holy shit.”

  “There’s Shirazi,” Andie said, staring out the front window at the congressman walking out of the building with two other men and a woman.

  “What?” Casey glanced at the building entrance and quickly turned back to his left. “No. There!” he said, rapidly swatting Andie’s shoulder. “That guy with the black leather jacket walking toward Shirazi. I’ve seen that guy with Raad twice already.” He took his hand off the door as he and Andie watched the two men converge.

  Shirazi reached into the side pocket of his coat and removed a cell phone. He thumbed a number in and held the device to his ear.

  Leather jacket also put his hand in his coat, pulling something from an inside pocket.

  “Oh my god,” Andie whispered.

  The two men were only five yards apart when the man with the leather jacket dropped his arm to his side.

  “What is that?” Casey asked.

  Before Andie could answer, Shirazi passed the man and turned into the rows of parked cars. Casey kept his focus and concentration on the leather jacket, until he was startled by the sound of a camera taking multiple shots, one after the other. He glanced to his right and saw Andie busy snapping pictures with her cell phone. He looked back as the man in the leather jacket passed through the other three people and disappeared around the back of the building.

  “What the hell just happened?” Casey asked as he turned around in time to see Shirazi duck into a late-model Toyota and drive away.

  Andie ignored him. Her face was glued to her phone as her fingers swiped back and forth, manipulating the digital photo cache. “Look,” she said as she shoved the phone in Casey’s face.

  Casey took it from her and looked closely at the screen. The picture was zoomed in, and all Casey could make of it were a bunch of hands, butts, and crotches. “What am I looking for?”

  Andie leaned over and pointed. “Right there. The arm in the black jacket. It’s your boy holding a piece of paper or an envelope or something.”

  “It looks like an envelope.”

  “Okay, now zoom out and go to the next picture.”

  Casey swiped his finger across the screen and nothing happened. He repeated the move and asked, “How do I zoom out?”

  Andie snatched the phone from Casey’s hands. She made a pinching gesture on the screen and swiped her finger from right to left. She made a reverse pinch and handed the phone back to Casey. “There. Same arm, no envelope.”

  “Where did it go?”

  “He must have passed it off to someone in that group.”

  “Shirazi,” Casey muttered.

  Andie shook her head. “I started taking those pictures after Shirazi passed the guy.

  Casey imitated Andie’s pinch maneuver and looked at a wider shot. He scrolled back and forth through the photos. Eight in all. The faces of each of the subjects were in varying degrees of focus depending on which picture he looked at. Between the eight shots, though, there was a clear image of all four people. “Do you recognize any of those folks?”

  “Not that I could tell.”

  Casey flipped through the pictures again. “Do you think it’s possible he put the envelope back in his jacket? Like in-between a couple of the photos you got?”

  “It’s possible, but I doubt it.” Andie leaned over to see the screen in Casey’s hand. “Flip through them again,” she said. “See. The envelope guy’s hand stays at basically the same height, just below his waist. If he put the envelope back in his jacket, his hand would have moved, and we would have gotten a picture as it either went up or back down, even with the shutter closing and opening like it was.”

  Casey handed her back the phone. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands, driving his thoughts rather than the motionless car. He finally let go of the wheel and leaned back. “So Shirazi isn’t Raad’s source,” he said.

  “Well, we don’t know that for sure,” Andie commented. “But if that guy in the leather jacket is working with Raad like you implied, then yeah, maybe it was one of those other people.”

  “So we just have to identify who those people were, and we can narrow the search.” Casey looked around the parking lot. From his vantage point in the car, he couldn’t see anybody. “I guess we can’t go ask them what their names are now.”

  “No, but we have their faces,” Andie said. “I doubt we’ll have any luck, though. Searching for a picture to match a name is a hell of lot easier than the other way around.”

  They both sat in silence, thinking of their next move.

  “Any ideas?” Andie asked after a couple of minutes.

  Casey shook his head. “No. I guess we can show the pictures to Cohen when we meet him at the lecture hall. See if he recognizes any of them.” He pulled his seat belt around, buckled in, and started the engine.

  Andie buckled her own restraint and said in a tone tinged with dejected envy, “I wish we had that damn face-recognition software the feds use. Then we might have a chance of getting some names.”

  Casey’s head came up sharply, Andie’s words sparking an idea. He pulled out his own phone and frantically searched his contacts for a number.

  “What is it?”

  Casey held up a finger
as he pressed the phone to his ear. The call connected, and Casey heard a cough before the familiar voice answered.

  “Detective Giordano.”

  Chapter 35

  The Embassy of Israel to the United States was located on International Drive in the northwest part of D.C. Home to the embassies of the People’s Republic of China, Ghana, Jordan, Pakistan, and others, the aptly name International Drive and the connecting roads of International Place and International Court resembled a gated community along the southwestern boundaries of the University of the District of Columbia. Only, in this community, each compound had its own gates and armed guards, and the neighbors were undoubtedly spying on each other as much they were collecting intelligence on their host.

  And there was some diplomacy involved, as well.

  But not for Adam Miller. Not officially, anyway. Miller had spent the better part of his Thursday in conferences and attending briefings with the new ambassador, Moshe Safran, fulfilling the duties he was sent to the States for in the first place—at least as far as nearly all the embassy staff knew, including the new ambassador. Outside of those sleep-inducing meetings, Miller was in and out of the “vault”—the embassy’s secure meeting place for highly classified discussions—and the communications room where he exchanged encrypted cables with his superiors back in Tel Aviv. It was far from real-time communication, but it let him report back freely on his true assignment.

  Tel Aviv sent Miller to the U.S. with a mission to find out if leaks compromising the Quick Note operations were coming from the American side. Miller wasn’t the only member of Mossad with dual Israeli-American citizenship, having been born in the United States and familiar with the way things worked there, but he was the only one whose college roommate was a deputy national security advisor.

  Miller had hoped Parker’s position, and their friendship, would help him learn the extent of the U.S. support structure for Quick Note from the organizations involved to the numbers, and possibly names, of at least the key individuals with access to the operational plans. It wasn’t until after the Qods attack and the interrogation of Casey Shenk, however, that Parker opened up about The Council and his role in that secret club.

  That was how Miller thought of it. A secret club where the members were individuals with varying degrees of personal and professional power within the system who wanted even greater influence to steer the country in the direction they thought best. They found that influence outside the system. In The Council.

  Parker’s position in The Council was typical of the majority of the group’s members. He provided information on current discussions and actions of the National Security Council, and the White House in his case. He was valuable to The Council in this respect, where his opinions were heard and considered by officials outside the NSC who had influence in their own right.

  Casey’s assertion that Davood Raad was an Iranian spy was not news to Miller. But the revelation that Raad had a source in The Council who was passing him Quick Note intel was unexpected. Parker initially refused to believe anyone in The Council would sabotage the group’s efforts and betray the very country the organization was formed to guide and defend. “Manipulate” is more like it, Miller had thought when Parker explained it to him.

  After Mr. Shenk was taken away, Miller had convinced Parker to at least consider the possibility that someone on The Council was talking to Raad. Parker eventually acquiesced, and they parted, agreeing to meet after work on Thursday to discuss what each of them had been able to uncover. Miller couldn’t do much from his end without knowing who any of the other members of The Council were. And Parker was not willing to give his friend that information without doing some checking on his own first. It was a “secret” club, after all.

  That was where Miller was headed when he left the embassy at ten ‘til five that afternoon. He hoped Parker had something worth sharing. Or something he was willing to share. It turned out Tel Aviv was vaguely aware of some high-ranking people in the Pentagon who were rumored to be part of a group Aman referred to as “The Society.” Assuming the Israeli military intelligence arm’s “Society” was actually “The Council,” the names were vetted by Mossad headquarters, but with negative results. It was highly unlikely any of the six men and women investigated were Raad’s source. Miller wanted Parker’s assessment along with any other potential suspects he may have come up with.

  Miller walked outside along the south wall of the embassy building, past the ambassador’s car and two other vehicles “for official embassy use only.” There was no parking to speak of, and the embassy employees came to and from work mostly by foot, bicycle, or metro. Miller was only a transient employee lodged in a nearby hotel, so he walked.

  He turned left through the front courtyard and nodded to the guard as he exited the compound. He took the brick sidewalk down Van Ness Street toward Connecticut Ave. and the Cleveland Park metro station. He looked to his right as he passed behind the sprawling Chinese embassy. Somewhere inside the complex, someone was likely monitoring Miller’s progress down the street. They would be watching until he was a block away from the embassy fence and no longer deemed a threat. Miller thought about waving to the camera he couldn’t see but decided against it.

  Before he turned his head forward again, his peripheral vision picked up something or someone behind him. Not yet on full alert, Miller’s senses were nonetheless heightened. Whoever it was still trailed him by fifty yards, and chances were it was nothing of concern. Normally, Miller would make a mental note and check the situation again when he passed a storefront or office window, or when he turned at an intersection. But this wasn’t a normal time. Qods soldiers tracked him down and tried to kill him two nights ago. Those two men were dead, but he knew there had to be more. He didn’t have time for games.

  Miller abruptly stopped and wheeled around, staying on the balls of his feet.

  “Turn around and keep walking.”

  Tension left Miller’s body and he did what he was told. In five seconds he was keeping step with a minor Mossad legend.

  “We need to talk,” Cohen said as he followed Miller southeast onto Connecticut’s white cement walkway.

  Miller checked his watch. “I’m meeting someone in an hour, so I have to catch the train. But we can talk along the way.”

  Cohen looked around and saw the pedestrian traffic was still relatively light. “Parker?”

  Miller smiled. “So you are working with Casey Shenk. I could tell he wasn’t lying about you being here, but I wasn’t sure about the rest.”

  “I enlisted his help because of his relationship with Davood Raad. The information about our operations is getting to Tehran through Raad.”

  “I thought you weren’t in government service anymore.” Miller shot a glance at Cohen. “Actually, weren’t you banished for executing Eli Gedide?”

  “I was,” Cohen said. “But Gedide had many enemies in Israel. People he stepped on to get where he was. Many were afraid to cross him, and when I did what they wouldn’t, they spoke up in my defense. I am still a son of Israel, and while I may never step foot on my home soil again, there are some who feel my services are still useful.”

  Miller agreed with Cohen’s supporters. The former Kidon assassin had already been useful to him by connecting Raad to the problem he was working. He wanted Cohen on his team, even if the man wasn’t acting in any official capacity. Though “official” was open for interpretation. “Will you come with me to meet Scott? If he came up with something, we may have to act quickly. And I could use your help.”

  The sun had dropped just below the tops of most of the buildings as they neared the entrance to the metro tunnel. Raad’s lecture at GWU started at five-thirty, but Cohen was not sure how long it would take Casey and Ms. Jackson. He weighed his options. “I’ll go.”

  Miller nodded as the two men approached the stairs descending into the station below Connecticut Ave. and Porter St. They slowed before the entrance to fall in line with the other trav
elers who tried to find an opening against the sudden outflow of passengers whose train had just arrived. Cohen didn’t like the number of people bumping into each other and jockeying for position, each one with a more important date to keep than the other. The longer it took to move down the stairs, the more impatient people became, and the more anxious Cohen was.

  He nudged Miller forward. He knew the younger man was from America and was probably more comfortable with the current situation, but that didn’t help Cohen’s growing anxiety. It was that little bit of nervous paranoia that had saved his life too many times to ignore it now.

  “It’s all right,” Miller said over his shoulder when they were finally past the newspaper vending machines flanking the entrance. “This is just...ungh...D.C. for you.”

  Cohen stopped short to keep from being knocked down by a man in a gray parka who broke through the line, causing a sudden pile-up of bodies and creative insults behind him. Cohen watched the man carefully but hurriedly navigate the six lanes of traffic across Connecticut Ave.

  “Let’s go!” someone prompted.

  Cohen turned back in time to catch Miller as he fell to the ground. “What’s wrong?” he asked, easing Miller onto his back. Miller’s eyes were wide and his face was turning blue. He was trying to speak, but his mouth only moved up and down. And it was getting slower. Cohen ripped open Miller’s jacket and tilted the man’s head back. He scooped two fingers to clear the open mouth, but there was no obstruction. Miller’s face was turning darker by the second.

  A crowd had formed around the two, forcing other, less-interested people to go around. Cohen didn’t notice. He turned Miller on his side and yelled, “Call the paramedics!” to anyone and no one. He brought his arm back and hit Miller between the shoulder blades with the force of a sledgehammer. He tried two more times before returning Miller to his back. Miller’s face was darker and his eyes were bulging from their sockets.

  “A pen. A pen!” Cohen shouted.