by Anna Dove
“And you were evacuated to Chimaugua as well?”
“Yes I was.”
“And can you produce copies of what you found?”
“Yes, they have been produced and included in the brief.”
“Thank you, Mr. Reed.”
The three individuals from the DOD were then called one by one to the witness box, and recounted in great detail how they had received orders from the president to launch the nuclear weapon. Mr. Stone watched intently as they spoke, never interjecting, only listening.
Mr. Gilman was not listening, but rather sitting in a stupor. After a while he felt a hand on his elbow, jerking him up again, and he stood to come face to face with Mr. Stone, whose forehead was very large.
“We will appeal this, that’s the next step,” Mr. Stone was saying, and Mr. Gilman suddenly noticed that everyone was leaving the room.
“What’s happened,” he mumbled.
“They pronounced you guilty,” said Mr. Stone, “but it isn’t over yet. We will appeal this, and if the Appeals Court doesn’t overturn it, I’ll take it to SCOTUS.”
During the first appeals hearing in front of three judges, Mr. Stone made an admirable attempt at identifying holes in the District Court’s interpretation of the law, but the court upheld the original decision, and Mr. Gilman again shuffled from the room with a blank stare. Not over yet, repeated Mr. Stone gruffly, and spent the next forty-eight hours writing his petition to the Supreme Court. He submitted it at ten in the morning on October 22 and then made his way over to see the Senator, who had invited Mr. Stone over to talk about finding witnesses.
“Even if we find witnesses now,” said Mr. Stone, after the Senator asked if anyone had come forward as a witness, “it would be up to the Supreme Court Justice if they want to accept the testimony. They could send the case back down to the District Court--it’s really up to the discretion of the justice. We aren’t arguing the merits of the case; we are arguing the legal interpretation.”
“I understand,” replied the Senator. “But there’s a better chance at a retrial if witnesses come forward.”
“Yes. Do you know of anyone besides Miss Tremont?”
“There are three people I know who have damning firsthand evidence; one of them is dead, the other’s testimony was compromised from her intoxicated state, and the last refuses to testify.”
Mr. Stone leaned back in his chair and growled something under his breath.
“So,” he said after a pause, “you really think he didn’t do it, then?”
“I don’t think he did. I think he’s been set up.”
“And you think the witnesses against him are all just lying?”
“Yes.”
“That is a serious accusation, Senator.”
“I know,” replied the latter. “I don’t make it lightly.”
Mr. Stone seemed to be thinking.
“The worst part is,” said Mr. Stone, “that Mr. Gilman won’t give me anything to work with. I’ve tried talking to him at least seven times. Never more than a yes or no. It’s like he wants to die. He’s given up on it all, has no hope. Without any leads from him and without any defense witnesses, I don’t see any way out.”
+
That evening in the Senator’s house was very quiet. A sadness seemed to hang heavily at the table as they ate.
Haley and Elizabeth were on duty for cleaning up afterwards. They finished up the dishes together, and swept the floor. Haley wiped down the counters with a damp rag and Elizabeth took out the trash. Then, they changed into sweatpants and t-shirts for sleeping and retired to their room with books.
They had both laid down their books and snuffed out their candles, and were about to sleep, when there sounded a loud pounding on the door. Both jumping from under the covers, they snatched the candles and raced into the hall, almost colliding with Landon and the Senator. Elizabeth took the gun from the closet, and they all approached the door.
“Who is it,” hissed Landon, his own gun in his hand.
“Me,” said a voice, and Haley recognized it as that which belonged to Jack. She reassured the others, and unbolted the door. As she opened it Jack stumbled into the room, his tall body catching against the doorframe and moving in a disjointed, off-guard manner. Haley closed the door as he stood in the room, swaying slightly.
“She’s gone, she’s gone.” His eyes glazed unseeingly in the candlelight, and his hands crept up to his head, where his fingers pressed against his temples. “She’s gone. They’ve taken her.” The smell of alcohol reeked from his mouth, and Haley’s heart sank.
She started forward and caught his arm as he fell towards her unwittingly. Elizabeth locked both bolts on the door and put down her gun.
“Jack! Jack! Who? Who’s gone? What do you mean?”
Jack dropped to his knees at her feet, and suddenly his shoulders shook with silent sobs and he crunched forward. He rested his head against her shin.
“She’s gone. I should have been there. I could have protected her.”
Haley bent down, and sat on the floor. Elizabeth sat on his other side, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Jack,” Haley whispered, “who’s gone?”
The name barely escaped his lips, with a miserable shiver. Haley looked up, and her eyes met Elizabeth’s in disbelief.
26. The Escape
“Your brain is your weapon.”
― Louise Penny, A Great Reckoning
Katrin Van Gorben awoke to find herself bound and gagged, propped up in a corner of a concrete cell. Her gag tasted like a rag used to wipe up gasoline. The metal handcuffs chafed at her wrists, and as she tried to twist her arms, the metal dug into her wrists. This was not an amateur kidnapping.
She rested her arms, leaning against the wall, and looked around her. Six feet by eight feet, concrete floor, no windows. One door, with a square opening crossed with iron bars. This was an impenetrable place.
She had no indication of the time, the location, and she had no memory beyond the chloroformed rag pressed to her face. She would have to wait until someone came in.
Memories of being on the run in Europe flooded into her mind--the late nights, the clandestine rides in car trunks, the invisible network guiding her to safety. Jack. She remembered Jack, how he had been when she first met him, a young man with a hard heart, and she remembered finding him at the rally for Adela Gilman, he had become an older man with a hard heart but a love for her. Her throat tightened at the thought of him. He was alive, not dead! Her hands trembled.
She would have to escape. As long as Jack was alive in the world, she had to be with him. Too much of her life had been spent without him.
The lock on the door suddenly grated and Katrin’s head shot up as the door slid open. A man in a military uniform stepped in sharply. Another man followed with a chair and set it down; he then took the gag from her mouth. The first man sat.
“Katrin Van Gorben.”
Katrin looked at him and did not say a word.
He was leathery, with brown tanned skin and wrinkled face. His silver hair was cut very close to his head in sharp angles at his temples. He sat very straight with his hands on his knees, and his light blue eyes pierced into hers.
“I have questions for you. You will answer them. First, do you know a man by the name of Jack Hoffman?”
“Yes.” her tone was clear and steady.
“When did you meet him?”
“A long time ago.”
“Specifically, when?”
“I can’t remember, it was a long time ago.”
Katrin decided that it would be wise to portray herself as a weak, old woman whose memory was graying with her hair.
The man made a growling noise of exasperation under his breath.
“Ms. Van Gorben, I need you to help us. This man, Jack, is a very dangerous criminal.”
“My Jack?” Katrin feigned shock. “It can’t be. No, no, he’s not a criminal.”
“Ms. Van Gorben, you used
to have a relationship with Jack a long time ago, as you say. And now we find that you are living with him. We needed to separate you two so that you wouldn’t get hurt, do you understand?”
“What has he done?”
“We suspect that he orchestrated a large part of the EMP attack.”
Katrin sat in silence for a moment, dropping her eyes to the ground. She strained her eyes so that a tears welled up, and then looked up at the officer.
“No,” she whispered. “Not Jack.”
“Yes,” said the man. “He learned this stuff very young. He was probably dangerous when he met you and you didn’t know it then either.”
“It can’t be true.”
“Ms. Van Gorben, please tell me how Jack found you the most recent time.”
“He and I found each other unexpectedly in the city. We just...ran into each other.”
“Where were you?”
“On the mall I believe it was--just taking a walk.”
“And why did you come here?”
“Just to visit. I hadn’t been in a long time. I just wanted to see the capitol again before I became too old to travel, which will be soon.”
“You didn’t come to find him?”
“I thought he was dead.”
“What?” said the man, slightly taken off guard.
“I thought he was dead. I had written him letters when we first met, and he never returned them. I thought he’d been killed overseas. He told me he had been on an operation without outside contact during that time.” (This was true).
“Well,” said the man, pondering this new information. “And do you know where he is now?”
“No.”
“Where was he yesterday?”
“Why, I don’t know. He left in the afternoon, he said he had business to attend to.”
“And you didn’t question what?”
“No, I never questioned him,” said Katrin, pretending to begin to distrust Jack. “Now that you mention it, no, he has never told me where he is going.” (This, of course, was a total lie.)
“Well, you see,” said the man, “he was orchestrating part of this madness.”
“I never would have imagined,” said Katrin, implying agreement. “My dear Jack...my poor Jack...the liquor must have turned his brain.”
“He drank?”
Katrin marveled that the so called ‘intelligence’ operation had failed to grasp this one major piece of Jack’s history.
“Like a fish,” lamented Katrin, pathetically hanging her head. “He would never stop--I mean, I loved him despite it of course, but he never did stop.”
The man took a few moments to sit and think. Then, he stood up.
“Get up,” he said abruptly. “That’s all. You understand the measures we had to take to get you here, of course, this is of the utmost secrecy and importance. We will let you go, but you’ll have two plainclothes officers following you at all times. We expect that if you hear anything of Jack’s whereabouts, you will let me know.”
Katrin nodded.
“Of course, sir.”
The man took out a key and unlocked the handcuffs, removing them. He opened the door and Katrin moved towards it, but he caught her wrist in a grip so tight that she winced.
“Ms. Van Gorben,” he said calmly, “our goal here is to make sure all traitors are brought to justice. I hope that you understand this.”
Katrin looked up at him, and his blue eyes struck a chill into her very heart.
“Sir, I can assure you that I also am eager to bring anyone involved to justice.”
The man nodded and released his grip, and Katrin walked out and down the hall. By the end of the hall, she felt a strange presence behind her; glancing over her shoulder, she realized that two men in dark pants and thin dark jackets had fallen into step thirty feet back.
+
One in the morning, and Tom’s bar was crowded. It had again become a melting pot of patrons, old, young, rich, poor, famous, invisible. Tequila made its rounds, laughter echoed, eyes shone. Tom had less variety now, with suppliers limited as producers got back on their feet and as international trade again began to flow; but his inventory was deep and his patrons consistent.
Tom sat back against the end of the bar, his eyes flitting about as he had done for decades. Tom was a bartender who never drank on the job; his real job was noticing the people in the room, the interactions, the situations. He knew that there were a group of congressional aides in the corner with several bottles of champagne--celebrating something. He knew that there was a man who had lost his family in the attack in a car crash. This man had been the CEO of a political management firm, and now sat staring in front of him dully with a glass full of full-strength whiskey. People like that were expendable--Tom would keep an eye on this man to see who approached him.
The front door opened--Tom’s observant eyes rested on the newcomer.
A small woman, gray hair pulled into a neat bun, although several strands had escaped and flew in different directions around her head. She wore a simple white collared shirt and high waisted tan trousers.
She looked up towards the bar, and Tom’s eyes rested on her face. Something was not right. Her eyes went around the room like a trapped rabbit and she made her way carefully towards the bar.
“What can I get you?” Tom asked.
She looked up at him, and her eyes met his with a distant expression.
The door opened again; Tom looked.
Two men, in black, whose gaze instantly fixed on the woman. They moved to a corner table, without drinks, and stood there.
Tom looked back at the woman and nodded ever so imperceptibly.
“Sprechen sie Deutsch?” she said quietly.
“Parlez vous Francais?” he replied in the same tone, smiling, and reached behind him as if she had ordered a drink. He took a bottle of tequila from the wall.
“Oui,” she replied. “I need your help,” she continued in French.
“I figured,” he said. “What is your name?”
“I’m Katrin Van Gorben.”
“I have a friend who heard a story about you.” Tom had an uncanny memory for names. He poured the tequila into the glass and reached for ice, remembering how the Senator had told him about Jack and Katrin.
“Who?”
“A Senator. Never mind who. But I’ll help you. Now, I’m going to give you this drink. You will take a sip, and then smile and ask where the bathroom is. I’ll point you to it. Those two men at the table will follow you there.”
He paused, poured ice, and laughed heartily. She joined him in laughing, as if he had just told a fantastic joke. He reached for the soda.
“In the women’s bathroom, go into the middle stall. The tile behind the toilet, it’s very small, push it in. A door will open up in the back of the stall. Go through, shut it behind you, tight. You’ll be in a small room. Wait there.” He put a lime in the drink and handed it to her. She smiled, and her eyes misted over.
Taking a sip, she nodded, and took another long sip.
“Sorry, one thing, sir,” she said in English now, “Where is your restroom? I’ll be right back, I’ll leave my drink at the bar.”
“Right back that way,” he said, pointing.
She set her drink down, her hand lingering for a moment before she turned towards the restroom. The two men at the table moved with her, and as she disappeared into the room they stood in the hall as if they were waiting for the men’s room.
A minute passed, two. Three. Tom saw from the corner of his eye that they had begun to fidget. Finally, one of them slipped into the ladies’ room, and returned very hurriedly. They pushed their way to the bar, sending a few patron’s drinks to the floor.
“Sir!” growled one of the men, with a large nose. Tom turned to him. “You seen a little lady in a white shirt and brown pants?”
“With gray hair?” said Tom.
“Yeah, yeah!”
“She went out the front door a minute ago. Didn�
�t pay her tab.” Tom pointed.
“How the hell…” began the first.
“Never mind,” said his companion irately. “Come on.” They both turned and disappeared out the front door.
By three in the morning, the last of the patrons had wandered out, and the bar stood deserted, empty glasses and bottles around the room, dirty napkins on the floor. Tom locked the front door, pulled down all the shades, and blew out the oil lamps.
He walked to the back, locking the hall door behind him, and then opened a little door in the wall, and let himself in.
Katrin sat on the floor, and raised her eyes to his. He sat down beside her.
“Now ma’am, I’m very glad you’re here. Tell me what I can do.”
Katrin explained who she was. As she finished, Tom frowned.
“Ma’am, there is something that you must do, that only you are qualified to do,” he said.
“Anything,” she said. “Anything.”
Tom nodded.
“You must inspire the man you love to do what is right.”
27. Jack’s Reason
“Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.”
— Lord Byron
September 2021, Annapolis, Maryland. A warm evening, with pedestrians traipsing the cobblestone streets, popping in and out of the shops, carrying purses and shopping bags and chattering pleasantly with each other. Cafes stocked with young men and women, sleek white boats swaying slightly in the water. The tall capitol spire reaching into the dusking sky.
Two people in particular, a tall lean man and a petite, pretty woman, walked hand in hand down to the wharf. They were obviously very much in love. They spoke quietly to each other, and every time they looked at each other, there was a sweet sort of magnetism in their eyes. Happy, content, oblivious to all of the other humans and all of the sounds and sights and smells.
Ducking into a little restaurant, they seated themselves cattycorner at a table and read from a shared menu.
