Against All Enemies

by Richard Herman

  “That doesn’t make sense,” the cop said. “She’d know where something was hidden in her own house.”

  “Not necessarily,” Toni replied. “If Mohammed Habib was a standard-issue Middle Eastern male, he probably hid a lot of things from his wife.” She pushed the cop outside. “We need to seal the area and wait for a technical team to get here.”

  “We ain’t got a technical team.”

  “You do now. You’re going to get more help than you ever wanted.”

  Less than an hour later, an FBI team arrived and went over the apartment with a microscope while Toni and the cop watched. One of the agents brought out a sealed evidence bag full of hundred dollar bills. “We almost missed this,” he told them. “It was hidden in a wall behind the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Most people drop things between the studs. This guy shoved it up, almost out of reach.”

  “This is what she was looking for,” Toni said. “We really need to find her.”

  “It’s already on the net,” the FBI agent said.

  10:00 A.M., Wednesday, July 7,

  Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

  Sutherland and Blasedale automatically stood when Col. William W. Williams entered the courtroom. The military judge was a little man with a young, almost boyish, face. His dress blue uniform had been tailored to fit his slender frame and he walked with a mincing, almost female, stride. He smiled at Sutherland and Blasedale when he sat in the deep-red leather chair behind the long bench that extended across the front of the room. The chair seemed to swallow him up. He glanced at R. Garrison Cooper, who was still sitting at the defense table opposite the jury box. It wasn’t a look of disapproval or reprimand, yet it carried weight. Cooper stood up. “Good morning,” Williams said. “I appreciate you being here so early on a Wednesday morning.” His voice was friendly, high-pitched, and squeaky.

  What have we got here? Sutherland thought. Cooper was smiling. Cooper’s already licking his chops. Surprisingly, Blasedale seemed totally unconcerned.

  Williams waved them to sit down. “Mr. Cooper, Maj. Blasedale, Capt. Sutherland, given the publicity surrounding this court-martial, I asked for your motions at this time so I would have the chance to read them and reflect with some care before ruling on them.” Sutherland gave a mental sigh. William W. Williams was one of those judges who liked the sound of his own voice. “Let me warn you in advance, I wish to proceed with some efficiency in this matter and will look unfavorably upon any motion submitted with the sole purpose of disrupting proceedings during a critical and sensitive moment.”

  Cooper was more than a match for Williams. “Your Honor, I must protest. The government has proceeded at a breakneck pace in convening this court-martial. Therefore, I must be able to respond appropriately in my client’s best interests.”

  Williams nodded. “If you are not prepared to submit a motion at this time, I would like the time and date of anticipated submission.”

  “Your Honor, I must protest,” Cooper bellowed.

  “Are you saying you are unprepared to proceed at this time?” Williams asked. “I am not aware of any request for a continuance.”

  Cooper snapped open his briefcase and dumped a stack of documents on the bench in front of Williams while Sutherland laid his request for a continuance on the left. The judge eyed Cooper’s pile. It was an inch thick. “Really, Mr, Cooper. We do not use motions as a means of delay or harassment.”

  Cooper swelled up. “Your Honor, these are submitted in the best interests of my client. I draw your attention to defense motion one. Critical evidence in this case relies on highly classified material, such as the mission tapes that were supposedly compromised by Capt. Jefferson. These tapes must be examined by my experts in open court or not allowed in evidence. Further—”

  A flick of Williams’s hand and Cooper fell silent. Sutherland noticed that Williams had long fingers and carefully manicured nails. Williams scanned the motion. When he was finished, he folded his hands over the document and stared at Cooper. They all knew what Cooper was threatening: Introduce any classified evidence that hurts my client and he will reveal every bit of secret or top secret information he knows to the public, resulting in a serious, maybe unrepairable, breach in security. “Really. Mr. Cooper,” Williams said. “Hobson’s choice?” Cooper gave a patronizing half-nod in answer. “Do you think we are so naïve as to be held subject to this type of legal blackmail? When examining the evidence in question, we will reconvene the court in camera to take classified testimony.”

  “But,” Cooper replied, administering the legal coup de grace, “I do not have a security clearance.”

  “Really, Mr. Cooper. Capt. Edward Jordan, your Area Defense Counsel, has the necessary security clearances.” The veteran defense attorney’s face flushed. He started to speak, but it came out a croak. Again, the hand waved, demanding silence as he read the next petition. He sighed. “The location of the defense table, Mr. Cooper?”

  “I believe it is prejudicial for Capt. Jefferson to be in direct view of the jury for the entire court-martial. Every time they look up, they will see Capt. Jefferson.”

  A wicked glint flickered in the judge’s eyes. “For your information, in a court-martial, the jury is referred to as the panel.” Cooper nodded dumbly as Williams continued. “And indeed Capt. Jefferson will be in their full view, which is exactly what I want. The panel must have the full measure of the man they are judging.”

  “I must protest!” Cooper bellowed in his finest courtroom style.

  “No,” Williams replied, his voice becoming more firm, “I must protest. Let me express myself in nonjudicial terms you can no doubt understand. Do not bombard this court with bullshit.”

  Sutherland decided he liked William W. Williams. “Anything else, Mr. Cooper?” Cooper shook his head. “Capt. Sutherland?” Sutherland was rapidly scanning Cooper’s motions to see what to object to. He started to speak, more than ready to object on general grounds. Blasedale’s hand touched his arm, stopping him.

  “Col. Williams,” she said, “we will respond at the appropriate time in the opening thirty-nine-ay.” In a court-martial, a 39a session was held outside the presence of the panel.

  Williams picked up his request for a continuance. “Capt. Sutherland, as to your request for a continuance—why should I grant it?” Sutherland quickly explained how late-breaking discoveries in the money trail that were relevant and necessary to the prosecution’s case needed to be more thoroughly investigated. Williams folded his hands in his lap. “Has trial counsel apprised you of this investigation, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Yes, sir, they have. We are ready to proceed. The prosecution—”

  “It’s trial counsel, Mr. Cooper, not prosecution. Please use the correct terminology in my courtroom.”

  Cooper blushed. “The trial counsel is only seeking time to frame a conspiracy—”

  Another flick of Williams’s hand and Cooper fell silent. “Save it for the press, Mr. Cooper. As to your conspiracy theory, I must warn you that I do not allow idle speculation in my courtroom. And, Mr. Cooper, I will remind you that not only do I determine the time and uniform for each session of this court-martial, but that I also ensure the dignity and decorum of the proceedings. Therefore, I will exercise final approval over spectators allowed to sit in the immediate courtroom. Any guests you have may sit in the theater with the media. This is not a circus—it is a court of law.” Sutherland felt like applauding.

  Cooper’s mouth opened to protest, but he thought better of it. “Capt. Sutherland, as to your request for continuance. Denied.” Williams cocked his head and waited for a response. But Sutherland had learned his lesson and waited for the judge to continue. “My reasoning is thus,” Williams said. “First, it appears the government has not exercised due diligence to obtain such evidence. Second, no accused may be held in pretrial arrest or confinement for more than ninety days. Capt. Jefferson has now been incarcerated for sixty-eight days. Unfortunately, I cannot release him, even to house arre
st on base, for fear of his own safety. Further, I have been advised that one suspect in this case, Osmana Khalid, has escaped arrest and may have fled the country. I will not allow Capt. Jefferson the same opportunity, should he be so inclined. However, I wish to end his incarceration as soon as possible.” His voice hardened. “Any such request at this late date from the government must have a substantial and compelling reason for favorable consideration. Have I made myself clear? Do not waste mis court’s time.”

  He snapped his briefcase closed, rose, and minced out of the courtroom. This time, Cooper jumped to his feet with Sutherland and Blasedale. Cooper gave Sutherland his sharklike grin. “Well, son, you certainly ate shit on that one.”

  Blasedale’s eyes narrowed as she followed Cooper’s progress out of the courtroom. “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “It’s a thing between me and him,” Sutherland replied.

  “A male macho thing?”

  Sutherland grinned at her. “You bet’cha.” They followed Williams through the side door and into the legal offices. Toni and Brent Mather were waiting for them in Sutherland’s office. “I hope you’ve got some good news?” Sutherland asked. But from the look on Toni’s face, he suspected the news was anything but good.

  She confirmed his suspicions when she told him about Habib’s murder and the disappearance of his wife. “We got a count on the money the forensic team found,” Toni said. “Over twenty thousand dollars.”

  “We think Habib has been skimming for a long time,” Mather added.

  “And got caught out,” Sutherland said. “But why did his wife take off? What do you know about her?”

  Toni consulted her notes. “Diana Habib, maiden name Smith, is a local girl. She met Habib when he was a foreign exchange student at Central Missouri State in town. She was a waitress, a high school dropout, pretty. Habib couldn’t cut it academically and was kicked out of Central Missouri—apparently it’s a pretty tough school—and the only way he could keep his visa was to marry a U.S. citizen. Enter Diana who is described as red-haired, buxom, overweight, and”—she paused for effect—“is twenty-three years old.”

  “Do you think she might be Cassandra?” Sutherland asked. He got a shrug in answer. “We need to find her.”

  “We’re working on it,” Mather said.

  “So there’s no progress on Cassandra?” Toni and Mather shook their heads in unison. “Subpoena the employment records at the club. We might find something there.”

  “Will do,” Mather said. “But I don’t have much hope since it was over three years ago.”

  20

  8:00 A.M., Thursday, July 8,

  The Farm, Western Virginia

  Durant sat in his wheelchair near the big window overlooking his campuslike research center. It was two weeks after his heart attack and he felt amazingly good. He glanced down at the book in his lap, started to read, and then snapped the book closed. I think, therefore I am, he thought. What a pile of bullshit. I do, therefore I am. So get on with it. He spun around and looked out the window as the book fell to the floor.

  Outside, the temperature was already building with the promise of another hot and humid day. Typical for early July. Below him, two whiz kids climbed the steps to his residence, engrossed in a deep conversation. A few moments later, Art Rios escorted them in. “Agnes, I assume,” Durant said. They nodded in unison.

  “We told her about your heart attack and all she’s doing is medical research,” the woman said.

  “Can you redirect her?” Durant asked.

  “We tried, but she wouldn’t respond.”

  The phone rang and Rios picked it up. “It’s Agnes,” he said.

  “Put her on the speaker,” Durant said. “Good morning, Agnes. How are you?”

  “I’m very worried about you,” the computer replied. “Why haven’t you had bypass surgery?”

  “I’m going to immediately after we rescue the pilots.”

  “That’s wonderful news. But don’t wait too long. Please wait while I update on the Sudan. It is going to be another dreadful day, isn’t it?” The two whiz kids smiled. Agnes was back on track and making small talk while she updated her intelligence files. “The Chinese have shifted their surveillance from Hurlburt to Fort Irwin in the Mojave. Apparently, they are keying on the movements of Delta Force.”

  “We can fix that in a heartbeat,” Rios grumbled. He made a mental note to warn Delta Force. They knew how, and when, to sanitize the area.

  “As for Maj. Terrant and Capt. Holloway,” Agnes continued, “there is no change in their status. But the Sudanese government plans to put them on trial at the same time as Capt. Jefferson. They have already decided on the manner of execution.”

  “Which is?” Durant asked.

  “Beheading,” Agnes replied.

  10:45 A.M., Saturday, July 10,

  Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

  It was late when Blasedale checked off the last item on her legal pad and Sutherland went to the refrigerator for a beer. They had been gaming Cooper’s strategy in Sutherland’s VOQ suite. “Need anything?” he called from the kitchenette.

  “A Diet Coke would be fine,” she answered. She glanced around the room. “Are you always so neat?”

  Sutherland nodded. “I used to drive my wife crazy. She said I was anal.”

  “That you are,” Blasedale replied. “And retentive to boot.” She smiled at him. “I think we’ve gone over everything.”

  “For at least the third time.” He sat down, obviously worried.

  Blasedale recognized the symptoms and stood behind him, massaging his shoulders. “Okay, what’s bugging you?”

  “I keep thinking about what The Rock said regarding Jefferson being innocent.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. There’s a sucker punch out there just waiting for us. It’s the money trail.”

  “I’ll call Toni and see if there’s progress.” Blasedale made the call and turned to him. “She’s on her way. You want to go over your opening remarks?” Sutherland nodded and relaxed into an overstuffed chair. Blasedale listened as he laid out their opening arguments for the panel. As with the time when they played Napoleon’s Sergeant with Sgt. Scott, she was impressed with his straightforward and concise presentation. “Don’t you ever use notes?” she asked. He shook his head and continued. A knock at the door stopped him in midsentence.

  It was Toni. She was wearing a low-cut, cream-colored silk blouse with dark slacks. Her open-toe sandals revealed dainty feet and her necklace and earrings suggested she had been on a date. “You look nice,” Blasedale said.

  “Brent asked me to dinner.”

  Sutherland’s head snapped up. “Consorting with the enemy?” he muttered.

  “The FBI is on our side,” Toni replied, “and we are working together now.”

  Blasedale watched the two interact. Toni was playing the jealousy game and Sutherland was unconsciously responding. “So what’s the latest on Diana Habib?”

  Toni related what they had learned about the missing woman and the latest on Sandi Jefferson. “So you think Diana might be Cassandra?” Sutherland asked. If that were true, linking Sandi into the money trail through Habib was a wild goose chase.

  “We’re working on that assumption,” Toni replied. “I talked to Harry earlier today, and he says the murder really set off the girls. Andrea is hearing a lot of gossip at the club.”

  Blasedale fell silent as they talked. Toni was sending all the right signals but Sutherland wasn’t in the receive mode. That’s good, she thought. I don’t want to hit him with fraternization, but I will. Just to be sure, she waited until they were finished and walked Toni back to her car. The night was heavy with humidity and still warm. “Do you like him that much?” Toni nodded unhappily. “Don’t give the bastards half a chance,” Blasedale warned. “They’ll use you.”

  “You sound just like my brother.”

  Upstairs, Sutherland paced the floor. “What have I missed?” he
groaned to himself.

  8:50 A.M., Sunday, July 11,

  Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

  Toni attended early Mass at the base chapel. She came out and stood on the lawn, saying hello and enjoying the freshly washed air. But she could feel the promise of another hot, muggy day. She looked around. It seemed so normal and calm, a welcome refuge from the swirling chaos outside the main gate. What now? she thought. She knew that Sutherland would be in the office, probably alone and catching up on some last-minute business. She sighed as she made a decision. It was time to get him off dead center. One way or the other, there was going to be movement.

  When Toni walked into the legal office, it appeared deserted. But the sound of the TV in the witness waiting room drew her down the hall. Sutherland was there, alone, totally fixated on a late-breaking news story. “I knew them,” he whispered. Then, more strongly, “God damn it to hell.”

  Toni stood next to him, almost touching, as she tried to make sense out of what she was seeing. Slowly, it all came together. A commune on California’s North Coast had committed mass suicide on Saturday evening. “They seemed so normal and content,” Sutherland said. “They weren’t some crazy cult fixated on some screwball philosophy. They were just raising kids and tending their gardens. Marcy Bangor called them ‘The Gardeners.’”

  “Isn’t she the reporter you were with at the San Francisco bombing?”

  He nodded. The TV commentator caught their attention with the standard warning about graphic scenes about to be shown. “This video was found by the police at the scene,” the commentator said. “Again, I must warn you that it is extremely disturbing and very graphic. Children should not see it and you may not want to watch.”

  “Then why are they showing it?” Toni asked.