The Price Of Power

by James W. Huston

  “That would be my hope for all people.”

  “It was your hope for your son, was it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you took steps to ensure that that happened, didn’t you?”

  “I raised him the best I knew how.”

  “You taught him the doctrine of pacifism, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “The church you attended taught it, didn’t it? The college he attended taught it, didn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When he left home after college, there was no doubt in your mind that he was a pacifist, was there?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t talk about it after he graduated from high school.”

  “You know for a fact, don’t you, Mrs. Manchester”—he tried to make his tone more gentle—“that your son is a pacifist today, correct?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have no reason to believe he’s not, do you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Objection, belatedly,” Potts said, rising. “That question calls for speculation.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Your son, the President of the United States, Edward Manchester, has never told you in his lifetime that he’s not a pacifist, has he? It’s really a very simple question, Mrs. Manchester. Has he ever told you that he believes in warfare, that he will employ the armed forces of the United States if given reason to do so? Has he ever told you that?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Not in any words, correct?”

  “We’ve never had a discussion like that, so it wouldn’t have been appropriate for him to say anything like that.”

  “Your son, the President, has never told you that he would employ the military, has he?”

  “No, not that I recall, but the subject has never come up.”

  “And, Mrs. Manchester, you have spoken to him since these allegations arose, isn’t that right?”

  “You mean at all?”

  “Yes, since the President has been accused, if you will, of being a pacifist, you have spoken with him, haven’t you?”

  “Well, sure. He’s my son.”

  “I understand that, but since his impeachment, you’ve had conversations with him, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said, confused, trying to see where he was going.

  “And not one time since the President has been impeached and we’ve been waiting for this trial to start has the President ever told you that he was not a pacifist.” The crowd was still. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Manchester?”

  “It never came up.”

  Dillon turned toward his seat. “No further questions.”

  Potts rose slowly and approached the podium. “Mrs. Manchester, my name is Roosevelt Potts.”

  “I know.” She was smiling.

  “Have we ever spoken?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever spoken with anyone representing Congress or the House of Representatives or Mr. Pendleton or Mr. Dillon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it the gentlemen in suits, visiting you unannounced?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you tell them essentially the same thing you told us here today?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Manchester, from what I heard you say in your testimony, to sum it up if we could, you have no current knowledge of the state of the President’s mind concerning his willingness to employ or not to employ the military, is that fair?”

  She was encouraged but careful. “Yes, it is, Mr. Potts. When he was growing up, we were members of the Mennonite Church, and the church was against war. But I haven’t spoken with him about it in many years, and really couldn’t tell you what he thinks right now.”

  “Mrs. Manchester, you said earlier that you wanted to raise a son who was sensitive to the needs of others—the poor, the downtrodden. Have you done that?”

  “Objection, what’s the relevance of this?” Dillon asked.

  “Mr. Chief Justice, it came out in his questions. I’m just simply clarifying.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Well, I think so, Mr. Potts, I think my son is one of the most kind, sensitive, caring human beings I’ve ever known. I think that his record as President demonstrates that.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Manchester. I have no further questions.”

  “Mr. Dillon?” Justice Ross asked.

  “Nothing further.”

  “Mrs. Manchester,” Ross said, “you are excused. Thank you very much for coming from Harrisonburg to testify.” He checked the time and added, “This would be a good time for our lunch break. Please be back in place at one-thirty.... Is your next witness ready, Mr. Pendleton?”

  “Yes, Mr. Chief Justice,” Pendleton said, rising quickly.

  “Very well,” Ross responded, rapping the gavel sharply against the wood block on the desk.

  Commander Beth Louwsma leaned over the sailor operating the console. He was comparing two voice signatures on two screens in front of him.

  “Can you identify it?”

  The sailor moved the two signals forward and then backward till they completely overlapped. “Every voice is unique, ma’am. Even if you try and disguise your voice, it’s like a fingerprint.” He looked at the two signals, then glanced at her. “It’s him.”

  Beth stared at the signal displays as the adrenaline surged through her body. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. George Washington is on that island.”

  “Print it.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Molly was about to turn off the sidewalk and head up the stairs leading to the entrance to Dillon’s apartment building when she saw him coming toward her. She put her hands in her pockets and waited for him in the cold night air. He didn’t see her until he almost bumped into her. “Oh,” he said. Even in the dark, she could tell he wasn’t smiling.

  “Hey. You look pretty unhappy,” she said.

  He turned and walked up the stairs with her without speaking.

  “It’s nice to see you too, hope you had a nice day.”

  He stopped. “I’m sorry. I just … my head is elsewhere.” He pointed behind him. “Can you see the cops?”

  She nodded.

  “They’re following me everywhere I go. They’re watching my building too.”

  “I’d rather have them watch you than not. You never know when Washington will try to get you.”

  He smiled at the unintentional irony of her statement. They went into the lobby of the building together. “I thought you might come home for dinner,” she said. “A nice bowl of Froot Loops or something.”

  “It’s hard to get a good bowl of Froot Loops at the restaurants in Washington. They just don’t carry that kind of stuff.”

  “Can you believe it?” she asked. “You know, I keep following you like I’ve been invited. Is it okay if I come in?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I’ve got to go back to our ‘war room.’ I’ve got an hour or so. I just needed to get away.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  He inserted the key into the deadbolt on his door and turned it. They went inside, closing the door. Almost immediately someone knocked. They both turned to it, startled. Dillon opened the door.

  “Hey, Grazio!”

  “Dillon. What’s happening?”

  “Come in, come in,” Dillon said.

  “Sorry,” Grazio said when he saw Molly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Dillon said.

  Grazio moved over to Dillon’s message machine and hit the play button. There were two messages from others, then Grazio’s message. “Hey,” he said. “I just got a call from that French guy at the embassy. He said he didn’t know how to get hold of you. Had to talk to you immediately. I’ve no idea what it’s about, but give the frog a call, would you?”

  “What frog are you talking about?” Dillon asked.

  “Yo
u know, the guy at the embassy.”

  “What did he want?”

  “I don’t know. I told you that. I still don’t know. But he called me and said it was a matter of life and death that he get in touch with you right away.”

  Dillon sighed. “I’ll call him tomorrow … sounds pretty serious though.... I just had to get away from that trial.”

  “You don’t sound like you’re having much fun,” Molly said.

  “Did you watch today?” Dillon asked pointedly.

  “Everybody in the world was watching.”

  “You saw me make a complete fool of myself. I’ve never been so humiliated,” Dillon said. “My one big chance, cross-examine the mother of the President—she hammered me.”

  “Well, she was a tough witness,” Molly said. “It’s pretty tough to cross-examine a nice old lady. Especially one that’s the mother of the President.”

  “It’s not just that,” Dillon said.

  “What is it?” Molly asked.

  “After I cross-examined Manchester’s mother, I sat down at the counsel table. The Chief Justice said we were going to break for lunch, everybody got up to leave. I’m sitting there feeling kinda bad for myself. I was putting my notebook in my briefcase, I look over to Pendleton for sympathy. I say to him in a nice low voice, ‘She killed me.’ Pendleton looks at me without smiling, without anything, and he says, ‘Why do you think I let you come here?’ ”

  “What did he mean by that?” Molly asked.

  “I leaned on the Speaker so I could be the second manager. Pendleton was against it. Then all of a sudden he changed his mind. Now I know why.”

  “Are you serious?” Molly asked. “You think he’d do that?”

  “Everything is calculated with him, Molly. Everything he does and says and thinks is all calculated toward winning. I can’t operate like that. Anyway, that was my big witness. My one chance to shine. All the rest of the stuff I’m doing in this case is briefs and exhibit organization. My big world television appearance and I get cut by a hundred-year-old woman.”

  “She’s not a hundred,” Molly said.

  Dillon didn’t answer. He was lost in his own thoughts.

  Grazio intervened. “Why don’t you call the frog. He said immediately. I think he meant it.”

  “Why not?” Dillon crossed to the phone, picked it up, and dialed the number. He let it ring several times, long enough to know that no one was there and long enough to know that an answering machine was not going to intervene. As he moved the receiver away from his ear to hang up, he heard a voice. He put it back to his ear.

  “DeSalle, is that you?”

  “Yes. How did you know to call?”

  “Oh, Grazio caught up with me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at my house.”

  “What’s your number there?”

  Dillon gave him the number.

  “Okay, I’ll call you back in ten minutes.” DeSalle hung up.

  Dillon put the phone down. “He said he’d call back in ten minutes.”

  Molly handed him a beer, which she had poured into a glass. “Here.”

  He smiled into her eyes. “Thanks.”

  “Now you can tell me what’s on your mind.”

  Dillon turned to watch Grazio, who was now fooling with the stereo cabinet. “Hey, Frank.”

  Grazio stood up and turned around. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for the info on the frog.”

  “Sure,” Grazio said, stopping as he saw Dillon’s face. “What?”

  “Can I be rude?” Dillon asked.

  “Sure, I’m rude all the time.”

  “I want to be alone with Molly.”

  Grazio waited. “Hey, who doesn’t?”

  “I want to talk to her—alone.”

  “No problem, I’m out of here. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll be in the gallery if you need anything.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it, Frank. I’ll let you know.”

  “See ya,” he said again as he closed the door.

  Dillon sipped his beer. He circled around the couch, placed the glass on the coffee table, and sat down.

  Molly sat next to him. “So what’s up?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm.

  “I told you, I feel stupid.”

  “I know, but there’s more to it than that.”

  “I don’t know. I feel like Pendleton fed me a line. This whole thing was a setup so he wouldn’t have to cross-examine the President’s mother. He needed someone to throw himself on a spear. That’s all I’m here for.”

  Molly tried to comfort him. “People do things for a lot of reasons. A lot of attorneys would give their eyeteeth to be in your shoes right now. You got the information you had to get from her.”

  “How did I get here?” he asked. “How did I end up cross-examining a missionary in Billings’s trial and then cross-examining some woman who’s trying to defend her role as a Christian pacifist? How did I end up on this side of this? I feel like a traitor.”

  “Traitor to what?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’m on the right side of this issue. I don’t think the President should be President any-more, yet here I am cross-examining his poor mother like she’s some kind of criminal. I felt like I was cross-examining Mother Teresa.” He looked at her quickly. “Was she a pacifist?”

  “I don’t know,” Molly said. “And you didn’t cross-examine Mary Carson, I did.”

  “You get the point, it just feels weird.”

  “Your instincts are noble, it’s just that you made the same mistake I did. We look to the government to do good. To be good. It’s not. It’s just a bunch of people. People have mixed motives, and when politics are involved, they tend to overshadow a lot of good that can be done. Most people are in it for their own ends. I know I can’t be a part of it anymore.”

  “Me neither,” he said, his smile ironic. “But here I am, still part of it.”

  “Just till this trial is over.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know, whatever you want to do.”

  “I want to sleep,” Dillon said, closing his eyes.

  “Nope,” Molly said, standing up. “You’ve got to get back to work. Big day ahead tomorrow.”

  “Does it bother you that I’m going after Manchester?”

  “He’s being too coy about it. I think he needs to answer the question.”

  “So he shall, tomorrow,” Dillon said.

  The phone rang and Dillon looked at it, surprised. He’d forgotten about DeSalle. He walked to the counter and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Is this Jim Dillon?”

  “Yes.”

  “DeSalle here.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Can we talk?” he asked, his voice subdued.

  “Sure,” Dillon said.

  “I have some information that I thought you should know about.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “The wife of the mining company president.”

  “What about her?”

  “It may be too late,” DeSalle said.

  “What?” Dillon asked quickly.

  “Sometimes, French intelligence tells me things. Sometimes I don’t hear. Sometimes I do. This one struck me as something you would want to know.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because of where you are right now in the trial. Mr. Pendleton needs to know this as well. He may already.... She has been murdered.”

  Dillon’s face tightened. “How do you know that?”

  “They’ve known it for a couple of days. My French intelligence friends have very good friends in American intelligence. They have a satellite photo of the body being carried out of the hut where they were being held captive.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “I think they estimate seventy-two hours ago.”

  Dillon fought the nausea that welled up. He tried to prevent his mind from visualizing the beautiful woman in a white night
gown in the photographs that he had seen. He tried not to think of the time she had spent with these murderers. Her own private hell. He wouldn’t think about what they might have done to her before they killed her.

  “Are you sure?” Dillon asked.

  “No, not sure, but they’re confident. They’ve reported it to the President in France, which is not done unless they feel certain.”

  “Thanks for calling. I owe you one.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” DeSalle said softly. “But you may owe her something.... I have to go. Please give my best to Molly.”

  DeSalle hung up. Dillon put down the phone and stared off into space.

  “What was that about?” Molly asked, having heard half the conversation, and reading his expression.

  “French intelligence is pretty sure Mrs. Heidel has been murdered—just like every other American they encounter.”

  Molly closed her eyes. She was motionless for a long time. Then she went to Dillon and put her arms around his neck. He spoke softly to her. “This was the very thing we were trying to prevent. It’s why I wanted Congress to pass the Rules of Capture as quickly as they did. But the President wouldn’t sign it. Those guys will be long gone by the time we ever get down there. I wonder if Billings knows.”

  “Keep doing what you can. We’ve got to do something. They have to be stopped. You can’t control everything.”

  “The most powerful country in the world, in the history of the world, can’t seem to beat these murderers.”

  “It’s not over yet,” she said.

  “Thanks for being here.”

  “Sure. You’d better go.”

  “I’ve got to do one other thing first.” He pulled out his laptop, disconnected his phone, and connected his modem to the jack.

  Hughes had waited for the darkest hour of the night. He signaled and eight men of his platoon moved forward, simulating the reconnaissance and surveillance force Lieutenant Armstrong’s platoon would provide for perimeter support on the attack. They moved quickly but carefully toward the compound, going up the prebriefed corridor, which they checked on their GPS receiver. They reached the waypoint and stopped, studying the surrounding terrain which was clear in their night vision goggles. They signaled Hughes. Hughes and the other eight men in the platoon patrolled up the corridor the reconnaissance team had cleared. They reached the sentries crouching down, weapons ready. They searched for signs of life, then proceeded directly into the compound. They split and headed silently for the three buildings with Hughes, McGowan, and two others heading straight for the main building, and two teams of two going to the others. McGowan carried the sledgehammer on his back and a shotgun in his hands. As they reached the porch, Hughes signaled to McGowan, who immediately pulled out his sledgehammer and smashed in the door. McGowan shouted in Indonesian as he ran into the building, “Surrender! U.S. Navy! Surrender!” They rushed inside, fanned out, and controlled the room.