Terminal Justice

by Alton L. Gansky

  “Outstanding,” Laine exclaimed. “You’re a fine American, Mr. Barringston. Someone from my office will fax you the details. It might be nice if you brought two or three of your executives with you. It should prove to be a good photo op for your work. Allow me to say thanks for your help. I knew I could count on you to be there for me.”

  I’ll be there, A.J. thought, but it won’t be for you.

  “He’s out of his mind,” Roger shouted. “Disneyland? Oh for the love of … I can’t believe it. Here, right here in our country, Mahli is going to walk around and play tourist, and he’s going to do it at the taxpayers’ expense.”

  “I didn’t like it either,” A.J. said solemnly. “At least not at first.”

  Sheila, who was seated on the couch in the meeting area of A.J.’s expansive office squinted questionably at A.J. “What do you mean? You’ve got something up your sleeve, don’t you?”

  “Ah, Sheila,” A.J. replied with a broad grin, “you know me too well.”

  Walking over to the couch, Roger sat down. “Tell us.”

  “If we will set our anger aside for a moment, we may be able to see the silver lining in this little gray cloud.” A.J. paused for effect. “You are aware that for the first time in years we will know exactly where the elusive Mahli is going to be.”

  “You’re thinking of killing him?” Roger inquired eagerly. “Killing him right there in Disneyland? But he’s going to be surrounded by security—Secret Service I would guess—and Disneyland is a very public place.”

  “And wouldn’t killing him like that bring down Barringston Relief?”

  A.J. said nothing, but let the idea take root in their minds. A few moments later, Eileen Corbin, who had been sitting quietly throughout the meeting smiled and said. “Actually, Disneyland can be one of the least crowded places in the world. I think I see where you’re going with this.”

  “Well tell me,” Roger demanded.

  “I will, Roger,” A.J. said. “I will. But we are going to have to get busy on this. There’s a great deal to do.”

  24

  SPOONING A MOUTHFUL OF NEW ENGLAND CLAM chowder into his mouth, David read intently the Newsweek in front of him. The magazine had devoted much of its space to the question, “What shall we do in East Africa?” There was an article on Ethiopia, Somalia, and other regions as well as opinion pieces on the role the United States should play in the famine-stricken land. So engrossed was David that he didn’t see the approach of two people who seated themselves in the booth where David was having his lunch.

  “Please excuse the rude interruption,” Special Agent Woody Sullivan said as he and Stephanie Cooper took their places on the opposite side of the table. “We didn’t want to interfere with your lunch, but you are becoming more difficult to contact.”

  “That’s intentional,” David said coldly. “I have told you on several occasions that I have nothing to offer you and that I believe you are barking up the wrong tree. A.J.’s no criminal.”

  “And we’ve told you that we have sufficient reason to suspect him or someone high up in his organization,” Stephanie countered.

  “That’s nonsense, pure and simple,” David snapped. “Now, if you don’t mind …”

  “There’s something I want you to see,” Woody said, placing a standard-size brown file folder on the table. “This information came via Stephanie’s office. I should warn you that it’s shocking.”

  “I’m not the least interested in what you have to show me,” David said, ignoring the folder. “The last time I listened to you, it very nearly cost me a friend, not to mention my job.”

  “We didn’t ask you to break into the communications room,” Woody said firmly. “In point of fact, it was a stupid idea. Attempting to sneak into Eileen Corbin’s office was your idea. You began without our instruction.”

  “But it’s what you wanted.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Woody said. “It’s possible that some special equipment has been secreted there, but you’re not trained to recognize it. Even if you did get into the office unnoticed, you would not be able to discern one electronic system from another.”

  “Then what did you want me to do?”

  “We were going to ask that you keep your ear to the ground,” Stephanie jumped in. “Watch A.J. and the others. See if he acts strangely or, better yet, shows you satellite photos. If you see them yourself, or at least hear about them in some meeting or hallway conversation, then we might be able to convince a judge to give us a valid search warrant. Then we could take a look for ourselves. That’s all.”

  “My word might not be enough for a warrant,” David commented dryly.

  “That’s right,” Woody said, “but then it might. Granted, it’s a shot in the dark, but it’s worth the effort.”

  David leaned back, crossed his arms in front of him, and shook his head. “You’re grasping at straws, and for what? Someone snatched a few photos.”

  Without hesitation, Woody reached across the table and opened the folder. Inside was a color photograph of a man on the ground. A dark circle stained the ground around a mass of material that David assumed had once been the man’s head. David drew in a breath sharply and quickly turned away. “What … what … why show me that?”

  “The man’s name is, was, Ian Booth,” Stephanie said coolly. “He was president of an offshore bank called the Americas Bank. For the most part he was a pretty nice guy, or at least his friends and family thought so. But like many offshore banks, his dealt with some unsavory characters—in this case, a terrorist group called the Silver Dawn, a recalcitrant conglomeration of Irish dissidents. Booth helped them launder money from their supporters. Someone stole a hefty chunk of that money. We’ve been able to determine that the computer hacker who broke into the Americas Bank used the same technique that was used to compromise the computers at the Company.” David noticed Stephanie’s use of the euphemism, and figured she did so because they were in a public place. The word company turned fewer heads than CIA.

  “How can you know that?” David asked as he gingerly closed the folder. “How can you tell the break-in was the same?”

  Woody shook his head and said, “Look, Dr. O’Neal, I’m sure you’re a real smart guy, but you have admitted that your knowledge of computers is limited. I’m an expert in the field. I could spend the next two or three days explaining it to you, but I don’t have the time. Just believe me when I say that we are 90 percent sure it was the same person using the same ramming technique.”

  “I still don’t see what that has to do with me or Barringston Relief.”

  “It’s like this,” Woody continued sternly as he leaned over the table. “Every action has a reaction. Ever heard that?”

  “Isaac Newton said it,” David answered. “It’s fundamental physics.”

  “It’s more than physics, Dr. O’Neal, it’s honest-to-goodness life. Whether they intended to do so or not, whoever stole that money cost this man his life. I’m sure it wasn’t part of the plan, but the act nonetheless orphaned Booth’s kids and widowed his wife. No act stands alone, David. Every act has a reaction, and that leads to another reaction. A man is dead because of someone in Barringston Relief.”

  “How can you hold anyone responsible for the death of this banker?” David argued. “If what you say is true, this man’s death is an unfortunate accident.”

  “I’m surprised at you,” Woody said quietly. “Would you also say that a drunk driver is innocent because he didn’t intend to kill a child who was walking across a street? The laws of our society disagree.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t say that,” David objected.

  “It’s the same thing,” Woody insisted, pounding the table with his finger. “A man is dead because of computer piracy. I don’t know why the money was stolen. Maybe it was stolen to buy food and medicine, which seems noble enough except the money wasn’t free. It came blood stained.”

  “You can’t prove this,” David said, but his words lacked force and con
viction.

  “That’s what we’re attempting to do,” Woody said. How many more Ian Booths have been killed because of what someone in your organization is doing?”

  David shook his head in disbelief but said nothing. He felt ill, as if the clam chowder had soured in his stomach. The garish and grotesque image of the mutilated head had been etched so deeply in David’s memory that he no longer needed the actual photo. No amount of mental exercise could excise the picture’s ugliness from his brain.

  “There’s more,” Stephanie said.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” David mumbled.

  “I’m sure you’re aware of the meeting that your boss has been asked to attend,” she continued anyway. “The one with the Somali warlord Mahli.”

  “What about it?”

  “Come on, David, think! Stolen satellite photos of Somalia, a Barringston doctor named Judith Rhodes brutally murdered, Mahli’s brother flung from a high-flying helicopter into his brother’s front yard.” A puzzled expression crossed David’s face. “You didn’t know about that last part, did you? A man in Somalia provides us with information, a former teacher. Ironically, he’s Barringston Relief’s contact in the country. He filled us in.”

  “What are you saying?” David stuttered. “Are … are you saying that A.J. had something to do with the death of Mahli’s brother? It can’t be, I was with him or near him throughout our whole African trip. We never went into Somalia.”

  “Oh come on, David,” Stephanie said coldly. “Didn’t you tell us that you went down in the Ogaden area of Ethiopia? Didn’t you tell us that you saw Roger Walczynske there and that he and A.J. had a private conversation?”

  It was starting to make sense to David, and he didn’t want it to. He wanted to shoot down their arguments like a trained lawyer would shoot down the testimony of a witness, but all the bits were hanging together. The pieces fit like a jigsaw puzzle, and with the addition of each piece the picture became clearer. “It’s all circumstantial evidence.”

  “Circumstantial evidence is strong enough to get a person thrown in jail, Dr. O’Neal,” Woody added. “It all comes back to that one question: Is it ever right to do wrong? If Ian Booth could speak to us today, I bet he’d have an opinion about the matter.”

  “I don’t … I don’t know what to say.” David was shell-shocked. “I don’t know what I can do.”

  “That’s all right, David,” Stephanie said sweetly. “We know what to do.”

  The halls of Barringston Tower were quiet; the lights in most of the offices had been turned off. Only a few employees were working, the janitorial staff and those in the communication department. A.J. stood alone and watched the red and white lights of the traffic on the street more than fifty floors below him. He envied the people in those cars. He knew many of them were headed home to cozy dinners or to restaurants with friends. Some would watch television, others would read books, and still others would dance with those whom they loved. They were building memories that would warm them in the colder days and nights of the future.

  A.J. had none of that. His warm and comforting memories had all been scarred by death, disease, and violence. The image of Judith Rhodes rose in his mind and bobbed on the swells of his emotion. Other images joined hers, images of emaciated people refusing food because an insanely ambitious man had told them that the food was poisoned. He saw the faces of hollow-cheeked youth who would never know what it meant to fall in love, learn a trade, or hear their own children laugh. He saw again the poignant drama of mothers holding dead infants to their withered breasts. The images moved across his mind like a videotape, but unlike a videotape A.J. could do more than see and hear the pitiful scenes. He could smell the decay of death and sense the heavy weight of despair.

  The red from the taillights and the white from the headlights blurred as tears filled his eyes. The sadness was profound, the guilt so heavy that A.J. felt he might collapse. People brought the pain, not the weather, not the soil, not the sun or the wind, but specific people whose moral conscience had been consumed by voracious greed for power and wealth. Those people, people like Mahli, who kill on a whim and let thousands die to further their cause were nothing more than dogs made mad by rabies; they were animals that preyed on the weak. They were subhuman and unworthy to exist on this earth. They were dark, ugly souls, trolls who terrorized passersby.

  Such men had to die.

  A.J. Barringston, founder of Barringston Relief and defender of the innocent, wondered when his metamorphosis had taken place. Once his only goal had been to provide lifesaving food and medicine. But some people worked against him and blocked him in every way. Because of people like Mahli, many others died. People like Mahli couldn’t be allowed to interfere with the greater good. He would stop them at any price.

  A.J. wondered when he had changed from relief worker to militant, ready to kill those animals. Was he becoming just like them? he wondered.

  David awakened to the sound of his own voice—screaming. He sat up in bed, sweat rolling from every pore, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked slowly to the other side of his bed and exhaled noisily when he saw it unoccupied. It had been a dream, only a dream, the most authentic, frightening dream he had ever experienced. A moment ago he was certain that he saw the violently disfigured body of Ian Booth lying in bed next to him. Unlike the photo he had been shown by Woody and Stephanie, this body was far more than two-dimensional; it had depth and weight and presence.

  Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, David drew in bushels of air. His stomach churned roughly, mixing bile and acid in a noxious concoction known to every person who has been truly frightened beyond all reason. He blinked hard and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “That was bad,” he said aloud, “really bad.” Getting to his feet, he swayed for a moment, then walked in uncertain steps into the bathroom, turned on the shower, disrobed, and crawled in the tub. The water ran warm to hot, and David sat, letting the streams cascade over his head and down his back. The dream slowly dissolved into the real world, and the night terror diminished into a manageable memory.

  Twenty minutes later David was standing in the kitchen making a cup of tea and thinking about how his life had suddenly turned into a roller coaster. Why him? Why did the FBI and CIA have to choose him? Several hundred people worked at Barringston Relief, and they had to choose him. They had answered that question the first time they met, but the answers provided no comfort. Other questions plagued him. Was this all part of God’s plan? Had God placed him in this situation to test him or maybe involve him in some important cause? If so, then what was the cause? Protect A.J. and Barringston Relief so that the work would continue? Or submit to the wishes of the FBI? What was right? What was true? David had no idea which course of action to take.

  The tea, an orange pekoe, felt warm and soothing on his throat. David sat at the dining table and stared at the highly polished woodgrain, letting his thoughts run random and hoping to find some guidance. A passage of Scripture popped to the surface of his mind like a submerged cork that had been suddenly released. He wasn’t sure exactly where, but he knew the text was from the book of Esther. “Who knows,” Mordecai said to Queen Esther, who was being called upon to save the lives of thousands of Jews, “but that you were chosen for such a time as this.”

  Chosen. Chosen for what? David wondered.

  With his teacup drained and the clock on the wall reading 2:30, David cast a wishful glance toward the bedroom and wondered if he could go to sleep again, and if he did, whether the night terror would return. He was tired, his eyes burned, and his mind seemed fogged. He had to sleep. And he had to make a decision—a decision that would change his future forever. Who knows, David thought as he climbed back into bed, but that I was chosen for such a time as this. Fifteen minutes later, he knew what he would do. Ten minutes after that, he was swallowed by peaceful sleep.

  25

  “I’M GLAD YOU COULD MAKE IT,” DAVID SAID, RISING from his seat and hugging
Kristen lightly.

  “Your invitation rescued me from washing clothes and dusting my house. It’s not very exciting, but it fills a Saturday.”

  David studied her for a moment and tried to imagine her busy about household chores. He found it difficult to conceive. Kristen didn’t seem the type to be occupied by such mundane things as laundry and furniture polishing.

  “I’ve forgotten how lovely it is out here,” she said softly. She closed her eyes and turned her face skyward. “The sun feels good on my face.” A gentle breeze wafted along the concrete plaza, carrying the fragrance of eucalyptus trees and green grass. The sounds of people strolling along the walk mingled with the bubbling of the fountain behind them.

  Balboa Park was the favorite destination of both tourists and San Diego residents who visited the many museums and strolled through the gardens. The area was verdant and lush, filled with the best of San Diego’s scenery and architecture. The museums held some of the nation’s best displays of aircraft, natural history, and art. There was also something magical about the place. It seemed, to David at least, that the concerns of the real world were prohibited from entering the byways of the park. Only that which was interesting or beautiful was permitted to linger here.

  “It’s warm for the season,” David commented innocently.

  “Why is it that I think you’ve asked me here for some other reason than to discuss the weather?”

  David bowed his head and laughed softly. “It’s true,” he said, turning to look at her. He motioned to the concrete berm that served both as the edge of the fountain’s bowl and a seat for foot-weary sightseers. Once seated he slid closer to her and placed his arm around her shoulders. “I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Uh-oh,” she said, her voice betraying her puzzlement. “It sounds serious.”

  “It is,” David replied softly, “but first …” He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the lips. At first she held back, allowing the kiss but not returning it, and then her caution crumbled and she eagerly surrendered to the embrace. Gentle lips stroked still gentler lips, and the sounds of the milling crowd diminished to a mere murmur bathed in the bubbling of the fountain. The gentle, heavily scented breeze caressed their skin, and the sun immersed them in soft light. When the embrace ended, they sat in silence and watched a young boy on a skateboard doing tricks on the concrete plaza. A couple, younger than David by ten years, leisurely rode by on bicycles.