Rule of Law

by Randy Singer

  In a few hours, Wyatt would have his answer.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  After the morning session, Paige left the Supreme Court building and held an impromptu press conference on the plaza out front. With Wellington and Kristen at her side, she expressed confidence that the Court would allow the case to go forward. The families of the men who died for their country deserved their day in court.

  After she completed her brief remarks, the first question dealt with the grand jury proceedings. “As Justice Deegan noted, it would be inappropriate for me to comment on that,” Paige said. She deflected a few more questions, and then Kristen stepped up to the bank of microphones and told everyone what a great job her lawyer had done. She too expressed confidence in the outcome and said that Troy would be proud. She took a few questions of her own, mostly softballs respectfully lobbed at a gold-star wife, and then the three members of SEAL Team Nine made their way through the mob of reporters, down the steps, across the street, and back to the hotel.

  They agreed to change into comfortable clothes and grab some lunch. Paige was suddenly starving because she had eaten so little in the last few days. When she walked into her hotel room, she fell backward on the bed, closed her eyes, and said a prayer of thanks. She felt the tension seep out of her body for the first time in weeks. Sure, she still had to worry about the grand jury and a possible indictment and a thousand other things. But she had acquitted herself well at court today, and she had done everything possible to salvage the case. She thought about Wyatt and wondered how things were going in Yemen. She couldn’t wait to give him a blow-by-blow of the argument, embellishing her answers a little—the same way he would have if he were telling the story.

  She still didn’t know what had happened on Good Friday and why everything had gone so wrong. But right now, in this moment of post-argument euphoria, she actually felt like they might have a chance to win this case. Justice Torres had asked some troubling questions, but if she stuck with her friends on the liberal side of the Court, and if Taj Deegan joined them, Paige would have a historic five-four decision in her first case at the high court. And if Wyatt could get testimony from Saleet Zafar, they might blow this case wide open.

  It was nice to dream, if only for a moment. She allowed herself to bask in the glow of imagined victory and then willed herself to rise from the bed. She removed the diamond ring from her necklace and placed it carefully back into the box. She changed into her jeans and a sweatshirt, then headed out the door to join the others for lunch.

  85

  ADEN, YEMEN

  The roads started smoothing out, and soon Wyatt could hear the sound of a city. Vehicles passing by, horns blaring aggressively, hawkers in the street. The Land Rover stopped and moved again, zigging and zagging around the traffic.

  Finally the vehicle came to rest, and one of the men in the backseat removed Wyatt’s blindfold. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust. They were parked outside a light-brown oblong brick building with steel grates protecting the windows. There was a sign shaped like a dove on the roof and lettering on the side of the building in both English and Arabic. National Bank of Yemen.

  “What city are we in?” Wyatt asked.

  “Aden,” Saleet said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Saleet hurried into the bank, leaving Wyatt in the vehicle with the three guards. Wyatt knew Aden was a port city, located at the eastern approach to the Red Sea. Mountains towered behind the city, located on a peninsula formed by a dormant volcano, like a miniature replica of the boot of Italy. Wyatt also knew that President Hadi had fled here from the Houthis after they attempted to take over the government. The city was battle-scarred and partly in ruins. The Saudis, backed by American dollars and technology, had concentrated many of their air strikes here, targeting Houthi fighters.

  Still, the downtown area was active, with people motoring around in small European cars, riding bicycles, and selling their wares from makeshift kiosks. The architecture Wyatt could see was an odd mix of splendid Arabian palaces built into the hills above the city, a few towering mosques, and thousands of concrete pre-fab apartments that dominated the area nearest the bank. Yemen was the poorest country in the Mideast, and Aden reflected that.

  Saleet was gone for about ten minutes and came out carrying a computer. He settled into the front passenger seat and pulled a battery out of the glove compartment. He put the battery in the computer and handed it to Wyatt along with a flash drive.

  “This is Cameron Holloman’s computer,” Saleet said. “I’ve stored it here in a safe-deposit box. Do not turn on Internet access or wireless capabilities. Just download everything onto this flash drive.”

  Wyatt turned on the computer and inserted the flash drive.

  “What’s the password?”

  “Mohammed,” Saleet said.

  Wyatt shot him a surprised look. “That was Cameron’s password?”

  “I changed it. Something easy to remember.”

  “How did you end up with this?”

  “He told me where it was after his arrest. I was able to see him once during the negotiations.”

  Wyatt downloaded everything he could—Word documents, Cameron’s e-mail folders, photos, videos, Internet search results. Saleet told him to hurry up. They needed to get to the site of the drone strike before dusk or they would be interrupted by evening prayers.

  Wyatt finished quickly and handed the computer back to Saleet.

  “Give me ten more minutes,” Saleet said.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Director John Marcano was in the middle of a 10:30 a.m. briefing when he was interrupted by his chief of staff. “A word with you, sir?”

  Marcano looked up at the young man, perturbed. “Can it wait?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  The man wasn’t normally given to panic, so Marcano excused himself and stepped into the hallway.

  “There’s a secure call from the head of the bureau in Saudi Arabia, sir.”

  A few minutes later Marcano was in his office and on the phone with one of his top men on the Arabian Peninsula. The computer that had belonged to Cameron Holloman had been removed from the vault at the National Bank of Yemen.

  Marcano knew that a CIA operative had placed a GPS chip on Holloman’s computer when he first went through customs. They had followed him into Yemen and located the compound for the Houthi leaders that way. After Holloman’s arrest, they knew that the computer had been placed in the vault. It had never been accessed—until now.

  “Do we know who took it?” Marcano asked.

  “We’re working on that. Checking through satellite imagery. Drones are on their way.”

  “Where’s the computer now?”

  “Back in the vault. It was only out for about ten minutes. The signal stayed right next to the bank. We think they might have copied the hard drive.”

  “We’ve got to find the people who accessed it,” Marcano said. “There’s classified information on that computer, and we’ve got to quarantine it.”

  “We’re working on it.”

  Marcano had worked with this associate for a long time. The man would know that the order to “quarantine” meant to find anyone who had seen Holloman’s computer and take them out.

  Fifteen minutes later, Marcano got the best piece of news he had received in a very long time. An analyst came to his office and put the grainy satellite photos on his desk.

  “We ran these through facial recognition software.” The man pointed to a bearded figure leaving the bank. “That’s Saleet Zafar.”

  Marcano maintained a poker face. Even with news like this, he would never let anyone see a reaction. “Were we able to follow him?”

  “No. But we know he got into this vehicle, and we’re searching for it through satellite images. Drones will be there soon to provide additional imagery.”

  “Thank you; that will be all,” Marcano said. When the analyst left, Marcano called his man in Saudi Arabia. He told him about S
aleet Zafar and reminded him that there was a standing order to take the imam out.

  “We’ll have drones in place within an hour,” the man said. “He won’t escape this time.”

  86

  ADEN, YEMEN

  Saleet had the guards stop the vehicle on the outskirts of Aden in a bombed-out warehouse complex on the mountainside overlooking the harbor. They pulled behind some abandoned buildings, where they could have some privacy, and the men all got out of the car.

  Moe opened the trunk and pulled out a shoulder-fired missile launcher. Larry grabbed an AK-47.

  “You think we need that?” Wyatt asked, staring at Moe’s huge gun.

  Saleet shrugged. “I hope not. But it is hard to say.”

  Next Saleet retrieved a long, rectangular piece of red-and-white cloth. “Covering your head is a sign of respect,” he said to Wyatt. He folded the cloth diagonally. “We need to show respect to Mokhtar al-Bakri.”

  “I had a hat in my backpack,” Wyatt said.

  “You are no longer in America, my friend.”

  Wyatt stepped forward and bent down so that Saleet could wrap the cloth around his head, letting part of it hang loosely on the back of Wyatt’s neck. Saleet tied it with a black cord and stepped back to admire his work.

  “It also hides your wound and those hideous eyebrows.” Saleet adjusted the kaffiyeh and pronounced it perfect.

  He then handed Wyatt a long brown suit coat made of lightweight linen. It was similar to what the other men were wearing over their robes. The arms were a little short, but otherwise it fit well.

  “Still the American with your jeans and T-shirt,” said Saleet. “But maybe you don’t stick out quite so much now.”

  The imam spoke to Moe and Larry for a few moments, and then they took off on foot. “The house is down that way,” Saleet said to Wyatt. He pointed down the mountain, toward a crowded neighborhood of larger homes built into the mountain with concrete or mud walls, trimmed with white brick columns and adorned with domed windows, many of them featuring stained glass. There were five- or six-foot-tall brick fences around most of the properties and intricate carvings colored with deep red and purple hues.

  “We will give them a head start, and then the three of us will head to the house. We do not want to look like we brought an army.”

  A few minutes later, Saleet climbed back into the Land Rover, and Curly got behind the wheel. This time Wyatt had the entire backseat to himself.

  Following directions from Saleet, Curly made his way to a house that had been destroyed by Hellfire missiles and never rebuilt. There was still rubble and debris everywhere, and it looked like someone had chopped the house nearly in half, exposing the elaborate archways of the interior and the colorful tile walls, now falling apart panel by panel. There were steel beams exposed in the upstairs circular bedroom as well as in several rooms downstairs.

  The three of them got out of the vehicle and walked toward the ruins. A man Wyatt assumed was al-Bakri stood in front of the house, staring sullenly as they approached.

  Behind him were several bearded men hanging out in the ruins, eyeing Saleet and Wyatt, AK-47s at their sides. In the shadows of the first-floor rooms, Wyatt saw three or four more men with rounds of ammo strung across their chests, holding their guns casually. He counted another two upstairs. Curly followed a step behind Saleet and Wyatt, carrying his own AK-47, a lone gunman against al-Bakri’s small militia.

  “Are you sure you trust this man?” Wyatt asked Saleet under his breath as they walked toward al-Bakri.

  “I am certain that I do not,” Saleet said. “But Allah is in control.”

  That thought didn’t do much to comfort Wyatt. He knew Larry and Moe had taken up positions somewhere nearby, but if they had to use that missile launcher, Wyatt didn’t like his chances of getting out alive.

  Al-Bakri looked to be about forty-five or fifty with a thin nose and close-shaven beard that had turned half-gray. His eyes were set deep, and he regarded Wyatt with a mixture of disdain and suspicion. He wore a blazer over a long white robe, and he had tucked a short dagger into the front of his belt.

  Saleet and Wyatt stopped a few feet away, and Saleet exchanged greetings with the man. They shook and then al-Bakri extended his hand toward Wyatt. Wyatt looked him in the eyes and shook hands, surprised by the strength of al-Bakri’s grip.

  “Do you speak English?” Wyatt asked.

  Al-Bakri waited a beat before he answered. “A little. I prefer translation.” He looked at Saleet.

  Saleet said a few words to al-Bakri in Arabic, and al-Bakri nodded. The two of them sat down, and Wyatt followed. Curly took a few steps back but remained standing. Wyatt noticed that the men in the bombed-out residence were now leaning against the walls, not missing a thing.

  “Please thank him for coming,” Wyatt said. “Please let him know that I am sorry about the death of his daughter.”

  Saleet spoke to al-Bakri, who kept his eyes glued on Wyatt. Al-Bakri said a few words in return, his face expressionless.

  “He thanks you for your condolences,” Saleet said. “He would like to know more about your fight with the U.S. president. Do you mind if I explain it to him?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Saleet began talking, contemplative at first and then faster, and eventually al-Bakri turned his attention from Wyatt to Saleet. It was a lively interchange, as the two men cut each other off several times, their conversation gaining intensity as they spoke. Al-Bakri shook his head a few times and it was driving Wyatt crazy not to know what they were saying. After a few minutes, he put a hand on Saleet’s arm. “Why is he so upset?”

  Saleet turned to Wyatt with a slight smile. “He is not upset. I am only trying to explain that he can trust you.”

  A few more words were exchanged between the men and Saleet translated for Wyatt. “He wants to know what will happen if you win your case against the president. What will be her punishment?”

  Wyatt paused to think it through. He didn’t really have a case against the president. But that surely wasn’t the answer al-Bakri wanted. “Tell him that the man who caused this destruction, the leader of the CIA, will lose his job. And if I get what I’m after, we will take every dollar he has. The president might lose her job too.” Wyatt knew it probably sounded like little solace to someone who had lost his only daughter.

  Saleet began explaining, silhouetted by the sun setting low in the sky behind him. Wyatt wondered how long they had until the call for prayer at dusk. And what would happen then? Would everything stop while the men bowed toward Mecca and recited their evening prayers?

  “Okay,” Saleet said after another series of exchanges with al-Bakri. “He says he is ready for your questions.”

  “See if we can record it,” Wyatt said. Saleet nodded and pulled out his phone. He asked al-Bakri a question in Arabic.

  But before al-Bakri could respond, his head jerked skyward. He had apparently heard it before anyone else, and it took Wyatt a second to realize what the buzzing meant. He looked up as al-Bakri rose, pulling his dagger from its sheath.

  A drone, barely audible, flying high above them. Wyatt scrambled to his feet as al-Bakri lunged at him. It was an unexpected move and Wyatt barely dodged it. He heard the pop of gunfire from behind him and saw al-Bakri take the hits, getting blown backward, blood spurting from his chest and neck.

  Wyatt and Saleet turned and sprinted toward their car as al-Bakri’s men returned fire, the bullets spraying the ground around Wyatt.

  “Keep your head down!” Saleet shouted.

  Curly fired back, but his resistance was short-lived. One second he was returning fire; the next he was blown back, his AK-47 flying out of his hands. Almost instantaneously, Wyatt heard a terrible explosion behind him and turned to see smoke pouring out of the house—Moe’s rocket launcher finding pay dirt.

  In the chaos, he grabbed the AK-47 next to Curly’s body and raced with Saleet to the Land Rover. He jumped into the passenger seat and ducked down.
He heard the window break and metal ping as bullets riddled the car. Saleet hit the gas and spun the vehicle around, spitting dirt from the tires. Wyatt poked up his head and fired out the window in the general direction of the house where al-Bakri’s men had been keeping watch. It felt like a scene out of the movies, but Wyatt was pretty sure his bullets were landing nowhere near their target.

  As they sped away, with Wyatt firing as fast as he could at the bombed-out structure, he saw a second explosion, far more powerful than the first. A missile pulverized the building where al-Bakri’s men had been stationed, reducing the shell of the house to heat and smoke and ashes.

  “Hang on!” Saleet yelled.

  They quickly left the house behind them, flying down the road, jerking around steep curves, trying to put as much distance as they could between their vehicle and the drone that had wiped out al-Bakri’s men. But when Wyatt cleared out the rest of the glass from his window with the butt of the gun and leaned out, cutting his arm as he did so, he saw the drone now chasing them at a distance, making up ground, like a hawk sweeping in for its prey.

  “I thought you could outrun these things!” Wyatt yelled.

  At that moment, Saleet misjudged a turn and the right wheels hit the ditch. The car jerked to the right and bounced around, spitting up dirt and dust until Saleet got it back on the road.

  His face was white, eyes wide. “You want to drive?” he shouted.

  “It’s a little late to be asking now!” Wyatt shouted back.

  Saleet pulled into the left lane and passed a slower vehicle. He had a death grip on the wheel. The road was steep going back down to the city, the turns sharp, and the drone was closing the gap.

  The first drone strike had taken out al-Bakri and his men. It probably could have killed Saleet and Wyatt as well before they fled in the Land Rover. But he was an American citizen. Surely they wouldn’t launch a second Hellfire missile at him right in the middle of the city of Aden.