“What names were used to book the flights to London?” asked John,
“You don’t need to know that right now, however, they may be real persons who appear very low level in the mid-east terrorist network, although it appears that Rhodes is not low level.”
“So, why am I here if Rhodes isn't here?” asked John.
Fordham responded, “Besides the Madani family, you are the only person we are aware of who has seen and can recognize Rhodes.”
“What is your point?” asked John. “How am I supposed to see him if he isn't around?”
“Mr. Trader, we have reviewed your military file and you have some solid training, and some interesting talents. Obviously you are, or seem, familiar with the Middle Eastern culture. At minimum you spent a lot of time there,” said Fordham. “It’s clear you have worked with small groups on focused, intense missions. We will need you to be ready on short notice when, and if, we can find the person who seems to be Darby Rhodes. We think he is intelligent, organizationally schooled, and has delusions of Islamic grandeur. He has done some evil and vicious murders in the past. We would like to ask him a few questions.”
John could see where this was headed. If this group found out that Rhodes was spending time in a brothel in Tabriz, they would send him there to identify him. The idea did not fit in with John’s plans. John was beginning to really dislike this guy Fordham.
John said, “When you find him, the first thing you should ask him is ‘What’s your name?’ And if you email me a photo, I am sure I can help.”
“That’s not possible. Email from Tehran is attenuated. To proceed with confidence, hands on, human conducted face recognition is required, no matter where it may occur,” said Fordham.
“Thanks, but I decline,” said John.
“You can’t, Mr. Trader,” responded Fordham.
“What are you going to do? Kidnap me, take me to Tehran, and introduce me to Rhodes?” asked John.
Fordham put his hands together, raised them in a prayer configuration, and rested the tips of his index fingers on his mouth. He and the two other government employees were silent for an uncomfortable period. Sarah sat, looking at her notepad.
“I can’t believe this. Slavery ended in this country in 1865,” said John.
“I know you can’t believe it, John. And neither would anyone else. I think you are going to have to adjust,” said Fordham.
“I have other plans. I have a job. I have to visit my sick mother at least once a month,” said John.
“Your mother died about five years ago,” said Fordham. “If you don't help us, you will still have a job, but it probably will be in Uganda with a United Nations peacekeeping force.”
“Oh,” said John. He knew he was railroaded and had no choice. “How is this supposed to work?” asked John.
“We’ll send you back to your job. They will cooperate. Pack light. We may need you on short notice. When that happens, you will be briefed. I will give you my phone number. It is an open line, so you will be careful in what you say. I have your number. If things break our way, we will have to act quickly. Immediate communication is important. If we need to go to a secure line, I will arrange that,” said Fordham. “None of this may ever happen, Mr. Trader. In the event the opportunity arises, we have to be ready. After this meeting, Bob, who met you at the elevator, will take you downstairs to fill out some paperwork, take measurements, photographs, identification, and information you may need. You can also fill out some paperwork in case we have to put you on the payroll. I think with your military experience, you know the bureaucratic drill. It shouldn’t take more than the rest of the day. We’ll have you on a flight home tomorrow morning.”
John tried to avoid glancing at Sarah. In a subdued way and at the same time Sarah moved her eyes toward John. There was a promise in that glance that they both recognized. They would be seeing each other that night, which for John, almost made the trip worthwhile.
“One more thing, Mr. Trader. We would like you to speak to Madani,” said Fordham.
“Is he here? And why me? I’m no interrogator,” said John.
“We have spoken to Madani numerous times. He knows what we want to learn. He has refused to speak to anyone but you. Go listen to him. The room will be wired. You will be recorded.”
“If he won’t talk, why don’t you just waterboard him? You don’t need me,” said John.
“He’s an American citizen. He thinks he has rights. We are trying to be responsive to the rights he thinks he has,” said Fordham.
“What if he doesn’t give me the answers to that you want?” asked John.
“We’re not there yet,” answered Fordham.
Without any notice, Bob appeared at the door and said, “Mr. Trader, please come with me.”
“See you,” said John in a sober and insincere way as he left the room. But inside, he began to whistle.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CUSTODY
“I have rights!”
--The uninformed American citizen
John followed Bob to the elevator and did not pay any attention what floor they were going to. He had a sinking feeling he was getting too involved in the program and was becoming a pivotal player in a scheme he did not want, or know, or understand. Madani thought he had rights. John chuckled to himself. John should have had Madani come to the meeting he had just left. He would understand that the rights he thought he had weren’t real. The only rights he had were the ones he could get by force or through leverage. John knew, after the meeting, that he had no rights, and he thought Madani probably had fewer. George Washington had a good idea, but in the modern day and age, it wasn’t working too well.
John followed Bob out of the elevator and down a hallway, through a door and down another hallway. Bob opened a door and in a small room sat Madani, dressed in Khaki’s and a sweater. He looked comfortable reading a book in a reclining chair. When he looked up and saw John, he said, “Mr. D.A., boy, am I glad to see you. I’ve been in some sort of custody since I talked to you last.”
“Where do they have you?” asked John.
“At some buildings about two hours away. It’s full of guys hanging out like me. We’re not supposed to talk to anyone about why we are there. But it is guarded, man. You can do what you want, but you can’t leave, no phone calls, nothing,” said Madani.
“They tell me you won’t talk to them.”
“No, I won’t,” said Madani. “They send guys into talk to me who are incompetent. They swagger in like James Bond, but they look like they have a stick up their ass, and they have the brains of a toad. They are really stupid. If these guys are in charge of our security, we are doomed. To top it off, I’ve got no leverage with these guys. They could send me off to Gitmo tomorrow and no one would look twice,” said Madani.
“You know they are recording what you say in this room,” said John.
“I know. That’s why you’re here,” said Madani. “You are the D.A. If I get whacked or tortured, or sent to Gitmo, you are they guy who will tell the story. You can tell the press, or write a book, or do something to get the message out. You are my insurance.”
“So, tell me,” said John.
Madani spent the next 45 minutes telling John what he knew about Darby Rhodes, his brother’s death and what he thought was planned. It was clear that Madani knew something was planned for September, and that it involved a lot of people. He said it was being organized by Darby, and would be devastating to the country; but he lacked the specifics, the contacts, the actual timing and method of attack, although he gave an educated guess from information he received from Darby and the two dead middle easterners that shot Madani. It was an obvious conclusion that the government needed Darby Rhodes.
Before John left Madani, Madani had John write down Madani's name, date of birth, address, social security number, and the names and addresses of several of his relatives.
Bob came to the door when the interview with Madani was over. Bob reached
out his hand and asked for the paper with the names and addresses that Madani had written down. It did not make any difference to John. He already knew where Madani lived, and the rest, he would be able to find out from his notes he took on the day of his first contact with Madani.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
MIKE'S CRABHOUSE
“Sex, food and occasionally movies.”
--Richard Burton when asked what he and Elizabeth Taylor talked about.
It took the rest of the afternoon to fill out his application and resume. On countless forms he filled in his social security number, service number, MOS number, mother’s maiden name, shoe size, ethnicity and sexual preference. Well, almost. But it seemed to him to be a colossal waste of time. When he saw he would be classified with a paygrade of G-10, that made him feel somewhat better, but in reality he did not want another check from the federal government until he retired.
Later in the afternoon, while John was filling out forms, Agent Davis showed up with a few papers in his hand. He only said, “Mr. Trader, until you hear from us otherwise, please do not shave, trim your beard, or cut your hair. Can you do that?” asked Davis.
“What you guys have planned for me does not sound like a lot of fun,” said John.
“Can you do that?” repeated Davis.
“Do I have a choice?” asked John.
“No, Mr. Trader,” replied Davis.
“Yeh, sure,” said John. Back to the old days. In the military he had worn shaggy hair and a full beard from the first day he was assigned out of country. He would be comfortable with it.
“And there is no need to explain to anyone why you are doing it,” said Davis.
“How could I when I don't know why?” replied John. “I hope my boss is on board with this.”
“It should not be a problem,” said Davis. John wondered what that meant. Was that a cultural statement about grooming in America, or had it been worked out with his boss. He was too frustrated with dealing with this clueless bunch to inquire further.
“Also, you are not to tell anyone you were here today, or contact any of Madani’s relatives, or discuss with anyone our conversations today. Do you understand?” asked Davis.
“Yes, I do,” said John.
At around 4:00 P.M. Bob showed up and said, “That’s it, Mr. Trader. We will head on downstairs. I will pick up the vehicle and meet you in front of the building and give you a ride back to the Hotel.”
John stood in front of the building and Bob showed up in the ubiquitous black Chevy suburban. He got in, and noticed that Bob was not packing outside the building. Bob hit the congestion of the Beltway and they crawled along in silence. John figured it was pointless to talk to Bob, since he would be talking to all the Bobs, and at the same time, none of the Bobs. When they arrived at the Hotel, John said to Bob, “Bob, can you ask Sarah Todd to call me. I can give you my number.”
“She has it,” said Bob.
“Thanks, Bob. See you,” said John. John got out of the Suburban and Bob quietly drove off. The sun was lowering in the sky and it promised to be a warm and humid evening. He entered the hotel and walked over to the elevators. As he waited for the elevator, his cell phone vibrated. He took it out of his pocket and looked at the caller I.D. It said “unknown caller.” He answered, “Hello.”
“John, this is Sarah. I can pick you up at six and we can go to Mike’s Crabhouse in Annapolis. They have the best soft shelled crabs on the east coast. It’s casual. Don’t wear a suit. See you then.” The call ended. John went to the room, showered, and put on his gray slacks and tan sweater, the only non-suit clothes he had with him. Pack light was the operative phrase. At five minutes to six he walked outside into the warm, humid evening and stepped to the curb, looking for a Black Chevy Suburban on the U shaped driveway that brought everyone to the front door of the hotel. He saw four Black Suburbans, but they were all parked and empty. He saw a gray Volvo convertible with the top down and saw Sarah driving. She stopped and he got into the car. She was wearing shorts with a red sweatshirt. The sweatshirt had a large Indian with a headdress silk-screened on the front, surrounded by the words ‘Stanford Indians’.”
“I was expecting a Black Chevy,” said John.
“Tonight is not an expensable event. We are on our own,” said Sarah.
“Did you go to Stanford?” asked John.
“No,” answered Sarah. “My dad did in the 70’s, when they banished Chief Lightfoot and changed the name of the sports teams to a color, and the mascot to a tree. He never really got over it. When we watch football games he always, and I mean always, says ‘Where’s the warrior in a color, where’s the winner in a tree.’ He’s a sweet guy. He retired to California. I can’t get out there very often.
“Anyway, it’s about a 40 minute drive to Mike’s Crabhouse, but you have to go there during soft shelled crab season. Anyway, it is a warm night and a nice drive. Do you know much about this part of the country?”
“No, I don’t,” said John. “Today was one of the big reasons I don't know and hesitate to learn. Everyone’s name is ‘Bob’. And Bob knows you have my telephone number, but Bob is only the driver, that’s all. And the Bob, who was the driver, is different than the Bob who met me in the building today, who he is a different person than the Bob who drove me to the hotel today. And Agent Davis told me to grow long hair and a beard, and said my boss would be okay with the shabby look, and you have my military file, and I’m a lawyer, and old Fordham tells me I only think I have rights. And, you know what? Old Deputy Director Fordham is right. Besides that, Madani wants to talk to me. Madani wants to talk to me even though he doesn't tell me anything of great pitch or moment. But he is frightened, because Bob probably told him he had no rights, and Madani quickly learned he had no rights, and thought I could protect him against whoever you guys are. But I have to say, it is all worth to me if I can have dinner at Mike’s Crabhouse in Annapolis with Sarah Todd, unless every woman there is named Sarah, or your real name is Bob.” Sarah laughed.
“I have something to tell you, but before I do, I have to swear you to secrecy for the rest of your life,” said Sarah.
“Cross my heart,” said John.
“Last night dinner was on the government because I was supposed to make a quick evaluation of your suitability to work on a national security matter, as if years as a Seal wasn’t enough. You also have some other solid credentials. We are working on a short timetable and didn’t have time to use a shrink, and the group had the sense you would not want to cooperate. The question among the group before you arrived yesterday at the conference room was, ‘Is he normal?’ I’m no shrink. How was I supposed to define ‘normal’? Anyway, I can’t tell you what normal is, but anyone can recognize abnormal, crazy, nuts, off center, and bizarre. You passed.”
“Good to know. But how did you guys know that it was Madani's brother who blew himself up with others? I thought DNA got contaminated when mixed with some other guy's DNA,” asked John.
“It really is simple when you have mixed DNA. It's like mixing yellow marbles and blue marbles in a jar. When you analyzed blue marbles where there are only blue marbles, you can conclude that you have blue marbles in the jar. If Joe Blow's DNA is blue marble DNA, then you have identified Joe Blow through his blue marbles. If the blue marbles get mixed with yellow marbles from some other John Doe, they don't become green marbles. When that mixed sample is analyzed for DNA, the results are some blue marbles and some yellow marbles alone, even though mixed together, just like that jar that has blue and yellow marbles. So we learn that John Doe and Joe Blow were blown up together, but in this case it was Madani's brother and a government agent. That contamination argument you hear in court is theatrical hogwash.”
“Oh,” said John.
The restaurant was crowded and they had to wait for a while. They were finally seated outside on the deck over the bay. The warm balmy air persisted. Sarah had an unending smile that he had not seen before tonight, and the glass of pinot noir
hit its mark, and the world was all good. They talked about movies, and books, and food. Sarah said, “In a lot of the books I read, the author has the guy and the gal at dinner, and he tells the reader what they are having, and sometimes it’s good and sometimes it is really good. I think the best authors who write about a meal in a novel are really hungry when they write it.”
The ride back was mellowed by the wine and dinner. The top was down and the traffic was light. When they rounded the driveway into the Hilton Sarah stopped in front of the door. She reached over to John and put her hand on his. “It has been a nice evening, John. I haven’t done that in a long time.”
Misdemeanor Trials Page 15
