The man’s mouth cracked into an open slit. “Yes, I was there.” His words were soft and sad.
Gus didn’t believe him. “Was it bombers?”
There was no anger or hurt in the apparition’s words, only a melancholy echo. “I don’t think so. It was night and I couldn’t tell. At first, there was only one airplane. It flew very low and bombed the trucks in front. Then it maneuvered very quickly to bomb the rear of the convoy and trapped us. It came back one more time and flew down the highway, dropping its death. More planes came later. I tried to run away but couldn’t hide in the desert. I dug a hole but they found me.”
“Come,” Aly said, taking charge and bringing Gus back to the present.
“Have a nice day,” the man said as they walked away.
“You mustn’t let it upset you,” Aly said. “They all claim to be victims to get money from the state. He has told the lie so often he believes it himself.”
Gus stared straight ahead. “He was there.”
Paris, France
Henri Scullanois sat at his desk in Le salon de la rotonde, his office in the Quai d’Orsay, the high temple of French foreign policy. His face was expressionless but he was pleased with the thick, elegantly bound document on his desk. The title said it all.
An Investigation into
United States War Crimes In Iraq,
March 19, 2003 to January 20, 2009
The name was underneath the title in smaller type.
Denise Du Milan
Prosecutor
International Criminal Court
France’s investment in the United Nation’s International Criminal Court in the Hague had finally paid dividends, and Denise Du Milan, the court’s newly appointed prosecutor, had accomplished a near miracle. Somehow, she had triggered an investigation and overcame the inherent prejudices of the court’s Pre-Trial Division. The presiding judge hated women, another judge detested the French, and the third disliked people in general. But she had made a compelling case for the “reasonable basis” required by the Rome Statute that had created the International Criminal Court. He sensed the hand of Denise’s husband, Chrestien Du Milan, at work in the background, busily pulling strings and calling in past favors.
He considered Chrestien Du Milan a fool, a dilettante who still played the old-fashioned game of sex and politics. But as Scullanois’s wife, Renée, had cautioned, Chrestien Du Milan was a force in French politics that could not be ignored and that a political liaison was in order. That was her shorthand way of telling Scullanois she was sleeping with Du Milan. His intercom buzzed. “Minister,” his secretary said, “Madam Prosecutor Du Milan is here.”
“Please show her right in,” Scullanois said. He stood in front of his desk and the historical grandeur of the room engulfed him. Sunlight streamed through the large bay windows at his back, backlighting the Minister of Foreign Affairs with a halo. His secretary escorted Denise Du Milan through the massive double doors and quickly withdrew. As always, Scullanois tried to stand more erect when he saw Denise. She was tall and thin with a wild mane of dark auburn hair gathered at the back of her neck. At thirty-six, she was considered one of the most beautiful women in France and fashion magazines were acutely interested in whatever she was wearing. It was an expense Chrestien Du Milan gladly bore.
They ritually bussed each other’s cheeks, and Scullanois motioned to the two exquisite antique chairs by the bay windows “The court’s approval of your petition for investigation has astounded us all. And someday, you must tell me how you deal with the Dutch. They are so, ah, so boringly bored.”
She gave him a ravishing smile. “The Dutch can be a bit provincial. Thank God the court is more cosmopolitan. Fortunately, everyone on the court fully understands the need to bring the Americans to justice, especially after the wretched Iraqi affair.”
Scullanois carefully considered his next words and relied on Renée’s advice. “I have tried to seek a common ground and return them to the community of nations, but I have not been successful. They are so full of themselves – and dismissive of all others as they blunder through the world. They cannot ignore us as if we were small, willful children.”
Denise arched an eyebrow. Chrestien had said the same thing the evening before, and although she hadn’t asked, she suspected that he had been with Scullanois’s wife. The coincidence was too much and she was certain that Scullanois was also playing the old game of sex and politics. While she accepted that as part of life, something deep inside rebelled and demanded a little payback. But that would have to wait. “They are a culture of the moment, and now they use globalization as a weapon. Truly, it is the new American colonialism, and they are incapable of thinking beyond the next quarterly balance sheet.” Her voice rang with the same clarity that made her a force in the courtroom. But more importantly, the very inflection of her tone captured the genetic codes buried deep in the language that defined the French psyche.
“Your investigation could not have come at a more opportune moment,” the foreign minister said. He waited to see if she understood the political ramifications of her investigation.
She did. “You are, of course, referring to the United States’ feeble efforts in the United Nations to stop the Chinese from re-establishing their sovereignty over Taiwan.”
“Chinese patience is at an end,” Scullanois said. “They are preparing to use military force if necessary. Their preparations should be complete by the first of the year. Of course, the United States is trying to use the UN to constrain China. We are ready to support the United States in the Security Council, if they become a member of the International Criminal Court.”
“Which will never happen,” Denise added. “They claim it would subject their military to our jurisdiction in any conflict beyond their borders.” She allowed a tight smile. “Which it would.”
Scullanois came to the heart of the matter. “If you can bring an American to trial for war crimes, it will offer us an opportunity to establish an alliance with China. It will convince the Chinese that their interests are our interests. How better to do this than by embarrassing the United States in the court of world opinion and allowing China to regain Taiwan? We can change the orientation of China away from the United States and towards France. This can open economic windows that we can build into a greater Franco-Sino axis.”
“But all this would be in violation of the constitution of the EU,” Denise said, touching on a subject best avoided by mere mortals. But they were above those constraints.
Scullanois answered in a low voice. “Then the European Union must not learn of it. Unfortunately, the minister of justice tells me there are, ah, other ‘legal’ difficulties with your investigation.”
“There is a jurisdictional problem,” she replied. “We can only try an individual from a country that is a member of the court.”
“A major difficulty as the United States is not a member,” he allowed.
“The Americans allow this foolishness called ‘dual citizenship.’ We must find an American soldier who was born in a country that recognizes this dual citizenship and is also a member of the court. Of course, he must have fought in the Iraqi war and killed at least one civilian.”
Scullanois thought for a moment. “But considering the American position on the court, imprisoning one of their citizens is politically unthinkable.”
A whisper of a smile flickered across her lips. She believed that the current president of the United States was a fool and she was more than willing to challenge him. “We have a narrow window to act while the United States is occupied by the Taiwan crisis. As long as the Americans need Europe’s support in the United Nations, they will not risk our anger by challenging the court’s jurisdiction. We can extend that window by delaying in the United Nations.”
Scullanois thought for a moment. “Can the court act fast enough?”
“With the proper help, it can.” She stressed the word “help.”
“Brilliant,” Scullanois said. He w
anted to ask her about Chrestien’s role in all this but thought better of it. There might be some hidden costs he had not considered. However, he was confident Renée would find out and tell him. The image of a naked Denise waiting in a bed flashed in his mind’s eye. He considered making an offer, but dropped it. “I’m quite sure our bureaus can identify at least a dozen or so names and, ah, provide all the required ‘help’ the court will require. Of course, our role in all this must remain secret to avoid complications with the EU.” He thought for a moment. “But taking one of these people into custody may be a problem.”
“Americans love to travel,” she replied. “I’m quite sure something will present itself.”
“I will speak to the prime minister this morning.”
Denise leaned forward. “I can move forward on a moment’s notice.”
NATO Headquarters, Belgium
Aly held onto Gus’s arm as they walked down the quiet halls of NATO’s headquarters, and she was proud to be part of his family. Gus and Jason had spent five wonderful days on her family’s farm and the two big Americans had done yeoman labor helping her father build a new barn to breed and raise pigs. Her mother had repeatedly commented on how they looked more like brothers than father and son, and Aly suspected that her mother had a crush on the elder Tyler. But who could blame her? Now Gus was wearing his new uniform and was going to administer the oath to Jason so he could re-enlist. Aly van der Nord overcame the no-nonsense part of her Dutch nature and decided she loved her future father-in-law.
The man waiting for them was a younger, but much bigger and more muscular version of Gus. “We’re doing it in SACEUR’s conference room,” Jason told them. “The general is going to be there.” He held the door and led them down the hall. “I believe you know General Hammerly.” General Douglas Hammerly, US Army, was the new Supreme Allied Commander Europe.
“I met Doug during the Persian Gulf war in Saudi Arabia when he was an up-and-coming major. They called him ‘the Hammer’ then.”
“We still do,” Jason admitted. “What the general wants, the general gets. We’ve got a videophone so Mom and Michelle can watch.”
“That’s super,” Gus said, feeling not quite so guilty. He had been away far too long and it was time he returned home. They entered the conference room where the video camera was set up and six other security cops were waiting. An airman dialed Sacramento and Michelle’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “We’re all here,” Gus’s daughter said, “and Mom can hear and see you all.”
“Hi, Hon,” Gus said. “I’m catching a flight out of Schiphol tonight and should be home tomorrow.”
“Mom says she’ll be here,” Michelle replied.
General Hammerly came through the side door that led to his office and extended his hand. “Gus Tyler, it has been a while.”
“1991,” Gus said, recalling the time they had first met.
Hammerly smiled at Jason. “Well, shall we do it?”
Jason nodded and stood in front of the American flag while the airman handed Gus the enlistment oath to read. Gus joined his son and they raised their right hands. Gus started to read. “I, Jason Tyler, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic …”
Aly listened as Jason repeated the oath. She chanced a glance at the general and saw the resolve in his eyes, the set of his jaw.
Gus’s voice swelled. “That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same …”
Aly studied the men and understood. They were a band of brothers.
Schiphol Airport
Aly guided her small car to the curb outside the departure terminal. “Right on time.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. She felt an overpowering urge to say “I love you,” but her Dutch sensibility squashed that urge with a more formal, “Give my regards to your family.”
“Thank your folks again for me. It’s been great, and I can hardly wait for the wedding.”
Then he was gone, walking into the terminal. A security guard motioned her to leave, but she hesitated, unable to take her eyes off his back. She blinked twice when two men wearing uniforms closed in on Gus and grabbed his arms, forcing him to drop his suitcase. One quickly slapped handcuffs on his wrists as three more men wearing dark overcoats surrounded him. Aly jumped out of the car and ran into the terminal. “What are you doing?” she shouted in Dutch. “Who are you?” Aly van der Nord was a big woman and she charged into the group, pushing one of the civilians aside. She folded her arms and planted her feet, blocking the way. “Answer my question!” One of the uniformed men jerked an aerosol canister from his belt and sprayed her in the face while one of the men wearing an overcoat kicked at the back of her left knee. Pain ripped up her leg as she fell to the floor choking and crying. “Who are you?” she coughed as the men hustled Gus out the door and into a waiting van. She tried to stand, but her knee collapsed under her weight and she sat on the floor. A woman rushed up to her. “Are you all right?”
Aly rubbed her knee and grimaced with pain. “I don’t know.” She took two deep breaths as she sat on the floor. “Do you have a cell phone I may use?” The woman fumbled in her handbag and fished out a phone. Aly’s blunt fingers punched at the buttons, dialing Jason’s number. It seemed an eternity before he answered. “Jason, your father was arrested.” She paused to catch her breath. “We’re at the airport.” Another pause. “No, I don’t know who it was.”
The woman standing over her said, “The uniforms. I think it was the Maréchausée.”
Aly relayed the information. “It was our constabulary.” She listened for a moment. “Yes, that’s right, the Maréchausée. Do you know them?” Her eyes opened wide as Jason explained the powers of the Maréchausée. “No, he didn’t resist. I did.”
TWO
Georgetown, Washington D.C.
Reporters circled the sidewalk outside the elegant townhouse like vultures and hungrily noted the guests flowing into the cocktail party. Without exception, the arriving glitterati were the guiding lights, the lodestars of the capital; however, the denizens of the media went into an absolute feeding frenzy when Maximilian Westcot and his young and beautiful wife arrived. Westcot was acknowledged as the most rapacious financier and investor west of New York City, and one of the wealthiest men in the United States. It was rumored that not even his accountants, nor the IRS, knew exactly what he was worth.
Westcot was a bear of a man, short, stocky, and barrel-chested, all topped with heavy black hair. He also had the disposition of Grizzly and the reporters gave him a wide berth, focusing instead on his young wife. But not one was brave enough to label Suzanne a ‘trophy wife.’ Strange things happened to reporters who crossed Westcot, and no one wanted to be in the financier’s crosshairs. Inside, each guest went through the required rituals and established his, or her, own orbit in the ever-changing constellation of Washington’s power elite. However, Max Westcot was content to stand back and be the impartial observer as orbits collided. In his own way, he was a very practical scientist and delighted in measuring the interplay of forces. When he applied his private calculus, for it was not a rational universe, he suppressed a laugh. Much to his satisfaction, the brightest star in the evening’s sky was his wife, Suzanne, and the spectacular dress she was wearing. It had cost him twelve thousand dollars and was worth every cent.
The dress was a study in graceful simplicity and decorum. It was a classic off-the-shoulder floor-length gown that was not revealing in the least. Yet the material seemed to shimmer and take on a life of its own as it caressed her body. A substantial majority of men in the room, an exact quantity he had yet to determine, hoped there was nothing between it and Suzanne. Every woman in the room was certain of it. True to Westcot’s principle of attraction, attention circled her like stray asteroids captured by the gravity of a sun, which was exactly what Westcot wanted. While he was at the party, he was not part of it. He was a comet, free to roam the evening sky.
; A dark-suited young man smiled at him. “Sir, I’m Mr. James Weaver’s personal assistant.” Westcot arched a bushy eyebrow. He only knew James Weaver by reputation but in the galaxy of Washington politics, Weaver was the super nova of political operatives. He was rumored to be the President’s political hit man and, under normal circumstances, only allowed out of his cage for elections. “Could you spare a moment?” Westcot nodded and followed him through the elegant rooms and up a back staircase that led to a study where an over-weight, nondescript middle-aged man with thinning dark hair was waiting. Only his bright blue eyes gave life to a placid exterior.
“Jim Weaver,” the man said, extending his hand. They shook hands as Westcot took his measure. They exchanged pleasantries. Then, “The boys picked up some interesting message traffic. We thought you might be interested.” He handed Westcot a mini CD player. Westcot sat down and plugged in the earpiece. His eyes narrowed and his face turned to granite as he listened. The “boys” were the National Security Agency and the message traffic was a series of intercepted phone calls between Henri Scullanois and his Chinese counterpart in Beijing. The conversations had been scrambled for transmission, but NSA had penetrated that particular system years before. “I’d say you are about to be rogered by the French.”
“That will be a cold day in hell. Do you know how much I’ve invested in the Sudan?”
“Counting bribes and payoffs, we estimate over a billion dollars.”
Westcot was not impressed with the accuracy of their intelligence. “That’s in the Block Five oil concession alone.”
“And the Chinese were your silent partner,” Weaver added. “You bribe the rebels for protection, develop the oil independent of the government in Khartoum, ship it out through the port at Djibouti, and sell it to the Chinese.”
“Why not? Khartoum takes eighty percent right off the top. The rebels are willing to settle for thirty percent.”
A Far Justice Page 2
