Secret Justice

by James W. Huston

  “Mr. Stern?”

  It was him. He was on a cell phone. “Yes.”

  “Meet me at the coffee shop down the street from you. I’m already there.”

  “Stanley’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you look like?”

  “Don’t worry. I know what you look like.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Stern was annoyed by the games, but found himself hurrying to the coffee shop. He pushed the door open, walked in, and looked around. No one looked like the voice on the phone. He felt a tug at his elbow and turned. A man stood looking into his face.

  “Mr. Stern?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a table,” the man said, indicating a small table in the back of the coffee shop.

  Stern followed the man back to the table and sat in the chair with a wicker seat. The man sat with his back to the door facing the wall, to Stern’s left. “You want some coffee, something to drink?”

  Stern nodded and got up. “Let me get a cup of coffee.” He went to the counter and purchased a cup of black coffee in a clear glass cup. He returned to the table and studied the man who had called. Short, dark, and clearly foreign, his eyes were so dark they were very nearly black. He had a day’s growth of beard but otherwise looked well groomed. Probably an Arab, Stern thought, although he wasn’t sure. Could be Egyptian, Turkish, Iranian, or even Israeli. “So what’s this about?” he asked.

  “My friend would like you to represent him.”

  “How did you hear about me?”

  “From attorneys I asked. They said you were one of the smartest attorneys in Washington.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. What kind of help does your friend need?”

  “He is being charged with great crimes.”

  Stern asked, “What does that mean?”

  “He is being held by the American military in a jail, a brig, I think they call it, and they are going to put him on trial.”

  “Where?”

  “At sea.”

  “Why?” Stern asked, confused. “Is he in the Navy?”

  “No. He is being held by the Navy, and interrogated, and is about to be put on trial with a Navy lawyer as his only representative.”

  “Who is your friend and what are they charging him with?”

  The man sat back and unfolded the newspaper that was on top of the pile so that the front page of the Washington Post was face up. He put his finger on the photograph of Wahamed Duar that stared up from the Post.

  Stern couldn’t breathe. Thoughts were crashing into each other. “You want me to represent Wahamed Duar?”

  “In the tribunal.”

  Stern didn’t know where to start. There was so much to say, so many questions to ask. “They haven’t disclosed where he is being kept.”

  “He is on the Belleau Wood, a Navy ship.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know. They already have lawyers out there to prosecute him and defend him. Navy lawyers. You must get out to the ship right away.”

  “Does he know I’m Jewish?” Stern said.

  “It doesn’t matter. He needs the best defense he can get. The government wants to execute him. They are asking for the death penalty.”

  Stern sipped his coffee. “Why doesn’t the press know about all this?”

  “Because no one has told them.”

  “If I took on his defense, that’s the first place I would go. They are a very valuable weapon. You have any problem with that?”

  “Not at all. It is important to do that.”

  Stern nodded. Something made him hesitate. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “You have until tomorrow.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “If you are not going to help, I need to get someone who will.”

  Stern stood and finished his coffee. He set the glass cup on the table. “Fair enough.”

  The man stood, frustrated. “I will call you tomorrow.” He stormed out of the coffee shop, clearly displeased with Stern’s equivocation.

  Stern picked up the Post and tucked it under his arm. He hadn’t even read the articles about Duar. He so disliked the current administration he studiously avoided reading articles in which they crowed about their successes and patted themselves on the back. But now he had to find out exactly what had happened to Duar. How he had been captured, and exactly what he had supposedly done, and how they knew about it. He had to learn everything he could about Duar in one day.

  * * *

  Wolff sat in the small conference room at the U.S. Attorney’s office for the District of Columbia. He stared with a perplexed look at the other two Assistant U.S. Attorneys who were helping him prepare the case. He didn’t look perplexed very often. He was always on top of whatever case he was preparing. He had never lost a case, and his success was due in part to his preparation. Wolff humbled them with his thoroughness and tirelessness. “How are we going to hang this guy?”

  One of the young U.S. Attorneys, Jacob Rentz, fresh from three years of practice in a private litigation firm, answered reluctantly. “Well, we could just drag in the other Special Operations guys and have them testify.”

  Wolff shook his head. “Did you read the interview sheets? Every one of them said he wouldn’t testify. They wanted to take the Fifth. They’re afraid of getting charged as an accessory, or coconspirator. Reasonable concerns, I might add.”

  “Give them immunity.”

  Wolff paused. “How many cases have you tried?”

  “Five.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Mostly.”

  “You ever try to force anyone to testify?”

  “Sure.”

  “Anybody ever refuse?”

  “Not after we made deals, or gave immunity.”

  “This is a conspiracy of silence. These guys are like brothers. And we’re going after their leader. This guy is considered the best Special Ops guy in the country. He single-handedly—have you read his file?”

  “Some of it,” Rentz fibbed.

  “He’s done it all. Every continent you can name, just about every kind of operation you can imagine, many of which aren’t even in his file because they’re still too highly classified. Even with clearances we can’t get into them without a ‘need to know.’ Unfortunately it’s essentially irrelevant to this case, so we don’t have a need to know. We just need to appreciate that the men who work with Rathman worship the ground he walks on. They will go down for him. They will do anything for him. You get that?”

  Rentz shrugged, undeterred. “So it’s like the mafia. Big deal. We’ll just subpoena their asses. They can’t refuse in the face of an offer of immunity—they’ll be put in jail for contempt.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They don’t care. And if they don’t testify, how can we prove Rat tortured this terrorist to death? We don’t have any other eyewitnesses.”

  Barbara Lloyd jumped in. “I know I’m new to this, but when I read the operation report, there’s someone in the report who is referred to only in passing. The report doesn’t say, probably because whoever got it would know, but there was someone in the room who survived who wasn’t with the Americans.”

  “Right. Duar.”

  Lloyd shook her head. “No. The one referred to only by his code name. Acacia. Can’t we get him to testify?”

  Wolff liked the idea. “I don’t know. We’ll have to go through the State Department, or the CIA, but I like it. Follow up with that.”

  Rentz said, “But how are we going to keep this case? We don’t really have jurisdiction, do we?”

  Wolff shook his head. “At first I didn’t think so. But 18 U.S.C.A. §3261 does the trick. If Skyles wants to move for a dismissal and go to a court-martial instead, the judge might let him. But that requires an attorney who knows his ass from his elbow.”

  “Bad attorney?”

  “He’s a real piece of work. I don’t know where Rathman fo
und him, but he’s borderline incompetent. Everyone else here who has tried a case against him said he’s the biggest asshole they have ever had to deal with. He wins in spite of himself.”

  “He won’t think of jurisdiction?”

  “He’s too busy trying to figure out where all the money went in his client trust account.” They snickered at the image of Skyles staring at a bank statement wondering what had happened.

  “Don’t we need to bring it to the court’s attention if we don’t think there’s jurisdiction?”

  “We’ve taken the position we have jurisdiction by filing the indictment. If Skyles wants to argue we don’t, that’s his problem. And he’s not smart enough to do it, so I think we’re fine.”

  “So we start getting ready for trial.”

  “Exactly.” He looked directly at Lloyd. “Our good doctor friend may be enough all by himself, but if you can find Acacia, and get him here, we’ll be home free.”

  Chapter

  10

  Rat had been surprised by the late night summons. Jacobs never called at night, and never told him just to meet him. Rat drove his Porsche to Langley quickly. He had the top down and wore a lined windbreaker against the frigid air. He darted in and out of traffic far in excess of what was a safe speed. He stopped at the gate of CIA headquarters in Langley and showed his identification. The parking lot was almost empty except for a few government sedans. Rat came to a screeching, angled stop at the intersection of four parking spots and hurried to Jacobs’s office. When he arrived he was surprised to find KP Barone there, the same man who had been interrogating Duar onboard the Belleau Wood. Rat greeted him in Arabic.

  Jacobs spoke to Rat, “So they let you out of the hoosegow, huh?”

  “Fifty thou. And I really appreciate your putting up the money.”

  Jacobs’s face turned pink. “I couldn’t very well use government money . . . You remember Ken Barone?”

  “Sure,” Rat said, extending his hand.

  “Sit down,” Jacobs said.

  The three men sat.

  “There are two things we have to talk about. First, we’re having a hell of a time getting anything out of Duar.”

  “Nothing?”

  Barone shook his head. “He’s playing with us. We’re getting nothing. He’s making like he’s stupid. Like he’d consider talking, except he doesn’t know anything. Claims not to be Duar. You’ve seen that kind.”

  Rat nodded.

  “Makes it harder now that he’s represented by an attorney,” Barone lamented. “And not just one attorney. There’s a second one on the way. He sends this fax to the captain of the ship telling him to make sure nobody asks his client any questions without him being present—”

  Jacobs interjected, “Some pinhead ACLU lawyer. We need to get information from Duar about his network, his support structure, finances, everything that we kept him alive to get. We haven’t gotten shit so far.”

  Rat looked at Barone. “You run through your entire bag of tricks?”

  Barone nodded, hating to acknowledge his failure.

  Rat looked at Jacobs. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I’m thinking we need to get more creative.”

  “I’ve tried that. It didn’t work out so well.”

  “Different.”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe we can have him meet some other people.”

  “You want to render him?”

  “That’s what I’m thinking about.”

  “Let me take him. Where are you thinking about?”

  “I don’t know. Where do you think?”

  “I’m thinking the country where he blew up our embassy. Where he killed a bunch of civilians that weren’t even Americans, who are ready to charge him with capital crimes as soon as we’re done executing him.”

  “Egypt.”

  “Exactly. And I know just the guy.”

  Barone nodded vigorously.

  “Duar’s awfully high profile. Everybody’s watching him. I’m not sure we can pull it off.”

  “What if I can get the National Security Adviser to sign off on it?”

  Jacobs looked surprised. “Think you could?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We can’t be complicit in torture.”

  “We wouldn’t be. Tell them they have to play by the rules. Duar won’t know their hands are tied at all. And we’ll tell him—I’ll tell him—that he’s pissed away his chance to tell us, so now it’s out of our hands. He’s going to have to face some really bad men who don’t give a shit about the Geneva Convention.”

  * * *

  The seven men walked through the deep forest on the southern coast of Georgia. The snow was mostly gone, with some remnants in the shadows of the hills. Tayseer Hotary, the man who had been sitting on the rock when the cores were discussed in the Pankisi gorge, was in the back.

  Hotary caught his breath as they headed up the next hill. One of the Georgians asked, “Why do you care so much about these generators?”

  Hotary looked at him with annoyance. He considered ignoring him, but he realized the man was stupid. “I’ve told others. Did you not hear? We have been looking for a way to have power where we operate. Remote power, without the need for fuel, or power lines. This can solve the problem. We need to get the cores to do it.”

  The Georgian nodded.

  Hotary asked him, “What is his name?” pointing at the large, bearded Georgian whom he had met at the fire.

  “Him? That is Nino. Nino Jorbenadze. He is famous. A leader of Georgians in support of the Chechens. The government hates him.”

  Hotary nodded. “Why did he come here himself if he is so important?”

  “Because he is the only one who knows where these things are. He used to work on them. And he wants your money,” the man said, smiling through his gray teeth. “He doesn’t trust us with money.”

  They crested the hill and could now see the Black Sea in the distance. Hotary could smell the salt in the air.

  Nino walked faster down the hill. Hotary followed. Nino pointed to a small gray generator at the bottom of the hill. “There. This is the first.”

  Hotary controlled his pace as he descended toward the machine. He scanned the hills and trees for signs of life. He was wary of a trap, but saw nothing that gave him concern. The men rushed to the RTG and surrounded it. The device was completely silent. Hotary could tell it wasn’t operating, and from the looks of it, it hadn’t in some time.

  It was four feet tall and perhaps three feet wide. It sat on a concrete slab that had cracked and was sagging in the middle. The generator was made of steel but was showing its age. Long exposure to the elements had caused rust to form at the corners. Hotary turned to Nino. “You remember how to take out the core?”

  “We had to do it dozens of times.”

  Hotary studied the rusted steel. “Is there any danger?”

  “If it’s cracked, or broken, it’ll kill you.”

  “How do we know if it’s cracked or broken?”

  “You get someone to do it who you don’t like,” Nino said, laughing. “Like you!” He took off his backpack and removed several tools. “Here,” he said, handing a wrench to Hotary. “You go first. You’re the one who wants these things so bad. All I have to do is show you where they are, and take the money you promised me. And if you don’t show me the money now, you’ll never see the core.”

  Hotary considered killing Nino now, but Nino knew where the other nine generators were.

  Nino’s face grew serious. His beard blew in the wind as he looked down at Hotary. “This is as far as I go without getting paid. You said you had to see the generator first. This is it.”

  Hotary reached inside his cloak. “Here,” he said, handing him a stack of U.S. one-hundred-dollar bills.

  The Georgian counted them, then looked up. “Where’s the rest?”

  “You get it when we’ve taken the core out of the tenth generator.”

  “Then we’d better h
urry,” Nino laughed as he put the bills in his own grimy pocket. “Move,” he said as he went to the back of the RTG and expertly began loosening the bolts on the access door.

  * * *

  Andrea put her carry-on bag down by the gate at Dulles airport and readjusted her jacket. She put the strap back on her shoulder and walked slowly toward the gate.

  Rat said, “You’d better get on board.”

  Andrea turned to him and held his hand. “You aren’t upset enough. You should be despondent that I’m leaving. Crushed. Overwhelmed. Unable to control—”

  “I am,” Rat said. “Can’t you tell?”

  “No, I really can’t. That’s why I brought it up.” She got a frisky look on her face. “I’m going out into the storm, Rat. Into harm’s way, the War on Terrorism. Something that you have never experienced. I’ll be in danger and you will probably be up all night every night watching sports and worrying about me. So how can you be so calm?” she smiled.

  Rat loved her sense of humor. “I need you to do something for me.” He had wanted to talk to her about it earlier. Each day after he’d thought of it he planned on bringing it up, but each day it was harder. He knew she would think he was using her. He just needed her help. She had offered to do anything, but this had a different feel.

  Andrea glanced over her shoulder at the bus that would carry the passengers out to the airplane.

  Rat knew what she was thinking. “There’s another bus. And probably one after that. We have a couple of minutes.”

  She put her bag down and ran her hand through her hair. “Okay. What is it?”

  “When you get to the Belleau Wood—well, you’re going to be the flight surgeon, but there are some things going on out there that are important.”

  Andrea frowned. “It’s just a bunch of Marines. I’ll just be doing flight physicals, and grounding people who have colds.”

  Rat shook his head quickly and looked around the airport terminal for anyone who might be trying to eavesdrop. He moved slightly to stand directly in front of Andrea. He leaned his head slightly down so that anyone trying to listen would have trouble reading his lips. He could also see the entire terminal as the bus was now to his back. “Remember what the President said, that Wahamed Duar was being held in an ‘undisclosed location’? He’s on the Belleau Wood.”