“Makes sense.”
“If the real target was someone else, if she was a message, we need to intercept that message.” He could see the skepticism on their faces. He stood. “You think these terrorist cells stand up and say, ‘Here we are!’ and we then put on our flak jackets and go after them? This is a game of subtlety. Of deceit, subterfuge, hidden agendas, and murder. They play in the dark, like cockroaches. They don’t like being obvious until they’re ready for their next big move. Then they want to be real obvious.”
The two new intelligence officers felt chastised. “We’ll get on it. Can we contact the embassy?”
He frowned instantly. “Who the hell else would you contact?”
* * *
Sadeq Satti had stayed out of sight for three days after the bomb, but the ten-day window he had given Lisbie was up. He parked down the street from the Liberian International Shipping Company and walked into the office slowly, confidently. He walked directly up the stairs to the tiled waiting room outside the closed door leading to Lisbie’s office. He could hear Lisbie talking. He lit a cigarette, crossed his legs, and waited.
He listened carefully to Lisbie through the door. He was clearly agitated. Since only one side of the conversation was audible it was clear Lisbie was on the phone and alone. Satti could hear him pacing. Finally Lisbie opened the door to call for someone and saw Satti. His face went red. “You bastard!” Lisbie shouted as he rushed across the reception room and grabbed for Satti’s throat.
Satti had expected something like this, but not here, and not so suddenly. He waited until Lisbie had committed himself, a man who clearly had not been in a fistfight since boyhood, at which point Satti rose, flicked his cigarette into Lisbie’s face, and rammed his fist into Lisbie’s soft belly. Lisbie crumpled at his feet. He kneeled on the tile, moaning, “You bastard!”
Satti leaned over. “How dare you attack me! I came here to conclude our business. What has gotten into you?”
Lisbie got up on one knee and rested his elbow on it. He breathed deeply. His hair fell unattractively onto his forehead. “Why my mother? Why did you have to hurt her?” Lisbie sobbed softly.
Satti feigned recognition from the reports he had read in the newspaper. “That car bomb? That was your mother?”
Lisbie looked up at him. “I know who you are and what you’re capable of.”
Satti shook his head. “You don’t know me at all. I am so sorry for the loss of your mother. Is there anything I can do?”
Lisbie gained his composure and stood. He smoothed his shirt and dusted the dirt off his knees. “You can get the hell away from me and my company.”
Satti pointed to the door. “Into your office,” he ordered, pushing Lisbie. Satti closed the door behind them. He walked behind Lisbie’s desk and looked at the ships in the harbor. He watched the men loading two large cargo ships just below them. He turned to Lisbie, who was standing awkwardly on the other side of the desk like a visitor.
“I have come here to conclude our business.”
“We don’t have any business to conclude.”
“I told you I’d give you ten days to consider. I even called you three days ago. Now I am back.”
Lisbie stood silently. His anger and grief had consumed him for three days. To be standing in his office facing the man who was responsible was more than he could take. “I will never do anything for you.”
“You have had ten days to think about it. I expect you have now changed your mind.” He turned. “Am I right?”
Lisbie stood with his head down.
“Am I right?” Satti asked, crossing over to stand right next to Lisbie, so Lisbie could feel his presence, smell him. “Right?”
Lisbie nodded. He knew he was next if he said no.
“Excellent,” Satti said, stepping back and taking his cigarettes and Zippo lighter out of his pocket. “My men will be here the night the ship is scheduled to sail.”
Lisbie shuffled to his desk and sat down. “Not before. They will board just before the ship pulls out. No more than an hour before. They’ll have to berth in a small room, all together, and pay for their food.”
Satti smiled and nodded. “You’ll not regret it.”
“I already do.”
* * *
Captain Pat White stood behind the podium with the Department of Defense seal on it and waited for the reporters to sit. As the spokesperson for the Pentagon she had been holding weekly press conferences for two months since taking over the position. She had finally grown comfortable in front of the cameras and swarming journalists who probed incessantly, mostly looking for scandal and controversy. So far in her tenure there hadn’t been either.
She saw Josephine Block in the front row of the room full of reporters. White spread her notes in front of her. “First, I’d like to welcome you to today’s briefing. I’d like to make a short statement, then open it up for whatever questions you may have.” She began, “The War on Terrorism continues in many corners of the globe, with United States and allied forces pursuing al Qaeda and other terrorist forces. The most recent development is the identification of a large al Qaeda cell in Indonesia that is known to have heavy weapons. The Indonesian forces are cooperating and the group is being pursued as we speak. There will be no escape, and if they do not surrender unequivocally we expect to engage those forces within the week.
“In the Philippines the guerrilla forces have been routed and only a remnant remains. We will continue to assist Philippine security forces in pursuing them.”
She covered the other six areas she had been told to include in her brief, then opened the briefing for questions.
Josephine’s hand flew up with enthusiasm. White was annoyed and ignored her, taking the first question from a young woman in the back that she didn’t recognize. It was a question about the budget.
White looked at Josephine’s upraised hand in the bright lights and realized she could not ignore her any longer without being obvious. “Josephine?”
“It’s my understanding that the Navy officer, the Navy Special Forces officer who led the team to capture Duar, is under arrest and is being charged with killing one of the terrorists that worked for Wahamed Duar.” Josephine pushed her reading glasses down from her forehead onto her nose and checked the document she was holding, a copy of the indictment given to her by Skyles. She held it up. “I have a copy of the indictment here. He is being charged with a violation of the Geneva Convention for torturing the terrorist, and for manslaughter because the terrorist died.” She put the indictment down in her lap and returned her glasses to their resting place. “And Duar himself is being held on the Belleau Wood where he is to stand trial in a tribunal. So my question is,” Josephine said, “is there any truth to this? Do you have an American officer and the terrorist he captured about to go on trial at the same time?”
White stared at her. She had known it would come out some time, but she had been told that the indictment of Rathman had been vague enough that no one would pick up on its significance. What really galled White was how a reporter had linked the two to make the government look stupid. “Let me look into those matters—”
“We know Duar is in custody. Can you confirm he’s on the Belleau Wood and that he’s going to be tried in a tribunal?”
“Well yes, of course he will be tried in a tribunal. The President announced that last week.”
“Tribunals are supposed to be open. Is he being held in secret? Is he being allowed access to a lawyer of his choice? That is guaranteed under the tribunal rules issued by the DOD. And what about Lieutenant Kent Rathman—is he being charged with war crimes for capturing a terrorist? Whose idea was that?”
White feigned making notes. “Again, I’ll have to get back to you on these things. I’m sorry. That’s all I have time for right now,” White said, confounding the remainder of the reporters. She turned and left the stage for her office.
Chapter
14
Nino Jorbenadze turned to
Hotary with an expectant look on his face. “That’s it. You said you wanted ten. That’s ten. There are more though, if you need them.”
Hotary looked around the hillside as if considering whether to buy more. His men had read his intention and positioned themselves accordingly. Hotary replied, “If we got more, say three more, how much would you charge us?”
Nino liked the idea of more money. “A lot. These were the easiest to get to. Others are more difficult. It would be many more thousands of dollars. But you have a lot of money, Mr. Hotary. How do you have so much cash on you?” he asked, taking a step closer to him.
“Ten is enough,” Hotary said.
Nino nodded as he waited for his money.
Hotary handed his AK-47 to one of his men to free both his hands to dig deeply into his clothing. It put the Georgians at ease to see him transfer his weapon. He spoke to Nino. “Do you want me to pay you all of it and then you split it up with your men?”
Nino frowned, annoyed at Hotary’s blatant attempt to get between him and his men. “I will take care of it.”
Hotary buried his arm deeply in the folds of his cloak. He pulled out a handgun and shot Nino in the chest. He collapsed in a heap on the damp ground. Hotary’s men fired their assault rifles at the other Georgians, who only had time to show horror on their faces. They too fell to the ground as they bled to death.
Hotary shot Nino again as he lay at his feet. “Did they think we would allow witnesses?”
His men shook their heads at the stupidity of the Georgians.
Hotary surveyed the nearby woods. “Bury them in there,” he ordered. “They will be found, but the longer it takes the better.”
* * *
Rat removed the hood from Duar and pushed him down onto one of the beds in the brig aboard the Belleau Wood. “Welcome home,” Rat said.
Duar said nothing, not even raising his head.
As they closed the heavy steel door and locked it, Groomer said, “He seems spooked.”
Rat nodded. “Getting your nuts roasted can do that,” Rat said.
“Rat!” Andrea said from behind him, shocked to see him. “What are you doing here?”
“Andrea. Hey. Dropping off Duar.”
“Who got his nuts roasted?” Andrea asked from behind them. “What did you mean by that?”
“What are you doing down here?” Rat asked.
“Dr. Satterly asked me to check on the prisoner as soon as he got back.”
Rat looked at Groomer. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why’s that?” Andrea asked.
“He’s very tired. He’s been up quite a while.” Rat could just imagine Andrea inspecting Duar with his blackened earlobes and scrotum. She’d flip.
“Dr. Satterly insisted that I see the prisoner no matter what.”
“Why’s that?” Rat asked.
“To make sure he’s okay.”
Rat could see a different look in Andrea’s eyes. A distance he hadn’t seen before. “Satterly your pal now?”
“No. He just told me a little about the prisoner who died. He said you tortured him to death.”
“That’s the guy I’m on trial for, Andrea. You know all about that.”
“I didn’t know he had vomit in his lungs. Or that you supposedly poured water down his mouth and nose so he couldn’t breathe until he threw up—”
“You want the whole story or just parts of it?”
“You’re going to tell me the whole thing now?”
“I can’t. I can’t even tell good Dr. Satterly the whole story. So based on half information he’s ready to string me up.”
“Whatever,” she said. “Now please excuse me. I need to see the prisoner.”
Groomer stepped subtly into her path. “He’s resting.”
She looked at Rat to see if he was going to intervene on her behalf. He wasn’t. “Dr. Satterly said you wouldn’t let me see Duar when you brought him back. He said the reason would be that you have done something to him you don’t want me to know about.”
“And that’s why he sent you. Because he’s too much of a coward to say anything to my face.”
“Apparently last time he wasn’t. He told me he confronted you in the wardroom, in front of God and everybody.”
“You’re right. I forgot how courageous—or should I say self-righteous—he was.”
She stepped around Rat and stood in front of Groomer. “I need to see him now. Please step aside, Lieutenant Junior Grade Groomer,” she said, to point out she was senior to him, at least in the Navy.
“He’s sleeping.”
“How do you know?”
“I was just in there.”
“What did you do to him? Where did you take him?”
Rat said, “You really think that while I’m on trial for torturing one guy I’m going to take some other guy out and torture him?”
“I have no idea. I just know I’ve been told to see Duar, and not to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“And what if you got ‘no’ as the answer?”
“I’m supposed to call Dr. Satterly, and he’ll come take care of it.”
“You’d better call him,” Rat said.
Andrea tried to control her anger. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I sure do. But the one who doesn’t is you. You’re being used, and it’s a game you’re not part of. Tell Dr. Satterly that you tried, but I was obstinate. If he’s got a problem with that, he should come deal with it himself.”
Andrea nodded slowly. “I’ll do that. But you and I need to talk. Soon.” She waited for Rat to say something. He just looked at her. “I need to hear your side of this, because I’m starting to have my doubts.”
“When the time is right. If I tell you now, they’ll subpoena you and force you to testify against me.”
Andrea nodded. She wanted to trust him. She badly wanted to be able to trust him. But she didn’t. She turned and headed for a telephone to call Dr. Satterly.
* * *
Rat left Groomer in charge of Duar and went to find the prosecutor. He had been told it was a woman, a commander. He climbed the ladders and went straight to her office, knowing it was on the starboard side of the ship by the frame number he had been given. Those in her office hadn’t seen her in some time. They offered to call her. Rat got the frame number of her stateroom instead and went there himself.
Rat knocked loudly on the thin steel door.
“Who is it?” Watson said, surprised by the knock.
“Lieutenant Rathman,” Rat said.
She came to the door and opened the door part of the way. Rat could see she was damp and had a towel wrapped around her. “Sorry, I just got out of the shower. I was working out.” She looked at Rat’s camouflage uniform and noticed there was no name tag, no insignia, no rank. Rat’s boots had desert sand dust all over them.
“No problem. I’ll wait.”
Watson was surprised. “Do I know you?”
“I’m with the group that captured Duar. We brought him back.”
“You’re Rat.”
Rat nodded. “I have something to give you.”
“Like what?”
“Not out here,” Rat said. “How long before you’re ready?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“How about I meet you up at your office in twenty?”
“Sure. What’s this about?”
Rat was already gone. He was running up the ladders to the communications office. He had to get a message off to Washington. On the way back to the ship he had read the Arabic notes of the Egyp-tian colonel. Even though Rat hadn’t been there when the information was collected, Duar had revealed numerous planned attacks in the United States set to occur in the next month. Rat had read the notes with a mixture of disbelief and horror. It was critical intelligence information, if true. It was the very information they had wanted to get from Duar when they set their minds to capture him. Rat was skeptical about much of the information, but he’d leav
e it up to others in Washington to determine what was true and what wasn’t. They could cross-reference a lot of other intelligence information he wasn’t privy to.
He sent copies of the Egyptian officer’s notes back to the CIA via secure fax, and a message summarizing Duar’s confession and the contents of the notes to the Agency and to the National Security Council via Sarah St. James. He would make sure her message went out first. She would know about it a few minutes before anyone else in Washington.
He sent off the faxes and the messages in time to be at Watson’s office in the allotted twenty minutes. Watson wasn’t there. Rat sat in one of the chairs and took his first deep breath of the day. He was bone tired. He was worried about Duar. Not only because of what the Egyptians had done to him, but what he had said were his intentions for the United States. And now Andrea was lining up against him. He checked his watch again as Watson walked in. He looked at the confession that he had placed on Watson’s desk. He wondered if it was the best thing to do, to use a confession against him that was extracted through torture. She might actually be able to use it—he wasn’t involved in the confession and hadn’t expected it. If they got the confession through the acts of somebody else, well, so what? They didn’t force it out of him. Egypt did. It just fell into their hands. But it didn’t feel right. He wanted to get Duar put away for life, or better yet, executed. But he was getting a bad feeling about the entire thing.
“You’re here,” Watson said.
“Twenty minutes,” he said, standing up. Her uniform hung on her as if it were on a hanger. She had large, protruding eyes that had a sadness about them.
“What’s this about?” she asked as he walked around the desk and sat down.
Rat hesitated, then handed her the confession.
“What’s this?”
“Read it.”
“It’s in Arabic.”
“A translation is attached.”
“Who did the translation?”
“I did.”
“Are you qualified?”
“Probably not for court, but it’s right. You can have it done later by whoever you want.”
Secret Justice Page 17
