Watson looked at him skeptically, then paged through the document until she saw English. She read straight through to the end. She looked up. “Where did you get this?”
“In Egypt.”
“How?”
“We took him to Egypt to let them question him. When I went to pick him up, he had signed this. I took it from the Egyptians and brought it back.”
“What did they do to him to get it?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“You don’t know?”
“No. But I can see it wasn’t pretty.”
“Did you have anything to do with it?”
“No. When I came back to pick him up I found this confession.”
“How do you know it’s his signature?”
“I asked him. He said it was.”
“They tortured this out of him. I don’t know if we can use it for much.”
“I thought you could use something from a foreign country if we weren’t . . . involved.”
“Sometimes. It’s very tricky. I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll think about it.”
“Yeah. I’ll think about it.”
The more he got to know Watson, the less impressed he was. To think that this was the attorney who was responsible for prosecuting Duar was distressing. Rat stood up. “I’ve got to go.”
“I’ve go to go too,” Watson said.
Rat moved as Watson hurried out of her office with the copy of the confession. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the message that had been waiting for him at the communications center. He read it again, still annoyed. He skipped over the addressee information and the classifications and read the body of the message, which had been sent to him personally:
1. 125 SPECIAL FORCES TEAM MEMBERS BEING SENT TO GEORGIAN REPUBLIC FOR TRAINING OF GEORGIAN ARMY. TERRORISTS FROM GEORGIA, CHECHNYA, AFGHANISTAN, PAKISTAN, SUDAN, AND ELSEWHERE ACCUMULATING IN PANKISI GORGE REGION NORTH OF TBILISI. GEORGIAN ARMY NEEDS TRAINING AND WEAPONS TO GO INTO VALLEY AFTER TERRORISTS.
2. GEORGIANS HAVE REQUESTED YOU BY NAME. AGENCY AND DOD HAVE APPROVED. YOU ARE TO TRAVEL TO GEORGIA TAD WITH THREE OTHERS FROM YOUR TEAM FOR SPECIAL FORCES INSTRUCTION. MORE DETAILED ORDERS AWAIT ARRIVAL IN GEORGIA. OFFICER IN CHARGE OF DETACHMENT IS LIEUTENANT COLONEL JAMES SWIFT, USA.
Rat studied the message, wondering why the Georgians would request him by name. He looked at his RPDA and the e-mail from Sarah St. James. He was starting to regard her e-mails with suspicion. Her encouragement to “cooperate” fully with the Egyptians had come on a recommendation, she said, from Jacobs. And she said Johnson had enough traffic to link Duar’s organization straight to Georgia. He looked at his watch. He had to talk to Andrea, to see if he could calm her down a little, then get off on the earliest transportation to the nearest airport and get to Georgia. Groomer, Robby, and Banger were going to be thrilled.
* * *
Dr. Satterly’s red face lit the way for him as he stormed to the bridge to see the captain. He had forgotten his hat—his cover—which was required on the bridge, but he didn’t care. He opened the door and stepped onto the bridge. “Request permission to come onto the bridge.”
The Officer of the Deck looked at him, noticed he was without his cover and decided not to make too much of it because he wasn’t unrestricted line—not a warfare officer—and he was a captain. “Permission granted.”
“Captain here?” Satterly asked.
The OOD motioned to the captain’s chair on the port side of the bridge.
Captain Hogan was intently studying something on the horizon through enormous binoculars.
“Captain, he’s done it again.”
Logan looked at the surgeon. He didn’t really like Satterly, but he was supposed to be a good doctor. “Meaning?”
“That Special Forces man. The one they call Rat? Whoever he is, Navy, CIA, whatever, he took Duar off the ship—”
“I know.”
“Well, they came back, and I sent the new flight surgeon to see Duar as soon as he came back, to make sure nothing had happened. Plus I figured it would be less . . . I don’t know, confrontational. I don’t think he likes me. He wouldn’t let her see him. So I went down there myself. Captain, he has been tortured.”
Logan put down the binoculars and yelled to the OOD, “You got that trawler?”
“Yes, sir.”
Logan looked at Satterly. “How do you know?”
“I checked him out. There are burn marks on his ears and his . . . testicles. He’s been electrocuted.”
Logan frowned. “You sure?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure. And he seems different. This has really affected him. He’s almost in shock.”
“Is he at risk of dying?”
“No, I don’t think so. But he’s not the same man they took out of here. At least not yet.”
“OOD?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the comm officer up here. I need to send off a message right away.”
* * *
President Kendrick hated being pushed faster than he wanted to go by the press. He had told them almost everything from the day Duar was captured. But it was never enough. “They just don’t ever let go, do they? No matter what we do, they use it to make us look bad. If we’d gone completely public right away, they’d have yelled at us for not giving him a lawyer, or something, start right in on us about tribunals, and how unfair they are. And if we hold off a little, it’s because we’re ashamed, or trying to hide something. Always the same.”
Stuntz drank deeply from the coffee cup in front of him. “Press,” he muttered. “Their goal in life is disruption. They carry a stick around just in case they find a government wheel with spokes.”
Kendrick ignored him. “Now we have to explain.” He looked at Stuntz. “And I want you to do the explaining.”
“Me?” Stuntz almost choked.
“You have a good understanding of everything, and you’re good on your feet. Hold a press conference. Tell them about the tribunal. Then you’ll be grilled about this Rathman trial. You can tell them it’s DOJ, but you should also be ready to defend the charges. The manslaughter charges. Geneva Convention. After all, it was your idea, wasn’t it?”
Stuntz frowned, but said nothing.
“This afternoon.”
Stuntz nodded.
“Sarah, what happened in Egypt?”
She knew he would ask, but his timing and directness surprised her. “In what way?”
“Duar was taken off the ship to Egypt, and on return appears to have been tortured. And this Rathman was with him the entire time. What the hell is going on? He’s one of the ones you’re in contact with, right? And he’s the one who’s going on trial for doing this to another terrorist? Who authorized this?”
“The Egyptians wanted to talk to him and we needed some help in the interrogation. As I understand it, it was a CIA request that was acceded to by the DOD, to give Egypt a chance to interrogate him. As I recall, sir, we all wanted to have him interrogated, and our interrogation wasn’t very effective. We discussed giving a friendly country the chance to interrogate him.”
“Did you know this Rathman was going to take him to Egypt?”
“Yes. Where did you hear about this?” she asked.
“From the captain of the ship. Through Defense,” he said.
She glanced quickly at Stuntz, who pretended to be reading a memo in front of him.
“The captain said his ship’s surgeon reported that Duar was tortured with electric current. To his testicles.”
She grimaced.
“According to the message he has charred skin. He’s in a state of shock. Won’t talk to anyone. And now, I hear, his American lawyer—ACLU type, of course—is on his way to the ship, courtesy of the DOD. We promised that those tried in these tribunals would have civilian lawyers if they wanted. There’s a great idea. You know what his new lawyer is going to do when he finds out his client has been tortured in Egypt, of all
places, while he has been denied access to his client? He’s going to go ape-shit. And then he’ll call the Post, and they’ll go ape-shit—what’s the name of that woman?”
“Josephine Block.”
“Right, then she’ll go ape-shit and this will become her hobby until she makes someone look stupid. And it won’t be me.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Stuntz said. “We haven’t really done anything wrong. The Egypt thing is fine. We can allow others to interrogate him whenever we want any time we want. There are a lot of other countries who have been harmed or threatened by this man. Egypt sees him as a huge threat, with his operation in Sudan and ties to Islamic Jihad. No doubt they got some good stuff out of him too. But we can’t be seen to have anything to do with it. I was aware it was going to happen, sir, and if in the future you’d rather know about these things ahead of time, I’ll be glad—”
“No,” Kendrick said, waving his hand dismissively. “I just hate giving critics ammunition.”
Stewart Woods spoke up. “We got a lot of extraordinary intelligence out of this and a confession, sir.”
Kendrick looked at him. “Is it useful?”
“We think so.”
Kendrick nodded. “If it allows us to interfere with their plans, stop attacks . . . I don’t know.”
* * *
David Stern, Duar’s new lawyer, fresh from the Washington, D.C., office of the ACLU, stepped off the helicopter onto the deck of the Belleau Wood. His senses were completely overwhelmed by the noise of the turning aircraft, the brightness of the ocean reflecting the sun, the smell of jet fuel, and the feel of the hard steel deck under the leather soles of his dress shoes.
He wore a lightweight brown suit that hadn’t fared well in traveling halfway around the world from Washington. It looked like he had slept in it, because he had, several times—in London, Kenya, and finally on the helicopter, with his head dangling like a lamp on a ship. He was completely exhausted. His skin was shiny and pale.
He followed the sailor who had gestured to him and headed toward the island of the enormous ship. They stepped through the steel hatch and the sailor dogged it closed behind him. “You’re here to see Commander Little, right?”
“I don’t know. Who is he?”
“He’s the Navy lawyer defending the terrorist.”
“Yes, I remember Mr. Little’s name, now that you mention it. And he’s only an alleged terrorist.”
“Right,” the sailor replied, smiling, “alleged. I’ll take you right to him. I’ll get your bag and get you checked into your stateroom, sir. Then later I’ll come by and show you where it is.”
Stern stretched his back. “I’d like to get cleaned up and change my clothes.”
“You’d rather do that first, sir?”
“I think I would, actually.”
“Okay, sir. Then why don’t we go right down to the admin office.”
Stern followed him down the confusing labyrinth of ladders and gray passageways to the admin office, where several sailors milled around in dungarees. Stern checked in and was given a key.
The sailor escorted him to his stateroom, showed him how to use the phone and lights, and said he’d be back in fifteen minutes to take him to Commander Little’s office. When he returned Stern was cleaned up and ready to see Little. When Stern stepped into the small office he saw a commander reading Naval Aviation News.
Little looked up.
The sailor introduced them. “Commander Little, this is David Stern, Mr. Stern, Commander Little.”
Little stood slowly and extended his hand. “Barry Little. I’m in charge of the defense team. Nice to meet you.”
“David Stern. Nice to meet you.”
Little didn’t like him. “I guess I’ve never been on the same side of anything as an ACLU lawyer.”
Stern held his smile inside. “I guess I’m not surprised.”
“How exactly did Duar hire you?”
“I am not at liberty to disclose that.”
“How do we really know he hired you at all? How do we know you’re not one of those ACLU assholes who goes around making clients up just so you can make a big splash and sue someone, or make some grandstand play?”
“I guess you should ask Mr. Duar whether he hired me. I’m sure you meet with him every day to prepare the defense. Right?”
“Pretty much. But since he got back from Egypt, he hasn’t felt much like talking.”
Stern was confused. “Egypt?”
“Some of the Special Forces guys came and took him to Egypt for a little free-agent interrogation by our close Egyptian allies. I think the Egyptians aren’t as gentle as we Americans are in interrogation. They don’t put up with bullshit.”
Stern was horrified. “They tortured him?”
“Seems to be the case.”
“What have you done about it?”
“What would you like me to do about it?”
“Notify those who need to know. Tell the press.”
“I suspect they’ll learn about it, but you’re right, we should tell them.”
“Did they get any information out of him that they plan to use in the tribunal?”
“Not that I know of. Nothing they’ve told me about.”
“If they do, they’re going to have a fight on their hands.”
Little nodded. “Want to meet him?”
“Absolutely,” Stern said, controlling his excitement.
Little led Stern out of the office and down the passageway. Sailors passed them, walking quickly in both directions. Stern noticed they were all wearing bell-bottom blue jeans and light blue shirts with their names stenciled over the pocket and their rating stamped on the upper portion of the left sleeve. He had expected them to be wearing the Navy uniforms he had seen in all the recruiting posters. He was beginning to recognize how ignorant he was about the Navy. He had never been on a Navy ship before, not even for a tour in a port.
Little spoke over his shoulder to Stern. “You know, I hate the ACLU. If I ever wonder what I think about something? I find out what the ACLU thinks about it and then take the opposite position.”
Stern had heard it all before. “Very impressive thinking,” he said. “What exactly is it you hate about the ACLU?”
“We probably ought not go there. We’re on the same team here, right? The same side?”
“That’s my understanding.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“You brought it up, I was just trying to find out what was behind it.”
“Hell, you probably hate the Navy and everything about—”
“I don’t hate the Navy.”
“You ever serve?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I decided to serve my country in a different way, by helping those accused of crimes, by participating in the judicial system.”
Little tried not to choke. Serve the country in a different way. What a crock. “How sacrificial. Do you even know anyone who served in the military? Any of your friends? Acquaintances even?”
Stern thought, somewhat embarrassed. “Not really.” He changed the subject. “When was the last time you saw our client?”
“This morning.”
“How was he doing?”
“Not so good. He’s trying to dodge the charge with the oldest trick in the book—‘It ain’t me, man.’ You’ve heard it a million times.”
“Maybe they do have the wrong guy. I don’t automatically assume something my client tells me is wrong, just because someone else has said it before.”
Little stopped. “Have you seen the picture of Duar that’s been in every newspaper in the country every other day for the last six months?”
“Yes.”
“Then when you see him, you tell me it isn’t him.”
“Okay. I’ll take a look. But I believe my client until he gives me a reason not to. Don’t you?”
“My client is usually the government.”
“Right, so wh
at’s your answer?”
“Very funny.”
Stern’s shoulder hit one of the hatches and he slowed momentarily. “Seriously, do you always believe what you get from the government? You find what the FBI or the ATF says to always be true?”
“Not always. They make mistakes like anyone.”
“I’m not talking about mistakes. I’m talking about lying. Are you saying you’ve never seen someone from the government lie to get some defendant convicted?”
“Not saying that.”
“I didn’t think so.”
They turned down a passageway athwartships and descended a ladder. “Did you ask for this assignment?”
Little stopped. “Nope. I was sent out here to prosecute the mass murdering son of a bitch who is now our client. But he wouldn’t accept Commander Watson as his defense attorney.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s a woman.”
“Oh.”
“I can’t wait to see what he does when he finds out you’re Jewish. This ought to be rich.”
“How do you know I’m Jewish?”
Little was surprised. “You’re not?”
“I just wondered how you would know that?”
“I guess I assumed Stern is a Jewish name. Isn’t it?”
“Could be German. But yes, it’s Jewish. Did you check to find out? Why would it matter?”
“Doesn’t make a bit of difference to me. But I’ll bet our Arab mass murdering client cares. I guess we’ll find out. Follow me.”
Little made a sharp turn around a bulkhead and slid down the ladder to the brig.
* * *
Rat was concerned he didn’t have enough time before the helo left and they headed on to Georgia, but he had to see Andrea. He didn’t like the way they had left it at the brig. It had been unfortunate that she had been there. Probably typical of Satterly though, send a woman to do your bidding for you. He looked at the frame number on the scrap of paper in his hand and at the bulkheads as he walked aft on the port side of the carrier. He passed a door that had a sticker on it—”Médecins sans Frontières.” He knew enough French to know what it meant. Doctors Without Borders. Probably Satterly’s stateroom, Rat thought. Who else on a carrier would belong to that organization? And who else would advertise it by putting a sticker on his door? What a dick. Not content to be a member, he has to be an evangelist for his cause. He looked at the frame number just around the corner, and there was Andrea’s room.
Secret Justice Page 18
