“Sure, no problem.”
As soon as he was gone she walked directly to the administrative offices on the second deck and asked for a chit to request leave.
Chapter
18
The admiral’s wardroom was packed and hummed with anticipation. Forty-eight hours earlier the Department of Defense had notified the world that Wahamed Duar was to be put on trial in a military tribunal aboard the Belleau Wood. The scramble among journalists to get aboard to report on the tribunal had been astonishing. They all wanted to see the trial and report it. They had needs—satellite feeds from the Indian Ocean, dedicated fax lines, high-speed Internet access, staterooms for all their reporters and technical people and unfettered access to all the participants including Duar himself. Stuntz, though, had anticipated it. He had set rules—only a limited number of reporters would be allowed to go to the ship to observe the trial in person. He had established a “pool,” much as they would have done if they were suddenly going to war and called reporters to go with them.
The journalists who had been selected sat in the converted wardroom, exhausted from the scramble to get to the trial in the middle of the ocean. They sat in metal armchairs three rows deep. Interspersed among the journalists were the few sailors and Marines who were allowed to watch the trial, selected every day by a lottery of those aboard the ship. They were required to wear their dress uniforms to preserve the integrity of the court.
One journalist who had been excluded from the select group had threatened to lease a helicopter, fly out to the carrier, and land on the flight deck. The captain of the ship thought it would be quite colorful to watch a leased helicopter fly three hundred miles out into the open ocean and try to find the carrier. It was hard enough for those trained to find ships. A pilot not trained in naval flying, who did not know what the carrier might look like on radar—if the helicopter even had radar—had no chance of finding the carrier, and very few helicopters would have the range to fly to the carrier and make it back without refueling.
Sitting to the AP artist’s left was Josephine Block from the Washington Post. She had immediately decided to go to Duar’s trial when it was announced. She debated with herself and her editors whether her time would be better spent at sea with Duar or in D.C. watching Rat’s trial. She hoped to watch them both.
She had had no trouble being accepted as a pool representative and had flown immediately to Kenya to catch the first available Navy helicopter to the ship. She looked worn and disheveled. She had gotten aboard the night before and had “settled in” to her stateroom. She had been up almost all night from the odd noises aboard the ship, and hadn’t yet persuaded herself that she should walk down the too public passageway in her bathrobe and two-dollar flip-flops to the communal shower. So far she had confined her cleaning to the sink.
She waited for the trial to begin with her pencil poised over her notepad, the same kind she had used for decades. The judge had made it clear that laptops weren’t welcome in the courtroom. He didn’t want the distraction of clicking keys.
Josephine found it amusing that the judge was concerned about the noise of nearly silent keys on a computer when her ears were constantly assaulted aboard the ship by the deafening noise of helicopters and Harrier jets, innumerable announcements, bos’n’s pipings and fire drills. The judge had ensured that the speakers in the wardroom had been silenced, but the speakers in the passageway were still clearly audible.
There had been a great deal of controversy when tribunals were first set up under President Bush. But after the first few trials in Cuba the novelty had worn off and the public stopped paying attention. But those trials, it was now realized, were dry runs, attempts to ensure the process would work, that the rules were acceptable, and that the tribunal would function. Each of the men tried was an underling, a foot soldier, no one anyone had heard of, no one who was part of the inner circle of people who planned the destruction of the United States and the rest of the Western world.
Josephine noted everything significant in the courtroom, everything interesting about the people involved, the hum of the ship, the judge, and the gallery. She was excited, truly energized about a story for the first time in perhaps five years. She detected the faint sweet smell of a Pulitzer. This might be her last chance at journalistic glory.
The attorneys were sitting at the counsel table. The judge was announced and everyone in the room stood enthusiastically except Duar, who had to be pulled to his feet by Stern. Josephine strained to see Duar’s face but could see only the back of his head. He carried himself like a beaten man. His hair was cut roughly, as if he had done it himself with scissors and no mirror.
“This court is now in session, the honorable Captain Gerald Graham presiding. Please be seated and come to order.”
Everyone sat.
The judge spoke. “This tribunal is now in session. We will begin proceedings immediately unless any of you has further pretrial motions.” The attorneys shook their heads. “Very well. As has been outlined in the notebooks that you have been given each side will be given an opportunity to present an opening statement. We will then turn to the prosecution for its case. Are you ready to proceed?” he asked Commander Elizabeth Watson.
Elizabeth looked very proper in her white uniform with skirt. She had the mandatory gold ball post earrings and white pumps. She had cleaned her uniform—or rather had it cleaned—the week prior and kept it in her closet untouched to ensure that when the day came her uniform would be perfect.
She stood and paused for a moment. “The United States is ready, Your Honor.”
“You may proceed with your opening statement.”
Elizabeth pushed her chair back and walked slowly to the lectern between the two tables, trying to control her heart rate. She addressed the court of five military officers: three Navy captains, and two Marine colonels selected by the admiral in charge of the Fifth Fleet, of which the Belleau Wood was a part. They sat beside Judge Gerald Graham, two on his right, and three on his left. They wore their tropical dress uniforms with short-sleeve shirts, the Navy officers in their distinctive whites, and the Marines in olive trousers and khaki shirts, all with impressive arrays of ribbons and warfare specialty pins.
She began. “May it please the court, this is a case about the terrorist who has conspired to attack the United States.” Her voice sounded to her like it was coming from across the room. It sounded thin and tentative. She forced more air from her lungs through her pinched throat. “Wahamed Duar is the most sought-after, most wanted terrorist in the world. Through his writings, through his declarations to people both within his circle and to the general public, Duar has repeatedly threatened to destroy the United States. While the destruction of the United States is clearly outside of his power, his intention is clear—to do as much harm to the United States as he is capable of doing. He has enlisted numerous followers to assist him in that goal, several of whom were killed in the attempt to capture Mr. Duar in the Sudan.
“So what exactly are the charges? Mr. Duar is being charged with murdering American citizens and conspiracy to commit terrorist acts. The evidence will show that Duar has conspired to attack the United States on several occasions. We will produce his own writings, audiotapes of his conversations, documents captured from his operation, and testimony about his attempt to purchase weapons grade plutonium on the night of his capture. He intended to use the plutonium to create nuclear weapons to use against the United States. We will bring witnesses who will so testify.
“The evidence we will bring to this court is conclusive and irrefutable. At the conclusion of the evidence, the only possible outcome will be a vote of guilty. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Counselor,” Graham said, his face showing his surprise at the brevity and inadequacy of her opening statement. He looked at Stern. “Would the defense like to make an opening statement at this time?”
“We would, Your Honor,” Stern said. The judge nodded and Stern stood. Stern looked at th
e officers who were studying him; he wondered what they thought of an ACLU attorney defending a hated terrorist on a Navy ship. He was sure they wondered why Barry Little wasn’t good enough, what he brought to the case that Barry Little couldn’t bring. They could understand Little defending Duar. It was the job to which he had been assigned. But to volunteer? Or at least accept the job of defending Duar? Why? Stern figured they thought it was for money. How wrong they were.
Stern began. “This case is actually quite simple. The prosecution claims to have irrefutable evidence against Wahamed Duar. They may be right. They may have all the evidence needed to convict Wahamed Duar of conspiracy to commit terrorist acts. We are anxious to hear that evidence; because that which has been cited in the opening statement is totally unpersuasive. They simply declared that they have such evidence, they did not tell us what that evidence will show. But let’s take the prosecutor at her word. Let’s assume that she has the irrefutable evidence to convict Wahamed Duar. The prosecution’s case will still fail. It will fail miserably. It will crash to the ground in a heap.”
Stern stopped. He looked at the skeptical faces of the court and the judge. He turned around and looked at the equally skeptical faces of the journalists and others in the gallery. “The man sitting at the defense table, the man that they are attempting to put in prison forever—or worse yet, execute—is not Wahamed Duar. Not only is he not the terrorist that they believe they are attempting to convict with this so-called irrefutable evidence, but he has been telling them so ever since he came aboard the ship. From the time he arrived until today, he has repeatedly and consistently told them that his name is Mohammed al-Wadhi. He is a taxi driver from Khartoum in Sudan. But the Americans, the United States Navy, even the CIA, refused to believe him. They insist that he is Wahamed Duar. Well, one of the many good things about the American system of justice is that the prosecution has the burden of proof. She must prove that the man sitting at the defense table is in fact Wahamed Duar. We’re here to tell you that they cannot so prove, because he is not Wahamed Duar. If necessary, we will put on evidence to prove that. We will be asking the court to dismiss this case when it is appropriate to do so. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Counselor,” the judge said. He looked back at Elizabeth Watson, whose face was hard and showed concern. She had obviously not anticipated difficulty in identifying the defendant. She knew of course it was her burden of proof to show that the person being charged, the one who had committed the crime at issue, was the defendant. She had never had any difficulty proving identity before. They always knew who was before them. She quickly reviewed what identification evidence she had contemplated, and tried to think of ways she could buttress the evidence that to her now seemed thinner than tolerable.
The judge continued. “Call your first witness.”
* * *
“Good morning, chief. Is the XO in?” Andrea asked the surly chief petty officer in the ship’s admin office.
“Yes, ma’am. He’s got several appointments, though. Can I ask what this is about?”
“I need to submit a leave request.”
“Yes, ma’am. Just put it right over there in the leave request box and I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“I want him to get it right away. This morning.”
“That I can’t guarantee, ma’am.” The chief looked back down at the paperwork he had been working on before she interrupted him.
“Then I want to see him right now.”
“I’m sorry, but like I said, he’s busy all morning. Then he has to go do an inspection—”
“Then I’ll just tell him myself.” She walked past the chief and knocked loudly on the XO’s door. She knew she was over the line, past where protocol ended, into the high-risk area of annoying a superior officer.
“What!” the XO yelled from behind the door.
Andrea opened the door and stepped into the XO’s office. She quickly realized she had stepped into a meeting of the department heads of the ship. “Excuse me, XO. I’m sorry. The chief told me you were in a meeting, and I just didn’t listen to him. I’m sorry. I have a leave request that I wanted to give you.”
The XO frowned over his reading glasses. He had a hard face that betrayed his complete lack of sympathy. “Emergency leave? Somebody die?”
“No, sir, it’s ordinary leave. A friend—my boyfriend, I guess . . . is going on trial. He’s the one who was involved in that incident in Sudan? The terrorists who died?”
“The one who tortured that poor man to death?” the XO asked.
“I guess that’s what they’re trying to find out.”
“Hell, we ought to give him a medal. We ought to torture every one of those assholes. Maybe that would get their attention. Nothing else seems to. I mean after all, it was just the water board. I had to go through that. Damned unpleasant, but it won’t kill you—or at least not usually. So you just want to go back to hold your boyfriend’s hand?”
“I—I just wanted to be with him. To be there during this very difficult time.”
The department heads stared at her, annoyed at having been interrupted.
The XO replied, “It will be a difficult time around here too. We’re putting a terrorist on trial ourselves in case you hadn’t noticed, and our surgeon has been subpoenaed back to that same trial you want to go to. You’re the second-highest-ranking medical person aboard the ship. We can’t afford to let you go. Keep your leave application. It’s denied.”
Andrea couldn’t believe it. She had gotten along well with the XO the few times she had been required to deal with him. “Is there any way you could reconsider, sir?”
“No. Now please leave, because we’re in the middle of a department head meeting and you just took five minutes of our allotted time.”
Andrea nodded and backed toward the door. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you, sir.” She closed the door behind her.
The chief was standing right by the door, listening to the entire conversation. He was trying to control the smirk on his face. “Sorry about that. I tried to tell you he was in a meeting, ma’am.”
Andrea looked at him with daggers in her eyes, and walked out of the administrative offices. She went straight to her stateroom, closed the door behind her, and folded down her desk. She opened one of the drawers, the one into which she dumped her junk, things that didn’t have a home elsewhere in her stateroom: belt buckles, ribbons, officer pins, small notebooks, innumerable things, Brasso, shoe strings, and keys. She dug through the drawer, looking for Skyles’s business card. She was sure she had kept his card. She continued to dig and then found it. As she expected, it had his e-mail address on it. One word Satterly had said, that the XO had mentioned, rang in her ears. Subpoena. It was what had gotten Satterly off the ship. She took Satterly’s stateroom key from her pocket, and headed to his room to use his computer.
* * *
The Tbilisi was one of the few cargo ships in the world that sailed under a Georgian flag. It was a rundown small merchant ship of ten thousand tons. In spite of its looks, the steam plant was in remarkably good condition. The Tbilisi was able to steam at twelve knots consistently. If pressed, it could maintain eighteen knots for several hours.
The rusty hull and peeling paint on the superstructure went unnoticed among the dozens of other ships of equally poor condition as the Tbilisi pulled into Monrovia, Liberia. The ship had made the voyage from Georgia to western Africa very quickly. The containers, which had been loaded at the last minute, and for which twice the usual rate had been paid, sat on deck.
With the help of two tugs, the Tbilisi inched up to a pier controlled by the Liberian Shipping Company. The ship had been expected; its arrival was completely unremarkable and barely noticed by even those in the shipyards. The captain knew very little, only that this stop in Monrovia was to off-load three containers, and fifteen “sailors.” They didn’t look much like able-bodied seamen to him, but who was he to say.
As the ship finally moored and the tugs
pulled away, the gangplank came down from the aft third of the ship and the sailors began walking off to explore Monrovia in the short time they would be there; the Tbi-lisi was scheduled to leave that night—the sailors only had twelve hours ashore.
Lisbie looked out his window and watched the crew go ashore. He didn’t know why Satti had insisted on getting his fifteen men onto his ship, but he knew it wasn’t to learn the finer points of seamanship. He could pick out the men that Satti had forced him to list. They were less sure-footed coming down the gangplank than the true sailors. They hadn’t been at sea for years if at all. Their internal balance systems didn’t adjust back and forth to walking on a ship’s deck and then on shore. They had rubber legs. Lisbie was grateful that they had at least cut their hair and dressed to look like the sailors from the Tbilisi.
Lisbie looked at all the people in view, those standing, sitting, leaning against buildings, those in groups working or avoiding work, and those walking away from their docks. He searched them to see if Satti was there to ensure his men had arrived. He was nowhere to be seen. He looked at the rubber-legged group that had walked off the ship that was now gathering out of sight behind a low-slung warehouse. They deferred to one man who was the only one really speaking. Lisbie studied him. He was thin and unremarkable. He looked somehow familiar, but Lisbie was sure he had never met him.
The man Lisbie was looking at, Tayseer Hotary, felt exposed. He wasn’t to take his men aboard the Liberian ship until dark, which wasn’t for another hour. He didn’t want to let his men disperse in the city for fear of trouble that he couldn’t foresee. And he didn’t want to walk around as a group—too conspicuous. Nor could he stay where he was. Equally conspicuous. Hotary looked around anxiously. He glanced up and caught Lisbie’s eye.
Lisbie pulled back from the window with his heart pounding. The man’s look had chilled him.
Secret Justice Page 25
