Secret Justice

by James W. Huston

  “You would have this jury believe that the CIA is pure and pristine and does not torture people even if the greater good of the United States is at stake?”

  “That is certainly my policy. I can’t speak to what happened before I got there or what happens in other directorates that I don’t see.”

  “Isn’t it true, sir, that the CIA requires its operatives to do what it takes to get the job done, but tells them if something goes wrong that they’re on their own? And their superiors will deny all knowledge?”

  Jacobs bristled. “No. I don’t operate that way.”

  Skyles was surprised. “Have you ever said anything like that to Mr. Rathman?”

  He hesitated slightly. “Not that I recall.”

  “Do you deny saying to him that if things went wrong in Sudan that he was on his own?”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “The United States Government wants results from its operatives, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you encourage them to do what it takes to get the job done.”

  “Within limitations.”

  “And if things get political, or don’t go perfectly, you back away from them and let them fall on their own, don’t you?”

  “I don’t think that’s fair.”

  “That’s what you’ve done to Lieutenant Rathman, isn’t it?”

  “No. It isn’t.”

  “No further questions.”

  Chapter

  23

  Commander Glenn Pugh read the message he had been handed, one of the strangest he had ever received. As the commanding officer of the Louisiana (SSBN 743), the latest Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine, he received numerous messages every day. Many, like this one, contained orders that dealt with the submarine’s mission; but never with instructions like this.

  The Louisiana was designed to hide in the deepest parts of the ocean and launch intercontinental nuclear ballistic missiles at whatever enemy the United States decided to obliterate. He was never sent on a mission to find things, or track other ships, or do anything other than hide. But here was a message ordering him to ignore the operational orders he had received just the day before. Now he was to get under way immediately from his home base in King’s Bay, Georgia, regardless of the state of his stores, his crew, or anything else. His estimate for getting under way in any orderly fashion was a minimum of twelve hours. Twenty-five percent of his crew was ashore. He didn’t have time to recall them. The message was unequivocal, though—get underway immediately. He was to head south at maximum possible speed to intercept a course from Monrovia, Liberia, to Jacksonville, Florida, then head outbound toward Africa looking for a container ship called the Monrovian Prince. He was to find it and intercept it before it reached Florida.

  His intelligence officer had received photographs, descriptions, and electronic signature information of the radars and radios of the ship by classified e-mail. Unfortunately they didn’t have an acoustic signature, at least one the Office of Naval Intelligence had confidence in. Pugh thought they had all they needed to find a single container ship. But once they found it, then what? The message was curiously silent. Since secrecy was clearly not critical, he could communicate with Washington when he did find the ship. He had no doubt that he would find it. If it was on the described course, he would find it. He could simply wait off the coast of Jacksonville, perhaps sixty miles, and wait for the ship to come to him. If he was then to sink it, or stop it, or board, whatever he was called upon to do, he would be there and that ship would have no idea he was anywhere nearby, even if it was equipped with the world’s most sophisticated sonar equipment, which it undoubtedly was not.

  Pugh turned to his Officer of the Deck. “Pass the word to get under way.”

  The OOD looked to see if his commanding officer was joking. He wasn’t. “Under way, sir?”

  “Under way.”

  “Sir, pretty much all the crew from the starboard watch are ashore.”

  “Under way.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  * * *

  Hotary’s men continued to work furiously on the Sea Dragon, changing the paint, the appearance, and the electronics. They scrambled all over the ship replacing each piece of electronics gear that transmitted anything off the ship, anything that could be identified as unique to the Monrovian Prince. Each replacement brought them closer to their new identity, the Sea Dragon.

  The telephone on the bridge rang. It was engineering. Hotary picked up the receiver. “What is it?”

  “The engine is overheating. I don’t know if it can handle this speed much longer.”

  “It will. We must stay at maximum speed.”

  “We might break down.”

  Hotary examined the shaft RPM and the speed. He checked their position based on the GPS receiver and quickly recalculated their time to the rendezvous. They had no time to spare even at maximum speed. “We have no choice.”

  * * *

  Wolff stood up in the courtroom. “Your Honor, United States calls Richard Velasca.”

  Skyles turned to Rat and whispered, “Who is this?”

  “I told you. Navy SEAL. He’s in Dev Group.”

  Velasca was dressed just like Rat in his whites. He was handsome and tan. His black hair was combed back and gave him a cosmopolitan look. He was generally a carefree person, but he immediately sensed the seriousness of the courtroom. He walked to the front of the room, was sworn in, and took the witness chair.

  Wolff asked him his name, his current position in the Navy, and a little bit about his background. He then asked, “Do you know the defendant, Lieutenant Kent Rathman?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He was in Dev—my current Navy unit with me until he moved over to the—can I say it?”

  “Yes,” the judge said, anticipating his concern.

  “He was assigned TAD to the CIA. To their SAS group.”

  “But before that you served on the same counterterrorism team in the Navy?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you saw Mr. Rathman?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “Where were you?”

  “At the Little Creek O’ Club.”

  Rat leaned back slightly. “Uh oh,” he said to no one in particular. He knew where this was going.

  “Did you have a chance to talk to Mr. Rathman on that evening?”

  “Sure. There were several of us from Dev Group and a few other SEALs. We were having a few beers.”

  Wolff leaned on the lectern with his hands on the side. “Did the subject of the raid in Sudan come up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Mr. Rathman talk about it at all?”

  “Sure. The fact that Duar had been captured was all over the base. It was all over the SEAL community. It was huge. A real coup. Rat—Lieutenant Rathman—is something of a legend in the SEAL community. We wanted to know all about the raid, and he was in town. Frankly, the rest of us still in Dev Group were a little jealous that we weren’t in on it.”

  “What did he say?”

  Velasca shrugged. “Basically that several Special Ops teams were airborne that night. They got the call—they were the closest—jumped out of the C-17 with Land Cruisers . . .” he paused as he considered how much to say, “. . . then drove to the rendezvous spot and walked in like they owned the damned place. Sorry. It took the enemy just long enough to figure out who they were that they were able to position themselves for the ensuing firefight. Thankfully only one American was killed; most of Duar’s men were killed and he was captured.”

  “Did he mention how he located Duar?”

  Velasca nodded. “He said they got one of Duar’s men, I forget his name, but Duar had somehow eluded them, or escaped.” Velasca hesitated and glanced quickly at Rat, suddenly feeling the heat of his testimony. He saw Rat staring at him.

  “Did he say what he did to this man?”

&
nbsp; “He said he had to encourage him to tell them where Duar was. He knew Duar was there; the signal for the attack was not to be given unless Duar was present. And the guy who had given the signal was right there, he was still alive and standing there. And he said Duar had been right there, right in that room. He didn’t know where he had gone.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He said that he had to give the man a long drink of water.”

  “And then?”

  “So someone in the group—there were probably eight of us—said, ‘You boarded him?’ and Rat nodded and smiled.”

  A gasp went up from two of the jurors. Rat looked down at the table.

  Rat whispered to Skyles, “Isn’t this hearsay or something?”

  “Yeah. But it’s admissible as hell.”

  Wolff asked, “What did you take that to mean?”

  “That he gave the guy the water board.”

  “Mr. Rathman,” he said, turning to look at Rat, “the defendant, said that was what he had done to the man in Sudan?”

  “He didn’t say that exactly, but that was how I took it.”

  Wolff looked at Skyles. “Your witness.”

  * * *

  David Stern had spent hours in the brig aboard the Belleau Wood evaluating Duar as a witness, deciding whether to call him. Commander Little said he was a horrible witness and shouldn’t be called. That the confession was fatal, and he signed it and admitted he was Wahamed Duar. To call him as a witness would just make it worse. But Stern disagreed. He was sure the Navy had the wrong man, and he wanted their client, whatever his name was, to testify. Duar had listened and agreed with Stern. He would testify.

  “Mr. Stern, since the prosecution has rested and we have dealt with your motions, do you have any witnesses?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. We would like to call the defendant.”

  The members of the court were surprised, as was Elizabeth Watson. She had rarely seen a defendant called in a criminal trial. It was extraordinary.

  The defendant made his way slowly to the witness chair, was sworn in, and sat down. When asked to state his full name, as the translator gave him the question, he responded, “Mohammed el-Mahdi.”

  The judge looked at him skeptically, anticipating various games to dodge his guilt.

  Stern began, “You said your name is Mohammed el-Mahdi. Yet during this trial you have been repeatedly identified as Wahamed Duar. Which is it?”

  “My name is Mohammed el-Mahdi.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Khartoum, Sudan.”

  “What is your profession?”

  “I drive a taxicab.”

  “Do you know Wahamed Duar?”

  “Yes. We grew up together.”

  “When was the last time you saw Wahamed Duar?”

  “The night I was captured.”

  “Are you a member of Duar’s terrorist organization?”

  “He is not a terrorist. And those that work with him are not members of a terrorist organization. They are revolutionaries.”

  “Why do you think that Duar had you around?”

  “Because I look like him. I think he always hoped that if something happened, they might mistake me for him.”

  Stern looked at the members of the court. They weren’t buying it yet, but they were listening. “That could be risky for you. There are many people who want Wahamed Duar dead.”

  “Yes, some risk. But I would do anything for him. He is a great man,” he said with intensity.

  “Did he let you in on any of his planning or inside meetings?”

  “No. Never. He never told me anything.”

  “Did he ever tell you what to do if you were captured in his place?”

  “Yes. He told me to say anything I wanted. He knew I didn’t know anything significant. No one would gain any information about him through me.”

  “Did he have you dress like him?”

  “Yes. I knew that. We didn’t really talk about it in the open, but it was obvious. We looked very much alike.”

  “Except for the eyes.”

  “Yes. He has very light brown eyes.”

  “Was Wahamed Duar there the night you were captured?”

  “Yes. He was there. He was hiding.”

  “So the American forces simply missed him. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  Stern nodded. “One last thing. This confession that has been admitted into evidence. Did you write that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In Egypt.”

  “Wasn’t it after you had been captured by the American forces?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get to Egypt?”

  “The Americans came and got me off this ship and flew me to Egypt.”

  “Then you wrote that confession?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it true? Is what you said in that document accurate?”

  “No. None of it.”

  “Then why did you write it?”

  “I had been beaten and had a towel put around my head. They poured water into the towel until I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating. Then I was electrocuted in my ears,” he said touching his earlobes, “and then my balls. They tortured me. Almost to death.”

  “Do you remember that American officer who was here? Who testified?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he the one who took you off this ship and escorted you to Egypt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he there when you were tortured?”

  “No.”

  “Was he was in the room during any of the torture?”

  “No.”

  “Are you Wahamed Duar?”

  “No. I am Mohammed el-Mahdi.”

  “Everything in the so-called confession is untrue?”

  “Yes. Completely.”

  “Why did you sign it?”

  “Because I couldn’t stand the pain anymore.”

  Stern nodded his head. “No further questions.”

  Elizabeth Watson rose slowly. She wasn’t sure where to start. She had not anticipated this man testifying, whatever his name really was. She had not prepared a cross-examination, for which she was now kicking herself. “You wear contact lenses, do you not?”

  “No.”

  “There is only one photograph in existence of Wahamed Duar. That photograph was taken of you when you were wearing light brown contact lenses. Correct?”

  “No. That is not me in the photograph.”

  “You admit you were at the meeting when the raid took place. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you admit that you are part of Duar’s organization. Correct?”

  “No. I never do anything with him. I just hang around. Once in a while he will ask me to drive him somewhere. But that’s all.”

  “Yet you were friends with him from childhood? And he shows so little faith in you that you’re not part of his organization?”

  “I’m not very . . . smart. I never got much education. He knows this. I think he really just keeps me around because I look like him. There are a couple of other men who look like him too that he uses for the same purpose.”

  Watson was horrified. This was getting worse. She felt the burning eyes of the journalists on the back of her head. They were scribbling furiously in their obnoxious little notebooks, ready to transmit to their newspapers and television stations that the United States had captured the wrong man, and Wahamed Duar was still at large. Her name would be in every newspaper in the country for having failed. “If in fact you are Wahamed Duar, it would be very clever for you to have your friend have his photograph taken who has lighter eyes, and tell anyone who would listen that he is Wahamed Duar. Wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe you are Mohammed el-Mahdi and maybe you are Wahamed Duar. You were captured with Duar’s organization in the middle of the biggest arms sales meeting in recent memory. Yet you claim
complete innocence. Perhaps you’re Wahamed Duar and pretending not to be. Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

  “No.”

  “The photograph we have in evidence is of Mohammed el-Mahdi, isn’t it?”

  “It looks like Wahamed to me. But it isn’t me.”

  “Maybe you are Duar and the photograph is of Mr. el-Mahdi, your double?”

  “No. It is not. I am el-Mahdi.”

  She thought for a moment, just long enough for those in the gallery to think she had lost her way. “Sir, you were there on the morning of the raid, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were armed, correct?”

  “We were attacked and I found a rifle on the floor and picked it up.”

  “When you were about to be captured you fired at the American forces, trying to kill them, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t know what was happening. I was afraid.”

  “No further questions,” Elizabeth said, sitting down with a slight smile on her face, a manufactured, disingenuous smile that hid her frustration. She had hoped to place some belief in the minds of the court that this man was in fact Wahamed Duar, who had simply created a clever story to evade conviction. But she doubted the very thing she was trying to sell. It was simply the best she could do.

  “Anything further, Mr. Stern?”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “You may step down, sir,” Judge Graham said.

  Stern stood. “Your Honor, if it please the court, I would like to renew my motion to exclude the confession. It seems apparent that United States agents were complicit in the confession. If it wasn’t solicited by them, they participated by delivering my client to Egypt, then waiting just behind the curtain until the torture was completed. It is complicity of a very dark and troubling kind, Your Honor, and the confession must be excluded to deter American forces from participating in this kind of charade.”

  “Denied,” Judge Graham said with finality.

  * * *

  In Washington Wolff stood up. He was ready to call his next witness. He had just completed Sellers, the one disgruntled member of Rat’s team, who had willingly, eagerly, spoken with Wolff on the phone, and had testified gladly. He had nearly skipped into the courtroom, ready to relieve his conscience by telling all, but had suddenly lost some of his enthusiasm when he looked into Rat’s face. At the end, all he could say was that Rat had been kneeling by Mazmin, and there was water involved, but he really couldn’t see much. Wolff was furious. It wasn’t what Sellers had said on the phone. But he too had seen the look Rat had given Sellers.