Secret Justice

by James W. Huston

  Skyles turned to Rat. “There are still twelve people on their witness list that they haven’t called. A few of them I never even had a chance to contact.”

  “That just impresses the hell out of me,” Rat said, looking at Skyles. “It’s my life that’s on trial here. Do you understand that I’ll be in prison? You couldn’t even find time to call them? What the hell have you been doing?” Rat was seething. The trial was getting to him. He was unable to fight back; he had to rely on Skyles. Why hadn’t he followed the advice of his friends and stayed in Dev Group? Don’t go to the CIA, they said. It’s in Washington, and Washington is poison. Everything is political, and we don’t know how to play that game. They don’t believe in duty and honor, just power and position. But he hadn’t listened. He had been flattered by their interest. It felt like an opportunity to do some things he would never get another chance to do. Now he wanted nothing more than to go back to his regular Navy life, back to Dev Group.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Skyles said.

  “The United States requests that the courtroom be cleared,” Wolff said.

  Judge Wiggins nodded. “All observers and journalists are to clear the courtroom.”

  The marshals escorted everyone out except the court personnel, the attorneys, and the jury.

  Wiggins waited for complete silence, then said to Wolff, “Call your witness.”

  “The United States calls Achmed Massoud.”

  Skyles frowned. “This is their big, secret witness.”

  Rat looked at the back of the courtroom as the man came in. He recognized the man instantly. He tried not to let the jury see his consternation. He said through his clenched teeth, “Oh shit.”

  Skyles turned quickly to him. “What? Who is he?”

  “Acacia. He was there.”

  “Where?” Skyles said as he saw Acacia enter the room dressed in a khaki-colored Italian suit.

  “Sudan.”

  “Do you have any dirt on him? Anything I can use to cross-examine him?”

  Rat thought, then said quickly in a whisper, “When I was—talking—to the guy, Mazmin, Acacia asked me to look away for a few seconds. He wanted to kill him. He was ready to cut him open. Or shoot him. And Achmed’s not his real name.”

  “What is his real name?”

  “I don’t know. Acacia was a code name. He used all kinds of names.”

  Acacia’s eyes met Rat’s as he walked up to the witness chair.

  Acacia was sworn in and sat down carefully. His suit was perfect. His shirt matched, and his expensive designer tie gave him a sophisticated cosmopolitan look. He was wearing a Rolex. Rat had known him for two years. He was one of the cleverest operators he had ever met. He always seemed to find his way into the financial side of terrorist organizations, criminal endeavors, or even government corruption, and he always came out ahead of the game. Not only did he roll up the terrorist organization, but he ruined their finances for decades and seemed to somehow make off with some of it. Some of the money probably went to his principals in Jordan, and some of it probably ended up in Switzerland.

  Wolff was clearly relishing calling a foreign operative to testify against Rat, to drive the final nail in the coffin. He knew that Acacia had been there, and he knew that Acacia had seen everything. It had been a struggle to get Jordan to force Acacia to come over to the trial. He had been required to go through the State Department and even the CIA to get authorization to identify him.

  “Were you present on the night an attack occurred in Sudan by American forces trying to capture Wahamed Duar?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “Who led that raid for the American forces?”

  “Lieutenant Rathman. We knew him as Rat.”

  “Is he here?”

  “Yes, he’s sitting right over there,” he said, indicating.

  “Were you there when the American Special Forces came into the room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe for us what happened.”

  Acacia recounted the events of that night. The jury was riveted. They wanted to listen to Acacia all day. They were dazzled by his suave demeanor and his mystery.

  “And after the firefight subdued, Lieutenant Rathman, the defendant,” Wolff said, pointing, “grabbed this Mazmin and threw him onto a table. Is that correct?”

  “Well, I saw Mazmin on the table.”

  Rat’s heart sank. “Here we go,” he muttered to Skyles.

  “What did he do?”

  Acacia hesitated. He looked at Rat, right in his eyes. For some reason, perhaps wishful thinking, Rat felt reassured. Acacia answered, “He offered him some water.”

  The jurors laughed. Several of them sat back, thankful for the release in tension. Wolff was not pleased. “By offering him water, as you said, you don’t mean to imply that Rathman was trying to satisfy the thirst of the man he had just placed on the table, do you?”

  “I don’t know what his intentions were. I wasn’t watching that closely, and he and I have never spoken about it.”

  “Did you see him pour water onto his face, in the mouth and nose area of Mazmin, the man who later died?”

  Acacia glanced at the jury, then back at Wolff with a starkly serious look. “This Mazmin, this murderer, is part of the most vicious terrorist organization in the world, headed by Wahamed Duar, who was there that night. I saw him with my own eyes. These are the men who tried to kill the King of Jordan six months ago. These are the men who murder Americans at every opportunity. They have no sense of justice. I personally wanted to—”

  “Did you or did you not see Lieutenant Rathman pour water onto his face?”

  Acacia was annoyed. “May I finish?”

  Wolff replied, quickly sensing that this witness was getting out of control, “You may continue answering the question, but you may not continue a speech about your opinions regarding—”

  Skyles saw his opening. He stood up quickly. “Your Honor, he asked a question, yet now he refuses to let the witness answer it because he doesn’t like the answer. That’s not justice, that’s not—”

  The judge turned to Acacia, pressing his glasses up hard into his face. “Answer the question, sir, and you will be given a chance to give your full answer, but it must be responsive to the question.”

  Acacia nodded. “I personally wanted to kill the man on the table. I had a knife in my clothing, as well as a gun. Lieutenant Rathman restrained me. I walked to the table with the full intention of killing him, but your American officer would not let me do it. He saved the man’s life.”

  Rat tried not to smile.

  Wolff wanted to strangle him. “Did you see him pouring water into Mazmin’s face?”

  Acacia sat there for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he spoke in his quiet way again. “I saw him offering the man a drink, I saw him prevent me from killing him, which I would do today with my bare hands if given the chance, and would do to Wahamed Duar if you allow me to go aboard your ship for thirty minutes, but after I was stopped, I was ashamed, and turned away. I did not see what happened after that.”

  “You saw Lieutenant Rathman torture him. Didn’t you?”

  “Leading,” Skyles objected.

  “Sustained,” the judge said.

  “Did you see Rathman torture Mazmin?”

  “I saw some water, I saw him offer a drink, but if Mazmin needed to be tortured, I would have done it, and he would’ve told me whatever I wanted to know, I promise you. Your Lieutenant Rathman seemed restrained. He seemed unwilling to do what was necessary to truly get this man to talk. I would’ve been happy to do it.”

  “But he told Lieutenant Rathman where Duar was, did he not?”

  “That is what I understand. Perhaps he was grateful for the drink.”

  Two jurors laughed out loud and then put their hands over their mouths, ashamed of their lack of control.

  Wolff knew he had missed his target by a wide margin. He remembered that phrase before. Another witness had used the same ph
rase, that Mazmin was grateful for the drink. But who? Someone had gotten to the witnesses and encouraged them not to talk to him, even told them what to say and how to say it. Wolff had been required to call the witnesses cold, without meeting with them first, and they were killing him. Groome, he suddenly thought. The other SEAL. Rat’s best friend. “Sir, one last thing. Have you spoken with anyone about your testimony here today?”

  “Not really.”

  “Did you talk to a Lieutenant Ted Groome?”

  Acacia looked surprised. “Yes, I did.”

  “He called you.”

  “Yes.”

  “In Jordan?” Wolff asked skeptically.

  “No. Here. After I got here to testify at the request of your Department of Justice, an official request through my government in Jordan.”

  “He called you here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “At my hotel.”

  “How did he know you were coming, or what hotel you would be at?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t you tell him?”

  “No.”

  “Then I have no idea.”

  “What did he say?” Wolff regretted the question as soon as he asked it.

  Acacia hesitated. “He said he had already testified and that you were trying to hang Lieutenant Rathman, you were twisting the truth and determined to get a conviction because of political pressure. I think that’s what he said. Oh, and that the American government was trying to convict a hero.”

  Wolff wanted to disappear through the floor. He had walked into a trap. “Nothing further,” he said.

  Skyles fought back a grin. “Sir, did you come here willingly at the request of the U.S. Government?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you told the truth to the best of your ability?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Do you speak Arabic?”

  “Yes I do.”

  “Did you hear Mr. Rathman threaten this Mazmin person in any way?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Thank you, sir, no further questions.”

  Acacia got down from the witness chair slowly and walked out of the courtroom. As he went by Rat, he winked.

  Chapter

  24

  The tribunal members filed back into the wardroom. They had listened with great care to the closing arguments, which dealt almost entirely with the question of identity. Commander Watson was not optimistic. She had felt the case slip through her hands the minute Duar, or el-Mahdi, took the stand.

  Stern’s heart pounded. He knew if the court believed his client was Wahamed Duar he would be convicted. But Stern was completely convinced that his client was not Duar. The journalists were on his side. They had quickly published the stories about the mistaken identity. They were accusing the United States Government of incompetence for capturing the wrong man, or for letting him slip through their fingers. They were gleefully tying the two trials together, Duar’s and Rathman’s. They made a once brilliant operation look almost comical. As much fun as it was to write the articles, there was an underlying tone of concern. If Duar wasn’t on trial on the Belleau Wood, where was he?

  The Washington Post in particular was enthusiastic about the angle of the defendant being a taxi driver from Khartoum. Literally not one story about Duar, or el-Mahdi, ran in the Post without referring to him as a cabdriver. They recounted the extent to which the United States had gone, the efforts put forth with multiple Special Operations teams airborne, multiple jets with in-air refueling, helicopters standing by and innumerable others backing up the operation, all to capture a taxi driver.

  Stern loved the image; he loved the fact that people were picking up on the heart of the defense, and that they were assuming to be true what he was trying to prove. They ran the photograph of Duar next to the AP artist’s drawing of el-Mahdi. Not only were the eyes different, but on close examination the faces were slightly different as well. Even though the photograph of Duar was of poor quality, similar to a photocopy of a newspaper photograph, it was good enough to tell the difference even allowing for the inherent inaccuracy of the drawing.

  Elizabeth Watson sat at the prosecution table next to Stern in her perfect uniform with her ankles crossed and her bony hands folded. Her lips were pressed tightly together, clearly anticipating the not-guilty verdict, ready for the worst. Stern derived great satisfaction from the look on her face. The journalists were anxious for the conclusion. Several of them had satellite phones ready to transmit the result to their principals instantly once they had the news.

  Judge Graham looked around the room and waited for quiet. “This court is now in session. I would like to read the verdict of the court.” He unfolded a piece of paper. “As to the charge of conspiracy to commit terrorist acts against the United States, we find the defendant . . . not guilty.”

  The courtroom buzzed as if an electrical switch had been thrown.

  “Quiet please,” he said, and waited. The noise died down. “As to the charge of murder of American citizens by terrorist act, we find the defendant not guilty.” He folded the piece of paper back and handed it to the bailiff.

  Stern let out a sigh and smiled. The translator sitting immediately behind him conveyed the result to his client. Stern shook his hand in congratulations. He stood up and faced the judge. “Your Honor, since my client was taken from his country against his will, I request that the United States return him to his country at their expense immediately. I would like that to be part of the court’s order.”

  Graham looked at Stern with a severe expression. “That is a reasonable request, Mr. Stern. But I’m afraid you misperceive the result.”

  “In what way?” Stern asked.

  “While the court certainly had the power to determine whether he was guilty of the charges before it, other powers are left solely to me. I will confirm the tribunal’s order regarding the charges against your client. It is the belief of the court that your client is not Wahamed Duar.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Stern said, sitting down.

  “But I’m not done,” the judge said, raising his hand. He then pointed at the defendant. “According to his own testimony, he was part of Duar’s organization, even if it was at a low level. He was present at the meeting in Sudan. He was therefore a member of a terrorist group that has the destruction of the United States as its primary goal. Further, he took up arms and fired at American forces in the performance of their duties. As such, he is an enemy combatant as that has been recently defined. I therefore order that he be sent to Guantánamo Bay, Cuba, where he is to be held until the cessation of hostilities.”

  Stern felt as if he had had his legs cut out from under him. “But, sir, he hasn’t been charged with anything other than as Duar!”

  “You decided to put him on the stand, Mr. Stern. You asked him questions about his participation in that organization, and he clearly voluntarily testified. That is quite sufficient to prove that he is a member of that organization and took arms against American forces. Either one is good enough. He is an enemy combatant and subject to confinement until the conclusion of hostilities. It’s as simple as that. The fact that he has not been charged with anything in that regard makes no difference whatsoever. When a German soldier was captured in World War II, we didn’t charge him with something and put him on trial to see if he had actually fired at American forces. He was part of the German Army. That was good enough. He was taken into custody and kept there until the cessation of hostilities. Combatants aren’t entitled to a trial, to a defense, to an attorney. They’re just captured and kept. Very simple. He is essentially a prisoner of war; but full prisoner of war status has not been granted, as I understand it, because he is not fighting on behalf of a country. You should have thought about it before you called him to the stand. This court is adjourned.” The judge slammed down the gavel as Stern turned to his client and asked for the translator to help explain what had just happened as the MAAs closed on el-Mahdi to take him
into custody.

  Little muttered, “Then why have a damned tribunal if they can just keep his ass in custody as a combatant?”

  Stern looked at him with a pained expression. “Because, Mr. Little, of the penalty. In case you’ve forgotten, they were asking for the death penalty, or life in prison.”

  “Well, too bad for him, huh. Good job getting him off though, I mean from the death penalty and what not.”

  “Shut up,” Stern said, slamming his briefcase and watching the translator’s and el-Mahdi’s faces.

  * * *

  The USS Ronald Reagan had steamed all night. Its airplanes had flown continuously to find the Monrovian Prince heading west. They had marked several targets for visual identification at daylight, and had now identified virtually all of them. The list was long. Several of the ships did not need further investigation. They were too small, or the wrong kind of ship entirely—fishing boats or oil tankers. But much to the annoyance of Captain Bill Anderson, they had not located the Monrovian Prince. He had sent the air wing’s airplanes five hundred miles out in all directions, even back toward Africa; but no sign of the Prince. Nothing even close. They were now flying double cycle. Each radar contact was identified and its location marked and transmitted instantly to the remainder of the battle group and to Washington. Like a hungry lion, the Ronald Reagan turned further west, plowing through the ocean at thirty knots looking desperately for a container ship from Liberia.

  Farther to the west, closer to Florida, the USS Louisiana, the Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine, was on the track projected for the Prince to take it to Jacksonville. Captain Pugh had crept up on numerous merchant ships, studied their acoustic and electronic signatures, and viewed many through his periscope. But none was the Monrovian Prince.

  Pugh leaned over the chart table studying the expected track of their target. They should have already seen the ship. He knew there were other submarines that had left base after him that were setting up a barrier in front of Jacksonville to stop the ship when it came near. It left him the freedom to head east at a much higher rate of speed than would be normal. But no Monrovian Prince.