Michelle answered on the first ring and her voice matched the concern on her face. “The doctors say Mom has definitely stabilized, and I think there’s been some improvement. Is there any news on Jason?”
“We’re pretty certain he’s at the mission.” Gus replied. “We can’t be absolutely sure, but don’t give up hope.”
“We won’t.”
“I love you, hon.”
“We all love you,” Michelle said. Gus ended the call and returned the phone.
Île St-Louis
Ziba Katelhong decided the Hôtel L’Abord met her standards, and she resolved to have one like it. She sighed and turned to face its owner and her two other guests. “The United States is pressing the General Assembly for action on China. I have the Security Council under control but I am worried about what is happening here. You must contain the situation.” She gave them a meaningful look
“Max Westcot is in Europe talking to everyone,” Chrestien Du Milan said.
“Which is why I’m here,” Katlehong replied. “The Dutch prime minister is spending the holidays with him in Spain. No surprises, please.”
Renée Scullanois looked worried. “Are we seeing a
rapprochement
?” She had often cautioned her husband, Henri, about the Dutch penchant to act on their own.
The Comtessa Eugenie stomped her foot in frustration. “That must not happen.” The old woman’s face was livid at the idea.
Ziba sat beside her and stroked her hand. “My dear Eugenie,” she began. The old woman stiffened at the familiarity but said nothing. “The Dutch and the Americans have a long tradition of friendship that defies rationality. It is something I must deal with. But I believe the Dutch will act in their own interests.”
The Comtessa gave the Secretary General a cold look. “Insure they do. We will do whatever is necessary on our part.” She gave Chrestien and Renée a knowing look. “I believe dinner is ready.” She escorted them into the formal dining room, and Ziba Katelhong decided that the Hôtel L’Abord would do just fine as her new home.
THIRTY
Mission Awana
D’Na stopped the high-wheeled pickup a half-mile short of the roadblock.
“Wait here,” she told Toby and Jason. She got out and disappeared into the early-morning dark with Hon and Paride, the two Dinkas accompanying her. All three were armed with MP5s, a nine-millimeter submachine gun made by Heckler and Kock. “She’s good at this sort of thing,” Toby told Jason. They waited in silence until the three returned, materializing out of the shadows like ghosts.
“They’re all asleep,” D’Na said. “We’ll take the truck through and meet you on the other side.” Jason gave her a questioning look. “I can bribe a white man into the mission, but never out of it,” she explained. “They would shoot you the moment they saw you trying to leave.” She snorted at Jason’s confused look. “This is Africa, man. It doesn’t have to make sense.” She knelt and drew a rough map in the dirt. “Go this way through the fields and stay south of the roadblock.” She etched a crossroads on her map and drew in a small compound. “You wait here. I’ll stay here and take the truck through at first light. We may be in a hurry.” She stood up and brushed her hands. For a moment, she and Toby drew close and touched hands
The two Americans adjusted their night-vision goggles and made their way between small fields that had been recently tilled. At one point, Toby stopped and knelt to survey the work. He ran the earth through his fingers. “They’re doing it right,” he announced. Satisfied, he led the way into the low brush, and they could see the dying glow of campfires. “The roadblock,” Toby whispered. They froze as a man stumbled half asleep out of the bushes, less than three yards in front of them. Jason motioned Toby into a crouch as he drew his knife. The man was oblivious to the danger behind him as he relieved himself. Finished, he grunted and disappeared back into the shadows. Jason counted slowly to ten and motioned Toby forward. Within minutes, they were clear of the roadblock and were nearing the crossroads and compound for the rendezvous with D’Na. Now they had to wait.
Toby ripped off his night vision goggles as the first light of dawn etched the eastern sky. “Dawn comes up fast in the tropics,” he told Jason. He pointed to the knife on Jason’s belt. “Would you have?”
“Almost did,” Jason admitted. Toby nodded, accepting the truth of the situation. In the distance, they could hear a vehicle coming down the road. It came at them fast with D’Na standing in the back with Paride, the taller of the two Dinkas. The truck slowed and the waiting men barreled into the back. “How did it go?” Jason asked.
“Not good,” D’Na admitted. “They wanted to discuss it, which means they wanted the truck. I threw a roll of money at them but they needed a little more persuasion.” Paride laughed and patted the machine gun mounted over the cab.
D’Na rode with them a few more miles before pounding on the roof of the cab signaling the driver to stop. “Hon’s a good driver,” she said. “He and Paride will go with you and bring the truck back.” She and Toby climbed down. Again, they stood close and touched hands. Then they gently kissed. “Go,” she commanded.
Toby never took his eyes off her as they sped away. “Will she be okay?” Jason asked. Toby didn’t answer.
The Hague
Gus entered the dock at exactly 9:55 Monday morning and studied the audience. Most were still wet from waiting outside in the driving rain howling in from the North Sea. His rooting section was there and had grown.
That’s encouraging,
he thought. He stood when the judges entered and waited to see if Della Sante looked at him. She didn’t, which was an indicator of the way it would go. Bouchard called the court to order.
Go ahead, you prick.
“The court,” Bouchard began, “has reviewed defense counsel’s petition to exclude the sworn statement of Tobias Person taken by Watban Horan, an officer of this court. As Monsieur Horan was acting in his official capacity, and as the statement was entered into evidence consistent with Article Sixty-eight of the Rome Statute, there is no cause to exclude the statement. Petition denied.”
Gus stared at Bouchard.
No surprises there, asshole.
Hank was on his feet. “Your Honor, the defense must take exception.” He hesitated for a moment, reluctant to openly cross the Rubicon. The lawyer in him urged caution but another voice said it was time. “Such an interpretation strikes at the very heart of admissibility of evidence.”
Denise was ready. “My learned colleague has been trained in common law with its complex and technical rules for presenting evidence to a jury of laymen. But we are not dealing with a jury of common citizens, but with a panel of preeminent jurists fully trained in the law and experienced in the weighing of evidence.”
Hank turned to her and entered the waters. “But as the prosecutor cannot provide the original recording of Reverend Tobias’s statement, the court’s ruling not only is prejudicial but it is inconsistent with the rights of the accused to a fair and impartial trial.”
Bouchard’s face turned bright red and his breath came in short bursts as the full meaning of Hank’s accusation hit home.
Shack!
Gus thought.
The judge’s mouth opened but no words came out. Della Sante came to his aid and handed him a glass of water. Slowly, his breathing slowed. Della Sante shot Hank a withering look and sat down.
Gus worked to keep a concerned look on his face.
Gotcha there, didn’t he?
“Your exception is so noted,” Bouchard finally managed to croak. “Is there any other business for the court to consider?”
Denise stood. “There is none, your Honor.”
Hank came to his feet; now well into the waters of open conflict. “If it may please the court. The defense is in the process of establishing contact with the Reverend Tobias Person in the hope that he can appear in this court. We have reason to believe that the defendant’s son, Jason Tyler, has reached Mission Awana in that endeavor.”
Denise popped to her feet. “Your Honors, we must take exception. The defense cannot be permitted to ignore the rulings of the Victims and Witnesses Unit whose sole concern is for the safety and protection of the Reverend Person. The court’s procedures must be adhered to if we truly value human life. To recklessly send a private individual in such an attempt is nothing more than cowboyism and a blatant disregard of the will of the court.”
Now we’re cowboys?
Gus thought.
Oh, I hope so.
“Perhaps,” Hank said, now swimming hard in the current, “the court should employ more cowboys if it wants to accomplish anything in the real world.”
“The prosecutor’s exception is also noted,” Bouchard said, still having trouble breathing. “What is your point, Monsieur Sutherland?”
“The defense respectfully requests a two-week recess to allow time to safely bring the Reverend Person to The Hague. This would coincide with the court’s recess over the holidays and extend it a few days to Monday, January third.”
Della Sante, now concerned with Bouchard’s blanched look and ragged breathing leaned over to talk to him. Richter leaned in from the other side and listened. Bouchard’s lips moved and both jurists nodded in agreement. Della Sante turned to her microphone. “As the holidays are upon us, the court will adjourn early; however, we will reconvene as originally scheduled on Wednesday, December 29.”
The clerk called for everyone to stand as Della Sante helped Bouchard out the door. Hank followed Gus into the holding cell and closed the door for privacy. “Well, we’ve got eight days to get Toby here,” Hank said.
“Jesus H. Christ, Hank. I thought Bouchard had a heart attack when you accused the court of being prejudicial.”
Hank’s face turned rock hard. “That was the idea.”
Marci Lennox checked her hair in the mirror and decided to go with the wind-blown look, not that she had a choice. The storm off the North Sea was starting to build again, and she envied Catherine Sutherland’s hairstyle that seemed to defy the weather. Marci nodded at the cameraman and he switched on the lights, illuminating that corner of the forecourt of the ICC’s palace. “Today left little doubt that Hank Sutherland was on the attack as he accused the judges of violating Gus Tyler’s rights to a fair and impartial trial.” She turned to Catherine. “Mrs. Sutherland, what exactly is your husband trying to accomplish?”
“He’s stating the obvious. What we are seeing could never happen in a court stateside or in England. The admission of Reverend Person’s statement into evidence violated Colonel Tyler’s right to confront the witnesses against him in court, a right that is guaranteed every American citizen.”
“But this isn’t the United States,” Marci said “and Colonel Tyler does not enjoy the rights provided by our constitution.”
“Which is exactly why the United States is not a signatory to the Rome Statute.”
Marci changed the subject. “Will you stay here over the holidays to be with Colonel Tyler?”
“No. I’ll be going home to be with our boys. Hopefully, Hank can join us for a few days.”
Marci ended it. “This is Marci Lennox from The Hague signing off until January 29, when I’ll be back for the next round of fireworks.” Her director gave her the cut signal and she lowered her microphone. “Catherine, who is your hair stylist?”
Southern Sudan
“We’ve come a hundred miles,” Toby said. “No one could have done it better. Well, done.” Hon, the heavyset Dinka driving the truck, smiled at the compliment. Although it was the dry season and the swamps had receded, it had been difficult navigating through the open savannah and avoiding mud holes while staying clear of the rut that passed for the main road. “We need to pitch camp before it gets dark.”
Hon nodded and inched the truck through the drying grass. He found a low mound as night fell and guided the truck to the center. The four men got out and stretched, walking around the remains of an old campfire. Jason bent over and studied a pile of dung. The Dinka were cattle herders and placed great value on their animals, but this was different. He found a flashlight in the truck and walked around the area while Hon and Paride gathered up dry dung to make a fire. The smoke would help keep the insects away. At one point, Jason squatted and traced a distinctive print. It all came together. “I didn’t know you had horses down here.”
Toby’s face froze. “We don’t. The climate is too unhealthy for them.”
“Janjaweed,” Hon and Paride said, almost simultaneously. The fear in their voices was obvious. Jason shook his head, not understanding.
“The Janjaweed are Bagara horsemen,” Toby explained. “The Bagara are Arabized cattle nomads from Kordofan and Dufar. About fifteen years ago, the Sudanese Army recruited them as a militia and turned them loose on the Dinka and Nuer villages in the oil concessions, all well to the northwest of here. But they’ve been quiet for the last few years.”
“Are they Muslim?” Jason asked.
“More or less,” Toby replied. “They belong to the Ansar Sunni sect and are very warlike.”
“So what in hell are they doing down here?” Jason wondered.
“Slavers,” Paride answered.
Toby shook his head. “They’d have trucks if they were doing that. It’s a raiding party.”