Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) (19 page)

“How do you know it was from being tortured?”

“We did an autopsy. His lungs were full of food and infection. There was also an indication of drowning in his lungs. Water damage.”

“Who is this American?” she asked.

“I never heard his name. I just heard people calling him Rat.”

“Strange name.”

Satterly swallowed and put his fork down. “I’ll tell you what, Andrea, I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure he has to answer for that. He shouldn’t get away with torturing prisoners. That’s wrong. That’s not what America is all about. We have to be a lot bigger than that.”

She almost nodded. “What can you do about it? I mean it’s sort of out of your reach.”

He got a knowing, insider’s look in his eyes. “I’m going to make sure he pays for it.”

“How?”

“You’ll see.”

She ate in silence.

Satterly continued, “It’s the very kind of thing I was talking about.”

“What?”

“About when human rights organizations criticize the States. This is the very kind of thing, torturing a prisoner. If they criticized us for this, we’d deserve it. Don’t you agree?”

“I guess I’d need to know more,” she said, dodging.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

“We have to hold on to what’s good about us, Andrea. Otherwise we just become animals. Isn’t that the definition of civilization? The ability to control base instincts and live together?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s what I’m about at the core, Andrea,” he said, finishing his milk. “Preservation of humanity. The things that make us human. Killing is easy. Hurting is easy. Rising above those things, resisting temptation, that’s much harder.”

“Josephine, how are you doing?” Skyles asked as he sat down heavily in a chair on the other side of her desk at the
Washington Post
. Her desk was one among many in an open area full of noise and activity.

Josephine Block looked up. “I got your message. I tried to be gone when you said you’d be here.”

Skyles looked wounded. “This is a great story. I came right to you. You need to be in on this.”

Josephine pushed her reading glasses up on top of her red hair, dyed from the cheapest bottle in the corner drugstore next to her condo. The gray roots were showing through on the left side where the part was. She had a wrinkled, dumpy look about her, but her eyes were bright and inquisitive. “I’ve had to listen to enough of your BS to know it’s not worth the trouble. What do you have this time, a child molester? Rapist? Tax evader? All wanting their stories published to make them look better?”

“Come on. Are you willing to listen or not?”

“Not.”

“You have to listen to this. This isn’t the usual thing at all. This is huge.” He could tell she was listening with one ear as she typed. He doubted she was actually typing anything. “Picture this,” Skyles said. “American Special Forces hero arrested to protect terrorist.”

She looked up. “Right. To protect terrorist. That’s exactly what is happening, I’m sure.”

“Are you familiar with the top-secret courtroom that exists on the top of the Department of Justice? Cipher locks? The foreign intelligence whatever stuff?”

She nodded. “Basically.”

“Well, my all-American client—and I’m talking Captain America himself—is being tried in that courtroom. He’s been charged with manslaughter—killing a terrorist, by torture. And he’s been charged with violating the Geneva Convention. All because Stuntz is scared to death of Sarah St. James.”

“Huh? Talk about a non sequitur.”

“Because he is a suspicious, sneaky son of a bitch, and she wants his job. She has people all over the government, her shadow government, her spies, her operators, if you will. They’re not very well known. But one of them is my client.”

Josephine began typing lightly again on her keyboard. “And what about your client? What did he do to some poor terrorist?”

“If you read the charges you’ll find that he’s been charged with torturing a terrorist to death. But if you get into it you’ll find something else equally interesting.” Skyles slid forward on his chair and imposed himself into her space. She frowned. “There’s also another big piece of this you haven’t heard about. I’m talking front page. Guaranteed. Want to know what it is?”

“I’m dying,” she said.

“He’s the one who captured Wahamed Duar, the guy who is on the front page of your newspaper every day.”

“The plot thickens.”

“And I know where Duar is.”

“The government says an undisclosed location.”

“Right. And I know where that undisclosed location is.”

“How do you know?”

“I just told you, my client is the one who captured him. He’s the one who took him to that undisclosed location.”

Josephine looked at Skyles. “Where?”

“Ask the government. Because you didn’t hear any of this from me.”

“Did they bring him to the United States?”

He shook his head. “On an American warship. They’re going to try him in a tribunal.”

“What ship?”

“The
Belleau Wood
.”

“I’ll check into it. Who is doing the court-martial of your client?”

“It’s not a court-martial. They threw it over to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Wolff. You know him?”

She nodded. “Let me have your card, because I’m sure you’re not at the same number you were at two years ago when we last spoke.”

“I am actually, but here’s my card anyway. I’m counting on you.”

“For what?”

“To expose those who want no exposure. Our only currency here in this great town of ours. You’ve got to help my client. He has quite a story.”

“Did he kill the guy?”

“No comment.”

Josephine tossed his card on her desk and returned her attention to her computer.

The CH-46 helicopter’s rotor blades slowed and stopped but the jet engines that pushed them continued to scream. Sailors placed chocks around its wheels on the deck of the
Belleau Wood
to keep it from rolling. Rat and Groomer walked down the ramp to the island. A sailor waited for them at the island and held the hatch open against the stiff wind. They stepped through and waited as the sailor pulled the steel hatch closed and dogged it down. He turned and hurried up a ladder. They followed him, up one ladder after another until they were on the ship’s bridge. “Request permission to enter the bridge!” the sailor said loudly.

The Officer of the Deck looked at the group and gave the requested permission.

The sailor led Rat and Groomer through the starboard hatch to where the captain was standing.

Rat spoke quickly. “You asked to see us?”

Captain Logan looked at him and immediately recognized him. “Not
you
. Why’d they send you back out here?”

“It’s great to be back on your ship, sir,” Rat said, trying vainly to deflect the captain’s hostility.

Logan reached into his green nylon jacket pocket and pulled out a Navy message. “I get a message like this, I’m supposed to just say ‘okay’? Do whatever you want? I’m responsible for him. Most-wanted terrorist in the world, I’m told, he’s in my brig, and now I’m supposed to just release him to you?”

“Yes, sir. That’s exactly right.”

“Why?”

Rat reached over and took the message from Logan. He read it carefully, although not for the first time. He had drafted it in Washington. “It doesn’t say in the message what the reason is, just that it’s official government business. But it is an official order, through official channels. You need to release him into our custody.”

Logan knew Rat was right. “What are you going to do with him?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, Captain.”

Logan was frustrated. He looked at Rat. “What is it with you guys? No uniform markings, no name tags, no insignia, no nothing. Who are you?”

“I’m just a regular SEAL temporarily on loan to the SAS, part of the CIA, Captain.” Rat wanted Logan to think he was being forthcoming, which he was, in part. “Same as my XO here.”

“How many more of you guys are there on that helicopter?”

“Well, sir, there are twelve of us, and six or so should already be in the brig preparing Mr. Duar for his little trip. We don’t want anyone seeing him or having any idea of what we’re doing. You did see in the message that we expect to have him back in your brig within seventy-two hours? It could take longer, but I doubt it.”

“Tell me this, at least. Where are you going with him?”

“Sorry, sir.”

Logan clenched his hand around the message. “You going to take him somewhere where you can torture him? Like you did that other guy?”

Rat paused. “I’m not going to touch him.”

“You’ll have to sign a receipt for him,” Logan said finally, weakly.

“Happy to, sir. Do you mind if we get down to the brig now?”

Logan shook his head and turned away. The sun had set thirty minutes before and the ship was just growing dark enough to suit Rat’s purposes.

He and Groomer slid down the rails of the ladders and rushed to the brig. One of his men saw them coming and swung the door open instantly, then followed them in.

Three of his men had put a military flight suit on Duar and put a nylon bag over his head. The bag was tied at the neck and was impossible to remove without using both hands. Two of his own men had put on identical flight suits and had bags on their heads. All three of them had their hands and feet bound. The three “prisoners” were then hooked together.

Rat leaned toward Duar and spoke softly in Arabic. “If you make a false move I will personally cave in your head. It would be a pleasure. Do you understand me?”

Duar made no response.

“Let’s go,” Rat said. They moved all three out of the brig and forward to the ammunition elevator. They stood on the elevator as it lifted them to the flight deck and the waiting CH-46. Duar was quiet. Rat watched him carefully.

The group moved as one across the windy but quiet flight deck. The three prisoners shuffled against their restrictive bindings. The escorts pulled the three men up the ramp into the waiting helicopter as the engines started to whine. The ramp came up and the helicopter came alive. The blades bit into the moist air and lifted them into the air. As they cleared the flight deck below them and the black sea that was all around, Rat took the bindings and hoods off his two men, who sat on either side of Duar. They put their normal gear back on, and settled in for the long flight to Kenya, then Egypt.

Groomer stood over Duar. He looked at Rat. “What do you think they’ll get out of him?”

Rat considered Groomer’s question; it was the one
he
wanted an answer to.

Groomer asked before Rat could answer, “And how come you trust the Egyptians?”

Rat wasn’t sure how much to say. Even Groomer didn’t know much about what he had done in the past. “I’ve operated with them.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Now we see.”

Groomer nodded, sat back down on the nylon seat, and settled in.

Sadeq Satti walked confidently into the headquarters of the Liberian International Shipping Company in Monrovia, Liberia. He was dressed in a casual white open-collared shirt with expensive trousers and Italian loafers. He carried a burgundy briefcase tucked under his arm. He had the air of one accustomed to making business deals and discussing finances. He had an appointment with Thomas Lisbie, the director of shipping operations for the company, and had intentionally arrived fifteen minutes late. He was shown up the stairs to a tiled waiting room outside Lisbie’s office. He sat in one of the cheap folding chairs and tried to make himself comfortable. He chain-smoked in the heat as rivulets of sweat ran down his chest and onto his thin belly. He hated Liberia. It had all the trappings of capitalism but none of the benefits. The nice buildings, clean streets, and jobs one might hope to see as the benefit of such free trade never seemed to make it to Monrovia. The money just changed hands between international operators without noticeably benefiting the country.

Satti tapped his ash onto the clean tile floor and studied the innumerable pictures of ships on the walls. Liberia was proud of its tradition of having the largest merchant fleet in the world. More ships in the world’s ocean trade were registered in Liberia than anywhere else.

After a thirty-minute wait, which caused Satti great amusement, he was shown into Lisbie’s office. “Good morning, sir. You must be Mr. Satti. Thank you for waiting. I’m Thomas Lisbie,” he said as he walked around his desk and shook his hand. The office of the Liberian International Shipping Company overlooked the St. Paul River, which with the Mesulrado River formed the port of Monrovia, one of the best deep-water ports in Africa. It was quite busy, and Lisbie liked to be able to see his ships at a glance.

Satti sat across from Lisbie and placed his briefcase in the chair next to him. He lit another cigarette. “Good morning. Thank you for seeing me,” he said in a deep, melodic voice. “Did you get my correspondence?”

Lisbie nodded. “Yes. You want to ship three containers and fifteen people.” He scanned his desk to see if the fax was still lying there as it had been for two days. He couldn’t find it. He looked at Satti and was surprised to see him staring at him. “The three containers are no problem. We have scheduled them on the ship which you requested. That is not a problem at all. But we do not carry passengers.”

Satti nodded knowingly as he took an impossibly long drag on his cigarette. As he answered Lisbie, the smoke came through his vocal cords muffling his voice. “Make them crew.”

“What?” Lisbie asked. “Did you say crew? Are they rated able-bodied seamen?”

“Yes,” he lied.

The Liberian smiled. He found the entire idea amusing. “I’m not sure why I asked that, because it doesn’t really matter. We have all the crew we need. We’re happy to transport your cargo, especially at the premiums which you’re willing to pay—and which we appreciate. But we don’t transport passengers. It is against corporate policy.”

Silence hung awkwardly in the air. Satti continued to smoke. He ignored the ashtray on the desk and dropped more ash on the floor. Satti was obviously not going to accept the answer Lisbie had given him. “What solution do you propose?”