Eventually, she broke the spell. “What happened?” she whispered. “Why did they do this?”
He took a breath and let it out. “I don’t know yet. But I’m going to find out.”
“Okay,” she said simply.
He softened his voice and spoke from the heart. “Vanessa, when I asked you to trust me, you told me that trust entails responsibility. You’re right. If you need someone on our side to blame, then blame me. I didn’t bring them home.”
If he was looking for absolution, she didn’t offer it. Instead she said: “When can I see him? I’ll go anywhere. It doesn’t matter.”
“It should be soon. I have the Senior Medical Officer here with me. He can tell you more.”
He handed the phone to Hancock and sat down on a swivel chair, looking around the CDC at the marvels that allowed the Navy to peer into the reaches of sea and sky and define a thousand different threats. They were nearly omniscient, these sailors with their God-like instruments and computer arrays. But there was one gaping omission in the data. None of their devices could penetrate the human heart. None of them had signaled a warning when Ibrahim and his crew were on the verge of murder. It had taken a human to see it, and another human to ignore it.
Goddammit!
Derrick thought for the hundredth time.
Goddammit all to hell.
A few minutes before 22:00, Commander Johnson collected Derrick and led him on another disorienting trip through the
Truman
maze to a classroom not far from the brig. Derrick almost laughed when he saw all of the G-men milling around. The place was a petri dish of pent-up testosterone. He caught sight of Rodriguez and Ali Sharif talking to a naval officer. He walked in their direction but was stopped by a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair.
SSA
, Derrick inferred, eyeing the younger men trailing behind him.
He wears his hubris like cologne.
“I’m Supervisory Special Agent Steve Pressley from New York,” said the tall man, thrusting his hand into Derrick’s. “I’m in charge of the investigation. This is Tom Hicks and Alfonso Rubio from our extraterritorial squad. We’ve already obtained initial statements from the SPs. It’s disturbing stuff. I’m sure you’ll be fascinated to hear it.”
“Of course,” Derrick said, hiding his concern. If Pressley’s team had obtained statements from the surviving pirates in under three hours, they must have been cutting corners, searching for a narrative. That could mean only one thing—they were feeling pressure from on high. He recalled Brent Frazier’s words:
The reputation of the Bureau is on the line. We need a win here.
Now, without a rescue story to deliver the media, the definition of a “win” had changed. The government needed a scapegoat.
Commander Johnson summoned them to attention. “Gentlemen, take a seat please.”
When everyone was situated, a man with white hair and a regal bearing took the podium. “I’m Admiral Wilson, commander of the Strike Group. As all of you know, just before 18:30 today, the Somalis who hijacked the SV
Renaissance
opened fire on the hostages, killing Daniel Parker and critically wounding his son, Quentin. Pursuant to the decision of the inter-agency in Washington, the Justice Department will spearhead the response to the incident. The changeover will take place as soon as we get the pirates and the sailboat to the port of Djibouti. We’re currently thirty-eight hours away. The
Gettysburg
will take somewhat longer to deliver the sailboat.”
He surveyed the men in the room, looking many of them, including Derrick, in the eye. “I’m sure all of you understand the gravity of these events. Piracy on the high seas is a scourge our nation has battled since its inception. But the cold-blooded murder of one of our citizens and the attempted murder of another—an eighteen-year-old boy—while in commission of an act of piracy are crimes of profound moral turpitude. The United States will stop at nothing to bring these malefactors to justice. Special Agent Pressley and his team from the FBI have begun the process of questioning them. He is going to brief us on his progress.” Wilson held out his arm, inviting Pressley to the podium.
“Thank you, Admiral,” Pressley said. “Like all of you, I’m deeply saddened by what happened here today. We gave the hijackers every opportunity to resolve the standoff peacefully. Unfortunately, there are some in Somalia who despise the freedom we hold so dear. We were unaware until this evening that those elements were present aboard the sailboat. But after conducting initial interviews, it is clear that the murder of Daniel Parker and the attempted murder of Quentin Parker were acts of maritime terrorism. The leader of the pirates, Ismail Adan Ibrahim, also known as Afyareh and Ibrahim, is a member of the East African terror group al-Shabaab.”
Derrick was thunderstruck. He had met with Ibrahim—or Ismail, whatever his name was—face to face. He had looked into the pirate’s eyes and seen a sincere desire for resolution. Ismail had quoted the Quran, yes, but not with the zeal of a militant. He had spoken with erudition beyond his years. Whatever Pressley was saying could not possibly be true unless Derrick had utterly misjudged the pirate, in which case it would be better if he just turned in his badge now.
“Excuse me, Agent Pressley,” he said, “that’s a very interesting theory. But I spent the last five days talking to Ibra—
Ismail
—and I saw no hint of the person you’re describing. I’ve dealt with the Taliban in Afghanistan and JTJ and ISIS in Iraq. When I met Ismail, I met a hostage taker, not a jihadist. I would stake my career on that assessment.”
Pressley’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Agent Derrick, I respect your experience and your contributions, but I was the one who conducted the interviews.” He held up a legal pad. “Ismail admitted his association with the Shabaab. The other pirates gave us the story. There was a scuffle. They tried to stop him, but he persisted. Ismail didn’t deny any of this. He accepted responsibility. Unless you have reason to believe he would make a false confession, you’re mistaken.”
Derrick gave Pressley an incredulous look. “I want to talk to him. I don’t mind if it’s off the record, but I want to talk to him now.”
The SSA stared at Derrick as if he had grown a second head. “With all due respect, the CNU has no role in the investigation. This is my case, and I won’t allow meddling.”
Derrick turned to Admiral Wilson. “Admiral, as I understand it, the pirates are in the Navy’s custody until we reach land. That means that Agent Pressley’s team is acting under your authority in conducting the interviews. I have no desire to interfere with his investigation. I want to nail the bastards to the wall as much as anyone. I’m simply asking for the chance to speak to Ismail in person before this ship reaches Djibouti and to ask him if these extraordinary allegations are true.”
The Admiral looked at Commander Johnson. “Adrian, do I have the authority?”
Johnson nodded, his eyes alive with intrigue. “Yes, sir, you do.”
The Admiral regarded Derrick candidly. “You impressed the hell out of Gabe Masters. That’s good enough for me. Go ahead and talk to him. Just don’t make me regret it.”
Derrick let out the breath he was holding.
If Masters had been in command instead of Redman
, he wanted to say,
we wouldn’t be here right now.
An hour later, Derrick sat alone in the classroom next door, a camera mounted on a tripod next to him and a digital recorder at his feet. All of the overhead lights were off, leaving most of the room in shadow. The only illumination came from a table lamp resting on a desk nearby. Derrick had arranged the furniture with care, creating a space for conversation, not interrogation. It was often thought that the key to extracting information was to maximize the suspect’s discomfort. In fact, the opposite was usually the case. The more a suspect felt esteemed, the more likely it was that he would speak freely.
Derrick heard a knock at the door. Seconds later, Ismail entered the room, escorted by the brig’s Master at Arms and the Special Agent Afloat from the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, or NCIS. The pirate was dressed in green scrubs, his hands and legs in shackles and his head covered with a hood. The Master at Arms led him to the seat across from Derrick, while the NCIS officer documented the encounter with a handheld camera.
“I’d prefer to keep him in cuffs,” the Master at Arms said to Derrick.
The negotiator shook his head. “No cuffs. He’s not a threat to me.”
The Master at Arms raised an eyebrow but complied, removing the manacles and hood. Beneath the hood Ismail was wearing earmuffs and work goggles blacked out with tape.
They really don’t want him to know where he is
, Derrick thought as the Master at Arms uncovered the pirate’s eyes and ears. Ismail blinked and looked around the room, focusing on Derrick. His eyes were bloodshot and his expression blank. As soon as he took a seat, the NCIS agent pressed the record button on the mounted camera and retreated with the Master at Arms to a corner of the room.
“Your name is Ismail, not Ibrahim,” Derrick began in a casual tone. “It seems there is a lot about you that I don’t know.”
The pirate looked at him opaquely. “Ibrahim was my grandfather,” he said slowly. “He was killed in an airstrike ordered by General Garrison in 1993, along with many other Somali elders who wanted peace. They were willing to work with America, and they believed America would work with them. I made the same mistake. Your country is not interested in peace unless it is on your terms.”
Derrick met his eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m not proud of many things my country has done. But that isn’t why you’re here, is it? You’re here because a man is dead and his son—a boy about your age—is fighting for his life. What would your grandfather say about that?”
Ismail remained impassive. “He would tell you what he told my father. Trust is like fire. When it is respected, it keeps the body warm in the night. When it is mishandled, it destroys everything in its path. I am here because you violated my trust. It seems I would be here no matter what.”
The RHIB
, Derrick thought. He stepped around the landmine. “So you’re a member of the Shabaab. You’re an Islamist. You hate America because of wars we’ve fought in Muslim lands.”
The pirate stared back at him implacably. “I am a Muslim. I believe that there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad is his prophet. I fought for al-Shabaab in Kismayo and in the Ramadan Offensive in Mogadishu. You know what I think about America.”
Derrick noticed his use of the past tense. “Were you working for al-Shabaab when you hijacked the sailboat? Is that why you changed course from Hobyo to Mogadishu?”
“What do my men say?” Ismail asked.
“They say you were Shabaab all along,” Derrick replied. “They say they obeyed you because you threatened to turn them over to the Amniyat.”
For the first time Derrick saw the shine of emotion in the pirate’s eyes. “You should believe them,” Ismail said at last. “They are good boys. They didn’t want this to happen.”
“Does that mean you lied to me?” Derrick asked, lacing his tone with indignation. “You were going to take the hostages ashore even with the ransom deal?”
Ismail folded his hands in his lap, his face a mask again. “We lied to each other, Paul. We did it for our own reasons. But your lie is what brought us to this place.”
“So you shot them?” Derrick demanded, venting his outrage. “You picked up your gun and shot Daniel and Quentin Parker. Is that what you’re telling me?”
The pirate’s expression didn’t change. “I warned you, Paul. I warned your government. You didn’t listen. You brought this on yourself.”
Derrick leaned forward, piercing Ismail with the intensity of his gaze. “Do you know what they’re going to do to you? They’re going to crucify you. They’re going to run you up a flagpole and make a public example of you. Do you want that? Do you want to put your family through that?”
Something about what Derrick said struck a nerve in Ismail. He saw it happen, saw the almost imperceptible twitch in the pirate’s facial muscles. It was the tell he was looking for. Ismail was wearing a disguise. Derrick knew it as surely as he knew his own soul. But what the disguise was concealing—and why the pirate had chosen to wear it—he couldn’t say. Moreover, in the Bureau’s infinite wisdom, it wasn’t for him to find out. It was Pressley’s case now, and the man from New York had no interest in a mystery, only in assigning blame. What Derrick needed was a proxy, someone to pick up the spade and dig with ruthless determination until the truth couldn’t hide anymore.
He needed Megan.
He looked into Ismail’s eyes and spoke his valediction. “I hope you find yourself a good lawyer. God only knows how much you’re going to need it.”
Ricochets
Halt at the abodes and weep over the ruins and ask a question: “Where are the loved ones? Where are their camels gone?”
—Mohyuddin Ibn ’Arabi
Paul
Beaver Creek, Colorado
December 21, 2011
The snow was soft and white as goose down falling from the clouds. Derrick felt the edges of his skis beneath him, carving smoothly through the powder, back and forth, with metronomic consistency. The double black diamond run through Black Bear Glade was as steep as it was narrow, like an arrow shaft through the evergreens, but Derrick felt no fear. He was alone with the mountain and the snow. His eyes were open and blood was flowing through his veins. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.