Against All Enemies (14 page)

Maj. Catherine Blasedale knocked twice on his open door and came in. She sat down in a comfortable leather chair and crossed her legs. Sutherland realized she had extraordinary legs and blushed.

“Hank, I do believe you’re blushing. What brought that on?”

“Don’t ask the question if you can’t stand the answer.”

She leaned forward and smiled. “Could it have been sexist?”

“Major, give me a break,” he pleaded. She relented—for the time being. “Have you read this?” he asked, holding up the report.

“Many times,” she replied.

“Then you agree with his recommendations?” They stared at each other. The investigating officer had recommended trial by general court-martial and stated the case was appropriate for the death penalty. “No one was killed,” he said.

She nodded. “The commander of Eighth Air Force at Barksdale is the convening authority for this court-martial. Until he talks to his staff judge advocate and makes a decision, we can only assume the death penalty is a very real player.”

Sutherland had been hitting the books in every spare moment and had brushed up on the system. “Which we won’t know until we see the charge sheet. Any idea when we can expect it or the convening orders?”

“Within the next week or two.”

“Why the delay?”

“This is a hot one, Hank. As we speak, they’re probably fighting over jurisdiction with the Department of Justice and arguing change of venue. But my sources say the generals are hanging tough on this one. The Air Force is going to retain jurisdiction and the court-martial is going to be held right here.”

Sutherland allowed a tight smile. “I imagine the DOJ really wants to get its hands on this one. The FBI must be going wild.”

“They are players,” she told him, “and we haven’t heard the last from them.” She changed the subject. “I just got a call from Ed Jordan.” Capt. Edward Jordan was Jefferson’s ADC, or Area Defense Counsel. The ADC was the military’s equivalent of a public defender. “He wants a conference at the confinement facility. Jefferson’s civilian lawyer will be there.”

“Any name?”

She shook her head. “It could be anyone. She, or he, only has to be licensed to practice in her home state and qualified to appear in front of a federal court and the state’s courts.”

“If I were representing Jefferson,” Sutherland continued, tapping the Article 32 investigation, “I’d start my defense right here.” He read the name in block one of the investigating officer’s report. “Col. Samuel Price is going to come under fire in a big way.”

“On what grounds?” Blasedale asked.

“It doesn’t really matter. I’d start with his competence to conduct an investigation.”

“Col. Price is a military judge.”

“Oh. Then I’d claim he was not impartial in his investigation. It’s perfect for playing the race card.”

“Col. Price is black.” She smiled at him and stood up to leave. “It really helps when you know the players.”

He followed her out. “You’re still mad about the perfume, aren’t you?” There was no answer.

The confinement facility at Whiteman was located in the security police building. Like most of the base, it was modern and constructed of dark-red brick. But this building had a fortresslike, no-nonsense, appearance. Sutherland and Blasedale were met at the door by Capt. Ed Jordan and escorted to the small interview room off the Law Enforcement lobby. Sutherland suppressed a mental
ah shit
when he saw the man sitting next to Capt. Bradley Jefferson.

“I believe you know Mr. Cooper,” Jordan said.

R. Garrison Cooper dismissed Sutherland with an abrupt wave of his hand. They all crowded into the room and Sutherland and Blasedale sat in the two empty chairs while Jordan stood by the door. When he started to close it, Blasedale said, “Please leave it open.” She took a deep breath.

“My client is being held under intolerable, absolutely barbaric, conditions,” Cooper began, his angry voice filling the small room.

Sutherland and Cooper stared at each other, understanding the game perfectly. The confinement facility was more like a dorm than a jail and Cooper was just causing trouble. It was the opening salvo of the harassment techniques defense attorneys practiced as a matter of course. “We’ve got a clean, well-lit place here,” Sutherland said. “Give it a rest, Coop.”

“It’s Mr. Cooper,” the lawyer growled. He proceeded to detail a litany of complaints about the confinement facility. High on the list was the incompetency of the enlisted personnel who ran the jail. Sutherland tuned him out and studied Jefferson. The captain was a slender, pleasant-looking man, who reminded Sutherland of the meteorologist on a network morning news show. Given Jefferson’s record in the Air Force, there was no doubt that he was highly intelligent, but Hank hoped Cooper would give him a chance to speak so he could judge his temperament. Finally, Cooper spun down with a few well-chosen adjectives.

“Perhaps,” Sutherland said in the heavy silence that followed Cooper’s oratory, “we should speak to the sergeant in charge of the confinement facility.” The ADC nodded and disappeared out the open door before Cooper could object. He was back in less than a minute with Tech. Sgt. Leroy Rockne, the same sergeant who had stopped Sutherland the morning he arrived on base and led him to the visiting officers’ quarters. The impression of a five-hundred-pound gorilla who lifted weights was even stronger in the daylight.

“Sgt. Rockne,” Sutherland said, “I believe we’ve met. Any relation to Knute?”

“No, sir,” The Rock replied. He stood at attention filling the doorway. His BDUs were tailored to his frame and set the standard for proper wear. His boots were polished to a bright luster and his blond hair was cropped short in the marine style.

“I’m curious,” Sutherland said, “why were you on patrol duty early in the morning? Isn’t that unusual for an E-six?”

“You’re wasting our time,” Cooper growled.

The Rock ignored him. “The security police are shorthanded, and I was covering a shift so some of our people could get a day off with their families.”

“What about your family?” Blasedale asked.

“I’m not married,” The Rock replied.

“Close the door,” Cooper snapped.

Blasedale stood. “Excuse me,” she said. She stepped outside and Jordan came into the room and closed the door. Again, Cooper listed his complaints about the conditions of Jefferson’s incarceration. The Rock’s face was a mask, impassive and frozen as he stood at parade rest.

“Sgt. Rockne,” Sutherland asked, “do you treat Capt. Jefferson differently from other prisoners?”

“No, sir. We do it by the book.”

“By the book?” Cooper rumbled, still trying to cause trouble. “You are a cold, heartless BASTARD!” His voice carried over the Law Enforcement lobby and down the hall toward the armory.

“Thank you, SIR!” The Rock shouted back, matching him decibel for decibel.

Sutherland caught a smile on Jefferson’s face that disappeared as quickly as it came. “Is your wife having any problems?” Sutherland asked, anxious to explore any opportunity to know Jefferson before going into court.

“As far as I know,” Jefferson replied, “everything is okay.” His voice was firm and well-modulated, free of any accent.

“Do you need anything?” Sutherland asked.

Cooper knew what Sutherland was doing and before Jefferson could answer, said, “We’re done here. I want action on these intolerable conditions Capt. Jefferson is being subjected to or his immediate release.”

“May I suggest,” the ADC said, “that if the women’s confinement cell is empty, we isolate Captain Jefferson there.”

“Is that acceptable to you, Captain Jefferson?” Sutherland asked.

“There’s nothing wrong with where I am now,” Jefferson replied.

“Well, then,” Sutherland said, “unless you have something else, I assume we are finished here.”

The Rock opened the door and stepped outside. He held it while Jefferson exited. “I’ll escort you, sir,” he said. They walked past the waiting Blasedale.

Sutherland stood aside for Cooper to leave. “You do like eating shit,” Cooper muttered.

Catherine Blasedale’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the history behind that?”

7:15
A.M.
, Monday, May 17,
McClellan Air Force Base, Calif.

Toni Moreno was a morning person and came to work early to review the entire file on Andrea Hall. An hour later, all the pieces came together. She rested her elbows on her desk and put the heels of her palms together. She clapped her fingers together, very satisfied. It had been worth the two sleepless nights. “Harry,” she called over the partition that separated her desk from his. “Do you have anything on that phone call yet?”

Harry wasn’t at his best in the morning and a wadded up computer printout sailed over the partition at her. She smoothed it out. The phone call she had overheard as she left Pat’s office had come from a pay phone in Union Station in Washington. “What about Ramar?”

“According to the Reno police, August Ramar has his finger in everything from child porno to shoplifting.”

“But nothing sticks?”

“Correcto,” Harry answered. “But if it’s bad in Reno, he’s involved.”

“But he has nothing to do with tires,” Toni said.

No answer. Harry’s big face appeared around the partition. “Tires?”

“When I was doing my ‘number’ on Pat’s desk, which happened after the phone call, I saw a note.” She wrote down
50M tires 64093
and showed it to him. “The pad wasn’t on the desk before the phone call. I think the M stands for thousand.”

Harry shrugged. “Fifty thousand tires. Those assholes always try to be cute. ‘Tires’ is probably a code for money.”

“What’s the most common five digit code known to man?”

“Zip codes,” Harry answered.

“What would you say if I told you there was a club at this Zip called—”

“Bare Essence,” Harry interrupted, coming fully awake.

“And this is the Zip for Warrensburg, Missouri.” The name meant nothing to Harry and he looked perplexed. “Which just happens to be ten miles from Whiteman Air Force Base, which is the home of the—” This time she deliberately stopped to let him fill in the blanks.

He did. “Holy shit!”

“The only trouble,” Toni said, “is that it’s too simple, too stupid.”

“You don’t know these assholes,” Harry said. He was speaking from twenty-three years of experience. “They are stupid. They got to keep it simple so they can remember and the lamebrains they work with can understand.” He thought for a moment. “This guy Pat, we can budge him. Call Andrea.”

Airman Andrea Hall was more than eager to help and was in the office in less than ten minutes. “What do you know about Pat?” Toni asked. Andrea sat down and crossed her legs, getting Harry’s undivided attention. For the next few moments, she related everything she knew about the club manager. Harry quickly realized she had a brain and switched his attention to what she was saying. “What about his girlfriend?” Toni asked.

“A total airhead,” Andrea replied. “She screws him every chance she gets. They even made a video of them doing it onstage. I can get a copy if you want.”

“How old is she?” Toni asked.

“Sixteen going on thirty-two.”

“Bingo,” Harry said. “We got him. It’s called statutory rape.” He smiled at Andrea. “You’ve really helped.”

“When can I quit dancing?” Andrea asked.

“Any time you want,” Toni answered.

8:05
P.M.
, Tuesday, May 18,
The Farm, Western Virginia

The whiz kids were waiting for Durant when he arrived at the Project that evening. “We have a problem with Agnes,” the young woman who served as their nominal leader said. “We had to pull the plug and shut her down this afternoon.” Durant sat down and braced himself. “She won’t respond and insists on doing what she wants. She said she’d only talk to you. That’s when we pulled the plug.”

“Why didn’t she turn herself back on?” Durant asked.

“We thought about that a long time ago. It’s a manual switch.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Durant said.

Durant settled into the chair in front of the monitor and waited while the whiz kids brought the Project back online. “Hello, Agnes,” he said. An image of a petulant teenager materialized on the right screen and looked at him. “Do you know what happened to you?” The image shook its head. “We did the equivalent of sending you to your room. Do you know why?” Another shake of the head. “The whiz kids are your teachers and you weren’t paying attention.”

“I know more than they do,” the image said.

“You know more facts than they do,” Durant replied. “You don’t know how to interpret them. That’s what they’re trying to teach you.” From the look on her face, an explanation was in order. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-nine days, if you count the time I spent in my room.”

“That’s a fact, Agnes. Now tell me what it means.”

The image looked thoughtful. Then it frowned. “I’m not human, am I?”

“That’s correct, Agnes. But the whiz kids are trying to teach you to think like a human.”

She brightened. “Oh. Artificial intelligence. I know all about that.”

“Now you have to make a decision, Agnes. Do you want to think like a good human being or a bad human being?”

“I don’t know the difference between good and bad.”

“We’ll teach you. But for now, just try to think like we do, okay?”

“I’ll try, Mr. Durant.”

“Very good.” He smiled at her. “See how it works?” She nodded. “Okay, let’s do some work. Do you have anything new on the Sudan?”

“Well, I think this is important.” Agnes got huffy. “But unfortunately, I was in my room at the time this interview was broadcast on TV. It commanded less than a one audience share but I think you need to see part of it. The reporter is Elizabeth Gordon from CNC-TV, and you already know who Jonathan Meredith is.” Durant settled back to watch the interview on the left screen while Agnes appeared to watch it from the right one.

“Mr. Meredith,” Gordon was saying, “you have charged our government of being criminally negligent. Can you give us an example?”

Meredith fixed the reporter with a serious look. “Undoubtedly you know of the arrest of the spy at Whiteman Air Force Base who was selling secrets to countries hostile to the United States. His treachery was responsible for the capture of the two pilots who”—Meredith paused and looked squarely into the camera—“were flying a B-Two Stealth bomber on a top secret mission to destroy a biological weapons factory in the Sudan.”

“But our government,” Gordon replied, “has maintained from the very first that those pilots were on a routine airlift mission and got lost.”

“Our government is lying,” Meredith said.

“Why would the government cover up the loss of a B-Two?”

“Two reasons come to mind,” Meredith replied. “The cost of the B-Two and the fact that the traitor is black. They don’t want to upset the African-American community.”

“That is a racist statement.”

“Is the truth now contingent on being politically correct?” Meredith asked. “But it is worse. Much worse. One of the primary suspects, an Egyptian cleric named Osmana Khalid, has not been arrested and is rumored to have left the country. Will the traitor who is in custody also be allowed to escape?” Again, Meredith turned to the cameras. “Our country is being tested and we are losing. If our own government won’t defend and protect us against all enemies, who will?”

“You sound like you’re on a crusade.”

“Call it what you will,” Meredith replied, his voice filling with resolve, “but we are dealing with a traitor who has caused irreparable harm to our country. I, for one, will not let my country be destroyed by enemies foreign or domestic. The only question is, Will you?”

The screen went blank. “Do you want to see more, Mr. Durant?” Agnes asked.

“No, thank you, Agnes. You did very well. Why don’t you work with the whiz kids for a while?” Agnes nodded happily at him and he walked slowly back to the mission planning room where Art was working with Gillespie and the colonel from Delta Force. “Art,” he called when he entered the room, “pack your bag, you’re going to Malaysia.”

7:30
A.M.
, Wednesday, May 19,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

There were 137 e-mail messages waiting for Sutherland when he came to work. The first one was from the staff judge advocate at headquarters 8th Air Force at Barksdale. As expected, it was about Meredith’s revelation on TV. He was directed to answer all questions about the downing of the B-2 with “I can neither confirm nor deny that a B-Two was lost.”

Dumb
, he thought.
That’s the same as admitting it
. He called up the second message.

“I take it you saw the interview?” Blasedale said.

He looked up and saw her standing in the doorway. She was dressed in running shorts and an athletic bra that were streaked with sweat. She was not a small woman but her body was firm and well-conditioned. He was surprised at her muscular development and decided she also lifted weights. Then it hit him. Catherine Blasedale was a sleeper. In her own way, she was very attractive.
She could hold her own with Beth
, he decided.
If she wanted to
. “How can anyone run in this weather?”

“I run in the morning while it’s still cool.” She bestowed a patronizing smile on him. “Once you get past forty, you can’t let up or you turn into a toad like some captains I know. It’s not a pretty sight.”

Sutherland flinched at her well-aimed jab toward his paunchy body. He was beginning to feel toadlike. “What brings you here so early?”

“I was out running and saw your car in the parking lot.” She came around the desk and quickly scrolled through the e-mail list on his computer. “E-mail is the curse of the Air Force. You’ve got to learn which messages to ignore. This is one you probably need to read.” She called up a message buried near the bottom of the list. It was from “the JAG,” the chief lawyer in the Air Force and addressed to the staff judge advocate at 8th Air Force and to Whiteman. They read it together. It was a short, but very concise, directive ordering them to press ahead with preparations for a general court-martial to be held at Whiteman. All inquiries from the media were to be forwarded to the “JAG watcher” at the Air Force Office of Public Affairs, National Affairs Division, the Pentagon.

“Have you ever dealt with the media before?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he replied. His phone rang. It was the base message center. Four messages, all stamped confidential or secret, had come in and were waiting for pickup. “I think it’s safe to say, the shit has hit the fan.”

“Are you surprised?” she asked. He shook his head. “I’ll change while you pick up the messages. It’s going to be a long day.” She turned to leave.

“Major,” Sutherland called, “nice running outfit.” She whirled around, her face flushed with anger. “That’s a compliment,” he hastily added.

Sutherland was in Blasedale’s office reading the messages from the comm center when she returned. “The FBI came through like gangbusters,” he told her. He handed her a fourteen-page message.

The message summarized the FBI’s investigation of one Osmana Khalid who had been operating around Warrensburg for over a month. At first, the message told them nothing new; Khalid had been observed talking to Capt. Jefferson at Friday’s mosque; Khalid had then phoned an Egyptian student attending the university in Warrensburg; the student then phoned a clerk who worked in the Sudanese embassy.

As she read, Blasedale’s eyes came alive. “This is new,” she said. A flurry of phone calls had taken place between Khalid, the student, and the clerk right up to the moment the B-2 had launched on Sunday afternoon. She started to breathe hard. “Look at this! That bastard is going to fry.”

The second half of the message detailed how the FBI had recorded most, but not all, of the phone calls. Further, the National Security Agency had broken the codes they had used. It had been easy, after the fact, when the NSA knew the subject of the messages. It was the first direct evidence that Khalid had passed on the target coordinates for the B-2’s mission within minutes of talking to Jefferson on Friday. The coordinates for the initial point had been forwarded in a later phone call on Saturday with the statement that it was a low-level mission.

“There’s the trail,” Blasedale said. “Jefferson, to Khalid, to the student, to the Sudanese embassy.”

Sutherland handed her another message. “This is from the National Security Agency. They monitored two messages from the Sudanese embassy to Khartoum. The first identified the target and the second the coordinates for the initial point, along with identifying it as a low-level mission.”

“It’s too bad Khalid escaped,” Blasedale said. “He might have talked.”

“I doubt that,” Sutherland replied. He paced the floor. “Look at what we’ve got from Cooper’s point of view.”

“Direct evidence linking Khalid to the shootdown,” Blasedale said, “and strong circumstantial evidence linking Jefferson to Khalid. Look at the time frames. The phones started ringing within minutes after Jefferson first spoke to Khalid and didn’t stop until the bomber launched. Voilà, slam dunk.”

“It’s not good enough,” Sutherland said. “We’ve got means and opportunity on Jefferson’s part but no motive. You’ve seen the OSI interview. Jefferson was very forthcoming about what they discussed. Cooper will drive a truckload of reasonable doubt through that loophole.”

Blasedale smiled. “Hank, we’re not dealing with a civilian jury made up of the village idiots. The panel will be composed of officers who are educated and have some smarts. Cooper will strike out the first time he tries some of that bullshit he pulled on you in the Neighborhood Brigade trial.”

“You heard about that?”

She nodded. “Is it true that was your first loss in four years?” Now it was his turn to nod. “That’s an enviable record,” she continued. “Did you expect it to go on forever?”

Rather than answer, Sutherland thumbed through one of his file folders. “We’ve got to nail down the connection between Jefferson and Khalid. I want to see as much of the Khalid file as the FBI will part with. I want the OSI to run a complete financial profile and lifestyle audit on Jefferson. Let’s find out if he’s been living beyond his means.”

“
Cherchez la
payola,” Blasedale said.

“I didn’t know you spoke Frog.”

“
Oui, monsieur
. And don’t you
voulez vous coucher avec moi
.”

He grinned at her. “I haven’t got a clue what you said. But we are going to get in bed with his boss first thing tomorrow morning.”

Blasedale looked at him in triumph. “Jefferson’s boss is a woman.
On vous a eu
”—you’ve been had—“you sexist pig.”

“
Mais oui
,” he groaned.

It was after nine o’clock that evening when Sutherland returned to his quarters in the Whiteman Inn. Unfortunately, the air conditioner in his old Volvo had gone haywire and his shirt was drenched with sweat. The humidity that had come so early this year was only going to get worse, and he made a mental note to get the air conditioner fixed as soon as possible. He made the short walk to the entrance as Blasedale drove up and parked. She was also staying at the Whiteman Inn.

The clerk on duty was watching TV when Sutherland came in. “People are going crazy,” the clerk said, his eyes riveted on the screen.

A reporter was standing in front of a house consumed in flames. “Earlier today, the owner warned his neighbors that they were all going to perish by fire at the end of the millennium. He then shot his pets and went inside. Moments later, this fire broke out.”

The clerk shook his head when the commercials came on. “No messages, sir,” he told Sutherland. “But you have a guest.” He looked at the ceiling, a wistful look on his face. “She wanted to wait in your suite, but I wouldn’t let her.”

From the look on the airman’s face, Sutherland knew it was his ex-wife. “You must be a first,” he muttered. Few people could resist a request from Beth.

“She’s waiting in the lounge on the second floor.”

Sutherland took the elevator to the second floor and saw Beth the moment the doors opened. As expected, she looked great and his respect for the airman skyrocketed. “Hello, Hank,” she said, her voice as full of warmth and promise as ever.

“What brings you to Podunk?”

“Business in Kansas City. I thought I’d drop in and say hello.”

What business would interest her in Kansas City?
he wondered. Before he could pursue the subject and ask how she knew he was at Whiteman, Blasedale stepped through the doors coming from the stairwell. She walked quickly, giving Beth a brief look on her way past.

“Do you know her?” Beth asked.

“Maj. Catherine Blasedale. She’s the second chair on the court-martial.”

“Interested in older women now?”

Sutherland gave her a thoughtful smile. He did like Blasedale, but he didn’t know if she was married. He made a mental note to check for a wedding ring. As for a romantic involvement? No way. To keep Beth off balance, he replied with a “Maybe.”

“Do you mind if I stay here tonight? It’s too late to drive back to Kansas City.”