Huston, James W. -2003- Secret Justice (com v4.0)(html) (20 page)

“Solution to what problem? The passengers?” Lisbie asked. He was growing quite uncomfortable. Satti’s calmness unsettled him. “I’m afraid if that’s what you’re referring to, I don’t see a solution. If you’d like, I could make arrangements for them to fly to arrive at the port at the same time as the ship. But I can’t do that for free. You would need to pay for the costs. Other than that, I don’t really see much of a solution.”

“Are you aware of how much we’re prepared to pay you?”

“I am well aware, Mr. Satti. And as I said, it is very generous. We’re happy to take it, and happy to accept your payment, but not your passengers. By the way, for the cargo manifests, we need to know what’s in the containers.”

“Machinery. Dye-making machinery for a manufacturing plant,” Satti replied. “What is your company’s concern with passengers?”

“We don’t have room. We do not have bunk-rooms, or staterooms. We’re not set up to carry additional people, other than the crew. Perhaps one or two, but not fifteen,” he said, hinting at one possible solution. “And the one or two would usually be someone from the management of the shipping company. I’m sure you understand.”

Satti understood all right. He said nothing. He let the silence do his work for him.

Lisbie shifted in his chair and became acutely aware for the first time that his chair squeaked when he moved. A ship behind him about to be towed from its mooring gave one long blast on its whistle—getting under way. “Maybe we could figure out a way for one or two of your people to make the trip.”

Satti remained silent. “I need to have fifteen of my people aboard the ship.”

“I told you. I cannot do that.”

Satti nodded knowingly as he dropped his cigarette on the floor and smashed it with his shoe. “Forgive me for not seeing it before this,” Satti said. “I did not realize the difficulty this job is for you and for your family. You have needs as well. I failed to mention to you that we expect to pay you as a consultant for your help in preparing the contract. It was my oversight.” He opened the briefcase to pull out an envelope stuffed with cash. “Allow me—”

“No, no,” Lisbie said, holding up a hand. “You misunderstand. I do not want anything.”

Satti removed his hand from the briefcase slowly. “Thank you for your candor. Our three containers will be here on time. Our fifteen men will be here the day the ship sails.”

Lisbie was growing angry. “I have told you now several times I cannot.”

Satti froze him with a look. “I will be back in ten days. When I come back you will tell me how you are going to get my fifteen people on the ship for the journey eastward. Do you understand?”

Lisbie was outraged. “I will not, sir. We will ship your goods—although I am having doubts about that right now—but we will not take your people.”

Satti went on as if Lisbie hadn’t said a word. “And when I come back in ten days, I’ll pay you for the cost of transporting our people. If on reflection, you realize how much work you have had to do to accommodate our difficult requests, I will be more than happy to renew the offer for the consultant’s fee that I offered you. It is quite substantial.” He waited.

Lisbie stood. He had to assert himself. “We are not making any progress. I will process the contract for shipping your three containers.”

Satti also stood. He was three or four inches taller than Lisbie and in much better shape. He had a physical presence Lisbie could never hope to have. Lisbie’s physical presence was fairly represented by his small potbelly and wispy mustache. “I will see you in ten days. Perhaps during that time you will have a chance to think about me, and about what I have said. Then when I return, I am very confident you will have changed your mind.”

David Stern waited to be connected to the captain at the Pentagon whose name he had just spent forty-five minutes trying to uncover. This captain almost certainly wasn’t the right person either, but it was a name and could direct him where he needed to go. Finally the captain came on the line. “Captain Wilhelm, JAG office, how can I help you?”

“Good afternoon, Captain. My name is David Stern. I’m with the ACLU office here in Washington.” He stopped. He knew the reaction of most government employees when the ACLU called. It meant trouble. “Do you have a minute?”

“What’s this about?” Wilhelm asked, annoyed.

“I would like to see my client. I need to speak with him and begin preparing his defense.”

“And who might your client be?”

“Wahamed Duar.” The complete silence told Stern all he needed to know. Duar was being held, and this captain knew about it.

“How were you retained?”

“That’s none of your concern. I want to see my client, and I want to know how you plan to make that happen. I’ve already sent a fax to the captain of the ship.”

“I don’t plan on making anything happen. I don’t know anything about any of this. I’m just taking notes. I’ll find out who you need to talk to and I’ll have that person call you back. What’s your number?”

Stern gave it to him. “I need to hear from whoever this is this afternoon. My client’s interests and rights are being trampled every minute he is unrepresented.”

“He is represented.”

“You acknowledge he is in custody? And by representation, did you mean appointed military counsel? Who is representing him right now? What is his or her e-mail address?”

“I’ll have someone call you.”

“Today.”

The line went dead. Stern transferred Wilhelm’s address off the Internet to the address line in Word and completed the letter he had already drafted confirming their conversation, and informing the JAG office at the Pentagon that he had been retained to represent Duar. He signed it and fed it to the fax machine. As the number dialed and the fax connection was made, Stern picked up the telephone and called Josephine Block at the
Washington Post
. She answered the phone. Jo was a straight shooter. Stern loved her; she wasn’t afraid to run a story that fired right at the government.

She answered. “Josephine Block.”

“Jo, David Stern, ACLU. I need to meet with you right away. I have a very large story for you.”

She breathed heavily on the line. “Don’t have time. I’m working on something.”

“This will be worth your time. I guarantee it.”

She sighed. “Come.”

“Mr. Lisbie, Sadeq Satti calling. I know it has only been seven days since we met, but I wondered if you had given what I said any more thought.” He sat in his rental parked on the street outside the largest bank in Monrovia. He had bought the cell phone the day before for this one use.

“I have, and I have not changed my mind. I cannot do what you ask. I’m sorry. And three more days won’t make any difference —”

“You haven’t checked your bank account recently, I take it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you?”

“Not really, no.”

“When you do, you will find that it has perhaps more in it than it used to. Consider it a payment for your additional consideration. And there is a lot more where that came from if you do as I have asked.”

“I . . . I can’t really accept any payment,” Lisbie said with some difficulty. He yearned to be free of debt, free to go where he wanted, to do what he wanted. But he wasn’t about to compromise his principles for a bribe. Never had, never would. “I will return it to you at the address on your fax.”

“No, keep it. It is a gift.”

“I cannot.”

Satti waited for a few awkward seconds. “Are you sure of your position?”

“Quite sure.”

“That is too bad. Perhaps you will reconsider soon. You really must check with the bank,” Satti said as he hit the “end” button on the cell phone.

Satti watched Lisbie’s mother, an elderly woman, stop her old car in front of the bank. She had been lucky to get one of the six parking spots angling into the curb directly in front of the door. She wore a loose-fitting cotton dress and sandals. She moved slowly. The arthritis in her hips was as bad as he had been told. She wasn’t demonstrative about her pain; she wasn’t looking for sympathy, or help. She was just dealing with it, and it caused her to move slowly. Satti had followed her all morning as she completed her errands: the post office, the power company, a second-hand clothing store, and now the bank.

He could see her car clearly, even though it was a block away. He looked around the area. A few pedestrians. Some bystanders but not too many. The bank was a solid building. There might be someone hurt inside, but again, not too many. This was the place.

The bomb had been placed in her car under the hood the night before. Military grade C4. Harmless until Satti activated it remotely with his electronic detonator. Then it would go off the next time the starter was engaged. He waited. He lit another cigarette and let it dangle from the fingers of his left hand as his elbow hung out the window of his car. The heat was stifling. The sweat ran down his chest again. He yearned for the desert heat of Sudan, not the humid heat of central Africa, or the coast.

Satti took out his signal radio, turned it on, and depressed the trigger button. He saw a small green light illuminated on the top of the device. The receiver attached to the detonator returned the signal that the explosives were engaged and ready. He turned the radio off, placed it on the seat, and started his car. He completed a U-turn and drove away from the bank.

Lisbie’s mother pushed the bank’s heavy door open with great difficulty and turned down the sidewalk. As she approached her car she reached inside her bag for her keys. She sat gingerly and breathed deeply. Her hips hurt more today than usual. She needed hip replacement surgery. Her doctor had told her that if she lived on another continent maybe she could get the surgery, but not here. Until something changed she was just going to have to bear it. She shifted her weight painfully and reached her left foot forward against the pain to depress the clutch. She put the key in the ignition and turned it.

The C4 had been placed in the engine cavity on the firewall behind the steering column and shaped in such a way that the force would go first through the firewall into the passenger compartment. The remainder of the force would explode outward, causing maximum damage to the car’s surroundings.

As soon as she turned the ignition, the electronic circuit to the detonator was complete. In a thousandth of a second the C4 had blown through the firewall and taken Lisbie’s mother apart. The speed and violence of the explosion were faster than her senses could convey pain to her brain, faster even than her eyes could recognize that something was happening and transmit it to her brain. Everything was gone before she even knew it.

The car exploded in a flash of white light and a thundering bang that was so loud and sudden it felt like a hammer blow for blocks around. The force tore the facade off the bank and ripped the doors off their hinges. The second-floor windows exploded into a shower of glass that fell to the sidewalk with a bright tinkling that filled the sound void created by the explosion, hitting the pavement before the car returned to earth from its brief flight.

Satti heard the explosion from two miles away as he drove along a residential street. He tossed his cigarette out the window and turned his car toward his hotel.

David Stern found Josephine’s desk with some difficulty. She was in her usual state of hurry and disarray. She didn’t even look up when he sat down in the chair across from her, watching her type furiously on her computer. He waited for her attention. She finally glanced up. “What?”

“David Stern. We spoke.”

“What’s all this about? Big story, front page. What could be so important?”

“You’ve heard of Wahamed Duar?”

“Of course.”

“He’s my client.”

“And?”

“He’s in custody on a ship in the Indian Ocean. I’ve been retained and I’m going to go out there and defend him. This so-called tribunal. I’ve notified the Pentagon that I’m representing him.”

“I heard about it, but not about you.”

“How?”

“Another lawyer was in here for
his
client—some Navy officer who has been charged with torturing a terrorist. While capturing your client, I think.”

Stern was shocked. “The government tortured my client?”

“I don’t know. I’m looking into the other thing right now. Sounds like it may all be tied together.” She stood quickly and grabbed her purse. “And I’m about to find out. The Pentagon spokesperson is about to give the weekly, routine, boring press conference. I’m going to see if I can make it unroutine.”

Two bright young faces, Russell Edwards and Mary Rowland, appeared in Don Jacobs’s doorway. He didn’t even know their names. The Counterterrorism Center had expanded so rapidly he had no hope of knowing everyone’s name. “What?”

“We’ve got a car bombing.”

“Where?” he asked, automatically assuming the most likely places, Jerusalem, Haifa, Jakarta, Berlin, Moscow, Colombia.

“Monrovia.”

“
Liberia
?” he asked, perplexed.

Rowland nodded. “In front of a bank. Killed some poor old woman. The bomb was in her car. Blew her sky high. Literally. Blew the facade off the bank. Very high explosive content.”

Jacobs leaned back, puzzled. “Nothing the hell ever happens in Liberia.”

They watched him.

“Who’s on this?” he asked.

“We are.”

Jacobs considered how much attention to give this. There were always things to run to ground, threats, attacks, bombs, investigations, murders, intrigue, intelligence, and most of it was worthless. The key was picking what to follow. But Liberia? “Any preliminary thoughts?”

Edwards nodded. “Seems like a local thing to us. There’s no evidence of any terrorist cells in Liberia. Maybe someone got a bill for his checking account that he didn’t like.”

Jacobs didn’t smile. “Lot of shipping goes through Liberia. Largest merchant fleet in the world. Maybe somebody’s got something going in shipping.”

They both shrugged. “Maybe,” Rowland said.

“Let’s get some field intel. Find out who the mort is.”