Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2) (29 page)

“American judges are inclined to vote no. But that leaves nine others, and from what I understand, the judges from the other three countries are wavering. As Amicus counsel”—his eyes held hers—“President Cameron and I need you to present solid arguments in opposition to the motion for mistrial.” His words hung heavy in the room.

“Your honor, Amicus counsel is supposed to be an adviser to the court.” Samantha leaned forward, keeping her tone even. “Even in the hybrid world of ITT proceedings, the judges aren’t supposed to tell Amicus counsel what their arguments should be.”

The judge folded his arms, the mask of congeniality gone in an instant. A deep frown matched the intense look of frustration in his eyes. “Counselor—”

“But in this instance,” Samantha tried to make her tone placating, but firm, “your directive coincides exactly with what I know my role should be. I will do my best to defeat the mistrial motion and the arguments presented in its favor.”

The judge gave her a curt nod. “Prior to his death, Stanley Morgan believed this proceeding was doomed, and he was vocal about his belief. He believed the underlying goal of using the proceedings to draw out Maximov was never going to come to fruition. He believed the evidence wasn’t adding up for a conviction of Maximov.”

“Your honor, with all due respect,” Samantha said. “Stanley Morgan believed the proceedings could draw out Maximov, but not within the existing parameters. And given the state of affairs and the pending threat of a mistrial, I’d say his fears were well founded and are coming to fruition. The record must be expanded to make this trial as productive as it should be.”

He gave a slight headshake. Shrewd brown eyes locked on Samantha. “Yesterday your questions to Duvall highlighted the weaknesses in the case against Maximov. When we talked on the phone yesterday evening, I was more than displeased. Your desire for an interview with Stollen is something that Stanley Morgan also attempted. Before I became a judge, I was a litigator. I recognize the value of a second-chair attorney who is both brilliant and hard working. Now, I’m wondering—did you agree with Morgan’s opinions?”

Samantha gave Judge O’Connor a slow nod. “Yes.”

He frowned. “Based on what?”

She swallowed. “Hunches from cold, hard facts. It’s been my job for the last year to analyze, with a bird’s eye view, every investigative report that’s been admitted into the ITT record and even information that isn’t in the record.”

In the chair next to her, Zeus shifted and turned to her. The judge asked, with laser-like focus in his dark eyes, “Elaborate. Please.”

“I believe Vladimer Stollen will have information that is fundamental for finding Maximov. Information we don’t currently have. Once we find Maximov, we can determine whether he is calling the shots. It he isn’t, we can find the people he is using to breathe life into the low-level cells that are doing the street work. We can locate the revenue streams they use and cut them off. Maximov—the man—has to be terminated, because he has become a myth to every young anarchist around the world.”

“Your belief that Stollen has information. Based on more than a wing and a prayer?”

“Stollen and Vasily Maximov were the last two known cohorts of Andre Maximov to have been captured. Stollen was always believed to be second-in-command to Andre Maximov, and therefore one of the forces behind the group—Maximov-in-Exile. Vasily Maximov, Andre’s son, was right behind Stollen. In the intervening years after Stollen was arrested, law enforcement agencies have only managed to capture people like Duvall. No one who has a direct link to Maximov or even, in reality, the Maximov-in-Exile organization. They’re simply young anarchists who’ve seized upon a convenient cause and claim a link. Interviewing Stollen is worth a try, though I can tell you that Brier will strenuously oppose the motion.”

The judge arched an eyebrow, glancing at Zeus. “And if Stollen gives us anything, it will be helpful to task force and bounty hunters?”

“Yes,” Samantha said.

“Your motion refers to Stollen’s familiarity with known Maximov hideouts in Turkey, Syria, and even Greece.”

“Yes,” Samantha said.

He gave both her and Zeus a knowing look. “These are areas that the task force has combed through—and will continue to do so. My understanding is there is another mission in Syria tonight—of which I’m sure Black Raven is aware.” He paused. “Am I correct in assuming that you intend to ask Stollen questions about areas that have nothing to do with Turkey and Syria?”

“Yes.”
Please don’t ask me where.
She trusted the judge, but she didn’t want to have to reveal the true locale to him. Not now, not when Zeus and Gabe believed advance knowledge that Black Raven was headed into Praptan would be detrimental to the search. “And that is why we want the interview to be conducted under seal, with as few participants as possible. Black Raven is planning an operation, based upon the expectation that Stollen will provide helpful information.”

The judge leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, the fingers of both hands pressed together, with his chin resting on his thumbs. “Why do you think Stollen will tell you anything helpful now?

“If there is an offer of years off his sentence—”

The judge shook his head. “That was offered before.”

“I propose we sweeten the deal,” Samantha said.

“How?”

“Immediate release from prison to house arrest upon his information leading to the capture of Maximov. Also, given the reach of the terrorists who are attacking this proceeding, I suspect that Stollen feels more secure in a super-max prison than out in the world. Provide him with security that will enable him to live in relative freedom. Offer Black Raven protection. For life. If he gives information that leads to the capture or apprehension of Maximov.”

The judge nodded. “Not a bad idea.”

“Judge, Samantha and I have conferred on this.” Zeus shot Samantha a sideways glance, as unreadable as any he typically threw her way. “But before Black Raven protection is officially part of the inducement package, I need an official sign-off. I’d like you to have an understanding of the cost to taxpayers. We’re coming up with an estimate now. As with all of our estimates, I can assure you the number will go up.”

Judge O’Connor gave Zeus a nod. “Fine. Assuming the tribunal grants the motion, when my aide is putting together the package of bargaining chips, I’ll have him consult you. He’ll communicate directly with me on this, and I’ll officially sign off.”

The judge frowned as his phone rang. “Excuse me.” Listening, he shut his eyes. “Good God.” He put the receiver down and pressed a button on the intercom. “Bring Brier to me.” To Samantha and Zeus, he said, “His wife and her security detail were murdered this morning at Brier’s home in D.C. The usual ‘
I am Maximov’
note was written in blood in the bathroom mirror.”

Stunned, Sam rose to her feet. Zeus rose alongside her.

As the judge listened to the caller, he gave her a nod, whispered, “Don’t leave,” and resumed the call by saying, “Do we know who?”

There was a sharp tap at the door, then the judge’s security put his head in the office and announced Brier.

When Brier entered the office, the judge stepped around from his desk, directed the attorney to sit, and delivered the harsh news. His tone and words, concerned but firm, conveyed immeasurable sympathy.

In the silence that followed, the charismatic lawyer who boldly and deftly overpowered judicial proceedings and presented arguments with the force of a freight train, devolved into a beaten-down, stunned man. His shoulders slumped forward. With his elbows on his knees, Brier dropped his face into the palm of his hands. Long seconds passed with his silver-gray haired head down, where his harsh sobs were rattling gasps for air.

While the judge and Zeus both stood in firm-jawed, stoic silence, Samantha knelt to the floor in front of Brier and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Robert, I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

When he looked up, tears filled his eyes. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but no words came out. He slowly sat up straight, reaching for her hand with his left hand and holding on to her as he did. With his right hand, he reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, then dabbed the tears from his cheeks and the corners of his eyes.

“We’ll assist you with arrangements to get home as quickly as possible.”

Brier nodded. “Thank you. I’ll leave when proceedings conclude today.”

The judge, thoughtful eyes on Brier, shook his head. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to leave sooner?”

Brier dabbed moisture from his eyes. “My wife. Madeline. You know she is a lawyer.” He drew in a deep, shaky breath and shook his head. “Was. She was a lawyer. We worked together for the last thirty years. She had a very firm understanding of the importance of my work as a defender of civil rights and those who are falsely accused. She knows how important this proceeding is. Knows how important it is that the International Terrorist Tribunal does not become a result-oriented court.”

Samantha admired the man’s ability to provide a compelling speech in the face of such abject grief, while tears streamed from his eyes and down his cheeks. Zeus, standing a few feet from Brier, had gridlock attention focused on the lawyer, who seemed to be drawing strength from his profound grief.

“I’ve been a defender of the rights of the criminal accused for my entire career. Can’t the terrorists see that? Why would they come after me?”

“They’re not choosing sides,” the judge said. “They’re not being selective. They are anarchists, and they want the ITT to stop. It is now clear that they’re going after the loved ones of anyone involved.”

“The Colombians have informed me they will be moving for a mistrial when proceedings commence,” Brier continued. “Madeline, God rest her soul, would want me to remain here to argue in favor of the motion.” In a tone that became both bitter and grief-stricken, he stood as he added, “I will draw upon her indomitable spirit and present an argument to the tribunal that will result in the termination of this ITT proceeding.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Once the judges took the podium, the first order of business for the tribunal was the Colombian motion for a mistrial. Second was the French motion for expansion of the record. Third was her own motion to interview Stollen. For the next three hours, Samantha was on her feet.

Throughout the arguments, she stayed at the podium, facing the twelve judges and paying close attention to Judge Ducaisse, who was dictating the order of the proceeding. She also paid close attention to Judge O’Connor, who with a nod or shake of his head informed her whether he thought her arguments were hitting their intended mark. She made snap-fire decisions, carefully crafted her words, addressed each argument presented by counsel—while making sure she sounded authoritative and calm.

Stanley Morgan had taught her to sound calm, decisive, and cool—a balm for proceedings that were in disarray. Confident that she could be the glue that held the proceedings together, she forged ahead. As the other lawyers argued, Abe instant messaged counterpoints to her. She’d scan through his messages. If she deemed the points important enough, she’d incorporate them into her argument.

Each move she made, she was mindful of the need to be delicate when she responded to Brier, whose grief was palpable with each word, giving him an air of solemnity and persuasiveness that seemed to overpower the entire proceeding.

A fifteen-minute recess came midway through the afternoon. She turned and glanced into the gallery the second the judges exited the dais. Zeus was already walking in her direction. Thank God. She’d been sipping water at the podium for three hours, and now there was only one place she needed to be.

As she washed her hands in the bathroom, he stood with his back to the door, arms at his side. “You’re doing a great job.”

In the mirror, she glanced in his direction as she reapplied her lipstick. His eyes were on her hand, the black lipstick tube, the bright red paste of the season’s newest red, and her lips. “Thanks. I can’t tell whether I’m scoring with the judges.”

Reaching for a napkin, she blotted some of the red lipstick from her lips, before reaching in her purse for a tube of gloss. As she slid the applicator along her bottom lip, her eyes caught a flicker of his frown.

“Well, that’s hell.” His tone was low, his voice gruff.

“What?”

“Not knowing whether you’re scoring.”

“Oh.” Through the mirror, she watched his slight frown deepen. “So red lipstick turns you on?”

“On your lips, apparently yes.”

Dropping the gloss into her purse, she pulled out a roll of antacids. “We’re not going there, Hernandez.”

“Couldn’t agree more. For the moment. About the proceedings, every time you speak, the Colombian judges look down, at their tablets. Or notes. They’re working hard on ignoring you. News reports in Colombia are grim. Public opinion there is Colombia should never have joined forces with the U.S., the U.K. and France.”

Slipping her thumbnail between the foil-lined packaging, she separated one chalky tablet from the others as she turned away from the mirror and faced him. “I’ve given up on securing the votes of the Colombian judges.”

“Wise move. If body language is an indicator, the French are more receptive to you. Americans are nodding in agreement. The judges who are most undecided are the judges from the U.K.”

“I’m watching. I agree.” She chewed on an antacid, and peeled another from the roll.

His slight frown reappeared. “Your breakfast was hours ago—”

“I ate a power bar while I was getting dressed. At eleven.”

“You should eat another. What you’re doing is strenuous. Food would be—”

“I don’t eat much during proceedings.”

“Figured that out. But why not?”

“Stomach’s usually in a knot when I’m arguing,” she said, dropping the roll of antacids into her purse, and walking in his direction, to the door. “Just like my neck.”

He frowned. “I’ll arrange a masseuse for you this evening.”

Message received.

His eyes? Unreadable, yet she knew he
wasn’t considering doing a neck rub. And why? Because she’d been damn effective at giving him the don’t-touch-me-again message that morning. And who the hell could blame her? Sex with him was a distraction.

Don’t think about how his warm strength seeped from his fingers into the coiled-up tendons and muscles of your too-tight neck. Don’t think about that.

You were right when you told him you needed sleep. Bitchy as it sounded— Yes. At this point in the day, a bit more sleep last night would’ve been good.

With a steady, coolly unbothered and very professional look, he pushed the bathroom door open for her. “There are two male judges from the U.K. One female. The male judge who is the furthest to your right. Allen Normand. You know him?”

“Not personally.”

“Make eye contact with him,” Zeus said, walking down the hall with her, in step with her security team. “As much as you can.”

Samantha thought through everything she knew about Judge Normand. Nothing told her he’d be more amenable to her arguments than the other two U.K. judges. “Why?”

“Ragno’s intel tells me he is quite a ladies man.” He glanced at her when they reached the wide double-doorway of the courtroom. “And my eyes tell me he thinks you’re hot. Play up the beautiful-and-smart woman card.”

“Ridiculous.”

He arched his left eyebrow as he glanced down at her. Lowering his voice slightly, he said, “Why aren’t you wearing a dark, navy-blue, boxy suit, instead of that form-fitting, attention-grabbing ivory with black leather piping get up? And some neutral-colored lipstick, instead of Sex-and-Blowjobs-Red?”

On her immediate right, she saw Jenkins shoot his boss a surprised look, then recover quickly and stare straight ahead. “Because I’m confident enough in my capabilities to look like a female who appreciates nice clothes, and I believe the judges don’t focus on gender or appearance when they’re assessing the merits of an argument.” She lowered her voice to almost a hiss. “And the name of the lipstick is Remember the Classics. Not Sex-and-Blowjobs-Red.”

He nodded as they reentered the courtroom. Conversations hummed as the lawyers and attendees stood, taking advantage of the break by conversing with each other. “Cosmetic companies are making a fortune off of bullshitting you women, cause the only classic that shade has to do with is sex, in all its glorious forms.” He lowered his voice, leaning in, and whispering, “I’m in the gallery, watching each judge as they watch you. Underneath that black robe, Judge Normand is just a man, and he damn well is noticing that you’re a super-intelligent woman, who happens to look damn good while she argues. He might be your swing vote.”

He bent to her ear as she sat at counsel table for a quick discussion with Abe and Charles before arguments would resume. “You’ve got it, Sam,” he whispered, in that low, gravelly voice he used that sliced straight through to her heart and made her insides quiver. “Whether it’s the merits of your argument or your looks, you’re catching his attention. Just like you steal my breath every single goddamn time I look at you, no matter what shade of lipstick you’re wearing.” She couldn’t help but shift closer to him, feeling his warm breath in her ear with each of his words. “Even when you tell me you’d prefer sleep over sex. If you want to win this argument, use the tools God gave you. All of them.”

At 6:45 p.m., after three more hours of argument, the proceedings ended with a firm bang of the gavel. Samantha held her breath for rulings, but Judge Ducaisse announced that all matters would be taken under advisement.

Although she’d have preferred an immediate ruling, relief coursed through her as the judges exited the courtroom. She felt good about the points and counterpoints she’d been able to make, but she didn’t dare predict the outcome. Predicting a ruling so soon after an argument was bad luck.

Fatigue came on the heels of the relief. Feeling the effects of the night with little sleep and the strain that came with six hours of extreme focus and on-her-feet argument, she had the presence of mind to walk to where Brier was sitting, place a hand on his arm, and give him a nod of sympathy before exiting the courtroom. Mindlessly following Zeus’s instructions as he directed their exit from the building, she melted into the middle of the rear seat of the car. He slid in next to her, thigh to her thigh, shoulder to her shoulder.

She resisted the urge to rest her head on his shoulder and drift off to sleep. Irritated that she was too damned tired for rational thought, she snuggled deeper into her overcoat. She stared blankly ahead into the dark night as the driver exited the Ile de la Cite via the Pont Neuf, a different bridge than the one they had used that morning. Her mind registered they were taking an alternate route to the safe house. Her mind also registered Zeus’s low voice as he communicated short commands with the members of the security teams.

The details weren’t her concern. She just needed to get to the safe house, ease her shoes off her feet, take a hot shower, and fall into bed.

Traffic caused the car to stop. Staring blankly ahead, the brake lights of the cars in front of her flashed red at the same time a harsh
pop-pop-pop
rattled through the night. Cars screeched to a halt, their tires skidding on wet pavement. Next to her, Zeus stiffened.

Jenkins, on the right side of her, said, “Shooter. Two o’clock.”

Adrenaline charged nerves jangled the fatigue from her brain. Samantha gasped, sat up, and looked out of the front window. She saw only a misty night. Streetlights. Cars, with red brake lights. Ahead, about four cars up, a car turned onto the pedestrian walkway that lined the Pont Neuf—and stopped, as more gunfire filled the air.

***

“See him.” Zeus pushed her shoulders down as he pulled his Glock up. “Sam. To the floor. Now!”

A staccato
pop, pop, pop
blasted through the air. The gunfire was more persuasive than his order or his push. Sam turned sideways and slid to her knees on the floor, hands over her head.

As if her hands could fucking deflect a bullet. “Stay down.” Zeus shrugged out of his overcoat and spread it over her head and shoulders. “Your hair will be the first thing he’ll see if he passes the car.”

“No need to point that out Hernandez.” Her voice was acerbic and muffled. “I get it.”

He was too fucking scared on her behalf to smile. He considered removing his own flak vest and putting it over her head. But it was his only defense when he went out there. “Jenkins. Cover her.”

Her vest, coupled with Jenkins’s vest and body mass, would work to protect her. It had to work, until he figured out a way to stop the shooter.

“The car is armored,” he reminded Sam. “Windows bulletproof. You’ll be ok, just keep your head down and stay out of sight.”

“Not arguing, Hernandez.”

His heart filled with emotion. She was damn brave. Sam was a lot of things, all of which he admired, even though stubbornness wasn’t exactly a positive character trait. He’d never fucking forgive himself if she died on his watch. There were things that had to be said, things he wanted to do. And none of them included both of them being dead.

The shooter was weighed down with explosives. Take him out prematurely, and the whole bridge, along with everyone on it, would blow.

When Zeus wanted to go in like a bull in a china shop, he had to bide his time. Tackle this with kid gloves and a plan. A damn good plan.

“Ragno, you have a visual?” The Black Raven cars had telematics, with cams. Because there were three Black Raven cars on the bridge, Ragno had multiple views.

“Yes.”

“I want your best guesstimate on what he’s carrying, and what the kill zone will be if it blows.”

“Working on it.”

“He’s shooting tires.” Jenkins adjusted his position on top of Sam. Zeus heard her groan as the agent settled his weight over her. But that was her only response. She neither complained of suffocation, nor the uncomfortable position. Not that Zeus gave a damn about her discomfort, only that she had something—someone—between her and a potential explosion.

But the reality was, bulletproof glass or not, an explosion would take out the whole car and everyone in it.

“Amicus team is on the Pont Neuf. Facing a shooter. Potential suicide bomber. Manage traffic, if you can,” he instructed his men as he crouched low. “No vehicles are moving. Agents. Go live with Ragno. Ragno, Small is at the safe house. Alert him.”

The bulky silhouette of the man walked toward the vehicle carrying Sam, holding a flashlight in one hand, his assault rifle in another. He went from silhouette to spotlight as he moved between the cars.

“Five-eight, five-ten. Explosives secured to his body. Chest, shoulders, legs… Anything, Ragno?” She’d be able to tell them what they were dealing with faster than just their eyesight.

“Working.”

“
Eighty yards, and closing.” With no room for his legs, he crouched on the back seat waiting for the moment to spring into action. His entire body felt coiled. Ready.

Bullets went wild while the gunman fired as he zig-zagged between the cars. His powerful flashlight strafed the occupants of the cars as he wove between them.