The Accused (23 page)

“I'd appreciate it if you could share those with us,” the senator's lawyer said.

“Well, we normally do not bring defense counsel into the loop at this early stage of the investigation—not until we've arrived at our final conclusions.”

“Let me just tell you,” the lawyer stated emphatically, “what our investigators and cyber-experts tell us. They believe that the illegal images were transmitted from international sources. Perhaps one of the Russian crime syndicates that deal in international pornography.”

The U.S. attorney gave a little nod and then responded. “I'm not saying that we are one-hundred-percent convinced of that—but let me
just say we are seriously considering that theory. Our people are aware of that possible source and are considering those kinds of groups as one of the likely scenarios.”

“Look,” Senator O'Brien broke in, “I'm innocent. I know that—and anybody who knows me would know that. But I've got enemies. You know what the media is going to do with this if they find out? How are you going to guarantee that there are going to be no leaks in your investigation?”

“I wish I could give you a hundred-percent assurance on that,” the U.S. attorney said sympathetically, “but I can't. I can guarantee that no one under my charge in this office, or in the FBI, with whom I am working, is going to leak this information to anybody. Now I cannot control, on the other hand, the Maryland police, the Maryland prosecutor, or anybody else from the state agencies who know about this.”

And then he looked the senator in the eye.

“Nor can I guarantee that anyone in your house may not leak this information. Didn't you say you had a housekeeper who was present when the police came in and conducted the voluntary search?”

Senator O'Brien grimaced slightly and shook his head.

“Yes, I did tell you that,” he replied. “But we've had her for years. She's very faithful. We've asked her not to tell anyone about this. I don't believe she will.”

But no sooner had he uttered the words than he was struck with the recollection that, ultimately, there are no secrets in Washington. Capitol Hill was not only the political center of the free world, it was also the capital of instant information—particularly when it came to matters of low, degrading, or illegal conduct concerning high, influential people.

Senator O'Brien realized that now all he could do was sit, and wait, to see if the pond scum of rumors and gossip, innuendo and intrigue, would float to the surface.

37

S
ENATOR
W
AYNE
O'B
RIEN HAD NEVER
attended a meeting like this before. But then, the recent turn of events in his life had defied all usual political protocol. O'Brien stood at the base of the Washington Monument and scanned the horizon. He looked down toward the Lincoln Memorial and the Potomac, and then he cast his eyes along Constitution Avenue and the usual bumper-to-bumper traffic crawling its way to Capitol Hill and the hundreds of government buildings in that part of Washington, DC.

He was looking for the other member of that meeting—Senator Jason Bell Purdy.

Purdy had called O'Brien's office, vaguely making reference to a need for an an emergency meeting with the older senator. But he could not come to his office, he explained. It had to be somewhere else—Purdy suggested they meet under the shadow of the tall, white obelisk that had been erected to the memory of America's first president.

O'Brien glanced nervously at his watch, and then, from around the corner of the monument, Purdy strolled into sight. He smiled broadly and extended an eager hand. The older man shook it cautiously. “Okay, Jason,” he snapped, “what's all the cloak-and-dagger stuff? What's this about?”

“Look, Wayne,” Purdy explained with a veneer of empathy in his voice, “I'm not here for me—not entirely—I'm also here for you. I didn't like the way we had that falling out. We've got to look out for each other in this dog-eat-dog political environment. I figure it this way—what's good for you is good for me, and vice versa.”

“So? Let's cut to the chase here, Jason. What's up?”

“A phone call I received. A man on the other end—he didn't give me his name—it sounded like he had a Spanish accent. He told me he
had some information about you. He said it was some down-and-dirty stuff. Some kind of police investigation. It involved your computer. I told him I didn't appreciate someone trying to spread scandal against a fellow senator, particularly one from my own party and my own home state.”

O'Brien studied the other man. “Jason, what else did this man tell you?”

“Well,” Purdy continued, “that was it. He suggested that he had a lot more detail—but it would cost me some money.”

O'Brien eyed him suspiciously, and then he asked, “Why would this man have called you? Why would he think you would be interested in that information?”

“Well now, that is exactly what I wondered. But this guy knew somehow that you and I had had a falling out. An argument. He had heard that—and he thought maybe I would like to use this information against you. Now you know, Wayne, I would never do that. I play hard—and I may land a few kidney punches now and then—but that kind of stuff is not my style.”

“And why did you have to tell me this
here?
Why couldn't you have spoken to me in my office?”

“Hey,” Purdy replied quickly, “I don't want anybody hearing this stuff. I am really trying to do you a favor, Wayne.”

O'Brien smiled politely. But he was waiting.

“Look, I will be glad to do what I can to try to find out who is spreading this stuff. If it is of interest to you, when the guy calls me back I could play along and maybe we can locate the source of this smear campaign.” And then Purdy looked the older man in the eye and added, “Of course, there is nothing going on, right? You are not in any kind of trouble, are you, Wayne?”

O'Brien did not respond. Somehow, he knew what was going to come next. He would not be disappointed.

“Well, and hey—anyway,” Purdy continued, “I am willing to do you a favor. That's why I am here—you know, back-scratching time. I do want you to reconsider giving me the chair of an ad hoc subcommittee to take a look at this Chacmool incident. There may not be anything to it—but I need some visibility and name recognition between now and election time.”

“And you think I am going to change my mind,” the other senator countered, “just because you told me this information about some anonymous Hispanic caller who says he's got something on me?”

“No, of course not,” Purdy replied with a smile. “I expect you to do this for me because it is the right thing. Besides, we all need friends. And I am willing to be your friend—and your best advocate. And this business about the phone call—this is going to stay strictly between you and me.”

“You wouldn't be trying to blackmail me, would you, Jason?” O'Brien asked, glaring at him.

Purdy laughed out loud, but when his laughter died down, he noticed that O'Brien was not joining in the mirth.

“Wayne, you aren't serious, are you?” he said nonchalantly.

“You ought to know me by now,” the older man said soberly. “I may be able to tell a good joke, but that does not make me a joker. Right now, Jason, I'm just as serious as a heart attack.”

Purdy's face fell and his mouth tightened. Then he clicked his teeth together—a little mannerism that he exhibited when the stress was getting high.

But his eyes were unblinking as he stared at O'Brien.

“Wayne, I am shocked. I mean, really shocked. I guess we have nothing more to discuss. I met with you as a friend—I felt we still could do some reconnoitering together. But maybe not. Hey, you keep yourself out of trouble now.” Purdy turned and started to leave.

For O'Brien, he knew this was the go–no go point. He didn't want to trust a snake like Jason Bell Purdy. On the other hand, he wondered what choice he had. The story certainly made sense. He was beginning to think that his housekeeper was trying to generate some extortion income.

He had made up his mind.

“Even though you will chair the committee, I want the ability to pull the strings behind the scenes. You understand?” O'Brien said, calling after the other man.

Jason Bell Purdy stopped, turned, and faced him with a smile.

“Anything you say, Senator.”

“And you swear what you are telling me is the truth?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Purdy said soothingly. “I wouldn't lie to you—particularly here. George Washington could not tell a lie. And George Washington is my hero.”

He extended his right hand and the two senators shook on it.

At that moment O'Brien couldn't help but think that it was all wrong that their agreement had been reached in the shadow of the Washington Monument.

It occurred to him that the handshake with Jason Bell Purdy ought rather to have taken place under a more appropriate monument—if perhaps the nation's capital had constructed one to the memory of Benedict Arnold.

38

QUESTION: Was there anybody else in that meeting between General Nuban and Abu Adis on the drug-running issue?

ANSWER: There was a man—I believe he was an American—at least it sounded like he had an American accent.

QUESTION: Do you remember his name? Anything about his identity?

ANSWER: Well, as I recall—I believe his name was Black…Mr. Rusty Black, I think.

W
ILL
C
HAMBERS WAS STUDYING SOME
questions and answers in the transcript of Dr. Agabba's deposition. He glanced at the blinking light on his telephone. He had attorney Cesar Linton from Miami holding on the other end.

The deposition transcript had arrived only the day before, and reviewing it would not have been the first thing Will would have planned for the day. But Linton's phone call had prompted him to quickly scan some of his questions—and some of Agabba's answers—concerning the connection between an American drug dealer, al-Aqsa Jihad, and government officials in Sudan.

Just now, Linton had spoken vaguely, and very generally, about wanting to “strike certain portions of the transcript from use at the trial” and then put the remaining portions of the transcript “under seal.” That's when Will had asked him if he could hold for a minute.
He had quickly grabbed the transcript and located the testimony he'd just been studying.

He put a marker on that page of the transcript and then picked up the phone.

“Cesar, sorry to keep you on hold. Now,” he continued, “what parts of the deposition were you concerned about—and more importantly, why are you concerned about them?”

“ ‘Concerned'—that's really not the right word,” Linton replied. “You know I play tough—I play hard—but I'm not just blowing smoke here. You've got some scandalous—defamatory—frivolously false garbage in this deposition of Dr. Agabba.”

“Well, then answer my question. What are the parts of the deposition you think should be stricken?”

“Oh, come on, you know exactly what I'm talking about—all of that trash about the other so-called terrorist groups that had dealings with Sudan. You know what I'm referring to.”

“No, I don't. I'm not a mind reader,” Will replied. “Cesar, you're going to have to be specific—page and line number. Do you have the deposition in front of you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, I've got mine in front of me also. Cite me the sections you think we ought to consider striking.”

“Everything from pages one-hundred-nine to one-hundred-twenty-one.”

Will glanced at the transcript and noted that the testimony regarding Rusty Black and the AAJ was found on pages one-hundred-twenty and one-hundred-twenty-one.

“I don't think I can agree to that—under any circumstances,” he replied. “The fact of other terrorist organizations operating freely with the support and encouragement of Sudan is relevant. It shows a pattern of practice and has bearing on the intent issue. I explained all that at the deposition.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Linton spoke up.

“Look—I'm a reasonable man. You're a reasonable man. We can work something out. Okay, maybe you can convince the court about the relevance of all this jazz about the other terrorist groups—and that it somehow creates a pattern that's relevant to the issues. Okay. Let's assume that. But—I mean—some of this stuff, you're allowing people's
names to be smeared—Americans—you can't verify this information—Dr. Agabba is just shooting blind on some of that stuff.”

Will could hear, in Linton's rhetorical ramblings, the evidence of a curious, even bizarre, reality. There was something in this deposition that the other attorney wanted to cover up and remove from the record. Something more than just the mere fact of terrorism running rampant in Sudan. It was something specific. It was a name. It was a person.

“Try to get focused here, Cesar,” he said. “Tell me exactly what you're referring to. What is it that you think—bottom line—we ought to agree should be stricken from the transcript?”