Secret Justice Page 7

  Robby flipped to another page of the report. “You didn’t mention the use of the Ultra Wide Band. That was its first tactical and combat use, unless I’m mistaken. That wall was pretty damned thick. Seems to me we ought to tell everyone how effective it was. Maybe they’ll fund it a little more.”

  Rat nodded and made a note to himself. “Think you could do a paragraph on that?”

  Robby nodded. “But I’m thinking we ought to do a separate report. Maybe an addendum, or technical report that could be attached . . .”

  “No, they’ll ask for more if they want it,” Rat replied. “Groomer? Anything?”

  “No, sir. Pretty much a textbook operation. We got Duar, we got another guy from his organization, we got the Jordanian, we got in and out of there with only one casualty—which is pretty amazing considering all the bullets flying around—and accomplished the mission. Frankly, we looked pretty good. Although I feel pretty shitty about Nubs.”

  Rat nodded and looked at those around the table. “We need to have a farewell party for Nubs.”

  There were immediate grunts of agreement.

  “A wake. We’ve got to honor him. One of the finest men I’ve ever known. Just tears me up that he got hit. Unlucky. We’ve got to invite Carrie, and have a really ripping party. Who knows her the best?”

  “I do,” Robby said. “I went to his house at least once a week.”

  “You want to talk to Carrie and see if she’s up for it?”

  “Sure. I’ll take care of the whole—”

  Suddenly Rat’s small encrypted digital cell phone rang. He was annoyed but looked at the number on the readout. “Rat,” he said, quickly putting the phone to his ear. He listened carefully. “When?” He listened again. He nodded. “Okay. Thanks for calling.” He pushed the top of the phone down onto the rest of the shaft and tossed the phone onto his briefcase.

  The others in the room waited. They knew only a few people had the number to that phone. “The guy we captured in Sudan who was in sick bay just died,” Rat reported.

  Several of the men in the conference room looked away. They were the ones who thought his treatment of Mazmin had crossed the line. They had known better than to say anything in the middle of Sudan, but now that it was over, they showed their disapproval.

  Groomer was the first to speak. “I’m pretty broken up about that,” he said, thinking instead of what Mazmin had done to Nubs. “I was thinking he and I could become close friends one day. But what got him?”

  Rat picked up the phone and slid the top up and down nervously. “Pneumonia.”

  “How the hell did he get pneumonia?” Groomer asked.

  “Probably from the water and shit in his lungs,” Rat said.

  “What difference does it make?” Banger asked. “I don’t give a shit about him, frankly. If I had the chance I’d have shot him right in the face.”

  “That captain on the ship seems to care a lot. The ship’s surgeon.”

  “Meaning what?” Banger asked. “What’s he going to do?”

  “The same thing we all did,” Rat said. “Write a report.”

  “Saying what?”

  “He did an autopsy. He’s going to say the guy died from pneumonia caused by water and foreign objects in his lungs that got infected.”

  “What foreign substances?”

  “Vomit,” Rat said reluctantly.

  “So what?” Groomer said, growing annoyed.

  “The cause of the vomit’s the problem. Doctor’s going to put in his report that he died from torture.”

  No one in the room said a word. They all understood the implications. Torture, as in intentionally hurting someone to get information from them, or just to hurt them, was illegal. Forbidden.

  Sellers, one of the newer members of the team and one who was not from Dev Group, said, “So maybe we ought to just tell everybody exactly what happened. We don’t say shit about it in the official report,” he said, indicating.

  “Why would we do that?” Rat asked.

  “Because the truth is always the right thing.”

  Rat opened his briefcase. “Starting Monday we’re all going to The Point. Jacobs wants us to get smart on small-boat operations. Some of you don’t have any experience in that at all, and there will be other SAS teams down there. We’ll rendezvous at Quantico. We’re going to helo down. We’ll be there the rest of the week. Any questions?”

  Robby waved his hand. “We need to do anything about this report the surgeon’s going to do?”

  Rat shook his head. “We’ll deal with it when it happens, if anything happens. We’ve got work to do.”

  “May be too late then,” Robby said.

  “I’ll take that chance,” Rat said. “Okay. So let’s talk about the Sudan op. Good, bad, and other. Except the interrogation part. We’ll leave that alone for now.”

  Chapter

  5

  John Johnson of the NSA, freed for a while from the pornography sites, pulled his old Cherokee to the end of the rutted road by the small pier on a base Johnson had never been to. In fact he had never heard of it, until he e-mailed Rat and said he had to talk to him. Rat had directed him to the secure Web site that detailed the base’s location. Johnson had jumped at the chance to get out of his cubicle and away from the pornography sites and drove down past the Great Dismal Swamp near Elizabeth City, North Carolina. He was to see Rat at the Harvey Point Defense Testing Activity, or The Point, as it was called. It was built during World War II to serve as a base for antisubmarine blimps. Now it was used as an advanced training center for the CIA. Most thought all high-level CIA training occurred at Camp Peary near Williamsburg, Virginia. The Basic Operations Course for the CIA was taught at the ten-thousand-acre Camp Peary, or The Farm, as it was called. The Farm was used extensively by the DO, the Directorate of Operations. But advanced paramilitary operations were all conducted at The Point in North Carolina.

  Rat stood near the group of fast inflatable boats idling at the end of the pier, yelling instructions over the loud engines. The men were anxious to get underway. Rat wore a sleeveless wetsuit top. The spring day was crisp and the inland water was choppy. It was blocked from the full Atlantic swell and wave action by the outer banks of North Carolina, the long islands that stretched all along the northeast corner of the state that acted like breakwaters, or hurricane magnets, depending on the season. Rat was ready to get on the water and show his men what the high-speed boats could do; he would control one boat, Groomer and Robby would each be at the helm of a boat, and Rat was going to let Sellers control the fourth boat. He had seen a certain look in Sellers’s eyes at the meeting on Saturday. He hadn’t liked it; it was a look of distrust. Rat didn’t believe everyone had to agree with him all the time. But what he couldn’t stand was disloyalty, or being undercut. If someone had something against him, or thought he was wrong, fine. But he wasn’t about to be sabotaged.

  Johnson stared at the scene with his arms crossed. He didn’t want to interfere. He was happy to spend the entire day there, even if it meant just watching people race around in boats. Rat saw him and stopped in mid-sentence. Rat liked Johnson. He had met him years ago in the Navy. As a cryptologist Johnson had worked intimately with the SEALs.

  When Johnson had joined the NSA, Rat had talked to him on occasion. Nothing very regular, or organized; they would get together every few months just to get caught up. Rat had recruited Johnson to be one of the people to whom Sarah St. James, the National Security Adviser, looked for raw intelligence information. She didn’t even want classified information. She wanted opinions, thoughts, direction, wisdom. Johnson had been thrilled to become part of her shadow intelligence organization.

  Rat waved. He could read Johnson’s body language. He had something big to say. “Give me a second,” Rat yelled at the rest of the team as he jogged up the pier to Johnson. He extended his hand and Johnson shook it. Rat removed his Oakley sunglasses. “Hey. You made it.”

  “How you doin’?”

  �
��Fine. Doing some boat training. I can’t take much time. Will this take long? You want to talk tonight? You can share my room at the BOQ.”

  Johnson shook his head. “I found something you should know about. It may be kind of premature, but if I’m right, you might be able to start looking for other things, supporting information. Or somebody could,” Johnson said. “It’s sort of about Sudan.”

  Rat frowned. “What about Sudan?”

  “Duar. His organization.”

  “What about it?” Rat said, impatience growing.

  “As I understand it, you guys got Duar in Sudan. Am I right? I mean that’s what the President said in his press conference. That is right, isn’t it, not some smoke we’re blowing to try to get him later or something . . .”

  Rat nodded. “Yeah, we got him. What of it?”

  “I was pretty much on top of Duar’s communication network. The Internet traffic that was coming out of Sudan from their ISPs, well, we had made a lot of progress. It’s what led the Agency to put a man on the arms merchant’s staff . . . you know all that. We were in good shape there.”

  “And?”

  He glanced around. “You know CARNIVORE?”

  Rat nodded.

  “Well, just for fun, I continued to monitor the same sites Duar and his friends were using before you got him. They’re still operating. Somebody out there is still communicating. And it’s not just close, it’s . . . well, at least I . . .” Johnson hesitated. “I can’t be sure yet.” He looked up at Rat. “But I think it’s the same people. Not just people working for him, but the very same people who were communicating before your Sudan operation.”

  Rat watched the men continue to hold the boats for him. He looked at Johnson, then out at the Albemarle Sound. The chop was increasing. It was going to be quite a banging once they got their boats going at high speed. The longer he waited, the worse it was going to get. “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t know what it means. I’m just here to tell you that somehow Duar’s organization is intact. You guys got all of them, or a good number of them, and captured the head guy. But they’re still out there doing business. I just wanted to tell you. I thought you’d want to know. You can tell our mutual friend if you want.” He kicked a rock. “Plus, I just wanted an excuse to get out of my cubicle.”

  Rat was concerned. What did the Internet traffic mean? How could Duar’s group still be a threat? Maybe it was bigger than they had initially thought. “Can you tell what they’re talking about?”

  “I think they’re planning another strike. The failure of the purchase in Sudan may be a hiccup, but they’re not too concerned.”

  “You think they’ve got another source for plutonium?” he asked.

  “Can’t tell. But there’s a lot of planning going on.”

  Rat nodded, his mind spinning. He looked back at Johnson. “You’re welcome to stay if you want. You can even come out in one of the boats. My treat.”

  Johnson put up a hand. “No thanks, Rat. I’d get seasick.”

  “Nah,” Rat replied. “You’d be bouncing way too hard to notice any seasickness.”

  “Pass.”

  Rat smiled and headed down to the pier. “These guys never quit, do they?”

  Johnson shook his head.

  Rat shot him a look. “Neither do we.”

  * * *

  Sharon Rakoff walked into Secretary of Defense Stuntz’s office for the second time that day. She took advantage of her special access perhaps once a month, but twice in a day was unheard of. Stuntz clearly didn’t like it. “Excuse me, Mr. Secretary.”

  He looked up from a report he was reading and removed his reading glasses. “What?” he said.

  “There’s a man here to see you.”

  “I don’t have any appointments. I cleared my calendar to go through this budget.”

  “Yes, sir. He’s rather insistent. He’s from Europe.”

  “So what?”

  “He’s Belgian. A lawyer of some kind. He’s with the ICC,” she said.

  “What the hell does he want?” Stuntz asked.

  “He wouldn’t tell me. He said he’d only tell you, and you would definitely want to hear what he has to say.”

  “No diplomatic contact? No communication through regular channels? No notice he’s coming from Belgium? Sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me,” he said, his voice rising.

  “Yes, sir. It did to me too, but he said he was doing all he could to avoid raising this to a level of formal contact. He said that would take it out of his hands and he wouldn’t be able to stop it.”

  Stuntz frowned. “Stop what?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Here’s his card.”

  Stuntz sighed deeply and took the card: Didier Picque, the International Criminal Court. He examined it, and tossed it on his desk. He closed the notebook with the draft budget and pushed it to the corner of his immaculate desk. “Where is he?”

  “In the sitting area.”

  “Show him in. Get Leslie in here. I want someone else to hear whatever he has to say.”

  “Yes, sir.” She turned and left the office, closing the door silently behind her.

  She returned a few moments later. “Mr. Secretary?” Rakoff said. “May I present Mr.—Monsieur—Didier Picque.”

  “Good afternoon,” he said to Picque.

  “Good afternoon,” Picque replied. He was wearing an expensive double-breasted suit and Italian shoes. His dark brown hair was rather long and wavy. He carried a worn soft-sided black briefcase. “Thank you for seeing me. I know it was unorthodox, but once you hear what I have to say, I think you’ll understand.” He had a noticeable French accent and was soft-spoken.

  “Sure,” Stuntz said skeptically. He looked at Rakoff. “Where’s Ms. Slater?”

  “She’s coming.”

  “Would you like some coffee or something?”

  “No thank you,” Picque said.

  “Have a seat.”

  Leslie Slater, an attorney from the General Counsel’s Office of the Department of Defense, hurried in, carrying a flat notebook that had a legal pad inside. “Sorry, sir.”

  “No problem,” he said, then introduced her to Picque.

  “I don’t have much time,” Stuntz said. “Why are you here?”

  Picque smiled. “I understand. I came unannounced. Frankly, I’m here at my own insistence. I thought you should know about a . . . development right away, so you could take whatever steps you thought necessary.” He paused and saw that Stuntz was waiting for him. “You recently conducted an operation in Sudan.”

  “Sure.”

  “Very well done, I must say. It is the talk of military communities throughout Europe. Daring, creative, bold, efficient, and quick. You can’t ask for much better than that—”

  “Go on.”

  “During this operation, many people were killed—”

  “That happens when you’re going after terrorists who aren’t real interested in being captured.”

  “No doubt. And you captured Duar, which is amazing. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Apparently there was another man who was captured. He was taken out to one of your ships, where I understand he was to be tried by one of your tribunals.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re here to complain about our tribunals. Feel free to write a letter to the editor, telling them all your brilliant thoughts. I’m sure—”

  Picque was shaking his head. “No, no, not at all. I have some issues with those tribunals, but that’s for another day, if at all. I’m here about something else entirely.”

  “What?”

  “The second man captured has died.”

  Stuntz was surprised. “How do you know that?”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me, especially if you have access to classified information.”

  “His death is classified?”

  “I don’t know. I asked you how you know.”

  “That
too is for another time.”

  “What the hell is your point?”

  “The man who died, Mazmin is his name, died of pneumonia because he was tortured by one of your Special Operations men. He was nearly drowned, threw up, and ingested his own vomit into his lungs.”

  “What makes you think he was tortured?”

  “I’m quite sure. And the reason I’m here is that in spite of the brilliance of your operation, this death has gotten Europe’s attention, and in particular the International Criminal Court. This is a war crime.” His French accent was beginning to annoy Stuntz. Picque sat forward slightly. “To make a long discussion short, the ICC is investigating. If it turns out to be as I know it is, either you will prosecute whoever did this, or we will.”

  “You don’t have jurisdiction.”

  “Yes, sir, we do.”

  “We never signed that stupid treaty.”

  “That doesn’t matter. It was given global effect by those who did sign it. We can prosecute a war crime that occurred anywhere, even against people from countries who are not signatories.”

  He knew Picque was right. Stuntz glanced at Slater, who was taking notes and trying to control her expressions of surprise and outrage. “We got an exemption.”

  Picque nodded in a patronizing way. “Yes, but the exemption for the United States was for one year, and it was for peacekeeping missions. That year has long passed, and this wasn’t a peacekeeping mission. I’m afraid what happened is right in the heart of what the new court was created for.”

  Stuntz wanted to stick a pencil in Picque’s eye. He hated being cornered, especially when he was unprepared. “I don’t know about any of this. What do you want?”

  “I want your assurance that he will be prosecuted. If he is, then the ICC will have no role. As you know, we only prosecute when the home country of the criminal is unable or, um, unwilling to prosecute.”

  Stuntz didn’t want to give him an answer. “Thank you for coming. Now if—”

  Picque wasn’t about to be pushed aside. “I need to know today what your intentions are. If we don’t get some assurance that you personally will deal with it, and pursue it, then we will go public. We have a press conference scheduled for tomorrow in The Hague.”