A Far Justice (25 page)

Schumann gave Hank a weary look. “Let’s end it.”

“Thank you, Doctor. You testified that the name of your organization was ‘The Commission of Inquiry for the
International War Crimes Tribunal.’ Is that correct?”

Denise was on her feet. “Objection. Relevancy. This is a matter so trivial it demeans the court and the witness.”

“Your Honors,” Hank responded, now certain he was on the right track, “we have heard compelling testimony. But it is secondhand and hearsay at best. I am merely trying to establish the framework in which it was originally presented to determine its relevancy to these proceedings.”

The judges conferred briefly. “Objection overruled,” Bouchard said. “Doctor Schumann may answer the question.”

“That is the correct title.”

“Did the United Nations create this International War Crimes Tribunal?”

“No.”

“Was this International War Crimes Tribunal formed by the International Court of Justice?”

“No.”

“May I ask who created this so-called International War Crimes Tribunal?”

Schumann was indignant. “Our charter, sir, was conveyed by humanity, the oppressed of the world who seek justice. It was our belief that the evidence presented by the commission was so compelling that the world could not ignore it.”

“Let me rephrase the question, Doctor. Under whose authority was a charter granted to the International War Crimes Tribunal?”

The two men stared at each other, locked in a contest of wills. “The International War Crimes Tribunal has yet to be formed,” Schumann admitted.

“I have one last question about your investigators. Was your commission formed before or after your investigators traveled through Iraq and Kuwait?”

“It was formed after they returned from Iraq,” Schumann replied.

“Thank you, Doctor Schumann.” Hank turned to Denise and murmured, “Your witness,” daring her to continue the cross-examination.

She stood, and for a moment, Hank thought she would accept the challenge. “We have no further questions. Thank you, Doctor Schumann. It has indeed been a rare privilege to hear you speak and share your wisdom.”

The audience broke out in applause as Schumann made his way out. Bouchard let the applause crescendo and die away naturally. Sensing the moment was right, Denise turned to the judges and bowed. “Your Honors, the prosecution rests.”

“We are adjourned until the usual time tomorrow,” Bouchard intoned.

Hank sat back in his seat and threw his pencil on the table. “Good recovery,” Cassandra said. “Was it you or Alex?”

“It was Alex.” Hank grabbed the folder and read from the back cover. “One: No war crimes tribunal existed. Two: commission a publicity stunt to embarrass the UN.”

“We’ve got a major problem. The media is going ballistic over Schumann’s charge of using napalm. You’re going to have to defuse it without going after Schumann.”

“That’s going to be tricky,” Hank replied.

The riot police lowered their visors and locked their shields together as the mass of humanity surged down Scheveningseweg, the broad boulevard leading towards the ICC. Marci Lennox’s burly camera crew elbowed their way through the reporters who were clustered behind the police line and cleared a space for Marci. She tossed her hair into place and spoke into the camera.

“The Dutch police tell me that they have never seen a demonstration of this size form so quickly and with such emotion.” She glanced down the street, her worry obvious. “Even from here, I can hear the chant of ‘Napalm, Napalm’ being repeated over and over.” A cameraman raised a micro camera mounted on a telescopic pole to get a better view. “The officer I spoke with estimated over five thousand demonstrators had gathered on the beach, but their numbers have obviously grown.”

“Marci,” her director interrupted, “the police say we gotta get out’a here.”

She knew the feed was live and played it. “This demonstration is the immediate fallout of Doctor Schumann’s charge that the United States used napalm on Mutlah Ridge. As far as public opinion is concerned, it is the smoking gun that has convicted Gus Tyler.”

“Marci!” her director yelled. “We gotta go. This is turning into a riot.”

“Hold on,” Marci said. She glanced at the micro camera’s monitor. Leading the mob was Ewe Reiss. “Zoom on him.” Reiss surged into view, filling the monitor, his face triumphant as the first paving stone arced over the police line. “Run!” Marci shouted.

Bouchard took the call from Ziba Katelhong about the time Jason’s Lufthansa flight to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, pushed back from the terminal at Frankfurt, Germany. The judge listened for five minutes without saying a word. Then, “We’re in total agreement, Madam Secretary.” Again, he listened. “Can I rely on your complete backing?” He grunted in satisfaction at the answer. “Is the suite at Des Indes to your satisfaction?” As he expected, The Hague’s premier five-star luxury hotel was barely up to the task of meeting the Secretary General’s needs but it would have to do. He broke the connection and leaned back in his chair, his hands folded across his paunch. Slowly, and with relish, he selected the words he would use. He was back in control and it was just a matter of picking the right moment.

TWENTY-SEVEN

The Hague

Bouchard was braced for the inevitable when he reconvened the court at
exactly nine A.M. on Friday, December 17. He smiled indulgently at Hank. “And what do you have for us today?” he asked.

Slowly, Hank walked to the podium and handed the head clerk his latest petition.

“As the prosecutor cannot find the original recording of Reverend Person’s statement, we petition the court to exclude the statement as presented by Watban Horan.”

“Your Honors,” Denise said, “Monsieur Horan was acting as an officer of the court. There is no reason to disallow the statement.”

Hank was ready. “Lacking the original electronic recording, the accuracy of the translation cannot be verified. Further, Watban Horan demonstrated a working knowledge of English, which he had denied under oath. Is the court to assume this is the only thing he lied about? Finally, there is the question of his motivation. Does his family loyalty exceed his loyalty to the court?”

“The court will take your petition under advisement,” Bouchard said. “You may present your defense.”

“If it may please the court,” Hank began. “The issue before us is amazingly simple: What law applies in combat? Is it criminal law as defined by the Rome Statute or the international law of armed conflict?”

Bouchard smiled. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Counselor. Save your legal arguments for your closing statement.”

“I’m simply trying to clarify the basic issue.”

“Call your first witness,” Bouchard ordered, cutting him short.

Hank started to protest but thought better of it. “We recall General Davis Armiston to the stand.”

The chief clerk stood. “General Armiston is not available at this time.”

“I see,” Hank said. “The defense calls Henri Scullanois to the stand.”

Denise was on her feet with an objection as Bouchard rapped his gavel and said, “Counsel is out of order.”

“Ah,” Hank murmured. “Let justice be done.” Before Bouchard could respond, “The defense recalls Secretary General Katelhong.” The side door opened and the Secretary General swept into the room, surprising Hank. “I’ll be damned,” he said under his breath. “I didn’t think she would show.”

“Is this good?” Aly asked.

“It could be,” Hank answered. “I’m surprised Du Milan didn’t tell her to stay in New York.”

“I don’t think anyone tells Madame Katelhong what to do,” Aly said.

Bouchard welcomed the Secretary General and reminded her that she was still under oath as Hank opened his leather folder. “Thank you for returning, Madam Secretary.”

“I do so in the interests of justice,” Katelhong replied.

“Madam Secretary, the court has heard gripping testimony by Doctor Gustav Schumann …”

Katelhong cut him off. “I have reviewed, in detail, all of Doctor Schumann’s testimony. It was an eloquent testimonial to the senseless brutality of war.”

Applause echoed over the courtroom and Hank studied Bouchard, certain the judge would allow Katelhong to say whatever she pleased. “Madam Secretary, in your previous testimony, you stated that the Gulf War of 1991 was under a United Nations mandate. Therefore, why hasn’t the United Nations investigated these alleged ‘war crimes’ committed in its name as claimed by this so-called Commission of Inquiry?”

“I cannot answer the question as I was not part of the United Nations at that time.”

“But as the prosecutor has pointed out, there is no statute of limitations on murder. Is this the first time these alleged crimes have come to the attention of the United Nations?”

“Again, I cannot answer that.”

Hank decided to bait her. “Of course. If the answer is ‘no,’ then there was no substance to the allegations because no war crimes were committed. If the answer is ‘yes,’ then the United Nations was, and is, derelict in its duty, or perhaps the ultimate authority responsible for the commission of the alleged war crimes.”

Denise stood to object but Katlehong raised her hand, silencing the prosecutor. For a moment, the courtroom was deathly silent. “War is a crime, Mr. Attorney.” She warmed to the subject and Bouchard let her speak. Much of what she said was a pure recitation of Schumann’s testimony from the day before but she started to repeat certain phrases. “There is no statute of limitations on aggression … the civilized world cannot permit the wanton murder of innocent civilians … the civilized world must stop genocide.”

When she finished, applause swept the room. “Madam Secretary, your sentiments are shared by everyone in this room. We all know that war is a brutal business with its own grim calculus.” He wondered how much more he could say before Denise objected and Bouchard cut him off. “However, this is a court of law that must deal with the hard facts of reality.” Denise was coming out of her seat. “I have one last question.” He waited for Denise to sit. “Can you provide the court with any evidence that directly links the defendant with committing aggression, wantonly murdering innocent civilians, or committing genocide?”

Katelhong stared at him. “No. But let me add this. You, sir, by your constant attacks on this court are damning the future.”

“But Madam Secretary, we are in a court of law, and we are concerned with justice in the here and now. I have no more questions.”

Denise immediately stood. “The prosecution has no further questions, and I wish to thank Madam Katelhong for taking her valuable time to appear before this court.”

Ziba Katelhong rose majestically and marched from the court. Bouchard ordered a recess for lunch, and Hank walked over to the dock to speak to Gus. “That lady swings one big bat with the judges,” the pilot said.

Hank looked at the empty bench. “Indeed she does. But Della Sante got the point. Hopefully, Richter did too.”

“Which is?”

“That Schumann’s testimony had nothing to do with the facts of this case. Because of public opinion, I couldn’t go after him, but Katelhong was a different story.”

Two hours later, they were back in session, and Hank called Andre Bolland, France’s patriarch of international law. The elderly man marched to the witness stand with a bearing and the dignity conferred on members of the
Institut de France
, that unique society charged with maintaining the intellectual and cultural integrity of France. For the next few hours, Hank led Bolland through the intricacies of international law. “So,” Hank concluded, “there is no inherent prohibition in the killing of innocent people in war?”

“Not if it occurs during an attack on an objective or target that is of military value,” Bolland replied. Hank thanked him and turned to Denise.

“Professor Bolland, I only have one question. “Is a civilian traveling in an escaping military convoy taking a direct part in hostilities?”

Bolland shook his head. “Taking a direct part? No.” Denise thanked him and sat down.

Hank stood. “Doctor, is pillaging a war crime?”

“Of course. Looters can be summarily executed in the act.”

“Is transporting stolen goods part of the act of pillaging?”

“Of course.” Hank turned to Denise. The old man looked very disappointed when she waived re-examination.

Bouchard checked the time and adjourned for the weekend. Aly gathered up their folders and returned to the office while Hank followed Gus to the holding cell. Gus was amazingly upbeat as they rehashed the day’s testimony. “I can actually see some light here,” he said.

Hank had seen it before. “It always feels good when you can finally swing back.”

“Jason arrived in Addis Ababa,” Cassandra said, interrupting them.

“That was quick,” Hank allowed. “What happens now?”

“He’s made contact with a helicopter crew from Westcot Oil who will fly him to Mission Awana tonight. The flight is about 450 miles each way, about three hours flying time. They should be back here by Sunday night. Westcot oil flies Super Pumas because it has a good safety record.” Hank relayed the information to Gus.

“A helicopter made by the Frogs,” Gus moaned. He thought for a moment. Then the old grin was back. “Hell, if it ain’t hard, it ain’t worth doin’.”

The two men talked for a few more moments before the guards came to take the pilot back to his prison. Hank watched Gus disappear down the corridor, amazed by his strength and resilience. He wondered if he could do half as well, and silently prayed that he would never have to find out. He couldn’t believe it, but for a moment he envied Gus. How many men had a chance to see all they were held up to the world’s scrutiny? To find out if their self-image matched reality? And to learn in the end that the image they held close to their hearts was enough.

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

Jason huddled on the helicopter’s jump seat between the two pilots and shivered. “Damn, it’s cold,” he moaned. He hated the waiting and wished they would get moving.

“Didn’t anyone tell you Addis Ababa gets cold at night, Mate?” the short copilot said. “The field elevation here is over 2300 meters.” Jason did a mental conversion and came up with 7600 feet.

“Where’s your coat?” the pilot asked. He spoke with a heavy German accent.

“Lost it with my suitcase.”

“Ah,” the pilot replied. “You didn’t pay the ‘consideration’ when you came through customs.”

“You mean bribe the inspector?”

“That’s the way the system works,” the pilot said. He checked the time. It was 0130 hours Saturday morning. “We’ll be starting engines in a moment.” The lights in the control tower went out and only the rotating beacon on top marked the night. “The field is supposed to stay open until 0200 but they always go home early.” The two pilots went through the engine start drill and the Super Puma’s big four-bladed rotor started to turn. The cabin heat came on. The copilot called the tower and asked for permission to taxi and takeoff. There was no answer, which was exactly what the pilots wanted. There would be no record of Westcot Oil’s helicopter ever having been at Bole International Airport.

The helicopter lifted off and departed to the south, avoiding the built-up areas around the city before turning westward. “Make yourself comfortable,” the pilot said. “We will land at Beica to refuel while we’re still in Ethiopia, then on into Awana. Want to get there before first light while the Arab
arschfickers
are still asleep.”

“I do appreciate this,” Jason said.

“No thanks needed,” the copilot said. “We can take a six month vacation for what Westcot is paying for this flight.”

Jason crawled into the passenger compartment and went to sleep, now comfortably warm. The copilot woke him ninety minutes later and told him to strap in for the landing at Beica. The refueling went quickly and they were airborne in less than twenty minutes. “Be on the ground at Awana in seventy-five minutes, mate,” the copilot told him. Jason stretched out on the seat and went back to sleep.

Jason wasn’t sure what woke him but he sat upright, aware that something was wrong. He listened for a moment and realized they were flying on one engine. He scrambled into the jump seat between the pilots and jammed a headset over his ears. “We’re losing power,” the pilot told him. “Probably contaminated fuel at Beica.” His baldhead gleamed with sweat. “We need to land.”

“Where are we?” Jason asked.

The copilot pointed to the moving map display on the instrument panel that was slaved to the GPS. “Seventy-five miles to the mission. We’re still over the Sudd. That’s a swamp where the Nile gets all dammed up. Bloody big place.”

“Can we land in a swamp?” Jason asked.

Again, the copilot pointed to the moving map, his worry now obvious. “There’s a village and high ground ahead of us. Fifteen miles.”

The right engine changed pitch. “Are we going to make it?” Jason wondered.

“Don’t have a choice now do we? Might be a good idea if you strapped in back there.”

Jason did as ordered and counted the minutes. If they were going 120 MPH, it would take seven and a half minutes to reach the village. Exactly eight minutes later, the right engine quit. “Brace yourself!” the copilot called. The nose of the Super Puma came up at a steep angle. “We’re going to auto gyro in. Landing light on.” Then, “Ah shit!”

The helicopter crashed down into a mud and wattle hut. For a moment, Jason couldn’t move. They were still right side up and intact. Then the copilot was out of his seat and coming towards him. He gestured at the pilot who was right behind him. “His landing, Mate. Not mine.” The two pilots wrenched the side door back and jumped out. Jason fumbled at his seatbelt but it was jammed. He was vaguely aware of smoke and a fire burning behind the helicopter. He heard shouts and a loud commotion as he finally freed himself. He stood in the doorway and felt sick. The crash had killed the people sleeping in the hut. The big rotor had cut one person in two and there was blood and body parts scattered over the wreckage.

Jason pushed through the wreckage in time to see a large group of angry villagers pushing and shoving the two pilots to the ground. A machete flashed in the flickering flames. A woman pointed at Jason and yelled. A man holding a bloody machete walked towards him, shouting in a language he did not understand. Jason held up his hands. “Mission Awana!” he shouted. “Mission Awana!” It was all he could think of.