A Far Justice (3 page)

“Brilliant,” Scullanois said. He wanted to ask her about Chrestien’s role in all this but thought better of it. There might be some hidden costs he had not considered. However, he was confident Renée would find out and tell him. The image of a naked Denise waiting in a bed flashed in his mind’s eye. He considered making an offer, but dropped it. “I’m quite sure our bureaus can identify at least a dozen or so names and, ah, provide all the required ‘help’ the court will require. Of course, our role in all this must remain secret to avoid complications with the EU.” He thought for a moment. “But taking one of these people into custody may be a problem.”

“Americans love to travel,” she replied. “I’m quite sure something will present itself.”

“I will speak to the prime minister this morning.”

Denise leaned forward. “I can move forward on a moment’s notice.”

NATO Headquarters, Belgium

Aly held onto Gus’s arm as they walked down the quiet halls of NATO’s headquarters, and she was proud to be part of his family. Gus and Jason had spent five wonderful days on her family’s farm and the two big Americans had done yeoman labor helping her father build a new barn to breed and raise pigs. Her mother had repeatedly commented on how they looked more like brothers than father and son, and Aly suspected that her mother had a crush on the elder Tyler. But who could blame her? Now Gus was wearing his new uniform and was going to administer the oath to Jason so he could re-enlist. Aly van der Nord overcame the no-nonsense part of her Dutch nature and decided she loved her future father-in-law.

The man waiting for them was a younger, but much bigger and more muscular version of Gus. “We’re doing it in SACEUR’s conference room,” Jason told them. “The general is going to be there.” He held the door and led them down the hall. “I believe you know General Hammerly.” General Douglas Hammerly, US Army, was the new Supreme Allied Commander Europe.

“I met Doug during the Persian Gulf war in Saudi Arabia when he was an up-and-coming major. They called him ‘the Hammer’ then.”

“We still do,” Jason admitted. “What the general wants, the general gets. We’ve got a videophone so Mom and Michelle can watch.”

“That’s super,” Gus said, feeling not quite so guilty. He had been away far too long and it was time he returned home. They entered the conference room where the video camera was set up and six other security cops were waiting. An airman dialed Sacramento and Michelle’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “We’re all here,” Gus’s daughter said, “and Mom can hear and see you all.”

“Hi, Hon,” Gus said. “I’m catching a flight out of Schiphol tonight and should be home tomorrow.”

“Mom says she’ll be here,” Michelle replied.

General Hammerly came through the side door that led to his office and extended his hand. “Gus Tyler, it has been a while.”

“1991,” Gus said, recalling the time they had first met.

Hammerly smiled at Jason. “Well, shall we do it?”

Jason nodded and stood in front of the American flag while the airman handed Gus the enlistment oath to read. Gus joined his son and they raised their right hands. Gus started to read. “I, Jason Tyler, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic …”

Aly listened as Jason repeated the oath. She chanced a glance at the general and saw the resolve in his eyes, the set of his jaw.

Gus’s voice swelled. “That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same …”

Aly studied the men and understood. They were a band of brothers.

Schiphol Airport

Aly guided her small car to the curb outside the departure terminal. “Right on time.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. She felt an overpowering urge to say “I love you,” but her Dutch sensibility squashed that urge with a more formal, “Give my regards to your family.”

“Thank your folks again for me. It’s been great, and I can hardly wait for the wedding.”

Then he was gone, walking into the terminal. A security guard motioned her to leave, but she hesitated, unable to take her eyes off his back. She blinked twice when two men wearing uniforms closed in on Gus and grabbed his arms, forcing him to drop his suitcase. One quickly slapped handcuffs on his wrists as three more men wearing dark overcoats surrounded him. Aly jumped out of the car and ran into the terminal. “What are you doing?” she shouted in Dutch. “Who are you?” Aly van der Nord was a big woman and she charged into the group, pushing one of the civilians aside. She folded her arms and planted her feet, blocking the way. “Answer my question!” One of the uniformed men jerked an aerosol canister from his belt and sprayed her in the face while one of the men wearing an overcoat kicked at the back of her left knee. Pain ripped up her leg as she fell to the floor choking and crying. “Who are you?” she
coughed as the men hustled Gus out the door and into a waiting van. She tried to stand, but her knee collapsed under her weight and she sat on the floor. A woman rushed up to her. “Are you all right?”

Aly rubbed her knee and grimaced with pain. “I don’t know.” She took two deep breaths as she sat on the floor. “Do you have a cell phone I may use?” The woman fumbled in her handbag and fished out a phone. Aly’s blunt fingers punched at the buttons, dialing Jason’s number. It seemed an eternity before he answered. “Jason, your father was arrested.” She paused to catch her breath. “We’re at the airport.” Another pause. “No, I don’t know who it was.”

The woman standing over her said, “The uniforms. I think it was the Maréchausée.”

Aly relayed the information. “It was our constabulary.” She listened for a moment. “Yes, that’s right, the Maréchausée. Do you know them?” Her eyes opened wide as Jason explained the powers of the Maréchausée. “No, he didn’t resist. I did.”

TWO

Georgetown, Washington D.C.

Reporters circled the sidewalk outside the elegant townhouse like vultures
and hungrily noted the guests flowing into the cocktail party. Without exception, the arriving glitterati were the guiding lights, the lodestars of the capital; however, the denizens of the media went into an absolute feeding frenzy when Maximilian Westcot and his young and beautiful wife arrived. Westcot was acknowledged as the most rapacious financier and investor west of New York City, and one of the wealthiest men in the United States. It was rumored that not even his accountants, nor the IRS, knew exactly what he was worth.

Westcot was a bear of a man, short, stocky, and barrel-chested, all topped with heavy black hair. He also had the disposition of Grizzly and the reporters gave him a wide berth, focusing instead on his young wife. But not one was brave enough to label Suzanne a ‘trophy wife.’ Strange things happened to reporters who crossed Westcot, and no one wanted to be in the financier’s crosshairs. Inside, each guest went through the required rituals and established his, or her, own orbit in the ever-changing constellation of Washington’s power elite. However, Max Westcot was content to stand back and be the impartial observer as orbits collided. In his own way, he was a very practical scientist and delighted in measuring the interplay of forces. When he applied his private calculus, for it was not a rational universe, he suppressed a laugh. Much to his satisfaction, the brightest star in the evening’s sky was his wife, Suzanne, and the spectacular dress she was wearing. It had cost him twelve thousand dollars and was worth every cent.

The dress was a study in graceful simplicity and decorum. It was a classic off-the-shoulder floor-length gown that was not revealing in the least. Yet the material seemed to shimmer and take on a life of its own as it caressed her body. A substantial majority of men in the room, an exact quantity he had yet to determine, hoped there was nothing between it and Suzanne. Every woman in the room was certain of it. True to Westcot’s principle of attraction, attention circled her like stray asteroids captured by the gravity of a sun, which was exactly what Westcot wanted. While he was at the party, he was not part of it. He was a comet, free to roam the evening sky.

A dark-suited young man smiled at him. “Sir, I’m Mr. James Weaver’s personal assistant.” Westcot arched a bushy eyebrow. He only knew James Weaver by reputation but in the galaxy of Washington politics, Weaver was the super nova of political operatives. He was rumored to be the President’s political hit man and, under normal circumstances, only allowed out of his cage for elections. “Could you spare a moment?” Westcot nodded and followed him through the elegant rooms and up a back staircase that led to a study where an over-weight, nondescript middle-aged man with thinning dark hair was waiting. Only his bright blue eyes gave life to a placid exterior.

“Jim Weaver,” the man said, extending his hand. They shook hands as Westcot took his measure. They exchanged pleasantries. Then, “The boys picked up some interesting message traffic. We thought you might be interested.” He handed Westcot a mini CD player. Westcot sat down and plugged in the earpiece. His eyes narrowed and his face turned to granite as he listened. The “boys” were the National Security Agency and the message traffic was a series of intercepted phone calls between Henri Scullanois and his Chinese counterpart in Beijing. The conversations had been scrambled for transmission, but NSA had penetrated that particular system years before. “I’d say you are about to be rogered by the French.”

“That will be a cold day in hell. Do you know how much I’ve invested in the Sudan?”

“Counting bribes and payoffs, we estimate over a billion dollars.”

Westcot was not impressed with the accuracy of their intelligence. “That’s in the Block Five oil concession alone.”

“And the Chinese were your silent partner,” Weaver added. “You bribe the rebels for protection, develop the oil independent of the government in Khartoum, ship it out through the port at Djibouti, and sell it to the Chinese.”

“Why not? Khartoum takes eighty percent right off the top. The rebels are willing to settle for thirty percent.”

“Our options are limited if the French close Djibouti on you. That would put the Frogs in the driver’s seat with the rebels, or they could kiss and make up with Khartoum.”

Westcot thought for a moment. “You may not have any options, but I do.”

Weaver was certain of it. But would Westcot use them? He pushed a little harder to encourage him. “Regardless, the French definitely have their fingers in the pie.”

Westcot’s voice was low and hard. “Which I will cut off at the elbow.” He returned the mini CD player. “May I keep this?”

Weaver nodded. He ejected the disk and handed it to Westcot. “It’s been sanitized. Don’t reveal the source.” Westcot waited for the quid pro quo. “The President has a problem and would like your help. An old friend of yours, August Tyler, was arrested by the International Criminal Court.”

Westcot arched an eyebrow. “Gus? I hadn’t heard. We were roommates at the Air Force Academy.”

“Happened yesterday evening in Holland. The details are sketchy but they’re charging him Friday with war crimes committed during the Persian Gulf War in 1991.”

“I assume the situation with China, Taiwan, and the UN is unchanged,” Westcot said. Weaver nodded in answer. “So, the President can’t do squat all about it.”

Weaver put the best spin on it he could. “The President is not without options, and the State Department is pursuing Tyler’s release through diplomatic channels.”

“Right,” Westcot scoffed. “But if he pushes too hard for Gus’s release, he’ll piss off our European allies something fierce, which will have a backlash in the UN when it comes to containing the Chinese.”

“That’s a fair assessment,” Weaver conceded.

“So Gus gets hung out to dry,” Westcot muttered. “Gus is one of the good guys. He doesn’t deserve that. So what does the President want me to do?”

“Do whatever it takes to free him, short of starting a war.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The Hague, the Netherlands

Denise looked up from her notes when the TV crew arrived. She nodded at the director and went back to work as they hooked up microphones in the recently completed main courtroom of the Palace of International Criminal Justice. Technically, the court was located a few kilometers north of The Hague in Scheveningen, a seaside resort. She could overlook that connection with fun in the sun but preferred not to think about the court’s permanent home on the Alexanderkazerne, an old Dutch army base with its image of military tribunals. However, she thoroughly approved of the building’s modern architecture, which she saw as a statement of the new world order and universal justice.

She spoke to the director to insure the cameras were all sighted on her. While the court proceedings would not be televised live, the tapes would be edited and available on the Internet soon after the session was concluded. She uncapped her OMAS fountain pen to sign the confinement order that would keep Gus in a cell during the trial. Deciding that would be premature, she recapped the pen.

Without thinking, her fingers absentmindedly wrapped around the pen and moved in a gentle stroking motion. She loved the elegant featherweight pen, with its faceted shape, deep burgundy color, and gold and platinum nib that was broken in to her handwriting. Chrestien had given her the pen when she had graduated from the Sorbonne fourteen years ago. But that was before they were married, and when he was simply an old friend of the family.

Two guards escorted Gus into the courtroom. Although she had reviewed his dossier and studied his photograph, this was the first time she had seen him in person and was struck by his rugged good looks. He was wearing a dark suit with a light blue shirt and striped tie that did not quite match. That bothered the Parisian in her soul. She watched as he stood in the dock and surveyed the courtroom. “You may sit down,” she said. He glanced at her but remained standing. Instinctively, she compared him to the other men in the courtroom. He overshadowed the clerks and lawyers who inhabited the ICC. She smiled to herself. Isolation and confinement would soon change that.

She tried to listen when he spoke to his guards. Both smiled and one cast a glance in her direction. The grin on the guard’s face quickly disappeared when he realized she was looking at him. She decided Tyler had made a crude male remark. It angered her that the guards obviously liked him. She made a mental note to have them replaced.

Unconsciously, she tossed her hair into place and adjusted the white bib court protocol required her to wear over her black robe. Alex Melwin, the court-appointed defense counsel, hurried into the room, his black robe flapping about his long skinny legs. She dismissed Melwin as a foolish Irishman. She strained to hear Gus’s voice, to gauge its impact. Melwin spoke a few words in a low tone she could not understand.

“Get lost,” Gus said to Melwin.

The black-robed clerk came to her feet. “Please stand for the entrance of the judges and remain standing silently until the judges are seated.” Denise glanced at Gus, taking his measure. He was taller than everyone else in the room. She made a mental note to wear shoes with higher heels.

The three blue-robed judges conducting the pre-trial hearing entered through the door behind the bench and took their places. “The International Criminal Court is now in session,” the clerk intoned.

The presiding judge, Sir John Landis, was a brilliant dyed-in-the-wool English eccentric and spoke in slow, measured tones. “This confirmation hearing into the charges levied against August William Tyler is now in order. Please be seated.” Denise sat down and automatically donned her headset. Although the official languages of the court were Arabic, Chinese, English, French, Russian, and Spanish, the working languages were English and French. Because Gus, the accused, spoke English, the trial would be conducted in that language. She listened to the French channel to insure the translator was correctly interpreting the proceedings. Satisfied, she removed her headset and brushed her hair back into place.

After confirming that all parties were present, Landis asked if there were any objections, observations, or petitions for the Pre-Trial Chamber’s consideration. Both Denise and Melwin said there were none. Landis turned to Gus. “Have you received a copy of the document containing the charges brought against you?”

“Yes, your Honor, I have,” Gus replied.

“Do you understand these charges?” Landis asked.

“Yes, sir, I do. But there’s a problem.”

“Which is?”

“When I asked the registrar of the court to contact the American Embassy for legal counsel, I was told that I had to select my defense counsel from a pre-approved list of lawyers. I thought I had the right to choose my own lawyers.”

Denise came to her feet. “Your Honor, if I may. The accused indeed has that right under Article Sixty-seven of the Rome Statute. However, Rule Twenty-two of the Rules of Procedure and Evidence requires that the counsel for the defense shall have an established competence in international law and procedure. To that end, and in conjunction with Rule Twenty-one, the registrar must create and maintain a list of counsel who meet the criteria of Rule Twenty-two. It is from that list that the accused must select his defense counsel. As the defendant rejected all the names on the list, the presidency of the court assigned Mr. Melwin as his defense counsel.”

Gus shook his head at the flow of numbers. “Are we playing Bingo here?” Fortunately, the judges did not hear it. Gus raised his voice, full of command. “I am not represented by Mr. Melwin.” Denise sucked in her breath, totally caught off guard by the force of his voice.

“May I ask why you object to Mr. Melwin?” Landis asked.

“He’s a fool,” Gus said. Denise came alert, quickly revising her estimate of Gus. He had correctly pigeonholed Melwin and effectively dismissed him before he could compromise his defense. “As soon as I’m allowed to contact the American Embassy or my family, I’ll arrange for my own counsel.”

“Your Honor,” Denise said, “Mr. Tyler is charged as a Panamanian citizen. The United States Embassy has no interest in this matter.” Gus looked at her thoughtfully.

The three judges conferred briefly before Landis spoke. “The registrar will review Mr. Tyler’s request for change of counsel and allow him to contact the American Embassy, if the registrar so deems. Mr. Tyler, as you are not aware of the court’s procedure I will, at this point, indulge you to a degree. This court draws on both the Romano-Germanic tradition of accusatory law and the adversarial approach of common law, with which you are familiar. For the time being, Mr. Melwin will remain the defense counsel of record. I suggest you listen to him. Do you understand all that I have said?”

“Yes, your Honor, I do.” Nothing in his voice indicated that his surroundings or the judge cowed him. “However,” Gus said, “I have another question.”

Landis blinked twice, obviously irritated. “Which is?”

“Why am I here? I am a citizen of the United States and my country does not recognize the court.”

Denise came to her feet. “Your Honor, if I may?”

Landis seemed relieved to hear from her. “Proceed.”

“Mr. Tyler is …”

Gus interrupted her. “It’s Colonel Tyler.”