A Far Justice (31 page)

“Monsieur Sutherland, do you have any questions?” Bouchard asked.

Hank retrieved the leaflet and handed it to the clerk. “We enter the safe conduct pass as defense exhibit nine.” Bouchard waited for an objection from Denise, which did not come. The other two judges nodded and he ordered it entered. “Thank you, Colonel Cannon,” Hank said. “We have no further questions at this time.”

Denise came to her feet, still in an obvious state of shock. “If it may please the court. As it is late and tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, may we adjourn until Monday?”

“The defense has no objection but would prefer to reconvene on Wednesday,” Hank said.

“Your Honors,” Denise replied, “the prosecution sees no reason for more delays at this time.” The judges conferred and Bouchard recessed the trial until Monday.

“Justice delayed is justice denied,” Hank muttered, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

The two men met in the holding cell and clasped hands as the defense team crowded around, all eager to share the moment. “A fine mess you got yourself into here, Gus,” Cannon said.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. How’s Clare doing?”

“Not good. She’s in the Mayo undergoing an experimental procedure that Max Westcot’s people came up with.”

Aly stood against the wall with Catherine and listened as the two men talked.

For a few moments, they totally dominated her world and she truly understood the words “bigger than life.” She loved Jason unreservedly, but she was attracted to the sheer animal magnetism radiating from Cannon. Hank stood alone, quietly smiling to himself. And there was Gus, unchanging and unafraid of his future. “Where do they find them?” she asked Catherine.

“I wish I knew,” Catherine replied.

Aly was back in time, remembering when Jason took his reenlistment oath. “They’re a band of brothers, true to each other.”

“And to us,” Catherine added. Hank edged over to her side and held her hand.

Cannon turned to Hank. “You do good work, counselor.” He handed the lawyer a videocassette. “I believe you were looking for this. Mutlah Ridge.” It was the airborne video from Gus and Toby’s attack on the convoy.

Hank carefully checked the cassette to make sure the seals were still intact. They were and he exhaled loudly in relief. Slowly, a big smile spread across his face as he held the cassette up. “Now it really gets sporting. Thank you.”

Cannon nodded and looked at Gus. “Anytime you want to come to work for me, just tell General Hammerly. Well, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Any chance you can help us find Toby Person?” Hank asked.

Cannon looked interested. “Where is he?”

“Lost some place in Southern Sudan,” Hank replied.

“He’s with Jason,” Gus added. “I believe Max Westcot is looking for them.”

Cannon thought for a moment. “I can help.” The three men looked at each other, an unspoken understanding between them.

“Would someone tell me what’s going on here?” Aly demanded.

“Sorry, young lady,” Cannon replied. “It’s way above your pay grade.”

Southern Sudan

Landerrost switched off the radio and closed the cover of the control panel when Jason came through the door of the compound’s communications shack looking clean and rested. He had collapsed after taking a shower and slept all day Thursday in air-conditioned comfort, only waking in the early evening. “How’s Toby doing?” Jason asked.

“Resting comfortably,” Landerrost replied. “Leon is taking good care of him.” It was an understatement. Leon, a scrawny Frenchman who had learned his tradecraft as a medic in the French Foreign Legion, had pushed everyone aside the moment he saw Toby and went to work. Within an hour, he had pumped the missionary full of antibiotics, cleaned his wounds, replaced many of the sutures, and bathed him while carrying on a loud, and very obscene tirade about incompetent doctors.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Jason said. “I hope the antibiotics do the trick.”

The Afrikaner shrugged. “We gave him all we had. But not to worry. I got a message out and a helicopter will be here tomorrow or Saturday night at the latest. It will fly you to Addis Abba. From there, the company has laid on a jet to fly you to Europe. You should be back in Holland no later than Monday.”

Jason glanced at the small radio. “Isn’t that one of those new jam-proof satellite transceivers?” Landerrost didn’t answer. “NATO doesn’t even have it yet.”

“We’re not NATO,” Landerrost replied. He handed Jason a printout. “This came in about an hour ago.” Jason read the short message and his face paled. “I’ll leave it up to you to tell the Reverend.”

“Do I have a choice?” Jason answered.

Jason held the message for Toby to read while Leon hovered in the background. Toby shook with a slight tremor as his eyes close. “I should have never left the mission.” His voice was almost inaudible. “I could have saved them.”

Jason bathed his head with a wet cloth, feeling the fever that was wracking his body. “We only know the Sudanese Army overran the mission. We don’t know how many survived.”

“They’re dead. This is Africa. This is the way it is. It’s destroyed.”

“Then we’ll rebuild,” Jason said. Toby quieted and fell asleep.

“Let him rest,” Leon said.

“How bad is he?” Jason asked.

“I’ve seen worse, but they all died. I’m going to bed. Call me if his fever goes up.” Jason sat with Toby, occasionally bathing his head, and checking his temperature. It was still over 103 degrees and showed no signs of relenting. He dozed off.

The intercom buzzed, jolting him awake. “The fuckin’ bloody kaffirs are back,” Landerrost said. “We need to talk. I’m in the radio shack.” Jason acknowledged the call and hurried outside, only to stop dead in his tracks. The first light of dawn etched the far horizon, and the compound was ringed with a fiery glow as an acrid smoke washed around him. He covered his mouth and nose and ran for the communications shack, finally breaking clear of the smoke. He blinked his tears away. The tall grass that surrounded the compound was on fire and he could see dark figures running through it with torches, feeding the fire and keeping it alive. A flash and a geyser of earth erupted skyward when one of the soldiers stumbled into the minefield.

Instinctively, Jason ran for cover, trying to reach the cement-block communications shack. An incoming mortar shrieked overhead and Jason fell to the ground, his arms wrapped over his head. The communications shack erupted, engulfing him in a wave of smoke and debris.

THIRTY-FIVE

Southern Sudan

Jason walked through the still smoldering wreckage of the compound’s
communication shack in the early morning light. He pushed part of the roof aside and stared at Landerrost’s dismembered body. “One mortar round,” he said to himself. “Over here!” He waited but no one answered his call. “What the hell?” He worked his way out of the wreckage but didn’t see anyone. He headed for the infirmary where he heard loud voices arguing in Afrikaans. The eight men crowded around a desk fell silent when he entered. “I found Landerrost’s body and need some help.”

The men ignored him and kept talking among themselves. Jason listened without saying a word, and within minutes sensed what was wrong. Without Landerrost, they were a leaderless mob, pulling apart in their confusion and fear. Finally, they decided to negotiate their way out, but no one was sure exactly how. Only Leon, the medic, said it was a bad idea. “No one can negotiate with those bastards. They only understand what comes out of the muzzle of a gun.” He was shouted down and Simon, Landerrost’s old second-in-command, said he would try to make contact on a walkie-talkie.

Jason held back and spoke to Leon, anxious to find out exactly what they had to defend the compound. “There’s just the eight of you, right?” Leon nodded an answer and Jason asked about weapons. Leon’s reply was not encouraging. They had a heavy 7.62 mm machine gun, fifteen M16 assault rifles along with a healthy supply of ammunition, two hunting rifles, and four 9 mm Browning automatic pistols. “Any dynamite?” Jason asked. The medic estimated they had three or four cases. “Show me the minefield,” Jason ordered.

The grass fires were still smoldering as they walked the compound’s perimeter. Jason stopped, taking the lay of the land. Because of the fires, he had a clear field of view that reached to the main road approximately a kilometer away. He could see a truck, a personnel carrier, and soldiers milling about. “Why don’t the bastards attack?” Leon asked.

“They know there’s a minefield between us and them,” Jason answered. “I count fourteen of them and since they only fired one mortar round, I expect they’re waiting for reinforcements.”

“You’ve done this before?” Leon asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Jason replied. He was starting to take charge.

Île St-Louis

Chrestien Du Milan fumed at the summons from the Comtessa Eugenie but his strong sense of survival, not to mention common sense, urged him not to ignore it. Consequently, he dutifully presented himself on Friday morning at the Comtessa’s magnificently restored mansion. He carefully hid his impatience as he waited for the old woman to receive him. Finally, the Comtessa was ready and he was escorted into her bedroom. He rushed over to the bed and bussed her cheeks before being waved to a nearby chair. A butler pushed a teacart to his side and poured him a cup of coffee.

The old woman shifted her weight against the pillow and a maid hurried over to adjust it and rearrange the exquisitely embroidered bedspread. The Comtessa waved the maid and butler out of the room. She eyed Chrestien as she sipped her tea. “It is not going well in The Hague,” she began.

Chrestien sighed. “Nor in the United Nations.”

“Nor here,” she added. They sipped in silence. “We may have to take protective measures … what is the terrible expression the Americans are so fond of?”

“I believe the words you are seeking are ‘damage control.’”

“Ah, yes. Damage control. There may have to be sacrifices.”

Chrestien knew where the conversation was going. The Chinese gambit was stalled in the UN and they had to prepare for the worst. They needed a scapegoat and it was time to bargain. “Perhaps you are thinking of sacrifices in New York.”

The Comtessa gave him a cold look. “My son …”

“Forgive me, Comtessa. I had forgotten he was our ambassador to the United Nations.”

“I was thinking of The Hague,” the old woman said. “But only if we should we fail there, of course.”

“Of course,” Chrestien said. They were both on the same page. “But if there is also failure in the United Nations, there also will have to be repercussions here.”

“Of course,” the Comtessa said, thinking of another name. “Perhaps you should speak to Renée. I do hope she is bored with Henri.”

“I will see her tomorrow evening.”

The Hague

Rank after rank of protestors, their arms linked, marched passed the Palace of the ICC. They were laughing and joking until they neared the banks of TV cameras clustered in the forecourt. Then their shouts grew loud and angry as they were herded past the lines of police blocking their way into the forecourt. “Hang the bastard now! Hang the bastard now!” they chanted. Occasionally, a protestor would break free and toss a placard over the police line to litter the forecourt. Marci Lennox stood well back, next to the entrance as she spoke into a microphone. “The Dutch police cannot enter the court building as it is an international zone that enjoys extraterritoriality, much like a foreign embassy, and is beyond their jurisdiction. However, the Dutch have reinforced their barricades to ensure the protestors stay well clear. Fortunately, this protest is more orderly and controlled than the one we experienced on Thursday. But emotions are high and the anger is growing.”

A lone church bell tolled in the distance as the last of the protestors marched by. “It is now noon on this cold and blustery New Year’s Eve,” Marci said. The cameras swung as another, much larger mass of people approached the court. But this group was different. They were all well-dressed and walked in somber silence as their leaders carried a photo of Gus surrounded by a wreath of flowers. The cordon of police parted and the flower bearers carefully placed the wreath in the forecourt. Then they passed on. “The banner on the flowers is in Dutch. It says, ‘Justice for the innocent.’ This, I am told, is the way the Dutch show the world how to disagree.”

Southern Sudan

Jason watched the Russian-built helicopter, code named Hip by NATO, as it approached. It hovered above the compound and slowly pivoted, sweeping the area. The tan paint and roundel announced it was from the Sudanese Air Force. “Doing a little reconnaissance,” Jason grumbled to Leon. The helicopter settled to the ground and the five-bladed rotor spun down. Six heavily armed soldiers jumped out and set up a defensive perimeter. “Trusting souls,” Jason said. The man who got off next was wearing a Sudanese Army uniform and a white kaffiyeh, the traditional headdress of the Middle East. “A colonel,” Jason added.

Leon keyed on the kaffiyeh. “He’s a Wahhabi. Not good.”

The colonel was a tall, heavy-set man and needed a shave. He looked around contemptuously and fingered the flap on his holster. Satisfied that all was secure, he barked a command in Arabic and the soldiers lowered their weapons. “Now that’s an arrogant bastard if I’ve ever seen one,” Jason said.

Simon, still holding a walkie-talkie walked towards the colonel and extended his hand in friendship. The colonel ignored it. “I am Colonel Nasir al-Rahman. You are?”

“Simon Dreyer, the assistant manager. Welcome to Westcot Five.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“We have been directed by our headquarters to leave,” Simon lied. “Of course, anyone who assists us will be amply compensated by Westcot Oil.”

Al-Rahman grunted. “Unfortunately, I cannot negotiate what you desire. However, if you will come with me, my general will hear what you have to say.”

Jason took the colonel’s measure. “I don’t trust the bastard any further than I can throw him.”

“If that far,” Leon muttered.

“I’m leaving,” the colonel said. “Stay or come.” He spun around, issued fresh orders, and climbed on board the helicopter. The turbo shaft engines spun up as the soldiers hurried to load. Simon was the last to climb aboard.

2

“He’s been gone too long,” Jason said. It was Friday evening and four hours had passed since Simon had left with the Sudanese Army colonel.

“It was a dumb idea,” Leon grumbled. He pointed to the north. “There. A helicopter.”

“It’s a Hip,” Jason said. “I think it’s the same one.” The helicopter settled at the far side of the compound, the side cargo door slid back, and a bundle was thrown off. The door closed and the helicopter took off as Jason ran towards the bundle that was wrapped in a blanket.

Leon was right beside him when they reached what looked like a body. The two men quickly unwrapped the bloody blanket and examined what was left of Simon. “God damn them to hell!” Leon shouted. “They cut off his head.” Four other men joined them and stared at the body.

“What do we do now?” one asked.

Jason took charge. “We start digging.”