A Far Justice (32 page)

THIRTY-SIX

The Hague

The lights were on when Hank and Catherine walked into the office early
Saturday morning. Aly was sitting at her desk reading Friday’s edition of Le Monde. “Happy New Year,” she said, her heart not really in it.

Hank and Catherine chorused a “Happy New Year” back. “What are the Froggies saying about us now?” Hank asked.

“They called the court ‘besieged’ and spanked Du Milan for the way she handled Cannon. One writer said they’ve got the wrong man in the dock and nominated Cannon.”

Catherine laughed. “I wouldn’t want to be the cop who tried to arrest him.”

The TV in the corner came on of its own accord and Cassandra’s image filled the screen. “Would you be kind enough to turn on your percom?” she said. The screen went blank.

“How did she do that?” Hank wondered.

He opened the communicator’s cover and Cassandra’s voice came over the small loudspeaker. “Mr. Westcot asked me to tell you that one of his teams found Jason and the Reverend Person. They are safe and are at a Westcot compound approximately one hundred miles north of Juba. Jason is fine but the Reverend is badly wounded. Mr. Westcot is sending a helicopter to pick them up and expects they will arrive in The Hague late Monday afternoon.”

Aly threw her arms around Hank and hugged him for all she was worth. He had trouble breathing. “Cassandra,” Hank finally managed to choke, “will Person be able to testify?”

“I believe so,” Cassandra replied.

Hank pointed at his office. “Aly, please join us.” She quickly filled a carafe with coffee and followed them inside. She filled Hank’s coffee mug. “We have to make a decision,” Hank began. “Do we press ahead and put Gus on the stand Monday or do we delay until the Reverend is here and ready to testify? I can call four or five more witnesses and blow a lot of legal smoke, but that would only increase Bouchard’s blood pressure and might be counterproductive.”

“After Cannon’s testimony,” Catherine said, “we’ve definitely got momentum with the media. I don’t think we want to lose it.”

“There is much gossip in the building,” Aly added. “The court is very sensitive to public opinion and the demonstrations yesterday upset the presidents, especially Relieu.” Hank nodded at the news. The Dutch secretaries’ mutual protection and gossip society was alive and functioning well.

Catherine considered the tradeoffs. “Gus has definitely connected with the audience and they want to hear him. I think he will play very well with the media once he’s on the stand.”

“Is he ready?” Aly asked.

“We’ve been preparing for weeks,” Hank replied. ”We’ve got all weekend to polish his testimony. He’s ready – and eager.”

Aly was still worried. “What will Du Milan do to him on cross-examination?”

“After going through the grinder with Cannon,” Hank answered, “she’ll be tiptoeing very carefully, which is one reason to press ahead now, before she regains her confidence. If Gus does falter, I’ll jump in with an objection and give him enough time to recover. If that doesn’t work, I should be able to recover on redirect. But he’s not going to stumble.”

“Put him on the stand Monday,” Catherine advised. “Maintain the momentum and finish it off with the Reverend on Tuesday. Use Person like Du Milan used Schumann.” Aly nodded in agreement.

“Let’s go talk to Gus,” Hank said. He looked at Aly. “You want to tell him the good news about Jason and Toby?”

“Oh, yes,” she whispered.

Southern Sudan

Jason led Leon and the small band of six Afrikaners around the perimeter of the compound while Hon and Paride followed a few steps behind, not sure of the South Africans. The big American stopped when they reached the runway on the eastern side of the compound and jumped into a freshly dug foxhole. It was a defensive fighting position, or DFP for short, and little more than a rectangular-shaped, shoulder-deep hole scooped out by a backhoe. “DFPs are wonderful things,” Jason said. “But don’t get too attached to the one you’re in and remember we got more for fallback.” He pointed out the deep shaft, approximately a foot in diameter sunk in the bottom corner of the DFP. “If someone lobs a grenade at you, don’t throw it back, kick it in here. Take cover, protect your ears, and open your mouth. You’re going to have visitors who think the grenade morted you. Hopefully, you’ll be able to convince them you’re alive and well.”

He showed them how to quickly climb out and roll into the hollow depression that had been scraped out immediately behind the DFP. “This is for temporary cover only.” He stood, dusted his hands, and traced a crude map in the earth. He started by sketching in the White Nile that ran south to north. Working eastward, he drew in a swampy area. He skipped a space and made an oval for the compound. Next to the eastern side of the compound, he drew in the mile-long packed-gravel runway that ran parallel to the Nile. On the far side of the runway, he drew in the minefield that arced around to the swamp and sealed them off. He skipped another space and scratched in the road that was located a kilometer to the east, and, like the runway, ran parallel to the Nile.

“The bad guys are on the road and will have to cross the area they conveniently torched last night. That puts them in the open and we can get in a little target practice. If that doesn’t send them into reverse, it should speed them up and they’ll charge right into the minefield. If they get through the mines and reach the runway, they’ll come under our overlapping fields of fire.” He drew in a series of five
X
s stretched along the compound’s side of the runway. “These five DFPs next to the runway are approximately a hundred meters apart and are our main line of defense.”

He drew in ten more
X
s scattered throughout the compound that formed a rough triangle using the original five
X
s along the runway as the base. The last
X
, the apex of the triangle, was less than fifty meters from the marshy area that led into the swamp. “If we can’t stop them at the runway, or if they flank us, we fall back into the compound. Give ground progressively, and fall back to the DFP immediately behind you.” He held up a walkie-talkie. “Everyone has one. Stay in contact so we can coordinate our actions and know where the other teams are.”

“What happens if we can’t hold the compound?” Leon asked.

“Then we’re having a very bad day and we fall back into the swamp.” He tapped the last
X
. “Whoever gets here first covers the other teams so they can escape into the swamp.”

“There’s crocs out there,” Leon grumbled.

“No one said it would be easy,” Jason replied. He answered a barrage of questions, and when he was satisfied they all had the big picture, broke the Afrikaners into three teams. He assigned each team to a DFP in the forward line next to the runway, leaving the DFPs on the end unmanned. “Leon, you’re with me. We go where needed.”

One of the Afrikaners gestured at Hon and Lam. “What about them?”

“They’re the reserve with the machine gun,” Jason explained.

Leon exploded in a torrent of French invective that defied translation. “You’re giving them the machine gun?” he finally managed in English.

“You need to see something,” Jason said. He motioned for the men to follow and led them to the nearby Wolf Turbo that was armed with the heavy machine gun. “Hon, blindfold Paride.” The Dinka did as ordered and Jason said, “Paride, you climb aboard and strip the machine gun. Hon, you mix up the pieces. Paride, you put it back together. Go!” The men watched as Paride jumped into the truck and field stripped the heavy machine gun, dropping the components to the floor. Hon was right behind him and mixed them up. Without missing a beat, Paride fell to the floor and sorted the pieces. He then quickly reassembled the weapon. “Any questions?” Jason asked.

“Good enough for me, Boss,” one of the Afrikaners said.

“Boss, wake up.” Jason stirred and blinked, coming awake. Leon was hovering over him waving a handheld VHF radio in excitement. “It’s the helicopter. Fifteen minutes out.” The relief in the Frenchman’s voice was almost painful to hear.

Jason checked his watch. He had been asleep less that two hours and it was still Saturday. “As promised. How’s Toby?”

“Much the same,” the medic answered. “It looks like we won’t need your little holes in the ground.”

“I can live with that,” Jason said. They stepped outside into a starlit night. “Look at that,” Jason whispered, awestruck by the beauty arching above him. He heard the beat of the helicopter’s rotor in the far distance. “Tell them to land on the west side of the compound and not the runway.” He strained to see the helicopter but it was flying lights out. For the first time in what seemed like years, he truly relaxed. They were going home.

Before Leon could key the VHF radio a streak of flame shot across the sky and homed on the helicopter. “Merde!” Leon shouted. The shoulder-held surface-to-air missile scored a direct hit on the left intake of the inbound Puma and the aircraft disappeared in a fireball.

“Happy fuckin’ New Year,” Jason growled.

The Hague

Gus and Hank huddled over the small table in Gus’s cell on Sunday afternoon. They had been working on Gus’s upcoming testimony for over three hours, and their faces were bathed in sweat. “Why’s it so damn hot in here?” Hank moaned.

Cassandra chuckled, her voice sweet and clear over the percom’s loudspeaker. “They’re still bugging the cell so I’m playing with them. I think they’ve figured it out and turned up the heat in retaliation.”

“What are you doing?” Hank demanded.

“Well,” she admitted, “rather than just jam the bugs in the cell, I’ve captured the prison’s entire surveillance system and tied it into the Sunday Morning talk shows in the States. That’s all they can see or hear. They are very upset.”

Gus roared with laughter. “Talk about cruel and unusual punishment!”

Hank shook his head. “You’ve been locked up too long. Open the door and let’s get some cool air in here. We can get back to this later.” Gus did as the lawyer asked and propped the door open. The corridor was full of Sunday visitors and before too long, Gus’s fellow inmates were bringing their friends and families by to introduce them to the jail’s most famous prisoner. Gus was very courteous and shook hands with them all. He tried out the Dutch he had learned while locked up, and that seemed to please them even more. “What do you make of all this?” Hank asked Cassandra.

“The Dutch like him,” she answered. Hank nodded in satisfaction – their strategy was working. He almost laughed when an elderly Dutch couple asked Gus to pose with them for a photo. Digital cameras magically appeared and Gus was the star of the moment. “Hank,” Cassandra said, “fresh satellite coverage from the Sudan is coming in. It looks like the Sudanese Army attacked Reverend Person’s mission.”

“How bad is it?” Hank asked.

“Most of the buildings have been burned or knocked down, and I’ve counted over a hundred bodies. There are tank track marks all over the ground, which is why we think it was the Sudanese Army.”

“Not good,” Hank muttered. “We’ll have to tell Gus.” He caught the pilot’s attention and motioned him back into the cell. Gus closed the door and Cassandra quickly repeated the news.

“Damn,” Gus said. Anger etched his words. “This never would have happened if Jason hadn’t gone down there to get Toby.”

“Don’t go there,” Hank cautioned. “This has nothing to do with Jason or you. The killing in Africa started years ago and, sooner or later, this was going to happen. We can’t stop it. Only the Africans can, so don’t go blaming yourself just because you happen to be standing too close to it.”

Gus accepted the truth of it and asked, “Any word on Jason and Toby?”

“It’s not good,” Cassandra warned them. “The helicopter should have arrived at the compound last night and returned to Addis Ababa by now. We haven’t heard anything.”

Hank fell silent and considered the options. “Maybe we need to delay and not put you on the stand tomorrow.”

Gus stared at the closed cell door, seeing all the people on the other side. “Hank, you are one incurable optimist. We’ve been over this before. Whether Toby shows or not, the verdict is in, two to one to convict.”

“Who’s the one?” Hank asked.

Gus didn’t hesitate. “Della Sante. Watch her face when Bouchard or Du Milan are talking. She detests old Gaston and hates Du Milan. I think it’s an Italian thing, keeping the younger, more attractive woman in her place. Hank, we’ve got momentum so let’s keep pressing ahead. Its damn the torpedoes time.”

Hank’s fingers drummed a tattoo on the table, his eyes hard. “Two to one,” he said to himself. Gus’s take was the same as Catherine’s.

Southern Sudan

Jason sat at the workbench and dusted off the small satellite communications radio Leon had dug out of the wrecked radio shack. Other than a dent in the cover, it appeared to be good condition. “It should work,” he told the Frenchman. Leon snorted and cursed. Although Jason didn’t understand a word, his meaning was loud and clear. Jason turned it on and the power light glowed red. “The battery’s almost dead.” Leon cursed again. “Hold on,” Jason said. He pressed the button activating the emergency locator beacon and waited. The transmit light flashed green for a few seconds as the power light dimmed and went out. “It’s dead,” Jason said.