Against All Enemies (16 page)

“All unknown,” she replied. “I’ll pull their records and get busy on which ones we want excused.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “But unless you find something really glaring, I mean like a member of the Ku Klux Klan, I’m not going to challenge anyone.”

She stared at him, not believing what she had heard. Hard experience had made her very cautious during voir dire, the jury selection phase of a trial. “Not smart. Besides, twelve is not the best number. I’d like to see it whittled down to six.”

“I experimented a few times with civilian juries,” Sutherland explained. “I got rid of the obvious misfits and took what was left. It worked fine. Look at the panel we’re dealing with. All are college educated and experienced officers. That means the system has weeded out the kooks and everyone is committed to the Air Force, which we represent. Cooper knows all this and has to be cautious. But the panel is going to see him flapping around and questioning everyone. It’s going to look like he’s grasping for straws while we sit back confident in our case.”

“Run the numbers,” she said. “Statistically, six is the best number for a two-thirds vote to convict.”

“Cooper will take care of that for us. And in the process, he’s going to piss off the rest of the panel.”

“Smart,” she said.

“Cathy, why don’t you take the voir dire?”

“I do it like I want?” she asked. He nodded an answer. “I’d like that.” She turned to leave but stopped at the door. “Thanks, Hank.”

2:30
P.M.
, Friday, May 21,
Near Kemasik, Malaysia

Out of respect for the Islamic sabbath, although neither he nor his wife were Muslim, Victor Kamigami used Fridays as a day of rest and contemplation. The big man sat in the shade of a willowy casuaria tree that curved over him in a graceful windblown bow, and stared out to sea. His brightly painted fishing
prahu
was pulled up on the sand next to him, waiting for the new morning and the tide that would carry him out to the fishing grounds beyond the nearby islands in the South China Sea.

The fifty-two-year-old Kamigami was not Malay or Chinese, but a Japanese-Hawaiian. He had put on weight in the last two years, the result of his wife’s cooking and a sedentary home life. But he was still physically fit and kept his hair short as befitted a former command sergeant major in the U.S. Army. He wore baggy tan shorts and an open-collared, short-sleeve shirt that hung loose over his shorts. Only his expensive sandals betrayed the reality that he was not a poor fisherman. He was quite wealthy and fished because it gave him a sense of inner peace.

He shifted his bulk in the sand as his twins played in the water below him. He smiled. His son was a carbon copy of him and the girl a graceful, beautiful miniature of her mother. She ran up to him and patted his Buddhalike belly before running back to rejoin her brother. They were three years old and the light of his middle years, a blessing from the gods.

But he felt no inner peace on this particular Friday. A new oil rig had appeared offshore the previous week and destroyed the peaceful, timeless serenity of the ocean. The march of progress and modernity was reaching out to envelop him and his family. He hated it. Yet, to all appearances, he was a contented man and at peace with his world. Nothing betrayed the anger he felt at this rape of his world, his home, that was looming on the horizon. He soothed his anger by envisioning the oil rig disappearing in a booming explosion and flash of fire. It was a fantasy many men indulged in as a valve to relieve and control their frustrations.

But Kamigami was different. He could make it happen.

Mai Ling, his five-year-old adopted daughter from China, waddled across the sand on her short, chubby legs. His face lit up as she jumped into his arms. “Well, my Beautiful Bell,” he said, using the English version of her name, “what brings you out here all alone?” His voice was unusually soft and gentle, at total odds with his physical appearance.

“Momma says please come home,” Mai Ling told him. “We have visitors. She also said me and the twins should stay with Amah.” Amah was the family’s combination maid and baby-sitter who had adopted the Kamigami family and became their self-appointed grandmother and mentor. “Anyway, I think that’s what she said. She said it in Cantonese and I don’t speak it too well.”

“Who are our guests?”

“Four white men,” Mai Ling answered. “Two went inside with Momma and the other two, the two big ones, stayed by the car.”

“Did they understand what Momma said to you.”

“I don’t think so. One of them told Momma to speak in English. But Momma said I don’t understand English.” She looked hurt. “I do.”

Kamigami smiled at her. “I know you do. You take the twins to Amah and tell her to take you all to her brother’s house. She must do it immediately. Do not come back until Momma or me comes to get you.”

The little girl was wise beyond her years and looked at her father. “Is something wrong?”

“Probably not, but I don’t know for sure. Now run along.” Kamigami trusted the five-year-old to carry out his instructions to the letter and she bounced out of his arms, anxious to do as he said. He followed his three children the short distance to their amah’s house, keeping out of sight. Satisfied that all was normal, he hurried through the coconut palm grove to his own house. Again, he kept out of sight. His face froze when he saw the two men standing by the white sport-utility truck with their backs to him. His warning instincts were in full alarm. His past had again caught up with him.

Kamigami listened to the two men talk for a few moments and, sure that they were agents from some U.S. agency, closed the few feet that separated them. They never heard or saw him until he clapped his two big hands over the temples of the man closest to him. The blow appeared harmless but it stunned the man and he sank to the ground. The other agent was reaching for his gun when Kamigami jammed his rigid fingers into his Adam’s apple. The man collapsed, unable to breathe.

“Freeze,” a voice said behind him. Kamigami turned to see Art Rios and another man standing on the elevated porch of his house. Rios was holding a nine-millimeter automatic. “Jesus, you’re quick,” he said.

Kamigami gestured at the man gasping for breath on the ground. “He’ll suffocate. My wife can help him.” Rios nodded and Kamigami spoke in Cantonese. May May Kamigami appeared from inside with a first aid kit and hurried down the stairs to the courtyard.

She was a tall and lithe woman from southern China. Her hair was black and lustrous and framed beautiful dark almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones. Her delicate facial structure announced she was Zhuang, not Chinese. Kamigami and Rios watched as her delicate fingers felt the cartilage on his throat below the area where Kamigami had driven his fingers and collapsed the larynx. Finding the small, soft indentation in the cartilage, she pulled a plastic tube about the size of a pencil from the first aid kit, stripped away its protective wrapping, and jabbed one end into the spot. They all heard the sucking of air as the man sucked air into his famished lungs.

She stood up. “He’ll live,” she said. She straightened the soft Batik fabric of her sarong. Suddenly, there was a gun in her hand, pointed directly at Rios and the man standing beside him.

“Drop it,” another voice commanded from behind Kamigami.

“Now,” yet another voice commanded. May May looked at Kamigami who slowly nodded. He was getting old and had blown it on something as basic as counting the opposition. She dropped her gun.

“CIA?” Kamigami asked.

“You got it,” Rios said. It was mostly the truth. Of the six men sent to find Kamigami, five were CIA. “They warned us about you, but I had no idea.” Kamigami did not reply and stared at Rios. “It’s not what you think. I’ve got an offer you can’t refuse.” He smiled and lowered his gun. “I can’t believe I said that.”

“We need to get Chuck to a hospital,” one of the CIA agents said.

“Do it,” Rios replied. “Meet us back at the station.” Two agents loaded the wounded man into a second truck and drove off, leaving two men with Rios. Both covered Kamigami and May May with their automatics. “Sorry we have to do it this way,” Rios said, “but your reputation—” He didn’t finish the sentence and gave a little shrug. “We need to talk.”

May May invited them all to enter her home and made tea while Rios talked. The men forced themselves to focus on Kamigami and not the woman. “Your wife is much more beautiful than reported,” Rios said. Kamigami only stared at him. “Wouldn’t her life be much better if you came in from the cold? I realize you are technically a deserter—”

One of the agents interrupted, “And a mercenary.”

Kamigami’s past was no secret. He had spent twenty-four years in the Army, most of it in the Rangers, special operations, and Delta Force. He had gone missing in action during a rescue mission in Burma and was later captured by the Vietnamese. After spending over a year in a Hanoi jail, a Chinese revolutionary named Zou Rong had freed him in 1996 to help lead a revolt in southern China. Kamigami had played a critical role in Zou’s success, but in the process had been tagged as a deserter and a mercenary by the U.S. government.

While in China he had met May May and adopted the infant Mai Ling. But with the fighting done, Zou no longer needed him. Kamigami was paid off with four million dollars and a refuge in Malaysia. The Malaysian government, anxious to stay on the good side of Zou, had quietly gone along with the arrangement.

“What’s the price?” Kamigami asked.

“Leading a rescue mission,” Rios replied. He outlined the deal. If Kamigami would lead a special forces team, he would receive a full pardon. When Kamigami asked for more details, Rios told him that without a commitment, that was all he could say.

One of the CIA agents raised the muzzle of his pistol and aimed at Kamigami’s head. “We’ve been looking for you for a long time, Victor. That ain’t the way this is going down. You’re going to jail.”

Rios started to protest, but another agent had jammed his Beretta against May May’s temple. Rios fought the anger that threatened to consume him. The CIA had reneged on the deal and used him to find Kamigami. Now he had to tell Durant what had happened and try to salvage the operation.

May May spoke to Kamigami in Cantonese, which the men did not understand. It was a long conversation where she did most of the talking and, twice, she glanced at Rios as if she knew something about him. Finally, Kamigami said a few words and held out his hands, his wrists together.

10:40
A.M.
, Monday, May 24,
The Farm, Western Virginia

The Project’s fuzzy logic program was working beyond the whiz kids’ wildest expectations and they were ecstatic. “You must talk to Agnes,” their leader said. “She’s really growing up.” The Project had become so human to the whiz kids that they had personalized the system. Durant shook his head.
Why do humans relate better to computers than to other humans?
he wondered. Personally, he blamed the Internet. He sat down in front of the monitor. “Hello, Agnes.”

The image had changed her hairstyle, makeup, and clothes again. Agnes was now a glamorous New York lawyer. “May we speak alone?” Agnes asked. The whiz kids trooped out of the balcony and closed the door. “I’ve been investigating the San Francisco bombing and have found something that might be relevant.”

Durant nodded. The computer was learning to handle doubt and probability. The picture of a small-time criminal appeared on the left monitor with all his vitals. “This man was found shot to death in the desert outside Las Vegas last night. It was a gangland-style execution with two twenty-two-caliber bullets in the back of the head at close range. When I checked the ATF files, I discovered he was trying to cut a deal and enter the witness protection program. He was an expert on making bombs and there is an unconfirmed report in the FBI files that he had trained two members of Meredith’s First Brigade. So I tracked them down using the matrix I developed to find Mr. Rios. Both men were in San Francisco the day of the bombing and have since disappeared.”

Durant’s mind raced with the implications. “So what do you think?”

“I think the murdered man was an informer who was killed because he knew who planned or executed the bombing of the San Francisco Shopping Emporium.”

“Then you know who killed him.”

“No. And I doubt if we’ll ever know for sure.”

“Who do you suspect?” Durant asked.

“Jonathan Meredith, or someone in his organization. But we’ll never be able to prove it.”

“Very good. And I agree with your conclusions.”

“So far, four hundred thirty-eight people have died. Why would Meredith want to kill that many people?”

“I don’t have an answer, Agnes. Why do evil people do what they do? I suppose we’ll never know. Probably the best explanation is that Meredith wanted to create trouble at an opportune time so he could exploit it for his own ends.”

“There’s something else, Mr. Durant. When you asked me to help with the rescue mission, I extended my security watch around Hurlburt Field.”

“Why Hurlburt Field?”

“Well, when I saw your flight plan to Hurlburt, I assumed you were following up on my recommendation to contact the Sixteenth Special Operations Wing. When I saw Lt. Col. Gillespie’s name on the return flight plan, I made the logical assumption that he is involved with mission planning.”

“Indeed he is.”

“I have monitored numerous phone calls originating around Hurlburt that indicate the base is under constant surveillance by the Chinese. The Chinese are passing on what they learn to the Sudanese embassy.”

“That is worrisome, Agnes. Stay on top of it, please.”

“I have another question,” Agnes said. Durant deliberately said nothing to see if the computer interpreted silence as consent. It did. “Mr. Rios is in Malaysia working with the CIA. Does that have anything to do with the rescue mission?”

“Yes, it does, Agnes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, according to the communications traffic I have intercepted, the CIA helped Mr. Rios find a man, Victor Kamigami. So I checked out Mr. Kamigami. He has quite a record, very confused and colorful. But the CIA is going to deport him to the United States and keep him in jail.”

Durant allowed a tight smile. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll tell Art the CIA is still playing CIA games. We can work around it.” He turned to leave. “Agnes, find out who leaked the information on the B-Two to Meredith.”

11:02
A.M.
, Monday, May 24,
Reno, Nev.

Harry Waldon drove into the parking lot of Bare Essence and his passenger, a vice squad detective, motioned him to park beside the lone car in the lot. “That’s the manager’s car,” the detective said. “Pat always comes in early on Monday to count the take from the weekend.” The detective got out and placed a hand on the hood of the car. “Still hot. So he just got here.” The two men walked up to the front door and tested it. It was unlocked so they went in and Harry followed the detective down the hall to the manager’s office. “I’ll do the talking,” the detective said. “You do the muscle.”

“Got it,” Harry muttered. It had taken him and Toni a week to work out a deal with the Reno police and he was looking forward to it. This was the part of the job he liked. The detective knocked twice on the door and barged through. Pat was sitting at his desk, surrounded by stacks of money arranged by denomination. Harry automatically noted that ninety percent of the stacks were twenty-dollar bills. He did a quick visual estimate. There had to be at least $40,000 on the desk.

“Hello, Pat,” the detective said. He dropped a video cassette on the desk. “Care to guess what this is?” Pat looked up and worry spread across his face. “Better yet, care to guess how old she is?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s called statutory rape, Pat.”

“What are you talking about?” Pat asked, trying to bluff his way out of the situation.

“A very pretty girl,” the detective said, “good lighting, excellent camera work, energetic performance by you. But there’s one problem. You’re going to jail.” He paused for effect. “Unless you want to talk to this man.” He nodded at Harry.

Harry loomed over the manager. “Tell me about the fifty thou you sent to the ‘Show Me’ state.” He smiled at Pat. It wasn’t meant to reassure him.

“Who are you?” Pat asked, still trying to bluff.

“He’s a Fed,” the detective said. “He’s got muscle, Pat. Real muscle. You want to be his friend.”

Pat panicked. “Look, I don’t know anything about it. I get the order, the money comes through the club as business, I send it where they want.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know.” Harry stared at him for a long moment. It was not a pleasant experience. But Pat was much more afraid of August Ramar than the two men standing in front of him. “Some guy. I only talk to him on the phone. Thick accent.”

Again, Harry stared at him. “Not enough. We got a link here between child pornography and money laundering across state lines. It’s a Federal thing now and you’re going away for a long time. A very long time.”

Pat wasn’t convinced. “Like I said, I don’t know who.”

“We know about Augy Ramar,” Waldon said, bluffing. “This is a one-time good deal, Pat. First one to help us gets helped. Going, going…”

“August Ramar,” Pat blurted out, finally collapsing. “And some Arab guys. I don’t know who. They pay Ramar big bucks to supply muscle and be their errand boy. I just pass the money on.”

“Who do you pass it to?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know. It’s always a dead drop.”

“When did you pass the fifty thou to Missouri?”

Pat shook his head. “I haven’t yet.” He pointed at the money on his desk. “That’s it. I’m supposed to deliver it this week.”

The detective looked at Harry. “What do you want to do with this piece of shit?”

“He makes a statement, signs it in blood, and delivers the money on schedule.”

“What about Ramar?” Pat moaned. “People disappear, like forever, if he gets worried.” The detective confirmed the truth of it.

“We’ll take care of Ramar,” Harry assured him. “You just keep your mouth shut and remember who you belong to now.”

1:20
P.M.
, Tuesday, May 25,
Whiteman Air Force Base, Mo.

Linda, the legal office’s superefficient secretary, had taken a long lunch because it was her birthday. When she came back to her desk, a visitor was waiting to see Sutherland. She buzzed his office where he was working with Blasedale. “You’ve got a visitor,” Linda announced. Her voice had an unusually stiff quality.

“Let me guess,” Sutherland replied, a big smile on his face. “Mr. R. Garrison Cooper wants a continuance.”

“Actually,” Linda replied, “it’s Sandi Jefferson.”

Sutherland punched off the intercom, looking confused. “Hank!” Blasedale said, her voice incredulous. “Wake up. Sandi Jefferson is the defendant’s wife.”

“I know who she is. But why is she here?” He looked around his office. “We need to meet her somewhere more neutral.”

“Take her to the witness waiting room,” Blasedale said, “and I’ll have Linda bring coffee and tea.”

“Good. Meet you there.” He walked quickly down the hall to the secretary’s desk. Years as a prosecutor had made him a consummate actor and nothing betrayed his dismay when he saw the woman sitting in the outer office. Her flaming auburn hair was pulled back off her face and a brightly colored scarf held it in a loose bundle that cascaded down her back. She had the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen and a perfect peaches-and-cream complexion. Her high cheekbones and full lips made him think of a pouting cherub. But her short summer dress and obvious lack of a bra dispelled any angelic illusion. She uncrossed her long legs and stood up, revealing a flash of black panties. The gold high-heel sandals she wore made her legs appear even longer and she matched his height.

His first really conscious thought was
She’s taller than Jefferson
. Then,
Where did he find her?
“Mrs. Jefferson?” he asked, hoping nothing in his voice betrayed what he was thinking. He glanced at Linda who was staring at her, a look of stern disapproval on her face. “How may I help you?”

“Brad said…” She stopped, fighting for control, obviously upset. “Brad said you were concerned about his family.”

“Please,” he said, motioning down the hall to the witness waiting room, “why don’t we talk in private.” She followed him down the hall and he breathed in relief when he saw Blasedale was already there. He made the introductions and she sat down, again with a flash of black. He was careful to sit at an angle where his natural field of vision fell on Blasedale whose mouth was slightly open in amazement. “What can we do for you, Mrs. Jefferson.”

“Early this morning,” she said, her voice shaking, “they burned a cross on our lawn. I called the police but they didn’t arrive for almost an hour.” Anger replaced the worry in her eyes. “We live two blocks from the police station.”

“Where do you live?” Sutherland said, making notes.

“Kansas City. It was the only place where we could find a decent house because Brad is…” She let her voice trail off. “He has to commute. It’s ninety minutes each way.”

“Do you know who burned the cross?” Blasedale asked.

She nodded. “Men I see every day. A Neighborhood Brigade.”

Sutherland’s head jerked up. “One of Meredith’s brigades?”

She nodded. “I don’t know who to talk to and Brad said you were the only person to ask about his family.” She looked at him, her eyes pleading. “The Air Force doesn’t give a damn about us because—” Again, she didn’t finish the sentence.

“You’re a mixed marriage,” Blasedale said.

An inner voice told Sutherland they were on dangerous ground talking to this woman. “Mrs. Jefferson, I must ask you, did you know your husband was served with charges and orders convening a court-martial?” He felt like a clod when she started to cry.

“No one tells me anything,” she whimpered.

Blasedale moved over and sat beside her. “Mrs. Jefferson, we can make sure you are protected and safe.” Linda came in with a coffee service. “Coffee or tea?” Blasedale said, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to Sutherland. She spoke quietly, calming the distraught woman. “We’ll answer any questions you have and make sure the right people are looking after you.”

Sutherland listened as they talked, fully aware of what Blasedale was doing. She was answering questions in a way that led to other questions and slowly, they learned what Sandi Jefferson knew about the case. He noticed that Blasedale kept looking at her watch as if she was expecting someone. “Mrs. Jefferson,” she finally said, trying to bring the meeting to an end.

“Please call me Sandi.”

“Sandi, please remember that we will tell Mr. Cooper everything we know and are as concerned with your husband’s rights as anyone. But we are—”

“You are absolute bastards!” R. Garrison Cooper bellowed, interrupting them. He was standing in the doorway, his face flushed with anger. “Sandi, never talk to these people. They are the bastards who are trying to put—”

“Someone burned a cross on my lawn last night!” she screamed, interrupting him. “And no one else seems to care!” She placed a hand on Sutherland’s arm. Her touch was warm and sent tingling waves racing over his skin. Then just as quickly, it was gone. “I called you three times and you didn’t answer. I called the Security Police, but they said they didn’t have jurisdiction and to call Colonel McGraw. But she was in a meeting with someone and didn’t call back. So who do I talk to?”

“Wait outside,” Cooper ordered. She stood and walked out.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Cooper shouted. It wasn’t meant to be a question. “I’ll have you both disqualified.” He glared at Sutherland. “And disbarred.”

“For what?” Sutherland asked. “She came to us.”

“And we recorded the entire session,” Blasedale added.

“That’s a violation of her right to privacy,” Cooper said, his case made.

“Please remember you are on an Air Force base,” Blasedale said, pointing to a prominent sign on the wall that said the room was subject to monitoring. “I’d ask you to read it, but that would be assuming you can read. We’ll send you a copy of the tape so you can listen to it. Also, check your answering machine and you’ll discover that I immediately called informing you that Mrs. Jefferson arrived here, of her own volition.”