Dark Zone (24 page)

Ellen squeezed his hand, speaking before he could. “Mr. Rubens does work for an important government agency, as did the General. We’re all aware of that. But of course that’s no more relevant here than the fact that Mr. Paulson and I are attorneys.”

It wasn’t the strongest argument, Rubens thought, but at least she was saying
something.

The other lawyer began talking about “special employment requirements of the government agency involved” and how these would skew Rubens’ judgment even if he hadn’t been ordered to come. Under other circumstances, Rubens might have been amused by the way everyone at the hearing was avoiding naming the agency or talking about what it did. But he wasn’t amused now at all. He wanted to shout at them that it was the General who was important—that brave and intelligent man whose world had been reduced to a white room twelve by fifteen feet, whose brilliant mind was now a trampoline for delusions.

“Mr. Paulson is an eloquent lawyer,” said McGovern finally, once more squeezing Rubens’ hand. “I think the General would be well served if he were his counsel.”

Why the concession?
wondered Rubens. She should be attacking, not retreating.

“I quite agree,” said the judge, who’d been silent all this time. “But of course he’s not. An attorney will have to be appointed to represent Mr. Rosenberg’s interests—should I call him General? He is a general, yes? Is that how he likes to be addressed?”

“He’s actually a very humble man,” said Rubens, though the judge was looking at Rebecca. “He introduces himself as ‘Mr.,’ but those of us who’ve known him for a long time, usually we call him General. I suppose other people would use that as well.”

The judge nodded, but it was Rebecca who had the last word: “That would be fine, I think. I always just call him Daddy.”

Where he’d taken his time before, now the judge spoke quickly, laying out the steps that he would take. The first and most important was to appoint a lawyer to represent the General. A medical assessment would follow, probably fairly quickly, but of course the General’s lawyer would have an important say on the timetable. Everything from here on out would hinge on the General’s court-appointed legal representative. Interested parties would always be welcome to add relevant information, but the law directed the judge to work in a certain way and ultimately he would be the one to make the decision.

That was the opening for Rebecca’s lawyer. Rubens remained calm as the attorney suggested that a jury trial might be appropriate.

“An interesting point,” said Judge Croner. “Of course, the General’s attorney is going to be the one speaking for him, so from this point onward that would be a matter for him to propose.”

As a courtesy to the interested parties, added the judge, he would of course keep them abreast of the timetable for the proceedings. He would certainly work with the General’s counsel, whom he intended to name by the end of the day.

“Who would that be?” asked Rebecca’s lawyer.

“Naturally someone with experience and the high recommendation of the Bar,” said the judge, parrying the question gently yet firmly. He was not to be interfered with, despite his easygoing manner. “As I said earlier, a medical examination would proceed promptly thereafter. I would hope that the General’s counsel would be prepared for a formal hearing by the end of the week. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you,” said the judge, tapping his hands on the table and rising to dismiss them.

“So, what did you think?” McGovern asked as they descended in the elevator.

Rebecca, her husband, and their lawyer were in the car as well, and Rubens felt constrained to say he thought the judge was “a very nice fellow.”

“Very sharp,” said Ellen.

Was she talking to the other attorney or to him? Rubens said nothing until they were out in the parking lot and the others had walked off in the other direction.

“Is that timetable normal?” he asked.

“A little fast but not all that unusual. In a lot of instances, these decisions have to be made very expeditiously because medical care is involved. We could have a hearing on Friday and a decision right after that. Does it seem too fast?”

“No, I guess not.”

“The fact that the General is who he is will also push Judge Croner to get things settled very quickly,” added McGovern. “That’s why he tried to solve things without a formal process.”

“How did he try to solve things?” Rubens asked.

“Oh, that’s definitely what he was doing. If they had made more of an opening, he would have sounded them out in detail.”

“I’d appreciate it if you were more ... forward,” Rubens told her.

“How so?”

“You could have defended me. I’m not representing the NSA.”

“That was obvious.”

“How? The judge doesn’t know me. When their lawyer said I was, you should have jumped right in. You did speak up, don’t get me wrong, but it was a little late.”

“Frankly, I would have preferred not saying anything at all,” she told him. “I only said that to keep you from talking. The fact of the matter is, Mr. Rubens, you’re not on trial. Neither is Rebecca. This isn’t that sort of proceeding. The real way to think about this, if you want to think about it, is to pretend you’re just watching. The judge invited you in as a courtesy. And the same with Rebecca,” she added before he could object. “The hearing is about the General and his competence. Not yours.”

“It’s about who watches his affairs.”

“It’s about
his
future. Didn’t you tell me
his
wishes should be honored? Isn’t that what’s important?” She touched his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m lecturing. Forgive me.”

Rubens pursed his lips.

“What you said about what to call the General, that was better than any brief,” she added. “It was very eloquent.”

“It was just what I felt.”

“‘That’s why it was eloquent.” She glanced at her watch. “It would have been better if it didn’t come to this, but now that the process is under way, things will have a momentum and logic of their own.”

“Why would it be better if it didn’t come to this?”

“Don’t you think that? These sorts of disagreements don’t do anyone any good.”

Yes, actually, he did think that. Why was he being so argumentative?

And why did he feel as if he were the one on trial?

“I may be somewhat busy over the next few days,” Rubens told McGovern. “But you can call the number I gave you at any time, day or night.”

“Days will be fine. I’ll see you, Mr. Rubens.”

43

As soon as Dean put his foot on the edge of the crate he heard it crack. He grabbed the ledge and pulled himself upward as the box collapsed in a heap.

“Too late to switch places with you now,” he whispered to Lia over the communications system.

He thought he heard her growl in response.

Dean balanced precariously on the narrow ledge as he pulled the handheld computer out to scan for a burglar alarm. There wasn’t one, and the two halves of the window were held together by a simple latch at the middle, which was easily undone by sliding his knife in through the crack. He used the knife to swing the far window away, then leaned over to peer inside. Besides making it possible to see into the dark office, Dean’s night-vision glasses could detect beams from infrared devices used on alarm systems. There were none, and a second scan with the PDA failed to turn up a motion detector or more sophisticated bugging device.

“I’m in,” he told Lia as he swung inside.

“I can see that.”

“They don’t have a PC.”

“Smart of them,” said Lia.

The group that had rented the office claimed to raise money for a service that trained nurses. It did actually do this, and in fact donated more than a hundred thousand dollars every year to schools in Egypt, Pakistan, and Iran. But such international operations provided a pretext for passing information among a host of individuals and countries.

While terrorists typically went to great lengths to keep their communications secret, experience had shown that offices such as these in friendly countries often had surprisingly lax security. It wasn’t a case of hubris so much as human nature: if a threat wasn’t imminent, it tended to be ignored. Dean’s briefer had predicted there would be no alarm systems or other common safeguards, and so far it appeared as if he were right.

However, there wasn’t a terribly lot to protect here: no computers and only two lateral files at the side of the office. Both were locked. Dean used the handheld computer to check for electronic security devices—he didn’t particularly want to blow himself up trying to get a bank statement. When he found none, he took out the lock pick and went to work on the lock.

Dean had taken a two-day course in the fine art of jimmying locks after joining Deep Black, but he hadn’t had much time to practice since then. The lock stayed stubbornly set.

And then he heard someone in the hall.

“Charlie, people coming your way,” said Lia. “I can see them turning on lights.”

No kidding,
he thought, hiding behind the desk.

44

The garage was located in a warehouse that dated from the 1950s, a steel-fabricated structure whose sides were covered with dents and dimples, along with the faded splatters of a dozen paint jobs. It sat next to a rarely used railroad spur; when Mussa had first found the building the railroad had been an important part of his planning, but as it turned out he had used it only once. That was the way it went with such things, though—one might plan carefully and consider all of the alternatives, but in the end life made its own demands.

From the time he had bought it three years before until just six months ago, the warehouse had been part of Mussa’s business empire and main source of income. To call it an empire was aggrandizement; Mussa arranged for the exporting of automobiles from Europe to Africa. This involved several phases: obtaining the cars, preparing them for transit, and actually shipping them. The warehouse was involved in the middle phase. As a rule, the vehicles Mussa obtained were mechanically perfect; he rarely procured one more than twelve months old. However, his customers in Africa and the Middle East required certain modifications, new serial numbers on engine blocks being among the most critical. Generally, he changed the exterior color as well. Other modifications tended to be done to order—armor, secret compartments, and certain types of electrical equipment, including cell phone jammers, had become almost
de rigueur.

The car export business had been lucrative, though not without its liabilities. Surprisingly, its greatest liability had been its effect on his conscience. While Mussa could justify his thefts intellectually—he was taking vehicles from heathens—there was a part of him that objected. In fact, the objections had grown greater as his wealth increased.

Two years before, he had heard an imam suggest that guilt was merely faith speaking. Mussa still remembered that talk; in many ways it had helped set him on his current path.

But even the most righteous man must live in this world. Driving across the crumbling macadam toward the plant at the back of the old factory area near Marseilles, he felt pride at all he had accomplished, and even greater pride at what he would achieve in just a few days.

Sparks from a welder’s torch inside the garage ended his brief reverie of self-congratulations.

“Non, non, non!”
Mussa shouted, jumping from his car and running inside. The van was up on a lift, its undersides being reinforced and prepared for the extra springs. The five carefully fashioned explosives for the bomb assembly sat less than ten meters away.

Mussa’s emotions ran so strongly that he couldn’t even sputter a curse or an explanation; all he could do was point at the crates.

“Idiots!” he managed finally, speaking Arabic rather than French. “Idiots! Don’t I pay you enough not to kill yourselves?”

Heads down, the workers took the van down and began moving it to the far bay. They were running behind schedule, but Mussa decided not to chide them further; they would undoubtedly perceive any urge now to move faster as a contradiction of these orders, and besides, past experience showed that they were just as likely to react by slowing down as speeding up once he left their sight.

There was a more effective strategy.

“Listen to me for a moment,” he said loudly. “Listen. Stop what you are doing and listen.”

The half-dozen garagemen came over to him.

“I will return tomorrow to gather everything. If everything is in order and the van properly loaded, everyone who has worked on the project will receive an appropriate bonus,” he said.

The faces lit up with smiles. Mussa was not an ungenerous man, and all of those here had benefited from his bonuses before.

“Tomorrow, then,” he added, looking around. “It is understood ?”

He strode from the building before the heads stopped bobbing. Outside he checked his watch, then got into the car. Three kilometers away, he pulled off the road and took one of the cell phones from his bag.

Donohue picked up on the first ring.

“You’re late,” he told Mussa.

“It couldn’t be helped. Have you considered my proposal ?”

“Twice what you said.”

“I would be willing to take your price if we can add another matter at your usual fee,” said Mussa.

“I don’t do package deals.”

Mussa sensed a bluff.

“There was an error in your previous assignment. I am not blaming you, but it is a matter that needs correction. I am willing to pay to fix it,” continued Mussa, “as clearly someone on my side erred, but it must happen very soon.”

“I don’t do package deals.”

“Well then, that is that,” said Mussa. “Perhaps in the future we will have occasion to be of use to each other.”

He hesitated before hanging up—just long enough, as it turned out.

“What are the details?” said Donohue.

“The details will be forthcoming in the manner you specify,” said Mussa. “The time line is critical. Which will be explained.”

“If it has to be done on an expedited timetable, the scale changes.”