Gauntlet (28 page)

A
NEW DAY WAS DAWNING on Socotra. Yousseff was enjoying the beauty of the sunrise. Two of his pilots, Abu Yusuf and Mustafa, had breakfasted with him. Now the three drove together toward the airstrip that ran along the south coast of the island. The Gulfstream was fully fueled and outfitted, and had been rolled out of its hangar to wait for him. Nobody said much. Mustafa knew aspects of the plan, but certainly not all of it. He knew that this trip was yet another step in the journey that had started with the theft of the Semtex more than ten days earlier at Bazemah. Had he known what the final steps of the plan were, he might not have been as eager as he was. But it wasn’t his place to ask questions.

When they took off in the Gulfstream, Yousseff found himself reveling in the power of the craft as it roared heavenward in a steep trajectory. They went northward toward Yemen; they were scheduled for a brief stopover in Reykjavik for fuel, after which they would head over the polar ice and south toward Los Angeles. He smiled as he saw the blue waters of the Arabian Sea fall away. He thought of his early days on the water, as a deck hand on the
Indus Janeeta,
where he had learned the ways of the water, and had his initiation into smuggling. They had been dangerous and intoxicating times.

When he’d taken over, Yousseff had quickly purchased a replacement for the
Indus Janeeta,
which he named the
Janeeta II.
She was a full 15 feet longer and had powerful, newly rebuilt diesel engines. She had a greater capacity for carrying legitimate cargo, but carried the obscure industrial chemicals used in his heroin refinement business more often than she carried commercial cargo. It was just another step in Yousseff’s rapidly growing empire.

The brief captivity of Mohammed Jhananda had done more than put Yousseff into the river ferrying business. It taught him the power of police, and the value of their corruption. It had reinforced his plans for Marak. “You will become a police constable. You will excel in it. You will follow the law. You will root out these evil drug smugglers... always excepting ourselves, of course. And you will watch my back and share in my wealth, just so long as you don’t act like that idiot, Noor.”

They had agreed on it, and Marak had gone to the police academy in Islamabad. There he had indeed excelled, especially in martial arts and the handling of weapons, as he’d already had unparalleled skills in those areas. He passed the courses and the initial training with flying colors. He asked for, and was assigned to, the drug enforcement unit. With Yousseff’s assistance he was able to make a number of high-profile arrests, and rooted out numerous conspiracies in Peshawar and Karachi. With each new arrest, his power and prestige grew within the Pakistani Police Force. He used his new power to help Yousseff, going after his competitors in the drug business, and making sure they were safely behind bars. Gradually Yousseff’s competitors were diminished, arrested, or killed. He was able to leverage this advantage to consolidate his holdings on both sides of the border.

His two property landlords, Ba’al in Pakistan and Izzy in Afghanistan, had prospered mightily, and both had to hire many bodyguards, rent collectors, and people to count and track the river of money. Yousseff stayed true to his word with his friends, and Marak, Izzy, and Ba’al each had many millions of American dollars deposited in accounts around the world. Yousseff seldom saw his comrades, but he always stayed true to them, and they to him.

F
OR MAHARI, this was the gift that kept on giving. A third DVD. A third Samsonite case stuffed with American money. He thought he had died and gone to Paradise. As ordered, he did not share the money with his free-spending wife, choosing instead to hide it away and wait for the project to finish. He had settled on a second apartment, in a more upscale and secure building, as his hiding place. He had extra locks installed. The only things he kept in the apartment were the Samsonite cases, stacked in a closet.

The messages themselves were powerful and ominous. The cameraman had chosen to begin this third message with an extreme close-up of the Emir’s face. The contrast between his one cloudy, dead eye and the black, living eye was striking. The media labeled it as malevolent, vengeful, and ominous. FOX, as always, sought to one up its competitors, and enlarged the two eyes to use them as a backdrop when its pro-American commentators discussed it.

The image of the man was overpowering and hypnotic. Perhaps it was the power and hatred that showed in the living eye, or the deeply furrowed brow, or the sharp hooked nose. This was not a man you would discount or ignore, whether he be warrior, judge, or religious leader. He was, in fact, all three. With this third message, it was a face the American public was learning to hate and fear.

Many of the American commentators noted that all three of the messages appeared to have been made at the same time, given the similarities of lighting, dress, and colors. A few said that because of that, the third message could be ignored. A few noted, though, with mild anxiety, that the time frame of the messages was accelerating. The first message said that the attack would come within 30 days, the second said within 21 days, and this, the third, promised an attack within ten days. They also noted that the target area was shrinking geographically. The first message noted that the attack would take place “somewhere on this globe,” whereas the second said “in North America.” This new message seemed to be referring to the United States directly. This particular portion of the third message, in its English translation, was played over and over again on every channel.

There was also much commentary and speculation as to the identity of the “city of vile iniquity.” America being what it was, there was no short list, but rather a long list of “sinful” cities. New York, Washington, DC, and Los Angeles were referred to most frequently, but, of course, San Francisco, New Orleans, Nashville, and Las Vegas were all possibilities as well. One pundit listed the safest cities, which allegedly included Omaha, Salt Lake City, and Topeka. The city council of Topeka then threatened MSNBC with a libel suit for slighting the city; an action that only increased that network’s ratings.

Z
AK WAS SITTING at the back of his cell. He’d just been strapped to the second table for an hour while another man was “questioned” by Hamani and his assistants. When the man had passed out, and they’d released Zak, he’d almost run back to his solitary prison. There had been guards there to guide him, but he knew the way, and hadn’t given them any trouble. After listening to another man’s screams for an hour, he was desperate for the deathly quiet of his lonely cell. Desperate for another stretch of time to think of some way — any way — to get out of this hell.

The escape had become more important than ever, because the night before, while he was praying for sleep to come, he’d remembered something. In the pain and stress and fear of the last weeks, it was something he’d forgotten. Now that it had come back to him, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Before his capture, when he’d still been traveling with Yousseff and his men, when he’d still been Shayam, he’d been privy to the same information as every other man in the group. He’d known where they were going, although he didn’t know the exact location. And he’d known what they were going to do there. He wasn’t supposed to know, but he’d learned over the years how to read between the lines, how to hear things that weren’t meant for his ears. He’d never had a chance to pass the information on to his superiors, because he’d been found out by Yousseff and Marak. But he knew what was going to happen within the next month. He was probably the only Westerner who knew.

If he could get out in time, if he could get in contact with someone from headquarters, he might be able to stop it.

T
URBEE FELT A SHARP, stabbing pain in his left side. The first kick from one of the Aryan Knights broke two ribs. The second broke two more. “C’mon, boys, I said boot fuck the bastard. I didn’t mean soft little pussy kicks. I mean boot fuck him good,” raged Ziggy, feeling a rush of power.

It was a command the other thugs had eagerly awaited. They took turns kicking Turbee about the head and chest. They broke two more ribs, and would have caused brain injury had Turbee not used his forearms to shield his head. Ziggy was about to insist on his turn, growing weary of the somewhat lame efforts of the henchmen, when familiar red and blue flashing lights appeared at the far end of the lot. He paused in the middle of a mighty kick aimed at Turbee’s head, and stood up in the glare of a hand-held spotlight.

“Time to high tail it boys. The fuckin’ heat’s arrived.”

One policeman raced after the Aryans, while the second stood over Turbee. The youth was utterly dazed and disoriented, and covered in blood. He knew only that he was being attacked, and that he might die. They were big and mean, whoever they were, and at that instant Turbee wanted more than anything to live. He felt powerful hands close in around his wrists again. He tried to pull away and struck out with a fist, hitting the constable weakly on the shoulder.

The constable, not one of DC’s finest or brightest, immediately slapped the cuffs on Turbee. The youth had just assaulted a police officer. When he continued to struggle, that charge was bumped up to include resisting arrest. After a long ride and some processing, he ended up lying, bloodied, bruised, and broken, on the floor of the calamitous holding cell at PSA 706. Turbee had committed assault, and of a police officer no less.

Turbee had not been aware of it at the time, but Ballou High stood in the center of the toughest area in Washington, DC; an area festering with violence, drugs, crime, and general mayhem. The local police were accustomed to seeing the Aryan Knights, or the African Brotherhood, or a host of other gangs, terrorizing the streets after dark. The scene they had just encountered was not unusual. Turbee did not appear to be bleeding too severely. The constable, not being trained in medicine, or particularly bright, did not notice the dried blood caked around his smashed nose, or the evidence of six broken ribs. Turbee had technically struck a police officer in the course of his duty. That was a felony. The courts would take care of it from there.

T
HE PRE-TRIAL CENTER was bright and loud — two environmental stress-ors that were beyond Turbee’s capacity to tolerate. It stank, and was full of belligerent louts of all creeds and colors, in various stages of intoxication, withdrawal, and madness. For all these reasons, Hamilton Turbee was in one corner, curled up into a ball, attempting to make himself disappear entirely.

The clerks and other officers on duty attempted to drag a name from him, but Turbee had been off his meds for hours, had just been violently assaulted, and had a badly damaged chest. He simply sank deeper into his depression and isolation. He was still carrying the thought that he had single-handedly created so much damage to TTIC that Congress would probably shut it down. He was also shouldering the burden of having handed the President and his cabinet a devastating blow. In regard to real life, Turbee had almost totally shut down, and was in a borderline psychotic state. Even sitting on a cold bench before the admitting clerk, he had held his knees tightly up to his chest, clasping them together with his arms, and rocking slowly back and forth. “Hambee” was all he could say when pressed again and again for his name. “Hambee.” The name his mother and father had used when they were still together, in a house flooded with warmth. His name before he had realized that his mother was spending hundreds of thousands of dollars a year on trinkets, trips, affairs, and alcohol. “Hambee”... his name when the world had been as it should be, when he had spent his time wandering with delight around the vast family mansion at Brambleton Narrows.

The officers recognized the signs. “This guy is off his rocker. Too many drugs, probably. Crystal meth. He needs a psychiatric assessment.”

They all agreed. This Hambee character, whoever he was, needed to be sorted out a little more. There was no way he had the mental capacity to understand or plead to the charge he was facing.

It was obvious to everyone that this individual needed to be assessed at St. Liz’s before any further steps could be taken. Saint Elizabeth’s, or St. Liz’s, as the locals called it, was a medical facility in Washington, DC that dealt with the criminally insane. They’d be able to figure out “Hambee,” whatever his real name, soon enough. He was kept handcuffed. Had to be, said the arresting officer. He called the kid unpredictable and violent. He was placed in a police van, and taken to an imposing brownstone building on Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue. Once there, his instinctive fetal position tightened to the point that it took four officers working together to get him into a wheelchair. He was rolled down a series of long hallways that smelled of antiseptic and piss, and deposited in a small cell. The officers simply tipped the wheelchair over onto its small front wheels, dumping him on the floor of the cell in much the same manner as a dump truck might deposit a load of dirt. His head smashed onto the cold stone floor, and his body drew up into a fetal position once again. The last sound he heard was the clanging of a metal door, and the sounds of heavy locks clicking into place. The echoes continued in Turbee’s troubled brain long after the hallway became still.

C
ASE OF JOHN DOE #17, Your Honor,” announced the clerk.

“Who?” asked the vexed judge. “What did you say?”

“John Doe #17, your Honor,” chimed the clerk and prosecutor as one.

“We don’t know who he is, your Honor,” explained the public defender.

Proceedings in Courtroom 107, in the Washington, DC Moultrie Building, ground to an irritated halt.

“What do you mean you don’t know who he is?” snapped Judge MacDonnell. “How can a person not know who he is? Are you really telling me that no one knows who John Doe #17 is?” The owly, graying judge stared penetratingly at Hamilton Turbee, who was sitting in the prisoners’ dock. He drummed his fingers on his desk, turning to glare at the hapless young prosecutor, then at the public defender, then back at Turbee. It was the beginning of the week, and the court docket was crowded with all manner of felonies and misdemeanors. The judge wasn’t happy about already being delayed.

“You there, you slobbering mess. State your name, now. This is a courtroom. This is an order. State your name.”

Turbee didn’t respond. He continued to make small spitting sounds, and moved his right arm rhythmically back and forth. He was wearing the same clothes he had put on the day of the
Haramosh Star
disaster days earlier; his last day in the TTIC office. His last day in a world that had made sense. Both his eyes were encircled with angry purple bruises, and his nose was swollen and disfigured, the result of the vicious blows dealt by the Zigster and his supporting cast. He appeared shocked and bewildered, and was in obvious need of medical attention. Not that anyone was going to offer.

MacDonnell was in no mood for charity. Thirty years on the bench had jaded him. Most of his time was spent in remand court, fixing trial dates, taking pleas, setting bail, and imposing sentences. The drudge of humanity came through his courtroom — the DUI cases, petty larceny, theft and mischief cases, family violence, and the rest of the misery that is the underside of any city. At this stage of his career, approaching retirement, he was more concerned about the state of his prostate than the health needs of a prisoner.

“What are the charges?” he growled, looking at the prosecutor.

“Creating public mischief, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer,” came the response.

“By the look of him, he’s probably a crystal meth addict,” said Judge MacDonnell, noting Turbee’s skinny frame, his pale complexion, and his unusual mannerisms.

“I would think so, your honor,” replied the prosecutor. “I think he’s probably still high.”

The public defender shrugged his shoulders, not seeing any reason to disagree. He never stopped to wonder how it was that the petty prejudices of the street could find their way into an American courtroom, although that was obviously what was happening.

“What do you think, gentlemen? Do we send him away for a few more days on a psychiatric assessment, until he sobers up, or gets straight, or whatever? What do you think, John Doe?” MacDonnell asked sarcastically, turning his piercing judge-eyes back to Turbee. “Maybe a week or two there will loosen your tongue, young man. I will give you one last chance to state your name. Now what the hell is it?”

Turbee’s mind was struggling to understand what was going on around him. He was off his medications and had suffered, in the past days, crippling physical and psychological blows. His system was still reeling from the concussion that the gangsters’ kicks and punches had caused. He didn’t understand where he was, or how he’d come to be there. His only thought was how to get away from this nightmare and get home. Not to his apartment, but to his home, his father’s home, where he grew up, where he still spent most holidays, and where he went when he needed to rest. He turned around and saw someone coming through the rear doorway of the courtroom. With a supreme effort, he gathered his thoughts and began to study his surroundings. He saw the business of the place — lawyers with briefcases, taking last-minute instructions, having quick, whispered conversations with other prosecutors. He saw the social workers, court workers, and other people moving back and forth, fretting over their business. He gulped, then saw through the doors the huge central foyer of the large and busy building, and the blue sky beyond. Home was out there. His concentration narrowed, and he began to see his path.

He flexed his hands slowly; he hadn’t been handcuffed or placed in shackles or restraints for his court appearance. The security officers didn’t consider him much of a threat, given his size and apparent condition. He glanced around surreptitiously; everyone had already forgotten he was there. Suddenly, in a move that astounded everyone, Turbee catapulted himself out of the dock and made a beeline for the foyer. He slipped and twisted through the bodies in the aisle, and bolted out the door. The security officers attempted to race after him, but were less efficient in moving their burly bodies through the crowded Monday morning remand court.

Turbee made it through the front doors of the building, and was half a block down Indiana Street, before his painful rib injuries and the inability to breathe brought him to a careening halt. The security detail gang tackled him as he stood gasping, and he went down under a heap of uniforms in the center of the street. He rolled and squirmed and twisted with all his might to escape and, in the melee, struck the officers several more times. One of the men responded by falling full force on Turbee’s chest, causing one of the previously fractured ribs to puncture a lung. Pain carved through him like a searing knife.

“Stand back, boys,” said another officer. “I’ve got a taser. That’ll slow him down.” He took his taser in hand and zapped Turbee with a 200,000-volt shock, paralyzing him, and causing his legs and arms to twitch uncontrollably.

“We’d better whack him with a couple more of those,” said another, and, with the consent of all except Turbee, tasered the youth three more times.

“Aw, dammit George,” said the first man. “You’ve made him shit himself. Now look at the mess.”

“Screw it. Someone at the detention center will sort him out. Let’s drag this sorry meth addict back to Room 107.”

Before the day was out, three more charges of assault, two more counts of resisting arrest, and one count of escaping lawful custody were added to the docket sheet on someone who was beginning to look like a dangerous criminal. Judge MacDonnell insisted that a count of contempt of court also be added. From there on, Turbee was kept shackled and cuffed. At the end of the day, when he was thrown back in a heap on the floor of his dark cold cell at St. Liz’s, no one bothered to clean him up. In addition to the fractured ribs, and the now punctured lung, his skin was burned from four taser shots. The control he had found during the escape disappeared, and he tipped completely into full-blown psychosis. More troubling still, at that point the DC criminal court system proceeded to lose track of John Doe #17 completely.