Terminal Justice (26 page)

But an image came to mind, an image of the beautiful monarch butterflies that he used to catch as a child in the back canyons where he grew up. He saw the butterflies in his mind as clearly as he had seen them when he was a boy. He felt the
infinitesimally light touch of their legs on his finger where they would sometimes land. He remembered studying their elegance and their radiant orange-and-black markings. Monarchs didn’t come around San Diego as much as they once did. Perhaps it was because of the city’s remarkable growth, the rise of pollution, and the decline of raw, open land. Or perhaps they were having trouble breaking out of their cocoons.

The last thought propelled David forward. He closed the slight distance between their lips, and the kiss that started as seed in his mind blossomed into the fruit of pleasure, joy, satisfaction, and excitement—powerful, dynamic excitement. The ocean serpents of fear, guilt, and doubt sank below the waves of David’s mind as the tender sweetness of the embrace grew. If it would have been possible, David would have spent the remainder of his life in that mystical moment. His cocoon crumbled into dust.

“SHALL I GO FIRST?” STEPHANIE COOPER SAID INTO the phone as she shuffled through the papers on her desk.

“Sure, go ahead,” Woody Summers replied. “Ladies first, I always say.”

“How quaint,” Stephanie said sarcastically. “Here’s what I came up with. Now understand that this material is difficult to verify, and it wouldn’t hold up in court. For that matter, it wouldn’t get us a search warrant from any judge. Nonetheless, here it is. Like you, I started with who would want to electronically pirate satellite picture files from our computer databases? This turned out to be more difficult to answer than I first believed. If the satellite photos were of military bases, troop movements, or even shipping activity, we might think it was a terrorist group or a foreign government. But since the material stolen had to do with Third-World countries with no military or economic value, the question became convoluted. Why would anyone want pictures of Somalia or Ethiopia?”

“Did you double-check military bases there?” Woody asked. “You said that the Russians have or had a base there.”

“I also said that they gave it back to the Somalis. Actually it happened a little differently from what I initially said. The Russians had a few bases along the Gulf of Aden and the Bab el Mandeb that leads in and out of the Red Sea, but the Somalis gave them over to us when the Soviets supported Ethiopia in its war with Somalia. The bases are pretty much useless these days. Knowing that, I then asked what’s happening in Somalia that could interest anyone
enough to commit a felony? The only answer I came up with is the famine.”

“This is groundwork we’ve already covered,” Woody responded wearily. He wondered if all CIA agents insisted on recounting ideas already agreed upon.

“I know, but be patient,” Stephanie snapped back. “The people most likely to be interested in famine in foreign countries are the UN, contributing governments, and private relief agencies.”

“We know the UN wouldn’t break into your computers, nor would any country contributing to the relief efforts. That leaves us with private relief agencies—and one you haven’t mentioned.”

“I assume you refer to a person or persons who feel the need to avenge the death of military personnel.”

“It’s possible,” Woody said firmly. “Such things are not unheard of. And it wouldn’t be just our country either. Pakistan and France took some pretty heavy hits. And what about someone in Somalia itself? Maybe someone there is planning a coup.”

“Doubtful on all counts,” Stephanie replied. “Revenge is a powerful motive, but the object of that revenge, Mohammed Farah Aidid, is out of the game since he died a few years back. As far as a Somali group or individual doing the deed, well, why? To what end?”

“It’s not necessary for us to know the why, just the possibilities so that we can investigate.”

“Let’s face it,” Stephanie said. “Somalia is not a technologically sophisticated country. The computer break-in would have required advanced knowledge and equipment.”

“True, but they could have bought it.”

“Granted, but I still don’t like it. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I suppose you have a hunch.”

“A reasoned guess. Listen, Woody, the only people who have a strong enough motive for accessing our files are these special relief organizations. They have an interest in protecting their people and saving the lives of the nationals.”

“But which one?” Woody asked abruptly. “There are a couple of dozen such groups over there now, especially with the latest famine.”

“More like scores of them from our country and the rest of the Western world. But I have an idea which one it might be. One organization is large enough and powerful enough to pull off the crime. And they have been in the neighborhood of other questionable activities.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Colombia. There was a drug lord by the name of Manuel Herzog who was on the verge of building the largest cocaine cartel the world has ever seen. One day he went to see his daughter in a school play, but he never arrived. He was found in the jungle two days later with a broken neck—a broken neck he didn’t get falling down. One of our case workers, a former army ranger, saw and recognized an old army buddy in a nearby village. The man’s name is Roger Walczynske, and he’s known to work for Barringston Relief.”

“It could be coincidence.”

“Of course it could, but there’s more.” Stephanie’s excitement caused her to speak faster. “Normally I would write the killing off to a competitive cartel, but Walczynske’s presence in the country couldn’t be verified through passports, hotel registry, airline tickets, or any other means. It appears, on the surface at least, that he stole into Colombia.”

“That’s still pretty weak.”

“Hang on. In Cambodia, a year ago, several political prisoners were rescued. They had been tortured by the Khmer Rouge for years. They, along with their families, were smuggled out of the country. Most settled in Europe, and one of our people had the opportunity to debrief them. They described a man who meets the physical description of this Walczynske. Altogether, there are fourteen documented events where a person associated with Barringston Relief was in the area of a crime.”

“They’re everywhere,” Woody protested. “We could say the same thing about the CIA.”

“You could and you’d be right, but I know that the Company had nothing to do with those particular events.”

“You’re still on thin ice.”

“I warned you up-front that this was skimpy at best, but I think it’s a viable lead. Don’t you?”

Woody exhaled noisily into the receiver of the phone. “Yes, I do. Mind you, I’m not saying I agree with presupposition, but, and I can’t tell you how much it hurts me to say this, I don’t have anything better. I hope you’re wrong.”

“Why?” Stephanie was puzzled.

“Because I’ve been contributing to Barringston Relief for several years. It was my wife’s idea at first. They do a wonderful work.”

“I never took you for the type to respond to impassioned pleas to ease world suffering.”

“It shouldn’t surprise you,” Woody said defensively. “Two types of people go into the FBI: those who want action and those who want to make a difference.”

“And you’re of the latter.”

“I like to think so,” Woody said firmly.

“I like to think so too. So what do we do now?” Stephanie asked pointedly.

“That is the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” He paused in thought. “You’re right about not having enough evidence to get a search warrant, but it’s worth a try. I’ve had some luck with Judge Willimon. He’s been known to grant warrants with little reason, but not without something. The question is whether we can make the little we have look like more. If we do get the warrant, we’ll need to proceed carefully. Barringston Relief is underwritten by Barringston Industries, and they have enough bucks to tie us up in court so long that our great-grandchildren will be called to testify Not only that, he is well connected to people in the Senate and the House. So let’s tread wisely. Let’s start with simple surveillance
on the building and the key employees, especially the organization’s head, Archibald Jr.”

“Can’t do it,” Stephanie interjected. “He’s out of the country. Went to Africa days ago. East Africa, I might add. At present he’s in Ethiopia.”

“Isn’t that interesting? Should I ask how you came by that little bit of information?” Woody inquired with mischief in his voice.

“We have our ways,” Stephanie quipped. “It’s not all that difficult—I called and asked to speak to him. His staff told me he wasn’t in, and they also told me where he was. Part of their public relations, I guess.”

“Do you have any way of keeping track of him over there?”

“Not really,” Stephanie replied. “The CIA is not nearly as ubiquitous as some think.”

“Do you know if our mysterious friend, Walczynske, is with him?”

“No,” she said bluntly. “Given time we might be able to track him down, however.”

“Let me see what I can do about that warrant. I wonder if we could recruit an insider, someone who may know what’s going on.”

“It’s worth pursuing,” Stephanie said. “As long as he or she doesn’t give us away.”

“Let’s get started,” Woody said. “I’ll check on the warrant; you see if you can find more on Roger Walczynske. And let’s make sure—”

“We move carefully,” Stephanie finished. “Got it.”

To David the Ethiopian morning seemed matchless. The sun had only been up for an hour and was quickly expelling the darkness with radiant light that bathed the high cloud-shrouded mountains. The air was cool and clear. It was one of the advantages of being in the highlands of Ethiopia instead of the low desert regions where temperatures routinely rose above the one-hundred-degree mark. Still, David knew that the day would be warm and the thin air a
challenge to breathe. He also knew the day would bring another encounter with the wretched souls who populated the camp. More people would die, people who would have seen their last sunrise and taken their last few breaths of the pure air. Yet David knew that he would be able to face the poverty and pain successfully, not because he had become callous but because he had crossed over from shock to involvement.

Kristen’s words the night before had struck him deeply, but instead of wounding him they caused him to look back on his life and, more important, his faith. After walking Kristen to her tent, which she shared with Sheila and two other female workers, he had returned to his own tent. Lying on his cot, he stared at the canvas ceiling. It fluttered at the whim of a light African wind and reassessed his own existence. Kristen had been right, he told himself. And seeing the enormous needs of others had prompted him to once again be thankful for all that God had given him. He knew that he had received far more than he had ever been forced to surrender, and it would be the height of hubris and an affront to God to wallow in sorrow.

There was nothing to do but get on with the act of living. As he lay on the cot feeling the cool night air creep in through the flimsy tent walls, he recalled a passage of Scripture he had preached on many times in his fifteen years of ministry: Jesus’ feeding of the five thousand. The miracle was simple in its approach but dramatic in its effect. The details of the event were as clear in David’s mind as if he had actually been there to see the fainting masses of the faithful who had followed Jesus a great distance without food. He could hear in his mind the disciples’ question as they asked what should be done and Jesus’ cryptic response: “You feed them.” Three powerful words that seemed to make no sense. “You feed them.” How? With what? The answer to those questions became clear when Jesus miraculously transformed the lunch of a young boy into food for thousands.

“You feed them.” David heard the words of one of his own sermons
come back to him: “What is little in our hands is abundance in the hands of Jesus. What seems impossible to us is routine with God. The secret is to take what we have at hand and surrender it to Jesus. That’s when the difference will be made.” It was time for David to listen to his own message, to heed his own admonition. That night, with a wind that carried the cry of a hyena on its wispy billows, Dr. David O’Neal reacquainted himself with his God and with his purpose.

Now outside his tent he took in long breaths of cool air and sipped coffee made by the camp cook. The day seemed brighter and filled with more light. It struck him as strange that he should feel so good in a camp so filled with pain and hopelessness. Maybe he could do something to ease the suffering and lift some of the despair. He knew he couldn’t do it all, not today and not tomorrow, but bit by bit he could help a few, and that was important.

A.J., Peter, Sheila, Kristen, and Dr. Goodwin looked weary from yesterday’s work as they walked toward David.

“Good morning,” A.J. said. “How are you today?”

“Outstanding, but I’ll get better.”

“That’s good …,” A.J. paused as the oxymoronic phrase sank in. He looked at David for a moment, then at the plastic cup he held in his hand. “You get that in the cook’s tent?” David nodded. “I think I need some. Let’s go to breakfast.”