The Accused (33 page)

“You follow American politics?” Will asked.

The man shrugged and laughed politely.

“In these days,” he noted, “politics and economics are inseparable bedfellows.”

His fellow passenger noted that he was married but had no children. He inquired a little into Will's background and seemed genuinely interested in Fiona, her singing career, her upcoming concert schedule, and their first year of marriage together.

Will closed off the conversation and went back to work. But his mind wandered. He thought of his dream about Fiona…the vague, undefined sense of danger.

And then there was his client. Marlowe's self-described “mission” might be nothing more than a bloody plan for revenge.

But even if that was the case—then would that make him much different from anyone else? Different, say, from Will himself?

He knew, after all, that he had pushed Damon Lynch further and further to the back of his mind. But the thought was still there—merely less articulated, perhaps.

Will still knew that, somewhere, he was privately—tenaciously—clinging to a sense of rage.

And it was being reserved for one man.

How does one forgive such a man?
he wondered. Even though God surely commanded such forgiveness…there seemed to be no practical way for Will to ever achieve that. Or even, at best, get beyond the grudging acceptance that Damon Lynch's complicity in the brutality could not be undone or erased. So it must be left at that.

At least Marlowe's sense of revenge had some shade of official government sanction to it. So what was Will's justification?

The next time the attorney glanced at his watch he found that he had only another hour before landing.

When they landed, Will said goodbye to his fellow traveler and then caught a cab to his hotel. Checking in, he left a quick message for Fiona, letting her know that he had arrived safely and on time. Then he showered, shaved, changed, and hurried down to the lobby. From outside it he hailed a cab to the detention center where Caleb Marlowe was jailed.

It took an hour-and-a-half for Will to pass through the security system which was manned by guards in drab gray uniforms and black-brimmed hats. Eventually he was led to a small room with windows on three sides and seated at a table with two blond wooden chairs. After a few more minutes Caleb Marlowe, dressed in his street clothes and wearing a big grin, strode into the room.

Will extended his hand, but Caleb grabbed him and gave him a bear hug.

At first they caught up on small things—how Will had been doing since the last contact—then they moved into some of the preliminary research on the case and the thoughts that Redgrove and Will had about his defense. Marlowe also wanted to know, in great detail, what had transpired in Senator Purdy's subcommittee hearings. The colonel had only been able to get bits and pieces on the news.

The easiest decision attorney and client had to make was the nature of the plea Will would enter the next day before the pretrial chambers judge.

But after agreeing on a not-guilty plea and a demand for trial, Marlowe was vehement about another point, which made Will reel with shock.

“You've got to make a demand for the speediest trial possible,” his client insisted. “I'm talking no more than a few weeks, maybe. If we can do it in less than that—even better,” he said firmly, and then added, “And don't ask me why—I've got my reasons, and I can't share them with you yet.”

“Caleb, that's not what we want,” Will pleaded. “As much as I know about your case, there's a lot I still don't know. And we don't know the evidence they've got. I've got to obtain that in discovery. This is an incredibly complex case. I am strongly against a quick trial. You're really putting my back against the wall.”

Marlowe nodded and said he appreciated Will's dilemma. But he wouldn't budge.

“I have the feeling,” he continued, “that the other side is going to think that, if we want a quick trial, they'll be glad to accommodate us—because they figure they've got the jump on us. If they won't object, don't you think the court will give it to us?”

Will pressed in again, trying to convince his client that putting the trial on a fast track was a disastrous idea. He went over the preparation
necessary for the case, the unresolved legal issues, the legal briefing for the court, as well as the political angle—he was still hoping for assistance from the Solicitor General's office or the Attorney General's office, as well as the State Department.

But Marlowe was utterly unmovable. Reluctantly, the attorney agreed to ask for a speedy trial. But inside he felt like he had just booked a quick passage on the
Titanic.

Then he dug into one of the “mysteries” he had been thinking about. He asked his client—point-blank—what he had been doing in Mexico at the time of his arrest. Marlowe explained that he had been doing “unofficial reconnaissance.” He wouldn't share any more details about what he meant by that, except to say he had hoped to obtain some information that would be helpful to the United States government in its ongoing war on terrorism. When Will tried to remind him of something a former colonel in the marines should not have needed to be reminded of—that he was a civilian now and no longer in the military—he gave a strange little smile.

“We all have our jobs to do for God and country,” Marlowe said.

“So what was your job down there?” Will asked.

“I was trying to locate one of the linchpins in that whole Chacmool situation. He's an American drug dealer who has been a mediator between the Mexican government and the AAJ.”

Will paused for a minute, and then, after retrieving a name from his memory, he put it to Marlowe.

“Are you talking about a guy by the name of Rusty Black?”

His client nodded.

“Yes—and he's got some other aliases—”

“Like Victor Viper?”

Marlowe nodded again, and then added, “Yeah—that one's really tacky, huh?”

“I know something about this guy.”

“I know you do.” The other man paused. And then he said, “That's why you're going to meet with him personally.”

Will sat back, surprised, and studied his client.

“Oh? And what is it I'm supposed to find out from this creep?”

“I believe he knows who set me up at that Chacmool site. I have a very strong reason to believe there is an official in the Mexican government who worked with the AAJ. They were in on the kidnapping
of Carlos and his family. This Mexican official would have known, in advance, about the kidnapping of Secretary Kilmer. And the AAJ would have led us right to that safe house.”

“What was their motivation?”

“A number of things, I suppose,” Marlowe continued. “But high on the list would be international embarrassment for the United States and a potential condemnation from other nations for our new experimental model in the war on terrorism.”

“And what's the benefit for Mexico?”

“Our information is that the country is on the verge of an economic renaissance. Mexico believes it is on the brink of moving from the position of a third-rate nation plagued by an economy constantly in collapse, to the status of a nation that can demand global respect.”

“What's going on down there—did they strike gold?”

“No, but close. They struck oil. Big time. They have tapped into some oil deposits, in deep water just off their coast, that promise to make Mexico the second Saudi Arabia.”

Will thought for a moment about the implications of what Marlowe had said.

“So why does Mexico want to try the stick approach, rather than the carrot approach, in their relationship with the United States?”

“Oh, I'm not talking about Mexico as a nation. I'm talking about the small group of terrorists within the Mexican government. Perhaps only one person. But frankly, there are some who believe that, because of America's world dominance, the only way to deal with us is by embarrassing us, or by tarnishing our reputation in the eyes of the world community.”

“So, you know where this Rusty Black is?”

“Yes, I did locate him. You don't think that the federal police really masterminded my arrest, do you?” his client noted with a smile. “I had heard that he was in jail somewhere in Mexico, and the rumors were that he was in the correctional center down in Mexico City. The best way to get the scoop on someone like that is from the inside out.” And with that Marlowe gave a big grin.

“So you got yourself arrested?” Will asked.

“I knew that Mexico was thinking about charging me down there. I knew if they did, we wouldn't have much of a problem beating that case and getting the U.S. government to help in my defense. On the
other hand, what I didn't count on was that Mexico would field the case to the ICC. Which is exactly what they did.”

“Did you ever talk to this guy—this Rusty Black?”

“No, I never did. But I did verify that he's in jail, in the central correctional center down in Mexico City. He is finishing out a short sentence. He's due to be released any day. You need to get to him immediately before he disappears.”

“And why should he talk to me? What's in it for him?”

Marlowe leaned back in his chair and eyed Will. It was a different kind of look this time, not just friendship, or camaraderie, or even respect. It was the expression of a man who knew he was sending a foot soldier on a mission, the implications of which could not be fully shared.

“Let me just say this. And I want you to hear me very clearly, Will. This mission—contacting Black and finding out from him as much as you can about the Mexican contact, who he is, what his position is in the Mexican government—this is more important than you can possibly imagine. It's not just about my case. It's also about getting my hands on the human slug who set me up to kill my best friend and his family. And then there's the mission goal—a threat I can't discuss with you right now. There may be a time when I can brief you in more detail. But contacting Rusty Black and getting the information on the Mexican official—that's going to give us an interdiction of something—something of catastrophic proportions.”

“Interdiction?”

“There's something coming down the pipeline. Like a monster in the sewer system. Ready to crawl up into the city and start chewing flesh. You need to do this thing, not just as my lawyer—but as a loyal American.”

“How am I supposed to know what I'm looking for or listening for? Unless you can give me some guidance…”

“Will, you're smart. You have a lot of background information about me, the Chacmool mission, and some international issues. I'm sure that when the time is right, the pieces will fall together. But you need to be careful. And you need to have your game face on. And no matter what happens, just promise you won't bail out on me.”

“What are you talking about?” Will asked with some hesitation.

“When you're dealing with this Rusty Black guy, you need to remember two things.”

The attorney waited expectantly.

“First, this guy's vicious. Very dangerous—not only because of what he can do, but because of what he knows, and his connections.”

“And what's the second thing?” Will asked.

“Let me tell you straight,” Marlowe said with a flinty look, “I think you're about to face the bogeyman, my friend.”

And then, after a few seconds, he added, “So it's time to finally decide who's bigger and tougher—God, or the bogeyman?”

Will chuckled a little at that. He didn't want to take Marlowe seriously. But then the thought struck him. Perhaps the bogeyman wasn't just some American drug dealer. Maybe it was something monstrously darker…darker even than that.

53

T
HE PLEA HEARING BEFORE THE
International Criminal Court was set for nine o'clock in the morning. Will arrived early and sat down in the sparsely furnished blond-wood-and-chrome courtroom. There were three armed bailiffs in their drab gray uniforms and brimmed caps—in three of the corners of the room. They stood politely, with their hands crossed in front of them. At the defense counsel table there was an earpiece resting to the right of the microphone. On the right-hand side of the courtroom, two interpreters were seated behind a large glass window.

Will's eyes surveyed the courtroom and finally came to rest on the blue United Nations emblem that was prominently displayed on the wall over the judge's bench.

Then the doors swung open in the back of the courtroom, and prosecutor Francine Les Forges entered, with a law clerk on each side. She proceeded directly over to Will and thrust her hand out in front of her.

Will rose, shook her hand, and introduced himself.

“Ms. Les Forges, has the U.S. State Department been in touch with you, or the Solicitor General's office?” he asked.

“Yes. Legal counsel for your State Department.”