Infamy

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

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  To those blessings in my life:

  Patti, Rachael, Roger, Billy;

  and

  To the loving Memory of

  Reina Tanenbaum

  My sister, truly an angel

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my legendary mentors, District Attorney Frank S. Hogan and Henry Robbins, both of whom were larger in life than in their well-deserved and hard-earned legends, everlasting gratitude and respect; to my special friends and brilliant tutors at the Manhattan DAO, Bob Lehner, Mel Glass, and John Keenan, three of the best who ever served and whose passion for justice was unequaled and uncompromising, my heartfelt appreciation, respect, and gratitude; to Professor Robert Cole and Professor Jesse Choper, who at Boalt Hall challenged, stimulated, and focused the passions of my mind to problem-solve and to do justice; to Steve Jackson, an extraordinarily talented and gifted scrivener whose genius flows throughout the manuscript and whose con­tribution to it cannot be overstated, a dear friend for whom I have the utmost respect; to Louise Burke, my publisher, whose enthusiastic support, savvy, and encyclopedic smarts qualify her as my first pick in a game of three in the Avenue P park in Brooklyn; to Wendy Walker, my talented, highly skilled, and insightful editor, many thanks for all that you do; to Sarah Wright and Cynthia Merman, the inimitable twosome whose adult supervision, oversight, brilliant copyediting, and rapid responses are invaluable and profoundly appreciated; to my agents, Mike Hamilburg and Bob Diforio, who in exemplary fashion have always represented my best interests; to Coach Paul Ryan, who personified “American Exceptionalism” and mentored me in its finest virtues; to my esteemed special friend and confidant Richard A. Sprague, who has always challenged, debated, and inspired me in the pursuit of fulfilling the reality of “American Exceptionalism”; and to Rene Herrerias, my coach at Cal, who believed in me early on and in so doing changed my life, truly a divine intervention.

  PROLOGUE

  “OYEZ, OYEZ, OYEZ, ALL RISE. All those having business in Supreme Court Part 42, State of New York, New York County, draw near and ye shall be heard.”

  Pausing his litany, Chief Administrative Court Clerk Duffy McIntyre glared balefully out at the packed courtroom as if daring those in attendance to show the slightest inclination toward unruliness. Having ensured their silence, he continued, “The Honorable Supreme Court Justice Vince Dermondy presiding.”

  Short and somewhat pugnacious-looking, Judge Dermondy immediately entered through the door leading from the judge’s robing room and took his seat up on his dais before he, too, turned his attention to those in attendance. He glanced with his intense gray-blue eyes first at the defense table, then the prosecution, and finally beyond them to the gallery.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “It’s my understanding that we have a verdict, and I want to take a moment before the jury is brought in to warn each and every one of you that I will not tolerate any outbursts, demonstrations, or statements directed at anyone present. I understand full well the implications of this verdict whatever the jury has decided, but I expect—no, demand—that the decorum of this courtroom and these proceedings be respected. Am . . . I . . . clear?”

  Under his glower, the audience nodded as one. Most had already seen this judge in action after a group of protesters managed to find seats in the courtroom on the first day of the trial and began hurling politically charged invectives when the People’s case was introduced. Then partway through the trial, Dermondy had a reporter for one of the Washington newspapers taken into custody after the journalist approached a juror for a quote, which the judge followed with the dismissal of another juror when it came to light that she had contacted a book publisher and offered to sell her story.

  No one had taken any chances with the judge since. Dermondy nodded. “Good, you may be seated.” He turned to ­McIntyre. “Please inform the jurors that we’re ready for them.”

  Of all the people in the courtroom, the only one not intimidated by the judge was Roger “Butch” Karp, who stood at his customary place behind the prosecution table. As the district attorney of New York County, he was a firm believer in the sanctity of court proceedings and appreciated a judge who felt the same way. He’d inherited that view from his first boss, the legendary DA Francis Garrahy.

  As such, he didn’t see the proceedings as a game or contest between attorneys jockeying for unfair advantages and pulling out all stops to “win” a conviction. He believed that as a prosecutor, his job entailed a solemn, sacred search for the truth.

  Truth. Karp thought about how little that word meant to the three men standing across the aisle from him behind the defense table. Two attorneys and the defendant, a man who was on trial not just for murder, but metaphorically for murdering the truth. In Karp’s book that was the same as committing treason.

  Karp looked down at the omnipresent yellow legal pad on the table. On its lined sheets was his outline of the People’s case—witness by witness, evidence connected to more evidence—with notes in the margins as issues or thoughts arose so that he forgot nothing, missed no detail from his opening statement to his final summation.

  As he moved through the trial, each page served its purpose and was then folded over and paper-clipped to the cardboard backing. All that was left now was the final page of his summation. Or rather, the last two notes he’d made to remind himself of what he’d wanted to end the case on.

  At the top of the page was the word “infamy” and a series of other terms that to him defined the word as it applied to this case. It had come to him the evening before closing summations as he’d pondered how to get the jurors to understand the full implications of this crime, this criminal. “End result . . . ­unbridled ambition . . . weak character . . . duplicitous . . . their own enrichment politically and otherwise.”

  The last line of the page, as well as of his summation, was a partial quote from Mark Twain. “A truth is not hard to kill . . . a lie well told is immortal.”

  Karp looked over at the defense team and their client. They lived in a world of well-told lies. It was the whole reason they were all in the courtroom on a summer day in New York City waiting for a jury to render its verdict. The entire defense had been composed of more well-told lies. And the infamy of it was that these lies cut to the very heart of the nation’s security, all so that a few corrupt men and women could consolidate power, gain enormous wealth, and promote their worldview.

  The defense attorney kept his eyes focused on the door leading from the jury deliberation room. He’d try to read the jurors as they entered for the telltale signs of which way the vote had gone. The defendant also was watching the door but felt Karp’s eyes and turned toward him.

  Up to this moment, the defendant had acted as if the trial hardly mattered to him. It was at worst an inconvenience, an irritation; at best, a joke. Although he was polite to the judge and charming to the jurors, he laughed and joked with his attorney during the breaks, and smiled or even smirked during the People’s case. Then he’d been the picture of aggrieved and unjustly accused when he took the stand—at least until Karp had cross-examined him. But even though he’d been knocked up against the ropes, he’d remained arrogant and smug in his invincibility.

  However, now as the jurors shuffled to their assigned seats, most with their heads down, the smirk had disappeared, leaving only a thin sheen of the
arrogance. His face was pale, and he licked his thin lips as if suddenly parched. Something else was in his eyes, something different.

  Doubt, Karp thought. But then the defendant’s dark eyes narrowed and filled with hate as he sneered and gave his attention back to the jurors.

  Unperturbed, Karp half turned and glanced over his shoulder at the bench full of people immediately behind the prosecution table. It was quite the eclectic assembly of characters: his wife, Marlene; his daughter, Lucy; her fiancé, Ned Blanchett; as well as the Taos Indian tracker John Jojola; Vietnamese gangster Tran Van Do; federal antiterrorism agent Espey Jaxon; journalist Ariadne Stupenagel; Richie Bryers, his close high school friend and, as it turned out, a star prose­cution witness; and Detective Clay Fulton of the NYPD. They’d all come to witness the final act of an epic tragedy they’d unknowingly played a part in during the opening scenes nearly a year earlier.

  Smiling slightly at his family and friends, Karp then looked out over the rest of the audience in the gallery. Most of the hard wooden benches were crammed with media types attracted to the high-profile case like hyenas to a lion kill and just as excited at the smell of blood in the air. A grim-faced collection of defense supporters, many of them well known in political and show business circles, stared up at the ceiling or glared at Karp from the benches behind the defense table.

  He was just about to turn around to face the judge when his eyes fastened on a woman sitting in the second row from the back of the courtroom next to the aisle. She was wearing a short dark wig and sunglasses, but he recognized the oval-shaped face and, more than that, the way she carried herself. Like a supremely confident predator, he thought, as he had for many years whenever their paths had crossed. Something told him she’d been watching him, but she was now just looking straight ahead at the judge, the slightest smile on her face.

  Karp frowned at the sudden dilemma her presence created. Sitting in the back of a New York County trial court was a woman who’d committed more felonies in and around Manhattan than there were taxicabs in Times Square at rush hour. She was a paid assassin and terrorist for hire. He was the top law enforcement official in New York City, sworn to uphold the law; she was “officially” on escaped status, but there she was in the flesh.

  Still, he hesitated. He knew that he should alert Fulton and court security to apprehend her. And yet, he owed her. So did many people who would never know it. Nor would anyone be aware if he chose not to do anything.

  “Please be seated,” Judge Dermondy commanded. He then faced the jury foreman, who sat closest to his dais. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

  The jurors all nodded. “We have, Your Honor,” the foreman said, holding up the verdict forms.

  “Mr. McIntyre, if you please,” Dermondy said, indicating that the chief clerk should retrieve the documents and hand them to him. The judge looked down at the documents and after a moment nodded. He turned and addressed the defense table. “Will the defendant rise.”

  1

  Eleven months earlier

  THE TWO MEN STANDING IN the shadows of the gate watched as a woman dressed head to toe in flowing black robes walked toward them. They’d been following her progress since she’d left the village road a mile away and started down a long dirt path to the compound. But night was falling, and concealed by the loose clothing and veil, there was little they could see of her or what she might be carrying.

  “Halt,” said one of the men, stepping into the middle of the road and pointing his AK-47 at her. “What do you want, woman?” he demanded nervously in Arabic.

  Startled by the man’s sudden appearance and threatening gesture, the woman stepped back with a small cry. “I am sent from Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi,” she replied, also in Arabic but in a dialect more in keeping with northern Iraq. “I bring a message for Ghareeb al Taizi.”

  The second man now stepped out onto the road. “What did she say?”

  The first man frowned and turned to his companion. “What? Speak Arabic. I don’t understand Persian. Besides, it is an infidel language and grates on my ears.”

  “And I have a hard time understanding your old-fashioned babbling,” the second man retorted in a halting Arabic. “You Saudis are full of goat shit, so high and mighty when if it wasn’t for oil, you’d all still be wandering the desert on camels. But watch your tongue, sand flea, or did you forget you’re speaking to a VAJA officer?”

  “Ah, yes, VAJA, the vaunted Iranian intelligence agency. How could I forget? You are constantly reminding me,” the Arabian scoffed. “But I’m not afraid of you. I’ve fought in Libya, Yemen, Chechnya, and now here with the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria, where nobody gives a shit who you are. I’m a jihadi, not some spy sneaking around like a snake.”

  The two men glared at each other for a moment before turning back to the woman. “Never mind your ignorant insults, what does she want? I don’t understand her dialect,” the Iranian said, pointing his own gun at her.

  “She said she is from the Commander of the Believers, ­al-Baghdadi, and that she has a message for al Taizi.”

  “How do we know she is not a spy?” the Iranian asked. “I don’t trust women. Like that Chechen whore the Russian brought as his bodyguard; there’s something funny about her.”

  The Arabian laughed. “Watch what you say around her, and even how you look at her. I agree, she has no shame and won’t cover her hair and face, and those tight-fitting clothes are an affront to Allah. But I’ve heard stories from Chechnya about Ajmaani that would curl your hair. That ‘whore’ could cut out your heart and show it to you with a smile while it was still beating. She’s no village cow like this one here.” He gestured to the woman, who waited quietly for them to finish their argument.

  “As I said, how do we know she is telling the truth?”

  The Saudi wrinkled his nose. “Well, she’s definitely from this region; I can tell by her peasant Iraqi Arabic and the way she smells like a goat.” He addressed the woman. “You would have been told our password. Say it now, and I’ll take you to al Taizi.”

  The woman’s brow knitted and she hesitated. The two men gripped their weapons and began to walk toward her. “ ‘Who dies today is safe from tomorrow’s sin,’ ” she blurted out, and fell to the ground groveling as if in fear. “Please, do not hurt me.”

  The Saudi kicked at the woman. “Get up. That was correct.”

  “What kind of a password is that?” the Iranian scoffed.

  “It’s an old proverb that al-Baghdadi likes. No one else would think to use it.” The Saudi bent over to look at the prostrated woman. “What is this message you have for al Taizi?”

  The woman looked up. He expected to see fear, but there was none. Just a sort of sad reluctance for what was about to happen. “Only that may Allah have mercy on your souls.”

  The Saudi stepped back and began to bring his weapon to bear on her. “Her eyes,” he said to the confused Iranian.

  “What about them?”

  The woman answered for him. “They’re gray.”

  There was no time for any more questions. Death arrived for the Saudi with an angry whiz followed by a heavy thud, and a grunt escaped his lips like he’d been punched. The bullet struck him in the center of his chest, deconstructed his heart, tumbled, and then exited out his lower back, creating a much larger hole coming out than going in. He was already dead as he looked down in bewilderment. He sighed and crumpled to the ground.

  The Iranian was still trying to understand what had just happened when the sound of a muffled gunshot arrived a moment later. By then it was too late for him as well; a second 7.62 caliber bullet from an M40A5 sniper’s rifle struck him in the temple, and half of his head disintegrated into a fine red mist.

  Lucy Karp lay still. The shots had come only seconds apart, but she knew they were from the same rifle fired by a single sniper. In fact, the shooter was
Ned Blanchett. And she also knew that the footsteps of two men running in her direction from the desert belonged to John Jojola and Tran Van Do.

  While she’d walked openly from the village and down the path toward the mud-walled compound to draw the attention of the now dead guards, the two old guerrilla fighters had worked their way carefully up a small ravine and then waited for her to fall to the ground. That was her signal that the target was present in the compound and the mission should go forward, beginning with Ned taking out the guards she’d drawn into the open. She’d also ascertained that the target, al Taizi, was present before she gave the signal to attack into the microphone hidden behind her veil.

  “You okay, Lucy?” Jojola asked as he ran past.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” Lucy replied, quickly pushing herself up off the ground. She slipped into the shadows beneath the gate as her two friends dragged the bodies of the dead men next to the outside wall. Then they joined her.

  “You see anyone else?” Jojola asked, turning his craggy bronze face toward her, his dark eyes seeming to gleam with adrenaline, even in the shadows. A former Army Ranger who had served in Vietnam, Jojola was a member of the Taos Indian Pueblo in New Mexico. He had, in fact, been the pueblo’s police chief trying to catch a child killer until a chance encounter with Lucy and her mother, Marlene Ciampi, resolved the case and somehow many years later led to this small isolated village in Syria.

  “I couldn’t see much beyond the gate,” Lucy replied. “But I think our spy in Ramadi was right. These guys might be afraid of drones, but they’re so far off the beaten path here, they’re not too worried about boots on the ground. The guard was minimal and careless.”

  “There’ll be others in the compound,” Jojola said, “including the targets.”

  “We have to go set up,” Tran, a former member of the Vietcong and once the mortal enemy of Jojola, interjected. “Espey and the others will be here in less than a minute.”