Jigsaw (Black Raven Book 2)

by Stella Barcelona

  “He should be sending us a thank you note for all the business we’ve created for them,” J.R. said.

  H.L chuckled. “I doubt one is in the mail, given that no one knows of our existence.”

  “We need to watch him,” M.C. said.

  Detecting unease, H.L glanced at M.C. “Why?”

  “I’m now getting inside intel from the joint task force that the ITT countries have looking for Maximov,” M.C. said. “The task force has integrated some of the more credible bounty hunters that are on the search for Maximov. Overnight I learned that Black Raven has joined the bounty hunt.”

  J.R. gave a low whistle, grinding his cigarette into the ashtray and for once not lighting another.

  “Who is paying Black Raven?” H.L. asked.

  “None other than Samuel Dixon,” M.C. answered. “I’ve long thought that the task force is a loose cannon and with Black Raven on the hunt, even more so. Black Raven is unencumbered by governmental allegiances and red tape that have slowed the task force. They’re sleek, efficient, and have the capabilities of a SEAL team, with the best analytical brain power in the world behind them.”

  M.C. shifted in his seat. “Richard Barrows works with them. Yes, the Richard Barrows. Creator of the most sophisticated cyber data gathering and assimilation technology in the world, working for a company that is known to have cyber hacking capabilities that rivals the best intelligence agencies. All of this means we have to keep them on our radar. Having Hernandez”—his eyes focused on the camera as Samantha Dixon Fairfax and her entourage slipped inside—“on the inside of those proceedings and privy to ITT information is also something to concern us.”

  “Who says he’s privy to ITT information?” H.L. asked. “Black Raven is providing security services. They’re not participants.”

  “And he’ll be in the proceedings, day after day. Trust me, he’ll be getting intel from the ITT communications. Plus, Black Raven penetrates data systems. That’s how they operate. Their analytic and investigative department is based upon hacking technology,” M.C. said, his tone admiring. “Their agents in the field have direct access to some of the best intel in the world, gathered by world class hackers.”

  “Stay on top of it,” H.L. said, M.C.’s unease infecting him with a niggling bit of concern. When M.C. nodded, he continued. “Any complications arising from Morgan’s death or the cyanide poisoning?”

  “No,” J.R. replied, lighting another cigarette.

  “The Boulevard Saint-Germain bombing?”

  J.R. drew a deep drag on the cigarette, then exhaled. “Nothing we need to worry about.” The man’s gentle brown eyes were steady and focused on him. “You should know that at this point, my go order requires six hours to reach zero. Do I have your approval for a bomb this afternoon?”

  A rush of excitement ran through him. In their world, zero meant show time. Impact. Bombs exploding. Fear escalating. He asked, “Terror quotient?”

  J.R. gave a humorless smile. “On scene, the usual pandemonium.”

  “Off scene?”

  “Given the nature of the ITT proceedings, and the media coverage that’s already in place,” M.C. said, “we anticipate worldwide repercussions.”

  “Give the go order,” H.L. instructed, reaching for his overcoat and umbrella. A few minutes later, looking forward to the day’s ITT proceedings, he started his slow, leisurely walk to the Palais de Justice.

  Chapter Nine

  “You’ve never been to a Maximov training camp, have you?” Robert Brier, lead defense counsel for the United States, asked the accused, Alain Duvall. His voice boomed through the large courtroom where the ITT trial was taking place. The lawyers from the defense teams of each country had pooled their representation of all the accused. Brier was questioning Duvall, the twenty-three year old alleged mastermind behind the grisly bombings on the Paris metro that had taken place in April the year before.

  An imposing man, Brier had silver-gray hair and brownish-green eyes. He was no taller than Sam, but what he lacked in height he more than made up in muscle, brawn, and bravado. He’d made a name, and fortune, representing criminal defendants in trials that garnered worldwide attention. Over the last two decades, that meant terrorists. This ITT case, spotlighted by the Klieg lights of the world stage, would cement his reputation as the go-to attorney for every kingpin, every drug lord, and every terrorist in the free and not-so-free world.

  “Objection,” four voices called before Duvall could answer, the tone of the speakers indignant.

  Samantha ground her teeth in frustration as the lawyers readied themselves for argument. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was 3:30. Precious little was getting accomplished on day three of the proceedings, making day three no different than days one and two. Rustling papers accompanied creaking chairs as members of the prosecution teams rose to their feet and headed to the podium shared by the prosecutors.

  The courtroom was designed for proceedings with multi-judge panels, numerous advocates with interests in the cases, and large audiences of interested parties, media, and the general public. Sixteen black-robed judges, four from each country, sat in the front of the room on a dais in high-back, leather chairs at a crescent-shaped, wood-paneled table. Three judges from each country were voting judges. An alternate judge from each country was present in the event one of the three needed to step down. All the judges had a place on the dais. Ten votes were required for a verdict. Only nine were required for a mistrial.

  Law clerks, secretaries, stenographers, and translators sat in front of the judges at a lower table. In front of that crescent-shaped table was the witness chair and three podiums, one each for the prosecution, defense, and Amicus teams. The lawyers sat at four long tables that each seated sixteen, one table for each country. Surrounding the proceedings on three sides was a two-story gallery, where media, security, and politicians from each country sat. It felt like the Romans were watching the gladiators in the arena.

  Movement to Samantha’s right, in the gallery, caught her eye as onlookers shifted in their seats. A man wearing press credentials stood and walked out.

  Zeus, sitting in row three of the gallery and two seats down from the now-vacant seat, gave her a barely perceptible nod when her eyes rested on him. He’d handed his overcoat to one of the agents who stayed outside of the proceeding, the agent who was the designated keeper of the overcoats. Zeus had also removed the jacket of his charcoal gray suit. His white dress shirt would have looked ordinary on most men. On him, the crisp white of the shirt, stark next to the burgundy necktie, was a marked contrast to his olive skin, black hair, and dark eyes. The fitted shirt showed off his broad shoulders and chest.

  Brain-fueled logic had Samantha keeping their exchanges cool and impersonal, yet logic and self-preservation instincts could only do so much. Proximity to him, virtually twenty-four seven, had her wanting to touch where his chest met his neck with her lips. She remembered curling into him, flesh to flesh, the feel of his large arms holding her close, and the delicious male scent of his skin in the hollow of his throat.

  Acknowledgement that his eyes were on her was about the extent of their communication since the wee hours of Tuesday morning and the bombshell he’d dropped.

  “I’m divorced. My marriage didn’t work.”

  In the intervening day and a half, he’d spoken few words directly to her, and most of those had been related to his job, which was her security. “Here’s your custom-fitted vest. Wear it. Should fit under your clothes.” He’d given her a soft, guiding touch on her shoulder as they departed the safe house. “Second car. When we arrive, step out. The team will surround you. Walk. I’ll be your shadow.”

  On a break in the proceedings at midday on Tuesday, he’d stopped her as she headed into the bathroom, placing an impersonal hand on her upper arm. He’d given the team a nod and told them to search it, before muttering, “Wait, Sam. My men will clear it, then I go in with you.” At least she’d been able to pee with the stall door closed a
nd he’d sent the other team members out.

  After she’d washed her hands at the sink, he’d watched her open a pack of antacids and pop three into her mouth. “You okay? You’re barely eating, and most of what you eat is crap.”

  She’d shrugged off his comment as she chewed and swallowed the chalky tablets.

  Undeterred, he had continued with, “I need to know if you’re not feeling well. We have medics here, with a doctor. I can call him.”

  Her answer had been, “No, I feel fine, thank you, and you can spare me the commentary on the quality of food I eat.”

  The left side of his lips had lifted in that almost way of smiling that he had. Almost, but not quite, and the twitch was gone as soon as it materialized. No light ever made it to his eyes. He was either the most guarded man she’d ever met, or he didn’t actually feel a thing. He was exactly as he’d been in the first few days that he’d been on duty with her and her grandfather. Full of intense, focused awareness, and seemingly impervious to emotion.

  When her heel stuck on a crack in the pavement as they’d departed ITT proceedings the evening before, he steadied her by gripping her forearm. “You need to wear shoes that are more practical. Won’t be able to run in high heels, if necessary.”

  Businesslike. That was how she wanted it between them, and that’s what Zeus was giving her. He’d gotten her keep-your-distance message when she shut the door on him. He knew her well enough to know that her boundaries were not lines drawn in sand. Rather, her boundaries were impenetrable fences, with glistening razor wire at the top. When she drew a line, she meant stay-the-hell on the other side of it.

  They both had enough work to keep them busy. While sitting in the gallery, his iPad was open. Cameras and phones were not permitted by the general public in the courtroom, but there were so many exceptions to the rule everyone in the proceeding seemed have ready access to phones and internet. All the lawyers and their aides used phones, tablets, and laptops that were scanned each morning. While photographs were prohibited, the media had internet access for real-time reporting of the proceeding.

  Sanctioned security teams were allowed to carry tablets that had been scanned. They also were allowed to wear communication devices and carry firearms. Black Raven was a sanctioned security team. As the ITT proceeding marched forward at a slug’s pace, Sam guessed that Zeus was making use of his time, communicating with other agents via text message and email. As her grandfather had requested, Zeus’s eyes were on her, but Zeus was also orchestrating the bounty hunt for Maximov.

  God knew he had enough time to multitask while sitting in the ITT proceedings, because precious little was getting done.

  As Zeus’s eyes drifted to the iPad on his lap, Sam refocused on the proceedings. Alain Duvall. Skinny. French citizen. Black hair. Dark brown eyes that expressed no remorse for the 130 people he’d murdered and the hundreds others he had injured. Crude tattoos crept up his neck, above the white-collar of his shirt. Over his Adam’s apple were the words, Je Suis Maximov.

  I am Maximov.

  This young man was not Maximov. Although no one was certain as to Maximov’s appearance or age, intelligence agencies believed the terrorist to be in his mid-50’s.

  Duvall had been in the witness chair for two and a half hours, apparently long enough to learn that there was no need to answer questions immediately, because most questions drew objections. Objections meant arguments, and rulings took time. As the lawyers gathered at the podiums and readied themselves for argument regarding the pending question—whether Duvall had ever been to a Maximov training camp—hatred oozed from Duvall’s eyes, becoming more intense as he stared at the lawyers. His lips parted in a sickening, sarcastic smile. He was enjoying the show.

  “Before we proceed with the argument regarding objections to Defense Counsel Briers’ pending question,” said Judge O’Connor, Chief ITT Judge for the United States, “with the indulgence of the other judges I’d like to ask Amicus counsel for the U.S. to provide a short statement of evidence against Mr. Duvall.”

  As the other judges of the panel nodded, Samantha stood, bringing her iPad with her to the podium in the sudden, hushed silence of the courtroom. The prosecution teams had asked very little of Duvall, instead choosing to rest on stipulated evidence. Samantha appreciated Judge O’Connor’s effort to put clarity into the trial record.

  Her file for Duvall was open as she placed the iPad in front of her. She focused on the panel of sixteen judges. Thirteen men. Three women—alternate U.S. Judge Amanda Whitsell, French Judge Bridgette Tambour, British Judge Melinda Glendin. All the judges were members of the judiciary of their own country, with varying degrees of experience. Bronze nameplates identified the judges, but they all wore the same black robes.

  One day, Samantha thought. One day, I’ll be the one in the robe.

  For now, though, she relished the opportunity to be a lawyer in front of so many esteemed jurists. Having been a practicing attorney working closely with Stanley Morgan for the last five years, Sam had several appellate arguments under her belt. Those had been before three-judge panels. She also had litigated a few trials. Facing sixteen judges at one time was a new experience for her.

  Daunting? Perhaps. She’d have loved working through this trial with Stanley Morgan’s wealth of experience and quiet guidance. God, she missed him. On the other hand, she could handle it. Chin up, shoulders squared, she rested her palms on the corners of the podium and leaned slightly towards the mic as she recounted the most important evidence they had on Duvall.

  “Evidence establishes that Mr. Duvall was a participant—if not the ringleader—in a coordinated, timed explosive attack on the Paris metro.”

  “Continue.” Judge O’Connor, a black man with short, close-cropped curly dark hair that was peppered with gray, nodded. When not an ITT judge, he sat on the United States Second Circuit Court of Appeal. He’d been a participant in key rulings regarding the Patriot Act and other post-911 efforts by Congress to combat terrorism. Widely known as President Cameron’s best friend and confidante, he was on the short list for the next appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court.

  “Six bombs were carried in backpacks onto five trains and left there. Between 8:45 and 9:00 a.m., five of the bombs detonated. Authorities suspect that six individuals carried the bombs on the trains. Of the suspected six bomb carriers, only Mr. Duvall and Mr. Tombeau have been apprehended.” She drew a breath. “Neither has been cooperative with the authorities, though Mr. Tombeau has provided more helpful information than Mr. Duvall.”

  “Will Mr. Tombeau testify, or are we proceeding on stipulation with him?” Judge O’Connor asked.

  It was a good question, as the vast bulk of ITT evidence was being entered into the record by stipulation, without live witnesses. “He is testifying following the testimony of Duvall.”

  “What led investigators to Mr. Duvall?” Judge O’Connor asked.

  “Initially he was a suspect because he’d been on the terrorist watch list of French authorities prior to the event due to involvement in anti-government rallies. As the investigation ensued, it was discovered that metro station cameras caught him the morning of the attack and authorities rounded him up for questioning.”

  “In preliminary proceedings, has he admitted any involvement in the crime?” Judge O’Connor asked.

  “He denied involvement, but Mr. Tombeau implicated him. He has not provided any information regarding motive, other than to say the crime was done on behalf of Maximov-in-Exile.” Samantha glanced at her iPad, swiping through the pages of files, before refocusing on the judges. “However, considering the evidentiary conclusions we have from the French investigative forces, Mr. Duvall’s personal involvement in the metro bombing is without question.”

  “Why is he considered a leader?” Judge O’Connor asked.

  “The one backpack bomb that did not detonate contained explosive Goma-2 ECO, a powerful explosive used by Oticatech, a Spanish mining company. Traces of the same explosive were f
ound in each of the trains where the backpack bombs detonated. French and Spanish investigators apprehended Paulo Barreca, a miner who stole the explosive material. He is in custody and is on the trial schedule to testify after Tombeau. Though we do not have the reports themselves, French investigators have reported that Mr. Barreca, the miner, identified Mr. Duvall as the negotiator of the purchase.”

  “What is the evidence establishing a link between Mr. Duvall’s terrorist cell and Maximov, if any?”

  “French Investigative forces have linked Duvall with Maximov.”

  “Based upon?” Judge O’Connor asked.

  Great question. Correct answer? Hell if she knew. Which she most definitely was not going to say, because her job—and decorum—demanded more diplomacy. “Your honor, Mr. Duvall declares he was operating on behalf of Maximov-in-Exile. While French investigative forces may have more data that establishes an affirmative link, that data has not been produced to the ITT—”

  Judge O’Connor interrupted her with, “Yes, counselor.” The interruption meant, enough said. “I’m aware of yesterday morning’s ruling of the ITT that the data produced by the French was sufficient.” His voice reflected a twinge of sarcasm.

  He had dissented from the ruling. Ten judges of the twelve-judge panel had voted in favor, though, so the ruling stood as the law of the proceeding. In a private conversation with Samantha, Judge O’Connor had predicted that the ruling had the potential to cripple the proceedings, because each country would now claim that their investigative analyses were proprietary and did not need to be produced.

  Which meant they had diddlysquat to connect Maximov or any other large, established terrorist organization to Duvall’s decision to plant bombs on the Paris metro in busy rush hour traffic on a workday. They didn’t even know how Duvall had scored the Euros that he had used to purchase the Goma-2 ECO.

  Countries of the ITT had agreed to harsh terms of imprisonment for anyone convicted of terrorist acts, but they’d also agreed to no torture. The Americans had agreed to the no-torture condition unwillingly.