by Lee Child
Rashid took the chair behind the desk. “Please have a seat.” He gestured toward the two chairs across from him. “Unless, of course, you’d rather sit on the couch.”
“This is fine,” said Madriani. Paul was anxious to cut to the chase. He wanted to know what Rashid had and whether, in fact, it might have any impact on his case. And he didn’t have much time.
For the defense, the Mustaffa trial was going nowhere fast. Police had evidence that Mustaffa’s taxi was in the area of the murder scene the night that Spinova was killed. GPS data from the car’s tracking system placed the vehicle close to the vicinity where the body was found. But what was most damaging was the eyewitness testimony of the State’s principal witness. Madriani was still trying to figure out how to deal with it. He knew something bad was coming from documents he received during discovery. Perhaps the man would equivocate, but Paul doubted it. And the testimony could prove to be a killer depending on precisely what the witness said he saw.
“Can I offer you anything to drink? Coke? Water?”
Both lawyers shook their heads.
“Then let’s not waste time. As I told you, Spinova went to Libya about two weeks after the Benghazi raid on the consulate. But the story begins before that. Late January 2011, the so-called Arab Spring. There were deadly riots all over Egypt. People were dying in the central square in Cairo. You may have seen pictures,” said Rashid. “Camels trampling some, others being shot.”
Madriani and Alex nodded.
“Much of this, including fires, buildings torched, took place within a stone’s throw of the Museum of Cairo. Have either of you ever been there?”
“I have,” said Alex.
“Then you are familiar with some of the artifacts on display. In particular, I am talking about Howard Carter’s collection, the treasures from the tomb of Tutankhamen.”
“Yes,” said Alex.
“What does any of this have to do with Spinova’s murder?” asked Paul.
“Bear with me,” said Rashid. “On the night of January 29, 2011, under cover of the riots and fires raging outside the museum, thieves broke in and stole items from the Tut collection. What they couldn’t carry off, they vandalized. Included among the objects that were taken was a priceless gold figurine of the boy king standing on the back of a panther carved from black ebony. It was one of the premier items recovered by Carter from the tomb in 1922.”
“Of course,” Alex said. “It’s a spectacular piece.”
“There is no way to put a dollar value on the object other than to say that it is priceless. The thieves damaged the base of the statue, the ebony panther. They broke off the gold figurine and took it. We have reason to believe it is still missing.”
“Yes, but what does this have to do with Spinova?” said Paul.
“I’m getting to that. When Spinova went to the burned-out consulate building in Benghazi, she was intending to take pictures and perhaps write an article about what she saw there. She was hoping to be one of the first to visit the site with a camera and she assumed that she could benefit financially from the information. However, this all changed after she climbed through one of the open windows of the building because of something she found.”
“What was that?” Alex asked. She was all in now.
“A document,” Rashid said. “It was a classified memorandum from your CIA referencing items stolen from the museum in Cairo.”
“Did you know any of this, Paul?”
Madriani shook his head from side to side.
“Go on.” By now Alex Cooper was all ears.
Madriani had taken out a small notepad from his suit coat pocket and appropriated a corner of the desk to jot down notes.
“The document in question, we are told, reveals the names, the identities, of the thieves involved, including the mastermind behind it. Also, an inventory of what was taken, as well as what was damaged, which the museum has been loath to offer up and which we believe is considerable.”
“What exactly is your role in all of this?” asked Alex.
“We are part of UNESCO,” said Rashid. “The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. Specifically my office is charged with enforcing the Convention for the Fight Against the Illicit Trafficking in Cultural Property. It is why we are so concerned about the contents of this memorandum, the one that Spinova found at the consulate and which her killer presumably was after. You see, there is a far more sinister element to all of this.” He paused and looked meaningfully at them.
“According to our sources, the items stolen, and in particular the gold figurine of the boy king, the figure of Tut code-named Surfing the Panther in the memorandum, were transported to Libya shortly after the theft.”
Madriani stopped writing when he heard about the gold statue and its code name.
“They were placed in the care of an artisan whose job it was to craft a number of identical replicas,” Rashid said. “The people at the Museum of Cairo would tell you that the damaged figurine was left behind by the looters. Of course, they had to say this. They even show pictures of it being restored. To say otherwise, given the political upheaval at the time, the change in government . . . well, heads would have rolled, quite literally, of those who were in charge of the museum.
“You see, the gold content of the figurine is minimal. It is its historic provenance that gives it vast monetary value. It is too recognizable to be sold to a legitimate museum, but private collectors would pay a fortune to obtain it for their own personal gratification. Because a buyer could not advertise its possession, the thieves would be free to make multiple copies and sell them to unwary but corrupt collectors at exorbitant prices, each one believing that they had the original item. Those buyers would never be able to disclose the fact that they paid tens of millions of dollars, perhaps more, for false replicas. They would be defrauded without recourse.”
“Makes good sense,” Madriani said.
“But here is the important part. It is the reason U.S. intelligence got involved in the first place. They uncovered the identity of one of the potential buyers who was bargaining for the original figurine. He was willing to pay a huge sum to acquire it.”
“Who is that?” said Alex.
“According to our information, the former supreme leader of North Korea, Kim Jong-il,” Rashid said. “The reason for the memorandum, and again we have not seen the document, but we have sources who tell us that Kim and the mastermind behind the theft had, as you say, struck a deal, an agreed-upon sum for delivery of the figurine. The price, if our information is correct, was half a billion dollars, U.S.”
Madriani whistled as he looked up. “We’re in the wrong business. Still, that’s a considerable inducement for murder. Kill Spinova to keep her from taking her story and the CIA memo to the media.”
“Precisely,” said Rashid.
“How do you know all of this?” Madriani needed evidence.
“It is my job,” said Rashid.
“Perhaps you can obtain a copy of the memorandum, the CIA memo, from the State Department?” said Alex.
Rashid shook his head. “They will not share information with us. Not on this. I suspect it is because of the national security implications surrounding the North Korean involvement. We are aware that the United States is engaged in highly sensitive negotiations with Kim’s son and successor Kim Jong-un, baby Kim, over nuclear weapons in North Korea. They are not going to jeopardize those negotiations over something like this.”
Madriani looked up from his notes. This was dynamite that could turn the tide in his defense of Mustaffa. The problem was there was no way to ignite it. He needed proof, solid evidence. Otherwise there was no way the trial judge would allow him to even mention it in front of the jury.
NINE THIRTY MONDAY MORNING AND the intercom buzzed on Alex Cooper’s desk. The office outside her door at One Hogan Place in Manhattan, the headquarters for the New York District Attorney’s Office, hummed with activity.
The
voice on the intercom was Cooper’s secretary. “Call for you on line one. A Mr. Rashid from UNESCO. Do you want me to take a message, tell him you’re busy?”
“No. I’ll talk.” Alex picked up the phone. “Hello.”
“Ms. Cooper. I hope I did not catch you at a bad time.”
“Mr. Rashid. I have a meeting in twenty minutes but I can spare a moment.”
“I was wondering if you could tell me whether Mr. Madriani is still in town?”
“No, he left yesterday morning. Why do you ask?”
“Because I called his office in San Diego. They said he was out of the area, unavailable for several days. That he could not be reached. I didn’t want to leave a message. What I have to tell him is highly confidential.”
“He was supposed to give his opening statement today.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. Is there any way you can reach him?”
“I don’t know. Is it urgent?”
“If he wants to save his client it is vital.”
“What is it?” Alex Cooper already knew more than she should have.
It took Alex almost two hours to track Madriani down through his office in Coronado and from there to his cell phone in LA where she left a message. Just after three East Coast time, noon in LA, he called her back during a break in the trial.
“I hope it’s important,” said Madriani.
“Pressed for time, are you?”
“Just a couple of sharks from the DA’s office working their way up my leg from the ankle to the knee. Nothing to worry about.”
“Rashid has been trying to get a hold of you since yesterday,” said Alex. “He says the DA’s office is about to lower the boom on your client.”
“I thought they already had,” said Paul.
“A witness by the name of Terry Mirza. Do you know the name?” asked Alex.
“I do,” said Paul. “But how does Rashid know—?”
“Be quiet and listen. You don’t have much time. Rashid claims this guy Mirza saw your man dump Spinova’s body in an alley in West LA the night of the murder.”
Mirza’s name was on the state’s witness list but the information had not been released to the press or made public. Even Paul did not yet know the precise details of Mirza’s testimony, only that he was a percipient witness to the body dump, only sketchy notes from police reports that the cops had left intentionally vague. They had closeted Mirza away since before the trial to keep him out of the clutches of Paul’s investigators, not that Mirza would have talked to any of them.
“Why are you telling me this, Alex?”
“Because I trust you. I trust your reputation. And there are two ways to go at this. I happen to believe that a DA’s job is to do justice.”
“What two ways do you have in mind?”
“Like I said, the DA out there is a good friend of mine. I’ll call him. Maybe he’ll listen to me. Take a hard look at what we give him about Cairo. Let him know he may be sitting on exculpatory evidence.”
“I hope your second idea makes more sense. He’s been stonewalling me on this.”
“Look, Paul. I can’t go rogue here, much as I might like to. But one of my best friends just left the office. Jenny Corcoran. She’s waiting for a background check for an appointment she just got at Justice in DC. She’s a pit bull in the courtroom. She might work with you on this.”
“And you’re telling me I can—?”
“Trust her? Completely. You have my word.”
“So what will you say to the DA?” Paul asked.
“According to Rashid, this guy Mirza is going to tell the jury that he saw your man pull a large plastic bundle from the backseat of his cab in an alley off Lankershim Boulevard the night Spinova was killed. Presumably the reason there was no blood in the backseat of your man’s cab is because she was killed somewhere else and dumped there.”
“That’s their theory,” said Paul. “Lemme get this straight, Mirza can positively identify Mustaffa as the man driving the cab and dumping the body?”
“Rock solid, according to Rashid,” said Alex.
“You’re sure? I need to know how confident he is, whether I can shake him on cross.”
Mirza had ID’d Mustaffa from a photo array. Paul already knew that. He was hoping beyond hope that he could get the witness to equivocate on the identification, just a slight crack in the wall. After all, presumably, he was a disinterested witness with no stake in the case. Was he absolutely, positively one thousand percent certain it was Mustaffa that he saw? No one was ever one thousand percent sure of anything. “It might have been him, I can’t be entirely sure.” This was all Paul needed. Something he could play with and stretch like a rubber band in front of the jury on closing, and hope that it snapped.
“According to Rashid, Mirza will positively identify your client at the scene, and he won’t be burdened by any doubts.”
Paul’s heart climbed into his throat. “Don’t tell me that Mirza has photographs of the body being dumped. And how does Rashid know all of this?”
“No, there are no photos,” said Alex. “Rashid says Mirza will be lying through his teeth.”
“What?”
“Listen carefully. Do you have a notepad? Here’re the details on what Rashid told me. We’re both going to have to move quickly.”
THE CRIMINAL COURTS BUILDING ON Temple Street in downtown Los Angeles had an ominous feel for Madriani ever since the start of the Mustaffa case. Even the courtroom was foreboding, Department 123 on the thirteenth floor. Had Madriani been superstitious, the only thing worse might have been the number of the Beast—666.
Bad news, too, that the DA had been off-put by Alex Cooper’s attempt to intervene in one of his biggest cases. But Alex had surprised Madriani by taking the week off from her own job and flying out to be at the trial, sitting discreetly in the rear of the courtroom—one spectator among many—after her friend Jenny Corcoran confirmed that her presence might help Madriani get at the truth.
This morning, on direct examination, the testimony of Terry Mirza was presented to the jury as if it were written, produced, and directed for a Broadway production with an audience of twelve. It came on smooth as silk as the nine women and three men in the jury box took notes and listened intently. There was not the slightest equivocation as Mirza identified the defendant, Ibid Mustaffa, as the man he saw in the alley that night, the one who dragged the plastic-shrouded and bloodied body of Carla Spinova from the backseat of his yellow cab.
Mirza even identified the cab number as well as the license plate number of the vehicle. He had everything but the VIN number off the engine block. When asked if he was absolutely certain that it was Mustaffa that he saw that night, he said he had no doubt whatsoever. He told the jury that he observed the defendant clearly from several different angles as Mustaffa struggled under the bright lights of a streetlamp to drag the body over to the edge of the alley, against the side of a building, where he left her and drove off.
The witness also testified that the defendant was wearing gloves. This would explain the lack of fingerprints on the plastic tarp used to wrap the body.
When the prosecutor had hammered the last nail in Mustaffa’s coffin and turned the witness over to Paul, the jurors were looking at Madriani as if to say, Try and get out of that one.
Paul introduced himself to the witness. “Mr. Mirza, let me ask you, what is your first name, your given name? It’s not Terry, is it?”
“No. It’s Tariq.”
“What is the origin of the name? I mean, it’s not English or Irish or German.”
“Objection, Your Honor. What’s the relevance?”
“I think the jury has a right to know a little bit about the witness and where he’s from,” said Paul.
“I’ll allow it,” said the judge. “But keep it short, Mr. Madriani.”
“Mr. Mirza, where is your family from?”
“My parents were Bedu, Bedouins. From the desert, originally Saudi Arabia.”
&nb
sp; “Do you have family in Saudi Arabia at the present time?”
“I have an uncle who lives there.”
“Were you born here in this country?”
“No. I came here when I was three with my mother and father and two brothers.”
“Do you have any other relatives living in the Middle East, say, outside of Saudi Arabia, at the present time?”
“Objection as to relevance, Your Honor.” The prosecutor was on his feet once more.
“May we approach the bench?” said Madriani.
The judge waved them on. Off to the side, away from the witness, Paul told the judge that the questions were intended to lay a foundation for the issue of credibility, which was always relevant. After all, it was the prosecution who put the witness on the stand.
“I will give you a little latitude, Mr. Madriani, but let’s try and tie it to something in the case.” The judge eased back in his chair.
Paul picked up where he left off.
“Yes,” said Mirza. “I have one brother and my grandparents who live in Shubra al-Khaymah.”
“And where is that?” said Paul.
“It’s a town just outside Cairo in Egypt.”
“So your family lives in the same country my client is from?”
“If you say so,” said Mirza.
“When is the last time you spoke to your family in Egypt?” said Paul.
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“A month ago?”
“Longer.”
“Two months?”
“I don’t know. As I said, I can’t remember.”
“Mr. Mirza, isn’t it a fact that the testimony you have offered before this jury here today is false? Is it not true that you never saw anything that night and that, in fact, the information you have testified to here today was provided to you by outside parties who have threatened your family in Egypt unless you testify in accordance with their instructions?”