by Don Brown
And the plan succeeded.
Vehement anti-American protests had raged in Arab-Islamic capitals for the last year, with no end in sight. Splinter Islamic groups launched attacks with increased fervor against American installations around the world. Hussein's prestige skyrocketed as a result.
He commanded no armies. At least, not yet. But the demise of American diplomatic prestige left him as the most powerful Arab alive. He was called the greatest Muslim to walk the face of the earth since the Prophet himself -- peace be upon him. Even the Russians reached out to him.
By Allah's will, he would soon become the leader of a consolidated Arab superpower stretching from the Arabian Gulf to the Atlantic Ocean. For that to happen, details of Islamic Glory must remain secret.
Above all else.
La Trec's murder was ordered for this reason:
The French lawyer, by brokering a deal for Quasay after his conviction, a deal that allowed Quasay to avoid the death penalty, could not be trusted. La Trec was to win an acquittal or allow his client to be executed. He failed both.
Had top-secret information about Islamic Glory been leaked to the American enemy?
The plane's landing gear bumped against the white concrete runway. Military jeeps, painted the color of sand, sped alongside the plane as it slowed and came to a halt at the end of the deserted Moroccan air base. Arab freedom fighters, wearing turbans and bearing AK47s, jumped out of the jeeps and formed two columns for an impromptu honor guard, as two more Arab workers pushed a mobile aluminum ladder to the base of the plane.
Soon Hussein al-Akhma would have his answers.
Or he would have more blood.
Sunlight streamed through the richly colored stained-glass window in the forth-floor administrative office of the great Sacre Coeur. Boxes stacked on spartan-looking desks and clutter strewn in the far corners of this forgotten enclave of the great cathedral made the room feel more like a prison cell than a church office -- if not for the stained-glass window reflecting the image of Jesus cradling a white lamb.
At least she was safe for the moment.
Or was she?
Jeanette checked her watch. Three hours had passed. Where was Louis? He hadn't gone to the authorities, had he?
She could trust Louis. They had been best friends growing up. As a teenage girl, she had posed down by the Mediterranean while he painted her portrait. Then he would touch up her hairstyle, tilt her head, and sketch her from another angle.
Louis would never sell her out. No, their bond was deep.
Or was it?
Maybe she should escape by foot while she could. Perhaps just walk to Gar du Nord and purchase a ticket on the Eurostar for London. Britain was still friendly to the United States. She could request asylum at the Court of St. James.
Of course, Gar du Nord, or any other metro station in Paris, would be crawling with gendarmerie, all on the lookout for a young blonde woman wearing black, suspected of killing the great Jean-Claude la Trec. And even if she made it to London to request asylum, no one would believe her claim that the French government was involved somehow. How could she even be sure of this? Was the information she heard on her cell phone last night reliable? Would her own government have collaborated with the Council of Ishmael to assassinate Jean-Claude?
She heard what she heard. She could take no chances.
Of this she was certain. They, whoever they were, wanted Jean-Claude dead. They wanted her dead too. She knew too much. She knew all about the Council of Ishmael. She knew the details of Operation Islamic Glory.
Louis should have been back by now.
What if they had killed him too?
She had to get out of there and get her hands on the file.
Jingling keys on the outside of the large oak door caused her heart to pump faster. She exhaled when the familiar pale face appeared in the crack of the door.
"Louis!" She wanted to slap him. "You leave me alone here for three hours?"
"Shhh." He brought his index finger across his lips. "I have someone who can help."
Another man stepped into the room.
"I'm Father Robert. I'm a member of the pastoral staff here at Sacre Coeur," the priest said in English. He wore black slacks and a black shirt with white clerical collar. Slender, and with the exception of a small linear scar running diagonally across his left cheek, he resembled the late American actor Christopher Reeves. "I understand you may be in need of sanctuary," Father Robert said.
"Your English is impeccable, Father."
The Catholic flashed a compassionate smile. "I'm American. Grew up in northern Virginia."
She met her friend's eyes.
"It's okay," Louis said. "Father Robert can be trusted. He ministers to the artist community at Montmartre."
"Just because the church has assigned me to the world's most beautiful city, I'm not required to agree with the policies of the French government. Not when I perceive the government is inclined to embrace Islamic fundamentalism," he said, switching to fluent French. "I work for the Holy Father, and my boss detests the type of indiscriminate murder committed by your former client, Commander Quasay. Islamic fundamentalism is an anathema to Christianity and the teachings of the church." His black eyes exuded compassion.
"Besides," he continued, "the church is still a place of holy sanctuary, non?" The warm, tender touch of his hand reassured her. The priest sat down and motioned Louis to do the same. "Now, how can I help?"
She thought for a moment. "Two things, Father."
"Name them."
"A legal file. In a safe deposit box at Le Banc de France."
"You want me to take you to the bank?"
"Non!" she snapped. "Sorry, Father. Non, merci. I cannot risk being spotted in Paris under the circumstances. I have placed a power of attorney on file with the bank giving Louis access to the vault in my stead."
"You have?" Louis raised an eyebrow.
"Oui." She took her friend's hand. "I anticipated this day. The box is registered in the name of a Swiss corporation, La Montagne Company." She turned again to Father Robert. "I need that file. Father, it contains secrets of international importance concerning the existence of Islamic groups that murdered Jean-Claude and seek to kill me -- along with top-secret data about Islamic operatives placed within the U.S. military. I must retrieve the file and take it to America."
CHAPTER 6
Courtroom 1, Building 1
Navy-Marine Corp Trial Judiciary
32nd Street Naval Station
San Diego, California
Court-martial of United States v. Lieutenant Wofford Eckberg, USN
Day 1
It was good to be home.
Zack sat alone, leaning back in the wooden prosecutor's chair in
Courtroom 1. Sunlight streamed in from the clear pane windows behind the empty jury box onto the still-empty judge's bench, illuminating the flags of the United States of America and the United States Navy positioned on each side of the bench.
This grand courtroom had been the site of two high-profile trials, both garnering international attention and catapulting him into his status as the world's most recognized JAG officer -- a status that was most unwelcome.
Today all vestiges of the national spotlight had faded. Thank God.
A handful of onlookers, including his newly assigned bodyguard turned shadow, Shannon McGillvery, Navy SEAL Captain Buck Noble, and several witnesses, sat behind him. At defense counsel table, Lieutenant Karen Jacoby, fresh from Naval Justice School and trying her first general court-martial, conferred with her client, Ensign Wofford Eckberg.
Both attorneys wore U.S. Navy summer white uniforms with black shoulder boards. Zack's uniform bore the two and a half gold stripes of a navy lieutenant commander. Karen's uniform bore the one and a half stripes of a lieutenant junior grade; it was nearly identical to Zack's, but she wore a white skirt and pumps, and her shirt bore no ser vice medals.
This would be a low-key trial, a case not too m
any people cared about except the SEALs. The prosecution should win -- with one complication: the SEALs had whipped the defendant, who in Zack's opinion was guilty as sin of homosexual assault aboard a U.S. Navy submarine. Such conduct could not be tolerated in the midst of brave fighting forces ready to die for their country. But the broken arm and collarbone had created some big-time legal and logistical problems with this case.
The first problem was the speedy trial issue. Ensign Eckberg had been sitting in the brig nearly ninety days. Under military law, a case not brought to trial within ninety days after an accused is confined will be dismissed.
Eckberg's SEAL team was scheduled to deploy on a top-secret mission to Southeast Asia in two weeks, which would make this case even more difficult to prosecute. Prosecution and defense witnesses scheduled to deploy with a SEAL team on a military mission could not be in two places at the same time. Karen Jacoby was a rookie out of justice school. More experienced defense counsel could tie things up long enough to interfere with the team's deployment. Given the grand scheme of things, this team's orders to slip onto Chinese soil and monitor and photograph the movement of Communist Chinese marines along the Yellow Sea took precedence over the court-martial of Ensign Wofford Eckberg.
As well it should.
The SEALs wanted Eckberg's head on a platter, and they didn't want the case interfering with their deployment. Zack was fighting against the clock.
"All rise!"
"Morning, Commander Brewer." A tall, affable-looking navy captain, wearing a summer white officer's uniform and wire-rimmed glasses, his once-reddish hair now tinged with smatterings of gray, walked into the courtroom and stood behind the judge's bench. Captain Richard Reeves, JAGC, USN, was a sight for sore eyes.
"Morning, Your Honor." Zack stood at attention, waiting for Captain Reeves to be seated.
"And welcome to Courtroom 1, Lieutenant Jacoby." Reeves turned to the defense counsel. "I understand you've just reported from the justice school."
"That's right, Your Honor." Jacoby's voice trembled. Fresh meat for the grinding.
"Be seated." A slight shuffling of chairs. "This is the case of United States of America versus Ensign Wofford Eckberg, USN. Is the government ready?"
"We are, Your Honor," Zack said.
"Is the defense ready?"
"Yes, Your Honor." Jacoby's voice still held a tremor.
Zack turned around and saw Shannon sitting just behind counsel table with her attention focused on him. She wore a navy blue women's business suit and a nine-millimeter Beretta, which Zack knew was concealed inside her blouse. All of five feet five inches tall and maybe, just maybe, 110 pounds, Shannon possessed neither the ravishing looks of Diane Colcernian nor the natural beauty of Wendy Poole. But with her strawberry-blonde hair, impish smile, and black belt in karate, she was a tough little stick of dynamite. In fact, she was a magnetic, and attractive, bundle of TNT that Zack wouldn't want to take on in a fight -- gun or no gun.
Shannon was the best agent in the NCIS. She had cracked the navy's case against the Islamic navy fighter pilots who attacked the Dome of the Rock. That gave Zack the evidence he needed to knock off the great Jean-Claude la Trec, who before his murder had been called Europe's greatest trial lawyer.
"Will the government make an opening statement, Commander?" Judge Reeves's question brought a confident good luck wink from his dynamo bodyguard, prompting him to whirl around in his seat, then stand and face the venerable military judge. "We will, Your Honor. Very briefly, I might add."
"Very well," Captain Reeves said. "The members are with the government."
Zack stepped from the mahogany counsel table, his white dress shoes clicking across the burnished hardwood floor as he approached the banister rail separating the courtroom well from the military jury.
The military jury -- or members, as they are known in the military justice system -- resembled a sea of ice-cream white uniforms. Their leader and senior officer, a navy captain, wearing the gold wings of a naval aviator on his chest, sat front and center. He was surrounded by two commanders. One was a SEAL, like the defendant; the other was a surface warfare officer. Flanking the commanders were two lieutenant commanders -- one an aviator, the other a navy nurse. The junior officers, four navy lieutenants, sat on the back row.
"Mr. President, distinguished members, this is a very simple case.
"The United States Navy, or any military organization for that matter, cannot function when its members engage in conduct that is prejudicial to good order and discipline.
"When members betray the privacy of others, when members invade the very personal spaces of other members, when sailors let their personal, lustful desires override their duty to country, the basic tenets of military discipline disintegrate."
Zack took two steps back. "When officers" -- he pointed to Ensign Eckberg -- "engage in conduct unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman" -- his finger dropped as his gaze moved back to the members -- "the very fabric of the chain of command is mocked."
He stepped into the banister rail, lowering his voice. "I regret to inform you, ladies and gentlemen, that Ensign Wofford Eckberg, a graduate of the United States Naval Academy and a member of the U.S. Navy SEALs, did on various occasions on board the submarine USS Bremerton attempt to engage in homosexual activities with various members of his SEAL team while that submarine patrolled off North Korea."
All eyes shifted to Eckberg.
"It is a sad day, ladies and gentleman, when one of our officers has fallen. But the government will prove beyond a reasonable doubt, through the testimony of various witnesses, that one of our officers has engaged in reprehensible conduct -- that one of our officers has fallen."
Zack stepped back and paused.
"This we will prove beyond a reasonable doubt. Thank you."
The sound of Zack's shoes clicking against the hardwood floor echoed through the courtroom. His eyes caught Shannon's. She wore a rather curious smile. He nodded to her and then sat down.
Gabriel's Bar
Gaslamp Quarter near Fifth Avenue and Market Street
San Diego, California
Chris Reynolds never understood why they called this joint Gabriel's.Several theories -- all involving the establishment's owner, Michael Mozerelli -- had circulated among the all-male clientele of this smoky, off-the-wall bar in San Diego's posh Gaslamp Quarter. One theory held that Mozerelli, once believed to be an accomplished artist, had hoped to go to Paris to unveil a nude painting of the angel Gabriel he had been working on for years. The painting was to launch his career on the international art scene. When it was stolen from his New Jersey studio, Mozerelli plunged into depression, contemplated suicide, and then moved to San Diego to start a new life. The restaurant had seen moderate success through the years, but after a time Mozerelli stopped coming. Now there were no reminders of him except a mysterious photo hanging on the wall, picturing him standing arm in arm with a man in front of the Eiffel Tower.
"May I help you?" The voice ripped Chris's gaze from the photo. A pale, smiling thirty-year-old in a black turtleneck stood at the host's station.
"I'm sorry, you startled me."
The host smiled and inclined his head toward the picture. "Distracting, isn't he?"
Chris stepped closer. He knew how to play the game, and he would play it to the hilt -- if it got him the results he needed. "Yes, yes. He certainly is." He paused, smiling at the host. "Actually, yes, there is something you can help me with." Chris lowered his voice to a whisper. "I've heard there's this guy -- a directory assistance operator for Pacific Bell -- who comes in just before his shift. Is that true?"
The host gave him a knowing smile. "I know exactly who you mean. His name is Brad." He stepped away from his station. "Come on back. He leaves for work in fifteen minutes."
Chris followed the black turtleneck along a dimly lit corridor, dotted on each side with round bar tables where a few patrons were talking, gazing at one another, and sipping beer. They turned left
into another dimly lit room. A couple of incandescent spots hung from a cord over the billiards. The four corners of the room were dark. In the back left corner, the intermittent glow of a cigarette cast an orange pall on the round face of a patron sitting on a bar stool.
"Brad, someone wants to meet you."
"Oh, really?" The end of the cigarette lit up like a bulb on a Christmas tree. A cloud of rank smoke floated around Chris's face.
"I'm Chris Reynolds." Chris extended his hand. A clammy grip met his palm.
"Nice to meet you, Chris. And what can I do for you?" The handshake continued.
The host softly cleared his voice. "I'll give you two some privacy."
A smile crawled across Brad's face as Bobby, the host, sauntered away. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" Brad slid a stool toward Chris.
"I hear you're with Pac Bell." Chris sat on the stool. "That true?"
"Maybe" -- he took another drag from the cigarette -- "maybe not." Then he doused the cigarette. "What about it?"
"Two beers, please." Chris held up two fingers in a V as a young man wearing a T-shirt and tight jeans, holding a tray over his shoulder, nodded. "I need to contact this guy." Chris slid the cover of the People magazine article across the table.
"Brewer?" A pleased look of recognition crossed Brad's face as he lit another cigarette. "What makes you think I can help?"
The server in tight jeans brought two Coronas and set them on the table. Chris stuck ten dollars in the server's hand, then smiled at Brad.
"Brewer's number is unlisted. So is his address."
"Hmm." Brad swigged his beer. "This could cost me my job. Pay's not great. But the benefits" -- a puff -- "the benefits are fabulous. Why should I risk it?"
"Look." Chris sipped his beer. "I won't tell." He gazed straight into Brad's piercing black eyes. "Please. I give you my word."
"And I'm supposed to believe that?" Another drag. "The benefits! I need my medicals. Know what I mean?"
"Of course."
White smoke spewed from his mouth. "Besides, what's in it for me? You haven't even offered to buy me dinner for two." Brad batted his eyelashes.