A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  “But it does happen,” she said. “Shouldn’t someone be held accountable?”

  “That’s why we have the UCMJ – the Universal Code of Military Justice – for when it happens deliberately. Look at William Calley and the Mai Lai massacre in Vietnam. We court-martialed him.”

  She leaned forward and touched the back of his hand. “I think you’re feeling persecuted and have convinced yourself that you’re a scapegoat for political reasons.”

  “Are you suggesting it’s anything else?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, “How are you handling the tension?”

  “I could handle this if my wife was okay.” He rose and paced the floor. “We were married right after I graduated from the Air Force Academy in 1982.” He stopped and looked at her. But you know all that, don’t you? “Since then …well … Clare’s my life.” He stared at the window. “I remember when Michelle was born, she’s our oldest, and when I first saw her Clare was nursing her in bed. I just stood there, not able to take my eyes off them.” He pulled into himself, remembering. Then, “Now Clare’s dying and I’m not there.” He whirled on her. “I’m not a war criminal.”

  Her voice was barely audible. “I know that.”

  He came up short, surprised by the tears in her eyes. He sat back down, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, head bent low. “I’m having trouble sleeping at night. This place seems to moan at me.”

  “But it is very quiet at night,” she said. “Not like your prisons.”

  “It’s still a prison and I’m here, looking out, caged in.” He fell silent for a moment to let his anguish show. “Do you know what it’s like to takeoff on a cruddy overcast day like this and punch through a cloud deck?” He stared at his hands; his voice low and charged with memory as he took her with him. “Suddenly, you break out on top of the clouds and all the grays, browns, and muck of the earth are all behind you. I can’t remember how many times I leveled off and skimmed the tops of the clouds. The sky hangs over you like a crystal crown. Then you snap roll and the world spins, yours for the sorting out. You brush the top of the clouds and then you’re pulling on the stick, climbing like a homesick angel, and reaching for the sky. For a few brief moments, all the trivial problems of this silly world are behind you.”

  Derwent’s eyes glowed with understanding. “It must be like riding the whirlwind.”

  Gus looked at her. “Hell, I don’t know how to explain it except you’re truly free.” He paused for effect. “All I know now is that I can’t sleep at night.”

  She jotted down a note in her folder. “You surprised me today, Gus. I expected you to be needing a shave and perhaps come on to me.” He gave her his lopsided fighter pilot grin and she closed the folder before standing up. The session was over. “I can help with your sleeping problem.”

  They shook hands and Gus ambled back to his cell. There may be something here.

  Amsterdam

  Late that same afternoon, a tour boat nosed out of a narrow canal and turned into the much larger Amstel River. The tour guide pointed to the luxury hotel. “The Amstel Intercontinental. Its restaurant, La Rive, is one of the best in the world.”

  Hank scanned the hotel’s terrace that overlooked the river as they approached and worked to hide his nervousness. The boat nudged against the hotel dock and Hank stepped ashore. He scanned the dock area, wondering if he was recognized. He climbed the stairs to the terrace where a dark-suited young woman was waiting.

  “This way, Professor Sutherland,” the young woman said, leading him to a side entrance.

  “Why all the secrecy?” he asked.

  “Because Mr. Westcot prefers it.”

  Hank grew even more worried. It was the second time Westcot had summoned him and he didn’t like being on the financier’s radarscope. Hank followed her to a service elevator and they rode in silence to the top floor of the hotel. The elevator door opened onto a luxurious suite. She stayed behind and the door closed, leaving him alone.

  “Over here, Hank,” Westcot said. The financier was seated in an overstuffed wing chair by the fireplace smoking a cigar. He stood and they shook hands. Westcot pointed him to a seat and paced the floor. “How’s it going?”

  “They announced the presiding judge, Gaston Bouchard.”

  Westcot humphed. “Met him once. A pompous ass. He possesses the perspective of a horse – a very intelligent horse, but still a horse. How’s Cassandra working out?”

  “She’s been a wonderful help. I couldn’t do it without her.”

  “Excellent. We’ve backed her up with a top-notch legal team. Use them.” More pacing. “The President tried to get the court to release Gus but it isn’t going to happen.” He shook his head. “The idiots got the bit in their teeth and are out of control.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Hank asked. “I feel like the proverbial mushroom here; totally in the dark and fed bullshit.”

  Westcot decided to level with him. “It’s pure power politics and the French are into it up to their eyeballs. They’ve managed to link the trial to what’s going on in the UN. It’s a chance for them to make political hay by prosecuting an American for war crimes before the ICC. Some crap about universal jurisdiction.”

  The lawyer in Hank keyed on the anger lurking behind Westcot’s words when he mentioned the French. “The court is trying to extend its authority over non-member nations. Gus’s trial is a waypoint in that process.”

  “That is not going to happen,” Westcot predicted. “But they’ve got the President walking a tightrope, keeping the hawks in Congress under control while not pissing off said European allies, who happen to adore the court.”

  “So Gus gets hung out to dry,” Hank said.

  “Exactly,” Westcot replied. “It also gives the French an opportunity to play kissy-face with the Chinese and strike a deal that could make them the economic powerhouse of Europe.”

  The anger was back and Hank suspected Westcot was involved because a deal between the Chinese and the French would cost the financier mega dollars. Had he known, the actual figure would have astounded him. “What the French are doing goes against the EU.”

  Westcot snorted. “Indeed it does. It will piss off the rest of Europe something mightily when they figure it out.”

  “Is it take-off-the-gloves time?”

  “When the time is right,” Westcot replied. “Right now, it would take the UN option off the table in regards to China. The President’s options at this point are very limited, which leaves Gus swinging in the wind.”

  Hank thought for a moment. “Maybe not. I think I can win this one.” Westcot’s head snapped up. “But I need some help. They’ve called General Davis Armiston as a witness and I’ll need to discredit him if he takes the stand. Also, I need to find Gus’s old wing commander when he was in Saudi Arabia at Al Kharj.”

  Westcot puffed on his cigar and billowed smoke. “Armiston is a worthless piece of shit and wants the White House. He’ll do whatever it takes to win it.” He allowed a tight smile that frightened the lawyer. Like so many things, it had all came together for the financier in a rush. Now it was only a matter of playing it out. “Call Henri Scullanois, the French foreign minister, as a witness. Scullanois dealt with Armiston when he was SACEUR. No love lost there. Use Scullanois to discredit Armiston.”

  “And?” Hank asked, knowing there was more.

  Westcot didn’t answer. Instead, “As for Cannon, I can’t help you there.”

  Hank had not mentioned Cannon’s name and hoped his face did not betray what he was thinking.

  “Well,” Westcot said, fully aware that he had made a faux pas by naming Cannon and that damage control was in order, “how about dinner? La Rive is an experience not to be missed.”

  “Do we want to be seen together in public?” Hank asked.

  “Good point,” Westcot conceded. He reached for the phone, “Well, if we can’t go to La Rive, La Rive will come to us.” He gave Hank a knowing look, still playing damage control.
“Perhaps some companionship for later this evening?”

  “Can I take a rain check?” Hank asked. It was time to get out of Dodge without burning a very important bridge. “I really have to get back to The Hague.”

  The Hague

  They had warned him and Gus knew the news was bad. “Dad,” Jason said, “you need to talk to Michelle.” He handed Gus his cell phone, his eyes full of worry. Aly stood in the open door to the cell, her worry matching Jason’s. But for some reason, she felt better with Gus involved.

  Gus nodded and took the phone. “We can’t run away from it,” he said. His jaw tightened as he hit the speed dial to call his daughter. He waited for the connection. “Damn, I should be there.”

  Michelle’s pretty face came on the screen. There were tears in her eyes. “Thank God. I was afraid they wouldn’t let you call.”

  “Jason and Aly told me. How bad is she?”

  “The doctors said they can make her comfortable, that’s all. Is there any chance you can come home?”

  “None at all. The bastards here have a lot to answer for.”

  “There’s something else,” Michelle told him. “Max Westcot called and offered to transfer Mom to the Mayo Clinic. He said he’d cover all expenses. Mom’s doctors are all behind it.”

  “I hate relying on the charity of others,” Gus said.

  Behind him Jason said, “Max Westcot has got more money than a herd of horses have hair. Make that a huge herd of horses. It won’t even show on his radar screen.”

  Michelle heard him. “It is the Mayo, Dad.”

  “But that would mean leaving her alone in a strange hospital,” Gus said.

  “Me and the boys will be there,” Michelle promised.

  Gus made the decision. “Okay, do it.”

  “I think it’s the best thing to do,” Michelle said.

  They said good-by and Gus ended the call. “It shouldn’t end this way,” he said to no one. The lights in the ceiling and corridor blinked. “Lights-out in fifteen minutes,” he told them. Aly kissed him on the cheek and she and Jason disappeared out the still open door. He stood in the doorway and watched them go through the gate at the end of the corridor as Therese Derwent passed them. He retreated back into the cell and sat on the bunk to wait for the psychiatrist.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” he replied.

  Derwent walked over to the built-in buffet and drew a cup of water before sitting next to him on the bunk. She handed him a small aluminum foil packet. “Take this. It will help you sleep.” He ripped it open and popped the capsule into his mouth. She handed him the cup and placed two fingers on his throat. “You must swallow,” she said. He gulped and she smiled. “Lie down.” She moved out of the way while he stretched out. He deliberately faked sleepiness but Derwent didn’t leave. Too much personal attention, he thought. Need to work on it. He relaxed and breathed deeply.

  Derwent sat on the edge of the bunk and touched his wrist to be sure he was asleep. She monitored his pulse for a moment. “Clare is most fortunate to have you,” she murmured. She sat there until the lights blinked the last time before rising. She closed the door behind her.

  “I’m the lucky one,” he said to no one. He fell asleep.

  TEN

  The Hague

  Hank sat under the umbrella heater in the glassed-in sidewalk café and sipped at the steaming cup of coffee. He waited for the caffeine to jumpstart his brain. Ever so slowly, he came alive. He took another sip as the waiter presented a warm pastry for his breakfast. It smelled delicious. He studied the people hurrying by on their way to work and decided that he liked the Dutch – not that he understood them. But he was certain that if he looked and listened long enough, the Dutch and the Netherlands would make sense. He just wished his wife were with him to share the experience.

  He glanced at the Tuesday morning edition of the London Times. With thirty days to go, Gus Tyler’s upcoming trial was still making the first page. He read the article with satisfaction. The British were finally acknowledging that Gus was an American citizen, which, sooner or later, would be crucial. He stared across the street as he considered his options. A silver Audi he had seen the day before pulled out of its parking space from across the street. A blue Mercedes immediately pulled in and the driver of the Audi signaled by bending the forefinger on his right hand and raising it to his eye. The driver of the Mercedes replied with the same sign. A jolt of adrenaline coursed through his body. It was the same Mercedes. “Cassandra, I’m having coffee at my hotel’s sidewalk café and a blue Mercedes just drove up. Am I being followed?”

  “If you are, I’m not monitoring any electronic communications or signals.” That explained the hand signals. “Can you get a license number?”

  “I’ll try.” He scribbled his name on the bill and picked up his briefcase. He stayed on the opposite side of the street and walked briskly away from the back of the Mercedes, heading for the Palace of the International Criminal Court. A heavy truck and a streetcar clogged the narrow street, stopping traffic in both directions. He darted across the street and melded into the crowd as he walked back towards the Mercedes.

  He saw the driver’s hand reach up and adjust the rearview mirror, angling it in his direction. Certain the driver had seen him, he pushed through the crowd as the Mercedes pulled into traffic. He started to run after it as the traffic opened up and started to move. He put on a burst of speed as the Mercedes moved away, quickly outdistancing him. He came to halt. “Damn.”

  “The first part of the license number was 90-BN,” a man said in English.

  “Thank you,” Hank replied, still looking at the Mercedes. He turned to say more, but the man was gone. He liked the Dutch even more. He reversed course and headed for the Palace.

  Aly was waiting when Hank reached his office. “I dropped in and saw Dad this morning.” She handed him two sheets of paper. “This is all he could remember on Cannon and Armiston.” She followed him into his office with a mug of coffee and the morning mail. As soon as he was alone, he said, “Cassandra, I got a partial license number on the Mercedes, 90-BN. I couldn’t make out the last.”

  “That’s interesting,” she said. “90-BN and BN-90 were part of the license numbers the Dutch reserved for American servicemen stationed in The Netherlands. But that was over fifteen years ago. Those numbers have been inactive since then.”

  “Is there a connection?” Hank asked. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the front license is different than the rear.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Cassandra replied. “My power cell needs charging.”

  He placed the percom next to an electric outlet and wandered into the outer office. “Aly, I need to speak to Jason when he gets here.”

  “He’s in the canteen eating breakfast,” she told him.

  Exactly eight minutes later, Jason was in Hank’s office. “We’ve got to find Cannon,” Hank told him. “Pull out all the stops.”

  “I’ll ask General Hammerly,” Jason promised.

  Aly ran into the office. “I just got a call from one of my friends who works downstairs. General Armiston is in the building.” Hank arched an eyebrow, pleased that Aly was a member in good standing in the Dutch Secretaries Mutual Protection and Gossip Society.

  The double glass doors leading into the prosecutor’s offices slide silently back and General Davis Armiston marched in. He stood six feet tall, walked with a military bearing that befitted a man of his experience, had a full head of dark-brown hair streaked with gray, all cleverly orchestrated by his stylist, a square jaw, rugged good looks, and wore an immaculately tailored dark-blue pinstripe suit. Thanks to an excellent speaking voice, deep blue eyes, and a quick smile he was a public relations triumph.

  The receptionist buzzed Denise and she hurried out of her office to greet one of her star witnesses. “General Armiston, this is indeed a pleasure,” she cooed.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” he cooed back in French. She escorted him into her o
ffice and they sat down. An aid pushed a teacart loaded with the requisite silver service and pastries in after them. They bantered in French while taking mid-morning tea and carefully scouting each other. Then, “Madam Prosecutor, I hope you know how much this upsets me.”

  “Please, I prefer Denise. I can understand your feelings about testifying against a fellow officer.”

  “Denise, I hope you know there are many Americans who support and believe in the International Criminal Court.”

  “It is the wave of the future,” she assured him.

  “No doubt you are aware that Gus is basically a good man, certainly an excellent pilot, but like so many of his generation, an automaton who never understood the moral ramifications of his actions when flying combat.”

  “Which is exactly what we must explain to the world,” she said.

  “I hope you know there are certain things I cannot, and will not say.”

  A niggling doubt tweaked at her. “Then we must go over your testimony in some detail – to preclude any misunderstanding. But for the moment, we must discuss what you can expect when interviewed by our media.”

  “The media has never been a problem in the past,” he assured her.

  “Ah, yes,” she replied. “But I think you’ll find Harm de Rijn much different than his American counterparts.”

  Armiston smiled. “And when will this happen?”

  “At your convenience,” she replied.

  Armiston became all business. “I have an opening this afternoon at four.”

  “Justice Bouchard has issued what you Americans call a gag order. I’m hoping that you will say what I cannot.” He gave a tight smile in answer and she picked up her phone to arrange the interview. “Done,” she told him. “Four o’clock at your hotel.” She handed him a typed list of questions. “Here’s what you can expect.”

  Armiston scanned the list. “I need to speak to my advisors but I see no problem.” He stood. “This suit will never do. Denise, I believe that you and I will get along famously.”