“The court will take your petition under advisement,” Bouchard said. “You may present your defense.”
“If it may please the court,” Hank began. “The issue before us is amazingly simple: What law applies in combat? Is it criminal law as defined by the Rome Statute or the international law of armed conflict?”
Bouchard smiled. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Counselor. Save your legal arguments for your closing statement.”
“I’m simply trying to clarify the basic issue.”
“Call your first witness,” Bouchard ordered, cutting him short.
Hank started to protest but thought better of it. “We recall General Davis Armiston to the stand.”
The chief clerk stood. “General Armiston is not available at this time.”
“I see,” Hank said. “The defense calls Henri Scullanois to the stand.”
Denise was on her feet with an objection as Bouchard rapped his gavel and said, “Counsel is out of order.”
“Ah,” Hank murmured. “Let justice be done.” Before Bouchard could respond, “The defense recalls Secretary General Katelhong.” The side door opened and the Secretary General swept into the room, surprising Hank. “I’ll be damned,” he said under his breath. “I didn’t think she would show.”
“Is this good?” Aly asked.
“It could be,” Hank answered. “I’m surprised Du Milan didn’t tell her to stay in New York.”
“I don’t think anyone tells Madame Katelhong what to do,” Aly said.
Bouchard welcomed the Secretary General and reminded her that she was still under oath as Hank opened his leather folder. “Thank you for returning, Madam Secretary.”
“I do so in the interests of justice,” Katelhong replied.
“Madam Secretary, the court has heard gripping testimony by Doctor Gustav Schumann …”
Katelhong cut him off. “I have reviewed, in detail, all of Doctor Schumann’s testimony. It was an eloquent testimonial to the senseless brutality of war.”
Applause echoed over the courtroom and Hank studied Bouchard, certain the judge would allow Katelhong to say whatever she pleased. “Madam Secretary, in your previous testimony, you stated that the Gulf War of 1991 was under a United Nations mandate. Therefore, why hasn’t the United Nations investigated these alleged ‘war crimes’ committed in its name as claimed by this so-called Commission of Inquiry?”
“I cannot answer the question as I was not part of the United Nations at that time.”
“But as the prosecutor has pointed out, there is no statute of limitations on murder. Is this the first time these alleged crimes have come to the attention of the United Nations?”
“Again, I cannot answer that.”
Hank decided to bait her. “Of course. If the answer is ‘no,’ then there was no substance to the allegations because no war crimes were committed. If the answer is ‘yes,’ then the United Nations was, and is, derelict in its duty, or perhaps the ultimate authority responsible for the commission of the alleged war crimes.”
Denise stood to object but Katlehong raised her hand, silencing the prosecutor. For a moment, the courtroom was deathly silent. “War is a crime, Mr. Attorney.” She warmed to the subject and Bouchard let her speak. Much of what she said was a pure recitation of Schumann’s testimony from the day before but she started to repeat certain phrases. “There is no statute of limitations on aggression … the civilized world cannot permit the wanton murder of innocent civilians … the civilized world must stop genocide.”
When she finished, applause swept the room. “Madam Secretary, your sentiments are shared by everyone in this room. We all know that war is a brutal business with its own grim calculus.” He wondered how much more he could say before Denise objected and Bouchard cut him off. “However, this is a court of law that must deal with the hard facts of reality.” Denise was coming out of her seat. “I have one last question.” He waited for Denise to sit. “Can you provide the court with any evidence that directly links the defendant with committing aggression, wantonly murdering innocent civilians, or committing genocide?”
Katelhong stared at him. “No. But let me add this. You, sir, by your constant attacks on this court are damning the future.”
“But Madam Secretary, we are in a court of law, and we are concerned with justice in the here and now. I have no more questions.”
Denise immediately stood. “The prosecution has no further questions, and I wish to thank Madam Katelhong for taking her valuable time to appear before this court.”
Ziba Katelhong rose majestically and marched from the court. Bouchard ordered a recess for lunch, and Hank walked over to the dock to speak to Gus. “That lady swings one big bat with the judges,” the pilot said.
Hank looked at the empty bench. “Indeed she does. But Della Sante got the point. Hopefully, Richter did too.”
“Which is?”
“That Schumann’s testimony had nothing to do with the facts of this case. Because of public opinion, I couldn’t go after him, but Katelhong was a different story.”
Two hours later, they were back in session, and Hank called Andre Bolland, France’s patriarch of international law. The elderly man marched to the witness stand with a bearing and the dignity conferred on members of the Institut de France, that unique society charged with maintaining the intellectual and cultural integrity of France. For the next few hours, Hank led Bolland through the intricacies of international law. “So,” Hank concluded, “there is no inherent prohibition in the killing of innocent people in war?”
“Not if it occurs during an attack on an objective or target that is of military value,” Bolland replied. Hank thanked him and turned to Denise.
“Professor Bolland, I only have one question. “Is a civilian traveling in an escaping military convoy taking a direct part in hostilities?”
Bolland shook his head. “Taking a direct part? No.” Denise thanked him and sat down.
Hank stood. “Doctor, is pillaging a war crime?”
“Of course. Looters can be summarily executed in the act.”
“Is transporting stolen goods part of the act of pillaging?”
“Of course.” Hank turned to Denise. The old man looked very disappointed when she waived re-examination.
Bouchard checked the time and adjourned for the weekend. Aly gathered up their folders and returned to the office while Hank followed Gus to the holding cell. Gus was amazingly upbeat as they rehashed the day’s testimony. “I can actually see some light here,” he said.
Hank had seen it before. “It always feels good when you can finally swing back.”
“Jason arrived in Addis Ababa,” Cassandra said, interrupting them.
“That was quick,” Hank allowed. “What happens now?”
“He’s made contact with a helicopter crew from Westcot Oil who will fly him to Mission Awana tonight. The flight is about 450 miles each way, about three hours flying time. They should be back here by Sunday night. Westcot oil flies Super Pumas because it has a good safety record.” Hank relayed the information to Gus.
“A helicopter made by the Frogs,” Gus moaned. He thought for a moment. Then the old grin was back. “Hell, if it ain’t hard, it ain’t worth doin’.”
The two men talked for a few more moments before the guards came to take the pilot back to his prison. Hank watched Gus disappear down the corridor, amazed by his strength and resilience. He wondered if he could do half as well, and silently prayed that he would never have to find out. He couldn’t believe it, but for a moment he envied Gus. How many men had a chance to see all they were held up to the world’s scrutiny? To find out if their self-image matched reality? And to learn in the end that the image they held close to their hearts was enough.
Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
Jason huddled on the helicopter’s jump seat between the two pilots and shivered. “Damn, it’s cold,” he moaned. He hated the waiting and wished they would get moving.
“Didn’t an
yone tell you Addis Ababa gets cold at night, Mate?” the short copilot said. “The field elevation here is over 2300 meters.” Jason did a mental conversion and came up with 7600 feet.
“Where’s your coat?” the pilot asked. He spoke with a heavy German accent.
“Lost it with my suitcase.”
“Ah,” the pilot replied. “You didn’t pay the ‘consideration’ when you came through customs.”
“You mean bribe the inspector?”
“That’s the way the system works,” the pilot said. He checked the time. It was 0130 hours Saturday morning. “We’ll be starting engines in a moment.” The lights in the control tower went out and only the rotating beacon on top marked the night. “The field is supposed to stay open until 0200 but they always go home early.” The two pilots went through the engine start drill and the Super Puma’s big four-bladed rotor started to turn. The cabin heat came on. The copilot called the tower and asked for permission to taxi and takeoff. There was no answer, which was exactly what the pilots wanted. There would be no record of Westcot Oil’s helicopter ever having been at Bole International Airport.
The helicopter lifted off and departed to the south, avoiding the built-up areas around the city before turning westward. “Make yourself comfortable,” the pilot said. “We will land at Beica to refuel while we’re still in Ethiopia, then on into Awana. Want to get there before first light while the Arab arschfickers are still asleep.”
“I do appreciate this,” Jason said.
“No thanks needed,” the copilot said. “We can take a six month vacation for what Westcot is paying for this flight.”
Jason crawled into the passenger compartment and went to sleep, now comfortably warm. The copilot woke him ninety minutes later and told him to strap in for the landing at Beica. The refueling went quickly and they were airborne in less than twenty minutes. “Be on the ground at Awana in seventy-five minutes, mate,” the copilot told him. Jason stretched out on the seat and went back to sleep.
Jason wasn’t sure what woke him but he sat upright, aware that something was wrong. He listened for a moment and realized they were flying on one engine. He scrambled into the jump seat between the pilots and jammed a headset over his ears. “We’re losing power,” the pilot told him. “Probably contaminated fuel at Beica.” His baldhead gleamed with sweat. “We need to land.”
“Where are we?” Jason asked.
The copilot pointed to the moving map display on the instrument panel that was slaved to the GPS. “Seventy-five miles to the mission. We’re still over the Sudd. That’s a swamp where the Nile gets all dammed up. Bloody big place.”
“Can we land in a swamp?” Jason asked.
Again, the copilot pointed to the moving map, his worry now obvious. “There’s a village and high ground ahead of us. Fifteen miles.”
The right engine changed pitch. “Are we going to make it?” Jason wondered.
“Don’t have a choice now do we? Might be a good idea if you strapped in back there.”
Jason did as ordered and counted the minutes. If they were going 120 MPH, it would take seven and a half minutes to reach the village. Exactly eight minutes later, the right engine quit. “Brace yourself!” the copilot called. The nose of the Super Puma came up at a steep angle. “We’re going to auto gyro in. Landing light on.” Then, “Ah shit!”
The helicopter crashed down into a mud and wattle hut. For a moment, Jason couldn’t move. They were still right side up and intact. Then the copilot was out of his seat and coming towards him. He gestured at the pilot who was right behind him. “His landing, Mate. Not mine.” The two pilots wrenched the side door back and jumped out. Jason fumbled at his seatbelt but it was jammed. He was vaguely aware of smoke and a fire burning behind the helicopter. He heard shouts and a loud commotion as he finally freed himself. He stood in the doorway and felt sick. The crash had killed the people sleeping in the hut. The big rotor had cut one person in two and there was blood and body parts scattered over the wreckage.
Jason pushed through the wreckage in time to see a large group of angry villagers pushing and shoving the two pilots to the ground. A machete flashed in the flickering flames. A woman pointed at Jason and yelled. A man holding a bloody machete walked towards him, shouting in a language he did not understand. Jason held up his hands. “Mission Awana!” he shouted. “Mission Awana!” It was all he could think of.
The man stopped and spat out a torrent of words. Someone shouted a reply and Jason thought he heard the words “duh nah” five or six times. The man turned back to Jason, his face a mask.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The Hague
The halls of the palace were deserted when Hank and Catherine arrived Saturday morning. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lured them down the corridor and grew stronger as they reached their office. “Aly,” was all Hank said. “I wonder if she went home last night?”
“Probably not,” Catherine replied.
They pushed through the door to find the young woman pacing the floor. Without a word, Aly rushed up to Hank and handed him his percom. “You left Cassandra here last night. She’s been buzzing for the last five minutes. I tried to answer, but she doesn’t recognize me.”
“Damn,” Hank moaned. He flipped the lid open and Cassandra’s face appeared on the screen. “I’m afraid there’s bad news. Jason’s helicopter is missing. We know it refueled at Beica in Ethiopia early this morning but it never reached the mission. We also have satellite imagery of a helicopter that crashed into a village in the Sudd not too far from the mission.” The voice grew worried. “The photo shows the bodies of two men wearing white shirts and dark pants staked out on the ground near the wreckage. One’s bald and the other is too short to be Jason. We think they’re the pilots.”
“But no trace of Jason,” Hank said.
“None.”
“Well, that’s good news of a sort.” He thought for a moment. “I’m going to have to tell Gus. Can you give me a print-out of the photo?”
“It’s pretty gruesome,” Cassandra warned.
“Gus can take it.”
2
Hank didn’t recognize the woman sitting in the cell with Gus. “I don’t think you’ve met Doctor Therese Derwent,” Gus said. They shook hands in the European manner and Hank introduced Catherine and Aly.
Derwent read the situation correctly. “Perhaps I should leave.”
Hank sensed the psychiatrist was an ally and shook his head. “Gus, we’ve lost track of Jason.” He repeated all that Cassandra had told him and showed him the photo.
Gus’s face turned to stone. “That’s not him.”
“I helped Jason pack,” Aly said, fighting her tears. “He didn’t take a white shirt.”
“May I?” Derwent said, taking the photo. “I did field work in tribal villages in Africa. The bodies were left as a warning. If they had killed Jason, they would have displayed his body with the other two.”
Gus stormed out of the cell and paced the corridor. Hank started to join him but Derwent motioned him to stay back. “Give him time to work it out,” she said.
Gus slammed the palm of his hand against the steel door, sending an echo down the hall. Twice more he pounded the door without saying a word. Slowly, he reined in his emotions. He stood in the doorway as his breathing slowed. He spoke quietly, his voice under tight control. “God damn them to hell.”
“Tribal Africans have a simple, very primitive justice,” Derwent explained.
“Not them,” Gus said, his anger still boiling below the surface. “I understand where they’re coming from. It’s the bastards here. They live in some sort of fucking parallel universe where they have absolutely no responsibility for their actions.”
“You mean the court?” Derwent said, pushing him to focus his anger. Only then could she defuse it.
“Who the hell else? Look at Du Milan. She hasn’t got a clue what real life is like. It’s no concern to her that Jason is in harm’s way because of what she did to n
ail me. It’s like ‘Hey, I can do whatever I want because ‘humanity’ demands it. Tell me that’s justice.”
“That’s not what justice is about,” Hank said quietly.
Gus looked at his friend. “I know that, Hank. You want to make things better; you care about righting a wrong and protecting the innocent.” His anger was back. “But that is the last goddamn thing on her agenda.” He stalked back into the corridor, still seething with anger. Aly rushed out after him, tears streaming down her face. He held her in his arms as she cried. “It’s going to be okay, Love,” he murmured.
“How?” she asked.
Gus looked around to be sure they were alone in the hall and whispered in her ear as he pressed Suzanne’s business card into her hand. She nodded and held on to him, still crying.
Catherine held Hank’s arm tightly as they walked past the guard’s console in the main entrance hall. Hank paused long enough to sign out. He glanced at the bank of TV monitors in front of the guard. “The shrink Derwent is right behind us,” he said. “I think she’s in love with Gus.”
Catherine smiled at him. “You idiot. She likes him, but she’s too European, too much of a professional to let herself fall in love.”
Hank cocked an eyebrow. “Woman can do that?” The guard pressed a button under the screen monitoring the main entrance and the heavy entrance door slid silently back. They walked arm-in-arm into the cold, blustery afternoon.
“Hank, I know you’re feeling responsible for Jason.”
“It was my idea to send him there.”
“Don’t do it,” she cautioned.
“Do what?”
“Blame yourself. You’re not responsible for what happened.”
“I wish it were that simple.”
The Sudd, Southern Sudan
Flies buzzed around Jason’s head as he lay on the ground, his feet and hands tightly bound. A girl of about nine or ten years of age came into the hut and brushed the flies off his face. She helped him sit up and held a plastic jug to his lips. The warm water tickled down his throat as she carefully let him drink. “Where am I?” he asked.
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