The intercom buzzed, jolting him awake. “The fuckin’ bloody kaffirs are back,” Landerrost said. “We need to talk. I’m in the radio shack.” Jason acknowledged the call and hurried outside, only to stop dead in his tracks. The first light of dawn etched the far horizon, and the compound was ringed with a fiery glow as an acrid smoke washed around him. He covered his mouth and nose and ran for the communications shack, finally breaking clear of the smoke. He blinked his tears away. The tall grass that surrounded the compound was on fire and he could see dark figures running through it with torches, feeding the fire and keeping it alive. A flash and a geyser of earth erupted skyward when one of the soldiers stumbled into the minefield.
Instinctively, Jason ran for cover, trying to reach the cement-block communications shack. An incoming mortar shrieked overhead and Jason fell to the ground, his arms wrapped over his head. The communications shack erupted, engulfing him in a wave of smoke and debris.
THIRTY-FIVE
Southern Sudan
Jason walked through the still smoldering wreckage of the compound’s communication shack in the early morning light. He pushed part of the roof aside and stared at Landerrost’s dismembered body. “One mortar round,” he said to himself. “Over here!” He waited but no one answered his call. “What the hell?” He worked his way out of the wreckage but didn’t see anyone. He headed for the infirmary where he heard loud voices arguing in Afrikaans. The eight men crowded around a desk fell silent when he entered. “I found Landerrost’s body and need some help.”
The men ignored him and kept talking among themselves. Jason listened without saying a word, and within minutes sensed what was wrong. Without Landerrost, they were a leaderless mob, pulling apart in their confusion and fear. Finally, they decided to negotiate their way out, but no one was sure exactly how. Only Leon, the medic, said it was a bad idea. “No one can negotiate with those bastards. They only understand what comes out of the muzzle of a gun.” He was shouted down and Simon, Landerrost’s old second-in-command, said he would try to make contact on a walkie-talkie.
Jason held back and spoke to Leon, anxious to find out exactly what they had to defend the compound. “There’s just the eight of you, right?” Leon nodded an answer and Jason asked about weapons. Leon’s reply was not encouraging. They had a heavy 7.62 mm machine gun, fifteen M16 assault rifles along with a healthy supply of ammunition, two hunting rifles, and four 9 mm Browning automatic pistols. “Any dynamite?” Jason asked. The medic estimated they had three or four cases. “Show me the minefield,” Jason ordered.
The grass fires were still smoldering as they walked the compound’s perimeter. Jason stopped, taking the lay of the land. Because of the fires, he had a clear field of view that reached to the main road approximately a kilometer away. He could see a truck, a personnel carrier, and soldiers milling about. “Why don’t the bastards attack?” Leon asked.
“They know there’s a minefield between us and them,” Jason answered. “I count fourteen of them and since they only fired one mortar round, I expect they’re waiting for reinforcements.”
“You’ve done this before?” Leon asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Jason replied. He was starting to take charge.
Île St-Louis
Chrestien Du Milan fumed at the summons from the Comtessa Eugenie but his strong sense of survival, not to mention common sense, urged him not to ignore it. Consequently, he dutifully presented himself on Friday morning at the Comtessa’s magnificently restored mansion. He carefully hid his impatience as he waited for the old woman to receive him. Finally, the Comtessa was ready and he was escorted into her bedroom. He rushed over to the bed and bussed her cheeks before being waved to a nearby chair. A butler pushed a teacart to his side and poured him a cup of coffee.
The old woman shifted her weight against the pillow and a maid hurried over to adjust it and rearrange the exquisitely embroidered bedspread. The Comtessa waved the maid and butler out of the room. She eyed Chrestien as she sipped her tea. “It is not going well in The Hague,” she began.
Chrestien sighed. “Nor in the United Nations.”
“Nor here,” she added. They sipped in silence. “We may have to take protective measures … what is the terrible expression the Americans are so fond of?”
“I believe the words you are seeking are ‘damage control.’”
“Ah, yes. Damage control. There may have to be sacrifices.”
Chrestien knew where the conversation was going. The Chinese gambit was stalled in the UN and they had to prepare for the worst. They needed a scapegoat and it was time to bargain. “Perhaps you are thinking of sacrifices in New York.”
The Comtessa gave him a cold look. “My son …”
“Forgive me, Comtessa. I had forgotten he was our ambassador to the United Nations.”
“I was thinking of The Hague,” the old woman said. “But only if we should we fail there, of course.”
“Of course,” Chrestien said. They were both on the same page. “But if there is also failure in the United Nations, there also will have to be repercussions here.”
“Of course,” the Comtessa said, thinking of another name. “Perhaps you should speak to Renée. I do hope she is bored with Henri.”
“I will see her tomorrow evening.”
The Hague
Rank after rank of protestors, their arms linked, marched passed the Palace of the ICC. They were laughing and joking until they neared the banks of TV cameras clustered in the forecourt. Then their shouts grew loud and angry as they were herded past the lines of police blocking their way into the forecourt. “Hang the bastard now! Hang the bastard now!” they chanted. Occasionally, a protestor would break free and toss a placard over the police line to litter the forecourt. Marci Lennox stood well back, next to the entrance as she spoke into a microphone. “The Dutch police cannot enter the court building as it is an international zone that enjoys extraterritoriality, much like a foreign embassy, and is beyond their jurisdiction. However, the Dutch have reinforced their barricades to ensure the protestors stay well clear. Fortunately, this protest is more orderly and controlled than the one we experienced on Thursday. But emotions are high and the anger is growing.”
A lone church bell tolled in the distance as the last of the protestors marched by. “It is now noon on this cold and blustery New Year’s Eve,” Marci said. The cameras swung as another, much larger mass of people approached the court. But this group was different. They were all well-dressed and walked in somber silence as their leaders carried a photo of Gus surrounded by a wreath of flowers. The cordon of police parted and the flower bearers carefully placed the wreath in the forecourt. Then they passed on. “The banner on the flowers is in Dutch. It says, ‘Justice for the innocent.’ This, I am told, is the way the Dutch show the world how to disagree.”
Southern Sudan
Jason watched the Russian-built helicopter, code named Hip by NATO, as it approached. It hovered above the compound and slowly pivoted, sweeping the area. The tan paint and roundel announced it was from the Sudanese Air Force. “Doing a little reconnaissance,” Jason grumbled to Leon. The helicopter settled to the ground and the five-bladed rotor spun down. Six heavily armed soldiers jumped out and set up a defensive perimeter. “Trusting souls,” Jason said. The man who got off next was wearing a Sudanese Army uniform and a white kaffiyeh, the traditional headdress of the Middle East. “A colonel,” Jason added.
Leon keyed on the kaffiyeh. “He’s a Wahhabi. Not good.”
The colonel was a tall, heavy-set man and needed a shave. He looked around contemptuously and fingered the flap on his holster. Satisfied that all was secure, he barked a command in Arabic and the soldiers lowered their weapons. “Now that’s an arrogant bastard if I’ve ever seen one,” Jason said.
Simon, still holding a walkie-talkie walked towards the colonel and extended his hand in friendship. The colonel ignored it. “I am Colonel Nasir al-Rahman. You are?”
“Simon Dreyer, the a
ssistant manager. Welcome to Westcot Five.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“We have been directed by our headquarters to leave,” Simon lied. “Of course, anyone who assists us will be amply compensated by Westcot Oil.”
Al-Rahman grunted. “Unfortunately, I cannot negotiate what you desire. However, if you will come with me, my general will hear what you have to say.”
Jason took the colonel’s measure. “I don’t trust the bastard any further than I can throw him.”
“If that far,” Leon muttered.
“I’m leaving,” the colonel said. “Stay or come.” He spun around, issued fresh orders, and climbed on board the helicopter. The turbo shaft engines spun up as the soldiers hurried to load. Simon was the last to climb aboard.
2
“He’s been gone too long,” Jason said. It was Friday evening and four hours had passed since Simon had left with the Sudanese Army colonel.
“It was a dumb idea,” Leon grumbled. He pointed to the north. “There. A helicopter.”
“It’s a Hip,” Jason said. “I think it’s the same one.” The helicopter settled at the far side of the compound, the side cargo door slid back, and a bundle was thrown off. The door closed and the helicopter took off as Jason ran towards the bundle that was wrapped in a blanket.
Leon was right beside him when they reached what looked like a body. The two men quickly unwrapped the bloody blanket and examined what was left of Simon. “God damn them to hell!” Leon shouted. “They cut off his head.” Four other men joined them and stared at the body.
“What do we do now?” one asked.
Jason took charge. “We start digging.”
THIRTY-SIX
The Hague
The lights were on when Hank and Catherine walked into the office early Saturday morning. Aly was sitting at her desk reading Friday’s edition of Le Monde. “Happy New Year,” she said, her heart not really in it.
Hank and Catherine chorused a “Happy New Year” back. “What are the Froggies saying about us now?” Hank asked.
“They called the court ‘besieged’ and spanked Du Milan for the way she handled Cannon. One writer said they’ve got the wrong man in the dock and nominated Cannon.”
Catherine laughed. “I wouldn’t want to be the cop who tried to arrest him.”
The TV in the corner came on of its own accord and Cassandra’s image filled the screen. “Would you be kind enough to turn on your percom?” she said. The screen went blank.
“How did she do that?” Hank wondered.
He opened the communicator’s cover and Cassandra’s voice came over the small loudspeaker. “Mr. Westcot asked me to tell you that one of his teams found Jason and the Reverend Person. They are safe and are at a Westcot compound approximately one hundred miles north of Juba. Jason is fine but the Reverend is badly wounded. Mr. Westcot is sending a helicopter to pick them up and expects they will arrive in The Hague late Monday afternoon.”
Aly threw her arms around Hank and hugged him for all she was worth. He had trouble breathing. “Cassandra,” Hank finally managed to choke, “will Person be able to testify?”
“I believe so,” Cassandra replied.
Hank pointed at his office. “Aly, please join us.” She quickly filled a carafe with coffee and followed them inside. She filled Hank’s coffee mug. “We have to make a decision,” Hank began. “Do we press ahead and put Gus on the stand Monday or do we delay until the Reverend is here and ready to testify? I can call four or five more witnesses and blow a lot of legal smoke, but that would only increase Bouchard’s blood pressure and might be counterproductive.”
“After Cannon’s testimony,” Catherine said, “we’ve definitely got momentum with the media. I don’t think we want to lose it.”
“There is much gossip in the building,” Aly added. “The court is very sensitive to public opinion and the demonstrations yesterday upset the presidents, especially Relieu.” Hank nodded at the news. The Dutch secretaries’ mutual protection and gossip society was alive and functioning well.
Catherine considered the tradeoffs. “Gus has definitely connected with the audience and they want to hear him. I think he will play very well with the media once he’s on the stand.”
“Is he ready?” Aly asked.
“We’ve been preparing for weeks,” Hank replied. ”We’ve got all weekend to polish his testimony. He’s ready – and eager.”
Aly was still worried. “What will Du Milan do to him on cross-examination?”
“After going through the grinder with Cannon,” Hank answered, “she’ll be tiptoeing very carefully, which is one reason to press ahead now, before she regains her confidence. If Gus does falter, I’ll jump in with an objection and give him enough time to recover. If that doesn’t work, I should be able to recover on redirect. But he’s not going to stumble.”
“Put him on the stand Monday,” Catherine advised. “Maintain the momentum and finish it off with the Reverend on Tuesday. Use Person like Du Milan used Schumann.” Aly nodded in agreement.
“Let’s go talk to Gus,” Hank said. He looked at Aly. “You want to tell him the good news about Jason and Toby?”
“Oh, yes,” she whispered.
Southern Sudan
Jason led Leon and the small band of six Afrikaners around the perimeter of the compound while Hon and Paride followed a few steps behind, not sure of the South Africans. The big American stopped when they reached the runway on the eastern side of the compound and jumped into a freshly dug foxhole. It was a defensive fighting position, or DFP for short, and little more than a rectangular-shaped, shoulder-deep hole scooped out by a backhoe. “DFPs are wonderful things,” Jason said. “But don’t get too attached to the one you’re in and remember we got more for fallback.” He pointed out the deep shaft, approximately a foot in diameter sunk in the bottom corner of the DFP. “If someone lobs a grenade at you, don’t throw it back, kick it in here. Take cover, protect your ears, and open your mouth. You’re going to have visitors who think the grenade morted you. Hopefully, you’ll be able to convince them you’re alive and well.”
He showed them how to quickly climb out and roll into the hollow depression that had been scraped out immediately behind the DFP. “This is for temporary cover only.” He stood, dusted his hands, and traced a crude map in the earth. He started by sketching in the White Nile that ran south to north. Working eastward, he drew in a swampy area. He skipped a space and made an oval for the compound. Next to the eastern side of the compound, he drew in the mile-long packed-gravel runway that ran parallel to the Nile. On the far side of the runway, he drew in the minefield that arced around to the swamp and sealed them off. He skipped another space and scratched in the road that was located a kilometer to the east, and, like the runway, ran parallel to the Nile.
“The bad guys are on the road and will have to cross the area they conveniently torched last night. That puts them in the open and we can get in a little target practice. If that doesn’t send them into reverse, it should speed them up and they’ll charge right into the minefield. If they get through the mines and reach the runway, they’ll come under our overlapping fields of fire.” He drew in a series of five Xs stretched along the compound’s side of the runway. “These five DFPs next to the runway are approximately a hundred meters apart and are our main line of defense.”
He drew in ten more Xs scattered throughout the compound that formed a rough triangle using the original five Xs along the runway as the base. The last X, the apex of the triangle, was less than fifty meters from the marshy area that led into the swamp. “If we can’t stop them at the runway, or if they flank us, we fall back into the compound. Give ground progressively, and fall back to the DFP immediately behind you.” He held up a walkie-talkie. “Everyone has one. Stay in contact so we can coordinate our actions and know where the other teams are.”
“What happens if we can’t hold the compound?” Leon asked.
“Then we’re
having a very bad day and we fall back into the swamp.” He tapped the last X. “Whoever gets here first covers the other teams so they can escape into the swamp.”
“There’s crocs out there,” Leon grumbled.
“No one said it would be easy,” Jason replied. He answered a barrage of questions, and when he was satisfied they all had the big picture, broke the Afrikaners into three teams. He assigned each team to a DFP in the forward line next to the runway, leaving the DFPs on the end unmanned. “Leon, you’re with me. We go where needed.”
One of the Afrikaners gestured at Hon and Lam. “What about them?”
“They’re the reserve with the machine gun,” Jason explained.
Leon exploded in a torrent of French invective that defied translation. “You’re giving them the machine gun?” he finally managed in English.
“You need to see something,” Jason said. He motioned for the men to follow and led them to the nearby Wolf Turbo that was armed with the heavy machine gun. “Hon, blindfold Paride.” The Dinka did as ordered and Jason said, “Paride, you climb aboard and strip the machine gun. Hon, you mix up the pieces. Paride, you put it back together. Go!” The men watched as Paride jumped into the truck and field stripped the heavy machine gun, dropping the components to the floor. Hon was right behind him and mixed them up. Without missing a beat, Paride fell to the floor and sorted the pieces. He then quickly reassembled the weapon. “Any questions?” Jason asked.
“Good enough for me, Boss,” one of the Afrikaners said.
“Boss, wake up.” Jason stirred and blinked, coming awake. Leon was hovering over him waving a handheld VHF radio in excitement. “It’s the helicopter. Fifteen minutes out.” The relief in the Frenchman’s voice was almost painful to hear.
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