A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  Denise shot a sharp look at Bouchard who picked up his gavel. Touched a nerve there, Gus thought. Hank held up his hand and Bouchard laid the gavel down.

  Hank continued to review the witnesses and evidence. “In the end, it comes down to a very simple question. What law applies? Is it the Rome Statute creating the International Criminal Court, which came into force some eleven years after Mutlah Ridge, or is it the international law of armed conflict? Need I remind the court that under the law of armed conflict, Gus Tyler has committed no crime?”

  He turned to Denise. “The prosecutor appealed to our humanity and sense of justice when she said ‘We have before us the rare opportunity to bring a small justice to a far land.’ But how can we bring justice to a far land without first establishing justice in this court, in this land? A far justice begins here.”

  He sat down as applause erupted from Gus’s rooting section and spread across the room. Bouchard banged his gavel and slowly regained control of his court.

  Gus checked his watch. Thirty-one minutes. Not bad.

  Bouchard mustered as much dignity as he could. “The chamber will now retire to consider a verdict. The court stands adjourned.”

  The clerk popped to his feet. “Please stand as the judges retire.”

  The clock is running, Gus thought, feeling sure and confident for the first time in months. He looked at Aly who nodded back.

  Hank paced the carpet in front of his desk. “I blew it.”

  Catherine exhaled in frustration. “You knew the odds when you went in. Be honest, it’s an ego thing. You hate to lose.”

  Hank slumped in his chair. “I know.”

  She leaned over him, her cheek next to his. “No one could have done better. Now let’s go to dinner.”

  Aly ran into the office. She grabbed the remote control and cycled the channel to CNC-TV. Marci Lennox was seated in a studio with a bearded young man. “With us is Hans Gerhardt who is considered the world’s leading expert on electronic voice authentication.” She listened attentively as Gerhardt confirmed the voice they had just heard on the CD was Henri Scullanois. “Can you determine when the conversation took place?” Gerhardt said he could not, but the recording was authentic.

  The screen cycled and Liz Gordon, the channel’s premier anchor in New York, appeared. “Marci, I have with me the Netherlands’ ambassador to the United Nations, Doctor Peter Rohr. Dr. Rohr, while we cannot reveal the source of this recording, I can assure you the source is unimpeachable. How will your government respond?”

  The ambassador cleared his throat. “Well, I must confer with my government. However, if what you say is true, there does appear to be compelling evidence that the French minister of foreign affairs was in collaboration with officials in Beijing to use the International Criminal Court to bring undue influence to bear on the United States and turn it to political advantage not only in the United Nations but within the European community.”

  “Dr. Rohr, the political alliance between Scullanois and the prosecutor’s husband, Chrestien Du Milan, is well known. What are the implications, not only for the trial of Gus Tyler, but for the United Nations?”

  “I cannot speculate on that. But as you are well aware, there is a growing dissatisfaction among my countrymen with the trial of Colonel Tyler, and the exact role of the prosecutor, Denise Du Milan, in all this must be determined.”

  The screen cycled back to a split image of Gordon and Marci Lennox in the Netherlands. “Marci, what has been the reaction in Europe?”

  “It’s far too early to tell,” Marci answered. “But a high Dutch official I spoke to minutes ago said, and this is a direct quote, ‘It certainly raises the specter of a Doctor Strangelove prosecutor.’ What effect this will have on the three judges who have entered deliberations remains to be seen.” The newscast broke for a commercial.

  Hank connected the dots. “So that’s what Westcot was up to.”

  “Let’s go talk to Gus,” Catherine said.

  Without a word, Hank opened his percom to jam the bugs in Gus’s cell. Cassandra announced that they were secure and called the Mayo in the States. Hank stepped outside to give Gus some privacy. Michelle answered on the first ring. Her voice matched the concern on her face. “The news is so confused over here,” she told him.

  “It’s confused over here too,” Gus replied. “Don’t give up hope.”

  “We won’t,” she said. “Here’s Mom.” Michelle swung the phone’s camera around as Clare walked across the room pushing a walker. She was wearing a stylish exercise outfit and moved with surprising confidence.

  “Hello darling,” Clare said. They talked for a few moments and she reassured him she would be walking unaided in a few more days. “I’m making amazing progress. Now, what’s happening over there?”

  “I’m not sure what’s going to happen now.” He lowered his voice so Hank couldn’t hear. “I don’t know when I can call again.”

  She understood. “Do what you have to do. We’ll be here.”

  “I love you, Hon.”

  “We all love you,” Clare said.

  Gus broke the connection and opened the door for the lawyer. They talked for a few moments before Hank left. Gus stretched out and pretended to read and ignored the TV that he suspected was again monitoring his every move and word. He turned on the shower, peeled off his shirt, and absentmindedly threw it over the TV. He quickly shed the rest of his clothes, but rather than get in the shower, he unwound the roll of paper towels where he had hidden the sleeping pill. He placed it in his pants pocket and jumped in the shower just before the automatic valve turned off the water. When he retrieved his shirt, the monitor recorded his wet head of hair.

  An hour later, Therese Derwent knocked on his open door. “May I come in?” She held up two carrier bags with dinner. He motioned her in and she unpacked a dinner. They carried on a light conversation until they were almost finished. Slowly, he ratcheted up the tension, venting his anger and despair.

  “You really dislike Bouchard,” she said. “Does he remind you of anyone?”

  “You mean like my father? No, not at all.” They continued to talk as Gus cleared the table. He poured the wine in plastic cups and handed her one. She sipped as she listened to him talk and slowly unwind. The lights blinked, warning them they had fifteen minutes to lights out.

  “I do have to go,” she said.

  “I’m enjoying the conversation,” he said.

  She nodded and reached for the phone. “I’m with my patient. We require privacy, and leave the door unlocked.”

  “They’ll think you’re spending the night,” Gus told her.

  “It doesn’t matter what they think,” she replied. “You are my patient.” She gave him a beautiful smile. “And a friend.”

  Gus hated what he had to do as he paced their conversation. He walked to the kitchenette and refilled their cups. He dropped the sleeping pill he had hoarded into her wine and padded back to the table as the lights dimmed. She took the cup.

  Gus was worried. Therese was curled up on his bunk, not moving. The pill had worked much faster than he had expected and he was afraid that it might have been too strong for someone her size. He checked his watch. It was 1:20 and she had been asleep for over three hours. Her breathing seemed normal and he covered her with a second blanket. He rummaged through her handbag and found her ID card. He stepped to the door and depressed the latch. The guards had left it unlocked for her as she had ordered.

  He stepped into the corridor, surprised to find it was in half-light. The frugal Dutch, he reasoned. He moved down the corridor towards the gated entry point. Be asleep. He swiped her ID card through the lock and heard it click open. He walked through and looked into the control room. The guard’s head was slumped forward. Gus ghosted down the corridor and into Therese’s office near the main entrance. Once inside, he took a deep breath and sat down. His knees were weak. He switched on the light and found the psychiatrist’s handbag. He rummaged through it and found her reg
ular badge. His mouth was dry and he filled a glass with water. He guzzled half of it. He took another drink and held it in his mouth, letting it trickle down his throat.

  He wasn’t sure what to do next. Rather than return to the main corridor, he tested the rear door to her office. It was locked. But there was no groove in the lock to swipe the ID card. He held her regular badge against the lock and was rewarded with the familiar click. He cracked the door and glanced outside. A service corridor. He looked for a video monitor but couldn’t find one. He stepped into the dimly lit passageway and closed the door behind him. Again, he searched for a monitor. He found it mounted directly above his head, rotating back and forth. Damn. He watched it sweep back and forth, timing how long he had to reach the end of the narrow hall and get through the next door.

  The camera rotated past his position and he ran for the door. The lock was different and neither the ID card nor the badge worked. The camera was swinging back toward his end of the passageway. Desperate, he ran the edge of the ID card down the door jam finding the lock bolt. He pressed and the bolt slipped back. He darted through the door, hoping he had made it in time. Much to his surprise, he was standing in the center hall of the business offices. I’m inside the administration block. That explains the regular lock to the service corridor. He walked quickly to the heavy gate at the entry control point. Again, the ID card worked and he stepped into the lighted main entrance hall. Ah shit!

  A guard was sitting behind the console, his back to Gus and facing a bank of monitors. Gus’s inner Klaxon was in full alarm. He was out of time and ideas. When in doubt do something, even if it’s wrong. It was a suicidal fallback position and he knew it. He marched up to the guard’s console as if he owned the place. He studied the monitors over the guard’s shoulder. The guard wheezed and snored lightly. Complacency: the price of constant vigilance.

  He studied the control panel, trying to figure out the switchology. It was simple; the control button for each gate was directly under that gate’s monitor. The guard snored again. Gus walked around to the front of the console, reached over, and pressed the button under the monitor for the main gate. He heard a faint click and the heavy door slid back. He walked into the entry rotunda and the gate slid closed behind him.

  He walked straight ahead, certain a guard was drawing down on him. He pushed through a heavy glass door and stepped into the street. Okay Aly, where are you? He trotted down the steps and turned left. A blue Mercedes drove up and stopped. The window rolled down. “Get in,” a voice said.

  FORTY-TWO

  Amsterdam

  The phone rang at 5:13 Saturday morning. Hank fumbled for it. “Yeah.” He sat up in bed. “When?” He listened for a moment. “We’ll get there as soon as we can.” He nudged Catherine awake. “Gus escaped last night. That’s all I know.” He jumped out of bed and turned on his percom. “Cassandra, are you there?” There was no answer. “Must be out of juice.” He leaned the percom against an electric outlet to recharge while he dressed. Four minutes later he picked it up, but it was still dead. Catherine was ready and they ran for the elevator.

  Maarn, the Netherlands

  Gus sat back in his chair and cradled the hot cup of coffee in his hands as a young man cleared away the remains of an exquisite breakfast. He gazed out the window of the sunroom of the old manor house where he had taken refuge. He wasn’t surprised when Max Westcot walked in. Gus came out of his seat and they shook hands, still two old friends. “I can’t thank you enough for helping Clare and now all this.” He waved at his surroundings. “I can never repay you.”

  “Actually, you have,” Westcot replied. “It isn’t often we make a medical breakthrough like that and Clare was the key. There’s a lot more to it than we told you, and part of it was very painful at times. As for the ICC, I was more than happy to get involved when the President asked.”

  “By the way, where are we and exactly how safe is this place?”

  “We’re less than fifty miles from The Hague, but I don’t think the Dutch are too interested in finding you. Not after yesterday.” He laughed. “You really had us jumping through the hoops when Aly called Suzanne. You had no way of knowing that we were going to spring you. It was all in the works for when the Dutch transported you to a more secure prison.”

  “And if they turned me over to the Iraqis?”

  “We would have intercepted the jet taking you there. Walking out on your own made things a lot easier. You’ll have to stay here for a few days while we arrange to transport you to Morocco, which is not a member of the ICC. From there, it’s a piece of cake to get you to the States.”

  Gus thought for a few moments. “I need to take care of some business first.”

  “This had better be important.”

  “It’s something I’ve got to do.” Gus leaned forward, savoring the idea. “But I need a little help.”

  The Hague

  The forecourt to the palace was awash with TV crews, reporters, and spectators when Hank and Catherine drove past. The cab driver drove around to the rear of the building and let them off at the staff entrance. But they were immediately surrounded by a crush of reporters. Marci Lennox’s burly bodyguard bulldozed his way through the crowd, clearing a path for Marci. “Hank,” she called, “do you have a statement?”

  “Sorry,” he called, “I’m still under the court’s gag order.”

  “Is the United States behind his escape?” she shouted.

  “At this point, you know more than I do.” He pushed his way through the gauntlet with Catherine right behind him.

  Aly was alone in the office, waiting for them. “Any news?” Hank asked. She shook her head and Hank looked at Catherine.

  “You need to speak to Max Westcot,” she advised.

  Aly punched at the phone while Hank tried to call Cassandra on his percom. But it was still dead. The phone buzzed and Hank answered. Winslow James, the deputy charge of mission, was on the line and demanded his immediate presence at the Embassy.

  Winslow James was icy politeness when Hank and Catherine arrived at the Embassy. “The ambassador is in teleconference with the Secretary of State. The Dutch government is demanding an explanation that we cannot provide.”

  “I’m in the dark as much as you are,” Hank replied. He hoped it wouldn’t become a permanent condition.

  James didn’t answer and buzzed the ambassador, telling him that Hank and Catherine had arrived. “The ambassador will see you immediately.” He led the way into the ambassador’s office and introduced them.

  “That will be all, Winslow,” the ambassador said. James nodded coldly and left.

  “That’s why he’s so frosted,” Catherine murmured as they sat down. “He’s out of the loop.”

  “Well,” the ambassador said, “your Colonel Tyler has certainly embarrassed our Dutch hosts. Apparently, he simply walked out of the prison last night and disappeared. There was a woman involved, the prison psychiatrist. She was found in his cell this morning. He had drugged her with one of the sleeping pills she had given him and he then used her ID card to open the gates.” The ambassador tried to play it straight, but he was obviously enjoying the moment. “The guards were asleep at the switch, so to speak.” He gave up any pretenses and laughed heartily. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know where he is?”

  “I have no idea,” Hank admitted.

  “As I assured the Secretary of State.” There was no doubt that the ambassador was pleased with the turn of events. “The Colonel’s escape solved a major problem for the Dutch, especially after the revelations about the French connection with the Chinese. It’s becoming increasingly clear that the trial is a gross miscarriage of justice, but the Dutch are caught on the fence. They can’t afford to anger the EU and the United States at the same time. They are more relieved than upset, and I don’t think they will press the search too hard.” He paused to let it register. “It would be in everyone’s best interests,” he added, “if you were not available for comment to the press,
and then returned to the States as soon as possible. I fully expect the Senate will investigate and that you’ll be called to testify in the very near future.”

  Hank bristled. “I’m not going to be the Senate’s whipping boy on this.”

  “Credible denial will be essential when you’re testifying before a committee,” the ambassador said. “You’ve done your part in this. It’s time to step aside.” He was all charm as he stood. “Counselor, Mrs. Sutherland, thank you so much for coming.”

  Hank held Catherine’s arm as they walked out. He waited until they were safely in an embassy staff car and headed back to the ICC before he vented. “What the hell is going on? I’m feeling more and more like the proverbial mushroom.”

  “The ambassador was very candid,” Catherine replied. “Think about it.”

  He did. “That was the carrot to step aside.”

  “And the threat of a Senate investigation is the stick,” she added. “The ambassador was right, let it go. You’ve done all you can.” Catherine’s cell phone buzzed with a message from Aly. She glanced at it and hesitated before punching it off. “Bouchard’s called the court into a special session Monday morning.”

  “Well,” Hank said, “we’re not going home quite yet.”

  Denise stood at the big window of her fourth-floor office. Her arms were clasped tightly and her head was lowered as she studied the demonstrators swirling down the street below her. Even without her glasses, she could easily read the signs that proclaimed DR STRANGELOVE LIVES HERE. An arrowhead of other demonstrators cut into the first group chanting “Guilty! Guilty!” Then as rapidly as it had started the two groups separated, going in opposite directions. She willed Chrestien to return her call, but the phone remained silent.

  Denise returned to her desk and sat down. She picked up the remote control and switched on the DVD to replay the last day in court while she followed along on the printed transcript. She uncapped her OMAS and underlined Hank’s key arguments. She circled the phrase ‘Ultimately, the Prosecutor’s case rests on the tainted evidence submitted by Watban Horan.’