The office intercom buzzed at her. She checked the name on the readout. It was the assistant prosecutor and, suddenly, she knew. “You asshole,” she muttered in English. There was no doubt that he was the ‘unimpeachable source’ of the intercepted telephone conversations between Scullanois and Beijing. But how did he come by it? Her anger flared. In her world, he was a piss ant of a man, not worth the time of day. She ignored the call. Yet a voice deep inside held her to account. She had been more than ready to condemn an innocent man because he happened to be an American and it suited the politics of the moment. She was very much part of the very system that was collapsing around her.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Damn you!” she cried, including herself in all those she indicted. Tears streamed down her face. She dropped the OMAS to the floor and it rolled under her chair.
FORTY-THREE
The Hague
Catherine was frightened as the taxi nudged through the crowd surrounding the Palace. A protestor banged his sign off the roof and yelled an obscenity in German. “Where are the police?” the Dutch driver said in English. “There are times when I’m ashamed of my country.”
“I have the same problem,” Hank grumbled. The driver stopped at the security barrier to the rear entrance where four very troubled guards refused to wave the cab through. “Looks like they’re better at keeping people out than in.” Hank got out and partially closed the door. “Cathy, all things considered, it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge. I think you’d be safer at home, in the States.”
She pushed the door open and got out. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” She glared at the guards who split apart and let them enter.
As usual, Aly was waiting in the office with the morning newspapers and coffee. “You’d think Gus is the most dangerous man on the face of the earth,” she said, dumping the newspapers in front of Hank. He glanced at the headlines. “Isn’t your government going to do anything?”
“Aly, I just don’t know.” He glanced at the clock. “Time to go.”
The courtroom went silent as Hank and Aly took their places at the defense table.
“Good morning, Madame Prosecutor,” Hank said. Denise ignored him and looked straight ahead. The spectators buzzed in anticipation but quieted as the clerk announced the judges’ entrance. Hank studied Richter and Della Sante, trying to read them as Bouchard went through the opening ritual.
Bouchard cleared his throat and looked at Hank over the top of his reading glasses. “As you may know, this chamber met over the weekend in its efforts to achieve a verdict. We are nearing that goal. However, the escape of the defendant at this point creates an unprecedented situation that the framers of the Rome Statute did not anticipate and therefore must be clarified. Madam Prosecutor, do you wish to address the court before we continue?”
A very subdued Denise stood. “The prosecutor only wishes to remind the court that flight by the defendant presupposes the assumption of guilt by the defendant.” She sat down and Bouchard nodded at Hank.
Hank stepped to the podium. “If it may please the court …”
Bouchard interrupted him. “It does not.” Applause swept through the audience.
Hank handed a blue-covered petition to the clerk. “Article Sixty-three of the Rome Statute requires the accused to be present during the trial. Without the defendant’s presence, we cannot continue here.” He sat down.
Bouchard allowed a little smile. “The court has anticipated your petition and is ready to rule.” He started to read. “The absence of the accused by virtue of his escape, after testimony by witnesses, evidence presented, and final arguments made, does not preclude the trial chamber from rendering a verdict in his absence. In fact, to not do so would be a lapse of our judicial duty.” He glanced at Denise before continuing. “However, the court cannot impose a sentence as long as the defendant remains in absentia.”
The side door burst open and one of the court’s security guards scurried up to the clerk’s table. He whispered in the clerk’s ear as his eyes kept darting at the three judges. For a moment, the clerk stared at him, not fully comprehending what he was hearing. The massive double doors at the rear swung open and every head pivoted.
Gus walked in wearing his uniform.
His medals and service ribbons were carefully in place under his pilot’s wings, his shoes buffed to a bright shine, and his hair cut short in a military style. There was no doubt a warrior was in the courtroom. Jason followed close behind with three of his fellow security policemen. The four men were not in uniform but dressed in dark suits with carefully knotted red ties. Jason closed the doors behind them and the four men stood easily by, guarding the door.
Gus took six steps and halted when he reached Toby Person. He threw his old comrade-in-arms a sharp salute before continuing down the aisle. Every eye followed him but instead of stepping into the dock, he joined Hank and Aly at the defense table. Gus nodded at the bench. “Your Honors, I apologize for being late.” He sat down.
The clerk hit the panic button under his table and the side door burst open as six of the court’s security force charged through. They headed straight for Gus. “Halt!” Jason ordered. The six men skidded to a stop and looked at each other. “We’re not armed,” Jason reassured them, opening his coat. While the guards carried Mace and radios, the court did not allow them weapons. Jason jerked his head at the side door, his face hard. It was an unspoken command to leave. They quickly retreated, not willing to challenge the Americans. The first security guard, who was still standing beside the clerk, looked at Bouchard whose face had gone deathly pale. The guard glanced over his shoulder as his six companions disappeared out the door. He hurried to join them.
“Please continue,” Gus said, his voice full of command.
Bouchard’s mouth opened but no words came out. Saliva dribbled out the corner of his mouth and he slumped forward. Della Sante was at his side immediately. “Call the medics!” she ordered.
“I’m a doctor,” Toby said. He was out of his seat and hobbled to the bench where he leaned over the comatose Bouchard. “He’s suffering a stroke.” He started CPR as pandemonium broke out among the spectators.
Marci was on the TV, splitting the screen with Liz Gordon in New York. “I have never witnessed anything so electrifying in my entire career. Gus Tyler’s entrance was a moment timed to perfection and a challenge to the court’s authority. Yet at the same time, he was yielding to the court, but on his own terms.”
“Where is he and what is happening right now?” Gordon asked.
“Colonel Tyler is in the defense counsel’s offices with Hank Sutherland and four bodyguards led by his son. The Reverend Person is reported also to be with them. Justice Bouchard is in the hospital and the latest report indicates he suffered both a heart attack and a stroke. He is in critical condition and not expected to survive. The Dutch police refuse to enter the palace and claim it is beyond their jurisdiction. However, the court’s own security guards, who are not allowed to carry weapons, want nothing to do with Colonel Tyler’s son and his bodyguards. I might add that all four are huge men and Jason Tyler is an overpowering force in himself. These are men no one wants to trifle with.”
“So is this a standoff of some type?” Gordon asked.
“I’m not sure. The two judges, Della Sante and Richter, have met with the presidency of the court and are now closeted with President Relieu. We can only assume they are going ahead and are still considering a verdict.”
“I think it is safe to say that there is definitely more to come,” Gordon said.
“Indeed there is, Liz. This is Marci Lennox standing by in The Hague.” They were off the air.
“Marci,” Gordon said, still maintaining the downlink, “good work. We’re out in front on this one and swamping CNN, Fox, and the other networks. An interview with Person will bury them.” She checked her watch. “Make it happen in ninety minutes and it will lead the news tonight. We’re talking a ratings blow out.�
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“I can do that,” Marci said.
Aly was back from the canteen pushing a cart laden with sandwiches, salads, and drinks. “Lunch,” she sang. She maneuvered through the crowded office passing out the food. She stopped beside Toby. “How are you feeling? I have some hot soup if you would prefer that.”
“My fever broke over the weekend and I’m weak as a kitten but feeling much better. Soup would be fine.” She handed him a bowl.
“Did you hear anything at the canteen?” Catherine asked.
“No one really knows anything but everyone has an opinion. I did hear that Della Sante asked for the verdict guidelines, but I don’t know what that means.”
“It means,” Hank replied, “that they’ve reached a decision.” He paced the floor and stopped at the window overlooking the forecourt. “Look at that. It’s deserted.”
“Everyone is holding their breath,” Gus said.
“Gus,” Hank said, “whose idea was it that you come back?”
“All mine,” Gus answered. “I wanted to show the bastards that I wasn’t afraid of them and make it clear that I’m not some common criminal.”
“Then you always intended to go back?” Catherine asked.
“No. But Max brought me up to speed on what was going down, and I had a quick change of plans.”
The phone buzzed and Aly picked it up. She listened for a few moments and hung up. “The court will reconvene at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“That was fast,” Jason said.
The phone rang again and Aly answered. “Hank, she said, “please turn on your percom.” She dropped the phone into its cradle. “In private.”
“Was that Cassandra?” Hank asked.
“It was a woman with an American accent. I didn’t recognize the voice and the screen was blank.”
Hank beckoned for Catherine to follow him into his inner office. She closed the door behind them and moved out of the percom’s field of view. Hank opened the cover and a woman’s image came on the screen. But it was not the computer generated Cassandra. This was a very plain, very dowdy, middle-aged woman with salt and pepper streaked hair. “Cassandra?” he asked.
“This is the real me. Is Catherine with you?” Hank motioned his wife to join him. “There’s nothing more we can do to help which is why Mr. Westcot cut us off. But there are a few things you probably should know. Our ambassador to the UN submitted a resolution for the Security Council to censure France. It’s a dead issue and isn’t going anywhere, but it was enough to force the issue into the open and upset France’s applecart. The EU is making ominous noises and France is running for cover. The foreign minister, Henri Scullanois, along with his buddy, Chrestien Du Milan, are taking the fall on this one. The UN is actually showing some backbone and China is looking for a compromise.”
“What’s happening with the court?” Hank asked. “I don’t have a feel for it.”
“Our sense of the situation,” Cassandra said, “indicates they are cutting their losses and want to be rid of Gus, and you, the quicker the better.”
“Cassandra,” Catherine asked, “does Max Westcot know you’re talking to us?”
Cassandra shook her head. “I didn’t want to go without saying good-by.” The screen went blank.
“Why did she do that?” Hank wondered. “Westcot will probably fire her when he finds out.”
“Because she’s a woman,” Catherine answered. She wanted to tell him that Cassandra loved him, but she was certain he would not understand. They rejoined the others in the outer office. “Where’s Toby and Jason?” Catherine asked.
Aly looked up from her desk. “Toby’s down in the main courtroom doing a live interview with Marci Lennox. Jason went with him.”
“No harm in that,” Hank said.
Marci took her cue and looked directly into the camera. “I’m in the main courtroom of the International Criminal Court in the Hague with the Reverend Tobias Person.” The camera panned backed to include Toby sitting in his wheelchair with the judges’ bench in the background. “Reverend Person,” she began.
“Please call me Toby.”
Marci nodded. “Thank you, Toby, for talking to me. First, please let me extend my condolences, and those of my friends and colleagues for the recent loss of your wife and family. I know it must have come as a great shock when you learned your mission had been destroyed.”
Toby nodded. “Thank you, but it wasn’t a shock.”
Marci blinked, temporarily at a loss for words. “I don’t understand.”
“I live and work in a very dangerous part of the world, Marci. Everyone at Mission Awana knew the hazards and the dangers. We live with that knowledge everyday of our lives.”
“I know many of our viewers are wondering why you didn’t take your wife and family to safety when you could.”
Toby never hesitated. “Because that was their home, their world. D’Na, my wife, dedicated her life to making it a better place for her children. It was my privilege to be a part of that.”
“But it was only by chance that you were spared.”
Toby smiled gently. “I was spared because there is still work for me to do.”
“I noticed you did not say ‘The Lord’s work.’”
Again the smile. “I do believe that.”
“You must find it extremely disappointing that you came here for nothing.”
The camera zoomed in on Toby’s face as he fixed Marci with calm gaze that astounded her. “I believe there’s a lesson here for the world. If ever there was an innocent man, it is Gus Tyler. He fought a war that needs no justification. The facts speak for themselves, and fighting that war was simply the right thing to do.”
Above all, Marci was a journalist, not afraid to ask the hard questions, to follow the trail wherever it led. “But by defending Colonel Tyler, aren’t you justifying your participation in that war?”
“Marci, we were fighting to correct a terrible wrong when there was no other remedy. Yes, I killed the enemy. And yes, in doing that I killed innocent people who were simply caught up in the way of war. I carry that burden with me everyday of my life, as I carry the burden of my family’s death. But we accomplished our mission.” He gestured at the bench of justice with its three empty chairs. “There is no justice here, only a sad collection of people hiding behind a thin veneer of civilization, merely spectators to all the wrongs of the world. So in a pitiful attempt to soothe their consciences, and in the mistaken belief that war can be civilized, they judge those who were in the arena, fighting a war they could not.”
“But mistakes were made,” Marci said. “Shouldn’t someone be held accountable? Isn’t that what justice is all about?”
“Marci, in the midst of war terrible forces are set in motion. We stumble, we make mistakes, we go forward, and we fight to end it, the quicker the better. That is the way of war. All we can do is pick up the pieces afterwards and try to make a better peace. Because of Gus Tyler and many others like him, I think we did that. However, we all know there are evil men in the world who do terrible things and should be brought to justice. But Gus Tyler isn’t one of them. This court failed because it couldn’t make that distinction.”
“So you are condemning the court?”
“There was only politics here, Marci, not justice. The court did not make the world a safer place.”
“That is a hard verdict. Perhaps we should leave it there. But Toby, what are you going to do now?”
“Go back and rebuild.”
“But why?”
“For D’Na and my children. I don’t want their legacy to die with them.”
Marci turned to the camera, her eyes moist with tears. She paused. “This is Marci Lennox from the Hague.” She bowed her head and lowered her microphone.
FORTY-FOUR
The Hague
The glass double doors to her offices were locked and the lights were out when Denise arrived Tuesday morning. She fumbled with her ID card and finally managed to unlock
the doors and turn on the lights. She looked around and not seeing anyone, walked into her private office. The morning edition of Le Monde was on her desk where someone had laid it. “Ah, my loyal staff,” she said to herself in French.
The headline screamed TRAÎTRESSE! Without sitting down, she quickly scanned the lead article that labeled her as a Dr. Strangelove who had betrayed France and perverted the course of justice in what was being called ‘The China Affair.’ Standing immediately behind her, but not quite as guilty, was Henri Scullanois who had submitted his resignation and gone into seclusion. The whereabouts of Chrestien Du Milan was unknown and he could not be reached for a comment, but his lawyer said he was filing for a divorce. Another headline proclaimed, in English, MAKE THE WORLD SAFER! She didn’t have to read the story to know where that came from. Marci Lennox’s interview with Toby Person had captured the news and had ignited an explosion, pitting the staunch defenders of the court against its critics and Gus’s defenders.
Denise walked to the window and studied the huge crowd filling the street below. “Vultures,” she said aloud. As if by magic, the crowd parted as an ambulance nudged its way to the court. “Person,” she muttered. Denise donned her black robe and adjusted the white dickey. She glanced in a full-length mirror hating the image before her. She quickly shook out her hair and let it fall to her shoulders in massive disarray. She needed something to carry into court and picked up an elegant leather folder. Her eyes found the OMAS pen that was still lying on the floor. She stepped on it and slowly pivoted. It cracked and black ink stained the carpet as she walked away. She stood by the window, the folder clasped to her breast as she waited.
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