Katia thought about this and smiled as she strode across the yard, back toward the unit where her cell was located.
The big Mexican still glanced at her occasionally with angry eyes. But the moment Katia looked back at her, the Mexican would look away. And her nose still did not look quite right. She and her friends now kept their distance. Even in the dayroom, which Katia had avoided for so long, she was now free to roam and watch television and no longer had to hide.
She knew that either Paul or Harry had made this possible. They had talked to someone at the jail, because one of Katias three cell mates, the Chica who ran with the big Mexican and was causing her problems, had suddenly been transferred to another cell. In her place a new Latina, Daniela Perez, was moved to the top bunk, above Katia.
Daniela was not Mexican. She was Colombiana, originally from Bogotá, and like Katia, she was alone, without friends in the jail. Ordinarily Ticas would be leery of Colombianas. People from Costa Rica have long feared the drug violence of Colombia. But somehow Daniela seemed different.
She was quiet. She kept to herself. But she would smile and say hello whenever they passed. This was not done in the jail. To smile or to say anything that might be seen as courteous was a sign of weakness. It would make you a victim, someone to push around.
She wondered how long Daniela would last if she was acting in this friendly way with others. Sooner or later she would smile and say hello to the big Mexican and the Chica gang would start in on her.
For two days Katia watched Daniela from a distance. The Colombiana was older and taller than Katia and seemed quite fit. She lifted weights every day in the exercise area. And while Daniela was pretty, Katia could tell she had lived a hard life. It was difficult to guess her age. Katia estimated maybe mid-thirties.
She had a large tattoo on her back that ran almost to the elbow on her left arm, a web like Spidermans that bulged and flexed whenever she lifted weights. Katia was amazed by how much Daniela could lift. She did not look that strong. It was in the technique, how she moved her body. Even some of the other women, the regulars who seemed to own the weights, were impressed. Katia saw two of them talking to Daniela, who said a few words, shook the hand of one of the other women, and then left to walk out to the yard.
It was that afternoon that everything changed. Katia had gone to take a shower. She often did this earlier in the day to avoid the other women. With the water running and facing the spray, she didnt see or hear them. The big Mexican and two of her friends came into the large communal shower bay behind her. They were wearing sweats and running shoes. Even though the Mexican was large and outweighed Katia by at least fifty pounds, she always traveled with at least two others.
One of them groped Katia from behind. When she turned around, startled, and tried to cover herself with her hands, they all laughed.
Relax, were not going to hurt you. Were just going to have a little fun, said the big one. When she reached out and tried to touch her, Katia pulled away. Then they started with the insults. They told her how worthless Ticas were, how the Costa Rican women preened like peacocks, showing their bodies in order to kowtow to the gringos. Katia turned and tried to finish her shower.
Dont you turn your back on me, bitch. The big Mexican grabbed Katia, spun her around, pulled her out of the spray, and pushed her against the tiled wall where the Mexicans could get at her without getting wet. The big Mexicans two friends grabbed Katias arms and held them to the wall. The big Mexican pumped some soap into her hand from the dispenser on the wall and rubbed it on Katias face and into her eyes.
Leave her alone!
Katias eyes burned. She couldnt see a thing, but she heard the voice. It came from somewhere outside the shower bay.
Suddenly the two women released Katias arms. She slid along the wall, away from them, toward the running shower. While they had their backs turned, Katia was able to quickly rinse some of the stinging soap from her eyes. In the yellow haze she saw Daniela standing in the entrance to the shower bay. She was wearing shorts, a jail top, and running shoes. There was a sheen of sweat on her body, as if she might have been out in the yard running.
Why dont you just leave her alone? said Daniela.
Why dont you mind your own business? said the big Mexican. Unless maybe you would like some of this too.
I dont think theres enough of you to go around, said Daniela.
Oh, you think so?
I know so.
It happened so quickly that Katia wasnt even sure what she saw. Through the lingering sting and blur of soap she remembered a flash of slick, muscled body as Daniela closed the distance. She came at them so fast and with so much aggression that the first instinct of the Mexicans was to back up. This forced one of them, the one closest to Katia, into the spray of the shower.
They braced themselves with their hands out, ready to take her. But Daniela was no longer there. She had dipped down onto her hands on the tile floor and spun her body. With a single powerful sweep of her muscled leg, she reached out and swept the feet from under all three of them.
Katia remembered the sound. It reminded her of coconuts on concrete as their heads hit the hard tile floor. The next thing Katia knew, the three women were on their backs, sliding across the soap-covered tile as if in slow motion. They lay there for several seconds with their mouths open, dazed.
Only one of them tried to get up. It was the big Mexican, and it was a mistake. She held on to the wall to steady herself, got to her feet, and with a look of fury in her eyes, she got a bead on Daniela, lowered her shoulder, and charged.
The sleek Colombiana stepped to one side, like a toreador in a bullring. She grabbed the Mexican by the hair as she passed and redirected her head, faceup, right into the tile wall.
Katia remembered the dull thud, the vibration against the wall, and the red river of the Mexicans blood that was flushed by the running water down the drain.
The woman lay there on the floor for more than a minute before her wide-eyed friends even stirred to help her, and when they did, they gave Daniela a wide berth in order to get there.
Katia thought the Mexican might be dead. But it didnt even seem to faze Daniela. To her it was simply the natural order of things, the law of the jungle in jail.
Katia and Daniela had spent most of the time since the shower altercation hanging together and talking.
Daniela told Katia that she had been arrested three days earlier in San Diego on charges related to drugs. But, of course, like everyone else in the jail, she was not guilty.
Paul had told Katia not to talk about her case with anyone, and so she did not. Even when Daniela asked Katia what she was in for, Katia told her flatly that her lawyers had told her it was best not to discuss the matter. It was difficult. Katia knew that she owed her safety and her newfound sense of independence to her friend.
After lockdown in the evenings they played cards, as they did tonight on top of the small table in the cell. Daniela had taught her several new games. Tonight they were into the third hand of gin rummy and Katia was having difficulty trying to decide whether to discard a three or a five when the cart rolled up in the hallway, outside their door. Katia turned her head to look. It was clean towels for the next day.
Ill get it, you play, said Daniela. She got up, walked over, and watched through the thick glass in the door as the laundry inmate outside stacked two towels. The inmate was about to put the towels on the pass-through, the metal device like a large mail slot next to the door. Then one of the male guards came down the hall. Starched uniform, sergeants stripes on his sleeve, hair in a crew cut, he stopped at the cart and talked to the inmate. Daniela couldnt hear what they said, but her heart nearly stopped when the guard looked at the towels, then reached into them for a quick frisk while he looked into the laundrywomans eyes. Guards often found drugs and other contraband this way.
He went on and the laundrywoman gave him a co
ntemptuous sneer. Then she placed the two stacked towels into the pass-through. Daniela took them on the other side.
Okay, I laid down the five, said Katia.
Just a sec. Daniela put one towel on Katias bottom bunk. The other she put on her own mattress. As she did so, she slipped her hand into the inner fold of the towel to feel for the tiny raised points of the checkered plastic handle. It was not much bigger than the box the playing cards came in, but the Walther PPK .308 carried a deadly punch. It was all she would need.
Yakov Nitikin could stall no longer. Alim was growing restless. Increasingly he conferred with the technician his own government had sent. The man was not familiar with the Russian device, but he knew enough about weapons design to realize that the time for assembly had arrived.
The barrel was clean. There was no corrosion, and the few tiny traces of oxidation that appeared on the metal parts had been meticulously cleaned and removed by careful handwork using strips of emery cloth. This was followed by a bath in light machine oil to remove any residue of abrasives left by the cloth.
Nitikin supervised all of it. First he instructed Alims men and then he watched them as they worked. He paid particular attention to the inside bore of the guns smooth barrel. Yakov was looking for any signs of pitting in the metal surface, anything that might cause drag or slow the speed of the projectile as it was fired down the barrel. The muzzle velocity required was a thousand feet per second, roughly the speed of an American .45-caliber bullet.
Even though the projectile was not designed or intended to clear the muzzle, and the barrel was less than three feet long, any significant reduction in velocity would result in a premature detonation. As the two subcritical elements of uranium came in close proximity, but before they could properly be assembled under pressure to initiate a chain reaction, a small nuclear explosion would tear the device apart, what physicists had long called a fizzle. Radiation would spill out, but it would be largely confined and easily cleaned up. The device and the entire mission would be a failure.
Alims technician knew this. What he didnt know was the proper order of assembly to make the weapon field ready. He had tried on several occasions to coax this information from Nitikin. But Yakov had given him sufficiently vague and confusing responses, further muddled by the need for translation between Russian, Spanish, and Farsi, that the man finally threw up his hands and said something to Alim. They gave up. Nitikin had, for the moment at least, remained indispensable. He decided that the time had come to play his hand.
Through the interpreter he told Alim that he had two demands. They were not requests. If Alim wanted his bomb, he would have to comply with both.
As the words were translated into Farsi, Yakov watched as Alims eyes transformed to two tiny slits and the cords in his neck protruded like steel cable.
First, for the final assembly of the device he, Yakov, would use none of Alims men, or his technician. In fact, they were barred from the hut where the work would take place.
Alim didnt like it. He was furious, arguing with the translator. At one point he reached for a pistol, seemingly ready to kill the messenger.
Before Alim could calm down, Yakov delivered the second demand. Maricela, Nitikins daughter, was to be delivered home to her house in Costa Rica by men of the FARC whom Nitikin trusted, with assurances guaranteed by the FARC that neither she nor her family would be harmed in any way.
Alims face flushed with anger.
But for Nitikin, both points were nonnegotiable. The reason for not using Alims men was the language barrier. At least thats what he told Alim. It was a dangerous process. One mistake, if the two portions of subcritical uranium came in contact or even close proximity, they could get a full-yield nuclear explosion, or at a minimum irradiate a good piece of the jungle. Yakov didnt want any confusion in the room and no bystanders to get in the way.
He would do the assembly alone, with the assistance of a single FARC rebel.
Without Alims knowledge, Nitikin had already selected the man. He was in his early twenties and seemed to have the best hands in the camp, long, nimble fingers and what appeared to be excellent hand-to-eye coordination. Both Nitikin and the rebel spoke Spanish, the common tongue. If Alim wanted his bomb, this was the price. He left little for the Persian to bargain with.
As Alim talked furiously with his technician, Yakov slipped in a few final choice words to the translator. He told the man that he and his FARC assistant would be tickling the tail of the dragon.
Then he watched as the translator conveyed the message. He wasnt looking at Alim. He was checking the expression on the technicians face as the mans shifting eyeballs suddenly shot in the direction of the Russian.
Yakov was not a good gambler, but if he had to take odds, he would have been willing to bet that the day they assembled the bomb, Alims technician would find some good reason to be in Medellín, a few hundred miles away.
TWENTY-FIVE
Harry and I had to wonder why, if the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court is so secret, the minions who pull its levers would want to show up in a state court judges chambers to tell us about it. The answer is that levels of government often like to piss on one another. Its a bureaucratic pastime.
The first thing we did when we got back to the office was to have it swept for electronic devices. When the detection equipment was turned on, it lit up like a Christmas tree. When they were finished, we stepped outside and they asked Harry and me if we wanted it removed. We conferred for a moment and agreed that the answer was no. Better the devil you know than the one you dont. Remove it, and theyd just find another better way.
So this morning Harry pitches one of the heavy volumes from our code books in the library. It lands with a thud on the table in front of me.
Check it out, he says. Fifty, U.S.C. 1803. Its the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. According to this it was passed in 1978, and amended under the Patriot Act a few years ago. Harry is reading from a stapled sheet of papers, something he printed off the Internet.
The most recent figures that are public are four years old. There were more than eighteen thousand warrants granted in that year alone and only four or five applications that were denied. Who could have guessed there were that many spies? says Harry. Or that many rubber stamps, for that matter.
Listen to this. Because of the sensitive nature of its business, the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court is a secret court: its hearings are closed to the public, and, while records of the proceedings are kept, those records are also not available to the public. Due to the classified nature of its proceedings, only government attorneys are usually permitted to appear before the FISC. What does that sound like to you? says Harry.
I dont know. A star chamber? I say.
A federal grand jury, says Harry. Its the same thing.
In the meantime they have the photographs, and we cant see them. They know two people have been murdered, probably over these same photos, but they dont care because this is outside the purview of their law enforcement union card.
At least you have the satisfaction of knowing that if the look on his face means anything, says Harry, Templeton knows less than we do about whats happening.
You mean with the feds?
Exactly, says Harry. When you dropped Nitikins name, Rhytag went supernova. He damn near melted the Dwarf, but Templeton didnt have a clue. Which makes you wonder, if all this stuff is so secret, why did Rhytag and company show up in Quinns chambers to tell us anything at all?
The reasons obvious, I tell him. Once we filed the Brady motion, they didnt have much choice. It was either that or have Templeton tell the judge that the federal government had seized the photos from the evidence files. Either way, Rhytags operation would have been smoked out. This way at least they got to talk to us, fish for information, like where the pictures were taken.
&nb
sp; True. They could have sent the FBI here to the office to ask questions but they know thats a dead end. Privileged information, says Harry. Anything Katias told us is covered by the attorney-client privilege, and theres no way they can get around it.
Right. They could drag you and me behind closed doors in front of a federal grand jury, but they know theyd get the same answer.
Thats true. No federal judge is going to issue a contempt citation and jail two lawyers in a capital case because they refuse to violate privileged communications with their client.
Thats why Rhytag mentioned use immunity for Katia, I say. He was testing the waters.
If they gave her use immunity and agreed that nothing she said before the grand jury could be used against her in any criminal proceedings, she couldnt take the Fifth and remain silent, says Harry.
And if they built a Chinese wall around the state murder charges and declined to share anything with Templeton, the immunity wouldnt apply there. So for that shed still be on the hook, I say.
Of course, if they tried to take Katia before a federal grand jury, theyd have to allow her access to her attorneys before they did it, says Harry. We cant go inside with her, but shes certainly entitled to legal advice and the right to confer with her lawyers.
And that, of course, is their problem, I say. If their only sanction is to have her held in contempt and jailed if she refuses to talk, since shes already in jail they have to know were going to tell her to sit tight and say nothing.
If they didnt know it before, they know it now.
And besides, says Harry, that way she gets the upgrade to the five-star room at the federal detention facility.
Harry looks at me, shrugs a shoulder, and glances at the ceiling as if to say, Can you think of anything else?
Guardian of Lies: A Paul Madriani Novel Page 17