Hostage

by Don Brown

  Rampant applause rose from the gallery.

  "Of all the . . ." Secretary Mauney caught his tongue, then swallowed two large gulps of ice water.

  Council of Ishmael headquarters

  Rub al-Khali Desert

  Excellent work, Abdur," Hussein al-Akhma said. "We've embarrassed the Americans twice in the same day. Already we've gotten more mileage out of this French fellow than we got out of Mr. Levinson."

  "Yes." Abdur felt great satisfaction in the day's events. "No matter what the Americans do, we've succeeded in driving an even deeper wedge between them and the French."

  "Although I am quite disappointed with the British. Just when I thought they might be coming around."

  "They've been in bed with the Americans for a long time, Leader."

  Hussein drained his glass. "Let's send a message to the Brits. Have our U.K. operatives arrange for five bombs to go off in various London-area elementary schools tomorrow. A bomb for every no vote cast today. They will pay with dead British schoolchildren."

  "As you say, Leader."

  CHAPTER 41

  Israeli Cabinet meeting

  Emergency session

  Government building

  Jerusalem

  Prime Minister Rothstein took a sip of water, then met the gazes of the eighteen members of his cabinet. In a chamber normally filled with a barrage of verbal thunderbolts, rare silence reigned.

  Rothstein set down the glass and commenced reading the final paragraphs of the communique from the president of the United States.

  And so, Mr. Prime Minister, we are pleased to accept your proposal, contingent, of course, upon the ability for the court-martial to function freely in Israel as it would anywhere else in the world. The defendants, of course, would have the right to counsel of their choice. If there is a conviction, the defendants would be released to American control. The same would be true if there is an acquittal.

  We are detailing Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer as lead counsel to this case, as you suggested. Because of the complexity of the case and the importance of the outcome, the Judge Advocate General of the Navy is detailing an assistant prosecutor to serve with Lieutenant Commander Brewer. She is Lieutenant Commander Wendy Poole, a capable JAG officer who recently represented the Navy before the United States Supreme Court in the appeal of the convicted Navy chaplains shortly before their execution.

  In closing, Mr. Prime Minister, I realize that these are perilous times for Israel. To again underscore America's commitment to the security of your country, I have ordered two additional carrier task forces to join the USS Harry S. Truman in the Eastern Mediterranean. Within a week, you can expect to see the Truman as well as the carriers USS Ronald Reagan and USS Nimitz off your shores.

  Thank you for your friendship, Mr. Prime Minister. As always, we look forward to working with you as we strive toward our common goals of democracy, peace, and prosperity in the Middle East.

  Very respectfully,

  Mack Williams

  President of the United States

  The prime minister set down the letter, adjusted his glasses, and looked at his cabinet. "Comments?"

  "The carrot and the stick," the minister of defense said. "Nobody does it better than the Americans."

  "I would say that three carrier task forces is a pretty big stick," said Foreign Minister Alya Baruch. The defense minister looked at Alya, who had slipped on her glasses as she often did before making solemn observations.

  "Three big sticks," she said, "that would be welcomed by every Israeli citizen right about now."

  "I agree," the prime minister added. "Additionally, this cabinet needs to take decisive action to countermand the circus going on in the United Nations Security Council. I move that the cabinet accept the president's counterproposal."

  A moment later, the cabinet approved a resolution by a vote of 19 to 0.

  CHAPTER 42

  Somewhere in Mexico

  With the van obviously crossing some sort of bumpy, rocky terrain, Diane opened her eyes again, focusing on the dome light. It was still daylight, but she wasn't sure how long she had slept.

  "Look who is awake." The man who called himself an Arab terrorist looked back as Diane did half a sit-up. She squinted in the bright sunlight. The terrain was remarkably similar to their last stop, except this time two large warehouses lay directly ahead of them.

  "Where are we?"

  "Somewhere southeast of where we were last time you were awake."

  The van, crawling through dips and bumps, rounded the side of the outer warehouse . . . which turned out not to be a warehouse at all.

  A long, sleek Lear jet, its chrome twin engines brightly reflecting the hot Mexican sun, sat on a concrete pad just outside the left hangar. A concrete airstrip protruded out into the desert.

  "You like flying, Lieutenant?"

  "Not going to answer?" Mr. Terrorist stopped the van. "Not to worry. I will hold your hand if you become afraid." The man got out, slung an Uzi over his shoulder, and walked around to her door, sliding it open. "Out of the van, beautiful." He pointed the Uzi at her.

  Oh dear God. I'm going to die.

  "Walk to the plane. Move!"

  She slid down, feet first, to the concrete. With the steel barrel of the Uzi pressed into the back of her neck, she slowly and painfully stepped across the hot concrete, her feet shackled, toward the aircraft. A retractable ladder was moved to the front section of the fuselage.

  Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .

  "Faster, beautiful. We do not have all day!" Another shove of the barrel into her cranium.

  Thy kingdom come, thy will be done . . .

  "Up the steps!"

  . . . on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.

  "Faster," the terrorist demanded as she entered the door through the fuselage just behind the cockpit. Two Arab pilots in green army fatigues glanced up from their positions in the cockpit, while another Arab man, perhaps the flight steward, greeted her with a pistol to her nose. "Sit in the back," the pistol-bearing man said.

  Lead us not into temptation . . .

  "Sit here!" said the man with the pistol as the driver followed her with his Uzi. She heard the cabin door close, then the whine of jet engines. Both terrorists sat in the seats behind her. Slowly the jet started rolling down the runway. Then faster, faster.

  . . . but deliver us from evil . . .

  Liftoff. A steep ascent. Was this it? Why did she feel that this was the last time she would ever step foot, alive, in the Western hemisphere?

  For thine is the kingdom . . .

  She felt the plane bank, level off, then bank again.

  . . . and the power, and the glory . . .

  She flinched when she felt a hypodermic needle jab into her arm; she tensed as the terrorist pressed his thumb against the depressor, pushing whatever substance he desired into her body.

  . . . forever and ever.

  She looked out the window as deep wooziness began to overtake her. Eyes heavy, she watched the coastline transform into the rolling waters of the ocean. Which ocean? She wasn't sure. It didn't matter now . . .

  Amen.

  Municipal Cemetery No. 8

  The West Bank

  Jerusalem

  Alexander and Yael stood on the sidewalk near the cemetery gate. Fifteen acres of rolling green hills sprawled before them. Several dozen commemorative monuments were planted here, Stars of David rising from the ground to commemorate the lives of those whose families had somehow raised the money for a headstone.

  Mostly just flat markers commemorated the graves. With numbers. Not even names.

  Alexander Kweskin had no money to buy his precious daughter a headstone. So for now, in the eyes of the State of Israel, she was but a number. Grave marker number 318, Municipal Cemetery Number 8, in the Israeli-occupied West Bank of Jerusalem.

  Th
ree days had passed since her little body had gone back to the dust from which it came, and each day since then, he and Yael had come to visit her.

  Alexander looked at his wife. "Ready?"

  "Dah."

  He took her hand, and they walked up the gravel path to where the ground was freshly broken at number 318. Alexander and Yael fell on their knees on each side of the grave. Their tears flowed as both of them laid a single rose on the ground.

  "Oh God," Alexander prayed, "as the heavens are above the earth, so your ways are above our ways. We do not understand why we have come here to Israel, only to lose our precious daughter. May her death not have been in vain. May your vengeance be poured out on those responsible. May justice be yours. And may we now dwell in this land of yours in peace. Amen."

  CHAPTER 43

  Office of the Commanding Officer

  Navy Trial Service Office

  Building 73

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  Ivey, please send in the XO, and then I need to see Commanders Brewer and Poole."

  "Yes, Captain." Ivey King, his civilian secretary, spoke in the sweet-sounding South African accent she still retained from her immigration thirty years before.

  A moment later, a tall, lanky officer in his midforties, wearing the silver oak leaf of a full navy commander on his right khaki collar, appeared at Captain Glen Rudy's office door. The executive officer, known in navy lingo as the XO, was Rudy's second-in-command.

  "We've gotten a call in from Washington. I've got to talk to Brewer and Poole. I need you to take over the uniform inspection this morning."

  One of the more boring duties devolving on the commanding officer of a Navy Trial Service Office was that of uniform inspection. JAG officers, despite the fact that they were lawyers and had passed a bar exam in one of the fifty states or the District of Columbia, were part of the navy. And the navy was part of the military. And in order to maintain good order and discipline in the military, a proper, spiffy appearance was necessary. Today was the day.

  "Aye, aye, sir. Consider it done."

  "Thanks."

  A few seconds later, Lieutenant Commander Brewer, in an inspection-ready working khaki shirt and pants, and Lieutenant Commander Poole, in an equally presentable working khaki shirt and skirt, appeared at the door.

  "You wanted to see us, sir?" Zack asked.

  "Zack, Wendy. Come in and be seated."

  They complied.

  "Admiral Stumbaugh just called. Official charges are being referred against our two pilots this morning in Norfolk. You need to be ready to fly to the Middle East in forty-eight hours. Are you ready for trial?"

  Rudy saw Zack and Wendy lock eyes; then Zack's gaze met his. "Skipper, we think so. We've been working almost around the clock. Yes, I think we're ready."

  "Think? Zack, I need more than that. I need -- the president needs -- to know we can win this thing."

  "Captain, I always feel pretty confident about my chances at trial, as you know. But for a trial of this magnitude, this is coming down the pike awfully fast. We had at least ninety days of preparation time for the Olajuwon case. Enough time to work with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service to gather evidence. This attack occurred just last week, Skipper. I've never seen a court-martial convene so fast. We haven't even had the chance to go on board the Truman to interview witnesses."

  Rudy ignored the comment, temporarily, and buzzed his telephone intercom. "Ivey, would you ask the master chief if he would mind bringing us a fresh pot of coffee?"

  "Not at all, Captain," Ivey King said.

  "I haven't either, Zack," Rudy said.

  "Sir?"

  "I've never seen a court-martial convene so rapidly. But this is being driven by international politics. The administration wants to seize the momentum away from this ludicrous French initiative. In other words, the JAG Corps has to respond, and respond effectively, even with a short prep time.

  "Zack, the Israelis want you prosecuting this case as part of a very dicey diplomatic solution. Frankly, you'd probably have gotten the call to prosecute it even if we had brought these guys back to the States and had taken our sweet time to prepare.

  "Wendy, I recommended that you come on board because I've seen your professionalism. You've impressed a lot of top brass with your performance in front of the Supreme Court. I knew that Zack, despite his very healthy ego" -- the comment brought sly grins from both Zack and Wendy -- "would need a lot of help. Especially given the short time frame.

  "Now, you two are going to be on the front lines in this thing, but just like last time, Zack, you'll have not only the full resources of the JAG Corps behind you, but also the full backing of the U.S. government."

  "Thank you, sir," Zack said.

  "Oh, and by the way," Rudy added, "just like you suspected, Zack, these guys have fired their navy defense counsel and retained Monsieur la Trec."

  Zack again glanced at Wendy, raising his eyebrow.

  "You were right," she said.

  CHAPTER 44

  Office of Lieutenant Commander Zack Brewer, JAGC, USN

  Navy Trial Service Office

  Building 73

  32nd Street Naval Station

  San Diego, California

  1700 hours

  Okay, Wendy, let's go over this checklist one more time and then take a break. You've been doing some digging on their educational and religious backgrounds?"

  "Right," she said. "Both strict Muslims from strict Muslim families. Both went to college on scholarship with money from a charitable group called the Muslim Educational Foundation."

  "Hmm." Zack frowned. "Let's pull the file from the Olajuwon case. I'm sure that's the same group that funded college and seminary for our three departed chaplains."

  "Think there's a connection?" She shot him a curious look.

  "Yes, I do, without a doubt." This time she noticed his voice held an air of confidence. More like the Zack Brewer she had seen on television dozens of times. The Zack who, with some help from Diane Colcernian, had whipped America's best trial lawyer. She also knew, as Captain Rudy had said, that to win this case, Zack would need to have his "head in the game."

  "I'll pull their file and check."

  L'office de droit de Jean-Claude la Trec

  56, rue Charles De Gaulle

  Paris

  The man who was called "the greatest lawyer in France," "the most brilliant defense attorney in the world," and other sycophantic phrases by the international media looked up as the senior associate staff counsel, the lovely Jeanette L'Enfant, walked into his office.

  "Ah, as always, you look more beautiful by the moment, macher," he said.

  "And you, monbeau avocat, become more eloquent by the moment, which is why you are the world's greatest avocat." She sat down in the same French provincial chair occupied two days ago by Abdur Rahman and crossed her legs. "Even greater than the great Wells Levinson, monbeau."

  "Oh, really?" He took a sip of mineral water from a crystal glass. "You're just saying that because you work for me, because I pay you more handsomely than any other law firm in France would, and because of certain other" -- he cleared his throat and took another sip -- "fringe benefits."

  "You underestimate yourself." She shot him a knowing smile as she brushed a strand of blond hair over her shoulder. "Levinson is a self-promoter. How many resolutions could Levinson have gotten before the United Nations Security Council within a period of forty-eight hours? Or forty-eight years, for that matter?"

  "Yes," he said, smiling into her eyes. He had met Jeanette L'Enfant at an international bar convention on the Riviera four years ago. He had not once regretted hiring her.

  "Levinson is an American creation. A Jewish cowboy. Besides, the credible publications that really matter -- the Economist, the Telegraph, Le Monde -- all have said over the years that you are the world's greatest lawyer. But this you already know. But if it takes me stroking your massive ego to give y
ou . . . what is it the American's call it? The eye of the tiger? Then that I am happy to do."

  He unbuttoned his gold cufflinks, dropped them into his desk drawer, then rolled up his sleeves. "As much as I do love your ego stroking, my intellectual kitten, you know as well as I do that the secret of my success is built not only upon, shall we say, healthy ego, but even more importantly upon preparation. Hmm?"

  "Okay, okay," she said. "I can tell that you are in another one of those business-before-pleasure modes." She tossed the file across the desk.

  "The dossier on Lieutenant Commander Brewer, I take it?"

  "With every detail you asked for. His strengths, his weaknesses, his preference for women."

  He opened the file and began perusing it. "Yes, well, one advantage we do have over Levinson. Brewer was an unknown when Levinson met him in court. Now he has a track record."

  "Yes," she said. "A short but powerfully impressive track record."

  He tossed the dossier back on the desk. "Why don't we start with an oral briefing?"

  "His strongest attribute appears to be his media savvy and his ability to make powerful oral arguments. Not particularly the academic type. He finished in the middle of his class in law school and at the Naval Justice School -- "

  "Not exactly law review type, was he?"

  "No, but where he may lack in classroom prowess, he more than makes up in rhetorical skills." She picked up the dossier and looked at it. "Law School Moot Court Champion, National Moot Court Team --runner-up regional semifinals, National Trial Team, Order of the Barristers, winner of the Naval Justice School Trial Advocacy Competition sponsored by the New York City Bar Association."

  La Trec turned to look out the window at the Eiffel Tower in the distance. "Impressive, indeed. But with the exception of the navy award, all basically law school awards."