Upon leaving the base chief’s office, Zorn retrieved his overnight bag from the guest room, left his key at the front desk, and departed the building. A few moments later, he circled around to the side entrance, where he climbed the stairs to the second floor. At the far end of the corridor he found a vacant guest room that the housekeepers hadn’t yet cleaned. He locked the door behind him and waited in silence until the noon hour passed. At one point he heard a voice in the corridor call his name, but after a while it went away. Soon after, he heard maids opening and closing doors nearby.
At half past one, having evaded discovery, Zorn walked downstairs to the front desk and confessed that he had fallen asleep after lunch and missed his flight home. The young duty officer listened to his story, asked a few questions, and then excused himself to make some calls in the back office.
Zorn’s heart sank by the minute while he waited, wondering whether Randy might have reported their whiskey-fueled conversation to base security that morning, or if Pike had discovered his missed flight and put out an all-points warning for his arrest. Zorn suppressed an irrational urge to run as he heard the duty officer’s approaching footsteps, but thought better of it as he noticed the young man break into a smile.
“Thanks for waiting, Mr. Weaver. It seems you’re in luck today. There’s another flight leaving for Dover in two hours. A car is on the way to take you to the airstrip. And here, I’ve printed out your revised travel orders.”
The duty officer removed a sheet of paper from the printer behind the desk and handed it across the counter.
“That’s outstanding,” Zorn told the duty officer. “No question about it, you folks run a highly efficient operation.”
Chapter Sixteen: Termination Clause
“There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.”
–Henry David Thoreau
EARLY JUNE, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Because he had changed flights at the last minute, there was no Tetra Corp car waiting for Roger Zorn on his return to Dover Air Force Base. He retrieved his belongings at the terminal, brought his cell phone back to life and entered his hotel’s address into the Uber phone app. The ride back to Rosslyn would cost a small fortune, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to get away as quickly as he could.
Zorn waited until he was back in his room at the Hyatt before he sent out any text messages. He sent one to his wife and one to Walter Lang, letting them know that he had just returned from a short business trip and would be back in touch the following day. He thought of reaching out to Brandon Choe, as well, but thought better of it after checking his watch. It was already evening. And he was exhausted.
Zorn removed his clothes and laid them across an easy chair on his way to the bathroom. Then, on impulse, he picked up his cell phone again and did a web search for “Richmond courthouse bombing.” A long list of news articles popped up on his web browser. He opened the first one, from a major news outlet. It quoted an FBI statement that the government was pursuing five suspects in the case, two of them American young women, and all still at large.
One grainy photo taken from a closed-circuit camera outside a Richmond bank branch caught his eye. It was a profile shot of a dark-haired girl whose size, shape and hairdo resembled closely those of the woman who had accosted him inside Corvus Base. Zorn walked across the room and opened the false bottom of his shaving kit. Inside was the passport page that Nagy had given him of his daughter. It showed the same girl.
On arriving at his office the next morning, Zorn fired up his computer and searched the Triage database for interviews of the Bengali-born father and son that he’d observed in Minneapolis. Within seconds he found them: Amjad Ibrahim, born in Dhaka, Bangladesh, medical engineer, naturalized American citizen. And his son, Imran Ibrahim, nineteen years old, college student, U.S. citizen by birth. No matter how high his Triage score, there was no way in hell that a birthright citizen like Imran should have been put on a plane to Corvus Base, let alone tipped overboard.
Next he dialed Walter Lang’s cell phone. After three rings the call was diverted to voicemail. He left a message:
“Hello, Walter. It’s Roger. Sorry I missed you. Listen, I wanted you to know that I’ll be coming home in a day or two to visit family. I think we should have a talk. Phone me later if you’re free.”
Zorn ended the call and put the receiver down. He had slept badly, with thoughts and images of his travels to Corvus Base leaving his mind in an unsettled state. Had he known from the outset about ESM abuses, he would never have signed on as a contractor. Nor, he thought, would Walter Lang or the firm’s other directors.
But the more pressing question was what to do now. Would his father have stayed in the ESM program after learning what Zorn had discovered? The point was relevant because Lang and several other directors had spent long careers working for René Zorn and had absorbed his values as completely as if they had taken them in with their mothers’ milk. Like Roger Zorn’s father, these men had never shied away from controversy. To the contrary, they sometimes took perverse pleasure in it.
But they also took pains to gather their facts before making a decision as important as whether to exit the American market, regardless of circumstances. His father would have wanted to nail down when the detainees started disappearing, how many were missing, and what proportion of the missing were U.S. citizens. He also would have insisted on further details about repatriation and would have sent someone to investigate the repat bases. And he would have focused closely on who issued the removal orders and who carried them out.
But Roger Zorn was only one man. He couldn’t be expected to come up with all the answers. Where should the burden of proof lie? With him, to prove the abuses, or with DHS to refute them? And even if the evidence were clear, would Zorn Security’s board of directors risk scandal rather than forego their monthly cash infusions from DHS? Or would they rush to quit the program? Or, alternatively, might they sell the company to a strategic acquirer, perhaps even Tetra Corporation, one step ahead of the scandal?
In any case, Zorn lacked authority to terminate the ESM contracts without the board’s approval. If they refused, he had no choice but to remain an ESM contractor until he could persuade them to change their minds, or until the program ended, or until the company were sold, allowing him to wash his hands of the affair.
In the meantime, he resolved to gather more evidence and share it with Margaret Slattery. If they were lucky, perhaps she could convince someone in the White House to put the program right or quietly wind it down. But what if she couldn’t? What if the abuses went on and the Zorn board refused to exit? Or if Tetra and DHS suspected him of disloyalty and decided to get rid of him? After all, if these people were capable of dropping people out of airplanes, what was to stop them from disposing of him?
Two hours later, after spreading across his desk every ESM contract and amendment signed between Zorn USA and the Department of Homeland Security, reading them closely and taking detailed notes, Zorn picked up the phone and called the partner at the outside law firm he had retained to work on the contracts.
“I may want to exercise the termination clause under certain of our government contracts, Jay.”
“May I ask which contracts you’re referring to?” Jay Pankow asked. ”And on what grounds?”
“They’re our contracts with DHS under the Emergency Security Measures program,” Zorn answered. “The way I read the text, no grounds for termination are required. Either party can terminate on ninety days notice at its sole discretion.”
“Yes, but bear in mind, Roger, that if you claim DHS breached a material term of the contract, you could terminate for cause instead. And if you won your case, you could claim damages.”
“But if I did that, wouldn’t the government deny the breach and routinely file a counterclaim against us? I don’t want to get into a pissing match with the U.S. government on their home turf.”
“You realize, of course, R
oger, that, if you leave DHS unhappy, you might never land a contract with the U.S. government again?”
A chill had entered the attorney’s voice.
“That’s fine with me,” Zorn answered on a note of finality. “Go ahead and draw up the letters. When they’re ready, send me the drafts via encrypted email for review. I don’t want news of this getting out till it’s done.”
“Do you intend to make a decision soon?”
“Within the next few days. After I consult the board.”
“And will you be announcing the termination publicly?”
“I imagine so.”
“Not to put too fine a point upon it, Roger, but the programs you’re talking about are considered special access projects. Though I wasn’t the attorney who worked on your particular NDAs, let me just say that it’s important that nothing you say to anyone about your decision to terminate be considered an unauthorized disclosure of classified information. The consequences could be severe.”
“Not that I’m planning to spill any secrets, mind you, but what can Uncle Sam possibly do to punish me once I’m back in France?” Zorn scoffed.
“Strict sanctions have become standard in this kind of project. The government’s view is that criminal prosecution hasn’t proven enough of a deterrent against self-styled whistleblowers like Ellsberg, Snowden, and Manning, so they’ve resorted to other types of sanctions. If you’re not clear about the penalties invoked in your particular agreement, I suggest you visit our offices to review the text together. We have a secure facility here where we can speak freely.”
“Come on, Jay. I’ve held top-secret codeword clearances for years and I’ve never been accused of leaking classified material. If DHS thinks they can use their sharply worded NDA to scare me away from terminating our contracts, they can go to hell. I’ll be in France. Let’s see how far they get enforcing their secrecy in the French courts.”
Zorn hadn’t wanted to sign the secrecy agreement in the first place, and now he bridled against the notion that it might block him from speaking out in the future to defend his company against possible claims of leaking, or even worse, detainee abuse.
“Not to sound alarmist, Roger, but you really don’t want to invite that kind of trouble. I’m not talking about litigation now. If you piss off the Men in Black, their long arm can reach you anywhere in the world. It’s not just the Russians and Israelis who play that sort of game nowadays.”
“Hogwash,” Zorn replied. “They wouldn’t dare try it. Just send me the draft termination letters, okay?”
The moment Zorn ended the call, he felt a heaviness in his gut. Yes, he could go back to France and fire off the termination letters. But deep down he sensed it wouldn’t end there. The people behind the dumpings had accepted him as one of their own. Sending him to Corvus had been a test. Tricking him into pushing the red button had been their insurance policy. For him to exit ESM now would show their faith in him to have been mistaken. Once he terminated his contracts and returned to France, they would no longer trust him to keep quiet about what he had heard at Middleburg or seen at Corvus Base.
Then a terrible thought occurred to Zorn. What if the government already distrusted him and had monitored his phone call to Pankow? France was far away, to be sure. But was it far enough?
Zorn left his office at six, ate an early dinner at the Hyatt, and then headed down the stairs to the hotel’s underground parking garage. Even three stories below street level, the city’s heat and damp were stifling. When he turned on the Volvo’s air conditioning, the mildew smell spewing out from the dashboard vents nearly made him gag.
He headed across Key Bridge to Georgetown, and then east along the Whitehurst Freeway and up Rhode Island Avenue to Margaret Slattery’s U Street apartment. He parked down the street in a public lot and walked the rest of the way, buzzing her on arrival. It was just short of eight o’clock and, unless a crisis were brewing at the White House, or she had an evening social engagement, she ought to be at home by now.
No answer. He waited a half a minute and buzzed again. Still no answer. He waited a bit longer and raised his hand for one last try when a response came over the intercom.
“Who is it?” Slattery’s voice sounded dull and uninviting.
“It’s Roger Zorn. May I come up and have a word with you?”
“Oh, Roger,” she answered, pronouncing his name ever so slowly, as if he were a long-forgotten acquaintance and she were trying to place the name. “Now, would that be for business or pleasure?”
“If I told you, it would spoil the suspense.”
“Is that so?” she answered with a husky laugh. “Now you’ve got my attention. Of course, come on up and have as many words with me as you like.”
She pressed the button to unlock the security door and Zorn pulled it open to let himself in. The contrast between the muggy D.C. air outdoors and the artificial chill inside gave him goose bumps. He crossed the marble-floored lobby to the elevator and pushed the button for the seventh floor.
When he arrived at her apartment, the door was ajar. Margaret Slattery appeared on the threshold dressed in jeans and a sleeveless white cotton blouse, her red hair pulled back in a chignon and a balloon wine glass in hand.
“Your timing is excellent. I just finished dinner,” she greeted him with an absent-minded smile. “Come on in.”
Her nonchalant manner confused him. After breaking off their hasty lovemaking on his last visit, he had expected a degree of tension between them. But as he entered the flat and she closed the door behind him, he couldn’t tell whether she thought he had come to discuss their investigation into the emergency measures or had found her too irresistible to stay away. This was not the buttoned-up Margaret Slattery he had expected to find.
As on his previous visit, Slattery led Zorn indoors just as the sun was setting through the south-facing living room window. This time the room’s white walls were bathed in a pale pink glow. But unlike the last visit, no maid had swept through lately. The dining room table was strewn with books, file folders, and unopened mail, while a pair of used wine glasses and an empty green bottle still stood on the coffee table where he and Slattery had sat drinking wine four nights earlier. Could they be the same glasses?
As Slattery steered Zorn across the living room toward the twin settees, her gait seemed wobbly. And her face flushed when she spotted the dirty wine glasses on the coffee table.
“You must think me a terrible housekeeper,” she confessed, wrinkling her freckled nose. “You see, the maid’s day is Thursday. By this time, standards do tend to slip.”
Zorn noticed a few slurred consonants and zeroed in on Slattery’s bloodshot eyes. Suddenly her poor housekeeping made more sense. Zorn had noticed before that Slattery enjoyed having a few drinks. Could it be more than that?
“I’m not one to point fingers,” Zorn answered with a self-deprecating smile. “Not when I live in a hotel with daily maid service.”
“Well, I should have at least put away the glasses from your last visit,” Slattery said with a nod toward the low table. “But then, after not hearing from you all last week, I figure you might be keeping your distance. So as not to fall back into temptation.”
She gave him a cool look that put the ball squarely in his court.
“Yeah,” he said with a long sigh. “That was some temptation, all right. I know we agreed to forget it, but even if I could, I’m not sure I’d want to.”
A look of relief spread across Margaret Slattery’s face.
“Oh, we’re both grown people, Roger. Don’t give it another thought,” she said, looking away quickly as she tucked her feet under her legs. “So tell me. What was it you wanted to have a word about? Do you have something new about the detainees?”
“Last week we talked about overseas transit centers. Yesterday I visited one.”
“Are you joking?” Slattery asked, mouth agape.
At this, Zorn put a forefinger to his lips and beckoned for her to come close
r so that he could whisper in her ear.
“Let’s retreat to the breakfast nook, just in case,” he muttered.
En route, they passed through the kitchen, where Slattery poured Zorn a generous glass of Bordeaux blanc from a re-corked bottle. As before, Zorn carried the Bose radio into to the breakfast nook, where he tuned it to a news-talk station. Then he opened a talk radio app on his mobile phone, jacking up its volume to the point where the couple was surrounded by incoherent crosstalk.
“Okay. Now we can talk more freely,” Zorn continued in a low voice as he seated himself across the small table from Slattery. “Last Saturday I told you I planned to do some on-site inspecting. Well, I got the opportunity sooner than expected. On Monday I flew out to one of those Caribbean transit centers.”
“And…?”
“What I saw was worse than I expected.”
“How so?” Slattery leaned forward to listen more closely and a wisp of loose hair grazed Zorn’s face. He caught her scent and for a moment was distracted.
“What they’re doing goes beyond mass deportation and repatriation. Deportees are being disappeared.”
Zorn had a sinking feeling as he struggled for words to describe his experience aboard the C-130.
“Disappeared?” Slattery asked, recoiling as if from a blow.
“Dumped out over the ocean from ten thousand feet. Sedated but alive. And their deaths papered over to look as if they’d been repatriated.”
“That’s unbelievable. How do you know that? What evidence do you have?”
“I saw it done. Three dozen bodies. Tipped out the back of a C-130 over the Puerto Rico Trench,” Zorn replied, omitting his own role in letting them drop. “And it’s not just removable aliens being dumped. It’s any Muslim with a Category One Triage score. Even some U.S. citizens. In fact, I’m pretty sure that one of those I saw dumped was someone you and I watched being interviewed in Minneapolis. A tall, skinny kid, about nineteen or twenty. He and his Bengali father were the first ones brought in for questioning.”
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