“Then how do we spring her out of there?” Nagy asked, his eyes wide with alarm.
“No need to. She’s due to be sent back to the U.S. in the next few days for trial.”
“Will you be able to confirm that when it happens?”
“I should know more tomorrow. I’ll text you.”
Nagy settled back uneasily in the driver’s seat, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples with both hands as if to relieve a headache.
“Do you have any influence over her situation, Roger?”
“I think I might before long. But I can’t single out your daughter without putting you at risk. Anything I do for her will have to apply to all five women being held.”
“Okay, okay,” Nagy snapped. “Do whatever you have to. Just make sure she gets out of that transit site.”
“I’ll do all I can. Once she’s back on U.S. soil, at least she’ll get her day in court. Fortunately, D.C. has plenty of activist lawyers ready to take on cases like hers.”
Nagy didn’t reply for a long while. The worried look on his face and the trembling of his hands on the steering wheel said everything. When he spoke at last, Zorn could tell that the man’s guts were churning.
“You know, Roger, there’s something about Carol’s situation that drives me crazy. God forgive me, but I’ve never shed a tear for the foreign jihadis who come here to kill Americans. They’re at war with us and we’re at war with them. Let them go to hell. But, by God, when one of our own kids is accused of a crime, even a terrible one like murder, he or she ought to be entitled to the presumption of innocence, due process and a fair trial. But now, with the government treating its own citizens like terrorists, what’s left of law and order for us to defend?”
“I’m with you, Jack. The emergency measures have gone way too far. But with the information we’ve been collecting, you and I may soon be in a position to do something to make things better. And help Carol at the same time.”
Zorn also thought of his promise to Margaret Slattery to cooperate with the Justice Department. Nagy’s information could be very valuable to the prosecutors at DOJ.
“You really think so?” Nagy asked with an expression of hope mingled with doubt.
“I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t. But we’ve still got a way to go before we know how well things will turn out.”
At the next traffic light, Zorn removed a folded white envelope from his shirt pocket and laid it on the dashboard.
“What’s that for?” Nagy inquired with a puzzled look.
“Expenses. You bought a burner phone. And then there’s gas and whatnot. I wouldn’t want you to go out of pocket saving the country from itself.”
But that wasn’t all Zorn had in mind. Even with a volunteer informant like Nagy, who was once a professional case officer, offering money was always a tricky affair. Not just because it meant the source was admitting financial need, or avarice, in some cases. But because money represented control, and the person who paid the bills had it.
After a few seconds’ thought, Nagy picked up the envelope and slipped it into his rear pants pocket.
“Thanks,” he told Zorn without looking up. “By the way, how can I reach you while you’re away?”
“Use the burner phone. Text me and I’ll get back to you right away.”
After giving it further thought, Zorn decided not to tell Nagy that he might not return to Washington at all. For now, he would let the man think his absence was temporary. But as the SUV stopped to let Zorn out, it saddened him to think he might never see Jack Nagy again.
The next morning, Zorn set out at his usual time for the short walk to his office when he heard footsteps close behind. When he turned around, he saw a familiar face, but it took him a moment to place it.
“Good morning, Cliff Weaver.”
Zorn recognized the man at once as Clayton, the co-pilot on his C-130 flight to Corvus Base.
“Hello, Clay,” Zorn replied, doing his best not to show surprise. “I see it didn’t take you long to find me. To what do I owe the honor?”
“Long story. Would you like some coffee?”
A coffee shop was just ahead. Zorn looked around to see if anyone was following.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
They resumed their conversation while waiting in line to order.
“Randy’s dead,” Clayton announced in a low voice. “The police are calling it a random mugging. But his wallet and gold Rolex weren’t taken. He was shot twice in the neck while walking home from a bar in the wee hours of the morning.”
The news hit Zorn like a thunderclap. He drew a sharp breath and thought about his Volvo’s wild antics the night before.
“And you think…?”
“I think somebody high up didn’t like his attitude. And, come to think of it, my own attitude hasn’t been so hot lately, either. Sometimes I think erasing that video of you wasn’t such a hot idea. So I’d like to get out of harm’s way before it catches up to me.”
“Would you be looking for a change of scenery?” Zorn asked, licking dry lips as he pictured the loadmaster’s bloody corpse in his mind’s eye.
“You’re very perceptive, Mr. Zorn. Yes, someplace overseas would be nice. I’ve worked all over the world, so I don’t mind living the expat life. I was hoping you might find a place for me flying out of Europe, or perhaps Asia.”
“As I said the last time we spoke, Clay, we always have opportunities for outstanding young pilots.”
At that moment, the two men reached the front of the queue and placed their orders: Clayton’s a tall iced latte and Zorn’s a double espresso. Zorn fumbled drawing small bills from his wallet to pay, still shaken by the news of Randy’s death. Once the two men had moved to the end of the counter to await their drinks, Zorn took a careful look around the shop. Then he pulled a business card from his wallet and wrote something on the back.
“Can you get yourself to France?” he asked as he wrote.
“Absolutely,” Clayton replied, a smile lighting up his face.
“Then go to Zorn Security headquarters in Toulouse and ask for me. Identify yourself only as Clay from D.C. If I’m not there, ask for Walter Lang, our chairman, and show him this card.”
Zorn finished writing and handed the card to the pilot.
The writing on the back said, “Walter—Please show the bearer of this card every courtesy. Call for details. Roger.”
“I’ll be returning to Toulouse soon,” Zorn added.
“It’s good that you’re going back there, Mr. Zorn. Because if Randy and I are in their crosshairs, they might come after you, too.”
Zorn took a sip of his espresso, which seemed more bitter than usual.
“I think they may already have,” he answered with a cheerless smile, thinking once again of the Volvo. “But how about you? Have you been threatened or tailed?”
“Sometimes they warn you. Sometimes they don’t.”
A cold sensation crept up Zorn’s spine as he thought about the thumb drive in the console. How could he have been so overconfident?
“I appreciate your coming to see me, Clay. Do look me up in Toulouse, won’t you?”
“Oh, you can count on that, Mr. Zorn,” the pilot answered, tucking Zorn’s card in his shirt pocket. “But before I go, is there anything I can do for you?”
Zorn shook his head while considering what he might ask the pilot while he had the chance. He motioned for Clayton to follow him to the nearest vacant table.
“As a matter of fact, there’s one thing about our flight that I’ve never quite understood. It’s those injections before takeoff. Are they supposed to be lethal? If not, why bother dropping drugged detainees out of airplanes when there are so many other ways to do them in?”
Clayton offered Zorn a sardonic smile as he tore open a packet of sugar over his iced coffee and stirred.
“You’re going to love this, Mr. Zorn. It’s a typical government cluster job. The way I heard it, the original concept was to give the
jihadis a lethal injection before takeoff and bury them at sea. But the geniuses at DHS hadn’t reckoned with the Hippocratic oath. They couldn’t find a single staff doctor or paramedic who’d break it to do lethal injections. So the Tetra people were left to find a work-around.”
Zorn listened carefully, scarcely noticing that his espresso was growing cold.
“The work-around was based on what the Argentine military did in the ‘70s, when they pushed captured guerrillas out of airplanes after interrogations. The difference is that the Tetra flight medic sedates the detainee before boarding. So, technically, it’s the loadmaster, and not the medic, who does the killing when the detainee goes overboard. And, believe it or not, Randy once told me that an ethics panel ruled the method a humane execution technique because the detainee suffers no pain on the way down. Honest to God! You can’t make this stuff up!”
Clayton’s lips formed a derisive smile as Zorn felt his own face turn to stone. Clayton’s story had ended on an absurd note. Yet Zorn believed him.
“But didn’t the medics eventually get wise and refuse to go along? I mean, it wouldn’t take a Sherlock to figure it out.”
“I suppose some of them did, but by the time word traveled around the medical branch, most had already rationalized what they were doing. To them, once the aircraft took off, the patient was no longer under their care. So whatever happened in the air was someone else’s responsibility.”
“You said ‘most,’” Zorn pointed out. “What about the exceptions? Were there any?”
“Oh, sure. A few refused, and the brass allowed them to leave the program so long so they kept their mouths shut. And, so far as I know, they have. What else could they do?”
The next morning, Zorn arrived at Zorn USA headquarters fifteen minutes late and feeling out of sorts. The plump young receptionist with the piercing blue eyes appeared to sense his mood at a distance and limited her greeting to a discreet nod as she buzzed him in.
“I’m expecting a visit from Pat Craven shortly,” he told her in passing. “Please show him into the conference room when he comes. I’ll join him there.”
Craven arrived ten minutes later. He was already in the conference room, standing at the window and looking out over the Potomac when Zorn entered. The DHS official turned around to greet him with a smile that couldn’t conceal the tension within. Zorn felt no less tense, wondering what Jerry Pike might have told Craven about his visit to Corvus Base. Had Craven come to confront him over it? And was he aware that Zorn’s car had been hacked the night before?
Zorn poured two mugs of black coffee from a thermal carafe and handed one to Craven as the men took seats at the long conference table.
“Long time no see. Why haven’t your people contacted my people to do lunch?” Zorn quipped to ease the tension.
“I don’t know. I suppose I ought to have them whipped. You know these government workers...” Craven’s bulky frame seemed to relax perceptibly as he spoke.
“I was looking forward to spending some time with you last weekend, Pat. What kept you away? Flying alone on that C-130 turned a fun junket into another tedious business trip.”
“Ah, yes,” Craven replied with contrite expression before taking a sip of coffee. “The secretary called an all-hands meeting that I couldn’t get out of.”
“Well, if I had known you wouldn’t be coming, I might have rescheduled.”
Craven must have known about the dumping and skipped the flight on purpose. But if he did, his face didn’t show it. So Zorn went on talking.
“As it happened, the base chief was away, and some pencil-pusher from Washington named Pike filled in for him. I got a quick base tour but it wasn’t terribly informative.”
The mildness of Zorn’s reaction to Craven’s failure to join him at Corvus seemed to have caught Craven off guard. Zorn also declined to mention his grim initiation over the Puerto Rico Trench or the American women he had seen on base. Craven offered him a searching gaze and Zorn imagined he could see the wheels turning inside the man’s head.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the undersecretary remarked, swallowing hard. “So how was your visit otherwise? Did you find what you went there to see?”
“Generally, yes. The operation seems quite well run. And not as crowded as I’d expected. Why, what are your thoughts about the place, Pat?”
“Oh, much the same as yours,” Craven evaded, gazing into his coffee. “I’d like to see more repatriations, but that’s more the fault of the repat bases than of Corvus.”
“I’d have to agree. And now that Zorn Air Logistics crews are being assigned to repatriation flights, I’d like to learn more about that side of the business. Maybe you and I could visit a repat center soon.”
Such a visit would never happen, of course, but he enjoyed watching Craven squirm.
“That might have to wait a week or two, though,” Zorn added. “Later today I’m headed back to France for some R&R.”
At this, the look on Craven’s face suggested he might already know of Zorn’s impending travel. Had Craven arranged his last-minute visit so as not to miss him? And might his purpose in coming be to gauge Zorn’s trustworthiness?
“Well, your R&R is certainly well-deserved,” Craven volunteered with an indulgent smile. “In fact, the secretary wanted me to convey how very much DHS values your contribution. Triage has been a mainstay of ESM from the start and we look forward to having you with us for the duration. ESM won’t likely be going away any time soon, so you can look forward to a healthy revenue stream ahead.”
The comment last struck Zorn as odd. Why would Craven want him to stay on for the duration if they’d lost trust in him? Could DHS have discovered that Zorn’s lawyers were already drafting notice letters to terminate the company’s U.S. contracts?
“Please convey my thanks to the secretary.” Zorn replied before putting down his coffee cup and looking up as if nothing were left to say.
“Then can we count on your continued participation?”
“That will be up to our board.”
And what will you recommend to them?”
“I’m not prepared to say quite yet,” Zorn dodged. “Let’s wait till I talk with my chairman, shall we?”
“Hmmm. Do you have any misgivings about your work for us that you can share?”
Zorn leaned back in his swivel chair and gazed at the ceiling to buy time.
“Pat, you know that our firm is no stranger to controversy,” Zorn went on after a long moment. “But there’s never been a program like ESM. Lately I’ve grown concerned about legal blowback. Once the intifada is over, my fear is that America’s political class will disavow the emergency measures and do to you and me what they did to the CIA’s enhanced interrogation operators. They’ll throw us to the wolves to save their own skins.”
Craven opened his mouth to speak but Zorn waved him off.
“No, Pat, look at what happened to those poor Agency bastards who ran the black sites. They trusted government lawyers who gave them a green light to waterboard. Lots of good that did them once the program leaked.”
“Okay, but can you give me any examples of where you think ESM could be at risk?”
This was dangerous territory. Yet Zorn knew he would need to cite at least one example if his concerns were to carry any weight.
“Well, now that you bring it up, there was one thing I saw at Corvus that bothered me a great deal,” Zorn remarked, striking a pensive pose. “While touring the base, the chief led me through a cellblock where I saw five young women who were definitely not foreign-born. Before guards hustled us away, the women shouted that they were being held illegally. Later, Pike claimed the women were suspects in the Richmond courthouse bombing. But he couldn’t explain what they were doing at his site. Isn’t Corvus supposed to hold only removable aliens? In any event, would you mind looking into their case for me? And if they’re U.S. citizens, would you make sure they’re handed over promptly to the Justice Department?”
Craven’s face registered complete surprise.
“Have you shared this incident with anyone else?”
“No,” Zorn lied.
“Then don’t. I’ll get to the bottom of it and let you know what I learn.”
“Thanks, Pat. I knew I could count on you.”
“By all means, Roger. Now have a safe trip. And give my best to Kay.”
When Craven left, Zorn had no better idea of what the meeting had been about than when he’d walked in. All he knew for sure was that he couldn’t get back to France fast enough.
Chapter Eighteen: Carcassonne
“There is no such thing as paranoia. Your worst fears can come true at any moment.”
–Hunter S. Thompson
EARLY JULY, CARCASSONNE, FRANCE
It was midday on Friday when Roger Zorn returned to his Carcassonne estate from his newly purchased vineyard at Lezignan, a half-hour’s drive away via the A61 Narbonne Highway. The July heat held the countryside firmly in its grip and the parched air lay motionless under a cloudless sky. In that moment a freak wind stirred a cloud of fine dust ahead of Zorn’s fifteen-year-old Citroën C6 luxury sedan as it crunched over the gravel road that passed through his family’s orchards of apricots and almonds. Following close behind were a pair of armed security guards in a late-model black Range Rover Sport, a car that Zorn had selected because, while quick and powerful, it had the least-hackable electronics of any recent SUV in its class.
Zorn parked the Citroën behind the house and let the security men pass on by. As he left the car, he heard challenging barks from Asterix, the family’s eight-year old male Bouvier des Flandres, whose shaggy black hair had only lately grown back after a close shearing ordered by Zorn’s wife. When Zorn had departed for America in late March, Asterix, named after a popular French cartoon character, had sported a bouffant coat that bounced when he ran and gave him the appearance of a tubby black bear cub.
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